Dr. Hortebise’s private arrangements were sadly upset by his being compelled to accede to the desire of Tantaine and Mascarin, and in granting hospitality to Paul Violaine; and in spite of the brilliant visions of the future, he often devoutly wished that Mascarin and his young friend were at the other side of the world; but for all that he never thought of attempting to evade the order he had received. He therefore set himself steadily to his task, endeavoring to form Paul’s mind, blunt his conscience, and prepare him for the inevitable part that he would soon have to play.
Paul found in him a most affable companion, pleasant, witty, and gifted with great conversational powers. Five days were thus spent breakfasting at well-known restaurants, driving in the Bois, and dining at clubs of which the doctor was a member, while the evenings were passed at the banker’s. The doctor played cards with his host, while Paul and Flavia conversed together in low whispers, or else hung over the piano together. But every kind of agreeable existence comes to an end, and one day Daddy Tantaine entered the room, his face radiant with delight.
“I have secured you the sweetest little nest in the world,” cried he merrily. “It is not so fine as this, but more in accordance with your position.”
“Where is it?” asked Paul.
Tantaine waited. “You won’t wear out much shoe leather,” said he, “in walking to a certain banker’s, for your lodgings are close to his house.”
That Tantaine had a splendid talent for arrangement Paul realized as soon as he entered his new place of abode, which was in the Rue Montmartre, and consisted of some neat, quiet rooms, just such as an artist who had conquered his first difficulties would inhabit. The apartments were on the third floor, and comprised a tiny entrance hall, sitting-room, bed and dressing room. A piano stood near the window in the sitting-room. The furniture and curtains were tasteful and in good order, but nothing was new. One thing surprised Paul very much; he had been told that the apartments had been taken and furnished three days ago, and yet it seemed as if they had been inhabited for years, and that the owner had merely stepped out a few minutes before. The unmade bed, and the half-burnt candles in the sleeping-room added to this impression, while on the rug lay a pair of worn slippers. The fire had not gone out entirely, and a half-smoked cigar lay on the mantelpiece.
On the table in the sitting-room was a sheet of music paper, with a few bars jotted down upon it. Paul felt so convinced that he was in another person’s rooms, that he could not help exclaiming, “But surely some one has been living in these chambers.”
“We are in your own home, my dear boy,” said Tantaine.
“But you took over everything, I suppose, and the original proprietor simply walked out?”
Tantaine smiled, as though an unequivocal compliment had been paid him.
“Why, do you not know your own home?” asked he; “you have been living here for the last twelve months.”
“I can’t understand you,” answered Paul, opening his eyes in astonishment; “you must be jesting.”
“I am entirely in earnest; for more than a year you have been established here. If you want a proof of the correctness of my assertion, call up the porter.” He ran to the head of the staircase and called out, “Come up, Mother Brigaut.”
In a few moments a stout old woman came panting into the room.
“And how are you, Mother Brigaut?” said Tantaine gayly. “I have a word or two to say to you. You know that gentleman, do you not?”
“What a question? as if I did not know one of the gentlemen lodging here?”
“What is his name?”
“M. Paul.”
“What, plain M. Paul, and nothing else?”
“Well, sir, it is not his fault if he did not know his father or mother.”
“What does he do?”
“He is a musician; he gives lessons on the piano, and composes music.”
“Does he do a good business?”
“I can’t say, sir, but I should guess about two or three hundred francs a month; and he makes that do, for he is economical and quiet, and as modest as a young girl.”
Tantaine’s face shone all over with satisfaction.
“You must have known M. Paul for some time, as you seem so thoroughly acquainted with his habits?” said he.
“Well, I ought to, for he has been here nearly fifteen months, and all that time I have looked after his room.”
“Do you know where he lived before he came here?”
“Of course I do, for I went to inquire about him in the Rue Jacob. The people there were quite cut up at his leaving, but you see this was more handy for the music publisher in the Rue Richelieu, for whom he works.”
“Good, Mother Brigaut; that will do; you can leave us now.”
As Paul listened to this brief conversation, he wondered if he was awake or asleep. Tantaine stood at the door and watched the woman down stairs; then he closed it carefully, and coming up to Paul, said,--
“Well, what do you think of all this?”
