“You are quite right, sir,” said Poiret, “utterly disgraced he would be.”
“But none of all this explains why you do not come and take him without more ado,” remarked Mlle. Michonneau.
“Very well, mademoiselle, I will explain—but,” he added in her ear, “keep your companion quiet, or I shall never have done. The old boy ought to pay people handsomely for listening to him.—Trompe-la-Mort, when he came back here,” he went on aloud “slipped into the skin of an honest man; he turned up disguised as a decent Parisian citizen, and took up his quarters in an unpretending lodging-house. He is cunning, that he is! You don’t catch him napping. Then M. Vautrin is a man of consequence, who transacts a good deal of business.”
“Naturally,” said Poiret to himself.
“And suppose that the Minister were to make a mistake and get hold of the real Vautrin, he would put everyone’s back up among the business men in Paris, and public opinion would be against him. M. le Prefet de Police is on slippery ground; he has enemies. They would take advantage of any mistake. There would be a fine outcry and fuss made by the Opposition, and he would be sent packing. We must set about this just as we did about the Coignard affair, the sham Comte de Sainte-Hélène; if he had been the real Comte de Sainte-Hélène, we should have been in the wrong box. We want to be quite sure what we are about.”
“Yes, but what you want is a pretty woman,” said Mlle. Michonneau briskly.
“Trompe-la-Mort would not let a woman come near him,” said the detective. “I will tell you a secret—he does not like them.”
“Still, I do not see what I can do, supposing that I did agree to identify him for two thousand francs.”
“Nothing simpler,” said the stranger. “I will send you a little bottle containing a dose that will send a rush of blood to the head; it will do him no harm whatever, but he will fall down as if he were in a fit. The drug can be put into wine or coffee; either will do equally well. You carry your man to bed at once, and undress him to see that he is not dying. As soon as you are alone, you give him a slap on the shoulder, and presto! the letters will appear.”
“Why, that is just nothing at all,” said Poiret.
“Well, do you agree?” said Gondureau, addressing the old maid.
“But, my dear sir, suppose there are no letters at all,” said Mlle. Michonneau; “am I to have the two thousand francs all the same?”
“No.”
“What will you give me then?”
“Five hundred francs.”
“It is such a thing to do for so little! It lies on your conscience just the same, and I must quiet my conscience, sir.”
“I assure you,” said Poiret, “that mademoiselle has a great deal of conscience, and not only so, she is a very amiable person, and very intelligent.”
“Well, now,” Mlle. Michonneau went on, “make it three thousand francs if he is Trompe-la-Mort, and nothing at all if he is an ordinary man.”
“Done!” said Gondureau, “but on the condition that the thing is settled tomorrow.”
“Not quite so soon, my dear sir; I must consult my confessor first.”
“You are a sly one,” said the detective as he rose to his feet. “Goodbye till tomorrow, then. And if you should want to see me in a hurry, go to the Petite Rue Saint-Anne at the bottom of the Cour de la Sainte-Chapelle. There is one door under the archway. Ask there for M. Gondureau.”
Bianchon, on his way back from Cuvier’s lecture, overheard the sufficiently striking nickname of “Trompe-la-Mort,” and caught the celebrated chief detective’s “Done!”
“Why didn’t you close with him? It would be three hundred francs a year,” said Poiret to Mlle. Michonneau.
“Why didn’t I?” she asked. “Why, it wants thinking over. Suppose that M. Vautrin is this Trompe-la-Mort, perhaps we might do better for ourselves with him. Still, on the other hand, if you ask him for money, it would put him on his guard, and he is just the man to clear out without paying, and that would be an abominable sell.”
“And suppose you did warn him,” Poiret went on, “didn’t that gentleman say that he was closely watched? You would spoil everything.”
“Anyhow,” thought Mlle. Michonneau, “I can’t abide him. He says nothing but disagreeable things to me.”
“But you can do better than that,” Poiret resumed. “As that gentleman said (and he seemed to me to be a very good sort of man, besides being very well got up), it is an act of obedience to the laws to rid society of a criminal, however virtuous he may be. Once a thief, always a thief. Suppose he were to take it into his head to murder us all? The deuce! We should be guilty of manslaughter, and be the first to fall victims into the bargain!”
Mlle. Michonneau’s musings did not permit her to listen very closely to the remarks that fell one by one from Poiret’s lips like water dripping from a leaky tap. When once this elderly babbler began to talk, he would go on like clockwork unless Mlle. Michonneau stopped him. He started on some subject or other, and wandered on through parenthesis after parenthesis, till he came to regions as remote as possible from his premises without coming to any conclusions by the way.
By the time they reached the Maison Vauquer he had tacked together a whole string of examples and quotations more or less irrelevant to the subject in hand, which led him to give a full account of his own deposition in the case of the Sieur Ragoulleau versus Dame Morin, when he had been summoned as a witness for the defence.
As they entered the dining-room, Eugène de Rastignac was talking apart with Mlle. Taillefer; the conversation appeared to be of such thrilling interest that the
