Mademoiselle Marguerite had been greatly surprised on the occasion
of her visit to M. Fortunat when she saw Victor Chupin suddenly step
forward and eagerly exclaim: “I shall be unworthy of the name I bear if
I do not find M. Ferailleur for you in less than a fortnight.”
It is true that M. Fortunat’s clerk did not appear to the best advantage
on this occasion. In order to watch M. de Coralth, he had again arrayed
himself in his cast-off clothes, and with his blouse and his worn-out
shoes, his “knockers” and his glazed cap, he looked the vagabond to
perfection. Still, strange as it may seem, Mademoiselle Marguerite
did not once doubt the devotion of this strange auxiliary. Without an
instant’s hesitation she replied, “I accept your services, monsieur.”
Chupin felt at least a head taller as he heard this beautiful young girl
speak to him in a voice as clear and as sonorous as crystal. “Ah!
you are right to trust me,” he rejoined, striking his chest with his
clinched hand, “for I have a heart--but----”
“But what, monsieur?”
“I am wondering if you would consent to do what I wish. It would be a
very good plan, but if it displeases you, we will say no more about it.”
“And what do you wish?”
“To see you every day, so as to tell you what I’ve done, and to obtain
such directions as I may require. I’m well aware that I can’t go to M.
de Fondege’s door and ask to speak to you; but there are other ways
of seeing each other. For instance, every evening at five o-clock
precisely, I might pass along the Rue Pigalle, and warn you of my
presence by such a signal as this: ‘Pi-ouit!’” So saying he gave vent to
the peculiar call, half whistle, half ejaculation, which is familiar to
the Parisian working-classes. “Then,” he resumed, “you might come down
and I would tell you the news; besides, I might often help you by doing
errands.”
Mademoiselle Marguerite reflected for a moment, and then bowing her
head, she replied:
“What you suggest is quite practicable. On and after to-morrow evening I
will watch for you; and if I don’t come down at the end of half an hour,
you will know that I am unavoidably detained.”
Chupin ought to have been satisfied. But no, he had still another
request to make; and instinct, supplying the lack of education, told him
that it was a delicate one. Indeed, he dared not present his petition;
but his embarrassment was so evident, and he twisted his poor cap so
despairingly, that at last the young girl gently asked him: “Is there
anything more?”
He still hesitated, but eventually, mustering all his courage, he
replied: “Well, yes, mademoiselle. I’ve never seen Monsieur Ferailleur.
Is he tall or short, light or dark, stout or thin? I do not know. I
might stand face to face with him without being able to say, ‘It’s he.’
But it would be quite a different thing if I only had a photograph of
him.”
A crimson flush spread over Mademoiselle Marguerite’s face. Still she
answered, unaffectedly, “I will give you M. Ferailleur’s photograph
to-morrow, monsieur.”
“Then I shall be all right!” exclaimed Chupin. “Have no fears,
mademoiselle, we shall outwit these scoundrels!”
So far a silent witness of this scene, M. Fortunat now felt it his duty
to interfere. He was not particularly pleased by his clerk’s suddenly
increased importance; and yet it mattered little to him, for his only
object was to revenge himself on Valorsay. “Victor is a capable and
trustworthy young fellow, mademoiselle,” he declared; “he has grown up
under my training, and I think you will find him a faithful servant.”
A “have you finished, you old liar?” rose to Chupin’s lips, but respect
for Mademoiselle Marguerite prevented him from uttering the words.
“Then everything is decided,” she said, pleasantly. And with a smile she
offered her hand to Chupin as one does in concluding a bargain.
If he had yielded to his first impulse he would have thrown himself on
his knees and kissed this hand of hers, the whitest and most beautiful
he had ever seen. As it was, he only ventured to touch it with his
finger-tips, and yet he changed color two or three times. “What a
woman!” he exclaimed, when she had left them. “A perfect queen! A man
would willingly allow himself to be chopped in pieces for her sake; and
she’s as good and as clever as she’s handsome. Did you notice, monsieur,
that she did not offer to pay me. She understood that I offered to work
for her for my own pleasure, for my own satisfaction and honor. Heavens!
how I should have chafed if she had offered me money. How provoked I
should have been!”
Chupin was so fascinated that he wished no reward for his toil! This was
so astonishing that M. Fortunat remained for a moment speechless with
surprise. “Have you gone mad, Victor?” he inquired at last.
