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

The proposal was a startling one, and the Viscountess did not entertain it favorably.

“No,” said she, “I think that would not do at all.”

“Why not? However, let us leave it to André.”

André, thus addressed, stepped forward, and said⁠—

“I do not think that it would be delicate to let Mademoiselle de Mussidan know that her secret is known to anyone else than ourselves.”

The Viscountess nodded assent.

“If,” continued André, “the Viscountess will be good enough to ask Modeste to meet me at the corner of the Avenue de Matignon; I shall be there.”

“A capital idea, sir,” said the lady, “and I will give your message to Modeste.” She broke off her speech suddenly, and uttered a pretty little shriek, as she noticed that the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to twenty to twelve. “Great heavens!” cried she, “and I am going to a ball at the Austrian Embassy, and now not even dressed.” And, with a coquettish gesture, she drew her shawl around her, and ran out of the room, exclaiming as she descended the stairs, “I will call here tomorrow, Gontran, on my way to the Bois,” and disappeared like lightning.

André and his host sat over the fire, and conversed for a long time. It seemed strange that two men who had met that morning for the first time should now be on such intimate terms of friendship; but such was the case, for a mutual feeling of admiration and respect had sprung up in their hearts.

M. de Breulh wished to send André home in his carriage, but this the young man declined, and merely borrowed an overcoat to protect him from the inclemency of the weather.

“Tomorrow,” said he, as he made his way home, “Modeste shall tell all she knows, provided always that that charming society dame does not forget all about our existence before then.”

Madame de Bois Arden, however, could sometimes be really in earnest. Upon her return from the ball she would not even go to bed, lest she should oversleep herself, and the next day André found Modeste waiting at the appointed spot, and learnt, to his great grief, that Sabine had not yet regained consciousness.

The family doctor betrayed no uneasiness, but expressed a wish for a consultation with another medical man. Meanwhile, the girl promised to meet André morning and evening in the same place, and give him such scraps of information as she had been able to pick up. For two whole days Mademoiselle de Mussidan’s condition remained unchanged, and André spent his whole time between his own studio, the Avenue de Matignon, and M. de Breulh’s, where he frequently met Madame de Bois Arden.

But on the third day Modest informed him, with tears in her eyes, that though the cataleptic fit had passed away, Sabine was struggling with a severe attack of fever. Modeste and André were so interested in their conversation, that they did not perceive Florestan, who had gone out to post a letter to Mascarin.

“Listen, Modeste,” whispered André, “you tell me that she is in danger⁠—very great danger.”

“The doctor said that the crisis would take place today; be here at five this evening.”

André staggered like a madman to De Breulh’s house; and so excited was he that his friend insisted upon his taking some repose, and would not, when five o’clock arrived, permit André to go to the appointment alone. As they turned the corner, they saw Modeste hurrying toward them.

“She is saved, she is saved!” said she, “for she has fallen into a tranquil sleep, and the doctor says that she will recover.”

André and De Breulh were transported by this news; but they did not know that they were watched by two men, Mascarin and Florestan, who did not let one of their movements escape them. Warned by a brief note from Florestan, Mascarin had driven swiftly to Father Canon’s public-house, where he thought he was certain to find the domestic, but the man was not there, and Mascarin, unable to endure further suspense, sent for him to the Hotel de Mussidan. When the servant informed Mascarin that the crisis was safely passed, he drew a deep breath of relief; for he no longer feared that the frail structure that he had built up with such patient care for twenty long years would be shattered at a blow by the chill hand of death. He bent his brow, however, when he heard of Modeste’s daily interviews with the young man whom Florestan termed “Mademoiselle’s lover.”

“Ah,” muttered he, “if I could only be present at one of those interviews!”

“And, as you say,” returned Florestan, drawing out, as he spoke, a neat-looking watch, “it is just the hour of their meeting; and as the place is always the same, you⁠—”

“Come, then,” broke in his patron. They went out accordingly, and reached the Champs Élysées by a circuitous route. The place was admirably suited to their purpose, for close by were several of those little wooden huts, occupied in summer by the vendors of cakes and playthings.

“Let us get behind one of these,” said Florestan. Night was drawing in, but objects could still be distinguished, and in about five minutes Florestan whispered, “Look, there comes Modeste, and there is the lover, but he has a pal with him tonight. Why, what can she be telling him? He seems quite overcome.”

Mascarin divined the truth at once, and found that it would be a difficult task to interfere with the love of a man who displayed so much intensity of feeling.

“Then,” remarked Mascarin, savagely, “that great booby, staggering about on his friend’s arm, is your young lady’s lover?”

“Just so, sir.”

“Then we must find out who he is.”

Florestan put on a crafty air, and replied in gentle accents.

“The day before yesterday, as I was smoking my pipe outside, I saw this young bantam swaggering down the street⁠—not but what he seemed rather crestfallen; but I knew the reason for that, and should look just as much in the dumps if