At first Paul was so astounded that he could hardly find words in which to express himself; but he remembered the words that Dr. Hortebise had so often dinned into his ears during the last five days,--
“Let nothing astonish you.”
“I suppose,” said he at last, “that you had taught this old woman her lesson beforehand.”
“Merciful powers!” exclaimed Tantaine in tones of extreme disgust. “If these are all the ideas you have gained from what you have heard, our task will not be by any means an easy one.”
Paul was wounded by Tantaine’s contemptuous manner.
“I understand well enough, sir,” answered he sulkily, “that this is merely a prologue to a romantic drama.”
“You are right, my lad,” cried he, in a more satisfied voice; “and it is one that is quite indispensable. The plot of the drama will be revealed to you later on, and also the reward you will receive if you play your part well.”
“But why cannot you tell me everything now?”
Tantaine shook his head.
“Have patience, you rash boy!” said he. “Rome was not built in a day. Be guided by me, and follow blindly the orders of those interested in you. This is your first lesson; think it over seriously.”
“My first lesson! What do you mean?”
“Call it a rehearsal if you like. All that the good woman told you,” continued Tantaine, “you must look upon as true; nay, it is true, and when you believe this thoroughly, you are quite prepared for the fray, but until then you must remain quiescent. Remember this, you cannot impress others unless you firmly believe yourself. The greatest impostors of all ages have ever been their own dupes.”
At the word impostor, Paul seemed about to speak, but a wave of Tantaine’s hand silenced him.
“You must cast aside your old skin, and enter that of another. Paul Violaine, the natural son of a woman who kept a small drapery shop at Poitiers, Paul Violaine, the youthful lover of Rose, no longer exists. He died of cold and hunger in a garret in the Hotel de Perou, as M. de Loupins will testify when necessary.”
The tone in which Tantaine spoke showed his intense earnestness, and with emphatic gestures he drove each successive idea into Paul’s brain.
“You will rid yourself of your former recollections as you do of an old coat, which you throw aside, and forget the very existence of. And not only that, but you must lose your memory, and that so entirely, that if any one in the street calls out Violaine, you will never even dream of turning round.”
Paul’s brain seemed to tremble beneath the crime that his companion was teaching him.
“Who am I then?” asked he.
A sardonic smile crossed Tantaine’s face.
“You are just what the portress told you, Paul, and nothing more. Your first recollections are of a Foundling Hospital, and you never knew your parents. You have lived here fifteen months, and before that you resided in the Rue Jacob. The portress knows no more; but if you will come with me to the Rue Jacob, the people there can tell you more about your life when you were a lodger in the house. Perhaps, if you are careful, we may take you back to your more childish days, and even find you a father.”
“But,” said Paul, “I might be questioned regarding my past life: what then? M. Rigal or Mademoiselle Flavia might interrogate me at any moment?”
“I see; but do not disquiet yourself. You will be furnished with all necessary papers, so that you can account for all your life during the twenty-five years you spent in this world.”
“Then I presume that the person into whose shoes I have crept was a composer and a musician like myself?”
Again Tantaine’s patience gave way, and it was with an oath that he exclaimed,--
“Are you acting the part of a fool, or are you one in reality? No one has ever been here except you. Did you not hear what the old woman said? She told you that you are a musician, a self-made one, and while waiting until your talents are appreciated, you give lessons in music.”
“And to whom do I give them?”
Tantaine took three visiting cards from a china ornament on the mantelshelf.
“Here are three pupils of yours,” said he, “who can pay you one hundred francs per month for two lessons a week, and two of them will assure you that you have taught them for some time. The third, Madame Grandorge, a widow, will vow that she owes all her success, which is very great, to your lessons. You will go and give these pupils their lessons at the hours noted on their cards, and you will be received as if you had often been to the house before; and remember to be perfectly at your ease.”
“I will do my best to follow your instructions.”
“One last piece of information. In addition to your lessons, you are in the habit of copying for certain wealthy amateurs the fragments of old and almost obsolete operas, and on the piano lies the work that you are engaged on for the Marquis de Croisenois, a charming composition by Valserra. You see,” continued Tantaine, taking Paul by the arm, and showing him round the room, “that nothing has been forgotten, and that you have lived here for years past. You have always been a steady young man, and have saved up a little money. In this drawer you will find eight certificates of scrip from the Bank of France.”
