DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.
The ex-cook appeared before Tantaine in all his appalling vulgarity as
the latter descended the stairs. The proprietor of the musical academy
was a stout, red-faced man, with an insolent mouth and a cynical eye.
He was gorgeously dressed, and wore a profusion of jewelry. He was
much startled at seeing Tantaine, whom he knew to be the redoubtable
Mascarin’s right-hand man. “A thousand thunders!” muttered he. “If these
people have sent him here for me, I must take care what I am about,” and
with a friendly smile he extended his hand to Tantaine.
“Glad to see you,” said he. “Now, what can I do for you, for I hope you
have come to ask me to do something?”
“The veriest trifle,” returned Tantaine.
“I am sorry that it is not something of importance, for I have the
greatest respect for M. Mascarin.”
This conversation had taken place in the window, and was interrupted
every moment by the shouts and laughter of the children; but beneath
these sounds of merriment came an occasional bitter wail of lamentation.
“What is that?” inquired Perpignan, in a voice of thunder. “Who presumes
to be unhappy in this establishment?”
“It is two of the lads that I have put on half rations,” returned
Poluche. “I’ll make them learn somehow or----”
A dark frown on the master’s face arrested his further speech. “What do
I hear?” roared Perpignan. “Do you dare, under my roof, to deprive those
poor children of an ounce of food? It is scandalous, I may say, infamous
on your part, M. Poluche.”
“But, sir,” faltered the professor, “have you not told me hundreds of
times--”
“That you were an idiot, and would never be anything better. Go and tell
Mother Butor to give these poor children their dinner.”
Repressing further manifestations of rage, Perpignan took Tantaine by
the arm and led him into a little side-room, which he dignified by the
name of his office. There was nothing in it but three chairs, a common
deal table, and a few shelves containing ledgers. “You have come on
business, I presume,” remarked Perpignan.
Tantaine nodded, and the two men seated themselves at the table, gazing
keenly into each other’s eyes, as though to read the thoughts that moved
in the busy brain.
“How did you find out my little establishment down here?” asked
Perpignan.
“By a mere chance,” remarked Tantaine carelessly. “I go about a
good deal, and hear many things. For instance, you have taken every
precaution here, and though you are really the proprietor, yet the
husband of your cook and housekeeper, Butor, is supposed to be the owner
of the house--at least it stands in his name. Now, if anything untoward
happened, you would vanish, and only Butor would remain a prey for the
police.”
Tantaine paused for a moment, and then slowly added, “Such tactics
usually succeed unless a man has some secret enemy, who would
take advantage of his knowledge, to do him an injury by obtaining
irrefragable proofs of his complicity.”
The ex-cook easily perceived the threat that was hidden under these
words. “They know something,” muttered he, “and I must find out what it
is.”
“If a man has a clear conscience,” said he aloud, “he is all right. I
have nothing to conceal, and therefore nothing to fear. You have now
seen my establishment; what do you think of it?”
“It seems to me a very well-conducted one.”
“It may have occurred to you that a factory at Roubaix might have been a
better investment, but I had not the capital to begin with.”
Tantaine nodded. “It is not half a bad trade,” said he.
“I agree with you. In the Rue St. Marguerite you will find more than
one similar establishment; but I never cared for the situation of the
Faubourg St. Antoine. My little angels find this spot more salubrious.”
“Yes, yes,” answered Tantaine amicably, “and if they howl too much when
they are corrected, there are not too many neighbors to hear them.”
Perpignan thought it best to take no notice of this observation. “The
papers are always pitching into us,” continued he. “They had much better
stick to politics. The fact is, that the profits of our business are
tremendously exaggerated.”
“Well, you manage to make a living out of it?”
“I don’t lose, I confess, but I have six little cherubs in hospital,
besides the one in the kitchen, and these, of course, are a dead loss to
me.”
“That is a sad thing for you,” answered Tantaine gravely.
Perpignan began to be amazed at his visitor’s coolness.
