The Count's Millions by Emile Gaboriau (big screen ebook reader .txt) 📖

Bourigeau to report the count’s death at the district mayor’s office, and then lighting a cigar he walked out of the house, and strolled leisurely up the Rue de Courcelles. The place appointed for his meeting with M. Fortunat was on the Boulevard Haussmann, almost opposite Binder’s, the famous carriage builder. Although it was rather a wine-shop than a restaurant, a capital breakfast could be obtained there as M. Casimir had ascertained to his satisfaction several times before. “Has no one called for me?” he asked, as he went in.

“No one.”

He consulted his watch, and evinced considerable surprise. “Not yet noon!” he exclaimed. “I’m in advance; and as that is the case, give me a glass of absinthe and a newspaper.”

He was obeyed with far more alacrity than his deceased master had ever required him to show, and he forthwith plunged into the report of the doings at the Bourse, with the eagerness of a man who has an all-sufficient reason for his anxiety in a drawer at home. Having emptied one glass of absinthe, he was about to order a second, when he felt a tap on the shoulder, and on turning round he beheld M. Isidore Fortunat.

In accordance with his wont, the agent was attired in a style of severe elegance—with gloves and boots fitting him to perfection—but an unusually winning smile played upon his lips. “You see I have been waiting for you,” exclaimed M. Casimir.

“I am late, it’s true,” replied M. Fortunat, “but we will do our best to make up for lost time; for, I trust, you will do me the honor of breakfasting with me?”

“Really, I don’t know that I ought.”

“Yes, yes, you must. They will give us a private room; we must have a talk.”

It was certainly not for the pleasure of the thing that M. Fortunat cultivated M. Casimir’s acquaintance, and entertained him at breakfast. M. Fortunat, who was a very proud man, considered this connection somewhat beneath his dignity; but at first, circumstances, and afterward interest, had required him to overcome his repugnance. It was through the Count de Chalusse that he had made M. Casimir’s acquaintance. While the count was employing the agent he had frequently sent his valet to him with messages and letters. Naturally, M. Casimir had talked on these occasions, and the agent had listened to him; hence this superficial friendship. Subsequently when the marriage contemplated by the Marquis de Valorsay was in course of preparation, M. Fortunat had profited of the opportunity to make the count’s servant his spy; and it had been easy to find a pretext for continuing the acquaintance, as M. Casimir was a speculator, or rather a dabbler in stocks and shares. So, whenever he needed information, M. Fortunat invited M. Casimir to breakfast, knowing the potent influence of a good bottle of wine offered at the right moment. It is needless to say that he exercised uncommon care in the composition of the menu on a day like this when his future course depended, perhaps, on a word more or less.

M. Casimir’s eye sparkled as he took his seat at the table opposite his entertainer. The crafty agent had chosen a little room looking out on to the boulevard. Not that it was more spacious or elegant than the others, but it was isolated, and this was a very great advantage; for every one knows how unsafe and perfidious are those so-called private rooms which are merely separated from each other by a thin partition, scarcely thicker than a sheet of paper. It was not long before M. Fortunat had reason to congratulate himself on his foresight, for the breakfast began with a dish of shrimps, and M. Casimir had not finished his twelfth, washed down by a glass of chablis, before he declared that he could see no impropriety in confiding certain things to a friend.

The events of the morning had completely turned his head; and gratified vanity and good cheer excited him to such a degree that he discoursed with unwonted volubility. With total disregard of prudence, he talked with inexcusable freedom of the Count de Chalusse, and M. de Valorsay, and especially of his enemy, Mademoiselle Marguerite. “For it is she,” he exclaimed, rapping on the table with his knife—“it is she who has taken the missing millions! How she did it, no one will ever know, for she has not an equal in craftiness; but it’s she who has stolen them, I’m sure of it! I would have taken my oath to that effect before the magistrate, and I would have proved it, too, if he hadn’t taken her part because she’s pretty—for she is 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.