The Slaves of Paris Émile Gaboriau (free reads .TXT) 📖

Mussidan is as elegant as it is commodious. The exterior was extremely plain, and not disfigured by florid ornamentation. White marble steps, with a light and elegant railing at the sides, lead to the wide doors which open into the hall. The busy hum of the servants at work at an early hour in the yard tells that an ample establishment is kept up. There can be seen luxurious carriages, for occasions of ceremony, and the park phaeton, and the simple brougham which the Countess uses when she goes out shopping; and that carefully groomed thoroughbred is Mirette, the favorite riding horse of Mademoiselle Sabine. Mascarin and his confederate descended from their cab a little distance at the corner of the Avenue Matignon. Mascarin, in his dark suit, with his spotless white cravat and glittering spectacles, looked like some highly respectable functionary of State. Hortebise wore his usual smile, though his cheek was pale.

“Now,” remarked Mascarin, “let me see⁠—on what footing do you stand with the Mussidans? Do they look upon you as a friend?”

“No, no; a poor doctor, whose ancestors were not among the Crusades, could not be the intimate friend of such haughty nobles as the Mussidans.”

“But the Countess knows you, and will not refuse to receive you, nor have you turned out as soon as you begin to speak; for, taking shelter behind some rogue without a name, you can shelter your own reputation. I will see the Count.”

“Take care of him,” said Hortebise thoughtfully. “He has a reputation for being a man of ungovernable temper, and, at the first word from you that he objects to, would throw you out of the window as soon as look at you.”

Mascarin shrugged his shoulders. “I can bring him to reason,” answered he.

The two confederates walked a little past the Hotel de Mussidan, and the doctor explained the interior arrangements of the house.

“I,” continued Mascarin, “will insist upon the Count’s breaking off his daughter’s engagement with M. de Breulh-Faverlay, but shall not say a word about the Marquis de Croisenois, while you will take the opportunity of putting his pretensions before the Countess, and will not say a word of M. de Breulh-Faverlay.”

“I have learned my lesson, and shall not forget it.”

“You see, doctor, the beauty of the whole affair is, that the Countess will wonder how her husband will take her interference, while he will be at a loss how to break the news to his wife. How surprised they will be when they find that they have both the same end in view!”

There was something so droll in the whole affair, that the doctor burst into a loud laugh.

“We go by such different roads,” said he, “that they will never suspect that we are working together. Faith! my dear Baptiste, you are much more clever than I thought.”

“Don’t praise me until you see that I am successful.”

Mascarin stopped opposite to a café in the Faubourg Saint Honoré.

“Wait here for me, doctor,” said he, “while I make a little call. If all is all right; I will come for you again; then I will see the Count, and twenty minutes later do you go to the house and ask for the Countess.”

The clock struck four as the worthy confederates parted, and Mascarin continued his way along the Faubourg Saint Honoré, and again stopped before a public house, which he entered, the master of which, Father Canon, was so well known in the neighborhood that he had not thought it worth while to have his name painted over the door. He did not profess to serve his best wine to casual customers, but for regular frequenters of his house, chiefly the servants of noble families, he kept a better brand of wine. Mascarin’s respectable appearance inclined the landlord to step forward. Among Frenchmen, who are always full of gayety, a serious exterior is ever an excellent passport.

“What can I do for you, sir?” asked he with great politeness.

“Can I see Florestan?”

“In Count de Mussidan’s service, I believe?”

“Just so; I have an appointment with him here.”

“He is downstairs in the band-room,” replied the landlord. “I will send for him.”

“Don’t trouble; I will go down,” and, without waiting for permission, Mascarin descended some steps that apparently led to a cellar.

“It appears to me,” murmured Father Canon, “that I have seen this cove’s face before.”

Mascarin pushed open a door at the bottom of the flight of stairs, and a strange and appalling noise issued from within (but this neither surprised nor alarmed him), and entered a vaulted room arranged like a café, with seats and tables, filled with customers. In the centre, two men, in their shirt sleeves, with crimson faces, were performing upon horns; while an old man, with leather gaiters, buttoning to the knee, and a broad leather belt, was whistling the air the hornplayers were executing. As Mascarin politely took off his hat, the performers ceased, and the old man discontinued his whistling, while a well-built young fellow, with pumps and stockings, and wearing a fashionable mustache, exclaimed⁠—

“Aha, it is that good old Mascarin. I was expecting you; will you drink?”

Without waiting for further invitation Mascarin helped himself from a bottle that stood near.

“Did Father Canon tell you that I was here?” asked the young man, who was the Florestan Mascarin had been inquiring for. “You see,” continued he, “that the police will not permit us to practise the horn; so, you observe, Father Canon has arranged this underground studio, from whence no sound reaches the upper world.”

The hornplayers had now resumed their lessons, and Florestan was compelled to place both hands to the side of his mouth, in order to render himself audible, and to shout with all his might.

“That old fellow there is a huntsman in the service of the Duke de Champdoce, and is the finest hornplayer going. I have only had twenty lessons from him, and am getting on wonderfully.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mascarin, “when I have more time I must hear your performance; but today I am in