And the Editor who invited monsieur Tricotrin had never heard of
Lisette; never heard of Pomponnet; did not know that such a person as
Touquet existed; yet the editorial caprice had manipulated destinies.
How powerful are Editors! How complicated is life!
But a truce to philosophy—let us deal with the emotions of the soul! The shop reeled before Touquet. All the good and the bad in his character battled tumultuously. In one moment he aspired to be generous and restore to Lisette the evidence of her guilt; in the next he sank to the base thought of displaying it to Pomponnet and breaking off the match. The discovery fired his brain. No longer was he a nonentity, the odd man out—chance had transformed him to the master of the situation. Full well he knew that there would be no nuptials next day were Pomponnet aware of his fiancée's perfidy; it needed but to go to him and say, "Monsieur, my sense of duty compels me to inform you—." How easy it would be! He laughed hysterically.
But Lisette would never pardon such a meanness—she would always despise and hate him! He would have torn her from his rival's arms, it was true, yet his own would still be empty. "Ah, Lisette, Lisette!" groaned the wretched man; and, swept to evil by the force of passion, he cudgelled his mind to devise some piece of trickery, some diabolical artifice, by which the incriminating token might be placed in the pastrycook's hands as if by accident.
And while he pondered—his "whole soul a chaos"—in that hour Pomponnet entered to hire a dress-suit for his wedding!
Touquet raised his head, blanched to the lips.
"Regard," he said, with a forced calm terrible to behold; "here is a suit that I have just acquired. Monsieur will observe that it is of the most distinguished cut—quite in the latest fashion. I will whisper to monsieur that it comes to me through the valet of the Comte de St. Nom- la-Bretéche-Forét-de-Marly." And, unseen by the guileless bridegroom, he slipped the damning proof into a pocket of the trousers, where his knowledge of the pastrycook's attitudes assured him that it was even more certain to be found than in the waistcoat.
"Mon Dieu!" said the other, duly impressed by the suit's pedigree; "let me try it on…. The coat is rather tight," he complained, "but it has undeniably an air."
"No more than one client has worn it," gasped the wardrobe dealer haggardly: "monsieur Gustave Tricotrin, the poet, who hired it last night! The suit is practically new; I have no other in the establishment to compare with it. Listen, monsieur Pomponnet! To an old client like yourself, I will be liberal; wear it this evening for an hour in your home—if you find it not to your figure, there will be time to make another selection before the ceremony to-morrow. You shall have this on trial, I will make no extra charge."
Such munificence was bound to have its effect, and five minutes later Touquet's plot had progressed. But the tension had been frightful; the door had scarcely closed when he sank into a chair, trembling in every limb, and for the rest of the day he attended to his business like one moving in a trance.
Meanwhile, the unsuspecting Pomponnet reviewed the arrangement with considerable satisfaction; and when he came to attire himself, after the cake-shop was shut, his reflected image pleased him so well that he was tempted to stroll abroad. He decided to call on his betrothed, and to exhibit himself a little on the boulevard. Accordingly, he put some money in the pocket of the waistcoat, oiled his silk hat, to give it an additional lustre, and sallied forth in high good-humour.