The Slaves of Paris by Émile Gaboriau (good book recommendations .txt) 📕

that you intend to deny that you have had a little flirtation with her?”

“I do not understand you.”

“Well, I do then, my boy; I heard all about your making love to her. Why, you are really blushing! What is up now?”

“I can assure you⁠—”

De Puymandour burst into a loud laugh.

“I have heard a good deal of your little country walks, and all the pretty things that you used to say to each other.”

In vain did Norbert deny the whole thing, for his intended father-in-law would not believe him; and at last he got so annoyed that he refused to remain and dine with the Count, alleging anxiety for his father as an excuse. He returned home as soon as he possibly could, much agitated by what he had heard; and as he was walking rapidly on, he heard his name called by someone who was running after him: Norbert turned round, and found himself face to face with Montlouis.

“I have been here a week,” said the young man. “I am here with my patron, for I have one now. I am now with the Viscount de Mussidan, as his private secretary. M. Octave is not the most agreeable man in the world to get on with, as he gets into the most violent passions on very trivial occasions; but he has a good heart, after all, and I am very pleased with the position I have gained.”

“I am very glad to hear it, Montlouis, very much pleased indeed.”

“And you, Marquis, I hear, are to marry Mademoiselle de Puymandour; I could scarcely credit the news.”

“And why, pray?”

“Because I remembered when we used to wait outside a certain garden wall, until we saw a certain door open discreetly.”

“But you must efface all this from your memory, Montlouis.”

“Do not be alarmed; save to you, my lips would never utter a word of this. No one else would ever make me speak.”

“Stop!” said Norbert, with an angry gesture. “Do you venture to say⁠—”

“To say what?”

“I wish you to understand that Mademoiselle Diana is as free from blame today as she was when first I met her. She has been indiscreet, but nothing more, I swear it before heaven!”

“I believe you perfectly.”

In reality Montlouis did not believe one word of Norbert’s assertion, and the young Marquis could read this in his companion’s face.

“The more so,” continued the secretary, “as the young lady is about to be married to my friend and patron.”

“But where,” asked Norbert, “did the Viscount meet with Mademoiselle de Laurebourg?”

“In Paris; the Viscount and her brother were very intimate, and nursed him during his last illness, and as soon as the scheming parents heard of the Viscount being in the neighborhood they asked him to call on them. Of course he did so, and saw Mademoiselle Diana, and returned home in a perfect frenzy of love.”

Norbert seemed so incensed at this that Montlouis broke off his recital, feeling confident that the Marquis still loved Diana, and was consumed with the flame of jealousy.

“But, of course,” he added carelessly, “nothing is yet settled.”

Norbert, however, was too agitated to listen to the idle gossip of Montlouis any longer, so he pressed his hand and left him rather abruptly, walking away at the top of his speed, leaving his friend silent with astonishment. It seemed to Norbert as if he was imprisoned in one of those iron dungeons he had read of, which slowly contracted day by day, and at last crushed their victims to atoms. He saw Diana married to the Viscount de Mussidan, and compelled to meet daily the man who knew all about her illicit meetings with her former lover, and who had more than once, when Norbert was unable to leave Champdoce, been entrusted with a letter or a message for her. And how would Montlouis behave under the circumstances? Would he possess the necessary tact and coolness to carry him through so difficult a position? What would be the end of this cruel concatenation of circumstances? Would Diana be able to endure the compromising witness of her youthful error? She would eagerly seek out some pretext for his dismissal; he could easily detect this, and in his anger at the loss of a position which he had long desired, would turn on her and repeat the whole story. Should Montlouis let loose his tongue, the Viscount, indignant at the imposition that had been practised upon him, would separate from his wife. What would be Diana’s conduct when she found herself left thus alone, and despised by the society of which she had hoped to be a queen? Would she not, in her turn, seek to revenge herself on Norbert? He had just asked himself whether at this juncture death would not be a blessing to him, when he caught sight of Françoise, the daughter of the Widow Rouleau, close by him. For two hours she had been awaiting his coming, concealed behind a hedge.

“I have something to give you, my lord Marquis,” said she.

He took the letter that she held out to him, and, opening it, he read⁠—

You said that I did not love you⁠—perhaps this was but a test to prove my love. I am ready to fly with you tonight. I shall lose all, but it will be for your sake. Reflect, Norbert; there is yet time, but tomorrow it will be too late.

These were the words that Mademoiselle de Laurebourg had had the courage to pen, which to the former lover were full of the most thrilling eloquence. The usually bold, firm writing of Diana was, in the letter before him, confused and almost illegible, showing the writer’s frame of mind. There were blurs and blisters upon the paper as though tears had fallen upon it, perhaps because the writing had been made purposely irregular and drops of water are an excellent substitute for tears.

“Does she really love me?” murmured he.

He hesitated; yes, he absolutely hesitated, impressed by the idea that for him she was ready to