“Mad! I?--not at all; I’m only becoming----” He stopped short. He was
going to add: “an honest man.” But it is scarcely proper to talk about
the rope in the hangman’s house, and there are certain words which
should never be pronounced in the presence of certain people. Chupin
knew this, and so he quickly resumed: “When I become rich, when I’m a
great banker, and have a host of clerks who spend their time in counting
my gold behind a grating, I should like to have a wife of my own like
that. But I must be off about my business now, so till we meet again,
monsieur.”
The foregoing conversation will explain how it happened that Madame Leon
chanced to surprise her dear young lady in close conversation with
a vagabond clad in a blouse. Victor Chupin was not a person to make
promises and then leave them unfulfilled. Though he was usually
unimpressionable, like all who lead a precarious existence, still, when
his emotions were once aroused, they did not spend themselves in
empty protestations. It became his fixed determination to find Pascal
Ferailleur, and the difficulties of the task in no wise weakened his
resolution. His starting point was that Pascal had lived in the Rue
d’Ulm, and had suddenly gone off with his mother, with the apparent
intention of sailing for America. This was all he knew positively, and
everything else was mere conjecture. Still Mademoiselle Marguerite had
convinced him that instead of leaving Paris, Pascal was really still
there, only waiting for an opportunity to establish his innocence, and
to wreak his vengeance upon M. de Coralth and the Marquis de Valorsay.
On the other hand, with such a slight basis to depend upon, was it not
almost madness to hope to discover a man who had such strong reasons for
concealing himself? Chupin did not think so in fact, when he declared
his determination to perform this feat, his plan was already perfected.
On leaving M. Fortunat’s office, he hastened straight to the Rue d’Ulm,
at the top of his speed. The concierge of the house where Pascal had
formerly resided was by no means a polite individual. He was the very
same man who had answered Mademoiselle Marguerite’s questions so rudely;
but Chupin had a way of conciliating even the most crabbish doorkeeper,
and of drawing from him such information as he desired. He learned that
at nine o’clock on the sixteenth of October Madame Ferailleur, after
seeing her trunks securely strapped on to a cab had entered the vehicle,
ordering the driver to take her to the Railway Station in the Place
du Havre! Chupin wished to ascertain the number of the cab, but the
concierge could not give it. He mentioned, however, that this cab had
been procured by Madame Ferailleur’s servant-woman, who lived only a few
steps from the house. A moment later Chupin was knocking at this
woman’s door. She was a very worthy person, and bitterly regretted the
misfortunes which had befallen her former employers. She confirmed the
doorkeeper’s story, but unfortunately she, too, had quite forgotten the
number of the vehicle. All she could say was that she had hired it at
the cab stand in the Rue Soufflot, and that the driver was a portly,
pleasant-faced man.
Chupin repaired at once to the Rue Soufflot, where he found the man
in charge of the stand in the most savage mood imaginable. He began by
asking Chupin what right he had to question him, why he wished to do so,
and if he took him for a spy. He added that his duty only consisted in
noting the arrivals and departures of the drivers, and that he could
give no information whatever. There was evidently nothing to be gained
from this ferocious personage; and yet Chupin bowed none the less
politely as he left the little office. “This is bad,” he growled, as
he walked away, for he was really at a loss what to do next; and if not
discouraged, he was at least extremely disconcerted and perplexed. Ah!
if he had only had a card from the prefecture of police in his pocket,
or if he had been more imposing in appearance, he would have encountered
no obstacles; he might then have tracked this cab through the streets
of Paris as easily as he could have followed a man bearing a lighted
lantern through the darkness. But poor and humble, without letters of
recommendation, and with no other auxiliaries than his own shrewdness
and experience, he had a great deal to contend against. Pausing in his
walk, he had taken off his cap and was scratching his head furiously,
when suddenly he exclaimed: “What an ass I am!” in so loud a tone that
several passers-by turned to see who was applying this unflattering
epithet to himself.
Chupin had just remembered one of M. Isidore Fortunat’s debtors, a man
whom he often visited in the hope of extorting some trifling amount
from him, and who was employed in the Central office of the Paris Cab
Company. “If any one can help me out of this difficulty, it must be that
fellow,” he said to himself. “I hope I shall find him at his desk! Come,
Victor, my boy, you must look alive!”
However, he could not present himself at the office in the garb he
then wore, and so, much against his will, he went home and changed
his clothes. Then he took a cab at his own expense, and drove with all
possible speed to the main office of the Cab Company, in the Avenue de
Segur. Nevertheless it was already ten o’clock when he arrived there.
