Baron Trigault's Vengeance by Emile Gaboriau (you can read anyone txt) 📕

with your usual zeal and intelligence. Rest assured that you will be rewarded as you have never been rewarded before. As long as you are engaged in this affair, you shall have ten francs a day; and I’ll pay your board, your cab-hire, and all your expenses.”

This was a most liberal offer, and yet, far from seeming delighted, Chupin gravely shook his head. “You know how I value money, m’sieur,” he began.

“Too much, Victor, my boy, too much——”

“Excuse me, it’s because I have responsibilities, m’sieur. You know my establishment”—he spoke this word with a grandiloquent air—“you have seen my good mother—my expenses are heavy——”

“In short, you don’t think I offer you enough?”

“On the contrary, sir—but you don’t allow me to finish. I love money, don’t I? But no matter, I don’t want to be paid for this business. I don’t want either my board or my expenses, not a penny—nothing. I’ll serve you, but for my own sake, for my own pleasure—gratis.”

M. Fortunat could not restrain an exclamation of astonishment. Chupin, who was as eager for gain as an old usurer—Chupin, as grasping as avarice itself, refuse money! This was something which he had never seen before, and which he would no doubt never see again.

Victor had become very much excited; his usually pale cheeks were crimson, and in a harsh voice, he continued: “It’s a fancy of mine—that’s all. I have eight hundred francs hidden in my room, the fruit of years of work. I’ll spend the last penny of it if need be; and if I can see Coralth in the mire, I shall say, ‘My money has been well expended.’ I’d rather see that day dawn than be the possessor of a hundred thousand francs. If a horrible vision haunted you every night, and prevented you from sleeping, wouldn’t you give something to get rid of it? Very well! that brigand’s my nightmare. There must be an end to it.”

M. de Coralth, who was a man of wide experience, would certainly have felt alarmed if he had seen his unknown enemy at the present moment, for Victor’s eyes, usually a pale and undecided blue, were glittering like steel, and his hands were clinched most threateningly. “For he was the cause of all my trouble,” he continued, gloomily. “I’ve told you, sir, that I was guilty of an infamous deed once upon a time. If it hadn’t been for a miracle I should have killed a man—the king of men. Ah, well! if Monsieur Andre had broken his back by falling from a fifth-floor window, my Coralth would be the Duc de Champdoce to-day. And shall he be allowed to ride about in his carriage, and deceive and ruin honest people? No—there are too many such villains at large for public safety. Wait a little, Coralth—I owe you something, and I always pay my debts. When M. Andre saved me, though I richly deserved to have my throat cut, he made no conditions. He only said, ‘If you are not irredeemably bad you will be honest after this.’ And he said these words as he was lying there as pale as death with his shoulder broken, and his body mangled from his fall. Great heavens! I felt smaller than—than nothing before him. But I swore that I would do honor to his teachings—and when evil thoughts enter my mind, and when I feel a thirst for liquor, I say to myself, ‘Wait a bit, and—and M. Andre will take a glass with you.’ And that quenches my thirst instantly. I have his portrait at home, and every night, before going to bed, I tell him the history of the day—and sometimes I fancy that he smiles at me. All this is very absurd, perhaps, but I’m not ashamed of it. M. Andre and my good mother, they are my supports, my crutches, and with them I’m not afraid of making a false step.” Schebel, the German philosopher, who has written a treatise on Volition, in four volumes, was no greater a man than Chupin. “So you may keep your money, sir,” he resumed. “I’m an honest fellow, and honest men ought to ask no reward for the performance of a duty. Coralth mustn’t be allowed to triumph over the innocent chap he ruined. What did you call him? Ferailleur? It’s an odd name. Never mind—we’ll get him out of this scrape; he shall marry his sweetheart after all; and I’ll dance at the wedding.”

As he finished speaking he laughed a shrill, dangerous laugh, which revealed his sharp teeth—but such invincible determination was apparent on his face, that M. Fortunat felt no misgivings. He was sure that this volunteer would be of more service than the highest-priced hireling. “So I can count on you, Victor?” he inquired.

“As upon yourself.”

“And you hope to have some positive information by Tuesday?”

“Before then, I hope, if nothing goes amiss.”

“Very well; I will devote my attention to Ferailleur then. As to Valorsay’s affairs, I am better acquainted with them than he is himself. We must be prepared to enter upon the campaign when Mademoiselle Marguerite comes, and we will act in accordance with her instructions.”

Chupin had already caught up his hat; but just as he was leaving the room, he paused abruptly. “How stupid!” he exclaimed. “I had forgotten the principal thing. Where does Coralth live?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t know.”

According to his habit when things did not go to his liking, Chupin began to scratch his head furiously. “That’s bad,” growled he. “Viscounts of his stamp don’t parade their addresses in the directory. Still, I shall find him.” However, although he expressed this conviction he went off decidedly out of temper.

“I shall lose the entire evening hunting up the rascal’s address,” he grumbled, as he hastened homeward. “And whom shall I ask for it?—Madame d’Argeles’s concierge? Would he know it—M. Wilkie’s servant? That would be dangerous.” He thought of roaming sound about M. de Valorsay’s residence, and of bribing one of the valets; but while crossing the boulevard, the sight of Brebant’s Restaurant put a new idea into his head. “I have it!” he muttered; “my man’s caught!” And he darted into the nearest cafe where he ordered some beer and writing materials.

Under other circumstances, he would have hesitated to employ so hazardous an expedient as the one he was about to resort to, but the character of his adversaries justified any course; besides, time was passing, and he had no choice of resources. As soon as the waiter served him, he drained his glass of beer to give himself an inspiration, and then, in his finest hand, he wrote:

“MY DEAR VISCOUNT—Here’s the amount—one hundred francs—that I lost to you last evening at piquet. When shall I have my revenge? Your friend, “VALORSAY.”

When he had finished this letter he read it over three or four times, asking himself if this were the style of composition that very fashionable folks employ in repaying their debts. To tell the truth, he doubted it. In the rough draft which he penned at first, he had written bezique, but in the copy he wrote piquet, which he deemed a more aristocratic game. “However,” said he, “no one will examine it closely!”

Then, as soon as the ink was dry, he folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope with a hundred franc-note which