Baron Trigault's Vengeance by Emile Gaboriau (graded readers .TXT) 📖

could utter falsehoods with such a calm, unblushing face—he was astonished at his own audacity. And what a success he had achieved! He felt certain that he had just slipped round M. de Valorsay’s neck the noose which would strangle him later on. Still he was considerably disturbed by Madame Leon’s visit to the marquis. “What is she doing here with this physician?” he asked himself again and again. “Who is this man? What new piece of infamy are they plotting to require his services?” One of those presentiments which are prompted by the logic of events, told him that this physician had been, or would be, one of the actors in the vile conspiracy of which he and Mademoiselle Marguerite were the victims. But he had no leisure to devote to the solution of this enigma. Time was flying, and before returning to the marquis’s house he must find out what had aroused the suspicions of the purchaser of those horses, the biographies of which had been so rigidly exacted. Through the baron, he might hope to obtain an interview with Kami-Bey—and so it was to the baron’s house that Pascal directed his steps.

After the more than cordial reception which the baron had granted him that morning, it was quite natural that the servants should receive him as a friend of the household. They would scarcely allow him to explain what he desired. It was the pompous head valet in person who ushered him into one of the small reception-rooms, exclaiming: “The baron’s engaged, but I’m sure he would be annoyed if he failed to see you; and I will inform him at once.”

A moment later, the baron entered quite breathless from his hurried descent of the staircase. “Ah! you have been successful,” he exclaimed, on seeing Pascal’s face.

“Everything is progressing as favorably as I could wish, Monsieur le Baron, but I must speak with that foreigner whom I met here this morning.”

“Kami-Bey?”

“Yes.” And in a few words, Pascal explained the situation.

“Providence is certainly on our side,” said the baron, thoughtfully. “Kami is still here.”

“Is it possible?”

“It’s a fact. Did you think it would be easy to get rid of this confounded Turk! He invited himself to breakfast without the slightest ceremony, and would give me no peace until I promised to play with him for two hours. I was closeted with him, cards in hand, when they told me you were here. Come, we’ll go and question him.”

They found the interesting foreigner in a savage mood. He had been winning when the servant came for the baron, and he feared that an interruption would change the luck. “What the devil took you away?” he exclaimed, with that coarseness of manner which was habitual with him, and which the flatterers around him styled “form.” “A man should no more be disturbed when he’s playing than when he’s eating.”

“Come, come, prince,” said the baron, good-naturedly, “don’t be angry, and I’ll give you three hours instead of two. But I have a favor to ask of you.”

The foreigner at once thrust his hand into his pocket, with such a natural gesture, that neither the baron nor Pascal could repress a smile, and he himself understanding the cause of their merriment broke into a hearty laugh. “It’s purely from force of habit,” said he. “Ah! since I’ve been in Paris—— But what do you wish?”

The baron sat down, and gravely replied: “You told us scarcely an hour ago that you had been cheated in the purchase of some horses.”

“Cheated! it was worse than highway robbery.”

“Would it be indiscreet to ask you by whom you have been defrauded?”

Kami-Bey’s purple cheeks became a trifle pale. “Hum!” said he, in an altered tone of voice, “that is a delicate question. My defrauder appears to be a dangerous fellow—a duellist—and if I disclose his knavery, he is quite capable of picking a quarrel with me—not that I am afraid of him, I assure you, but my principles don’t allow me to fight. When a man has an income of a million, he doesn’t care to expose himself to the dangers of a duel.”

“But, prince, in France folks don’t do a scoundrel the honor to cross swords with him.”

“That’s just what my steward, who is a Frenchman, told me; but no matter. Besides, I am not sufficiently sure of the man’s guilt to noise it abroad. I have no positive proofs as yet.”

He was evidently terribly frightened, and the first thing to be done was to reassure him. “Come,” insisted the baron, “tell us the man’s name. This gentleman here”—pointing to Pascal—“is one of my most esteemed friends. I will answer for him as I would for myself; and we will swear upon our honor not to reveal the secret we ask you for, without your permission.”

“Truly?”

“You have our word of honor,” replied both the baron and Pascal in a breath.

After casting a half-frightened glance around him, the worthy Turk seemed to gather courage. But no! He deliberated some time, and then rejoined: “Really, I’m not sufficiently convinced of the accuracy of my suspicions to incur the risk of accusing a man who belongs in the very best society; a man who is very rich and very highly respected, and who would tolerate no imputations upon his character.”

It was plain that he would not speak. The baron shrugged his shoulders, but Pascal stepped bravely forward. “Then I will tell you, prince,” he said, “the name that you are determined to hide from us.”

“Oh!”

“But you must allow me to remark that the baron and myself retract the promise we made you just now.”

“Naturally.”

“Then, your defrauder is the Marquis de Valorsay!”

If Kami-Bey had seen an emissary of his sovereign enter the room carrying the fatal bow-string he would not have seemed more terror-stricken. He sprang nervously on to his short, fat legs, his eyes wildly dilating and his hands fluttering despairingly. “Don’t speak so loud! don’t speak so loud!” he exclaimed, imploringly.

As he did not even attempt to deny it, the truth of the assertion might be taken for granted. But Pascal was not content with this. “Now that we know the fact, I hope, Prince, that you will be sufficiently obliging to tell us how it all happened,” he remarked.

Poor Kami. He was in despair. “Alas!” he replied, reluctantly, “nothing could be more simple. I wanted to set up a racing stable. Not that I care much for sport. I can scarcely distinguish a horse from a mule—but morning and evening, everybody says to me: ‘Prince, a man like you ought to make your name celebrated on the turf.’ Besides I never open a paper without reading: ‘Such a man ought to be a patron of the noblest of sports.’ At last, I said to myself: ‘Yes, they are right. I ought to take part in racing.’ So I began to look about for some horses. I had purchased several, when the Marquis de Valorsay proposed to sell me some of his, some that