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

is great room for improvement in it. I admit that a first attempt is always to be looked on leniently; but it did not deceive La Candéle, and even at this distance I can plainly see your whole makeup; and what I can see, of course, is patent to others.”

He rose from his seat, and came closer to André.

“Why on earth,” asked he, “should you daub all this color on your face, which makes you look like an Indian warrior in his war-paint? Only two colors are necessary to change the whole face⁠—red and black⁠—at the eyebrows, the nostrils, and the corners of the mouth. Look here;” and taking from his pocket a gold pencil-case, he corrected the faults in the young artist’s work.

As soon as he had finished, André went up to the mirror over the chimneypiece, and was surprised at the result.

“Now,” said the strange gentleman, “you see the futility of your attempts. La Candéle knew you at once. I wished to speak to you; so I sent for Palot, one of my men, and instructed him to pick a quarrel with you. The policemen arrested you, and we have met without anyone being at all the wiser. Be kind enough to efface my little corrections, as they will be noticed in the street.”

André obeyed, and as he rubbed away with the corner of his handkerchief, he vainly sought for some elucidation of this mystery.

The man with the gold spectacles had resumed his seat, and was refreshing himself with a pinch of snuff.

“And now,” resumed he, “we will, if you please, have a little talk together. As you see, I know you. Doctor Loulleux tells me that he knows no one so high-minded and amiable as yourself. He declares that your honor is without a stain, and your courage undoubted.”

“Ah! my dear sir!” interposed the painter, with a deep blush.

“Pray let me go on. M. Gandelu says that he would trust you with all he possessed, while all your comrades, with Vignol at their head, have the greatest respect and regard for you. So much for the present. As for your future, two of the greatest ornaments of the artistic world say that you will one day occupy a very high place in the profession. You gain now about fifteen francs a day. Am I correct?”

“Certainly,” answered André, more bewildered than ever.

The gentleman smiled.

“Unfortunately,” he went on, “my information ends here, for the means of inquiry possessed by the police are, of course, very limited. They can only act upon facts, not on intentions, and so long as these are not displayed in open acts, the hands of the police are tied. It is only forty-eight hours since I heard of you for the first time, and I have already your biography in my pocket. I hear that the day before yesterday you were dining with M. de Breulh-Faverlay, and that this morning you were walking with young Gandelu, and that La Candéle was following you like a shadow. These are all facts, but⁠—”

He paused, and cast a keen glance upon André, then, in a slow and measured voice, he continued⁠—

“But no one has been able to tell me why you dogged Verminet’s footsteps, or why you went to Mascarin’s house, or why, finally, you disguised yourself to keep a watch on the movements of the most honorable the Marquis de Croisenois. It is the motive that we cannot arrive at, for the facts are perfectly clear.”

André fidgeted uneasily in his chair beneath the spell of those magnetic glasses, which seemed to draw the truth from him.

“I cannot tell you, sir,” faltered he at last, “for the secret is not mine to divulge.”

“You will not trust me? Well, then, I must speak. Remember, all that I have told you was the account of what I knew positively; but, in addition to this, I have drawn my own inferences. You are watching De Croisenois because he is going to marry a wealthy heiress.”

André blushed crimson.

“We assume, therefore, that you wish to prevent this marriage; and why, pray? I have heard that Mademoiselle de Mussidan was formerly engaged to M. de Breulh-Faverlay. How comes it that the Count and Countess de Mussidan prefer a ruined spendthrift to a wealthy and strictly honorable man? It is for you to answer this question. It is perfectly plain to me that they hand over their daughter to De Croisenois under pressure of some kind, and that means that a terrible secret exists with which Croisenois threatens them.”

“Your deduction is wrong, sir,” exclaimed André eagerly, “and you are quite wrong.”

“Very good,” was the calm reply. “Your emphatic denial shows that I am in the right. I want no further proofs. M. de Mussidan paid you a visit yesterday, and one of my agents reported that his face was much happier on leaving you than when he was on his way to your house. I therefore infer that you promised to release him from Croisenois’ persecutions, and in return he promised you his daughter’s hand in marriage. This, of course, explains your present disguise, and now tell me again that I am wrong, if you dare.”

André would not lie, and therefore kept silence.

“And now,” continued the gentleman, “how about the secret? Did not the Count tell it you? I do not know it; and yet I think that if I were to search for it, I could find it. I can call to my mind certain crimes which three generations of detective have striven to find out. Did you ever hear that De Croisenois had an elder brother named George, who disappeared in a most wonderful manner? What became of him? This very George, twenty-three years back, was a friend of Madame de Mussidan’s. Might not his disappearance have something to do with this marriage?”

“Are you the fiend himself?” cried the young man.

“I am M. Lecoq.”

André started back in absolute dread at the name of this celebrated detective.

“M. Lecoq!” repeated he.

The vanity of the great detective was much flattered when he