Chapter 3

Dr. Hortebise, who had addressed Mascarin so familiarly by his Christian
name of Baptiste, was about fifty-six years of age, but he carried his
years so well, that he always passed for forty-nine. He had a heavy pair
of red, sensual-looking lips, his hair was untinted by gray, and his
eyes still lustrous. A man who moved in the best society, eloquent in
manner, a brilliant conversationalist, and vivid in his perceptions, he
concealed under the veil of good-humored sarcasm the utmost cynicism of
mind. He was very popular and much sought after. He had but few faults,
but quite a catalogue of appalling vices. Under this Epicurean exterior
lurked, it was reported, the man of talent and the celebrated physician.
He was not a hard-working man, simply because he achieved the same
results without toil or labor. He had recently taken to homoeopathy, and
started a medical journal, which he named _The Globule_, which died at
its fifth number. His conversation made all society laugh, and he joined
in the ridicule, thus showing the sincerity of his views, for he
was never able to take the round of life seriously. To-day, however,
Mascarin, well as he knew his friend, seemed piqued at his air of
levity.

“When I asked you to come here to-day,” said he, “and when I begged you
to conceal yourself in my bedroom--”

“Where I was half frozen,” broke in Hortebise.

“It was,” went on Mascarin, “because I desired your advice. We have
started on a serious undertaking,--an undertaking full of peril both to
you and to myself.”

“Pooh! I have perfect confidence in you,--whatever you do is done well,
and you are not the man to fling away your trump cards.”

“True; but I may lose the game, after all, and then----”

The doctor merely shook a large gold locket that depended from his watch
chain.

This movement seemed to annoy Mascarin a great deal. “Why do you flash
that trinket at me?” asked he. “We have known each other for five and
twenty years,--what do you mean to imply? Do you mean that the locket
contains the likeness of some one that you intend to make use of later
on? I think that you might render such a step unnecessary by giving me
your present advice and attention.”

Hortebise threw himself back in his chair with an expression of
resignation. “If you want advice,” remarked he, “why not apply to our
worthy friend Catenac?--he knows something of business, as he is a
lawyer.”

The name of Catenac seemed to irritate Mascarin so much, that calm, and
self-contained as he usually was, he pulled off his cap and dashed it on
his desk.

“Are you speaking seriously?” said he angrily.

“Why should I not be in earnest?”

Mascarin removed his glasses, as though without them he could the more
easily peer into the depths of the soul of the man before him.

“Because,” replied he slowly, “both you and I distrust Catenac. When did
you see him last?”

“More than three months ago.”

“True, and I allow that he seems to be acting fairly toward his old
associates; but you will admit that, in keeping away thus, his conduct
is without excuse, for he has made his fortune; and though he pretends
to be poor, he is certainly a man of wealth.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Were he here, I would force him to acknowledge that he is worth a
million, at least.”

“A million!” exclaimed the doctor, with sudden animation.

“Yes, certainly. You and I, Hortebise, have indulged our every whim, and
have spent gold like water, while our friend garnered his harvest and
stored it away. But poor Catenac has no expensive tastes, nor does he
care for women or the pleasures of the table. While we indulged in every
pleasure, he lent out his money at usurious interest. But, stop,--how
much do you spend per annum?”

“That is a hard question to answer; but, say, forty thousand francs.”

“More, a great deal more; but calculate what a capital sum that would
amount to during the twenty years we have done business together.”

The doctor was not clever at figures; he made several vain attempts to
solve the problem, and at last gave it up in despair. “Forty and forty,”
muttered he, tapping the tips of his fingers, “are eighty, then forty--”

“Call it eight hundred thousand francs,” broke in Mascarin. “Say I drew
the same amount as you did. We have spent ours, and Catenac has saved
his, and grown rich; hence my distrust. Our interests are no longer
identical. He certainly comes here every month, but it is only to claim
his share; he consents to take his share of the profits, but shirks the
risks. It is fully ten years since he brought in any business. I don’t
trust him at all. He always declines to join in any scheme that we
propose, and sees danger in everything.”

