Two hours after Andre had left the Avenue de Matignon, one of Mascarin’s most trusty emissaries was at his heels, who could watch his actions with the tenacity of a bloodhound. Andre, however, now that he had heard of Sabine’s convalescence, had entirely recovered the elasticity of his spirits, and would never have noticed that he was being followed. His heart, too, was much rejoiced at the friendship of M. de Breulh and the promise of assistance from the Viscountess de Bois Arden; and with the assistance of these two, he felt that he could end his difficulties.
“I must get to work again,” muttered he, as he left M. de Breulh’s hospitable house. “I have already lost too much time. To-morrow, if you look up at the scaffolding of a splendid house in the Champs Elysees, you will see me at work.”
Andre was busy all night with his plans for the rich contractor, M. Gandelu, who wanted as much ornamental work on the outside of his house as he had florid decorations within. He rose with the lark, and having gazed for a moment on Sabine’s portrait, started for the abode of M. Gandelu, the proud father of young Gaston. This celebrated contractor lived in a splendid house in the Rue Chasse d’Antin, until his more palatial residence should be completed.
When Andre presented himself at the door, an old servant, who knew him well, strongly urged him not to go up.
“Never,” said he, “in all the time that I have been with master, have I seen him in such a towering rage. Only just listen!”
It was easy to hear the noise alluded to, mingled with the breaking of glass and the smashing of furniture.
“The master has been at this game for over an hour,” remarked the servant, “ever since his lawyer, M. Catenac, has left him.”
Andre, however, decided not to postpone his visit. “I must see him in spite of everything; show me up,” said he.
With evident reluctance the domestic obeyed, and threw open the door of a room superbly furnished and decorated, in the centre of which stood M. Gandelu waving the leg of a chair frantically in his hand. He was a man of sixty years of age, but did not look fifty, built like a Hercules, with huge hands and muscular limbs which seemed to fret under the restraint of his fashionable garments. He had made his enormous fortune, of which he was considerably proud, by honest labor, and no one could say that he had not acted fairly throughout his whole career. He was coarse and violent in his manner, but he had a generous heart and never refused aid to the deserving and needy. He swore like a trooper, and his grammar was faulty; but for all that, his heart was in the right place, and he was a better man than many who boast of high birth and expensive education.
“What idiot is coming here to annoy me?” roared he, as soon as the door was opened.