Baron Trigault's Vengeance [75]
and every night, before going to bed, I tell him the history of the day--and sometimes I fancy that he smiles at me. All this is very absurd, perhaps, but I'm not ashamed of it. M. Andre and my good mother, they are my supports, my crutches, and with them I'm not afraid of making a false step." Schebel, the German philosopher, who has written a treatise on Volition, in four volumes, was no greater a man than Chupin. "So you may keep your money, sir," he resumed. "I'm an honest fellow, and honest men ought to ask no reward for the performance of a duty. Coralth mustn't be allowed to triumph over the innocent chap he ruined. What did you call him? Ferailleur? It's an odd name. Never mind-- we'll get him out of this scrape; he shall marry his sweetheart after all; and I'll dance at the wedding."
As he finished speaking he laughed a shrill, dangerous laugh, which revealed his sharp teeth--but such invincible determination was apparent on his face, that M. Fortunat felt no misgivings. He was sure that this volunteer would be of more service than the highest-priced hireling. "So I can count on you, Victor?" he inquired.
"As upon yourself."
"And you hope to have some positive information by Tuesday?"
"Before then, I hope, if nothing goes amiss."
"Very well; I will devote my attention to Ferailleur then. As to Valorsay's affairs, I am better acquainted with them than he is himself. We must be prepared to enter upon the campaign when Mademoiselle Marguerite comes, and we will act in accordance with her instructions."
Chupin had already caught up his hat; but just as he was leaving the room, he paused abruptly. "How stupid!" he exclaimed. "I had forgotten the principal thing. Where does Coralth live?"
"Unfortunately, I don't know."
According to his habit when things did not go to his liking, Chupin began to scratch his head furiously. "That's bad," growled he. "Viscounts of his stamp don't parade their addresses in the directory. Still, I shall find him." However, although he expressed this conviction he went off decidedly out of temper.
"I shall lose the entire evening hunting up the rascal's address," he grumbled, as he hastened homeward. "And whom shall I ask for it?--Madame d'Argeles's concierge? Would he know it--M. Wilkie's servant? That would be dangerous." He thought of roaming sound about M. de Valorsay's residence, and of bribing one of the valets; but while crossing the boulevard, the sight of Brebant's Restaurant put a new idea into his head. "I have it!" he muttered; "my man's caught!" And he darted into the nearest cafe where he ordered some beer and writing materials.
Under other circumstances, he would have hesitated to employ so hazardous an expedient as the one he was about to resort to, but the character of his adversaries justified any course; besides, time was passing, and he had no choice of resources. As soon as the waiter served him, he drained his glass of beer to give himself an inspiration, and then, in his finest hand, he wrote:
MY DEAR VISCOUNT--Here's the amount--one hundred francs--that I lost to you last evening at piquet. When shall I have my revenge? Your friend, VALORSAY."
When he had finished this letter he read it over three or four times, asking himself if this were the style of composition that very fashionable folks employ in repaying their debts. To tell the truth, he doubted it. In the rough draft which he penned at first, he had written bezique, but in the copy he wrote piquet, which he deemed a more aristocratic game. "However," said he, "no one will examine it closely!"
Then, as soon as the ink was dry, he folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope with a hundred franc-note which he drew from an old pocketbook. He next addressed the envelope as follows: "Monsieur le Vicomte de Coralth, En Ville," and having completed his preparations, he paid his score, and hastened to Brebant's. Two waiters were standing at the doorway, and, showing them the letter, he politely asked:
As he finished speaking he laughed a shrill, dangerous laugh, which revealed his sharp teeth--but such invincible determination was apparent on his face, that M. Fortunat felt no misgivings. He was sure that this volunteer would be of more service than the highest-priced hireling. "So I can count on you, Victor?" he inquired.
"As upon yourself."
"And you hope to have some positive information by Tuesday?"
"Before then, I hope, if nothing goes amiss."
"Very well; I will devote my attention to Ferailleur then. As to Valorsay's affairs, I am better acquainted with them than he is himself. We must be prepared to enter upon the campaign when Mademoiselle Marguerite comes, and we will act in accordance with her instructions."
Chupin had already caught up his hat; but just as he was leaving the room, he paused abruptly. "How stupid!" he exclaimed. "I had forgotten the principal thing. Where does Coralth live?"
"Unfortunately, I don't know."
According to his habit when things did not go to his liking, Chupin began to scratch his head furiously. "That's bad," growled he. "Viscounts of his stamp don't parade their addresses in the directory. Still, I shall find him." However, although he expressed this conviction he went off decidedly out of temper.
"I shall lose the entire evening hunting up the rascal's address," he grumbled, as he hastened homeward. "And whom shall I ask for it?--Madame d'Argeles's concierge? Would he know it--M. Wilkie's servant? That would be dangerous." He thought of roaming sound about M. de Valorsay's residence, and of bribing one of the valets; but while crossing the boulevard, the sight of Brebant's Restaurant put a new idea into his head. "I have it!" he muttered; "my man's caught!" And he darted into the nearest cafe where he ordered some beer and writing materials.
Under other circumstances, he would have hesitated to employ so hazardous an expedient as the one he was about to resort to, but the character of his adversaries justified any course; besides, time was passing, and he had no choice of resources. As soon as the waiter served him, he drained his glass of beer to give himself an inspiration, and then, in his finest hand, he wrote:
MY DEAR VISCOUNT--Here's the amount--one hundred francs--that I lost to you last evening at piquet. When shall I have my revenge? Your friend, VALORSAY."
When he had finished this letter he read it over three or four times, asking himself if this were the style of composition that very fashionable folks employ in repaying their debts. To tell the truth, he doubted it. In the rough draft which he penned at first, he had written bezique, but in the copy he wrote piquet, which he deemed a more aristocratic game. "However," said he, "no one will examine it closely!"
Then, as soon as the ink was dry, he folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope with a hundred franc-note which he drew from an old pocketbook. He next addressed the envelope as follows: "Monsieur le Vicomte de Coralth, En Ville," and having completed his preparations, he paid his score, and hastened to Brebant's. Two waiters were standing at the doorway, and, showing them the letter, he politely asked: