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

really was, so worn and haggard were his mouth and eyes. Nights at the gaming-table and the anxiety as to where the fresh supplies should come from to furnish the means to prolong his life of debauchery had told heavily upon him. Today, however, he seemed to be in the best temper imaginable, and in the most cheerful manner he addressed a few words to Verminet, in conclusion of the conversation that had been going on in the inner office.

“It is settled then,” remarked he, “that I am to have nothing more to do with a business with which neither of us has any real concern?”

“Just so,” answered Verminet.

“Very well, then; but remember that any mistake you may make in the other affair will be attended with the most serious results.”

This caution seemed to suggest some new idea to Verminet, for he said something in a low voice to his client at which they both laughed.

Gaston was fidgeting about, very uneasy at the Marquis having paid no attention to him, and he now advanced with a magnificent salutation and a friendly wave of the hand. If the Marquis was charmed at meeting Gandelu, he concealed his delight in a most wonderful manner. He seemed surprised, but not agreeably so; he bent his head, and he extended his gloved hand with a negligent, “Ah, pleased to see you.” Then without taking any more notice of Gaston, he turned on his heel and continued his conversation with Verminet.

“The worst part is over,” said he, “and therefore no time is to be lost. You must see Mascarin and Martin Rigal, the banker, today.”

At these words André started. Were these people Croisenois’ accomplices? Certainly he had accomplices on the brain just now, and their names remained deeply engraved on the tablets of his memory.

“Tantaine was here this morning,” observed Verminet, “and told me that his master wanted to see me at four this afternoon. Van Klopen will be there also. Shall I say a word to him about your fine friend?”

“ ’Pon my soul,” remarked the Marquis, shrugging his shoulders, “I had nearly forgotten her. There will be a tremendous fuss made, for she will be wanting all sorts of things. Speak to Van Klopen certainly, but do not bind yourself. Remember that I do not care a bit for the fair Sara.”

“Quite so; I understand,” answered Verminet; “but keep things quiet, and do not have any open disturbances.”

“Of course not. Good morning,” and with a bow to the managing director and a nod to Gaston, he lunged out of the office, not condescending to take the slightest notice of André. Verminet invited André and Gaston into his sanctum, and, taking a seat, motioned to them to do the same. Verminet was a decided contrast to his office, which was shabby and dirty, for his dress did his tailor credit, and he appeared to be clean. He was neither old nor young, and carried his years well. He was fresh and plump, wore his whiskers and hair cut in the English fashion, while his sunken eyes had no more expression in them than those of a fish.

Gandelu was in a hurry to begin.

“Let us get to business,” said he. “Last week you lent me some money.”

“Just so. Do you want any more?”

“No; I want to return my bills.”

A cloud passed over Verminet’s face.

“The first does not fall due until the 15th,” remarked he.

“No matter; I have the money with me, and I will pay it on you handing over the bills to me.”

“I can’t do it.”

“And why so, pray?”

“The bills have passed out of my hands.”

Gaston could scarcely credit his ears, nor believe in the truth of this last statement, and was certainly upset, now knowing what to do.

“But,” stammered he, “you promised, when I signed those bills, that they should never go out of your hands.”

“I don’t say I did not; but one can’t always keep to one’s promise. I was forced to part with them. I wanted money, and so had to discount them.”

André was not at all surprised, for he had anticipated some such difficulty; and seeing that Gaston had entirely lost his head, he broke in on the conversation.

“Excuse me, sir,” remarked he; “but it seems to me that there are certain circumstances in this case which should have made you keep your promise.”

Verminet stared at him.

“Who have I the honor of speaking to?” asked he, instead of making a direct reply.

“I am a friend of M. de Gandelu’s,” returned André, thinking it best not to give any name.

“A confidential friend?”

“Entirely so. He had, I think, ten thousand francs from you.”

“Pardon me, five thousand.”

André turned toward his companion in some surprise.

Gaston grew crimson.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked the artist.

“Can’t you see?” whispered Gaston. “I had ten because I wanted the other five for Zora.”

“Oh, indeed,” returned André, with a slight uplifting of his eyebrows. “Well, then, M. Verminet, it was five thousand francs that you lent to my young friend here. That was right enough; but what do you say to inducing him to forge a signature?”

“I! I do such a thing?” answered Verminet. “Why, I did not know that the signature was not genuine.”

This insolent denial aroused the unhappy Gaston from his state of stupor.

“This is too much, a deuced deal too much,” cried he. “Did you not yourself tell me that, for your own security, you must insist upon another name in addition to mine? Did you not give me a letter, and say, ‘Write a signature like the one at the bottom of this, it is that of Martin Rigal, the banker in the Rue Montmartre’?”

“An utterly false accusation, without a shadow of proof; and remember that a libel uttered in the presence of a third party is punishable by law.”

“And yet, sir,” continued André, “you did not hesitate for a moment in discounting these bills. Have you calculated what terrible results may come of this breach of faith on your part?⁠—what will happen if this forged signature