“Damn it all,” said he, “if you and Mascarin think the business such
a profitable one, why don’t you go in for it. You may perhaps think it
easy to procure the kids; just try it. You have to go to Italy for most
of them, then you have to smuggle them across the frontier like bales of
contraband goods.”
Perpignan paused to take a breath, and Tantaine asked,--
“What sum do you make each of the lads bring in daily?”
“That depends,” answered Perpignan hesitatingly.
“Well, you can give an average?”
“Say three francs then.”
“Three francs!” repeated Tantaine with a genial smile, “and you have
forty little cherubs, so that makes one hundred and twenty francs per
day.”
“Absurd!” retorted Perpignan; “do you think each of the lads bring in
such a sum as that?”
“Ah! you know the way to make them do so.”
“I don’t understand you,” answered Perpignan, in whose voice a shade of
anxiety now began to appear.
“No offence, no offence,” answered Tantaine; “but the fact is, the
newspapers are doing you a great deal of harm, by retailing some of the
means adopted by your colleague to make the boys do a good day’s work.
Do you recollect the sentence on that master who tied one of his lads
down on a bed, and left him without food for two days at a stretch?”
“I don’t care about such matters; no one can bring a charge of cruelty
against me,” retorted Perpignan angrily.
“A man with the kindest heart in the world may be the victim of
circumstances.”
Perpignan felt that the decisive moment was at hand.
“What do you mean?” asked he.
“Well, suppose, to punish one of your refractory lads, you were to shut
him in the cellar. A storm comes on during the night, the gutter gets
choked up, the cellar fills with water, and next morning you find the
little cherub drowned like a rat in his hole?”
Perpignan’s face was livid.
“Well, and what then?” asked he.
“Ah! now the awkward part of the matter comes. You would not care to
send for the police, that might excite suspicion; the easiest thing is
to dig a hole and shove the body into it.”
Perpignan got up and placed his back against the door.
“You know too much, M. Tantaine,--a great deal too much,” said he.
Perpignan’s manner was most threatening; but Tantaine still smiled
pleasantly, like a child who had just committed some simply mischievous
act, the results of which it cannot foresee.
“The sentence isn’t heavy,” he continued; “five years’ penal servitude,
if evidence of previous good conduct could be put in; but if former
antecedents were disclosed, such as a journey to Nancy----”
This was the last straw, and Perpignan broke out,--
“What do you mean?” said he; “and what do you want me to do?”
“Only a trifling service, as I told you before. My dear sir, do not put
yourself in a rage,” he added, as Perpignan seemed disposed to speak
again. “Was it not you who first began to talk of your, ‘em--well, let
us say business?”
“Then you wanted to make yourself agreeable by talking all this rot to
me. Well, shall I tell you in my turn what I think?”
“By all means, if it will not be giving you too much trouble.”
“Then I tell you that you have come here on an errand which no man
should venture to do alone. You are not of the age and build for
business like this. It is a misfortune--a fatal one perhaps--to put
yourself in my power, in such a house as this.”
“But, my dear sir, what is likely to happen to me?”
The features of the ex-cook were convulsed with fury; he was in that mad
state of rage in which a man has no control over himself. Mechanically
his hand slipped into his pocket; but before he could draw it out again,
Tantaine who had not lost one of his movements, sprang upon him and
grasped him so tightly by the throat that he was powerless to adopt any
offensive measures, in spite of his great strength and robust build.
The struggle was not a long one; the old man hurled his adversary to the
ground, and placed his foot on his chest, and held him down, his whole
face and figure seemingly transfigured with the glories of strength and
success.
“And so you wished to stab me,--to murder a poor and inoffensive old
man. Do you think that I was fool enough to enter your cut-throat door
without taking proper precautions?” And as he spoke he drew a revolver
from his bosom. “Throw away your knife,” added he sternly.
In obedience to this mandate, Perpignan, who was now entirely
demoralized, threw the sharp-pointed weapon which he had contrived to
open in his pocket into a corner of the room.