He was more fortunate than he had dared to hope. The man he wanted
had charge of a certain department, and was compelled to return to the
office every evening after dinner. He was there now.
He was a poor devil who, while receiving a salary of fifteen hundred
francs a year, spent a couple of thousand, and utilized his wits in
defending his meagre salary from his creditors. On perceiving Chupin,
he made a wrathful gesture, and his first words were: “I haven’t got a
penny.”
But Chupin smiled his most genial smile. “What!” said he, “do you fancy
I’ve come to collect money from you here, and at this hour? You don’t
know me. I merely came to ask a favor of you.”
The clerk’s clouded face brightened. “Since that is the case, pray take
a seat, and tell me how I can serve you,” he replied.
“Very well. At nine o’clock in the evening, on the sixteenth of October,
a lady living in the Rue d’Ulm sent to the stand in the Rue Soufflot for
a cab. Her baggage was placed upon it, and she went away no one knows
where. However, this lady is a relative of my employer, and he so much
wishes to find her that he would willingly give a hundred francs
over and above the amount you owe him, to ascertain the number of the
vehicle. He pretends that you can give him this number if you choose;
and it isn’t an impossibility, is it?”
“On the contrary, nothing could be easier,” replied the clerk, glad of
an opportunity to explain the ingenious mechanism of the office to an
outsider. “Have you ten minutes to spare?”
“Ten days, if necessary,” rejoined Chupin.
“Then you shall see.” So saying the clerk rose and went into the
adjoining room, whence a moment later he returned carrying a large green
box. “This contains the October reports sent in every evening by the
branch offices,” he remarked in explanation. He next opened the box,
glanced over the documents it contained, and joyfully exclaimed: “Here
we have it. This is the report sent in by the superintendent of the
cab-stand in the Rue Soumot on the 16th October. Here is a list of the
vehicles that arrived or left from a quarter to nine o’clock till a
quarter past nine. Five cabs came in, but we need not trouble ourselves
about them. Three went out bearing the numbers 1781, 3025, and 2140. One
of these three must have taken your employer’s relative.”
“Then I must question the three drivers.”
The clerk shrugged his shoulders. “What is the use of doing that?” he
said, disdainfully. “Ah! you don’t understand the way in which we manage
our business! The drivers are artful, but the company isn’t a fool. By
expending a hundred and fifty thousand francs on its detective force
every year, it knows what each cab is doing at each hour of the day. I
will now look for the reports sent in respecting these three drivers.
One of the three will give us the desired information.”
This time the search was a considerably longer one, and Chupin was
beginning to grow impatient, when the clerk waved a soiled and crumpled
sheet of paper triumphantly in the air, and cried: “What did I tell you?
This is the report concerning the driver of No. 2140. Listen: Friday, at
ten minutes past nine, sent to the Rue d’Ulm---- do you think of that?”
“It’s astonishing! But where can I find this driver?”
“I can’t say, just at this moment; he’s on duty now. But as he belongs
to this division he will be back sooner or later, so you had better
wait.”
“I will wait then; only as I’ve had no dinner, I’ll go out and get a
mouthful to eat. I can promise you that M. Fortunat will send you back
your note cancelled.”
Chupin was really very hungry, and so he rushed off to a little
eating-house which he had remarked on his way to the office. There
for eighteen sous he dined, or rather supped, like a prince; and as he
subsequently treated himself to a cup of coffee and a glass of brandy,
as a reward for his toil, some little time had elapsed when he returned
to the office. However, No. 2140 had not returned in his absence, so he
stationed himself at the door to wait for it.
His patience was severely tried, for it was past midnight when Chupin
saw the long-looked-for vehicle enter the courtyard. The driver slowly
descended from his box and then went into the cashier’s office to pay
over his day’s earnings, and hand in his report. Then he came out again
evidently bound for home. As the servant-woman had said, he was a stout,
jovial-faced man, and he did not hesitate to accept a glass of “no
matter what” in a wine-shop that was still open. Whether he believed the
story that Chupin told to excuse his questions or not, at all events he
answered them very readily. He perfectly remembered having been sent
to the Rue d’Ulm, and spoke of his “fare” as a respectable-looking old
lady, enumerated the number of her trunks, boxes, and packages, and even
described their form. He had taken her to the railway station, stopping
at the entrance in the Rue d’Amsterdam; and when the porters inquired,
as usual, “Where is this baggage to go?” the old lady had answered, “To
London.”
