The Count's Millions [20]
me! I don't know. What sort of a looking person is she?"
"Very tall; a brunette."
"How old is she?"
"Eighteen or nineteen."
The woman made a rapid calculation on her fingers. "Nine and four are thirteen," she muttered, "and five are eighteen. Ah, ha!--why not? I must look into this."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing; a little reflection I was making to myself. Do you know this young lady's name?"
"It's Marguerite."
The woman's face clouded. "No; it can't be then," she muttered, in a scarcely audible voice.
M. Fortunat was on coals of fire. It was evident that this frightful creature, even if she knew nothing definite, had some idea, some vague suspicion of the truth. How could he compel her to speak now that she was on her guard? He had not time to ascertain, for the door suddenly opened, and Vantrasson appeared on the threshold. He was scarcely sober when he left the shop, but now he was fairly drunk; his heavy shamble had become a stagger. "Oh, you wretch, you brigand!" howled his wife; "you've been drinking again!"
He succeeded in maintaining his equilibrium, and, gazing at her with the phlegmatic stare peculiar to intoxicated men, he replied: "Well, what of that! Can't I have a little pleasure with my friends? I came across a couple of men who were just taking their fifteenth glass; why should I refuse a compliment?"
"You can't hold yourself up."
"That's true." And to prove it he tumbled on to a chair.
A torrent of abuse now flowed from Madame Vantrasson's lips! M. Fortunat only imperfectly distinguished the words "thief," "spy," and "detective;" but he could not mistake the meaning of the looks which she alternately gave her husband and himself. "It's a fortunate thing for you that my husband is in this condition," her glances plainly implied, "otherwise there would be an explanation, and then we should see--"
"I've had a lucky escape," thought the spurious clerk. But as matters stood there was nothing to fear. It was a case where one could show a brave front to the enemy without incurring the slightest danger. "Let your husband alone," said he. "If he has only brought the paper that he was sent to fetch, I sha'n't have lost my evening to oblige you."
Vantrasson had brought not one sheet of stamped paper, but two. A bad pen and some muddy ink were produced, and M. Fortunat began to draw up an acknowledgment according to the established formula. However, it was necessary to mention the name of the creditor of whom he had spoken, and not wishing to state his own, he used that of poor Victor Chupin, who was at that very moment shivering at the door, little suspecting what liberty was being taken with his cognomen.
"Chupin!" repeated the vixen, as if to engrave the name on her memory; "Victor Chupin! I should just like to see him," she added, viciously.
When the document was finished, it became necessary to wake Vantrasson, so that he might sign it. He did so with very good grace, and his wife appended her signature beside her husband's. Thereupon M. Fortunat gave them in exchange the note which had served as a pretext for his visit. "And above all," he remarked, as he opened the door to go, "don't forget that you are to pay something on account each month."
"Go to the devil, and your account with you!" growled Madame Vantrasson.
But Fortunat did not hear this. He was already walking down the road by the side of Chupin, who was saying: "Well, here you are, at last, m'sieur! I thought you had taken a lease of that old barrack. If ever I come here again, I'll bring a foot-warmer with me."
But one of those fits of profound abstraction to which determined seekers after truth are subject had taken possession of M. Fortunat, and made him oblivious of all surrounding circumstances. His heart had been full of hope when he reached the Asnieres Road, but he went away gloomy and despondent; and quite unconscious of the darkness, the mud, and the rain, which was again falling, he silently plodded along in the middle of the highway. Chupin was obliged
"Very tall; a brunette."
"How old is she?"
"Eighteen or nineteen."
The woman made a rapid calculation on her fingers. "Nine and four are thirteen," she muttered, "and five are eighteen. Ah, ha!--why not? I must look into this."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing; a little reflection I was making to myself. Do you know this young lady's name?"
"It's Marguerite."
The woman's face clouded. "No; it can't be then," she muttered, in a scarcely audible voice.
M. Fortunat was on coals of fire. It was evident that this frightful creature, even if she knew nothing definite, had some idea, some vague suspicion of the truth. How could he compel her to speak now that she was on her guard? He had not time to ascertain, for the door suddenly opened, and Vantrasson appeared on the threshold. He was scarcely sober when he left the shop, but now he was fairly drunk; his heavy shamble had become a stagger. "Oh, you wretch, you brigand!" howled his wife; "you've been drinking again!"
He succeeded in maintaining his equilibrium, and, gazing at her with the phlegmatic stare peculiar to intoxicated men, he replied: "Well, what of that! Can't I have a little pleasure with my friends? I came across a couple of men who were just taking their fifteenth glass; why should I refuse a compliment?"
"You can't hold yourself up."
"That's true." And to prove it he tumbled on to a chair.
A torrent of abuse now flowed from Madame Vantrasson's lips! M. Fortunat only imperfectly distinguished the words "thief," "spy," and "detective;" but he could not mistake the meaning of the looks which she alternately gave her husband and himself. "It's a fortunate thing for you that my husband is in this condition," her glances plainly implied, "otherwise there would be an explanation, and then we should see--"
"I've had a lucky escape," thought the spurious clerk. But as matters stood there was nothing to fear. It was a case where one could show a brave front to the enemy without incurring the slightest danger. "Let your husband alone," said he. "If he has only brought the paper that he was sent to fetch, I sha'n't have lost my evening to oblige you."
Vantrasson had brought not one sheet of stamped paper, but two. A bad pen and some muddy ink were produced, and M. Fortunat began to draw up an acknowledgment according to the established formula. However, it was necessary to mention the name of the creditor of whom he had spoken, and not wishing to state his own, he used that of poor Victor Chupin, who was at that very moment shivering at the door, little suspecting what liberty was being taken with his cognomen.
"Chupin!" repeated the vixen, as if to engrave the name on her memory; "Victor Chupin! I should just like to see him," she added, viciously.
When the document was finished, it became necessary to wake Vantrasson, so that he might sign it. He did so with very good grace, and his wife appended her signature beside her husband's. Thereupon M. Fortunat gave them in exchange the note which had served as a pretext for his visit. "And above all," he remarked, as he opened the door to go, "don't forget that you are to pay something on account each month."
"Go to the devil, and your account with you!" growled Madame Vantrasson.
But Fortunat did not hear this. He was already walking down the road by the side of Chupin, who was saying: "Well, here you are, at last, m'sieur! I thought you had taken a lease of that old barrack. If ever I come here again, I'll bring a foot-warmer with me."
But one of those fits of profound abstraction to which determined seekers after truth are subject had taken possession of M. Fortunat, and made him oblivious of all surrounding circumstances. His heart had been full of hope when he reached the Asnieres Road, but he went away gloomy and despondent; and quite unconscious of the darkness, the mud, and the rain, which was again falling, he silently plodded along in the middle of the highway. Chupin was obliged