Mascarin seemed relieved by the doctor’s decision, for he was in that frame of mind when, however self-reliant a man may be, he has a disinclination to be left alone, and the aid of a stout ally is of the utmost service.
“Have you considered every point carefully?” asked he. “You know that we can only act at present upon one of the undertakings, and that is the one of which the Marquis de Croisenois—”
“I know that.”
“With reference to the affair of the Duke de Champdoce, I have still to gather together certain things necessary for the ultimate success of the scheme. There is a mystery in the lives of the Duke and Duchess—of this there is no doubt—but what is this secret? I would lay my life that I have hit upon the correct solution; but I want no suspicions, no probabilities; I want absolute certainties. And now,” continued he, “this brings us back to the first question. What do you think of Paul Violaine?”
Hortebise walked up and down the room two or three times, and finally stopped opposite to his friend. “I think,” said he, “that the lad has many of the qualities we want, and we might find it hard to discover one better suited for our purpose. Besides, he is a bastard, knows nothing of his father, and therefore leaves a wide field for conjecture; for every natural son has the right to consider himself, if he likes, the offspring of a monarch. He has no family or anyone to look after him, which assures us that whatever may happen, there is no one to call us to account. He is not overwise, but has a certain amount of talent, and any quantity of ridiculous self-conceit. He is wonderfully handsome, which will make matters easier, but—”
“Ah, there is a ‘but’ then?”
“More than one,” answered the doctor, “for there are three for certain. First, there is Rose Pigoreau, whose beauty has so captivated our old friend Tantaine—she certainly appears to be a danger in the future.”
“Be easy,” returned Mascarin; “we will quickly remove this young woman from our road.”
“Good; but do not be too confident,” answered Hortebise, in his usual tone. “The danger from her is not the one you think, and which you are trying to avoid. You think Paul loves her. You are wrong. He would drop her tomorrow, so that he could please his self-indulgence. But the woman who thinks that she hates her lover often deceives herself; and Rose is simply tired of poverty. Give her a little amount of comfort, good living, and luxury, and you will see her give them all up to come back to Paul. Yes, I tell you, she will harass and annoy him, as women of her class who have nothing to love always do. She will even go to Flavia to claim him.”
“She had better not,” retorted Mascarin, in threatening accents.
“Why, how could you prevent it? She has known Paul from his infancy. She knew his mother; she was perhaps brought up by her, perhaps even lived in the same street. Look out, I say, for danger from that quarter.”
“You may be right, and I will take my precautions.”
It was sufficient for Mascarin to be assured of a danger to find means of warding it off.
“My second ‘but,’ ” continued Hortebise, “is the idea of the mysterious protector of whom the young man spoke. His mother, he says, has reason to know that his father is dead, and I believe in the truth of the statement. In this case, what has become of the person who paid Madame Violaine her allowance?”
“You are right, quite right; these are the crevices in our armor; but I keep my eyes open, and nothing escapes me.”
The doctor was growing rather weary, but he still went on courageously. “My third ‘but’ ” said he, “is perhaps the strongest. We must see the young fellow at once. It may be tomorrow, without even having prepared him or taught him his part. Suppose we found that he was honest! Imagine—if he returned a firm negative to all your dazzling offers!”
Mascarin rose to his feet in his turn. “I do not think that there is any chance of that,” said he.
“Why not, pray?”
“Because when Tantaine brought him to me, he had studied him carefully. He is as weak as a woman, and as vain as a journalist. Besides, he is ashamed at being poor. No; I can mould him like wax into any shape I like. He will be just what we wish.”
“Are you sure,” asked Hortebise, “that Flavia will have nothing to say in this matter?”
“I had rather, with your permission, say nothing on that head,” returned Mascarin. He broke off his speech and listened eagerly. “There is someone listening,” said he. “Hark!”
The sound was repeated, and the doctor was about to seek refuge in the inner room, when Mascarin laid a detaining hand upon his arm.
“Stay,” observed he, “it is only Beaumarchef;” and as he spoke, he struck a gilded bell that stood on his desk. In another instant Beaumarchef appeared, and with an air in which familiarity was mingled with respect, he saluted in military fashion.
“Ah,” said the doctor pleasantly, “do you take your nips of brandy regularly?”
“Only occasionally, sir,” stammered the man.
“Too often, too often, my good fellow. Do you think that your nose and eyelids are not real telltales?”
“But I
