M. Wilkie seemed delighted. He had climbed on to the piano and seated himself, with his feet on the keyboard; and there, as on a judgment seat, he listened and applauded, alternately taking Chupin’s part, and then the viscount’s. “Bravo, gamin!” or, “Give it to him, Coralth!” he shouted in turn.
This irritated the viscount exceedingly. “I see that we shall be obliged to call in the police to settle the affair,” he said, sneeringly.
“The police!” roared Chupin. “Ah! that won’t do, you scamp—” But his voice died away in his throat, and he stood motionless, speechless, with his arm raised as if he were about to strike, and his eyes dilated with astonishment.
For a change of expression in M. de Coralth’s face had enlightened him; and he suddenly recollected when and under what circumstances he had known this so-called viscount. He remembered, too, the name he had borne when he first met him. “Oh!” he stammered; “oh! oh!”
However, the effect of this discovery was to dispel his anger, or rather to restore his calmness, and, addressing M. de Coralth, he exclaimed: “Don’t be angry at what I’ve said, m’sieur; it was only a jest—I know that there’s a wide difference between a poor devil like me and a viscount like you—I haven’t a sou, you see, and that maddens me. But I’m not so very bad-looking, fortunately, and I’m always hoping that the daughter of some rich banker will fall in love with me and marry me. Some people have such luck, you know. If I meet with any you may be sure I shall pass myself off as the lost child of some great personage—of a duke, for instance—and if the real son exists, and troubles me, why I’ll quietly put him out of the way, if possible.”
With but one exception the persons present did not understand a single word of this apparent nonsense; and indeed the yellow-haired damsels stared at the speaker in amazement. Still it was evident that each of these words had a meaning, and a terrible meaning for M. de Coralth. Accustomed for years to control his features, he remained apparently unmoved—he even smiled; but a close observer could have detected anguish in his eyes, and he had become very pale. At last, unable to endure the scene any longer, he drew a hundred-franc bank-note from his pocketbook, crumpled it in his hand and threw it at Chupin, saying: “That’s a very pretty story you are telling, my boy; but we’ve had enough of it. Take your pay and leave us.”
Unfortunately, the note struck Chupin full in the face. He uttered a hoarse cry of rage, and, by the way in which he seized and brandished an empty bottle, it might have been imagined that M. de Coralth was about to have his head broken. But no. Thanks to a supreme effort of will, Chupin conquered this mad fury; and, dropping the bottle, he remarked to the young women who were uttering panic-stricken shrieks: “Be quiet; don’t you see that I was only in fun.”
But even M. Wilkie had found the fun a little rough, and even dangerous. Several of the young fellows present sprang up, with the evident intention of pushing Chupin out of the room, but he checked them with a gesture. “Don’t disturb yourselves, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m going, only let me find the bank-note which this gentleman threw at me.”
“That’s quite proper,” replied M. Wilkie, approvingly; “look for it.”
Chupin did so, and at last found it lying almost under the piano. “Now,” he remarked, “I should like a cigar.”