The Count's Millions [108]
devilishly pretty."
Even if M. Fortunat had wished to put in a word or two, he could have found no opportunity. But his guest's loquacity did not displease him; it gave him an opportunity for reflection. Strange thoughts arose in his mind, and connecting M. Casimir's affirmations with the assurances of the Marquis de Valorsay, he was amazed at the coincidence. "It's very singular!" he thought. "Has this girl really stolen the money? and has the marquis discovered the fact through Madame Leon, and determined to profit by the theft? In that case, I may get my money back, after all! I must look into the matter."
A partridge and a bottle of Pomard followed the shrimps and chablis; and M. Casimir's loquacity increased, and his voice rose higher and higher. He wandered from one absurd story to another, and from slander to slander, until suddenly, and without the slightest warning, he began to speak of the mysterious letter which he considered the undoubted cause of the count's illness.
At the first word respecting this missive, M. Fortunat started violently. "Nonsense!" said he, with an incredulous air. "Why the devil should this letter have had such an influence?"
"I don't know. But it is certain--it had." And, in support of his assertion, he told M. Fortunat how the count had destroyed the letter almost without reading it, and how he had afterward searched for the fragments, in order to find an address it had contained. "And I'm quite sure," said the valet, "that the count intended to apply to you for the address of the person who wrote the letter."
"Are you sure of that?"
"As sure as I am of drinking Pomard!" exclaimed M. Casimir, draining his glass.
Rarely had the agent experienced such emotion. He did not doubt but what this missive contained the solution of the mystery. "Were the scraps of this letter found?" he asked.
"I have them," cried the valet, triumphantly. "I have them in my pocket, and, what's more, I have the whole of them!"
This declaration made M. Fortunat turn pale with delight. "Indeed--indeed!" said he; "it must be a strange production."
His companion pursed up his lips disdainfully. "May be so, may be not," he retorted. "It's impossible to understand a word of it. The only thing certain about it is that it was written by a woman."
"Ah!"
"Yes, by a former mistress, undoubtedly. And, naturally, she asks for money for a child. Women of that class always do so. They've tried the game with me more than a dozen times, but I'm not so easily caught." And bursting with vanity, he related three or four love affairs in which, according to his own account, he must have played a most ignoble part.
If M. Fortunat's chair had been a gridiron, heated by an excellent fire, he could not have felt more uncomfortable. After pouring out bumper after bumper for his guest, he perceived that he had gone too far, and that it would not be easy to check him. "And this letter?" he interrupted, at last.
"Well?"
"You promised to let me read it."
"That's true--that's quite true; but it would be as well to have some mocha first, would it not? What if we ordered some mocha, eh?"
Coffee was served, and when the waiter had closed the door, M. Casimir drew the letter, the scraps of which were fixed together, from his pocket, and unfolded it, saying: "Attention; I'm going to read."
This did not suit M. Fortunat's fancy. He would infinitely have preferred perusing it himself; but it is impossible to argue with an intoxicated man, and so M. Casimir with a more and more indistinct enunciation read as follows: "'Paris, October 14, 186-- .' So the lady lives in Paris, as usual. After this she puts neither 'monsieur,' nor 'my friend,' nor 'dear count,' nothing at all. She begins abruptly: 'Once before, many years ago, I came to you as a suppliant. You were pitiless, and did not even deign to answer me. And yet, as I told you, I was on the verge of a terrible precipice; my brain was reeling, vertigo had seized hold of me. Deserted, I was wandering about Paris, homeless
Even if M. Fortunat had wished to put in a word or two, he could have found no opportunity. But his guest's loquacity did not displease him; it gave him an opportunity for reflection. Strange thoughts arose in his mind, and connecting M. Casimir's affirmations with the assurances of the Marquis de Valorsay, he was amazed at the coincidence. "It's very singular!" he thought. "Has this girl really stolen the money? and has the marquis discovered the fact through Madame Leon, and determined to profit by the theft? In that case, I may get my money back, after all! I must look into the matter."
A partridge and a bottle of Pomard followed the shrimps and chablis; and M. Casimir's loquacity increased, and his voice rose higher and higher. He wandered from one absurd story to another, and from slander to slander, until suddenly, and without the slightest warning, he began to speak of the mysterious letter which he considered the undoubted cause of the count's illness.
At the first word respecting this missive, M. Fortunat started violently. "Nonsense!" said he, with an incredulous air. "Why the devil should this letter have had such an influence?"
"I don't know. But it is certain--it had." And, in support of his assertion, he told M. Fortunat how the count had destroyed the letter almost without reading it, and how he had afterward searched for the fragments, in order to find an address it had contained. "And I'm quite sure," said the valet, "that the count intended to apply to you for the address of the person who wrote the letter."
"Are you sure of that?"
"As sure as I am of drinking Pomard!" exclaimed M. Casimir, draining his glass.
Rarely had the agent experienced such emotion. He did not doubt but what this missive contained the solution of the mystery. "Were the scraps of this letter found?" he asked.
"I have them," cried the valet, triumphantly. "I have them in my pocket, and, what's more, I have the whole of them!"
This declaration made M. Fortunat turn pale with delight. "Indeed--indeed!" said he; "it must be a strange production."
His companion pursed up his lips disdainfully. "May be so, may be not," he retorted. "It's impossible to understand a word of it. The only thing certain about it is that it was written by a woman."
"Ah!"
"Yes, by a former mistress, undoubtedly. And, naturally, she asks for money for a child. Women of that class always do so. They've tried the game with me more than a dozen times, but I'm not so easily caught." And bursting with vanity, he related three or four love affairs in which, according to his own account, he must have played a most ignoble part.
If M. Fortunat's chair had been a gridiron, heated by an excellent fire, he could not have felt more uncomfortable. After pouring out bumper after bumper for his guest, he perceived that he had gone too far, and that it would not be easy to check him. "And this letter?" he interrupted, at last.
"Well?"
"You promised to let me read it."
"That's true--that's quite true; but it would be as well to have some mocha first, would it not? What if we ordered some mocha, eh?"
Coffee was served, and when the waiter had closed the door, M. Casimir drew the letter, the scraps of which were fixed together, from his pocket, and unfolded it, saying: "Attention; I'm going to read."
This did not suit M. Fortunat's fancy. He would infinitely have preferred perusing it himself; but it is impossible to argue with an intoxicated man, and so M. Casimir with a more and more indistinct enunciation read as follows: "'Paris, October 14, 186-- .' So the lady lives in Paris, as usual. After this she puts neither 'monsieur,' nor 'my friend,' nor 'dear count,' nothing at all. She begins abruptly: 'Once before, many years ago, I came to you as a suppliant. You were pitiless, and did not even deign to answer me. And yet, as I told you, I was on the verge of a terrible precipice; my brain was reeling, vertigo had seized hold of me. Deserted, I was wandering about Paris, homeless