XIV.
M. Casimir, the deceased Count de Chalusse's valet, was neither betternor worse than most of his fellows. Old men tell us that there formerlyexisted a race of faithful servants, who considered themselves a partof the family that employed them, and who unhesitatingly embraced itsinterests and its ideas. At the same time their masters requited theirdevotion by efficacious protection and provision for the future. Butsuch masters and such servants are nowadays only found in the oldmelodramas performed at the Ambigu, in "The Emigre," for instance, orin "The Last of the Chateauvieux." At present servants wander from onehouse to another, looking on their abode as a mere inn where they mayfind shelter till they are disposed for another journey. And familiesreceive them as transient, and not unfrequently as dangerous,guests, whom it is always wise to treat with distrust. The key ofthe wine-cellar is not confided to these unreliable inmates; they areintrusted with the charge of little else than the children--a practicewhich is often productive of terrible results.
M. Casimir was no doubt honest, in the strict sense of the word. Hewould have scorned to rob his master of a ten-sous piece; and yethe would not have hesitated in the least to defraud him of a hundredfrancs, if an opportunity had presented itself. Vain and rapacious indisposition, he consoled himself by refusing to obey any one save hisemployer, by envying him with his whole heart, and by cursing fatefor not having made him the Count de Chalusse instead of the Count deChalusse's servant. As he received high wages, he served passably well;but he employed the best part of his energy in watching the count. Hescented some great family secret in the household, and he felt angry andhumiliated that this secret had not been intrusted to his discretion.And if he had discovered nothing, it was because M. de Chalusse had beencaution personified, as Madame Leon had declared.
Thus it happened that when M. Casimir saw Mademoiselle Margueriteand the count searching in the garden for the fragments of a letterdestroyed in a paroxysm of rage which he had personally witnessed,his natural curiosity was heightened to such a degree as to becomeunendurable. He would have given a month's wages, and something over,to have known the contents of that letter, the fragments of which werebeing so carefully collected by the count. And when he heard M. deChalusse tell Mademoiselle Marguerite that the most important partof the letter was still lacking, and saw his master relinquish hisfruitless search, the worthy valet vowed that he would be more skilfulor more fortunate than his master; and after diligent effort, heactually succeeded in recovering five tiny scraps of paper, which hadbeen blown into the shrubbery.
They were covered with delicate handwriting, a lady's unquestionably;but he was utterly unable to extract the slightest meaning from them.Nevertheless, he preserved them with jealous care, and was carefulnot to say that he had found them. The incoherent words which he haddeciphered on these scraps of paper mixed strangely in his brain, andhe grew more and more anxious to learn what connection there was betweenthis letter and the count's attack. This explains his extreme readinessto search the count's clothes when Mademoiselle Marguerite told him tolook for the key of the escritoire. And fortune favored him, for he notonly found the key, but he also discovered the torn fragments ofthe letter, and having crumpled them up in the palm of his hand, hecontrived to slip them into his pocket. Fruitless dexterity! M. Casimirhad joined these scraps to the fragments he had found himself, he hadread and re-read the epistle, but it told him nothing; or, at least, theinformation it conveyed was so vague and incomplete that it heightenedhis curiosity all the more. Once he almost decided to give the letterto Mademoiselle Marguerite, but he resisted this impulse, saying tohimself: "Ah, no; I'm not such a fool! It might be of use to her."
And M. Casimir had no desire to be of service to this unhappy girl, whohad always treated him with kindness. He hated her, under the pretencethat she was not in her proper place, that no one knew who or what shewas, and that it was absurd that he--he, Casimir--should be compelledto receive orders from her. The infamous slander which MademoiselleMarguerite had overheard on her way home from church, "There goes therich Count de Chalusse's mistress," was M. Casimir's work. He had swornto be avenged on this haughty creature; and no one can say what hemight have attempted, if it had not been for the intervention of themagistrate. Imperatively called to order, M. Casimir consoled himselfby the thought that the magistrate had intrusted him with eight thousandfrancs and the charge of the establishment. Nothing could havepleased him better. First and foremost, it afforded him a magnificentopportunity to display his authority and act the master, and it alsoenabled him to carry out his compact with Victor Chupin, and repair tothe rendezvous which M. Isidore Fortunat had appointed.