“He would not betray us, however.”

Mascarin took a few moments for reflection. “I think,” said he, “that
Catenac is afraid of us. He knows that the ruin of me would entail the
destruction of the other two. This is our only safeguard; but if he
dare not injure us openly, he is quite capable of working against us in
secret. Do you remember what he said the last time he was here? That we
ought to close our business and retire. How should _we_ live? for he is
rich and we are poor. What on earth are you doing, Hortebise?” he added,
for the physician, who had the reputation of being worth an enormous
amount, had taken out his purse, and was going over the contents.

“I have scarcely three hundred and twenty-seven francs!” answered he
with a laugh. “What is the state of your finances?”

Mascarin made a grimace. “I am not so well off as you; and besides,” he
continued in a low voice, as though speaking to himself, “I have certain
ties which you do not possess.”

For the first time during this interview a cloud spread over the
doctor’s countenance.

“Great Heavens!” said he, “and I was depending on you for three thousand
francs, which I require urgently.”

Mascarin smiled slyly at the doctor’s uneasiness. “Don’t worry,” he
answered. “You can have that; there ought to be some six or eight
thousand francs in the safe. But that is all, and that is the last
of our common capital,--this after twenty years of toil, danger, and
anxiety, and we have not twenty years before us to make a fresh fortune
in.”

“Yes,” continued Mascarin, “we are getting old, and therefore have the
greater reason for making one grand stroke to assure our fortune. Were I
to fall ill to-morrow, all would go to smash.”

“Quite true,” returned the doctor, with a slight shudder.

“We must, and that is certain, venture on a bold stroke. I have said
this for years, and woven a web of gigantic proportions. Do you now
know why at this last moment I appeal to you, and not to Catenac
for assistance? If only one out of two operations that I have fully
explained to you succeeds, our fortune is made.”

“I follow you exactly.”

“The question now is whether the chance of success is sufficiently great
to warrant our going on with these undertakings. Think it over and let
me have your opinion.”

An acute observer could easily have seen that the doctor was a man of
resource, and a thoroughly competent adviser, for the reason that his
coolness never deserted him. Compelled to choose between the use of the
contents of his locket, or the continuance of a life of luxurious ease,
the smile vanished from the doctor’s face, and he began to reflect
profoundly. Leaning back in his chair, with his feet resting on the
fender, he carefully studied every combination in the undertaking, as
a general inspects the position taken up by the enemy, when a battle
is impending, upon which the fate of an empire may hinge. That this
analysis took a favorable turn, was evident, for Mascarin soon saw a
smile appear upon the doctor’s lips. “We must make the attack at
once,” said he; “but make no mistake; the projects you propose are most
dangerous, and a single error upon our side would entail destruction;
but we must take some risk. The odds are against us, but still we may
win. Under these circumstances, and as necessity cheers us on, I say,
_Forward!_” As he said this, he rose to his feet, and extending his hand
toward his friend, exclaimed, “I am entirely at your disposal.”

Mascarin seemed relieved by the doctor’s decision, for he was in
that frame of mind when, however self-reliant a man may be, he has a
disinclination to be left alone, and the aid of a stout ally is of the
utmost service.

“Have you considered every point carefully?” asked he. “You know that
we can only act at present upon one of the undertakings, and that is the
one of which the Marquis de Croisenois----”

“I know that.”

“With reference to the affair of the Duke de Champdoce, I have still to
gather together certain things necessary for the ultimate success of
the scheme. There is a mystery in the lives of the Duke and Duchess,--of
this there is no doubt,--but what is this secret? I would lay my life
that I have hit upon the correct solution; but I want no suspicions,
no probabilities; I want absolute certainties. And now,” continued he,
“this brings us back to the first question. What do you think of Paul
Violaine?”

