The Black Coats: The Parisian Jungle 2: Trois-Pattes by Paul Féval

Author:Paul Féval
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Coat Press
Published: 2013-10-28T00:00:00+00:00

XXXII. There Will Be Dancing

Monsieur Lecoq had not lost any of his own victorious bonhomie. He winked as he glanced at Monsieur Schwartz and addressed a friendly smile to Julie.

It was the latter who broke the silence. “I didn’t understand what you just said,” she said, in a changed voice. “Am I supposed to believe that Monsieur Schwartz was mixed up in that horrible Bancelle affair?”

“Yes and no,” said Monsieur Lecoq. “One way or another–it depends how you look at it.” As the banker protested, by means of a forceful gesture, he went on: “Of course, of course–my dear Madame, Monsieur Schwartz is as innocent as a new-born babe; he’s not mixed up in anything at all. Except, you know, one is born a businessman. Monsieur le Baron was a usurer before he had a valiant sou. I had the pleasure of furnishing him with his first valiant sou; he has certainly made the most of it. As soon as he had it, he lent it out at high interest: a naïve miniature of that glorious enterprise called a bank. That’s ancient history.”

He took Monsieur Schwartz’s hand and shook it, whether he liked it or not, in an outburst of warm cordiality. “It’s true, Jean-Baptiste isn’t it? We’re both well aware of it. That was the principal. But we mustn’t get off the point. Where were we? Gaillardbois and the Habits Noirs? No, not yet. We were talking about the reasons that excuse Madame Schwartz in the matter of her bigamy. There was no wrong on her side, you know, old chap. She believed her husband to be dead; she was free to remarry–that’s divine and human law, except among the Bengalis, who subject the windows of Malabar to combustion. She would have been able to make her confession to you–nothing significant! From your point of view, all she had on her shoulders–oh, such lovely shoulders!–was that she’d been sentenced in her absence to 20 years hard labor. But...”

“My wife!” cried the distraught Baron.

“No longer!” Monsieur Lecoq replied. “And I have a foolish notion that the marriage was something of a refuge for her, although you had every right to be adored for yourself, Jean-Baptiste. You can guess what Giovanna Reni’s former name was, can’t you?”

“I don’t want to guess!” Monsieur Schwartz pronounced, between clenched teeth.

“These things are involuntary,” Lecoq corrected, calmly. “One guesses, or one doesn’t. Since you don’t, old man, I’ll help you. On the day when you received that divine 1000-franc bill, 400,000 similar bills were stolen from Monsieur Bancelle’s safe. André Maynotte was sentenced...”

“Enough!” said Monsieur Schwartz, passing his handkerchief over his forehead.

“Is it true,” asked Monsieur Lecoq, “that his hair was already entirely white when you met him on the isle of Jersey, six or eight months after the affair?”

“Enough!” repeated the distressed banker.

Julie’s breath caught in her throat.

“That’s a man,” Monsieur Lecoq went on, “who can’t hold you dear to his heart! But let’s not lose the thread; we’re still talking about Madame’s reasons.

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