Paul would have put many more questions, but the visitor was already on the threshold, and only paused to add these words,--
“I will call here to-morrow with Dr. Hortebise.” Then, with a strange smile playing on his lips, he added, as Mascarin had before, “You will be a duke yet.”
The old portress was waiting for Tantaine, and as soon as she saw him coming down the stairs immersed in deep thought, out she ran toward him with as much alacrity as her corpulency would admit.
“Did I do it all right?” asked she.
“Hush!” answered he, pushing her quickly into her lodge, the door of which stood open. “Hush! are you mad or drunk, to talk like this, when you do not know who is listening?”
“I hope you were pleased with my success,” continued the woman, aghast at his sudden anger.
“You did well--very well; you piled up the evidence perfectly. I shall have an excellent report to make of you to M. Mascarin.”
“I am so glad; and now my husband and I are quite safe?”
The old man shook his head with an air of doubt.
“Well, I can hardly say that yet; the master’s arm is long and strong; but you have numerous enemies. All the servants in the house hate you, and would be glad to see you come to grief.”
“Is that really so, sir? How can that be, for both I and my husband have been very kind to all of them?”
“Yes, perhaps you have been lately, but how about the times before? You and your husband both acted very foolishly. Article 386 cannot be got now, and two women can swear that they saw you and your husband, with a bunch of keys in your hand, on the second floor.”
The fat woman’s face turned a sickly yellow, she clasped her hands, and whined in tones of piteous entreaty,--
“Don’t speak so loud, sir, I beg of you.”
“You made a terrible mistake in not coming to my master earlier, for there had been then so much talk that the matter had reached the ears of the police.”
“But for all that, if M. Mascarin pleased----”
“He does please, my good woman, and is quite willing to serve you. I am sure that he will manage to break the inquiry; or if it must go on, he has several witnesses who will depose in your favor; but, you know, he gives nothing for nothing, and must have implicit obedience.”
“Good, kind man that he is, my husband and I would go through fire and water for him, while my daughter, Euphenice, would do anything in the world for him.”
Tantaine recoiled uneasily, for the old woman’s gratitude was so demonstrative that he feared she was about to embrace him.
“All you have to do is to stick firmly to what you have said about Paul,” continued he, when he found himself at a safe distance; “and if ever you breathe a word of what you have been doing, he will hand you over to the law, and then take care of Article 386.”
It was evident that this portion of the Code, that had reference to the robbery of masters by servants, struck terror into the woman’s soul.
“If I stood on the scaffold,” said she, “I would tell the story about M. Paul exactly as I have been taught.”
Her tone was so sincere, that Tantaine addressed her in a kindlier voice.
“Stick to that,” said he, “and I can say to you, ‘Hope.’ Upon the day on which the young man’s business is settled you will get a paper from me, which will prove your complete innocence, and enable you to say, ‘I have been grossly maligned.’”
“May the dear young man’s business be settled sharp,” said she.
“It will not be long before it is so; but, remember, in the meantime you must keep an eye upon him.”
“I will do so.”
“And, remember, report to me whoever comes to see him, no matter who it may be.”
“Not a soul can go upstairs without my seeing or hearing him.”
“Well, if any one, save the master, Dr. Hortebise, or myself comes, do not lose a moment, but come and report.”
“You shall know in five minutes.”
“I wonder if that is all I have to say?” mused Tantaine. “Ah! I remember: note exactly the hour at which this young man comes and goes. Do not have any conversation with him; answer all questions he addresses you with a simple ‘Yes,’ or ‘No,’ and, as I said before, watch his every movement.”
And Tantaine turned to go away, paying no attention to the woman’s eager protestations.
“Keep a strict watch,” were his last words, “and, above all, see that the lad gets into no scrape.”
In Tantaine’s presence Paul had endeavored to assume an air of bravado, but as soon as he was left alone he was seized with such mortal terror, that he sank in a half fainting condition into an easy-chair. He felt that he was not going to put on a disguise for a brief period, but for life, and that now, though he rose in life, wealth, title, even a wife would all have been obtained by a shameful and skilfully planned deception, and this deception he must keep up until the day of his death. He shuddered as he recalled Tantaine’s words, “Paul Violaine is dead.” He recalled the incidents in the life of the escaped galley-slave Coignard, who, under the name of Pontis de St. Helene, absolutely assumed the rank of a general officer, and took command of a domain. Coignard was recognized and betrayed by an old fellow-prisoner, and this was exactly the risk that Paul knew he must run, for any of his old companions might recognize and denounce him. Had he on such an occasion sufficient presence of mind to turn laughingly to his accuser, and say, “Really, my good fellow, you are in error, for I never set eyes on you before?”
