you understand, but tick. M. de Gandelu has not a sou of his own in the world, so a waiter at Potier’s told me, and he knew what was what; but the governor is rolling in money. Yesterday they had a house-warming—the dinner, with wine, cost over a thousand francs.”
Not seeing how to utilize any of this gossip, Mascarin made a gesture of dismissal, when the woman exclaimed,—
“Stop, sir, I have something to tell you.”
“Well,” said Mascarin, throwing himself back in his chair with an air of affected impatience, “let us have it.”
“We had eight gents to dinner, all howling swells, but my master was the biggest masher of the lot. Madame was the only woman at table. Well, by ten o’clock, they had all had their whack of drink, and then they told the porter to keep the courtyard clear. What do you think they did then? Why, they threw plates, glasses, knives, forks, and dishes bang out of the window. That is a regular swell fashion, so the waiter at Potier’s told me, and was introduced into Paris by a Russian.”
Mascarin closed his eyes and answered languidly, “Go on.”
“Well, sir, there was one gent who was a blot on the whole affair. He was tall, shabbily dressed, and with no manners at all. He seemed all the time to be sneering at the rest. But didn’t Madame make up to him just. She kept heaping up his plate and filling his glass. When the others got to cards, he sat down by my mistress, and began to talk.”
“Could you hear what they said?”
“I should think so. I was in the bedroom, and they were near the door.”
“Dear me,” remarked Mascarin, appearing much shocked, “surely that was not right?”
“I don’t care a rap whether it was right or not. I like to hear all about the people whom I engage with. They were talking about a M. Paul, who had been Madame’s friend before, and whom the gentleman also knew. Madame said that this Paul was no great shakes, and that he had stolen twelve thousand francs.”
Mascarin pricked up his ears, feeling that his patience was about to meet its reward.
“Can you tell me the gentleman’s name, to whom Madame said all this?” asked he.
“Not I. The others called him ‘The painter.’”
This explanation did not satisfy Mascarin.
“Look here, my good girl,” said he, “try and find out the fellow’s name. I think he is an artist who owes me money.”
“All right! Rely on me; and now I must be off, for I have breakfast to get ready, but I’ll call again to-morrow;” and with a curtsy she left the room.
Mascarin struck his hand heavily on the table.
“Hortebise has a wonderful nose for sniffing out danger,” said he. “This Rose and the young fool who is ruining himself for her must both be suppressed.”
Beaumarchef again made a motion of executing a thrust with the rapier.
“Pooh, pooh!” answered his master; “don’t be childish. I can do better than that. Rose calls herself nineteen, but she is more, she is of age, while Gandelu is still a minor. If old Gandelu had any pluck, he would put Article 354 in motion.”
“Eh, sir?” said Beaumarchef, much mystified.
“Look here. Before twenty-four hours have elapsed I must know everything as to the habits and disposition of Gandelu senior. I want to know on what terms he is with his son.”
“Good. I will set La Candele to work.”
“And as the young fellow will doubtless need money, contrive to let him know of our friend Verminet, the chairman of the Mutual Loan Society.”
“But that is M. Tantaine’s business.”
Mascarin paid no heed to this, so occupied was he by his own thoughts.
“This young artist seems to have more brains than the rest of the set, but woe to him if he crosses my path. Go back to the outer office, Beaumarchef, I hear some clients coming in.”
The man, however, did not obey.
“Pardon me, sir,” said he, “but La Candele, who is outside, will see them. I have my report to make.”
“Very good. Sit down and go on.”
Enchanted at this mark of condescension, Beaumarchef went on. “Yesterday there was nothing of importance, but this morning Toto Chupin came.”
“He had not lost Caroline Schimmel, I trust?”
“No, sir; he had even got into conversation with her.”
“That is good. He is a cunning little devil; a pity that he is not a trifle more honest.”
“He is sure,” continued Beaumarchef, “that the woman drinks, for she is always talking of persons following her about who menace her, and she is so afraid of being murdered that she never ventures out alone. She lives with a respectable workingman and his wife, and pays well for her board, for she seems to have plenty of money.”
“That is a nuisance,” remarked Mascarin, evidently much annoyed. “Where does she live?”
“At Montmartre, beyond the Chateau Rouge.”
“Good. Tantaine will inquire and see if Toto has made no mistake, and does not let the woman slip through his fingers.”
“He won’t do that, for he told me that he was on the right road to find out who she was, and where she got her money from. But I ought to warn you against the young scamp, for I have found out that he robs us and sells our goods far below their value.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have long had my suspicions, and yesterday I wormed it all out from a disreputable looking fellow, who came here to ask for his friend Chupin.”
Men accustomed to danger are over prompt in their decisions. “Very well,” returned Mascarin, “if this is the case, Master Chupin shall have a taste of prison fare.”
Beaumarchef withdrew, but almost immediately reappeared.
“Sir,” said he, “a servant from M. de Croisenois is here with a note.”
“Send the man in,” said Mascarin.
The domestic was irreproachably dressed, and looked what he was, the servant of a nobleman.
He had something the appearance of an Englishman, with a high collar, reaching almost to his ears. His face was clean shaved, and of a ruddy hue. His coat was evidently the work of a London tailor, and his appearance was as stiff as though carved out of wood. Indeed, he looked like a very perfect piece of mechanism.
“My master,” said he, “desired me to give this note into your own hands.”
Under cover of breaking the seal, Mascarin viewed this model servant attentively. He was a stranger
