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

a man like any other, nothing in particular about him, but he wasn’t a gentleman, for after keeping me for fully fifteen minutes talking and talking, he only gave me a five-franc piece.”

The description was not one that would lead to a recognition of the person, and Tantaine asked in tones of extreme annoyance⁠—

“Did you not notice anything particular about the man?”

“Yes, he had on gold spectacles with the mountings as fine as a hair, and a watch chain as thick and heavy as I have ever seen.”

“And is that all?”

“Yes,” answered she. “Oh! there was one thing more⁠—the person knows that you come here.”

“Does he? Why do you think so?”

“Because all the time he was talking to me he was in a rare fidget, and always kept his eyes on the door.”

“Thanks, Mother Brigaut; mind and keep a sharp lookout,” returned Tantaine, as he slowly ascended the stairs.

Every now and then he paused to think. “Who upon earth can this fellow be?” asked he of himself. He reviewed the whole question⁠—chances, probabilities, and risks, not one was neglected, but all in vain.

“A thousand devils!” growled he; “are the police at my heels?”

His nerves were terribly shaken, and he strove in vain to regain his customary audacity. By this time he had reached the door of Paul’s room, and, on his ringing, the door was at once opened; but at the sight of this woman he started back, with a cry of angry surprise; for it was a female figure that stood before him, a young girl⁠—Flavia, the daughter of Martin Rigal, the banker.

The keen eyes of Tantaine showed him that Flavia’s visit had not been of long duration. She had removed her hat and jacket, and was holding in her hand a piece of fancy work.

“Whom do you wish to see, sir?” asked she.

The old man strove to speak, but his lips would not frame a single sentence. A band of steel seemed to be compressing his throat, and he appeared like a man about to be seized with an apoplectic fit.

Flavia gazed upon the shabby-looking visitor with an expression of intense disgust. It seemed to her that she had seen him somewhere; in fact, there was an inexplicable manner about him which entirely puzzled her.

“I want to speak to M. Paul,” said the old man in a low, hoarse whisper; “he is expecting me.”

“Then come in; but just now his doctor is with him.”

She threw open the door more widely, and stepped back, so that the greasy garments of the visitor might not touch her dress. He passed her with an abject bow, and crossed the little sitting-room with the air of a man who perfectly understands his way. He did not knock at the door of the bedroom, but went straight in; there a singular spectacle at once arrested his attention. Paul, with a very pale face, was seated on the bed, while Hortebise was attentively examining his bare shoulder. The whole of Paul’s right arm and shoulder was a large open wound, which seemed to have been caused by a burn or scald, and must have been extremely painful. The doctor was bending over him, applying a cooling lotion to the injured place with a small piece of sponge. He turned sharply round on Daddy Tantaine’s entrance; and so accustomed were these men to read each other’s faces at a glance that Hortebise saw at once what had happened; for Tantaine’s expression plainly said, “Is Flavia mad to be here?” while the eyes of Hortebise answered, “She may be, but I could not help it.”

Paul turned, too, and greeted the old man with an exclamation of delight.

“Come here,” said he merrily, “and just see to what a wretched state I have been reduced between the doctor and M. Mascarin.”

Tantaine examined the wound carefully. “Are you quite sure,” asked he, “that not only will it deceive the Duke, who will see but with our eyes, but also those of his wife, and perhaps of his medical man?”

“We will hoodwink the lot of them.”

“And how long must we wait,” asked the old man, “until the place skins over, and assumes the appearance of having been there from childhood?”

“In a month’s time Paul can be introduced to the Duke de Champdoce.”

“Are you speaking seriously?”

“Listen to me. The scar will not be quite natural then, but I intend to subject it to various other modes of treatment.”

The dressing was now over, and Paul’s shirt being readjusted, he was permitted to lie down again.

“I am quite willing to remain here forever,” said he, “as long as I am allowed to retain the services of the nurse that I have in the next room, and who, I am sure, is waiting with the greatest eagerness for your departure.”

Hortebise fumed, and cast a glance at Paul which seemed to say, “Be silent;” but the conceited young man paid no heed to it.

“How long has this charming nurse been with you?” asked Tantaine in an unnatural voice.

“Ever since I have been in bed,” returned Paul with the air of a gay young fellow. “I wrote a note that I was unable to go over to her, so she came to me. I sent my letter at nine o’clock, and at ten minutes past she was with me.”

The diplomatic doctor slipped behind Tantaine, and made violent gestures to endeavor to persuade Paul to keep silence, but all was in vain.

“M. Martin Rigal,” continued the vain young fool, “passes the greater part of his life in his private office. As soon as he gets up he goes there, and is not seen for the rest of the day. Flavia can therefore do entirely as she likes. As soon as she knows that her worthy father is deep in his ledgers, she puts on her hat and runs round to me, and no one could have a kinder and a prettier visitor than she is.”

The doctor was hard at work at his danger signals, but it was useless. Paul saw