He felt that he could not do it, and had he any means of existence, he would have solved the difficulty by taking to flight. But he knew that men like Mascarin, Hortebise, and Tantaine were not easily eluded, and his heart sank within him as he remembered the various crumbs of information that each of these men had dropped before him. To agree to their sordid proposals, and to remain in the position in which he was, was certainly to incur a risk, but it was one that was a long way off, and might never eventually come to pass; while to change his mind would be as sure to bring down swift and condign punishment upon his head; and the weak young man naturally chose the more remote contingency, and with this determination the last qualms of his conscience expired.
The first night he slept badly in his new abode, for it seemed to him as if the spectre of the man whose place he was to usurp was hovering over his couch. But with the dawn of day, and especially when the hour arrived for him to go out and give his lessons, he felt his courage return to him, though rashness perhaps would be the more correct word. And with a mien of perfect confidence he repaired to the house of Mademoiselle Grandorge, the oldest of his pupils. Impelled by the same feeling of curiosity as to how Paul would comport himself, both Dr. Hortebise and Father Tantaine had been hanging about the Rue Montmartre, and taking advantage of a heavy dray that was passing, caught a good glimpse of the young man.
“Aha,” chuckled Tantaine, delighted at seeing Paul look so brisk and joyous, “our young cock is in full feather; last night he was decidedly rather nervous.”
“Yes,” answered the doctor, “he is on the right road, and I think that we shall have no further trouble with him.”
They then thought it would be as well to see Mother Brigaut, and were received by the old woman with slavish deference.
“No one has been near the dear young gentleman,” said she, in reply to their questions. “Last night he came down about seven o’clock, and asked where the nearest eating-house was. I directed him to Du Val’s, and he was back by eight, and by eleven I saw that he had put out his light.”
“How about to-day?”
“I went up stairs at nine, and he had just finished dressing. He told me to get his breakfast ready, which I did. He ate well, and I said to myself, ‘Good; the bird is getting used to its cage.’”
“And then?”
“Then he commenced singing like a very bird, the dear fellow. His voice is as sweet as his face; any woman would fall in love with him. I’m precious glad that my girl, Euphenice is nowhere near.”
“And after that he went out?” continued Tantaine. “Did he say how long he would be away?”
“Only to give his lessons. I suppose he expected that you would call.”
“Very good,” remarked the old man; then, addressing Dr. Hortebise, he said, “Perhaps, sir, you are going to the Registry Office?”
“Yes; I want to see Mascarin.”
“He is not there; but if you want to see him on any special matter, you had better come to our young friend’s apartment, and await his arrival.”
“Very well, I will do so,” answered the doctor.
Hortebise was much more impressed than Paul with the skill of the hand which had imparted such a look of long occupation to the rooms.
“On my word, the quiet simplicity of these rooms would induce any father to give his daughter to this young fellow.”
The old man’s silence surprised him, and turning sharply round, he was struck by the gloomy look upon his features.
“What is the matter?” asked Hortebise, with some anxiety. “What is troubling you?”
Tantaine had thrown himself into a chair, and for a moment made no reply; then, springing to his feet, he gave the expiring embers a furious kick, and faced the doctor with folded arms.
“I see much trouble before us,” said he at last.
The doctor’s face grew as gloomy as that of his companion.
“Is it Perpignan who interferes?” asked he.
“No, Perpignan is only a fool; but he will do what I tell him.”
“Then I really do not see--”
“Do not see,” exclaimed Tantaine; “but luckily for us all, I am not so blind. Have you forgotten this marriage of De Croisenois? There lies the danger. All had gone so smoothly, every combination had been arranged, and every difficulty foreseen, and now----”
“Well, you had made too sure, that was all; and you were unprepared for the slightest check.”
“Not so, but I had made no attempt to guard against the impossible.”
“Of course, there are limits to all human intelligence, but pray explain yourself.”
