THE COUNT'S MILLIONS. Emile Gaboriau
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this he appeared to be entirely at ease. At three o’clock he rang for his valet, and ordered dinner two hours earlier than usual. We sat down to table at about half-past four. At five he rose, kissed me gayly, and left the house on foot, telling me that he was confident of success, and that he did not expect to return before midnight.” The poor child’s firmness now gave way; her eyes filled with tears, and it was in a voice choked with sobs that she added, pointing to M. de Chalusse: “But at half-past six they brought him back as you see him now——”
An interval of silence ensued, so deep that one could hear the faint breathing of the unconscious man still lying motionless on his bed. However, the particulars of the attack were yet to be learned; and it was M. Casimir whom the physician next addressed. “What did the driver who brought your master home say to you?”
“Oh! almost nothing, sir; not ten words.”
“You must find this man and bring him to me.”
Two servants rushed out in search of him. He could not be far away, for his vehicle was still standing in the courtyard. They found him in a wine-shop near by. Some of the inquisitive spectators who had been disappointed in their curiosity by Casimir’s thoughtfulness had treated him to some liquor, and in exchange he had told them all he knew about the affair. He had quite recovered from his fright, and was cheerful, even gay.
“Come make haste, you are wanted,” said the servants.
He emptied his glass and followed them with very bad grace, muttering and swearing between his set teeth. The doctor, strange to say, was considerate enough to go out into the hall to question him; but no information of value was gained by the man’s answers. He declared that the gentleman had hired him at twelve o’clock, hoping by this means to extort pay for five hours’ driving, which, joined to the liberal gratuity he could not fail to obtain, would remunerate him handsomely for his day’s work. Living is dear, it should be remembered, and a fellow makes as much as he can.
When the cabby had gone off, still growling, although a couple of louis had been placed in his hand, the doctor returned to his patient. He involuntarily assumed his accustomed attitude, with crossed arms, a gloomy expression of countenance, and his forehead furrowed as if with thought and anxiety. But this time he was not acting a part. In spite, or rather by reason of, the full explanation that had been given him, he found something suspicious and mysterious in the whole affair. A thousand vague and undefinable suspicions crossed his mind. Was he in presence of a crime? Certainly, evidently not. But what was the cause then of the mystery and reticence he detected? Was he upon the track of some lamentable family secret—one of those terrible scandals, concealed for a long time, but which at last burst forth with startling effect? The prospect of being mixed up in such an affair caused him infinite pleasure. It would bring him into notice; he would be mentioned in the papers; and his increased practice would fill his hands with gold.
But what could he do to ingratiate himself with these people, impose himself upon them if needs be? He reflected for some time, and finally what he thought an excellent plan occurred to him. He approached Mademoiselle Marguerite, who was weeping in an arm-chair, and touched her gently on the shoulder. She sprang to her feet at once. “One more question, mademoiselle,” said he, imparting as much solemnity to his tone as he could. “Do you know what liquid it was that M. de Chalusse took this morning?”
“Alas! no, monsieur.”
“It is very important that I should know. The accuracy of my diagnosis is dependent upon it. What has become of the vial?”
“I think M. de Chalusse replaced it in his escritoire.”
The physician pointed to an article of furniture to the left of the fireplace: “There?” he asked.
“Yes, monsieur.”
He deliberated, but at last conquering his hesitation, he said: “Could we not obtain this vial?”
Mademoiselle Marguerite blushed. “I haven’t the key,” she faltered, in evident embarrassment.
M. Casimir approached: “It must be in the count’s pocket, and if mademoiselle will allow me——”
But she stepped back with outstretched arms as if to protect the escritoire. “No,” she exclaimed, “no—the escritoire shall not be touched. I will not permit it——”
“But, mademoiselle,” insisted the doctor, “your father——”
“The Count de Chalusse is not my father!”
Dr. Jodon was greatly disconcerted by Mademoiselle Marguerite’s vehemence. “Ah!” said he, in three different tones, “ah! ah!”
In less than a second, a thousand strange and contradictory suppositions darted through his brain. Who, then, could this girl be, if she were not Mademoiselle de Chalusse? What right had she in that house? How was it that she reigned as a sovereign there? Above all, why this angry outburst for no other apparent cause than a very natural and exceedingly insignificant request on his part?
However, she had regained her self-possession, and it was easy to see by her manner that she was seeking some means of escape from threatened danger. At last she found it. “Casimir,” she said, authoritatively, “search M. de Chalusse’s pocket for the key of his escritoire.”
Astonished by what he regarded as a new caprice, the valet obeyed. He gathered up the garments strewn over the floor, and eventually drew a key from one of the waistcoat pockets. Mademoiselle Marguerite took it from him, and then in a determined tone, exclaimed: “A hammer.”
It was brought; whereupon, to the profound amazement of the physician, she knelt down beside the fireplace, laid the key upon one of the andirons, and with a heavy blow of the hammer, broke it into fragments. “Now,” said she, quietly, “my mind will be at rest. I am certain,” she added, turning toward the servants, “that M. de Chalusse would approve what I have done. When he recovers, he will have another key made.”
The explanation was superfluous. All the servants understood the motive that had influenced her, and were saying to themselves, “Mademoiselle is right. It would not do to touch the escritoire of a dying man. Who knows but what there are millions in it? If anything were missed, why any of us might be accused. But if the key is destroyed, it will be impossible to suspect any one.”
However, the physician’s conjectures were of an entirely different nature. “What can there be in that escritoire which she desires to conceal?” he thought.
But there was no excuse for prolonging his visit. Once more he examined the sick man, whose condition remained unchanged; and then, after explaining what was to be done in his absence, he declared that he must leave at once, as he had a number of important visits to make; he added, however, that he would return about midnight.
“Madame Leon and I will watch over M. de Chalusse,” replied Mademoiselle Marguerite; “that is sufficient assurance, monsieur, that your orders will be obeyed to the letter. Only—you will not take offence, I trust, if I ask the count’s regular physician to meet you in consultation.”
Such a proposal was anything but pleasing to M. Jodon, who had met with the same misfortune in this aristocratic neighborhood several times before. When an accident happened, he was summoned because he chanced to be close at hand, but just as he was flattering himself that he had gained a desirable patient, he found himself in presence of some celebrated physician, who had come from a distance in his carriage. Accustomed to such disappointments, he knew how to conceal his dissatisfaction.
“Were I in your place, mademoiselle, I should do precisely what you suggest,” he answered, “and should you think it unnecessary for me to call, I——”
“Oh! monsieur, on the contrary, I shall certainly expect you.”
“In that case, very well.” Thereupon he bowed and left the room.
But Mademoiselle Marguerite followed him on to the landing. “You know, monsieur,” she said, speaking rapidly in an undertone, “that I am not M. de Chalusse’s daughter. You may,