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remembered the instructions of the vidame。
〃Then it was some one who strangely resembled you；〃 he said； with a
credulous air。
〃Monsieur；〃 she replied； 〃if you are capable of following a woman and
detecting her secrets； you will allow me to say that it is a wrong； a
very wrong thing； and I do you the honor to say that I disbelieve
you。〃
The baron turned away； placed himself before the fireplace and seemed
thoughtful。 He bent his head； but his eyes were covertly fixed on
Madame Jules； who； not remembering the reflections in the mirror； cast
two or three glances at him that were full of terror。 Presently she
made a sign to her husband and rising took his arm to walk about the
salon。 As she passed before Monsieur de Maulincour； who at that moment
was speaking to a friend； he said in a loud voice； as if in reply to a
remark： 〃That woman will certainly not sleep quietly this night。〃
Madame Jules stopped； gave him an imposing look which expressed
contempt； and continued her way； unaware that another look； if
surprised by her husband； might endanger not only her happiness but
the lives of two men。 Auguste； frantic with anger； which he tried to
smother in the depths of his soul； presently left the house； swearing
to penetrate to the heart of the mystery。 Before leaving； he sought
Madame Jules； to look at her again； but she had disappeared。
What a drama cast into that young head so eminently romantic； like all
who have not known love in the wide extent which they give to it。 He
adored Madame Jules under a new aspect； he loved her now with the fury
of jealousy and the frenzied anguish of hope。 Unfaithful to her
husband； the woman became common。 Auguste could now give himself up to
the joys of successful love； and his imagination opened to him a
career of pleasures。 Yes； he had lost the angel； but he had found the
most delightful of demons。 He went to bed； building castles in the
air； excusing Madame Jules by some romantic fiction in which he did
not believe。 He resolved to devote himself wholly； from that day
forth； to a search for the causes； motives； and keynote of this
mystery。 It was a tale to read； or better still； a drama to be played；
in which he had a part。
CHAPTER II
FERRAGUS
A fine thing is the task of a spy； when performed for one's own
benefit and in the interests of a passion。 Is it not giving ourselves
the pleasure of a thief and a rascal while continuing honest men？ But
there is another side to it； we must resign ourselves to boil with
anger； to roar with impatience； to freeze our feet in the mud； to be
numbed； and roasted； and torn by false hopes。 We must go； on the faith
of a mere indication； to a vague object； miss our end； curse our luck；
improvise to ourselves elegies； dithyrambics； exclaim idiotically
before inoffensive pedestrians who observe us； knock over old apple…
women and their baskets； run hither and thither； stand on guard
beneath a window； make a thousand suppositions。 But； after all； it is
a chase； a hunt； a hunt in Paris； a hunt with all its chances； minus
dogs and guns and the tally…ho！ Nothing compares with it but the life
of gamblers。 But it needs a heart big with love and vengeance to
ambush itself in Paris； like a tiger waiting to spring upon its prey；
and to enjoy the chances and contingencies of Paris； by adding one
special interest to the many that abound there。 But for this we need a
many…sided soulfor must we not live in a thousand passions； a
thousand sentiments？
Auguste de Maulincour flung himself into this ardent existence
passionately； for he felt all its pleasures and all its misery。 He
went disguised about Paris； watching at the corners of the rue Pagevin
and the rue des Vieux…Augustins。 He hurried like a hunter from the rue
de Menars to the rue Soly； and back from the rue Soly to the rue de
Menars； without obtaining either the vengeance or the knowledge which
would punish or reward such cares； such efforts； such wiles。 But he
had not yet reached that impatience which wrings our very entrails and
makes us sweat； he roamed in hope； believing that Madame Jules would
only refrain for a few days from revisiting the place where she knew
she had been detected。 He devoted the first days therefore； to a
careful study of the secrets of the street。 A novice at such work； he
dared not question either the porter or the shoemaker of the house to
which Madame Jules had gone； but he managed to obtain a post of
observation in a house directly opposite to the mysterious apartment。
He studied the ground； trying to reconcile the conflicting demands of
