CHAPTER VIII
I KEEP AN APPOINTMENT
I awoke in the morning strong, refreshed, and hopeful, and I arose without delay, for I was eager to commence the contest. The day was singularly bright and pleasant. It reminded me of the sweet springs I had known in the south, and I descended the stairs with a light heart, confident that I should yet win the victory. That is what it is to be young!
As I passed the lodge of the concierge I saw that there was some one within, and I opened the door to find an old man looking at me.
“Good-day, Monsieur,” he said politely. “Is there anything you wish?”
“Are you the concierge?” I asked.
“Since this morning only, Monsieur,” he answered.
“Can you tell me what has become of your predecessor?”
“I did not know him, Monsieur.”
I looked at the man sharply, but he returned my gaze without winking.
“How, then, did you obtain the place?” I asked.
“The concierge of the next house, who is a friend of mine, told me there was a vacancy here, so I came and was accepted.”
I looked at him again. If he was lying, he was doing it admirably and with a perfect composure.
“Very well, my friend,” I said at last. “I trust you will do your duty better than your predecessor. Yesterday my room, which is on the third floor, was entered and some property carried away. You will oblige me by keeping an eye upon my room,” and I laid a crown upon the table, for I reflected that I could lose nothing by gaining the friendship of this man, who might, perhaps, be able to assist me.
“Thank you, Monsieur,” he said, reddening with pleasure at sight of the coin. “Monsieur may rest assured that his room will not again be disturbed.”
“I trust so, at least,” I answered, and turned into the street. I knew that eight o’clock could not be far distant, so, without waiting for breakfast, I hastened towards the Palais Royal and was soon in M. d’Argenson’s ante-chamber.
It was, if anything, more crowded than on the previous day, and a circumstance which astonished me was that so few of those present wore uniforms. Indeed, the crowd which eddied ceaselessly back and forth seemed to be drawn from every rank of life, from the highest to the lowest, and as I glanced over this motley assemblage I gained an idea, vague and meagre no doubt, of the extent of the great system of espionage which the Comte d’Argenson had established, and which penetrated into every corner of Parisian life, like an enormous and insatiable vine, continually throwing out creepers and seeking a fresh foothold in some spot not already occupied. I paused beside a man who seemed to be the gardien, and who attentively scanned all who entered.
“If one wishes to see M. le Comte d’Argenson, Monsieur,” I inquired, “how does one proceed?”
“You will find him very busy, Monsieur,” he answered, “unless your business is of importance.”
“I have an appointment with him at eight o’clock,” I said dryly.
“Ah, in that case there will be no trouble. M. d’Argenson allows nothing to interfere with his appointments,” and the man smiled. “Give your name to that gentleman whom you see standing by the closed door yonder, Monsieur.”
“Many thanks,” I said, and did as he directed. In a few moments the man signalled me to follow him, and led the way into M. d’Argenson’s office.
“Good-morning, M. le Moyne,” he cried, as I entered. “Take a chair, if you please, and pardon me for one moment,” and he resumed the examination of a great number of papers, passing from one to another with incredible rapidity, affixing his signature here, erasing a line there, and laying a few to one side for further consideration.
I had opportunity to examine his face more attentively than had been possible the day before, and, the first impression produced by its disfigurement past, I found it more and more admirable.
The fame of the Comte d’Argenson had penetrated to the four corners of France, until Le Dammé, as he was called because of his formidable countenance, had become a word to frighten children with. A thousand stories were told of him, how he commenced his audiences at three o’clock in the morning and worked all day, dictating to four secretaries at once; making his rounds at night in a carriage in which there was a desk lighted by candles, so that no single moment might be lost; facing street riots with a cool courage which made him master of the mob; striking home with an absolute disregard of form and precedent, overcoming many obstacles, and achieving his object before another man could have planned the attack.
Certain it was that he had brought order out of chaos, suppressed crime with a rigid hand, and developed a system of espionage so complete that there were few in Paris concerning whose habits and conduct from day to day he could not be fully informed, should he choose to inquire about them. Clothed with an authority almost absolute, he had yet strength to use it gently and wisely; above corruption, discreet, ever leaning towards the merciful; a thorough gentleman, with whom any secret was safe, so that it did not interfere with the law or with the State—a fact which a thousand women knew by experience and thanked God for—it is little wonder that I gazed at him with interest and attention.
“Ah, M. le Moyne,” he said at last, looking up from a paper which he held in his hand, “here is a report which will interest you. The name of the concierge, it seems, is Mère Fouchon—at least, that is the only name she has ever been known to have. She secured her place as concierge in the Rue du Chantre nearly five years ago, by means of recommendations which my agents have since discovered were forged. Of her previous history we have as yet been able to ascertain nothing, but we will in time. During the five years she was concierge she made no friends—none, at least, to whom she told anything of her past life. She seems to have emerged from the darkness, and the fact that so little is known concerning her is in itself suspicious. No one, especially no woman, covers up her past unless there is something to conceal. Decidedly, I am interested in Mère Fouchon.”
“And you have not succeeded in finding her, I suppose, Monsieur?” I inquired.
“No,” answered d’Argenson, “she seems to have disappeared completely. She has descended into that darkness from which she emerged five years ago, and she has done it in a way which shows that she has kept in touch with the life of the sewers. But she cannot escape the eyes of my agents, which are everywhere—especially in the Paris which lives underground. We shall hear from her in a day or two, Monsieur, and after that our course will be an easy one.”
There was nothing more to be said, and as d’Argenson turned to other matters, I left the place and strolled moodily through the streets. I stopped at the first cabaret I came to and ordered breakfast, and, as I ate, endeavored to form some plan which held out at least a promise of success.
I could think of nothing better than to take M. d’Argenson’s hint and search those quarters of the town along the river and in the faubourgs where the criminal classes congregated, in the chance of catching a glimpse of Mère Fouchon, but I had little hope of success. To search for a single human being in those swarming dens of vice was a task which even the police found onerous—but I could not sit still with folded hands while Nanette was in danger, and I set about my task without delay.