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

to the head of the staircase and called out, “Come up, Mother Brigaut.”

In a few moments a stout old woman came panting into the room.

“And how are you, Mother Brigaut?” said Tantaine gayly. “I have a word or two to say to you. You know that gentleman, do you not?”

“What a question? as if I did not know one of the gentlemen lodging here?”

“What is his name?”

“M. Paul.”

“What, plain M. Paul, and nothing else?”

“Well, sir, it is not his fault if he did not know his father or mother.”

“What does he do?”

“He is a musician; he gives lessons on the piano, and composes music.”

“Does he do a good business?”

“I can’t say, sir, but I should guess about two or three hundred francs a month; and he makes that do, for he is economical and quiet, and as modest as a young girl.”

Tantaine’s face shone all over with satisfaction.

“You must have known M. Paul for some time, as you seem so thoroughly acquainted with his habits?” said he.

“Well, I ought to, for he has been here nearly fifteen months, and all that time I have looked after his room.”

“Do you know where he lived before he came here?”

“Of course I do, for I went to inquire about him in the Rue Jacob. The people there were quite cut up at his leaving, but you see this was more handy for the music publisher in the Rue Richelieu, for whom he works.”

“Good, Mother Brigaut; that will do; you can leave us now.”

As Paul listened to this brief conversation, he wondered if he was awake or asleep. Tantaine stood at the door and watched the woman downstairs; then he closed it carefully, and coming up to Paul, said⁠—

“Well, what do you think of all this?”

At first Paul was so astounded that he could hardly find words in which to express himself; but he remembered the words that Dr. Hortebise had so often dinned into his ears during the last five days⁠—

“Let nothing astonish you.”

“I suppose,” said he at last, “that you had taught this old woman her lesson beforehand.”

“Merciful powers!” exclaimed Tantaine in tones of extreme disgust. “If these are all the ideas you have gained from what you have heard, our task will not be by any means an easy one.”

Paul was wounded by Tantaine’s contemptuous manner.

“I understand well enough, sir,” answered he sulkily, “that this is merely a prologue to a romantic drama.”

“You are right, my lad,” cried he, in a more satisfied voice; “and it is one that is quite indispensable. The plot of the drama will be revealed to you later on, and also the reward you will receive if you play your part well.”

“But why cannot you tell me everything now?”

Tantaine shook his head.

“Have patience, you rash boy!” said he. “Rome was not built in a day. Be guided by me, and follow blindly the orders of those interested in you. This is your first lesson; think it over seriously.”

“My first lesson! What do you mean?”

“Call it a rehearsal if you like. All that the good woman told you,” continued Tantaine, “you must look upon as true; nay, it is true, and when you believe this thoroughly, you are quite prepared for the fray, but until then you must remain quiescent. Remember this, you cannot impress others unless you firmly believe yourself. The greatest impostors of all ages have ever been their own dupes.”

At the word impostor, Paul seemed about to speak, but a wave of Tantaine’s hand silenced him.

“You must cast aside your old skin, and enter that of another. Paul Violaine, the natural son of a woman who kept a small drapery shop at Poitiers, Paul Violaine, the youthful lover of Rose, no longer exists. He died of cold and hunger in a garret in the Hotel de Perou, as M. de Loupins will testify when necessary.”

The tone in which Tantaine spoke showed his intense earnestness, and with emphatic gestures he drove each successive idea into Paul’s brain.

“You will rid yourself of your former recollections as you do of an old coat, which you throw aside, and forget the very existence of. And not only that, but you must lose your memory, and that so entirely, that if anyone in the street calls out Violaine, you will never even dream of turning round.”

Paul’s brain seemed to tremble beneath the crime that his companion was teaching him.

“Who am I then?” asked he.

A sardonic smile crossed Tantaine’s face.

“You are just what the portress told you, Paul, and nothing more. Your first recollections are of a Foundling Hospital, and you never knew your parents. You have lived here fifteen months, and before that you resided in the Rue Jacob. The portress knows no more; but if you will come with me to the Rue Jacob, the people there can tell you more about your life when you were a lodger in the house. Perhaps, if you are careful, we may take you back to your more childish days, and even find you a father.”

“But,” said Paul, “I might be questioned regarding my past life: what then? M. Rigal or Mademoiselle Flavia might interrogate me at any moment?”

“I see; but do not disquiet yourself. You will be furnished with all necessary papers, so that you can account for all your life during the twenty-five years you spent in this world.”

“Then I presume that the person into whose shoes I have crept was a composer and a musician like myself?”

Again Tantaine’s patience gave way, and it was with an oath that he exclaimed⁠—

“Are you acting the part of a fool, or are you one in reality? No one has ever been here except you. Did you not hear what the old woman said? She told you that you are a musician, a self-made one, and while waiting until your talents are appreciated, you give lessons in music.”

“And to whom do I give them?”

Tantaine took three visiting cards from a china ornament on the mantelshelf.

“Here are three pupils of yours,” said he, “who can pay you one hundred