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.
CHAPTER IX
A DESCENT INTO A CESSPOOL
I turned first towards the quays, hoping that in the crowd of beggars, thieves, and cut-throats which swarmed over them I might chance upon the object of my search. The streets were crowded with carriages and heavy carts, which went their way with a fine disregard of the foot-passengers, who kept out of danger as best they could, seeking shelter behind the protections thrown out at each corner, or dodging back and forth under the noses of the horses.
As I crossed the river and turned into the Quai des Théatins, I heard a shrill scream of terror, and witnessed an accident such as happened many times daily in Paris. A child had been knocked down by a passing horse, and lay sprawling on the pavement. In a moment the heavy wheels of a cart would have crushed her, for the crowd regarded the accident with a singular indifference, but I sprang forward with an oath at their carelessness, and dragged her to her feet. With two strides I gained the protection of a projecting flight of steps, and paused to look at her.