Caught in the Net. Emile Gaboriau
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two men, in their shirt sleeves, with crimson faces, were performing upon horns; while an old man, with leather gaiters, buttoning to the knee, and a broad leather belt, was whistling the air the hornplayers were executing. As Mascarin politely took off his hat, the performers ceased, and the old man discontinued his whistling, while a well-built young fellow, with pumps and stockings, and wearing a fashionable mustache, exclaimed—
“Aha, it is that good old Mascarin. I was expecting you; will you drink?”
Without waiting for further invitation Mascarin helped himself from a bottle that stood near.
“Did Father Canon tell you that I was here?” asked the young man, who was the Florestan Mascarin had been inquiring for. “You see,” continued he, “that the police will not permit us to practise the horn; so, you observe, Father Canon has arranged this underground studio, from whence no sound reaches the upper world.”
The hornplayers had now resumed their lessons, and Florestan was compelled to place both hands to the side of his mouth, in order to render himself audible, and to shout with all his might.
“That old fellow there is a huntsman in the service of the Duke de Champdoce, and is the finest hornplayer going. I have only had twenty lessons from him, and am getting on wonderfully.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Mascarin, “when I have more time I must hear your performance; but to-day I am in a hurry, and want to say a few words to you in private.”
“Certainly, but suppose we go upstairs and ask for a private room.”
The rooms he referred to were not very luxuriously furnished, but were admirably suited for confidential communications; and had the walls been able to speak, they could have told many a strange tale.
Florestan and Mascarin seated themselves in one of these before a small table, upon which Father Canon placed a bottle of wine and two glasses.
“I asked you to meet me here, Florestan,” began Mascarin, “because you can do me a little favor.”
“Anything that is in my power I will do,” said the young man.
“First, a few words regarding yourself. How do you get on with Count de Mussidan?”
Mascarin had adopted an air of familiarity which he knew would please his companion.
“I don’t care about the place,” replied Florestan, “and I am going to ask Beaumarchef to look out another one for me.”
“I am surprised at that; all your predecessors said that the Count was a perfect gentleman—”
“Just try him yourself,” broke in the valet. “In the first place he is as fickle as the wind, and awfully suspicious. He never leaves anything about—no letters, no cigars, and no money. He spends half his time in locking things up, and goes to bed with his keys under his pillow.”
“I allow that such suspicion on his part is most unpleasant.”
“It is indeed, and besides he is awfully violent. He gets in a rage about nothing, and half a dozen times in the day he looks ready to murder you. On my word, I am really frightened at him.”
This account, coupled with what he had heard from Hortebise seemed to render Mascarin very thoughtful.
“Is he always like this, or only at intervals?”
“He is always a beast, but he is worse after drink or losing at cards. He is never home until after four in the morning.”
“And what does his wife say?”
The query made Florestan laugh.
“Madame does not bother herself about her lord and master, I can assure you. Sometimes they don’t meet for weeks. All she wants is plenty of money. And ain’t we just dunned!”
“But the Mussidans are wealthy?”
“Tremendously so, but at times there is not the value of a franc in the house. Then Madame is like a tigress, and would sent to borrow from all her friends.”
“But she must feel much humiliated?”
“Not a bit; when she wants a heavy amount, she sends off to the Duke de Champdoce, and he always parts; but she doesn’t mince matters with him.”
“It would seem as if you had known the contents of your mistress’s letters?” remarked Mascarin with a smile.
“Of course I have; I like to know what is in the letters I carry about. She only says, ‘My good friend, I want so much,’ and back comes the money without a word. Of course it is easy to see that there has been something between them.”
“Yes, evidently.”
“And when master and missus do meet they only have rows, and such rows! When the working man has had a drop too much, he beats his wife, she screams, then they kiss and make it up; but the Mussidans say things to each other in cold blood that neither can ever forgive.”
From the air with which Mascarin listened to these details, it almost seemed as if he had been aware of them before.
“Then,” said he, “Mademoiselle Sabine is the only nice one in the house?”
“Yes, she is always gentle and considerate.”
“Then you think that M. de Breulh-Faverlay will be a happy man?”
“Oh, yes; but perhaps this marriage will——” but here Florestan interrupted himself and assumed an air of extreme caution. After looking carefully round, he lowered his voice, and continued, “Mademoiselle Sabine has been left so much to herself that she acts just as she thinks fit.”
“Do you mean,” asked Mascarin, “that the young lady has a lover?”
“Just so.”
“But that must be wrong; and let me tell you that you ought not to repeat such a story.”
The man grew quite excited.
“Story,” repeated he; “I know what I know. If I spoke of a lover, it is because I have seen him with my own eyes, not once, but twice.”
From the manner in which Mascarin received this intelligence, Florestan saw that he was interested in the highest degree.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” continued he. “The first time was when she went to mass; it came on to rain suddenly, and Modeste, her maid, begged me to go for an umbrella. As soon as I came back I went in and saw Mademoiselle Sabine standing by the receptacle for holy water, talking to a young fellow. Of course I dodged behind a pillar, and kept a watch on the pair—”
“But you don’t found all your story on this?”
“I think you would, had you seen the way they looked into each other’s eyes.”
“What was he like?”
“Very good looking, about my height, with an aristocratic air.”
“How about the second time?”
“Ah, that is a longer story. I went one day with Mademoiselle when she was going to see a friend in the Rue Marboeuf. She waited at a corner of the street, and beckoned me to her. ‘Florestan,’ said she, ‘I forgot to post this letter; go and do so; I will wait here for you.’ ”
“Of course you read it?”
“No. I thought there was something wrong. She wants to get rid of you, so, instead of posting it, I slunk behind a tree and waited. I had hardly done so, when the young fellow I had seen at the chapel came round the corner; but I scarcely knew him. He was dressed just like a working man, in a blouse all over plaster. They talked for about ten minutes, and Mademoiselle Sabine gave him what looked like a photograph.”
By this time the bottle was empty, and Florestan was about to call for