prudence； impatience； love； and secrecy。
Early in the month of March； while busy with plans by which he
expected to strike a decisive blow； he left his post about four in the
afternoon； after one of those patient watches from which he had
learned nothing。 He was on his way to his own house whither a matter
relating to his military service called him； when he was overtaken in
the rue Coquilliere by one of those heavy showers which instantly
flood the gutters； while each drop of rain rings loudly in the puddles
of the roadway。 A pedestrian under these circumstances is forced to
stop short and take refuge in a shop or cafe if he is rich enough to
pay for the forced hospitality； or； if in poorer circumstances； under
a /porte…cochere/； that haven of paupers or shabbily dressed persons。
Why have none of our painters ever attempted to reproduce the
physiognomies of a swarm of Parisians； grouped； under stress of
weather； in the damp /porte…cochere/ of a building？ First； there's the
musing philosophical pedestrian； who observes with interest all he
sees；whether it be the stripes made by the rain on the gray
background of the atmosphere （a species of chasing not unlike the
capricious threads of spun glass）； or the whirl of white water which
the wind is driving like a luminous dust along the roofs； or the
fitful disgorgements of the gutter…pipes； sparkling and foaming； in
short； the thousand nothings to be admired and studied with delight by
loungers； in spite of the porter's broom which pretends to be sweeping
out the gateway。 Then there's the talkative refugee； who complains and
converses with the porter while he rests on his broom like a grenadier
on his musket； or the pauper wayfarer； curled against the wall
indifferent to the condition of his rags； long used； alas； to contact
with the streets； or the learned pedestrian who studies； spells； and
reads the posters on the walls without finishing them； or the smiling
pedestrian who makes fun of others to whom some street fatality has
happened； who laughs at the muddy women； and makes grimaces at those
of either sex who are looking from the windows； and the silent being
who gazes from floor to floor； and the working…man； armed with a
satchel or a paper bundle； who is estimating the rain as a profit or
loss； and the good…natured fugitive； who arrives like a shot
exclaiming； 〃Ah！ what weather； messieurs； what weather！〃 and bows to
every one； and； finally； the true /bourgeois/ of Paris； with his
unfailing umbrella； an expert in showers； who foresaw this particular
one； but would come out in spite of his wife； this one takes a seat in
the porter's chair。 According to individual character； each member of
this fortuitous society contemplates the skies； and departs； skipping
to avoid the mud；because he is in a hurry； or because he sees other
citizens walking along in spite of wind and slush； or because； the
archway being damp and mortally catarrhal； the bed's edge； as the
proverb says； is better than the sheets。 Each one has his motive。 No
one is left but the prudent pedestrian； the man who； before he sets
forth； makes sure of a scrap of blue sky through the rifting clouds。
Monsieur de Maulincour took refuge； as we have said； with a whole
family of fugitives； under the porch of an old house； the court…yard
of which looked like the flue of a chimney。 The sides of its
plastered； nitrified； and mouldy walls were so covered with pipes and
conduits from all the many floors of its four elevations； that it
might have been said to resemble at that moment the /cascatelles/ of
Saint…Cloud。 Water flowed everywhere； it boiled； it leaped； it
murmured； it was black； white； blue； and green； it shrieked； it
bubbled under the broom of the portress； a toothless old woman used to
storms； who seemed to bless them as she swept into the street a mass
of scraps an intelligent inventory of which would have revealed the
lives and habits of every dweller in the house；bits of printed
cottons； tea…leaves； artificial flower…petals faded and worthless；
vegetable parings； papers； scraps of metal。 At every sweep of her
broom the old woman bared the soul of the gutter； that black fissure
on which a porter's mind is ever bent。 The poor lover examined this
scene； like a thousand others which our heaving Paris presents daily；
but he examined it mechanically； as a man absorbed in thought； when；
happening to look up； he found himself all but nose to nose with a man
who had just entered the gateway。
In appearance this man was a beggar； but not the Parisian beggar；
that creation without a name in human language； no； t