The Count's Millions, Emile Gaboriau [top 100 books of all time checklist TXT] 📗

that he was the master. And my poor, dear mother would have allowed him to do it. Fortunately, I happened to come in again. Let him sell my furniture? Not I. I would sooner have been chopped in pieces! I went and complained to the commissary of police, who made my father leave the house, and since then we’ve lived in peace.”

Certainly this was more than sufficient to explain and excuse Victor Chupin’s indignation. And yet he had prudently withheld the most serious and important cause of his dislike. What he refrained from telling was that years before, when he was still a mere child, without will or discernment, his father had taken him from his mother, and had started him down that terrible descent, which inevitably leads one to prison or the gallows, unless there be an almost miraculous interposition on one’s behalf. This miracle had occurred in Chupin’s case; but he did not boast of it.

“Come, come!” said M. Fortunat, “don’t worry too much about it. A father’s a father after all, and yours will undoubtedly reform by and by.”

He said this as he would have said anything else, out of politeness and for the sake of testifying a friendly interest; but he really cared no more for this information concerning the Chupin family than the grand Turk. His first emotion had quickly vanished; and he was beginning to find these confidential disclosures rather wearisome. “Let us get back to business,” he remarked; “that is to say, to Casimir. What did you do with the fool after my departure?”

“First, monsieur, I sobered him; which was no easy task. The greedy idiot had converted himself into a wine-cask! At last, however, when he could talk as well as you and I, and walk straight, I took him back to the Hotel de Chalusse.”

“That was right. But didn’t you have some business to transact with him?”

“That’s been arranged, monsieur; the agreement has been signed. The count will have the best of funerals—the finest hearse out, with six horses, twenty-four mourning coaches—a grand display, in fact. It will be worth seeing.”

M. Fortunat smiled graciously. “That ought to bring you a handsome commission,” he said, benignly.

Employed by the job, Chupin was the master of his own time, free to utilize his intelligence and industry as he chose, but M. Fortunat did not like his subordinates to make any money except through him. Hence his approval, in the present instance, was so remarkable that it awakened Chupin’s suspicions. “I shall make a few sous, probably,” he modestly replied, “a trifle to aid my good mother in keeping the pot boiling.”

“So much the better, my boy,” said M. Fortunat. “I like to see money gained by those who make a good use of it. And to prove this, I’m about to employ you in an affair which will pay you handsomely if you prosecute it successfully.”

Chupin’s eyes brightened at first but grew dark a moment afterward, for delight had been quickly followed by a feeling of distrust. He thought it exceedingly strange that an employer should take the trouble to climb to a sixth floor merely for the purpose of conferring a favor on his clerk. There must be something behind all this; and so it behove him to keep his eyes open. However, he knew how to conceal his real feelings; and it was with a joyous air that he exclaimed: “Eh! What? Money? Now? What must I do to earn it?”

“Oh! a mere trifle,” replied the agent; “almost nothing, indeed.” And drawing his chair nearer to the bed on which his employee was seated, he added: “But first, one question, Victor. By the way in which a woman looks at a young man in the street, at the theatre or anywhere—would you know if she were watching her son?”

Chupin shrugged his shoulders. “What a question!” he retorted. “Nonsense! monsieur, it would be impossible to deceive me. I should only have to remember my mother’s eyes when I return home in the evening. Poor woman! although she’s half blind, she sees me—and if you wish to make her happy, you’ve only to tell her I’m the handsomest and most amiable youth in Paris.”

M. Fortunat could not refrain from rubbing his hands, so delighted was he to see his idea so perfectly understood and so admirably expressed. “Good!” he declared; “very good! That’s intelligence, if I am any judge. I have not been deceived in you, Victor.”

Victor was on fire with curiosity. “What am I to do, monsieur?” he asked eagerly.

“This: you must follow a woman whom I shall point out to you, follow her everywhere without once losing sight of her, and so skilfully as not to let her suspect it. You must watch her every glance, and when her eyes tell you that she is looking at her son, your task will be nearly over. You will then only have to follow this son, and find out his name and address, what he does, and how he lives. I don’t know if I explain what I mean very clearly.”

This doubt was awakened in M. Fortunat’s mind by Chupin’s features, which were expressive of lively astonishment and discontent. “Excuse me, monsieur,” he said, at last, “I do not understand at all.”

“It’s very simple, however. The lady in question has a son about twenty. I know it—I’m sure of it. But she denies it; she conceals the fact, and he doesn’t even know her. She secretly watches over him, however—she provides him with money, and every day she finds some way of seeing him. Now, it is to my interest to find this son.”

Chupin’s mobile face became actually threatening in its expression; he frowned darkly, and his lips quivered. Still this did not prevent M. Fortunat from adding, with the assurance of a man who does not even suspect the possibility of a refusal: “Now, when shall we set about our task?”

“Never!” cried Chupin, violently; and, rising, he continued: “No! I wouldn’t let my good mother eat bread earned in that way—it would strangle her! Turn spy! I? Thanks—some one else may have the job!” He had become as red as a turkey-cock, and such was his indignation that he forgot his accustomed reserve and the caution with which he had so far concealed his antecedents. “I know this game—I’ve tried it!” he went on, vehemently. “One might as well take one’s ticket to prison by a direct road. I should be there now if it hadn’t been for Monsieur Andre. I was thirsting for gold, and, like the brigand that I was, I should have killed the man; but in revenge he drew me from the mire and placed my feet on solid ground once more. And now, shall I go back to my vile tricks again? Why, I’d rather cut my leg off! I’m to hunt down this poor woman—I’m to discover her secret so that you may extort money from her, am I? No, not I! I should like to be rich, and I shall be rich; but I’ll make my money honestly. I hope to touch my hundred-franc pieces without being obliged to wash my hands afterward. So, a very good evening to your establishment.”

M. Fortunat was amazed, and at the same time much annoyed, to find himself forsaken on account of such a trifle. He feared, too, that Chupin might let his tongue wag if he left his employment. So, since he had confided this project to Chupin, he was determined that Chupin