CHON HAD not scrutinized the young girl many seconds, before Viscount Juan, ascending the stairs four at a time, like a lawyer's clerk, appeared on the threshold of the pretended widow's apartment.
“Is it you, Jean? In truth, you frightened me.”
“Well, what do you say to if?”
“Why, that I shall be admirably situated here for seeing all that passes; unluckily, I shall not be able to hear everything.”
“Ah! faith, you want too much. By-the-by, I have another piece of news for you.”
“What a bore the man is with his exclamations!”
“Well, what of the philosopher?”
“It is commonly said, 'The wise man is for all events prepared.' Now. I am a wise man, but I was not prepared for this.”
“I should like to know when you will finish. Perhaps this girl is in the way. In that case, Mademoiselle Sylvie, step into the next room.”
“Oh, there is no occasion whatever. That charming girl is not in the way; quite the contrary. Remain. Sylvie, remain.” And the viscount chucked the handsome waiting-maid's chin, whose brow began already to darken at the idea that something was about to be said which she was not to hear.
“Let her stay, then; but speak.”
“Why, I have done nothing else since I have been here.”
“And said nothing. So hold your tongue, and let me watch; that will be more to the purpose.”
“Don't be out of temper! As I was saying, then, I was passing the fountain—”
“Positively, you never said a word about it.”
“Why, there you interrupt me again.”
“I was passing the fountain, then, and bargaining for some old furniture for this frightful lodging, when all at once I felt a stream of water plashing my stockings.”
“How very interesting all this is!”
“Only wait; you are in too great a hurry, my dear. Well, I looked, and I saw—guess what—I will give you a hundred guesses—”
“I saw a young gentleman obstructing the jet of the fountain with a piece of bread, and by means of this obstacle causing the water to diverge and to spurt upon me.”
“I can't tell you how much your story interests me,” said Chon, shrugging her shoulders.
“Only wait. I swore lustily on feeling myself splashed; the bread-soaker turned round, and I saw—”
“Himself —bare-headed, his waistcoat open, stockings dangling about his heels —slices unbuckled—in complete undress, in short.”
“Gilbert!—And what did he say?”
“I recognized him at once, and he recognized me. I advanced; he retreated. I stretched out my arm; he stretched his legs; and off he scampered, like a greyhound, among the carriages and the waterporters.”
“You lost sight of him, then?”
“Parbleu! I believe so. You surely do not suppose that I would start off and run, too?”
“True; it was impossible, I admit. And so we have lost him.”
“All! what a pity!” ejaculated Mademoiselle Sylvie.
“Oh! most certainly,” said Jean; “I owe him a sound thrashing; and if I had once laid hands upon him, he should have lost nothing for waiting, I promise you; but he guessed my kind intentions toward him, and made good use of his legs.”
“No matter; here he is in Paris; that is the essential point; and, in Paris, if you are not on very bad terms with the lieutenant of police, you may find whatever you seek.”
“And when we have got him, we must keep him, too.”
“He must be shut up,” said Mademoiselle Sylvie; “only, this time, a safer place must be chosen for the purpose.”
“And Sylvie will carry his bread and water to that safe place—will you not, Sylvie?” said the viscount.
“It is no subject for jesting, brother,” said Chon; “that lad saw the affair of the post-horses, and if he had motives for bearing us a grudge, we might have reason to fear him.”
“And therefore,” replied Jean, “I made up my mind, while ascending your stairs, to call on M, de Sartines and inform him of my discovery. M. de Sartines will reply, that a man, bare-headed, his stockings about his heels, his shoes unbuckled, soaking his bread at a fountain, must live near the spot where he has been seen in such a plight, and he will then engage to find him for us.”
“What can he do here without money?”
“He! A philosopher of that wild breed! I am surprised at you!”
“He has perhaps found out a relation,” said Sylvie; “some old devotee, who gives him the crusts that are too stale for her lapdog.”
“Enough, enough, Sylvie! Put the house linen into that old chest; and come you, brother, to our observatory.”
Accordingly the pair approached the window with the greatest caution. Andree had quitted her embroidery, and extended her limbs carelessly upon an armchair; then stretched out her hand to a book lying on another chair within her reach, opened it, and was soon absorbed in what the spectators supposed must be a most interesting subject, for the young girl remained motionless from the moment that she commenced to read.
“Oh! the studious creature!” said Mademoiselle Chou; “what can she be reading there?”
“First indispensable article of furniture,” replied the viscount, taking from his pocket an opera-glass, which he drew out and pointed at Andree, resting it upon the angle of the window for the purpose of steadying it. Chon watched his movements with impatience.
“Well, let us see; is the creature really handsome?” asked she.
“Admirable! She is an exquisite girl! What arms! what hands! what eyes!—lips too tempting for St. Anthony—feet, oh! divine feet! and the ankle—what an ankle under that silk stocking!”
“Oh! I should advise you to fall in love with her; that would complete the affair,” said Chon, peevishly.
“Well, after all, that would be no bad idea either, especially if she would grant me a little love in return; that would somewhat cheer our poor countess.”
“Come, hand me that glass, and a truce to your gabble, if that is possible. Yes, in truth, the girl is handsome, and it is impossible that she should not have a lover. She is not reading—look, the book is slipping out of her hand! There, it drops!—slay—I told you, Jean, she was not reading—she is lost in thought.”
“With her eyes open! Lovely eyes, upon my word.”
“At any rate,” said Jean, “if she have a lover, we shall have a good view of him here.”
“Yes, if he comes in the daytime; but if he should come at night?”
“The deuce! I did not think of that; and yet it is the first thing that I ought to have thought of; that proves how very simple I am.”
“However, now that I am forewarned. I shall devise something.”
“What an excellent glass this is!” said Chon. “I can almost read the characters in the book.”
Chon had leaned forward out of the window, attracted by her curiosity; but she pulled back her head faster than she had advanced it.
“Well, what is the matter?” asked the viscount.
Chon grasped his arm. “Look cautiously, brother,” said she; “look, who is that person leaning out of yonder garret-window on the left? Take care not to be seen.”
“Oh, ho!” cried Dubarry, in a low tone; “it is my crust-soaker, God forgive me!”
“He is going to throw himself out!”
“No; he has fast hold of the parapet.”
“But what is he looking at with those piercing eyes, with that wild eagerness?”
“He is watching somebody.” The viscount struck his forehead. “I have it!” he exclaimed.—“What?”
“By heavens, he is watching the girl!”
“Yes, yes; that's the inamorato of the dove-cot. She comes to Paris—he hastens hither too; she takes lodgings in the Rue Coq-Heron—he sneaks away from us to go and live in the Rue Plastriere. He is looking at her, and she is musing.”
“Upon my word, it is true,” said Chon. “Observe that look, how intently fixed. That lurid fire of his eyes. He is distractedly in love.”
“Sister,” said Jean, “let us not give ourselves any further trouble to watch the lady; he will do our business.”
“No; for ours. Now let me go and see that dear Sartines. Pardieu! we have a chance. But take care, Chon, not to let the philosopher see you; you know how quickly he decamps!”
