Other People's Money by Emile Gaboriau (superbooks4u txt) 📖

“Don’t go,” he declared; “you must come down and take a glass of Madeira with us, down at the Cascade.”

And, turning to the editor of “The Pilot”: 

“Come, now, shut up,” he said:  “you shall have what you want.”

“Really?”

“Upon my word.”

“I’d rather have two or three lines in black and white.”

“I’ll give them to you to-night.”

“All right, then!  Forward the big guns!  Look out for next Sunday’s number!”

Peace being made, the gentlemen continued their walk in the most friendly manner, M. Costeclar pointing out to Maxence all the celebrities who were passing by them in their carriages.

He had just designated to his attention Mme. and Mlle. de Thaller, accompanied by two gigantic footmen, when, suddenly interrupting himself, and rising on tiptoe,

“Sacre bleu!” he exclaimed:  “what a handsome woman!”

Without too much affectation, Maxence fell back a step or two.  He felt himself blushing to his very ears, and trembled lest his sudden emotion were noticed, and he were questioned; for it was Mlle. Lucienne who thus excited M. Costeclar’s noisy enthusiasm.  Once already she had been around the lake; and she was continuing her circular drive.

“Positively,” approved the editor of “The Financial Pilot,” “she is somewhat better than the rest of those ladies we have just seen going by.”

M. Costeclar was on the point of pulling out what little hair he had left.

“And I don’t know her!” he went on.  “A lovely woman rides in the Bois, and I don’t know who she is!  That is ridiculous and prodigious!  Who can post us?”

A little ways off stood a group of gentlemen, who had also just left their carriages, and were looking on this interminable procession of equipages and this amazing display of toilets.

“They are friends of mine,” said M. Costeclar:  “let us join them.”

They did so; and, after the usual greetings,

“Who is that?” inquired M. Costeclar,—“that dark person, whose carriage follows Mme. de Thaller’s?”

An old young man, with scanty hair, dyed beard, and a most impudent smile, answered him,

“That’s just what we are trying to find out.  None of us have ever seen her.”

“I must and shall find out,” interrupted M. Costeclar.  “I have a very intelligent servant.”

Already he was starting in the direction of the spot where his carriage was waiting for him.  The old beau stopped him.

“Don’t bother yourself, my dear friend,” he said.  “I have also a servant who is no fool; and he has had orders for over fifteen minutes.”

The others burst out laughing.

“Distanced, Costeclar!” exclaimed M. Saint Pavin, who, notwithstanding his slovenly dress and cynic manners, seemed perfectly well received.

No one was now paying any attention to Maxence; and he slipped off without the slightest care as to what M. Costeclar might think.  Reaching the spot where his cab awaited him,

“Which way, boss?” inquired the driver.  Maxence hesitated.  What better had he to do than to go home?  And yet . . .

“We’ll wait for that same carriage,” he answered; “and we’ll follow it on the return.”

But he learned nothing further.  Mlle. Lucienne drove straight to the Boulevard du Temple, and, as before, immediately resumed her eternal black dress; and Maxence saw her go to the little restaurant for her modest dinner.

But he saw something else too.

Almost on the heels of the girl, a servant in livery entered the hotel corridor, and only went off after remaining a full quarter of an hour in busy conference with Mme. Fortin.

“It’s all over,” thought the poor fellow.  “Lucienne will not be much longer my neighbor.”

He was mistaken.  A month went by without bringing about any change.  As in the past, she went out early, came home late, and on Sundays remained alone all day in her room.  Once or twice a week, when the weather was fine, the carriage came for her at about three o’clock, and brought her home at nightfall.  Maxence had exhausted all conjectures, when one evening, it was the 31st of October, as he was coming in to go to bed, he heard a loud sound of voices in the office of the hotel.  Led by an instinctive curiosity, he approached on tiptoe, so as to see and hear every thing.  The Fortins and Mlle. Lucienne were having a great discussion.

“That’s all nonsense,” shrieked the worthy landlady; “and I mean to be paid.”

Mlle. Lucienne was quite calm.

“Well,” she replied:  “don’t I pay you?  Here are forty francs, —thirty in advance for my room, and ten on the old account.”

“I don’t want your ten francs!”

“What do you want, then?”

“Ah,—the hundred and fifty francs which you owe me still.”

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

“You forget our agreement,” she uttered.

“Our agreement?”

“Yes.  After the Commune, it was understood that I would give you ten francs a month on the old account; as long as I give them to you, you have nothing to ask.”

Crimson with rage, Mme. Fortin had risen from her seat.

“Formerly,” she interrupted, “I presumed I had to deal with a poor working-girl, an honest girl.”

Mlle. Lucienne took no notice of the insult.

“I have not the amount you ask,” she said coldly.

“Well, then,” vociferated the other, “you must go and ask it of those who pay for your carriages and your dresses.”

Still impassible, the girl, instead of answering, stretched her hand towards her key; but M. Fortin stopped her arm.

“No, no!” he said with a giggle.  “People who don’t pay their hotel-bill sleep out, my darling.”

Maxence, that very morning, had received his month’s pay, and he felt, as it were, his two hundred francs trembling in his pockets.

Yielding to a sudden inspiration, he threw open the office-door, and, throwing down one hundred and fifty francs upon the table,

“Here is your money, wretch!” he exclaimed.  And he withdrew