Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Count's Millions by Emile Gaboriau (big screen ebook reader .txt) 📖
- Author: Emile Gaboriau
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“By following in another vehicle, of course.”
“Certainly, m’sieur; that’s as clear as daylight. But that isn’t the question. The point is this: How can one watch the face of a person who turns her back to you? I must see this woman’s face to know whom she looks at, and how.”
This objection, grave as it appeared, did not seem to disturb M. Fortunat. “Don’t worry about that, Victor,” he replied. “Under such circumstances, a mother wouldn’t try to see her son from a rapidly moving carriage. She will undoubtedly alight, and contrive some means of passing and repassing him—of touching him, if possible. Your task will only consist in following her closely enough to be on the ground as soon as she is. Confine your efforts to that; and if you fail to-day, you’ll succeed to-morrow or the day after—the essential thing is to be patient.”
He did better than to preach patience—he practised it. The hours wore away, and yet he did not stir from his post, though nothing could have been more disagreeable to him than to remain on exhibition, as it were, at the door of a wine-shop. At last, at a little before three o’clock, the gates over the way turned upon their hinges, and a dark-blue victoria, in which a woman was seated, rolled forth into the street. “Look!” said M. Fortunat, eagerly. “There she is!”
XVIII.
The woman in the carriage was none other than Madame Lia d’Argeles. She was attired in one of those startling costumes which are the rage nowadays, and which impart the same bold and brazen appearance to all who wear them: so much so, that the most experienced observers are no longer able to distinguish the honest mother of a family from a notorious character. A Dutchman, named Van Klopen, who was originally a tailor at Rotterdam, rightfully ascribes the honor of this progress to himself. One can scarcely explain how it happens that this individual, who calls himself “the dressmaker of the queens of Europe,” has become the arbiter of Parisian elegance; but it is an undeniable fact that he does reign over fashion. He decrees the colors that shall be worn, decides whether dresses shall be short or long, whether paniers shall be adopted or discarded, whether ruches and puffs and flowers shall be allowed, and in what form; and his subjects, the so-called elegant women of Paris, obey him implicitly.
Madame d’Argeles would personally have preferred less finery, perhaps, but it would not have done for her to be out of the fashion. She wore an imperceptible hat, balanced on an immense pyramidal chignon, from which escaped a torrent of wavy hair. “What a beautiful woman!” exclaimed the dazzled Chupin, and indeed, seen from this distance, she did not look a day more than thirty-five—an age when beauty possesses all the alluring charm of the luscious fruit of autumn. She was giving orders for the drive, and her coachman, with a rose in his buttonhole, listened while he reined in the spirited horse. “The weather’s superb,” added Chupin. “She’ll no doubt drive round the lakes in the Bois de Boulogne——”
“Ah, she’s off!” interrupted M. Fortunat. “Run, Victor, run! and don’t be miserly as regards carriage hire; all your expenses shall be liberally refunded you.”
Chupin was already far away. Madame d’Argeles’s horse went swiftly enough, but the agent’s emissary had the limbs and the endurance of a stag, and he kept pace with the victoria without much difficulty. And as he ran along, his brain was busy. “If I don’t take a cab,” he said to himself, “if I follow the woman on foot, I shall have a perfect right to pocket the forty-five sous an hour—fifty, counting the gratuity—that a cab would cost.”
But on reaching the Champ Elysees, he discovered, to his regret, that this plan was impracticable, for on running down the Avenue de l’Imperatrice after the rapidly driven carriage, he could not fail to attract attention. Stifling a sigh of regret, and seeing a cab at a stand near by, he hastily hailed it. “Where do you want to go, sir?” inquired the driver.
“Just follow that blue victoria, in which a handsome lady is seated, my good fellow.”
The order did not surprise the cabman, but rather the person who gave it; for in spite of his fine apparel, Chupin did not seem quite the man for such an adventure. “Excuse me,” said the Jehu, in a slightly ironical tone, “I——”
“I said exactly what I mean,” retorted Chupin, whose pride was severely wounded. “And no more talk—hurry on, or we shall miss the track.”
This last remark was correct, for if Madame d’Argeles’s coachman had not slackened his horse’s speed on passing round the Arc de Triomphe, the woman would have escaped Chupin, for that day at least. However, this circumstance gave the cabman an opportunity to overtake the victoria; and after that the two vehicles kept close together as they proceeded down the Avenue de l’Imperatrice. But at the entrance of the Bois de Boulogne Chupin ordered his driver to stop. “Halt!” he exclaimed; “I shall get out. Pay the extra cab charges for passing beyond the limits of Paris!—never! I’ll crawl on my hands and knees first. Here are forty sous for your fare—and good-evening to you.”
And, as the blue victoria was already some distance in advance, he started off at the top of his speed to overtake it. This manoeuvre was the result of his meditations while riding along. “What will this fine lady do when she gets to the Bois?” he asked himself. “Why, her coachman will take his place in the procession, and drive her slowly round and round the lakes. Meantime I can trot along beside her without attracting attention—and it will be good for my health.”
His expectations were realized in every respect. The victoria soon turned to the left, and took its place in the long line of equipages which were slowly winding round the lake. Having gained the foot-path which borders the sheet of water, Chupin followed the carriage easily enough, with his hands in his pockets, and his heart jubilant at the thought that he would gain the sum supposed to have been spent in cab hire, in addition to the compensation which had been promised him. “This is a strange way of enjoying one’s self,” he muttered, as he trotted along. “There can’t be much pleasure in going round and round this lake. If ever I’m rich, I’ll find some other way of amusing myself.”
Poor Chupin did not know that people do not go to the Bois to enjoy themselves, but rather to torment others. This broad drive is in reality only a field
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