The Mysteries of Paris, vol 3 | Page 7

that he
was in a high fever. I disengaged myself, saying, 'Calm yourself! it is I.'

Then he looked at me with a stupid look."
"Very well! now that sounds like the truth."
"His eyes were wild. 'Eh!' he answered. 'What is it?--who is there? what
do you want with me?' At each question he ran his hand over his face,
as if to drive away the clouds which obscured his thoughts."
"'Which obscured his thoughts!' Just as if it were written! Bravo, head
clerk; we will make a melodrama together:
"'Who speaks so well, and so polite, A melodrama ought to write.'"
"Do hold your tongue, Chalamel. I know nothing about it; but what is
sure is, that, when he recovered his Senses, it was another song. He knit
his brows in a terrible manner, and said to me, with quickness, without
giving me time to answer, 'What did you come here for?--have you
been a long time here?--can I not be alone in my own house without
being surrounded by spies?--what have I said?--what have you heard?
Answer, answer.' He looked so wicked that I replied, 'I have heard
nothing, sir; I just came in.' 'You do not deceive me?' 'No, sir.' 'Well,
what do you want?' 'To ask for some signatures, sir.' 'Give me the
papers.' And he began to sign--without reading them, a half dozen
notarial acts--he, who never put his flourish on an act without spelling
it, letter by letter, and twice over, from end to end. I remarked that,
from time to time, his hand slackened a little in the middle of his
signature, as if he was absorbed by a fixed idea, and then he resumed
and signed quickly, in a convulsive manner. When all were signed he
told me to retire, and I heard him descend by the little staircase which
leads from his cabinet to the court."
"I now come back to this: what can the matter be with him?"
"Perhaps he regrets Madame Séraphin."
"Oh, yes! he regrets any one!"
"That reminds me of what the porter said: that the curé of

Bonne-Nouvelle and his vicar had called several times, and were not
received. That is surprising."
"What I want to know is, what the carpenter and locksmith have been
doing in the pavilion."
"The fact is, they have worked there for three days consecutively."
"And then one evening they brought some furniture here in a covered
cart."
"I give it up! as sung the swan of Cambrai."
"It is perhaps remorse for having imprisoned Germain which torments
him."
"Remorse--he? It is too hard, and too tough, as the eagle of Meau said."
"Fie, Chalamel!"
"Speaking of Germain, he is going to have famous recruits in his prison,
poor fellow."
"How is that?"
"I read in the 'Gazette des Tribunaux' that the gang of robbers and
assassins who have been arrested by the Champs Elysees in one of
those little subterranean taverns--"
"They are real caverns."
"That this band of scoundrels has been confined in La Force."
"Poor Germain, good society for him."
"Louise Morel will also have her part of the recruits; for in the band
they say there is a whole family, from father to son and mother to
daughter."

"Then they will send the women to Saint Lazare, where Louise is."
"It is, perhaps, some of this band who have attempted the life of the
countess who lives near the Observatory, one of our clients. Has not
master sent me often enough to know how she is? He appears to be
very much interested about her health. Only yesterday he sent me again
to inquire how Lady M'Gregor had passed the night."
"Well."
"Always uncertain: one day they hope, the next despair--they never
know whether she will get through the day; two days ago she was given
up; but yesterday there was a ray of hope; what complicates the matter
is, she has a brain fever."
"Could you go into the house, and see where the deed was committed?"
"Oh! by no means! I could go no further than the gate, and the porter
did not seem disposed to walk much, not as ..."
"Here comes master," cried the boy, entering the office with the carcass.
Immediately the young men seated themselves at their respective desks,
over which they bent, moving their pens, while the boy deposited for a
moment the turkey skeleton in a box filled with law papers.
Jacques Ferrand appeared.
Taking off his old silk cap, his red hair, mixed with gray, fell in
disorder from each side of his temples; some of the veins on his
forehead seemed injected with blood, while his flat face and hollow
cheeks were of a livid paleness. The expression of his eyes could not be
seen, concealed as they were