“This is it, then, doctor. The most adroit energy could never have put in our way such an obstacle as now threatens us. Have you in your experience of society ever come across a wealthy heiress who is indifferent to all the allurements of luxury, and is capable of disinterested love?”
The doctor smiled an expressive denial.
“But such an heiress does exist,” said Tantaine, “and her name is Sabine de Mussidan. She loves--and whom do you think?--why a mere painter, who has crossed my path three times already. He is full, too, of energy and perseverance, and for these qualities I have never met his equal.”
“What, a man without friends, money, or position, what can--”
A rapid gesture of Tantaine’s checked his companion’s speech.
“Unfortunately he is not without friends,” remarked the genial Tantaine. “He has one friend at least; can you guess who it is? No less a personage than the man who was to have married Sabine, M. de Breulh-Faverlay.”
At this unexpected news Hortebise remained silent and aghast.
“How on earth those two met I cannot imagine. It must have been Sabine that brought them together, but the facts remain the same. They are close friends anyhow. And these two men have in their interests the very woman that I had selected to push De Croisenois’ suit.”
“Is it possible?”
“That is my present belief. At any rate, these three had a long interview last night, and doubtless came to a decision hostile to the interests of the Marquis.”
“What do you mean?” asked Hortebise, his lips tightly compressed with anxiety. “Do you mean that they are aware of the manner by which De Croisenois hopes to succeed?”
“Look here?” answered Tantaine. “A general, on the eve of a battle, takes every precaution, but among his subordinates there are always fools, if not traitors. I had arranged a pretty little scene between Croisenois and Van Klopen, by which the Viscountess would be securely trapped. Unfortunately, though the rehearsal was excellent, the representation was simply idiotic. Neither of the actors took the least trouble to enter into the spirit of his part. I had arranged a scene full of delicacy and finesse, and they simply made a low, coarse exhibition of it and themselves. Fools! they thought it was the easiest thing in the world to deceive a woman; and finally the Marquis, to whom I had recommended the most perfect discretion, opened fire, and actually spoke of Sabine and his desire to press his suit. The Viscountess found, with a woman’s keen perceptions, that there was something arranged between Van Klopen and her visitor, and hurried off to her cousin, M. de Breulh-Faverlay for advice and assistance.”
The doctor listened to this recital, pallid and trembling.
“Who told you all this?” gasped he.
“No one; I discovered it; and it was easy to do so. When we have a result, it is easy to trace it back to the cause. Yes, this is what took place.”
“Why don’t you say at once that the whole scheme is knocked on the head?” asked the doctor.
“Because I do not think that it is; I know that we have sustained a very severe check; but when you are playing ecarte and your adversary has made five points to your one, you do not necessarily throw down the cards and give up the game? Not a bit; you hold on and strive to better your luck.”
The worthy Dr. Hortebise did not know whether the most to admire the perseverance or deplore the obstinacy of the old man, and exclaimed,--
“Why, this is utter madness; it is like plunging headlong into a deep pit, which you can easily see in your path.”
Tantaine gave a long, low whistle.
“My friend,” said he, “what in your opinion would be the best course to pursue?”
“I should say, without a moment’s hesitation, turn up the whole scheme, and look out for another one, which, if less lucrative, would not be so full of danger. You had hoped to win the game, and with good reason too. Now throw aside all feelings of wounded vanity, and accept your defeat. After all, it does not matter to us who Mademoiselle de Mussidan marries. The great enterprise fortunately does not lie in this alliance. We have still the idea of the Company to which all old people must subscribe remaining to us, and we can work it up at once.”
He stopped short, abashed by the look on Tantaine’s face.
“It strikes me,” resumed the doctor, a little mortified, “that my proposal is not utterly ridiculous, and certainly deserves some consideration.”
“Perhaps so; but is it a practical one?”
“I see no reason why it should not be.”
“Indeed, then, you look at the thing in a very different manner to myself. We are too far advanced, my dear doctor, to be our own masters. We must go on, and have no option to do otherwise. To beat a retreat would simply be to invite our enemies to fall upon our disorganized battalions. We must give battle; and as the first to strike has always the best chance of victory, we must strive to take the initiative.”
“The idea is good, but these are mere words.”
“Was the secret that we confided to De Croisenois only words?”
This thrust went home.
“Do you mean that you think he would betray us?” said he.