Hortebise walked up and down the room two or three times, and finally
stopped opposite to his friend. “I think,” said he, “that the lad has
many of the qualities we want, and we might find it hard to discover one
better suited for our purpose. Besides, he is a bastard, knows nothing
of his father, and therefore leaves a wide field for conjecture; for
every natural son has the right to consider himself, if he likes, the
offspring of a monarch. He has no family or any one to look after him,
which assures us that whatever may happen, there is no one to call us to
account. He is not overwise, but has a certain amount of talent, and any
quantity of ridiculous self-conceit. He is wonderfully handsome, which
will make matters easier, but--”

“Ah, there is a ‘but’ then?”

“More than one,” answered the doctor, “for there are three for certain.
First, there is Rose Pigoreau, whose beauty has so captivated our old
friend Tantaine,--she certainly appears to be a danger in the future.”

“Be easy,” returned Mascarin; “we will quickly remove this young woman
from our road.”

“Good; but do not be too confident,” answered Hortebise, in his usual
tone. “The danger from her is not the one you think, and which you are
trying to avoid. You think Paul loves her. You are wrong. He would drop
her to-morrow, so that he could please his self-indulgence. But the
woman who thinks that she hates her lover often deceives herself; and
Rose is simply tired of poverty. Give her a little amount of comfort,
good living, and luxury, and you will see her give them all up to come
back to Paul. Yes, I tell you, she will harass and annoy him, as women
of her class who have nothing to love always do. She will even go to
Flavia to claim him.”

“She had better not,” retorted Mascarin, in threatening accents.

“Why, how could you prevent it? She has known Paul from his infancy. She
knew his mother; she was perhaps brought up by her, perhaps even lived
in the same street. Look out, I say, for danger from that quarter.”

“You may be right, and I will take my precautions.”

It was sufficient for Mascarin to be assured of a danger to find means
of warding it off.

“My second ‘but,’” continued Hortebise, “is the idea of the mysterious
protector of whom the young man spoke. His mother, he says, has reason
to know that his father is dead, and I believe in the truth of the
statement. In this case, what has become of the person who paid Madame
Violaine her allowance?”

“You are right, quite right; these are the crevices in our armor; but I
keep my eyes open, and nothing escapes me.”

The doctor was growing rather weary, but he still went on courageously.
“My third ‘but’” said he, “is perhaps the strongest. We must see the
young fellow at once. It may be to-morrow, without even having prepared
him or taught him his part. Suppose we found that he was honest!
Imagine--if he returned a firm negative to all your dazzling offers!”

Mascarin rose to his feet in his turn. “I do not think that there is any
chance of that,” said he.

“Why not, pray?”

“Because when Tantaine brought him to me, he had studied him carefully.
He is as weak as a woman, and as vain as a journalist. Besides, he is
ashamed at being poor. No; I can mould him like wax into any shape I
like. He will be just what we wish.”

“Are you sure,” asked Hortebise, “that Flavia will have nothing to say
in this matter?”

“I had rather, with your permission, say nothing on that head,” returned
Mascarin. He broke off his speech and listened eagerly. “There is some
one listening,” said he. “Hark!”

The sound was repeated, and the doctor was about to seek refuge in the
inner room, when Mascarin laid a detaining hand upon his arm.

“Stay,” observed he, “it is only Beaumarchef;” and as he spoke,
he struck a gilded bell that stood on his desk. In another instant
Beaumarchef appeared, and with an air in which familiarity was mingled
with respect, he saluted in military fashion.

“Ah,” said the doctor pleasantly, “do you take your nips of brandy
regularly?”

“Only occasionally, sir,” stammered the man.

“Too often, too often, my good fellow. Do you think that your nose and
eyelids are not real telltales?”

“But I assure you, sir--”

“Do you not remember I told you that you had asthmatic symptoms?
Why, the movement of your pectoral muscles shows that your lungs are
affected.”

“But I have been running, sir.”

Mascarin broke in upon this conversation, which he considered frivolous.
“If he is out of breath,” remarked he, “it is because he has been
endeavoring to repair a great act of carelessness that he has committed.
Well, Beaumarchef, how did you get on?”

“All right, sir,” returned he, with a look of triumph. “Good!”

“What are you talking about?” asked the doctor.

