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

“You will be his shadow,” pursued Lecoq, “and keep near enough to him to rush to his aid at a moment of danger. That gang, of which Mascarin is the head, want his life. You are my right-hand man, and I trust him to you. I have warned him, but youth is rash; and you will scent danger where he would never dream that it lurked. If there is any peril, dash boldly forward, but endeavor to let no one find out who you are. If you must speak to him⁠—but only do so at the last extremity⁠—whisper my name in his ear, and he will know you have come from me. Remember, you are answerable for him; but change your face. La Candéle and the others must not recognize in you the wine-shop bully; that would spoil all. What have you on under that blouse, a commissionaire’s dress?

“That will do; now change the face.”

Palot pulled out a small parcel from his pocket, from which he extracted a red beard and wig, and, going to the mirror, adjusted them with dexterous activity; and, in a few minutes, went up to his master, who was waiting, saying⁠—

“How will this do?”

“Not bad, not bad,” returned Lecoq; “and now to your work.”

“Where shall I find him?” asked Palot.

“Somewhere near Mascarin’s den, for I advised him not to give up playing the spy too suddenly.”

Palot was off like the wind, and when he reached the Rue Montmartre, he caught sight of the person who had been entrusted to his care.

André was walking slowly along, thinking of Lecoq’s cautions, when a young man, with his arm in a sling, overtook him, going in the same direction as he was. André was sure that it was Paul, and as he knew that he could not be recognized, he passed him in his turn, and saw that it was indeed the Paul so much regretted by Zora.

“I will find out where he goes to,” thought André.

He followed, and saw him enter the house of M. Rigal. Two women were gossiping near the door, and André heard one of them say⁠—

“That is the young fellow who is going to marry Flavia, the banker’s daughter.”

Paul, therefore, was to marry the daughter of the chief of the gang. Should he tell Lecoq this? But, of course, the detective knew it.

Time was passing, and André felt that he had but little space to gain the house that Gandelu was building in the Champs Élysées, if he wished to ask hospitality from his friend Vignol.

He found all the workmen there, and not one of them recognized him when he asked for Vignol.

“He is engaged up there,” said one. “Take the staircase to the left.”

The chief part of the ornamental work was in front, and it was there that the little hut which Tantaine had pointed out to Toto Chupin was erected. Vignol was in it, and was utterly surprised when André made himself known, for he did not recognize him under his strange disguise.

“It is nothing,” returned the young man cautiously, as Vignol paused for an explanation; “only a little love affair.”

“Do you expect to win a girl’s heart by making such a guy of yourself?” asked his friend with a laugh.

“Hush! I will explain matters later on. Can you give me shelter for a night or two?”

He stopped himself, turned terribly pale, and listened intently. He fancied he had heard a woman’s scream, and his own name uttered.

“André, it is I⁠—your Sabine; help!”

Quick as lightning André rushed to the window, opened it, and leaned out to discover from whence those sounds came.

The young miscreant, Toto Chupin, had too fatally earned the note with which Tantaine had bribed him. The whole of the front of the window gave way with a loud crash, and André was hurled into space.

The hut was at least sixty feet from the pavement, and the fall was the more appalling because the body of André struck some of the intervening scaffolding first, and thence bounced off, until the unhappy young man fell with a dull thud, bleeding and senseless in the street.

Nearly three hundred persons in the Champs Élysées witnessed this hideous sight; for, at Vignol’s cry, everyone had stopped, and, frozen with horror, had not missed one detail of the grim tragedy.

In an instant a crowd was collected round the poor, inert mass of humanity which lay motionless in a pool of blood. But two workmen, roused by Vignol’s shrieks, were soon on the spot, and pushed their way through the crowd of persons who were gazing with a morbid curiosity on the man who had fallen from a height of sixty feet.

André gave no sign of life. His face was dreadfully bruised, his eyes were closed, and a stream of blood poured from his mouth, as Vignol raised his friend’s head upon his knee.

“He is dead!” cried the lookers on. “No one could survive such a fall.”

“Let us take him to the Hospital Beaujon!” exclaimed Vignol. “We are close by there.”

An ambulance was speedily procured, and the workmen, placing their insensible friend carefully in it, asked permission to carry him to the hospital.

One curious event had excited the attention of some of the lookers on. Just as André fell, a commissaire had rushed forward and seized a woman. She was one of the class of unfortunates who frequent the Champs Élysées, and she it was who had uttered the cry that had lured André to destruction. The woman made an effort to escape, but Palot, for it was he, caught her arm.

“Not a word,” said he sternly. The wretched creature seemed in abject terror, and obeyed him.

“Why did you cry out?” asked he.

“I do not know.”

“It is a lie!”

“No, it is true; a gentleman came up to me, and said, ‘Madame, if you will cry out now, André, it is I⁠—your Sabine; help! I will give you two louis.’ Of course I agreed. He gave me the fifty francs, and I did