“Why should he not if it were to his interests to do so? Reflect, Croisenois is almost at the end of his tether. We have dangled the line of a princely fortune before his eyes. Do you think he would do nothing if we were to say, ‘Excuse us, but we made a mistake; poor as you are, so you must remain, for we do not intend to help you?’”
“But is it necessary to say that at all?”
“Well, at any rate, whatever we choose to say, what limit do you think he will place upon his extortions now that he holds our secret? We have taught him his music, and he will make us do our part in the chorus, and can blackmail us as well as we can others.”
“We played a foolish game,” answered Dr. Hortebise moodily.
“No; we had to confide in some one. Besides, the two affairs, that of Madame de Mussidan and the Duke de Champdoce, ran so well together. They were the simultaneous emanations of my brain. I worked them up together, and together they must stand or fall.”
“Then you are determined to go on?”
“Yes; more determined than ever.”
The doctor had been playing with his locket for some time, and the contact of the cold metal seemed to have affected his nerves; for it was in a trembling voice that he replied,--
“I vowed long ago that we should sink or swim together.” He paused, and then, with a melancholy smile upon his face, continued,--“I have no intention of breaking my oath, you see; but I repeat, that your road seems to be a most perilous one, and I will add that I consider you headstrong and self-opinionated; but for all that I will follow you, even though the path you have chosen leads to the grave. I have at this moment a something between my fingers that will save me from shame and disgrace--a little pill to be swallowed, a gasp, a little dizziness, and all is over.”
Tantaine did not seem to care for the doctor’s explanation.
“There, that will do,” said he. “If things come to the worst, you can use the contents of your locket as much as you like, but in the meantime leave it alone, and do not keep jingling it in that distracting manner. For people of our stamp a danger well known is a comparatively slight peril, for threats furnish us with means of defence. Woe, I say, woe to the man who crosses my path, for I will hold my hand from nothing!” He stopped for a little, opened every door, and assured himself that there were no eavesdroppers, and then, in a low whisper, he said to Hortebise, “Do you not see that there is but one obstacle to our success, and that is Andre? Remove him, and the whole of our machinery will work as smoothly as ever.”
Hortebise winced, as if suffering from a sudden pain.
“Do you mean----?” asked he.
But Tantaine interrupted him with a low laugh, terrible to listen to.
“And why not?” said he. “Is it not better to kill than to be killed?”
Hortebise trembled from head to foot. He had no objection to extorting money by the basest threats, but he drew the line at murder.
“And suppose we were found out?” muttered he.
“Nonsense! How could we be discovered? Justice always looks for a motive; how, then could they bring it home to us? They could only find out that a young lady adored by De Breulh had thrown him over in order to marry Andre.”
“Horrible!” murmured the doctor, much shocked.
“I daresay that it is horrible, and I have no wish to proceed to extremities. I only wish to speak of it as a remote possibility, and one that we may be compelled to adopt. I hate violence just as much as you do, and trust that it may not be necessary.”
Just then the door opened, and Paul entered, a letter in his hand. He seemed in excellent spirits, and shook hands with both his visitors.
Tantaine smiled sarcastically as he contrasted Paul’s high spirits with the state of depression in which he had left him not many hours ago.
“Things are evidently going well with you,” remarked the doctor, forcing a smile.
“Yes; I cannot find any reason for complaint.”
“Have you given your lesson?”
“Yes; what a delightful woman Madame Grandorge is! she has treated me so kindly.”
“That is a good reason for your being so happy,” remarked the doctor, with a tinge of irony in his voice.
“Ah, that is not the only reason,” returned Paul.
“Shall I be indiscreet if I ask the real cause, then?”
“I am not quite sure whether I ought to speak on this matter,” said he fatuously.
“What! a love adventure already?” laughed the doctor.
The vanity of Paul’s nature beamed out in a smile.
“Keep your secret, my boy,” said Tantaine, in louder accents.
This, of course, was enough to loosen Paul’s tongue.
“Do you think, sir,” said he, “that I would keep anything from you?” He opened the letter he held in his hand, continuing: “The portress handed this to me as I came in; she said it was left by a bank messenger. Can you guess where it came from? Let me tell you--it is from Mademoiselle Flavia Rigal, and leaves no room to doubt of her sentiments toward me.”
“Is that a fact?”