Chupin felt decidedly crestfallen on hearing this. He had fancied that
Madame Ferailleur had merely announced her intention of driving to the
Havre railway station so as to set possible spies on the wrong track,
and he would have willingly wagered anything, that after going a short
distance she had given the cabman different instructions. Not so,
however, he had taken her straight to the station. Was Mademoiselle
Marguerite deceived then? Had Pascal really fled from his enemies
without an attempt at resistance? Such a course seemed impossible on his
part. Thinking over all this, Chupin slept but little that night, and
the next morning, before five o’clock, he was wandering about the
Rue d’Amsterdam peering into the wine-shops in search of some railway
porter. It did not take him long to find one, and having done so, he
made him the best of friends in less than no time. Although this porter
knew nothing about the matter himself, he took Chupin to a comrade who
remembered handling the baggage of an old lady bound for London, on the
evening of the sixteenth. However, this baggage was not put into the
train after all; the old lady had left it in the cloak-room, and the
next day a fat woman of unprepossessing appearance had called for the
things, and had taken them away, after paying the charges for storage.
This circumstance had been impressed on the porter’s mind by the fact
that the woman had not given him a farthing gratuity, although he had
been much more obliging than the regulations required. However, when
she went off, she remarked in a honeyed voice, but with an exceedingly
impudent air: “I’ll repay you for your kindness, my lad. I keep a
wine-shop on the Route d’Asnieres, and if you ever happen to pass that
way with one of your comrades, come in, and I’ll reward you with a
famous drink!”
What had exasperated the porter almost beyond endurance, was the
certainty he felt that she was mocking him. “For she didn’t give me her
name or address, the old witch!” he growled. “She had better look out,
if I ever get hold of her again!”
But Chupin had already gone off, unmoved by his informant’s grievances.
Now that he had discovered the stratagem which Madame Ferailleur had
employed to elude her pursuers, his conjectures were changed into
certainties. This information proved that Pascal WAS concealed somewhere
in Paris; but where? If he could only find out this woman who had called
for the trunks, it would lead to the discovery of Madame Ferailleur and
her son but how was he to ascertain the woman’s whereabouts? She had
said that she kept a wine-shop on the Route d’Asnieres. Was this true?
Was it not more likely that this vague direction was only a fresh
precaution?
This much was certain: Chupin, who knew every wine-shop on the Route
d’Asnieres, did not remember any such powerful matron as the porter had
described. He had not forgotten Madame Vantrasson. But to imagine any
bond of interest between Pascal and such a woman as she was, seemed
absurd in the extreme. However, as he found himself in such a plight and
could not afford to let any chance escape, he repaired merely for form’s
sake to the Vantrasson establishment. It had not changed in the least
since the evening he visited it in company with M. Fortunat--but seen
in the full light of day, it appeared even more dingy and dilapidated.
Madame Vantrasson was not in her accustomed place, behind the counter,
between her black cat--her latest idol--and the bottles from which she
prepared her ratafia, now her supreme consolation here below. There was
no one in the shop but the landlord. Seated at a table, with a lighted
candle near him, he was engaged in an occupation which would have set
Chupin’s mind working if he had noticed it. Vantrasson had taken some
wax from a sealed bottle, and, after melting it at the flame of the
candle, he let it drop slowly on to the table. He then pressed a sou
upon it, and when the wax had become sufficiently cool and stiff, he
removed it from the table without destroying the impression, by means of
a thin bladed knife similar to those which glaziers use. However, Chupin
did not remark this singular employment. He was engaged in mentally
ejaculating, “Good! the old woman isn’t here.” And as his plan of
campaign was already prepared, he entered without further hesitation.
As Vantrasson heard the door turn upon its hinges, he rose so awkwardly,
or rather so skilfully, as to let all his implements, wax, knife, and
impressions, fall on the floor behind the counter. “What can I do to
serve you?” he asked, in a husky voice.
“Nothing. I wished to speak with your wife.”
“She has gone out. She works for a family in the morning.”
This was a gleam of light. Chupin had not thought of the only hypothesis
that could explain what seemed inexplicable to him. However, he knew how
to conceal his satisfaction, and so with an air of disappointment, he
remarked: “That’s too bad! I shall be obliged to call again.”
“So you have a secret to tell my wife?”
“Not at all.”
“Won’t I do as well, then?”
“I’ll tell you how it is. I’m employed in the baggage room of the
western railway station, and I wanted to know if your wife didn’t call
there a few days ago for some trunks?”
