declare myself satisfied; I will even humbly beg your pardon—for being a hunchback, M. de Mornand. It is the only excuse I can reasonably offer you."
"It is sufficient, monsieur," said M. de Mornand, with a bitter smile, while Gerald and De Ravil bound up the wounded arm with the aid of a handkerchief.
This done, the two men re-dressed themselves, after which M. de Maillefort said to M. de Mornand:
"Will you grant me the favour of a moment's conversation in another room?"
"I am at your service."
"Will you permit it, Gerald?"
"Certainly," replied the young duke.
The two gentlemen having stepped into Gerald's bedroom, the hunchback said, in his usual mocking way:
"Though it may be in very poor taste to speak of one's generosity, my dear sir, I am obliged to admit that for a minute or two I felt strongly inclined to kill you, and that it would have been a very easy matter for me to do it."
"You should have availed yourself of the opportunity, monsieur."
"But I reflected—"
"And with what object?"
"You will excuse me, I am sure, for not opening my whole heart to you, but permit me to beg that you will consider the slight wound you have just received merely an aid to memory."
"I do not understand you in the least, monsieur."
"You know, of course, that one often places a bit of paper in one's snuff-box, or ties a knot in the corner of one's handkerchief, to remind one of a rendezvous or a promise."
"Yes, monsieur; and what of it, may I ask?"
"I am strongly in hopes that the slight wound which I have just given you in the arm will serve as such an effectual reminder that the date of this little episode will never be effaced from your memory."
"And why are you so desirous that this date should be indelibly engraved upon my memory?"
"The explanation is very simple. I wish to fix the date in your memory in an ineffaceable manner—because it is quite possible that I shall some time have occasion to remind you of all you have said this afternoon."
"Remind me of all I have said this afternoon?"
"Yes, monsieur, and in the presence of irrefutable witnesses that I shall summon in case of need."
"I understand you less and less, monsieur."
"I see no particular advantage in your understanding me any better just at this time, my dear sir, so you must permit me to take leave of you, and go and bid my friend Gerald good-bye."
It is easy to comprehend that the real cause of M. de Maillefort's challenge to M. de Mornand was the insulting manner in which that gentleman had spoken of Madame de Beaumesnil, for the latter's suspicions were correct, and it was the hunchback who, unseen, had cried, "Scoundrel!" on hearing M. de Mornand's coarse words.
But why had M. de Maillefort, who was usually so frank and outspoken, taken this roundabout way to secure a pretext for avenging the insult offered to Madame de Beaumesnil? And what could be his object in wishing to remind M. de Mornand of this special day, and in perhaps calling him to account for all he had just said in the presence of reliable witnesses?
These questions will be satisfactorily answered as the story proceeds.
The Marquis de Maillefort had just bidden Gerald good-bye, when one of the servants brought the young duke the following letter, written by Olivier that same morning.
"My good Gerald:—'Man proposes and God disposes,' and last night, Providence, in the shape of my worthy master mason, decided that I must absent myself from Paris for a fortnight or three weeks, and I am truly sorry, for there can be no repetition of our pleasant dinner-party of yesterday for a long time to come.
"The fact is, my master mason is a very poor arithmetician, and he has become so mixed up in his specifications for some work he is to do in a château near Luzarches that it is impossible for me to make head or tail of his figures. For me to be able to cast any light on this portentous gloom, I shall be obliged to go through a host of measurements which I shall have to take myself, if I would avoid more puzzles, and this will necessitate a prolonged absence, I fear. I never told you, did I? that my master mason was formerly a sergeant in the engineer corps, a brave, honest, plain, kind-hearted man, and you know that life with people of that sort is easy and pleasant. One of my chief reasons, too, for going to his assistance is that, so far as I am able to judge, he is cheating himself badly—such a rare thing in these days that I shall not be sorry to verify the fact.
"I leave my uncle—what a heart of gold he has, hasn't he?—with no little anxiety. Ever since Madame Barbançon was brought back to us in Madame de Beaumesnil's superb equipage she has been in a truly alarming frame of mind, and I tremble for my uncle's digestion. She has not so much as mentioned Bonaparte's name, and seems to be in a brown study all the time—pauses thoughtfully in the garden, and every now and then stands stock-still in her kitchen with eyes fixed upon vacancy. She gave us sour milk this morning, and the eggs were like leather. So take heed, my dear Gerald, if you should happen to drop in at meal-time. It is evident, too, that Madame Barbançon is burning with a desire to be questioned concerning the particulars of her recent visit, but very naturally my uncle and I avoid the subject, as there is really something strange and even incomprehensible about the affair.
"If you have time, drop in and see my uncle. It would please him very much, for he will miss me sadly, I fear, and he has taken a great fancy to you. What ineffable kindness of heart and unswerving uprightness of soul are concealed beneath his plain exterior! Ah, my dear Gerald, I have never craved wealth for myself, but I tremble to think that, at his age and with his infirmities, my uncle will have more and more difficulty in living on his modest pay, in spite of all the little privations he endures so courageously. And if he should become really ill—for two of his wounds reopen frequently—sickness is so hard upon the poor? Ah, Gerald, the thought is a cruel one to me.
"Forgive me, my friend and brother. I began this letter cheerfully, and it has become really funereal in tone. Good-bye, Gerald, good-bye. Write me at Luzarches.
"Yours devotedly,
"Olivier Raymond."
CHAPTER VII.
THE PRETTY MUSICIAN.
About seven o'clock on the evening of the same day on which M. de Maillefort's duel took place, and just as the sun was beginning to vanish from sight in a bank of dark clouds that indicated a stormy night—for occasional big drops of rain were already falling—a young girl was crossing the Place de la Concorde, in the direction of the Faubourg Ste. Honoré.
This girl carried under her left arm two large music books whose shabby bindings attested to long and faithful service; in her right hand she held a small umbrella. Her attire, which was modest in the extreme, consisted of a plain black silk dress with a small mantle of the same material, and, though the spring was already far
