Thaddeus now went to the circus and saw the handsome horsewoman again. For ten francs, a groom—they fill the place of dressers at a circus—informed him that Malaga’s name was Marguerite Turquet, and that she lived at the Rue des Fossés-du-Temple, on a fifth floor.
Next day, with death in his soul, Paz found his way to that quarter, and asked for Mademoiselle Turquet, in summer the understudy of the principal rider at the cirque, and in winter “a super” in a Boulevard theatre.
“Malaga!” shouted the doorkeeper, rushing into the attic, “here is a fine gentleman for you! He is asking Chapuzot all about you; and Chapuzot is cramming him to give me time to let you know.”
“Thank you, M’ame Chapuzot; but what will he say to find me ironing my gown?”
“Pooh, stuff! When a man is in love, he loves everything about you.”
“Is he an Englishman? They are fond of horses.”
“No. He looks to me like a Spaniard.”
“So much the worse. The Spaniards are down in the market they say.—Stay here, Madame Chapuzot, I shall not look so left to myself.”
“Who were you wanting, monsieur?” said the woman, opening the door to Thaddeus.
“Mademoiselle Turquet.”
“My child,” said the porter’s wife, wrapping her shawl round her, “There is somebody asking for you.”
A rope on which some linen was airing knocked off the Captain’s hat.
“What is your business, monsieur?” asked Malaga, picking it up.
“I saw you at the circus; you remind me, mademoiselle, of a daughter I lost; and out of affection for my Héloïse, whom you are so wonderfully like, I should wish to be of use to you if you will allow me.”
“Well, to be sure! But sit down. Monsieur le Général,” said Madame Chapuzot. “You cannot say fairer—nor handsomer.”
“I am not by way of lovemaking, my good lady,” said Paz. “I am a father in deep distress, eager to be cheated by a likeness.”
“And so I am to pass as your daughter?” said Malaga, very roguishly, and without suspecting the absolute truth of the statement.
“Yes,” said Paz. “I will come sometimes to see you; and that the illusion may be perfect, I will place you in handsome lodgings, nicely furnished—”
“I shall have furniture of my own?” said Malaga, looking at Madame Chapuzot.
“And servants,” Paz went on; “and live quite at your ease.”
Malaga looked at the stranger from under her brows.
“From what country are you, monsieur?”
“I am a Pole.”
“Then I accept,” said she.
Paz went away, promising to call again.
“That is a tough one!” said Marguerite Turquet, looking at Madame Chapuzot. “But I am afraid this man is wheedling me to humor some fancy. Well, I will risk it.”
A month after this whimsical scene, the fair circus-rider was established in rooms charmingly furnished by Count Adam’s upholsterer, for Paz wished that his folly should be talked about in the Laginski household. Malaga, to whom the adventure was like an Arabian Nights’ dream, was waited on by the Chapuzot couple—at once her servants and her confidants. The Chapuzots and Marguerite Turquet expected some startling climax; but at the end of three months, neither Malaga nor the Chapuzots could account for the Polish Count’s fancy. Paz would spend about an hour there once a week, during which he sat in the drawing-room, never choosing to go either into Malaga’s boudoir nor into her bedroom, which, in fact, he never entered in spite of the cleverest manoeuvring on her part and on that of the Chapuzots. The Count inquired about the little incidents that varied the horsewoman’s life, and on going away he always left two forty-franc pieces on the chimney-shelf.
“He looks dreadfully bored,” said Madame Chapuzot.
“Yes,” replied Malaga, “that man is as cold as frost after a thaw.”
“He is a jolly good fellow, all the same,” cried Chapuzot, delighted to see himself dressed in blue Elbeuf cloth, and as smart as a Minister’s office-messenger.
Paz, by his periodical tribute, made Marguerite Turquet an allowance of three hundred and twenty francs a month. This sum, added to her small earnings at the circus, secured her a splendid existence as compared with her past squalor. Strange tales were current among the performers at the circus as to Malaga’s good fortune. The girl’s vanity allowed her rent to be stated at sixty thousand francs, instead of the modest six thousand which her rooms cost the prudent Captain. According to the clowns and supers, Malaga ate off silver plate; and she certainly came to the circus in pretty burnouses, in shawls, and elegant scarfs. And, to crown all, the Pole was the best fellow a circus-rider could come across; never tiresome, never jealous, leaving Malaga perfect freedom.
“Some women are so lucky!” said Malaga’s rival. “Such a thing would never happen to me, though I bring in a third of the receipts.”
Malaga wore smart “coal-scuttles,” and sometimes gave herself airs in a carriage in the Bois de Boulogne, where the youth of fashion began to observe her. In short, Malaga was talked about in the flash world of equivocal women, and her good fortune was attacked by calumny. She was reported to be a somnambulist, and the Pole was said to be a magnetizer in search of the Philosopher’s Stone. Other comments of a far more venomous taint made Malaga more inquisitive than Psyche; she reported them, with tears, to Paz.
“When I owe a woman a grudge,” said she to conclude, “I do not calumniate her, I do not say that a man magnetizes her to find stones. I say that she is a bad lot, and I prove it. Why do you get me into trouble?”
Paz was cruelly speechless.
Madame Chapuzot succeeded at last in discovering his name and title. Then, at the Hôtel Laginski, she ascertained some positive facts: Thaddeus was unmarried, he was not known to have a dead daughter either in Poland or France. Malaga could not help feeling a thrill of terror.
“My dear child,” said Madame Chapuzot, “that monster—”
A man