The landlord’s features betrayed the vague perturbation of a person who
can count the days by his mistakes, and it was with evident hesitation
that he replied:
“Yes, my wife went to the Havre station for some baggage last Sunday.”
“I thought so. Well, this is my errand: either the clerk forgot to ask
her for her receipt, or else he lost it. He can’t find it anywhere. I
came to ask your wife if she hadn’t kept it. When she returns, please
deliver my message; and if she has the receipt, pray send it to me
through the post.”
The ruse was not particularly clever, but it was sufficiently so to
deceive Vantrasson. “To whom am I to send this receipt?” he asked.
“To me, Victor Chupin, Faubourg Saint Denis,” was the reply.
Imprudent youth! alas, he little suspected what a liberty M. Fortunat
had taken with his name on the evening he visited the Vantrassons. But
on his side the landlord of the Model Lodging House had not forgotten
the name mentioned by the agent. He turned pale with anger on beholding
his supposed creditor, and quickly slipping between the visitor and the
door, he said: “So your name is Victor Chupin?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“And you are in the employment of the Railway Company?”
“As I just told you.”
“That doesn’t prevent you from acting as a collector, does it?”
Chupin instinctively recoiled, convinced that he had betrayed himself
by some blunder, but unable to discover in what he had erred. “I did do
something in that line formerly,” he faltered.
Vantrasson doubted no longer. “So you confess that you are a vile
scoundrel!” he exclaimed. “You confess that you purchased an old
promissory note of mine for fourpence, and then sent a man here to seize
my goods! Ah! you’d like to trample the poor under foot, would you! Very
well. I have you now, and I’ll settle your account! Take that!” And so
saying, he dealt his supposed creditor a terrible blow with his clinched
fist that sent him reeling to the other end of the shop.
Fortunately, Chupin was very nimble. He did not lose his footing, but
sprung over a table and used it as a rampart to shield himself from his
dangerous assailant. In the open field, he could easily have protected
himself; but here in this narrow space, and hemmed in a corner, he felt
that despite this barrier he was lost. “What a devil of a mess!” he
thought, as with wonderful agility he avoided Vantrasson’s fist, a fist
that would have felled an ox. He had an idea of calling for assistance.
But would any one hear him? Would any one reply? And if help came, would
not the police be sure to hear of the broil? And if they did, would
there not be an investigation which would perhaps disturb Pascal’s
plans? Fearing to injure those whom he wished to serve, he resolved to
let himself be hacked to pieces rather than allow a cry to escape him;
but he changed his tactics, and instead of attempting to parry the blows
as he had done before, he now only thought of gaining the door, inch by
inch.
He had almost reached it, not without suffering considerable injury,
when it suddenly opened, and a young man clad in black, with a smooth
shaven face, entered the shop, and sternly exclaimed: “Why! what’s all
this?”
The sight of the newcomer seemed to stupefy Vantrasson. “Ah! it is you,
Monsieur Maumejan?” he faltered, with a crestfallen air. “It’s nothing;
we were only in fun.”
M. Maumejan seemed perfectly satisfied with this explanation; and in the
indifferent tone of a man who is delivering a message, the meaning of
which he scarcely understood, he said: “A person who knows that your
wife is in my employ requested me to ask you if you would be ready to
attend to that little matter she spoke of.”
“Certainly. I was preparing for it a moment ago.”
Chupin heard no more. He had hurried out, his clothes in disorder, and
himself not a little hurt; but his delight made him lose all thought of
his injuries. “That’s M. Ferailleur,” he muttered, “I’m sure of it, and
I’m going to prove it.” So saying he hid himself in the doorway of a
vacant house a few paces distant from the Vantrassons’, and waited.
Then as soon as M. Maumejan emerged from the Model Lodging House, he
followed him. The young man with the clean shaven face walked up the
Route d’Asnieres, turned to the right into the Route de la Revolte, and
at last paused before a house of humble aspect. At that moment Chupin
darted toward him, and softly called, “M’sieur Ferailleur!”
The young man turned instinctively. Then seeing his mistake, and feeling
that he had betrayed himself, he sprang upon Chupin, and caught him by
the wrists: “Scoundrel! who are you?” he exclaimed. “Who has hired you
to follow me! What do you want of me?”
“Not so fast, m’sieur! Don’t be so rough! You hurt me. I’m sent by
Mademoiselle Marguerite!”