The Lerouge Case Émile Gaboriau (great novels TXT) 📖

“Ah! ah!” said old Tabaret. And, prompted by the very natural curiosity of a landlord who is bound to be very careful about the financial condition of his tenants, he added, “Who the deuce are you ruining now?”

“I am ruining no one,” replied M. Clergeot, with an air of offended dignity. “Have you ever had reason to complain of me whenever we have done business together? I think not. Mention me to the young barrister up there, if you like; he will tell you whether he has reason to regret knowing me.”

These words produced a painful impression on Tabaret. What, Noel, the prudent Noel, one of Clergeot’s customers! What did it mean? Perhaps there was no harm in it; but then he remembered the fifteen thousand francs he had lent Noel on the Thursday. “Yes,” said he, wishing to obtain some more information, “I know that M. Gerdy spends a pretty round sum.”

Clergeot has the delicacy never to leave his clients undefended when attacked. “It isn’t he personally,” he objected, “who makes the money dance; its that charming little woman of his. Ah, she’s no bigger than your thumb, but she’d eat the devil, hoofs, horns, and all!”

What! Noel had a mistress, a woman whom Clergeot himself, the friend of such creatures, considered expensive! The revelation, at such a moment, pierced the old man’s heart. But he dissembled. A gesture, a look, might awaken the usurer’s mistrust, and close his mouth. “That’s well known,” replied Tabaret in a careless tone. “Youth must have it’s day. But what do you suppose the wench costs him a year?”

“Oh, I don’t know! He made the mistake of not fixing a price with her. According to my calculation, she must have, during the four years that she has been under his protection, cost him close upon five hundred thousand francs.”

Four years? Five hundred thousand francs! These words, these figures, burst like bombshells on old Tabaret’s brain. Half a million! In that case, Noel was utterly ruined. But then⁠—“It is a great deal,” said he, succeeding by desperate efforts in hiding his emotion; “it is enormous. M. Gerdy, however, has resources.”

“He!” interrupted the usurer, shrugging his shoulders. “Not even that!” he added, snapping his fingers; “He is utterly cleaned out. But, if he owes you money, do not be anxious. He is a sly dog. He is going to be married; and I have just renewed bills of his for twenty-six thousand francs. Goodbye, M. Tabaret.”

The usurer hurried away, leaving the poor old fellow standing like a milestone in the middle of the pavement. He experienced something of that terrible grief which breaks a father’s heart when he begins to realize that his dearly loved son is perhaps the worst of scoundrels. And, yet, such was his confidence in Noel that he again struggled with his reason to resist the suspicions which tormented him. Perhaps the usurer had been slandering his friend. People who lend their money at more than ten percent are capable of anything. Evidently he had exaggerated the extent of Noel’s follies. And, supposing it were true? Have not many men done just such insane things for women, without ceasing to be honest?

As he was about to enter his house, a whirlwind of silk, lace, and velvet, stopped the way. A pretty young brunette came out and jumped as lightly as a bird into the blue brougham. Old Tabaret was a gallant man, and the young woman was most charming, but he never even looked at her. He passed in, and found his concierge standing, cap in hand, and tenderly examining a twenty franc piece.

“Ah, sir,” said the man, “such a pretty young person, and so ladylike! If you had only been here five minutes sooner.”

“What lady? why?”

“That elegant lady, who just went out, sir; she came to make some inquiries about M. Gerdy. She gave me twenty francs for answering her questions. It seems that the gentleman is going to be married; and she was evidently much annoyed about it. Superb creature! I have an idea that she is his mistress. I know now why he goes out every night.”

“M. Gerdy?”

“Yes, sir, but I never mentioned it to you, because he seemed to wish to hide it. He never asks me to open the door for him, no, not he. He slips out by the little stable door. I have often said to myself, ‘Perhaps he doesn’t want to disturb me; it is very thoughtful on his part, and he seems to enjoy it so.’ ”

The concierge spoke with his eyes fixed on the gold piece. When he raised his head to examine the countenance of his lord and master, old Tabaret had disappeared.

“There’s another!” said the concierge to himself. “I’ll bet a hundred sous, that he’s running after the superb creature! Run ahead, go it, old dotard, you shall have a little bit, but not much, for it’s very expensive!” The concierge was right. Old Tabaret was running after the lady in the blue brougham. “She will tell me all,” he thought, and with a bound he was in the street. He reached it just in time to see the blue brougham turn the corner of the Rue St. Lazare. “Heavens!” he murmured. “I shall lose sight of her, and yet she can tell me the truth.” He was in one of those states of nervous excitement which engender prodigies. He ran to the end of the Rue St. Lazare as rapidly as if he had been a young man of twenty. Joy! He saw the blue brougham a short distance from him in the Rue du Havre, stopped in the midst of a block of carriages. “I have her,” said he to himself. He looked all about him, but there was not an empty cab to be seen. Gladly would he have cried, like Richard III, “My kingdom for a cab!” The brougham got out of the entanglement, and started off rapidly towards the Rue Tronchet. The old fellow followed. He