“Get out of this!” cried he, angrily.
But this was an order that Mascarin had no intention of obeying.
“I assure you that what I have to say is of the utmost importance,” said he.
This speech put the finishing touch to the Count’s fury.
“You won’t go, won’t you?” said he; and in spite of the pain that at the moment evidently oppressed him, he stepped to the bell, but was arrested by Mascarin, uttering in a warning voice the words—
“Take care; if you ring that bell, you will regret it to the last day of your life.”
This was too much for the Count’s patience, and letting go the bell rope, he snatched up a walking cane that was leaning against the chimneypiece, and made a rush toward his visitor. But Mascarin did not move or lift his hand in self-defence, contenting himself with saying calmly—
“No violence, Count; remember Montlouis.”
At this name the Count grew livid, and dropping the cane from his nerveless hand staggered back a pace or two. Had a spectre suddenly stood up before him with threatening hand, he could not have been more horrified.
“Montlouis!” he murmured; “Montlouis!”
But now Mascarin, thoroughly assured of the value of his weapon, had resumed all his humbleness of demeanor.
“Believe me, my lord,” said he, “that I only mentioned this name on account of the immediate danger that threatens you.”
The Count hardly seemed to pay attention to his visitor’s words.
“It was not I,” continued Mascarin, “who devised the project of bringing against you an act which was perhaps a mere accident. I am only a plenipotentiary from persons I despise, to you, for whom I entertain the very highest respect.”
By this time the Count had somewhat recovered himself.
“I really do not understand you,” said he, in a tone he vainly endeavored to render calm. “My sudden emotion is only too easily explained. I had a sad misfortune. I accidentally shot my secretary, and the poor young man bore the name you just now mentioned; but the court acquitted me of all blame in the matter.”
The smile upon Mascarin’s face was so full of sarcasm that the Count broke off.
“Those who sent me here,” remarked the agent, slowly, “are well acquainted with the evidence produced in court; but unfortunately, they know the real facts, which certain honorable gentlemen had sense to conceal at any risk.”
Again the Count started, but Mascarin went on implacably—
“But reassure yourself, your friend did not betray you voluntarily. Providence, in her inscrutable decrees—”
The Count shuddered.
“In short, sir, in short—”
Up to this time Mascarin had remained standing, but now that he saw that his position was fully established, he drew up a chair and sat down. The Count grew more livid at this insolent act, but made no comment, and this entirely removed any doubts from the agent’s mind.
“The event to which I have alluded has two eyewitnesses, the Baron de Clinchain, and a servant, named Ludovic Trofin, now in the employ of the Count du Commarin.”
“I did not know what had become of Trofin.”
“Perhaps not, but my people do. When he swore to keep the matter secret, he was unmarried, but a few years later, having entered the bonds of matrimony, he told all to his young wife. This woman turned out badly; she had several lovers, and through one of them the matter came to my employer’s ears.”
“And it was on the word of a lackey, and the gossip of a dissolute woman, that they have dared to accuse me.”
No word of direct accusation had passed, and yet the Count sought to defend himself.
Mascarin saw all this, and smiled inwardly, as he replied, “We have other evidence than that of Ludovic.”
“But,” said the Count, who was sure of the fidelity of his friend, “you do not, I suppose, pretend that the Baron de Clinchain has deceived me?”
The state of mental anxiety and perturbation into which this man of the world had been thrown must have been very intense for him not to have perceived that every word he uttered put a fresh weapon in his adversary’s hands.
“He has not denounced you by word of mouth,” replied the agent. “He has done far more; he has written his testimony.”
“It is a lie,” exclaimed the Count.
Mascarin was not disturbed by this insult.
“The Baron has written,” repeated he, “though he never thought that any eye save his own would read what he had penned. As you are aware, the Baron de Clinchain is a most methodical man, and punctilious to a degree.”
“I allow that; continue.”
“Consequently you will not be surprised to learn that from his earliest years he has kept a diary, and each day he puts down in the most minute manner everything that has occurred, even to the different conditions of his bodily health.”
The Count knew of his friend’s foible, and remembered that when they were young many a practical joke had been played upon his friend on this account, and now he began to perceive the dangerous ground upon which he stood.
“On hearing the facts of the case from Ludovic’s wife’s lover,” continued Mascarin, “my employers decided that if the tale was a true one, some mention of it would be found in the Baron’s diary; and thanks to the ingenuity and skill of certain parties, they have had in their possession for twenty-four hours the volume for the year 1842.”
“Scoundrels!” muttered the Count.
“They find not only one, but three distinct statements relating to the affair in question.”
The Count started again to his feet with so menacing a look, that the worthy Mascarin pushed back his chair in anticipation of an immediate assault.
“Proofs!” gasped the Count. “Give me proofs.”
“Everything has been provided for, and the three leaves by which you are so deeply compromised have been cut from the book.”
“Where are these pages?”
Mascarin at once put on an air of injured innocence.
“I have not seen them, but the leaves have been photographed, and a
