The Counts Millions | Page 8

The doctor, strange to say, was
considerate enough to go out into the hall to question him; but no
information of value was gained by the man's answers. He declared that
the gentleman had hired him at twelve o'clock, hoping by this means to
extort pay for five hours' driving, which, joined to the liberal gratuity
he could not fail to obtain, would remunerate him handsomely for his
day's work. Living is dear, it should be remembered, and a fellow
makes as much as he can.
When the cabby had gone off, still growling, although a couple of louis
had been placed in his hand, the doctor returned to his patient. He
involuntarily assumed his accustomed attitude, with crossed arms, a
gloomy expression of countenance, and his forehead furrowed as if
with thought and anxiety. But this time he was not acting a part. In
spite, or rather by reason of, the full explanation that had been given
him, he found something suspicious and mysterious in the whole affair.
A thousand vague and undefinable suspicions crossed his mind. Was he
in presence of a crime? Certainly, evidently not. But what was the
cause then of the mystery and reticence he detected? Was he upon the
track of some lamentable family secret--one of those terrible scandals,
concealed for a long time, but which at last burst forth with startling
effect? The prospect of being mixed up in such an affair caused him
infinite pleasure. It would bring him into notice; he would be
mentioned in the papers; and his increased practice would fill his hands
with gold.
But what could he do to ingratiate himself with these people, impose
himself upon them if needs be? He reflected for some time, and finally
what he thought an excellent plan occurred to him. He approached
Mademoiselle Marguerite, who was weeping in an arm- chair, and
touched her gently on the shoulder. She sprang to her feet at once. "One

more question, mademoiselle," said he, imparting as much solemnity to
his tone as he could. "Do you know what liquid it was that M. de
Chalusse took this morning?"
"Alas! no, monsieur."
"It is very important that I should know. The accuracy of my diagnosis
is dependent upon it. What has become of the vial?"
"I think M. de Chalusse replaced it in his escritoire."
The physician pointed to an article of furniture to the left of the
fireplace: "There?" he asked.
"Yes, monsieur."
He deliberated, but at last conquering his hesitation, he said: "Could we
not obtain this vial?"
Mademoiselle Marguerite blushed. "I haven't the key," she faltered, in
evident embarrassment.
M. Casimir approached: "It must be in the count's pocket, and if
mademoiselle will allow me----"
But she stepped back with outstretched arms as if to protect the
escritoire. "No," she exclaimed, "no--the escritoire shall not be touched.
I will not permit it----"
"But, mademoiselle," insisted the doctor, "your father----"
"The Count de Chalusse is not my father!"
Dr. Jodon was greatly disconcerted by Mademoiselle Marguerite's
vehemence. "Ah!" said he, in three different tones, "ah! ah!"
In less than a second, a thousand strange and contradictory suppositions
darted through his brain. Who, then, could this girl be, if she were not
Mademoiselle de Chalusse? What right had she in that house? How
was it that she reigned as a sovereign there? Above all, why this angry
outburst for no other apparent cause than a very natural and
exceedingly insignificant request on his part?
However, she had regained her self-possession, and it was easy to see
by her manner that she was seeking some means of escape from
threatened danger. At last she found it. "Casimir," she said,
authoritatively, "search M. de Chalusse's pocket for the key of his
escritoire."
Astonished by what he regarded as a new caprice, the valet obeyed. He
gathered up the garments strewn over the floor, and eventually drew a
key from one of the waistcoat pockets. Mademoiselle Marguerite took

it from him, and then in a determined tone, exclaimed: "A hammer."
It was brought; whereupon, to the profound amazement of the
physician, she knelt down beside the fireplace, laid the key upon one of
the andirons, and with a heavy blow of the hammer, broke it into
fragments. "Now," said she, quietly, "my mind will be at rest. I am
certain," she added, turning toward the servants, "that M. de Chalusse
would approve what I have done. When he recovers, he will have
another key made."
The explanation was superfluous. All the servants understood the
motive that had influenced her, and were saying to themselves,
"Mademoiselle is right. It would not do to touch the escritoire of a
dying man. Who knows but what there are millions in it? If anything
were missed, why any of us might be