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

“But,” continued De Breulh, after a moment’s reflection, “I have a distant relative, a lady who is also a connection of the Mussidan family, the Viscountess de Bois Arden, and she will be glad to be of service to me. She is young and giddy, but as true as steel. Come with me to her; my carriage is ready.”

The footmen were surprised at seeing their master on such terms of intimacy with the shabbily dressed young man, but ventured, of course, on no remarks.

Not a word was exchanged during the brief drive to Madame de Bois Arden’s house.

“Wait for me,” exclaimed De Breulh, springing from the vehicle as soon as it drew up; “I will be back directly.”

Madame de Bois Arden is justly called one of the handsomest women in Paris. Very fair, with masses of black hair, and a complexion to which art has united itself to the gifts of nature, she is a woman who has been everywhere, knows everything, talks incessantly, and generally very well. She spends forty thousand francs per annum on dress. She is always committing all sorts of imprudent acts, and scandal is ever busy with her name. Half a dozen of the opposite sex have been talked of in connection with her, while in reality she is a true and faithful wife, for, in spite of all her frivolity, she adores her husband, and is in great awe of him. Such was the character of the lady into whose apartment M. de Breulh was introduced. Madame de Bois Arden was engaged in admiring a very pretty fancy costume of the reign of Louis XV, one of Van Klopen’s masterpieces, when M. de Breulh was announced, which she was going to wear, on her return from the opera, at a masquerade ball at the Austrian Ambassador’s. Madame de Bois Arden greeted her visitor with effusion, for they had been acquaintances from childhood, and always addressed each other by their Christian names.

“What, you here at this hour, Gontran!” said the lady. “Is it a vision, or only a miracle?” But the smile died away upon her lips, as she caught a glimpse of her visitor’s pale and harassed face. “Is there anything the matter?” asked she.

“Not yet,” answered he, “but there may be, for I hear that Mademoiselle de Mussidan is dangerously ill.”

“Is she really? Poor Sabine! what is the matter with her?”

“I do not know; and I want you, Clotilde, to send one of your people to inquire into the truth of what we have heard.”

Madame de Bois Arden opened her eyes very wide.

“Are you joking?” said she. “Why do you not send yourself?”

“It is impossible for me to do so; and if you have any kindness of heart, you do as I ask you; and I want you also to promise me not to say a word of this to anyone.”

Excited as she was by this mystery, Madame de Bois Arden did not ask another question.

“I will do exactly what you want,” replied she, “and respect your secret. I would go at once, were it not that Bois Arden will never sit down to dinner without me; but the moment we have finished I will go.”

“Thanks, a thousand times; and now I will go home and wait for news from you.”

“Not at all⁠—you will remain here to dinner.”

“I must⁠—I have a friend waiting for me.”

“Do as you please, then,” returned the Viscountess, laughing. “I will send round a note this evening.”

De Breulh pressed her hand, and hurried down, and was met by André at the door, for he had been unable to sit still in the carriage.

“Keep up your courage. Madame de Bois Arden had not heard of Mademoiselle Sabine’s illness, and this looks as if it was not a very serious matter. We shall have the real facts in three hours.”

“Three hours!” groaned André, “what a lapse of time!”

“It is rather long, I admit; but we will talk of her while we wait, for you must stay and dine with me.”

André yielded, for he had no longer the energy to contest anything. The dinner was exquisite, but the two men were not in a condition of mind to enjoy it, and scarcely consumed anything. Vainly did they endeavor to speak on indifferent subjects, and when the coffee had been served in the library, they relapsed into utter silence. As the clock struck ten, however, a knock was heard at the door, then whisperings, and the rustle of female attire, and lastly Madame de Bois Arden burst upon them like a tornado.

“Here I am,” cried she.

It was certainly rather a hazardous step to pay such a late visit to a bachelor’s house, but then the Viscountess de Bois Arden did exactly as she pleased.

“I have come here, Gontran,” exclaimed she, with extreme vehemence, “to tell you that I think your conduct is abominable and ungentlemanly.”

“Clotilde!”

“Hold your tongue! you are a wretch! Ah! now I can see why you did not wish to write and inquire about poor Sabine. You well knew the effect that your message would have on her.”

M. de Breulh smiled as he turned to André and said⁠—

“You see that I was right in what I told you.”

This remark for the first time attracted Madame de Bois Arden’s attention to the fact that a stranger was present, and she trembled lest she had committed some grave indiscretion.

“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed she, with a start, “why, I thought that we were alone!”

“This gentleman has all my confidence,” replied M. de Breulh seriously; and as he spoke he laid his hand upon André’s shoulder. “Permit me to introduce M. André to you, my dear Clotilde; he may not be known today, but in a short time his reputation will be European.”

André bowed, but for once in her life the Viscountess felt embarrassed, for she was surprised at the extremely shabby attire of this confidential friend, and then there seemed something wanting to the name.

“Then,” resumed De Breulh, “Mademoiselle de Mussidan is really ill, and our