Mascarin gave his friend a meaning glance, and then, in a careless
manner, replied, “Caroline Schimmel, a former servant of the Champdoce
family, also patronizes our office. How did you find her, Beaumarchef?”

“Well, an idea occurred to me.”

“Pooh! do you have ideas at your time of life?”

Beaumarchef put on an air of importance. “My idea was this,” he went
on: “as I left the office with Toto Chupin, I said to myself, the woman
would certainly drop in at some pub before she reached the boulevard.”

“A sound argument,” remarked the doctor.

“Therefore Toto and I took a squint into every one we passed, and before
we got to the Rue Carreau we saw her in one, sure enough.”

“And Toto is after her now?”

“Yes, sir; he said he would follow her like her shadow, and will bring
in a report every day.”

“I am very pleased with you, Beaumarchef,” said Mascarin, rubbing his
hands joyously.

Beaumarchef seemed highly flattered, but continued,--

“This is not all.”

“What else is there to tell?”

“I met La Candele on his way from the Place de Petit Pont, and he
has just seen that young girl--you know whom I mean--driving off in a
two-horse Victoria. He followed it, of course. She has been placed in a
gorgeous apartment in the Rue Douai; and from what the porter says, she
must be a rare beauty; and La Candele raved about her, and says that she
has the most magnificent eyes in the world.”

“Ah,” remarked Hortebise, “then Tantaine was right in his description of
her.”

“Of course he was,” answered Mascarin with a slight frown, “and this
proves the justice of the objection you made a little time back. A girl
possessed of such dazzling beauty may even influence the fool who has
carried her off to become dangerous.”

Beaumarchef touched his master’s arm kindly. “If you wish to get rid of
the masher,” said he, “I can show you a way;” and throwing himself
into the position of a fencer, he made a lunge with his right arm,
exclaiming, “One, two!”

“A Prussian quarrel,” remarked Mascarin. “No; a duel would do us no
good. We should still have the girl on our hands, and violent measures
are always to be avoided.” He took off his glasses, wiped them, and
looking at the doctor intently, said, “Suppose we take an epidemic as
our ally. If the girl had the smallpox, she would lose her beauty.”

Cynical and hardened as the doctor was, he drew back in horror at this
proposal. “Under certain circumstances,” remarked he, “science might aid
us; but Rose, even without her beauty, would be just as dangerous as she
is now. It is _her_ affection for Paul that we have to check, and not
_his_ for her; and the uglier a woman is, the more she clings to her
lover.”

“All this is worthy of consideration,” returned Mascarin; “meanwhile we
must take steps to guard ourselves from the impending danger. Have you
finished that report on Gandelu, Beaumarchef? What is his position?”

“Head over ears in debt, sir, but not harassed by his creditors because
of his future prospects.”

“Surely among these creditors there are some that we could influence?”
said Mascarin. “Find this out, and report to me this evening; and
farewell for the present.”

When again alone, the two confederates remained silent for some time.
The decisive moment had arrived. As yet they were not compromised; but
if they intended to carry out their plans, they must no longer remain
inactive; and both of these men had sufficient experience to know that
they must look at the position boldly, and make up their minds at once.
The pleasant smile upon the doctor’s face faded away, and his fingers
played nervously with his locket. Mascarin was the first to break the
silence.

“Let us no longer hesitate,” said he; “let us shut our eyes to the
danger and advance steadily. You heard the promises made by the Marquis
de Croisenois. He will do as we wish, but under certain conditions.
Mademoiselle de Mussidan must be his bride.”

“That will be impossible.”

“Not so, if we desire it: and the proof of this is, that before two
o’clock the engagement between Mademoiselle Sabine and the Baron de
Breulh-Faverlay will be broken off.”

The doctor heaved a deep sigh. “I can understand Catenac’s scruples. Ah!
if, like him, I had a million!”

During this brief conversation Mascarin had gone into his sleeping room
and was busily engaged in changing his dress.

“If you are ready,” remarked the doctor, “we will make a start.”

In reply, Mascarin opened the door leading into the office. “Get a cab,
Beaumarchef,” said he.