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

day on which Paul is introduced to the Duke, and legibly enough to satisfy the most unbelieving.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let me explain in my own way. If in early childhood Paul had been scalded on his shoulder by boiling water, he would have a scar whose appearance would denote its origin?”

Catenac nodded, “You are quite accurate,” said he.

“Well, then listen. Paul is coming home with me. I shall take him into my consulting-room; he will lie on a couch. I shall give him chloroform, for I do not wish him to suffer any pain. Mascarin will help me. Then I shall apply, on the proper part, a piece of flannel steeped in a certain liquid which is an invention of my own. I am not a fool, as you may have discovered before this; and in a drawer at home is a piece of flannel cut so as exactly to resemble the irregular outline of a scar of the kind you describe, and a few little bits here and there will do the rest of the work artistically. When the liquid has effected its work, which will be in ten minutes, I shall remove it, and apply an ointment, another invention of my own, to the wound; then I shall restore Paul to his senses, and go to dinner.”

Mascarin rubbed his hands with delight.

“But you forget that a certain space of time is required to give a scar the appearance of not having been recent,” objected Catenac.

“Let me speak,” broke in the doctor. “If we only needed time⁠—six months, say, or a year⁠—we should postpone our concluding act until then; but I, Hortebise, assure you that in two months, thanks to another discovery of my own⁠—will show you a scar that will pass muster, not perhaps before a fellow-practitioner, but certainly before the Duke.”

Catenac’s sunken eyes blazed as he thought of the prospective millions.

“May the devil fly away with all scruples!” cried he. “My friends, I am yours soul and body; you may rely on your devoted Catenac.”

The doctor and Mascarin exchanged a look of triumph.

“Of course we share and share alike,” observed the lawyer. “It is true that I come in rather late; but the part I play is a delicate and an important one, and you can do nothing without me.”

“You shall have your share,” answered Mascarin evasively.

“One word more,” said the lawyer. “Do you think that the Duke has kept nothing back? The infant was hardly seen by him or the Duchess; but Jean saw it, and he, though very old and infirm, would come forward at any moment to defend the name and honor of the Champdoce family.”

“Well, and what then?”

“Jean, you know, was against the substitution of another child. May he not have foreseen the chance of such a case as this arising?”

Mascarin looked grave. “I have thought of that before,” returned he; “but what can be done?”

“I will find out,” said Catenac. “Jean has the most implicit confidence in me, and I will question him.”

The cold calmness of the lawyer had vanished, and Catenac only displayed the zealous eagerness of the man who, admitted at a late hour into an enterprise which he imagines will be lucrative, burns to do as much as he can to further it.

“But,” added he, as an afterthought, “how can we be certain that there is no one to recognize Paul?”

“I can answer for that; his poverty had isolated him from all but a woman named Rose, and I took care that she should be sent to the prison of St. Lazare. At one time I was a little anxious, as I heard that Paul had a patron; but he, as I have found out, was the Count de Mussidan, the murderer of Montlouis, who, as you may have guessed, was Paul’s father.”

“We have nothing, then, to fear from that quarter,” said the doctor.

“Nothing; and while you get on with your work, I will hurry on Paul’s marriage with Rigal’s daughter. But this will not prevent my busying myself in another quarter; for before a month Henri de Croisenois will have floated his Company, and become the husband of Sabine de Mussidan.”

“I think that it is about time for dinner,” remarked Hortebise, and, turning to the protégé of the association, he added, “Come, Paul.”

But Paul made no movement, and then for the first time it was seen that the poor boy had fainted, and they had to sprinkle cold water upon him before he regained consciousness.

“Surely,” remarked the doctor, “it is not the idea of a trifling operation that you will not feel which has so frightened you?”

Paul shook his head. “It is not that,” said he.

“What, then, is it?”

“Simply that the real man exists; I know him, and know where he lives.”

“What do you mean?” they cried.

“I know him, I tell you⁠—the son of the Duke de Champdoce.”

“Let us hear all!” cried Mascarin, who was the first to come to his senses. “Explain yourself.”

“Simply this. I know such a young man, and it was the thought of this that made me feel so ill. He is thirty-three. He was at the Foundling Hospital; he left it at the age of twelve and a half years; and he has just such a scald on his shoulder, which he got when he was apprenticed to a tanner.”

“And where,” asked Mascarin quickly, “is this same young man? What is his name, and what does he do for a living?”

“He is a painter; his name is André, and he lives⁠—”

A blasphemous oath from Mascarin interrupted him. “This is the third time,” said he fiercely, “that this cursed fellow has crossed our path; but I swear that it shall be the last.”

Hortebise and Catenac were livid with alarm.

“What do you intend to do?” asked they.

“I shall do nothing,” answered he; “but you know that this André, in addition to being a painter, is an ornamental sculptor and house decorator, and so is often on lofty scaffolds. Have you never heard that accidents frequently happen