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

horse. Chupin called him. “Come here, my little fellow,” said he.

The child rose, and timidly approached, his eyes dilating with distrust and astonishment. The poor boy’s repulsive uncleanliness was a terrible charge against the mother. Did she no longer love her own offspring? The untidiness of sorrow and poverty has its bounds. A long time must have passed since the child’s face and hands had been washed, and his soiled clothes were literally falling to rags. Still, he was a handsome little fellow, and seemed fairly intelligent, in spite of his bashfulness. He was very light-haired, and in features he was extremely like M. de Coralth. Chupin took him on his knees, and, after looking to see if the door communicating with the inner room were securely closed, he asked: “What’s your name, little chap?”

“Paul.”

“Do you know your father?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t your mother ever talk to you about him?”

“Oh, yes!”

“And what does she say?”

“That he’s rich—very rich.”

“And what else?”

The child did not reply; perhaps his mother had forbidden him to say anything on the subject—perhaps that instinct which precedes intelligence, just as the dawn precedes daylight, warned him to be prudent with a stranger. “Doesn’t your papa ever come to see you?” insisted Chupin.

“Never.”

“Why?”

“Mamma is very poor.”

“And wouldn’t you like to go and see him?”

“I don’t know. But he’ll come some day, and take us away with him to a large house. We shall be all right, then; and he will give us a deal of money and pretty dresses, and I shall have plenty of toys.”

Satisfied on this point, Chupin, pushed his investigations farther. “And do you know this old gentleman who is with your mamma in the other room?”

“Oh, yes!—that’s Mouchon.”

“And who’s Mouchon?”

“He’s the gentleman who owns that beautiful garden at the corner of the Rue Riquet, where there are such splendid grapes. I’m going with him to get some.”

“Does he often come to see you?”

“Every evening. He always has goodies in his pocket for mamma and me.”

“Why does he sit in that back room without any light?”

“Oh, he says that the customers mustn’t see him.”

It would have been an abominable act to continue this examination, and make this child the innocent accuser of his own mother. Chupin felt conscience-smitten even now. So he kissed the cleanest spot he could find on the boy’s face, and set him on the floor again, saying, “Go and play.”

The child had revealed his mother’s character with cruel precision. What had she told him about his father? That he was rich, and that, in case he returned, he would give them plenty of money and fine clothes. The woman’s nature stood revealed in all its deformity. Chupin had good cause to feel proud of his discernment—all his suppositions had been confirmed. He had read Mouchon’s character at a glance. He had recognized him as one of those wily evil-minded men who employ their leisure to the profit of their depravity—one of those patient, cold-blooded hypocrites who make poverty their purveyor, and whose passion is prodigal only in advice. “So he’s paying his court to Madame Paul,” thought Chupin. “Isn’t it shameful? The old villain! he might at least give her enough to eat!”

So far his preoccupation had made him forget his wine and his cigar. He emptied the glass at a single draught, but it proved far more difficult to light the cigar. “Zounds! this is a non-combustible,” he growled. “When I arrive at smoking ten sous cigars, I sha’n’t come here to buy them.”

However, with the help of several matches and a great deal of drawing, he had almost succeeded, when the door opened, and Madame Paul reappeared with a letter in her hand. She seemed greatly agitated; her anxiety was unmistakable. “I can’t decide,” she was saying to Mouchon, whose figure Chupin could only dimly distinguish in the darkness. “No, I can’t. If I send this letter, I must forever renounce all hope of my husband’s return. Whatever happens, he will never forgive me.”

“He can’t treat you worse than he does now, at all events,” replied the old gentleman. “Besides, a gloved cat has never caught a mouse yet.”

“He’ll hate me.”

“The man who wants his dog to love him, beats it; and, besides, when the wine is drawn, one must drink it.”

This singular logic seemed to decide her. She handed the letter to Chupin, and drawing a franc from her pocket she offered it to him. “This is for your trouble,” she said.

He involuntarily held out his hand to take the money, but quickly withdrew it, exclaiming: “No, thank you; keep it. I’ve been paid already.” And, thereupon, he left the shop.

Chupin’s mother—his poor good mother, as he called her—would certainly have felt proud and delighted at her son’s disinterestedness. That very morning, he had refused the ten francs a day that M. Fortunat had offered him, and this evening he declined the twenty sous proffered him by Madame Paul. This was apparently a trifle, and yet in reality it was something marvellous, unprecedented, on the part of this poor lad, who, having neither trade nor profession, was obliged to earn his daily bread through the medium of those chance opportunities which the lower classes of Paris are continually seeking. As he returned to the Rue de Flandres, he muttered: “Take twenty sous from that poor creature, who hasn’t had enough to satisfy her hunger for heaven knows how long! That would be altogether unworthy of a man.”

It is only just to say that money had never given him a feeling of satisfaction at all comparable with that which he now experienced. He was impressed, too, with a sense of vastly-increased importance on thinking that all the faculties, and all the energy he had once employed in the service of evil, were now consecrated to the service of good. By becoming the instrument of Pascal Ferailleur’s salvation he would, in some measure, atone for the crime he had committed years before.

Chupin’s mind was so busily occupied with these thoughts that he reached the Rue d’Anjou and M. de Coralth’s house almost before he was aware of it. To his great surprise, the concierge and his wife were not alone. Florent was there, taking coffee with them. The valet had divested himself of his borrowed finery, and had donned his red waistcoat again. He seemed to be in a savage humor; and his anger was not at all strange under the circumstances. There was but a step from M. de Coralth’s house to the baroness’s residence, but fatalities may attend even a step! The baroness, on receiving the letter from her maid, had sent a message to Florent requesting him to wait, as she desired to speak with