“Good,” said Tantaine. “You are growing more reasonable now. Of course I
came alone, but do you think that plenty of people did not know where I
was going to? Had I not returned to-night, do you think that my master,
M. Mascarin, would have been satisfied? and how long do you think it
would have been before he and the police would have been here. If you do
not do all that I wish for the rest of your life, you will be the most
ungrateful fellow in the world.”
Perpignan was deeply mortified; he had been worsted in single combat,
and now he was being found out, and these things had never happened to
him before.
“Well, I suppose that I must give in,” answered he sulkily.
“Quite so; it is a pity that you did not think of that before.”
“You vexed me and made me angry.”
“Just so; well, now, get up, take that chair, and let us talk
reasonably.”
Perpignan obeyed without a word.
“Now,” said Tantaine, “I came here with a really magnificent proposal.
But I adopted the course I pursued because I wished to prove to you
that _you_ belonged more absolutely to Mascarin than did your wretched
foreign slaves to you. You are absolutely at his mercy, and he can crush
you to powder whenever he likes.”
“Your Mascarin is Satan himself,” muttered the discomfited man. “Who can
resist him?”
“Come, as you think thus, we can talk sensibly at last.”
“Well,” answered Perpignan ruefully, as he adjusted his disordered
necktie, “say what you like, I have no answer to make.”
“Let us begin at the commencement,” said Tantaine. “For some days past
your people have been following a certain Caroline Schimmel. A fellow of
sixteen called Ambrose, a lad with a harp, was told off for this duty.
He is not to be trusted. Only a night or two ago one of my men made him
drunk; and fearing lest his absence might create surprise, drove him
here in a cab, and left him at the corner.”
The ex-cook uttered an oath.
“Then you too are watching Caroline,” said he. “I knew well that there
was some one else in the field, but that was no matter of mine.”
“Well, tell me why you are watching her?”
“How can you ask me? You know that my motto is silence and discretion,
and that this is a secret intrusted to my honor.”
Tantaine shrugged his shoulders.
“Why do you talk like that, when you know very well that you are
following Ambrose on your own account, hoping by that means to penetrate
a secret, only a small portion of which has been intrusted to you?”
remarked he.
“Are you certain of this statement?” asked the man, with a cunning look.
“So sure that I can tell you that the matter was placed in your hands by
a certain M. Catenac.”
The expression in Perpignan’s face changed from astonishment to fear.
“Why, this Mascarin knows everything,” muttered he.
“No,” replied Tantaine, “my master does not know everything, and the
proof of this is, that I have come to ask you what occurred between
Catenac’s client and yourself, and this is the service that we expect
from you.”
“Well, if I must, I must. About three weeks ago, one morning, I had just
finished with half a dozen clients at my office in the Rue de Fame, when
my servant brought me Catenac’s card. After some talk, he asked me if I
could find out a person that he had utterly lost sight of. Of course I
said, yes, I could. Upon this he asked me to make an appointment for ten
the next morning, when some one would call on me regarding the affair.
At the appointed time a shabbily dressed man was shown in. I looked at
him up and down, and saw that, in spite of his greasy hat and threadbare
coat, his linen was of the finest kind, and that his shoes were the work
of one of our best bootmakers. ‘Aha,’ said I to myself, ‘you thought to
take me in, did you!’ I handed him a chair, and he at once proceeded
to let me into his reasons for coming. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘my life has not
been a very happy one, and once I was compelled to take to the Foundling
Asylum a child that I loved very dearly, the son of a woman whom I
adored. She is dead now, and I am old and solitary. I have a small
property, and would give half of it to recover the child. Tell me,
is there any chance of my doing so?’ You must imagine, my dear sir,”
continued he, after a slight pause, “that I was much interested in this
story, for I said to myself, that the man’s fortune must be a very small
one if half of it would not amply repay me for making a journey to the
Foundling Hospital. So I agreed to undertake the business, but the old
fellow was too sharp for me. ‘Stop a bit, and let me finish,’ said he,
‘and you will see that your task will not be so easy as you seem to
think it.’ I, of course, bragged of my enormous sources of information,
and the probability of ultimate success.”
