He saw clearly now what sort of woman was Mme. Zelie Cadelle; how he should speak to her, and what cords he might yet cause to vibrate within her. He recognized the true daughter of Paris, wayward and nervous, who in the midst of her disorders preserves an instinctive pride; who places her independence far above all the money in the world; who gives, rather than sells, herself; who knows no law but her caprice, no morality but the policeman, no religion but pleasure.
As soon as she had returned to her seat, "There you are dancing gayly," he said, "and poor Vincent is doubtless groaning at this moment over his separation from you."
"Ah! I'd pity him if I had time," she said.
"He was fond of you?"
"Don't speak of it."
"If he had not been fond of you, he would not have put you here."
Mme. Zelie made a little face of equivocal meaning.
"What proof is that?" she murmured.
"He would not have spent so much money for you."
"For me!" she interrupted, - "for me! What have I cost him of any consequence? Is it for me that he bought, furnished, and fitted out this house? No, no! He had the cage; and he put in the bird, - the first he happened to find. He brought me here as he might have brought any other woman, young or old, pretty or ugly, blonde or brunette. As to what I spent here, it was a mere bagatelle compared with what the other did, - the one before me. Amanda kept telling me all the time I was a fool. You may believe me, then, when I tell you that M. Vincent will not wet many handkerchiefs with the tears he'll shed over me."
"But do you know what became of the one before you, as you call her, - whether she is alive or dead, and owing to what circumstances the cage became empty?"
But, instead of answering, Mme. Zelie was fixing upon Marius de Tregars a suspicious glance. And, after a moment only, "Why do you ask me that?" she said.
"I would like to know."
She did not permit him to proceed. Rising from her seat, and stepping briskly up to him, "Do you belong to the police, by chance?" she asked in a tone of mistrust.
If she was anxious, it was evidently because she had motives of anxiety which she had concealed. If, two or three times she had interrupted herself, it was because, manifestly, she had a secret to keep. If the idea of police had come into her mind, it is because, very probably, they had recommended her to be on her guard.
M. de Tregars understood all this, and, also, that he had tried to go too fast.
"Do I look like a secret police-agent?" he asked.
She was examining him with all her power of penetration.
Not at all, I confess," she replied. "But, if you are not one, how is it that you come to my house, without knowing me from this side of sole leather, to ask me a whole lot of questions, which I am fool enough to answer?"
"I told you I was a friend of M. Favoral."
"Who's that Favoral?"
"That's M. Vincent's real name, madame."
She opened her eyes wide.
"You must be mistaken. I never heard him called any thing but Vincent."
"It is because he had especial motives for concealing his personality. The money he spent here did not belong to him: he took it, he stole it, from the Mutual Credit Company where he was cashier, and where he left a deficit of twelve millions."
Mme. Zelie stepped back as though she had trodden on a snake.
It's impossible!" she cried.
"It is the exact truth. Haven't you seen in the papers the case of Vincent Favoral, cashier of the Mutual Credit?"
And, taking a paper from his pocket, he handed it to the young woman, saying, "Read."
But she pushed it back, not without a slight blush. "Oh, I believe you!" she said.
The fact is, and Marius understood it, she did not read very fluently.
"The worst of M. Vincent Favoral's conduct," he resumed, "is, that, while he was throwing away money here by the handful, he subjected his family to the most cruel privations."
"Oh!"
"He refused the necessaries of life to his wife, the best and the worthiest of women; he never gave a cent to his son; and he deprived his daughter of every thing."
"Ah, if I could have suspected such a thing!" murmured Mme. Zelie.
"Finally, and to cap the - climax, he has gone, leaving his wife and children literally without bread."
Transported with indignation, "Why, that man must have been a horrible old scoundrel" exclaimed the young woman.
This is just the point to which M. de Tregars wished to bring, her.
"And now," he resumed, "you must understand the enormous interest we have in knowing what has become of him."
"I have already told you."
M. de Tregars had risen, in his turn. Taking Mme. Zelie's hands, and fixing upon her one of those acute looks, which search for the truth down to the innermost recesses of the conscience, "Come, my dear child," he began in a penetrating voice, "you are a worthy and honest girl. Will you leave in the most frightful despair a family who appeal to your heart? Be sure that no harm will ever happen through us to Vincent Favoral."
She raised her hand, as they do to take an oath in a court of justice, and, in a solemn tone, "I swear," she uttered, "that I went to the station with M. Vincent; that he assured me that he was going to Brazil; that he had his passage-ticket; and that all his baggage was marked, 'Rio de Janeiro.'"
The disappointment was great: and M. de Tregars manifested it by a gesture.
"At least," he insisted, "tell me who the woman was whose place you took here."
But already had the young woman returned to her feeling of mistrust.
"How in the world do you expect me to know?" she replied. "Go and ask Amanda. I have no accounts to give you. Besides, I have to go and finish packing my trunks. So good-by, and enjoy yourself."
And she went out so quick, that she caught Amanda, the chambermaid, kneeling behind the door.
"So that woman was listening," thought M. de Tregars, anxious and dissatisfied.
But it was in vain that he begged Mme. Zelie to return, and to hear a single word more. She disappeared; and he had to resign himself to leave the house without learning any thing more for the present.
