At about eleven o’clock a terrible sound awoke the lad, who recognized his uncle Cardot’s voice, and thought he might get out of the scrape by pretending still to be asleep, so he hid his face in the handsome yellow velvet cushions in which he had passed the night.
“Really, my little Florentine,” the old man was saying, “it is neither good nor nice of you. You were dancing last night in the Ruines, and then spent the night in an orgy. Why, it is simply destruction to your freshness, not to say that it is really ungrateful of you to inaugurate this splendid apartment without me, with strangers, without my knowing it—who knows what may have happened!”
“You old monster!” cried Florentine. “Have you not a key to come in whenever you like? We danced till half-past five, and you are so cruel as to wake me at eleven.”
“Half-past eleven, Titine,” said the old man humbly. “I got up early to order a dinner from Chevet worthy of an Archbishop.—How they have spoilt the carpets! Whom had you here?”
“You ought to make no complaints, for Fanny Beaupré told me that you and Camusot were coming, so I have asked the others to meet you—Tullia, du Bruel, Mariette, the Duc de Maufrigneuse, Florine, and Nathan. And you will have the five loveliest women who ever stood behind the footlights, and we will dance you a pas de Zéphire.”
“It is killing work to lead such a life!” cried old Cardot. “What a heap of broken glasses, what destruction! The anteroom is a scene of horror!”
At this moment the amiable old man stood speechless and fascinated, like a bird under the gaze of a reptile. He caught sight of the outline of a young figure clothed in black cloth.
“Heyday! Mademoiselle Cabirolle!” said he at last.
“Well, what now?” said she.
The girl’s eyes followed the direction of Père Cardot’s gaze, and when she saw the youth still there, she burst into a fit of crazy laughter, which not only struck the old man dumb, but compelled Oscar to look round. Florentine pulled him up by the arm, and half choked with laughing as she saw the hangdog look of the uncle and nephew.
“You here, nephew?”
“Oh ho! He is your nephew?” cried Florentine, laughing more than ever. “You never mentioned this nephew of yours.—Then Mariette did not take you home?” said she to Oscar, who sat petrified. “What is to become of the poor boy?”
“Whatever he pleases!” replied old Cardot drily, and turning to the door to go away.
“One minute, Papa Cardot; you will have to help your nephew out of the mess he has got into by my fault, for he has gambled away his master’s money, five hundred francs, besides a thousand francs of mine which I lent him to get it back again.”
“Wretched boy, have you lost fifteen hundred francs at play—at your age?”
“Oh! uncle, uncle!” cried the unhappy Oscar, cast by these words into the depths of horror at his position. He fell on his knees at his uncle’s feet with clasped hands. “It is twelve o’clock; I am lost, disgraced. Monsieur Desroches will show no mercy—there was an important business, a matter on which he prides himself—I was to have gone this morning to fetch away the copy of the judgment in Vandenesse vs. Vandenesse! What has happened?—What has become of me?—Save me for my father’s sake—for my aunt’s.—Come with me to Maître Desroches and explain; find some excuse—”
The words came out in gasps, between sobs and tears that might have softened the Sphinx in the desert of Luxor.
“Now, old skinflint,” cried the dancer in tears, “can you leave your own nephew to disgrace, the son of the man to whom you owe your fortune, since he is Oscar Husson? Save him, I say, or Titine refuses to own you as her milord!”
“But how came he here?” asked the old man.
“What! so as to forget the hour when he should have gone the errand he speaks of? Don’t you see, he got drunk and dropped there, dead-tired and sleepy? Georges and his cousin Frédéric treated Desroches’ clerks yesterday at the Rocher de Cancale.”
Cardot looked at her, still doubtful.
“Come, now, old baboon, if it were anything more should I not have hidden him more effectually?” cried she.
“Here, then, take the five hundred francs, you scamp!” said Cardot to his nephew. “That is all you will ever have of me. Go and make matters up with your master if you can.—I will repay the thousand francs mademoiselle lent you, but never let me hear your name again.”
Oscar fled, not wishing to hear more; but when he was in the street he did not know where to go.
The chance which ruins men, and the chance that serves them, seemed to be playing against each other on equal terms for Oscar that dreadful morning; but he was destined to fail with a master who, when he made up his mind, never changed it.
Mariette, on returning home, horrified at what might befall her brother’s charge, wrote a line to Godeschal, enclosing a five-hundred-franc note, and telling her brother of Oscar’s drunken bout and disasters. The good woman, ere she went to sleep, instructed her maid to take this letter to Desroches’ chambers before seven. Godeschal, on his part, waking at six, found no Oscar. He at once guessed what had happened. He took five hundred francs out of his savings and hurried off to the copying-clerk to fetch the judgment, so as to lay it before Desroches for signature in his office at eight. Desroches, who always rose at four, came to his room at seven o’clock. Mariette’s maid, not finding her mistress’ brother in his attic, went down to the office and was there met by Desroches, to whom she very naturally gave the note.
“Is it a matter of business?” asked the lawyer. “I