“It is so; and whenever I choose, Mademoiselle Flavia will be only too ready to become Madame Paul.”
For an instant a bright flush crimsoned old Tantaine’s wrinkled face, but it faded away almost as soon as it appeared.
“Then you feel happy?” asked he, with a slight quiver in his voice.
Paul threw back his coat, and, placing his fingers in the armholes of his waistcoat, remarked carelessly,--
“Yes, of course, I am happy, as you may suppose; but the news is not particularly startling to me. On my third visit to M. Rigal’s, the girl let me know that I need not sigh in vain.”
Tantaine covered his face with his hands as Paul passed his fingers through his hair, and, striking what he considered an imposing attitude, read as follows:--
“MY DEAR PAUL,--
“I was very naughty, and I repent of it. I could not sleep all night, for I was haunted by the look of sorrow I saw in your face when you took leave of me. Paul, I did it to try you. Can you forgive me? You might, for I suffered much more than you could have done. Some one who loves me--perhaps more than you do--has told me that when a girl shows all the depths of her heart to a man she runs the risk of his despising her. Can this be true? I hope not, Paul, for never--no, never--can I conceal my feelings; and the proof of my faith in you is that I am going now to tell you all. I am sure that if your good friend and mine, Dr. Hortebise, came to my father with a certain request from you, it would not be rejected.
“Your own
“FLAVIA.”
“Did not this letter go straight to your heart?” asked Tantaine.
“Of course it did. Why, she will have a million for her wedding portion!”
On hearing these words, Tantaine started up with so threatening an aspect that Paul recoiled a step, but a warning look from the doctor restrained the old man’s indignation.
“He is a perfect sham!” muttered he; “even his vices are mere pretence.”
“He is our pupil, and is what we have made him,” whispered Tantaine.
Meanwhile Tantaine had gone up to Paul, and, placing his hand caressingly on his shoulder, said,--
“My boy, you will never know how much you owe to Mademoiselle Flavia.”
Paul could not understand the meaning of this scene. These men had done their best to pervert his morals, and to deaden the voice of his conscience, and now that he had hoped to earn their praise by an affectation of cynicism they were displeased with him. Before, however, he could ask a question, Tantaine had completely recovered his self-command.
“My dear boy,” said he, “I am quite satisfied with you. I came here to-day expecting to find you still undecided, and I am pleased with the change.”
“But, sir--” said Paul.
“On the contrary, you are firm and strong.”
“Yes, he has got on so well,” said the doctor, “that we should now treat him as one of ourselves, and confide more in him. To-night, my young friend, M. Mascarin will get from Caroline Schimmel the solution of the riddle that has for so long perplexed us. Be at the office to-morrow at ten o’clock, and you shall be told everything.”
Paul would have asked more questions, but Tantaine cut him short with a brief good-morning, and went off hurriedly, taking the doctor with him, and seemingly wishing to avoid a hazardous and unpleasant explanation.
“Let us get out of this,” whispered he. “In another moment I should have knocked the conceited ass down. Oh, my Flavia! my poor Flavia! your weakness of to-day will yet cost you very dear!”
Paul remained rooted to the ground, with an expression of surprise and confusion upon every line of his face. All his pride and vanity had gone. “I wonder,” muttered he, “what these disagreeable persons are saying about me? Perhaps laughing at my inexperience and ridiculing my aspirations.” The idea made him grind his teeth with rage; but he was mistaken, for neither Tantaine nor the doctor mentioned his name after they had left his apartment. As they walked up the Rue Montmartre, all their ideas were turning upon how it would be easiest to checkmate Andre.
“I have not yet got sufficient information to act on,” remarked Tantaine meditatively. “My present plan is to remain perfectly quiescent, and I have told Croisenois not to make a move of any kind. I have an eye and ear watching and listening when they think themselves in perfect privacy. Very soon I shall fathom their plans, and then--, but in the meantime have faith in me, and do not let the matter worry you.”
On the boulevard Tantaine took leave of his friend.
“I shall very likely not see you to-night, for I have an appointment at the Grand Turk with that precious young rascal, Toto Chupin. I must find Caroline, for I am sure that with her lies the Champdoce secret. She is very cunning, but has a weakness for drink, and, with Satan’s help, I hope to find out the special liquor which will make her open her lips freely.”
