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

the front doors or the grooms at the public-houses without suspicion.”

M. de Breulh was delighted at finding that he could have some occupation which would fill up the dreary monotony of his life.

“I am yours!” cried he; “and will work with you heart and soul!”

Before the artist could reply a loud blow was struck upon the library door, and a woman’s voice exclaimed⁠—

“Let me in, Gontran, at once.”

“It is Madame de Bois Arden,” remarked De Breulh, drawing the bolt back; and the Viscountess rushed hastily into the room and threw herself into a low chair.

Her beautiful face was bedewed with tears, and she was in a terrible state of excitement.

“What is the matter, Clotilde?” asked De Breulh kindly, as he took her hand.

“Something terrible,” answered she with a sob; “but you may be able to help me. Can you lend me twenty thousand francs?”

De Breulh smiled; a heavy weight had been lifted from his heart.

“If that is all you require, do not shed any more tears.”

“But I want them at once.”

“Can you give me half an hour?”

“Yes; but lose no time.”

De Breulh drew a check and despatched his valet for the money.

“A thousand thanks!” said the Viscountess; “but money is not all that I require, I want your advice.”

André was about to leave the cousins together, but the lady stopped him.

“Pray remain, M. André,” said she; “you are not at all in the way; besides, I shall have to speak of someone in whom you take a very deep interest⁠—of Mademoiselle de Mussidan, in short.

“I never knew such a strange occurrence,” continued the Viscountess, recovering her spirits rapidly, “as that to which, my dear Gontran, you owe my visit. Well, I was just going up to dress, for I had been detained by visitor after visitor, when at two o’clock another came before I could give my order, ‘Not at home.’ This was the Marquis de Croisenois, the brother of the man who twenty years ago disappeared in so mysterious a manner. I hardly knew him at all, though of course we have met in society, and he bows to me in the Bois, but that is all.”

“And yet he called on you today?” remarked De Breulh.

“Don’t interrupt me,” said the Viscountess. “Yes, he called, and that is enough. He is good-looking, faultlessly dressed, and talks well. He brought a letter from an old friend of my grandmother’s, the Marchioness d’Arlanges. She is a dear old thing, she uses awful language, and some of her stories are quite too⁠—you know what I mean. In the letter the old lady said that the Marquis was one of her friends, and begged me for her sake to do him the service he required. Of course I asked him to be seated, and assured him that I would do anything that lay in my power. Then he began talking about M. de Clinchain, and told me a funny story about that eccentric man and a little actress, when I heard a great noise in the anteroom. I was about to ring and inquire the cause, when the door flew open and in came Van Klopen, the ladies’ tailor, with a very inflamed countenance. I thought that he had come in a hurry because he had hit on something extremely fetching and wished me to be the first to see it. But do you know what the impudent fellow wanted?”

A smile shone in De Breulh’s eyes, as he answered⁠—

“Money, perhaps!”

“You are right,” returned the Viscountess, gravely; “he brought my bill into my very drawing-room, and handed it in before a stranger. I never thought that a man who supplies the most aristocratic portion of society could have been guilty of such a piece of impertinence. I ordered him to leave the room, taking it for granted that he would do so with an apology, but I was wrong. He flew into a rage and threatened me, and swore that if I did not settle the bill on the spot, he would go to my husband. The bill was nearly twenty thousand francs; imagine my horror! I was so thunderstruck at the amount that I absolutely entreated him to give me time. But my humility added to his annoyance, and taking a seat in an armchair, he declared that he would not move from it until he received his money, or had seen my husband.”

“What was Croisenois doing all this time?” asked M. de Breulh.

“He did nothing at first, but at this last piece of audacity he took out his pocketbook, and throwing it in Van Klopen’s face, said: ‘Pay yourself, you insolent scoundrel, and get out of this.’ ”

“And the tailor went off?”

“No. ‘I must give you a receipt,’ said he, and taking writing materials from his pocket, he wrote at the foot of the bill, ‘Received from the Marquis de Croisenois, on account of money owing by the Viscountess de Bois Arden, the sum of twenty thousand francs.’ ”

“Well,” said De Breulh, looking very grave, “and after Van Klopen’s departure, I suppose Croisenois remained to ask the favor regarding which he had called?”

“You are mistaken,” answered his cousin. “I had great difficulty in making him speak; but at last he confessed that he was deeply in love with Mademoiselle de Mussidan, and entreated me to present him to her parents and exert all my influence in his behalf.”

Both the young men started.

“That is the man!” cried they.

“What do you mean?” asked the Viscountess, looking from one to the other.

“That your Marquis de Croisenois is a despicable scoundrel, who had imposed upon the Marchioness d’Arlanges. Just you listen to our reasons for coming to this conclusion.” And with the most perfect clearness De Breulh had the whole state of the case before the Viscountess.

The lady listened attentively, and then said⁠—

“Your premises are wrong; just let me say a word on the matter. You say that there is some man who by means of the influence that he exercises over the Count and Countess, can coerce them into granting him Sabine’s