It was dark before he had finished his letters, and, of course, it was too late to try anything that day; consequently he went out, posted his letters, and dined at the nearest restaurant.
On his return home, he proceeded to arrange his disguise. He had it ready, among his clothes: a blue blouse, a pair of check trousers, well-worn shoes, and a shabby cap, were all that he required, and he then applied himself to the task of altering his face. He first shaved off his beard. Then he twisted down two locks of hair, which he managed to make rest on his forehead. Then he commenced applying some coloring to his face with a paintbrush; but this he found to be an extremely difficult business, and it was not for a long while that he was satisfied with the results that he had produced. He then knotted an old handkerchief round his neck, and clapped his cap on one side, with the peak slanting over one eye. Then he took a last glance in the glass, and felt that he had rendered himself absolutely unrecognizable. He was about to impart a few finishing touches, when a knock came at his door. He was not expecting anyone at such an hour, nine o’clock; for the waiters from the restaurant had already removed the remains of the feast.
“Who is there?” cried he.
“It is I,” replied a weak voice; “I, Gaston de Gandelu.”
André decided that he had no cause to distrust the lad, and so he opened his door.
“Has M. André gone out?” asked the poor boy faintly. “I though I heard his voice.”
Gaston had not penetrated his disguise, and this was André’s first triumph; but he saw now that he must alter his voice, as well as his face.
“Don’t you know me?” asked he.
It was evident that young Gaston had received some terrible shock; for it could not have been the quarrel in the morning that had reduced him to this abject state of prostration.
“What has gone wrong with you?” asked André kindly.
“I have come to bid you farewell; I am going to shoot myself in half an hour.”
“Have you gone mad?”
“Not in the least,” answered Gaston, passing his hand across his forehead in a distracted manner; “but those infernal bills have turned up. I was just leaving the dining-room, after having treated the governor to my company, when the butler whispered in my ear that there was a man outside who wanted to see me. I went out and found a dirty-looking old scamp, with his coat collar turned up round the nape of his neck.”
“Did he say that his name was Tantaine?” exclaimed André.
“Ah! was that his name? Well, it doesn’t matter. He told me in the most friendly manner that the holder of my bills had determined to place them in the hands of the police tomorrow at twelve o’clock, but that there was still a way for me to escape.”
“And this was to take Rose out of France with you,” said André quickly.
Gaston was overwhelmed with surprise.
“Who the deuce told you that?” asked he.
“No one; I guessed it; for it was only the conclusion of the plan which they had initiated when you were induced to forge Martin Rigal’s signature. Well, what did you say?”
“That the idea was a ridiculous one, and that I would not stir a yard. They shall find out that I can be obstinate, too; besides, I can see their little game. As soon as I am out of the way they will go to the governor and bleed him.”
But André was not listening to him. What was best to be done? To advise Gaston to go and take Rose with him was to deprive himself of a great element of success; and to permit him to kill himself was, of course, out of the question.
“Just attend to me,” said he at last; “I have an idea which I will tell you as soon as we are out of this house; but for reasons which are too long to go into at present it is necessary for me to get into the street without going through the door. You will, therefore, go away, and as the clock strikes twelve you will ring at the gateway of 29, Rue de Laval. When it is opened, ask some trivial question of the porter; and when you leave, take care that you do not close the gate. I shall be in the garden of the house and will slip out and join you.”
The plan succeeded admirably, and in ten minutes Gaston and André were walking along the boulevards.
XXXII
M. Lecoq
The Marquis de Croisenois lived in a fine new house on the Boulevard Malesherbes near the church of St. Augustine, and in a suite of rooms the rental of which was four thousand francs per annum. He had collected together sufficient relics of his former splendor to dazzle the eyes of the superficial observer. The apartment and the furniture stood in the name of his body-servant, while his horse and brougham were by the same fiction supposed to be the property of his coachman, for even in the midst of his ruin the Marquis de Croisenois could not go on foot like common people.
The Marquis had two servants only in his modest establishment—a coachman, who did a certain amount of indoor work, and a valet, who knew enough of cookery to prepare a bachelor breakfast. This valet Mascarin had seen once, and the man had then produced so unpleasant an impression on the astute proprietor of the Servants’ Registry Office that he had set every means at work to discover who he was and from whence he came. Croisenois said that he had taken him into his service on the recommendation of an English baronet of his acquaintance, a certain Sir Richard Wakefield. The man was a Frenchman, but he had resided for some time