Leaving his comrades to watch the magistrate's operations, he sent M.Bourigeau to report the count's death at the district mayor's office,and then lighting a cigar he walked out of the house, and strolledleisurely up the Rue de Courcelles. The place appointed for his meetingwith M. Fortunat was on the Boulevard Haussmann, almost oppositeBinder's, the famous carriage builder. Although it was rather awine-shop than a restaurant, a capital breakfast could be obtained thereas M. Casimir had ascertained to his satisfaction several times before."Has no one called for me?" he asked, as he went in.
"No one."
He consulted his watch, and evinced considerable surprise. "Not yetnoon!" he exclaimed. "I'm in advance; and as that is the case, give me aglass of absinthe and a newspaper."
He was obeyed with far more alacrity than his deceased master had everrequired him to show, and he forthwith plunged into the report ofthe doings at the Bourse, with the eagerness of a man who has anall-sufficient reason for his anxiety in a drawer at home. Havingemptied one glass of absinthe, he was about to order a second, when hefelt a tap on the shoulder, and on turning round he beheld M. IsidoreFortunat.
In accordance with his wont, the agent was attired in a style of severeelegance--with gloves and boots fitting him to perfection--but anunusually winning smile played upon his lips. "You see I have beenwaiting for you," exclaimed M. Casimir.
"I am late, it's true," replied M. Fortunat, "but we will do our bestto make up for lost time; for, I trust, you will do me the honor ofbreakfasting with me?"
"Really, I don't know that I ought."
"Yes, yes, you must. They will give us a private room; we must have atalk."
It was certainly not for the pleasure of the thing that M. Fortunatcultivated M. Casimir's acquaintance, and entertained him at breakfast.M. Fortunat, who was a very proud man, considered this connectionsomewhat beneath his dignity; but at first, circumstances, and afterwardinterest, had required him to overcome his repugnance. It was throughthe Count de Chalusse that he had made M. Casimir's acquaintance. Whilethe count was employing the agent he had frequently sent his valet tohim with messages and letters. Naturally, M. Casimir had talked on theseoccasions, and the agent had listened to him; hence this superficialfriendship. Subsequently when the marriage contemplated by the Marquisde Valorsay was in course of preparation, M. Fortunat had profited ofthe opportunity to make the count's servant his spy; and it had beeneasy to find a pretext for continuing the acquaintance, as M. Casimirwas a speculator, or rather a dabbler in stocks and shares. So, wheneverhe needed information, M. Fortunat invited M. Casimir to breakfast,knowing the potent influence of a good bottle of wine offered at theright moment. It is needless to say that he exercised uncommon care inthe composition of the menu on a day like this when his future coursedepended, perhaps, on a word more or less.
M. Casimir's eye sparkled as he took his seat at the table opposite hisentertainer. The crafty agent had chosen a little room looking out on tothe boulevard. Not that it was more spacious or elegant than the others,but it was isolated, and this was a very great advantage; for every oneknows how unsafe and perfidious are those so-called private rooms whichare merely separated from each other by a thin partition, scarcelythicker than a sheet of paper. It was not long before M. Fortunat hadreason to congratulate himself on his foresight, for the breakfast beganwith a dish of sh
rimps, and M. Casimir had not finished his twelfth,washed down by a glass of chablis, before he declared that he could seeno impropriety in confiding certain things to a friend.
The events of the morning had completely turned his head; and gratifiedvanity and good cheer excited him to such a degree that he discoursedwith unwonted volubility. With total disregard of prudence, he talkedwith inexcusable freedom of the Count de Chalusse, and M. de Valorsay,and especially of his enemy, Mademoiselle Marguerite. "For it is she,"he exclaimed, rapping on the table with his knife--"it is she who hastaken the missing millions! How she did it, no one will ever know, forshe has not an equal in craftiness; but it's she who has stolen them,I'm sure of it! I would have taken my oath to that effect before themagistrate, and I would have proved it, too, if he hadn't taken her partbecause she's pretty--for she is devilishly pretty."
Even if M. Fortunat had wished to put in a word or two, he could havefound no opportunity. But his guest's loquacity did not displease him;it gave him an opportunity for reflection. Strange thoughts arose in hismind, and connecting M. Casimir's affirmations with the assurances ofthe Marquis de Valorsay, he was amazed at the coincidence. "It's verysingular!" he thought. "Has this girl really stolen the money? and hasthe marquis discovered the fact through Madame Leon, and determined toprofit by the theft? In that case, I may get my money back, after all! Imust look into the matter."
A partridge and a bottle of Pomard followed the shrimps and chablis; andM. Casimir's loquacity increased, and his voice rose higher and higher.He wandered from one absurd story to another, and from slander toslander, until suddenly, and without the slightest warning, he began tospeak of the mysterious letter which he considered the undoubted causeof the count's illness.
