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

“You hold me as in a vice, and I admit myself vanquished. Stringent as your conditions are, I accept them.”

“That is the right style of way to talk in,” remarked Tantaine cheerfully.

“Then,” continued the Count, with a ray of hope gleaming in his face, “why should I give my daughter to De Croisenois at all?⁠—surely this is utterly unnecessary. What you want is simply six hundred thousand francs; well, you can have them, and leave me Sabine.”

He paused and waited for the reply, believing that the day was his; but he was wrong.

“That would not be the same thing at all,” answered Tantaine. “We should not gain our ends by such means.”

“I can do more,” said the Count. “Give me six months, and I will add a million to the sum I have already offered.”

Tantaine did not appear impressed by the magnitude of this offer. “I think,” remarked he, “that it will be better to close this interview, which, I confess, is becoming a little annoying. You agreed to accept the conditions. Are you still in that mind?”

The Count bowed. He could not trust himself to speak.

“Then,” went on Tantaine, “I will take my leave. Remember, that as you fulfil your engagement, so we will keep to ours.”

He had laid his hand on the handle of the door, when the Count said⁠—

“Another word, if you please. I can answer for myself and Madame de Mussidan, but how about my daughter?”

Tantaine’s face changed. “What do you mean?” asked he.

“My daughter may refuse to accept M. de Croisenois.”

“Why should she? He is good-looking, pleasant, and agreeable.”

“Still she may refuse him.”

“If mademoiselle makes any objection,” said the old man in peremptory accents, “you must let me see her for a few minutes, and after that you will have no further difficulty with her.”

“Why, what could you have to say to my daughter?”

“I should say⁠—”

“Well, what would you say?”

“I should say that if she loves anyone, it is not M. de Breulh.” He endeavored to pass through the half-opened door, but the Count closed it violently.

“You shall not leave this room,” cried he, “until you have explained this insulting remark.”

“I had no intention of offending you,” answered Tantaine humbly. “I only⁠—” He paused, and then, with an air of sarcasm which sat strangely upon a person of his appearance, went on, “I am aware that the heiress of a noble family may do many things without having her reputation compromised, when girls in a lower social grade would be forever lost by the commission of any one of them; and I am sure if the family of M. de Breulh knew that the young lady to whom he was engaged had been in the habit of passing her afternoons alone with a young man in his studio⁠—”

He paused, and hastily drew a revolver, for it seemed to him as if the Count were about to throw himself upon him. “Softly, softly, if you please,” cried he. “Blows and insults are fatal mistakes. I have better information than yourself, that is all. I have more than ten times seen your daughter enter a house in the Rue Tour d’Auvergne, and asking for M. André, creep silently up the staircase.”

The Count felt that he was choking. He tore off his cravat, and cried wildly, “Proofs! Give me proofs!”

During the last five minutes Tantaine had shifted his ground so skilfully that the heavy library table now stood between himself and the Count, and he was comparatively safe behind this extemporized defence.

“Proofs?” answered he. “Do you think that I carry them about with me? In a week I could give you the lovers’ correspondence. That, you will say, is too long to wait; but you can set your doubts at rest at once. If you go to the address I will give you before eight tomorrow morning, and enter the rooms occupied by M. André, you will find the portrait of Mademoiselle Sabine carefully concealed from view behind a green curtain, and a very good portrait it is. I presume you will admit that it could not have been executed without a sitting.”

“Leave this,” cried the Count, “without a moment’s delay.”

Tantaine did not wait for a repetition of these words. He passed through the doorway, and as soon as he was outside he called out in cheerful accents. “Do not forget the address, Number 45, Rue Tour d’Auvergne, name of André, and mind and be there before eight a.m.”

The Count made a rush at him on hearing this last insult, but he was too late, for Tantaine slammed the door, and was in the hall before the infuriated master of the house could open it. Tantaine had resumed all his airs of humility, and took off his hat to the footmen as he descended the steps. “Yes,” muttered he, as he walked along, “the idea was a happy one. André knows that he is watched, and will be careful; and now that M. de Mussidan is aware that his sweet, pure daughter has had a lover, he will be only too happy to accept the Marquis de Croisenois as his son-in-law.” Tantaine believed that Sabine was more culpable than she really had been, for the idea of pure and honorable love had never entered his brain.

By this time Tantaine was in the Champs Élysées, and stared anxiously around. “If my Toto makes no mistake,” muttered he, “surely my order was plain enough.”

The old man got very cross as he at last perceived the missing lad conversing with the proprietor of a pie-stall, having evidently been doing a little jawing with him.

“Toto,” he called, “Toto, come here.”

Toto Chupin heard him, for he looked round, but he did not move, for he was certainly much interested in the conversation he was carrying on. Tantaine shouted again, and this time more angrily than before, and Toto, reluctantly leaving his companion, came slowly up to his patron.

“You have been a nice time getting here,” said the lad sulkily. “I