“Keep to your story,” said Tantaine impatiently, “I know all about
that.”
“I will leave you, then, to imagine all I said to the old man, who
listened to me with great satisfaction. ‘I only hope that you are as
skilful as M. Catenac says you are, and have as much influence and power
as you assert, for no man has a finer chance than you now have. I have
tried all means up to this, but I have failed.’ I went first to the
hospital where the child had been placed, and they showed me the
register containing the date of his admission, but no one knew what had
become of him, for at twelve years of age he had left the place, and no
one had heard of him since; and in spite of every effort, I have been
unable to discover whether he is alive or dead.”
“A pretty riddle to guess,” remarked Tantaine.
“An enigma that it is impossible to solve,” returned Perpignan. “How is
one to get hold of a boy who vanished ten years ago, and who must now be
a grown-up man?”
“We could do it.”
Tantaine’s tone was so decided, that the other man looked sharply at
him with a vague suspicion rising in his breast that the affair had also
been placed in Mascarin’s hands; and if so, whether he had worked it
with more success than himself.
“You might, for all I know; but I felt that the clue was absolutely
wanting,” answered Perpignan sulkily. “I put on a bold face, however,
and asked for the boy’s description. The man told me that he could
provide me with an accurate one, for that many people, notably the lady
superior, remembered the lad. He could also give other details which
might be useful.”
“And these you obtained, of course?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you joking?”
“Not a bit. I do not know whether the old man was sharp enough to read
in the expression of my features that I had not the smallest hope of
success; be that as it may, he could give me no further information that
day, declaring that he came in only to consult me, and that everything
must be done in a most confidential way. I hastened to assure him that
my office was a perfect tomb of secrets. He told me that he took that
for granted. Then telling me that he wished me to draw up a _precis_ of
my intended course, he took out a note for five hundred francs, which
he handed to me for my time. I refused to take it, though it cost me
a struggle to do so, for I thought that I should make more out of him
later on. But he insisted on my taking it, saying that he would see me
again soon, and that Catenac would communicate with me. He left me less
interested in the search than in who this old man could possibly be.”
Tantaine felt that Perpignan was telling the truth.
“Did you not try and find out that?” asked he.
Perpignan hesitated; but feeling convinced that there was no loophole
for escape, he answered, “Hardly had my visitor left than, slipping on
a cap and a workman’s blouse, I followed him in his track, and saw him
enter one of the finest houses in the Rue de Varennes.”
“He lived there then?”
“He did, and he was a very well-known man--the Duke de Champdoce.”
“Yes, I know all that,” answered Tantaine, placidly, “but I can’t, for
the life of me, imagine the connection between the Duke and Caroline
Schimmel.”
Perpignan raised his eyebrows.
“Why did you put a man to watch her?” asked Tantaine.
“My reasons for doing so were most simple. I made every inquiry
regarding the Duke; learned that he was very wealthy, and lived a very
steady life. He is married, and loves his wife dearly. They had one son,
whom they lost a year ago, and have never recovered from the shock. I
imagine that this Duke, having lost his legitimate heir, wished me to
find his other son. Do you not think that I am right?”
“There is something in it; but, after all, you have not explained your
reasons for watching Caroline.”
Perpignan was no match for Mascarin’s right-hand man, but he was keen
enough to discern that Tantaine was putting a string of questions to him
which had been prepared in advance. This he, however, was powerless to
resent.
“As you may believe,” said he, “I made every inquiry into the past as
well as the present of the Duke, and also tried to discover who was the
mother of the child, but in this I entirely failed.”
“What! not with all your means?” cried Tantaine, with a sneer.
“Laugh at me as much as you like; but out of the thirty servants in the
Champdoce establishment, not one has been there more than ten years.
