Baron Trigault's Vengeance [142]
"Good! the old woman isn't here." And as his plan of campaign was already prepared, he entered without further hesitation.
As Vantrasson heard the door turn upon its hinges, he rose so awkwardly, or rather so skilfully, as to let all his implements, wax, knife, and impressions, fall on the floor behind the counter. "What can I do to serve you?" he asked, in a husky voice.
"Nothing. I wished to speak with your wife."
"She has gone out. She works for a family in the morning."
This was a gleam of light. Chupin had not thought of the only hypothesis that could explain what seemed inexplicable to him. However, he knew how to conceal his satisfaction, and so with an air of disappointment, he remarked: "That's too bad! I shall be obliged to call again."
"So you have a secret to tell my wife?"
"Not at all."
"Won't I do as well, then?"
"I'll tell you how it is. I'm employed in the baggage room of the western railway station, and I wanted to know if your wife didn't call there a few days ago for some trunks?"
The landlord's features betrayed the vague perturbation of a person who can count the days by his mistakes, and it was with evident hesitation that he replied:
"Yes, my wife went to the Havre station for some baggage last Sunday."
"I thought so. Well, this is my errand: either the clerk forgot to ask her for her receipt, or else he lost it. He can't find it anywhere. I came to ask your wife if she hadn't kept it. When she returns, please deliver my message; and if she has the receipt, pray send it to me through the post."
The ruse was not particularly clever, but it was sufficiently so to deceive Vantrasson. "To whom am I to send this receipt?" he asked.
"To me, Victor Chupin, Faubourg Saint Denis," was the reply.
Imprudent youth! alas, he little suspected what a liberty M. Fortunat had taken with his name on the evening he visited the Vantrassons. But on his side the landlord of the Model Lodging House had not forgotten the name mentioned by the agent. He turned pale with anger on beholding his supposed creditor, and quickly slipping between the visitor and the door, he said: "So your name is Victor Chupin?"
"Yes, certainly."
"And you are in the employment of the Railway Company?"
"As I just told you."
"That doesn't prevent you from acting as a collector, does it?"
Chupin instinctively recoiled, convinced that he had betrayed himself by some blunder, but unable to discover in what he had erred. "I did do something in that line formerly," he faltered.
Vantrasson doubted no longer. "So you confess that you are a vile scoundrel!" he exclaimed. "You confess that you purchased an old promissory note of mine for fourpence, and then sent a man here to seize my goods! Ah! you'd like to trample the poor under foot, would you! Very well. I have you now, and I'll settle your account! Take that!" And so saying, he dealt his supposed creditor a terrible blow with his clinched fist that sent him reeling to the other end of the shop.
Fortunately, Chupin was very nimble. He did not lose his footing, but sprung over a table and used it as a rampart to shield himself from his dangerous assailant. In the open field, he could easily have protected himself; but here in this narrow space, and hemmed in a corner, he felt that despite this barrier he was lost. "What a devil of a mess!" he thought, as with wonderful agility he avoided Vantrasson's fist, a fist that would have felled an ox. He had an idea of calling for assistance. But would any one hear him? Would any one reply? And if help came, would not the police be sure to hear of the broil? And if they did, would there not be an investigation which would perhaps disturb Pascal's plans? Fearing to injure those whom he wished to serve, he resolved to let himself be hacked to pieces rather than allow a cry to escape him; but he changed his tactics, and instead of attempting to parry the blows as he had done before, he now only thought of gaining the door, inch by inch.
He had almost reached it, not without
As Vantrasson heard the door turn upon its hinges, he rose so awkwardly, or rather so skilfully, as to let all his implements, wax, knife, and impressions, fall on the floor behind the counter. "What can I do to serve you?" he asked, in a husky voice.
"Nothing. I wished to speak with your wife."
"She has gone out. She works for a family in the morning."
This was a gleam of light. Chupin had not thought of the only hypothesis that could explain what seemed inexplicable to him. However, he knew how to conceal his satisfaction, and so with an air of disappointment, he remarked: "That's too bad! I shall be obliged to call again."
"So you have a secret to tell my wife?"
"Not at all."
"Won't I do as well, then?"
"I'll tell you how it is. I'm employed in the baggage room of the western railway station, and I wanted to know if your wife didn't call there a few days ago for some trunks?"
The landlord's features betrayed the vague perturbation of a person who can count the days by his mistakes, and it was with evident hesitation that he replied:
"Yes, my wife went to the Havre station for some baggage last Sunday."
"I thought so. Well, this is my errand: either the clerk forgot to ask her for her receipt, or else he lost it. He can't find it anywhere. I came to ask your wife if she hadn't kept it. When she returns, please deliver my message; and if she has the receipt, pray send it to me through the post."
The ruse was not particularly clever, but it was sufficiently so to deceive Vantrasson. "To whom am I to send this receipt?" he asked.
"To me, Victor Chupin, Faubourg Saint Denis," was the reply.
Imprudent youth! alas, he little suspected what a liberty M. Fortunat had taken with his name on the evening he visited the Vantrassons. But on his side the landlord of the Model Lodging House had not forgotten the name mentioned by the agent. He turned pale with anger on beholding his supposed creditor, and quickly slipping between the visitor and the door, he said: "So your name is Victor Chupin?"
"Yes, certainly."
"And you are in the employment of the Railway Company?"
"As I just told you."
"That doesn't prevent you from acting as a collector, does it?"
Chupin instinctively recoiled, convinced that he had betrayed himself by some blunder, but unable to discover in what he had erred. "I did do something in that line formerly," he faltered.
Vantrasson doubted no longer. "So you confess that you are a vile scoundrel!" he exclaimed. "You confess that you purchased an old promissory note of mine for fourpence, and then sent a man here to seize my goods! Ah! you'd like to trample the poor under foot, would you! Very well. I have you now, and I'll settle your account! Take that!" And so saying, he dealt his supposed creditor a terrible blow with his clinched fist that sent him reeling to the other end of the shop.
Fortunately, Chupin was very nimble. He did not lose his footing, but sprung over a table and used it as a rampart to shield himself from his dangerous assailant. In the open field, he could easily have protected himself; but here in this narrow space, and hemmed in a corner, he felt that despite this barrier he was lost. "What a devil of a mess!" he thought, as with wonderful agility he avoided Vantrasson's fist, a fist that would have felled an ox. He had an idea of calling for assistance. But would any one hear him? Would any one reply? And if help came, would not the police be sure to hear of the broil? And if they did, would there not be an investigation which would perhaps disturb Pascal's plans? Fearing to injure those whom he wished to serve, he resolved to let himself be hacked to pieces rather than allow a cry to escape him; but he changed his tactics, and instead of attempting to parry the blows as he had done before, he now only thought of gaining the door, inch by inch.
He had almost reached it, not without