At the first word respecting this missive, M. Fortunat startedviolently. "Nonsense!" said he, with an incredulous air. "Why the devilshould this letter have had such an influence?"
"I don't know. But it is certain--it had." And, in support of hisassertion, he told M. Fortunat how the count had destroyed the letteralmost without reading it, and how he had afterward searched for thefragments, in order to find an address it had contained. "And I'm quitesure," said the valet, "that the count intended to apply to you for theaddress of the person who wrote the letter."
"Are you sure of that?"
"As sure as I am of drinking Pomard!" exclaimed M. Casimir, draining hisglass.
Rarely had the agent experienced such emotion. He did not doubt but whatthis missive contained the solution of the mystery. "Were the scraps ofthis letter found?" he asked.
"I have them," cried the valet, triumphantly. "I have them in my pocket,and, what's more, I have the whole of them!"
This declaration made M. Fortunat turn pale with delight."Indeed--indeed!" said he; "it must be a strange production."
His companion pursed up his lips disdainfully. "May be so, may be not,"he retorted. "It's impossible to understand a word of it. The only thingcertain about it is that it was written by a woman."
"Ah!"
"Yes, by a former mistress, undoubtedly. And, naturally, she asks formoney for a child. Women of that class always do so. They've tried thegame with me more than a dozen times, but I'm not so easily caught." Andbursting with vanity, he related three or four love affairs in which,according to his own account, he must have played a most ignoble part.
If M. Fortunat's chair had been a gridiron, heated by an excellent fire,he could not have felt more uncomfortable. After pouring out bumperafter bumper for his guest, he perceived that he had gone too far,and that it would not be easy to check him. "And this letter?" heinterrupted, at last.
"Well?"
"You promised to let me read it."
"That's true--that's quite true; but it would be as well to have somemocha first, would it not? What if we ordered some mocha, eh?"
Coffee was served, and when the waiter had closed the door, M. Casimirdrew the letter, the scraps of which were fixed together, from hispocket, and unfolded it, saying: "Attention; I'm going to read."
This did not suit M. Fortunat's fancy. He would infinitely havepreferred perusing it himself; but it is impossible to argue with anintoxicated man, and so M. Casimir with a more and more indistinctenunciation read as follows: "'Paris, October 14, 186--.' So the ladylives in Paris, as usual. After this she puts neither 'monsieur,' nor'my friend,' nor 'dear count,' nothing at all. She begins abruptly:'Once before, many years ago, I came to you as a suppliant. You werepitiless, and did not even deign to answer me. And yet, as I told you, Iwas on the verge of a terrible precipice; my brain was reeling, vertigohad seized hold of me. Deserted, I was wandering about Paris, homelessand penniless, and my child was starving!'"
M. Casimir paused to laugh. "That's like all the rest of them," heexclaimed; "that is exactly like all the rest! I've ten such letters inmy drawer, even more imperative in their demands. If you'll come homewith me after breakfast, I'll show them to you. We'll have a heartylaugh over them!"
"Let us finish this first."
"Of course." And he resumed: "'If I had been alone. I should not havehesitated. I was so wretched that death seemed a refuge to me. Butwhat was to become of my child? Should I kill him, and destroy myselfafterward? I thought of doing so, but I lacked the courage. And whatI implored you in pity to give me, was rightfully mine. I had only topresent myself at your house and demand it. Alas! I did not know thatthen. I believed myself bound by a solemn oath, and you inspired mewith inexpressible terror. And still I could not see my child die ofstarvation before my very eyes. So I abandoned myself to my fate, andI have sunk so low that I have been obliged to separate from my son.He must not know the shame to which he owes his livelihood. And he isignorant even of my existence.'"
M. Fortunat was as motionless as if he had been turned to stone. Afterthe information he had obtained respecting the count's past, and afterthe story told him by Madame Vantrasson, he could scarcely doubt."This letter," he thought, "can only be from Mademoiselle Hermine deChalusse."
However, M. Casimir resumed his reading: "'If I apply to you again, iffrom the depth of infamy into which I have fallen, I again call upon youfor help, it is because I am at the end of my resources--because, beforeI die, I must see my son's future assured. It is not a fortune that Iask for him, but sufficient to live upon, and I expect to receive itfrom you.'"
