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

for the airing of vanity—a sort of open-air bazaar for the display of dresses and equipages. People come here to see and to be seen; and, moreover, this is neutral ground, where so-called honest women can meet those notorious characters from whom they are elsewhere separated by an impassable abyss. What exquisite pleasure it must be to the dames of society to find themselves beside Jenny Fancy or Ninette Simplon, or any other of those young ladies whom they habitually call “creatures,” but whom they are continually talking of, and whose toilettes, make-up, and jargon, they assiduously copy!

However, Chupin indulged in none of these reflections. He was engaged in noting Madame d’Argeles’s evident anxiety and restlessness. She looked eagerly on all sides, sometimes half leaning out of her carriage, and immediately turning her head whenever she heard the gallop of a horseman behind her. She was evidently looking or waiting for some one, but the person did not make his appearance, and so, growing weary of waiting, after driving three times round the lake, she made a sign to her coachman, who at once drew out of line, and turned his horse into a side-path. Chupin hastened after the victoria, keeping it in sight until he was fortunate enough to meet an empty cab, which he at once hired. Madame d’Argeles’s coachman, who had received his orders, now drove down the Champs Elysees, again crossed the Place de la Concorde, turned into the boulevards, and stopped short at the corner of the Chaussee d’Antin, where, having tied a thick veil over her face, Madame Lia abruptly alighted and walked away.

This was done so quickly that Chupin barely had time to fling two francs to his driver and rush after her. She had already turned round the corner of the Rue du Helder, and was walking rapidly up the street. It was a little after five o’clock, and dusk was setting in. Madame d’Argeles had taken the side of the street allotted to the uneven numbers. After she had passed the Hotel de Homburg, she slackened her pace, and eagerly scrutinized one of the houses opposite—No. 48. Her examination lasted but a moment, and seemed to be satisfactory. She then turned, and rapidly retraced her steps as far as the boulevard, when, crossing the street to the side of the even numbers, she walked up it again very slowly, stopping before every shop-window.

Convinced that he had almost reached the goal, Chupin also crossed, and followed closely at her heels. He soon saw her start and resume her rapid gait. A young man was coming toward her so quickly indeed that she had not time to avoid him, and a collision ensued, whereupon the young man gave vent to an oath, and hurling an opprobrious epithet in her face, passed on.

Chupin shuddered. “What if that should be her son?” he thought. And while he pretended to be gazing into a shop window, he stealthily watched the poor woman. She had paused, and he was so near that he could almost have touched her. He saw her raise her veil and follow her insulter with a look which it was impossible to misunderstand. “Oh! oh! It was her son that called her that——” said Chupin to himself, quite horrified. And without more ado, he hastened after the young man.

He was between two and four-and-twenty years of age, rather above the medium height, with very light hair and an extremely pale complexion. His slight mustache would have been almost imperceptible if it had not been dyed several shades darker than his hair. He was attired with that studied carelessness which many consider to be the height of elegance, but which is just the reverse. And his bearing, his mustache, and his low hat, tipped rakishly over one ear, gave him an arrogant, pretentious, rowdyish appearance. “Zounds! that fellow doesn’t suit my fancy,” growled Chupin, as he trotted along. For he was almost running in his efforts to keep pace with Madame d’Argeles’s insulter. The latter’s haste was soon explained. He was carrying a letter which he wished to have delivered, and no doubt he feared he would not be able to find a commissionaire. Having discovered one at last, he called him, gave him the missive, and then pursued his way more leisurely.

He had reached the boulevard, when a florid-faced youth, remarkably short and stout, rushed toward him with both hands amicably extended, at the same time crying, loud enough to attract the attention of the passers-by: “Is it possible that this is my dear Wilkie?”

“Yes—alive and in the flesh,” replied the young man.

“Well, and what the devil have you been doing with yourself? Last Sunday, at the races, I looked for you everywhere, and not a vestige of Wilkie was to be found. However, you were wise not to go. I am three hundred louis out of pocket. I staked everything on Domingo, the Marquis de Valorsay’s horse. I thought I was sure to win—yes, sure. Well, Domingo came in third. Can you understand that? If every one didn’t know that Valorsay was a millionaire, it might be supposed there had been some foul play—yes, upon my word—that he had bet against his own horse, and forbidden his jockey to win the race.” But the speaker did not really believe this, so he continued, more gayly: “Fortunately, I shall retrieve my losses to-morrow, at Vincennes. Shall we see you there?”

“Probably.”

“Then good-by, until to-morrow.”

“Until to-morrow.”

Thereupon they shook hands, and each departed on his way.

Chupin had not lost a word of this conversation. “Valorsay a millionaire!” he said to himself. “That’s good! Ah, well! now I know my little gamecock’s name, and I also know that he goes to the races. Wilkie that must be an English name; I like the name of d’Argeles better. But where the devil is he going now?”

M. Wilkie had simply paused to replenish his cigar-case at the tobacco office of the Grand Hotel; and, after lighting a cigar, he came out again, and walked up the boulevard in the direction of the Faubourg Montmartre. He was no longer in a hurry now; he strolled along in view of killing time, displaying his charms, and staring impudently at every woman who passed. With his shoulders drawn up on a level with his ears, and his chest thrown back, he dragged his feet after him as if his limbs were half paralyzed; he was indeed doing his best to create the impression that he was used up, exhausted, broken down by excesses and dissipation. For that is the fashion—the latest fancy—chic!

“Will you never have done?” growled Chupin.

“You shall pay for this, you little wretch!” He was so indignant that the gamin element in his nature stirred again under his fine broadcloth, and he had a wild longing to throw stones at M. Wilkie. He would certainly have trodden on his heels, and have picked a quarrel with him, had it not been for a fear of failing in his mission, and thereby losing his promised reward.

He followed his man closely, for the crowd was very great. Light was coming on, and the gas was lit on all sides. The weather was very mild, and there was not an unoccupied table in front of the cafes, for it was now the absinthe hour. How does it happen that every evening, between five and seven o’clock, every one in Paris who is known—who is somebody or something—can be found between the Passage de l’Opera and the Passage Jouffroy? Hereabout you may hear all the latest news and gossip of the fashionable world, the last political canards—all the incidents of Parisian life which will