Nor could I anywhere lay my hands upon one who had been in the Duke’s
service in his youth. Once, however, as I was in the wineshop in the Rue
de Varennes, I quite by chance heard allusion made to a woman who had
been in the service of the Duke twenty-five years ago, and who was
now in receipt of a small allowance from him. This woman was Caroline
Schimmel. I easily found out her address, and set a watch on her.”
“And of what use will she be to you?”
“Very little, I fear. And yet the allowance looks as if she had at one
time done something out of the way for her employers. Can it be that she
has any knowledge of the birth of this natural child?”
“I don’t think much of your idea,” returned Tantaine carelessly.
“Since then,” continued Perpignan, “the Duke has never put in an
appearance in my office.”
“But how about Catenac?”
“I have seen him three times.”
“Has he told you nothing more? Do you not even know in which hospital
the child was placed?”
“No; and on my last visit I plainly told him that I was getting sick of
all this mystery; and he said that he himself was tired, and was sorry
that he had ever meddled in the affair.”
Tantaine was not surprised at hearing this, and accounted for Catenac’s
change of front by the threats of Mascarin.
“Well, what do you draw from this?” asked he.
“That Catenac has no more information than I have. The Duke most likely
proposes to drop the affair; but, were I in his place, I should be
afraid to find the boy, however much I might at one time have desired
to do so. He may be in prison--the most likely thing for a lad who, at
twelve years of age, ran away from a place where he was well treated. I
have, however, planned a mode of operation, for, with patience, money,
and skill, much might be done.”
“I agree with you.”
“Then let me tell you. I have drawn an imaginary circle round Paris. I
said to myself, ‘I will visit every house and inn in the villages round
within this radius; I will enter every isolated dwelling, and will say
to the inhabitants, “Do any of you remember at any time sheltering and
feeding a child, dressed in such and such a manner?”’ giving at the
same time a description of him. I am sure that I should find some one
who would answer in the affirmative. Then I should gain a clue which I
would follow up to the end.”
This plan appeared so ingenious to Tantaine, that he involuntarily
exclaimed,--
“Good! excellent!”
Perpignan hardly knew whether Tantaine was praising or blaming him. His
manner might have meant either.
“You are very fast,” returned he dismally. “Perhaps presently you will
be good enough to allow that I am not an absolute fool. Do you really
think that I am an idiot? At any rate, I sometimes hit upon a judicious
combination. For example, with regard to this boy, I have a notion
which, if properly worked might lead to something.”
“Might I ask what it is?”
“I speak confidentially. If it is impossible to lay our hands upon the
real boy, why should we not substitute another?”
At this suggestion, Tantaine started violently.
“It would be most dangerous, most hazardous,” gasped he.
“You are afraid, then?” said Perpignan, delighted at the effect his
proposal had made.
“It seems it is you who were afraid,” retorted Tantaine.
“You do not know me when you say that,” said Perpignan.
“If you were not afraid,” asked Tantaine, in his most oily voice, “why
did you not carry out your plan?”
“Because there was one obstacle that could not be got over.”
“Well, I can’t see it myself,” returned Tantaine, desirous of hearing
every detail.
“Ah, there is one thing that I omitted in my narrative. The Duke
informed me that he could prove the identity of the boy by certain
scars.”
“Scars? And of what kind, pray?”
“Now you are asking me too much. I do not know.”
On receiving this reply, Tantaine rose hastily from his chair, and thus
concealed his agitation from his companion.
“I have a hundred apologies to make for taking up so much of your
valuable time. My master has got it into his head that you were after
the same game as ourselves. He was mistaken, and now we leave the field
clear to you.”
Before Perpignan could make any reply, the old man had passed through
the doorway. On the threshold he paused, and said,--
“Were I in your place, I would stick to my first plan. You will never
find the boy, but you will get several thousand francs out of the Duke,
which I am sure will come in handy.”
“There are scars now, then,” muttered Tantaine, as he moved away from
the house, “and that Master Catenac never said a word about them!”