SLAVES OF PARIS (Complete Edition). Emile Gaboriau
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doctor was not clever at figures; he made several vain attempts to solve the problem, and at last gave it up in despair. “Forty and forty,” muttered he, tapping the tips of his fingers, “are eighty, then forty—”
“Call it eight hundred thousand francs,” broke in Mascarin. “Say I drew the same amount as you did. We have spent ours, and Catenac has saved his, and grown rich; hence my distrust. Our interests are no longer identical. He certainly comes here every month, but it is only to claim his share; he consents to take his share of the profits, but shirks the risks. It is fully ten years since he brought in any business. I don’t trust him at all. He always declines to join in any scheme that we propose, and sees danger in everything.”
“He would not betray us, however.”
Mascarin took a few moments for reflection. “I think,” said he, “that Catenac is afraid of us. He knows that the ruin of me would entail the destruction of the other two. This is our only safeguard; but if he dare not injure us openly, he is quite capable of working against us in secret. Do you remember what he said the last time he was here? That we ought to close our business and retire. How should we live? for he is rich and we are poor. What on earth are you doing, Hortebise?” he added, for the physician, who had the reputation of being worth an enormous amount, had taken out his purse, and was going over the contents.
“I have scarcely three hundred and twenty-seven francs!” answered he with a laugh. “What is the state of your finances?”
Mascarin made a grimace. “I am not so well off as you; and besides,” he continued in a low voice, as though speaking to himself, “I have certain ties which you do not possess.”
For the first time during this interview a cloud spread over the doctor’s countenance.
“Great Heavens!” said he, “and I was depending on you for three thousand francs, which I require urgently.”
Mascarin smiled slyly at the doctor’s uneasiness. “Don’t worry,” he answered. “You can have that; there ought to be some six or eight thousand francs in the safe. But that is all, and that is the last of our common capital,—this after twenty years of toil, danger, and anxiety, and we have not twenty years before us to make a fresh fortune in.”
“Yes,” continued Mascarin, “we are getting old, and therefore have the greater reason for making one grand stroke to assure our fortune. Were I to fall ill to-morrow, all would go to smash.”
“Quite true,” returned the doctor, with a slight shudder.
“We must, and that is certain, venture on a bold stroke. I have said this for years, and woven a web of gigantic proportions. Do you now know why at this last moment I appeal to you, and not to Catenac for assistance? If only one out of two operations that I have fully explained to you succeeds, our fortune is made.”
“I follow you exactly.”
“The question now is whether the chance of success is sufficiently great to warrant our going on with these undertakings. Think it over and let me have your opinion.”
An acute observer could easily have seen that the doctor was a man of resource, and a thoroughly competent adviser, for the reason that his coolness never deserted him. Compelled to choose between the use of the contents of his locket, or the continuance of a life of luxurious ease, the smile vanished from the doctor’s face, and he began to reflect profoundly. Leaning back in his chair, with his feet resting on the fender, he carefully studied every combination in the undertaking, as a general inspects the position taken up by the enemy, when a battle is impending, upon which the fate of an empire may hinge. That this analysis took a favorable turn, was evident, for Mascarin soon saw a smile appear upon the doctor’s lips. “We must make the attack at once,” said he; “but make no mistake; the projects you propose are most dangerous, and a single error upon our side would entail destruction; but we must take some risk. The odds are against us, but still we may win. Under these circumstances, and as necessity cheers us on, I say, Forward!” As he said this, he rose to his feet, and extending his hand toward his friend, exclaimed, “I am entirely at your disposal.”
Mascarin seemed relieved by the doctor’s decision, for he was in that frame of mind when, however self-reliant a man may be, he has a disinclination to be left alone, and the aid of a stout ally is of the utmost service.
“Have you considered every point carefully?” asked he. “You know that we can only act at present upon one of the undertakings, and that is the one of which the Marquis de Croisenois——”
“I know that.”
“With reference to the affair of the Duke de Champdoce, I have still to gather together certain things necessary for the ultimate success of the scheme. There is a mystery in the lives of the Duke and Duchess,—of this there is no doubt,—but what is this secret? I would lay my life that I have hit upon the correct solution; but I want no suspicions, no probabilities; I want absolute certainties. And now,” continued he, “this brings us back to the first question. What do you think of Paul Violaine?”
Hortebise walked up and down the room two or three times, and finally stopped opposite to his friend. “I think,” said he, “that the lad has many of the qualities we want, and we might find it hard to discover one better suited for our purpose. Besides, he is a bastard, knows nothing of his father, and therefore leaves a wide field for conjecture; for every natural son has the right to consider himself, if he likes, the offspring of a monarch. He has no family or any one to look after him, which assures us that whatever may happen, there is no one to call us to account. He is not overwise, but has a certain amount of talent, and any quantity of ridiculous self-conceit. He is wonderfully handsome, which will make matters easier, but—”
“Ah, there is a ‘but’ then?”
“More than one,” answered the doctor, “for there are three for certain. First, there is Rose Pigoreau, whose beauty has so captivated our old friend Tantaine,—she certainly appears to be a danger in the future.”
“Be easy,” returned Mascarin; “we will quickly remove this young woman from our road.”
“Good; but do not be too confident,” answered Hortebise, in his usual tone. “The danger from her is not the one you think, and which you are trying to avoid. You think Paul loves her. You are wrong. He would drop her to-morrow, so that he could please his self-indulgence. But the woman who thinks that she hates her lover often deceives herself; and Rose is simply tired of poverty. Give her a little amount of comfort, good living, and luxury, and you will see her give them all up to come back to Paul. Yes, I tell you, she will harass and annoy him, as women of her class who have nothing to love always do. She will even go to Flavia to claim him.”
“She had better not,” retorted Mascarin, in threatening accents.
“Why, how could you prevent it? She has known Paul from his infancy. She knew his mother; she was perhaps brought up by her, perhaps even lived in the same street. Look out, I say, for danger from that quarter.”
“You may be right, and I will take my precautions.”
It was sufficient for Mascarin to be assured of a danger to find means of warding it off.
“My second ‘but,’” continued Hortebise, “is the idea of the mysterious protector of whom the young man spoke. His mother, he says, has reason to know that his father is dead, and I believe in the truth of the statement. In this case, what has become of the person who paid Madame Violaine her allowance?”
“You are right, quite right; these are the crevices in our armor; but I keep my eyes open, and nothing escapes me.”
The doctor was growing rather weary, but he still went on courageously. “My third ‘but’” said he, “is perhaps the strongest. We must see the young fellow at once. It may be to-morrow, without even having prepared him or taught him his part. Suppose we found that he was honest! Imagine—if he returned a firm negative to all your dazzling offers!”
Mascarin rose to his