File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (ebook reader browser TXT) 📖

During this tirade he had whirled around, so that he found himself facing the banker’s wife, whose countenance he closely watched while he was speaking.

“You are surprised, gentlemen,” he continued; “I am not. The great Bilboquet has proved to us that the heart never grows old, and that the most vigorous wall-flowers flourish on old ruins. This unhappy woman is nearly fifty years old—fifty years old, and in love with a youth! Hence this heart-rending scene which should serve as a warning to us all.”

“Really!” grumbled a cook dressed in white satin, who had passed the evening in carrying around bills of fare, which no one read, “I thought he was going to amuse us.”

“But,” continued the clown, “you must go inside of the booth to witness the effects of the mandarine’s folly. At times a ray of reason penetrates her diseased brain, and then the sight of her anguish would soften a heart of stone. Enter, and for the small sum of ten sous you shall hear sobs such as the Odeon never echoed in its halcyon days. The unhappy woman has waked up to the absurdity and inanity of her blind passion; she confesses to herself that she is madly pursuing a phantom. She knows but too well that he, in the vigor and beauty of youth, cannot love a faded old woman like herself, who vainly makes pitiable efforts to retain the last remains of her once entrancing beauty. She feels that the sweet words he once whispered in her charmed ear were deceitful falsehoods. She knows that the day is near when she will be left alone, with nothing save his mantle in her hand.”

As the clown addressed this voluble description to the crowd before him, he narrowly watched the countenance of the banker’s wife.

But nothing he had said seemed to affect her. She leaned back in her arm-chair perfectly calm, and occasionally smiled at the tragic manner of the showman.

“Good heavens!” muttered the clown uneasily, “can I be on the wrong track?”

He saw that his circle of listeners was increased by the presence of the doge, M. de Clameran.

“The third picture,” he said, after a roll of drums, “depicts the old mandarine after she has dismissed that most annoying of guests—remorse—from her bosom. She promises herself that interest shall supply the place of love in chaining the too seductive youth to her side. It is with this object that she invests him with false honors and dignity, and introduces him to the chief mandarins of the capital of the Celestial Empire; then, since so handsome a youth must cut a fine figure in society, and as a fine figure cannot be cut without money, the lady must needs to sacrifice all of her possessions for his sake. Necklaces, rings, bracelets, diamonds, and pearls, all are surrendered. The monster carries all these jewels to the pawnbrokers on Tien-Tsi Street, and then has the cruelty to refuse her the tickets, so that she may have a chance of redeeming her treasures.”

The clown thought that at last he had hit the mark. Mme. Fauvel began to betray signs of agitation.

Once she made an attempt to rise from her chair; but it seemed as if her strength failed her, and she sank back, forced to listen to the end.

“Finally, ladies and gentlemen,” continued the clown, “the richly stored jewel-cases became empty. The day came when the mandarine had nothing more to give. It was then that the young scoundrel conceived the project of carrying off the jasper button belonging to the Mandarin Li-Fo—a splendid jewel of incalculable value, which, being the badge of his dignity, was kept in a granite chest, and guarded by three soldiers night and day. Ah! the mandarine resisted a long time! She knew the innocent soldiers would be accused and crucified, as is the custom in Pekin; and this thought restrained her. But her lover besought her so tenderly, that she finally yielded to his entreaties; and—the jasper button was stolen. The fourth picture represents the guilty couple stealthily creeping down the private stairway: see their frightened look—see—”

He abruptly stopped. Three or four of his auditors rushed to the assistance of Mme. Fauvel, who seemed about to faint; and at the same time he felt his arm roughly seized by someone behind him.

He turned around and faced De Clameran and Lagors, both of whom were pale with anger.

“What do you want, gentlemen?” he inquired politely.

“To speak to you,” they both answered.

“I am at your service.”

And he followed them to the end of the picture-gallery, near a window opening on a balcony.

Here they were unobserved except by the man in the Venetian cloak, whom the clown had so respectfully addressed as “M. the Count.”

The minuet having ended, the orchestras were resting, and the crowd began to rapidly fill the gallery.

The sudden faintness of Mme. Fauvel had passed off unnoticed save by a few, who attributed it to the heat of the room. M. Fauvel had been sent for; but when he came hurrying in, and found his wife composedly talking to Madeleine, his alarm was dissipated, and he returned to the card-tables.

Not having as much control over his temper as Raoul, M. de Clameran angrily said:

“In the first place, monsieur, I would like to know who you are.”

The clown determined to answer as if he thought the question were a jest, replied in the bantering tone of a buffoon:

“You want my passport, do you, my lord doge? I left it in the hands of the city authorities; it contains my name, age, profession, domicile, and every detail—”

With an angry gesture, M. de Clameran interrupted him.

“You have just committed a gross insult!”

“I, my lord doge?”

“Yes, you! What do you mean by telling this abominable story in this house?”

“Abominable! You may call it abominable; but I, who composed it, have a different opinion of it.”

“Enough, monsieur; you will at least have the courage to acknowledge that your performance was a vile insinuation against Mme. Fauvel?”

The clown stood with his head thrown back, and mouth wide open, as if astounded at what he heard.

But anyone who knew him would have seen his bright black eyes sparkling with malicious satisfaction.

“Bless my heart!” he cried, as if speaking to himself. “This is the strangest thing I ever heard of! How can my drama of the Mandarine Li-Fo have any reference to Mme. Fauvel, whom I don’t know from Adam or Eve? I can’t think how the resemblance——unless——but no, that is impossible.”

“Do you pretend,” said M. de Clameran, “to be ignorant of M. Fauvel’s misfortune?”

The clown looked very innocent, and asked:

“What misfortune?”