Once more the valet paused in his perusal of the letter to remark:"There it is again sufficient to live upon, and I expect to receive itfrom you!--Excellent! Women are remarkable creatures, upon my word! Butlisten to the rest! 'It is absolutely necessary that I should see youas soon as possible. Oblige me, therefore, by calling to-morrow, October15th, at the Hotel de Homburg, in the Rue du Helder. You will ask forMadame Lucy Huntley, and they will conduct you to me. I shall expect youfrom three o'clock to six. Come. I implore you, come. It is painful tome to add that if I do not hear from you, I am resolved to demand andOBTAIN--no matter what may be the consequences--the means which I have,so far, asked of you on my bended knees and with clasped hands.'"
Having finished the letter, M. Casimir laid it on the table, and pouredout a glassful of brandy, which he drained at a single draught. "Andthat's all," he remarked. "No signature--not even an initial. It was aso-called respectable woman who wrote that. They never sign their notes,the hussies! for fear of compromising themselves, as I've reason toknow." And so saying, he laughed the idiotic laugh of a man who has beendrinking immoderately. "If I had time," he resumed, "I should make someinquiries about this Madame Lucy Huntley--a feigned name, evidently.I should like to know---- But what's the matter with you, MonsieurFortunat? You are as pale as death. Are you ill?"
To tell the truth, the agent did look as if he were indisposed."Thanks," he stammered. "I'm very well, only I just remembered that someone is waiting for me."
"Who?"
"A client."
"Nonsense!" rejoined the valet; "make some excuse; let him go about hisbusiness. Aren't you rich enough? Pour us out another glass of wine; itw
ill make you all right again."
M. Fortunat complied, but he performed the task so awkwardly, or,rather, so skilfully, that he drew toward him, with his sleeve, theletter which was lying beside M. Casimir's plate. "To your health," saidthe valet. "To yours," replied M. Fortunat. And in drawing back the armhe had extended to chink glasses with his guest, he caused the letter tofall on his knees.
M. Casimir, who had not observed this successful manoeuvre, was tryingto light his cigar; and while vainly consuming a large quantity ofmatches in the attempt, he exclaimed: "What you just said, my friend,means that you would like to desert me. That won't do, my dear fellow!You are going home with me; and I will read you some love-letters froma woman of the world. Then we will go to Mourloup's, and play a game ofbilliards. That's the place to enjoy one's self. You'll see Joseph, ofthe Commarin household, a splendid comedian."
"Very well; but first I must settle the score here."
"Yes, pay."
M. Fortunat rang for his bill. He had obtained more information thanhe expected; he had the letter in his pocket, and he had now only onedesire, to rid himself of M. Casimir. But this was no easy task. Drunkenmen cling tenaciously to their friends; and M. Fortunat was askinghimself what strategy he could employ, when the waiter entered, andsaid: "There's a very light-complexioned man here, who looks as if hewere a huissier's clerk. He wishes to speak with you, gentlemen."
"Ah! it's Chupin!" exclaimed the valet. "He is a friend. Let him comein, and bring us another glass. 'The more the merrier,' as the sayinggoes."
What could Chupin want? M. Fortunat had no idea, but he was none theless grateful for his coming, being determined to hand this troublesomeCasimir over to his keeping. On entering the room Chupin realized thevalet's condition at the first glance, and his face clouded. Hebowed politely to M. Fortunat, but addressed Casimir in an extremelydiscontented tone. "It's three o'clock," said he, "and I've come, as weagreed, to arrange with you about the count's funeral."
These words had the effect of a cold shower-bath on M. Casimir. "Uponmy word, I had forgotten--forgotten entirely, upon my word!" And thethought of his condition, and the responsibility he had accepted, comingupon him at the same time, he continued: "Good Heavens! I'm in a nicestate! It is all I can do to stand. What will they think at the house?What will they say?"
M. Fortunat had drawn his clerk a little on one side. "Victor," said he,quickly and earnestly, "I must go at once. Everything has been paid for;but in case you need some money for a cab or anything of the sort, hereare ten francs. If there's any you don't use, keep it for yourself. Ileave this fool in your charge, take care of him."
The sight of the ten-franc piece made Chupin's face brighten a little."Very well," he replied. "I understand the business. I served myapprenticeship as a 'guardian angel' when my grandmother kept thePoivriere." [2]
"Above all, don't let him return home in his present state."
"Have no fears, monsieur, I must talk business with him, and so I shallhave him all right in a jiffy." And as M. Fortunat made his escape,Chupin beckoned to the waiter, and said:
"Fetch me some very strong coffee, a handful of salt, and a lemon.There's nothing better for bringing a drunken man to his senses."
The Count's Millions Page 14