He spent the next three days in vain efforts to find out Madame Vernet’s whereabouts. The concierge had evidently been thoroughly bought and coached, and would absolutely tell nothing. Madame Vernet had taken her apartment by the month, and had paid in advance. The concierge knew no more. Not even a ten-franc piece could screw any additional information out of her.
Papa Bouchard began to feel a little frightened. What would happen if it should come out in the newspapers, as Léontine had threatened? There were journalists enough in Paris ready to jump at such a story as Léontine had hinted at. There was that Marsac, and the remarkable tale he had concocted about a bogus fortune—Papa Bouchard recalled at least a dozen instances that were frightfully like what he apprehended. When this thought occurred to him he bit the pillows in his anguish—it was in the middle of one of his sleepless nights. And what glee would those laughing devils of newspaper men have out of him! And how should he ever show his face in the Rue Clarisse? Monsieur Bouchard made up his mind that if ever the thing got into the newspapers he should emigrate to Madagascar.
Of course, Pierre knew all about it. Monsieur Bouchard had told him too much not to tell him more. Pierre was only moderately sympathetic, which infuriated Monsieur Bouchard.
“At least,” cried the poor gentleman, “those two scamps, Léontine and de Meneval, are in as much trouble as I am.”
“But they have the necklace,” replied Pierre, “and it seems to me that Monsieur is in a jolly hole, with his necklaces and his widows, and all the rest of it.”
Monsieur Bouchard, at this, burst into a string of bad words that were very reprehensible, but perfectly natural to a man in his imminent circumstances.
However Pierre might choose to devil his master in private, in public he was unflinchingly loyal to him. In the first place, Léontine and de Meneval, each determined to force an explanation from Monsieur Bouchard, haunted the Rue Bassano, and when they did not come they wrote. It was easy enough to dispose of the frantic notes and letters, but when the two came—always separately—and Léontine wept and raved that she would and must see Papa Bouchard, and de Meneval swore and stormed to the same effect, Pierre was immovable. Monsieur was one day at Passy, another he was at Versailles, always on important business, and Pierre never had the least idea when he would be home. Thus, by unceasing vigilance and an unabashed front, Pierre managed to stave off an interview between his master and the de Menevals for the whole of a critical week.
Mademoiselle Bouchard was easier to manage. Pierre went to the Rue Clarisse daily, with a very acceptable tale about Monsieur Bouchard being so busy making the will of a rich old gentleman at Passy that he had no time for anything else; likewise, that he was finding the noise and commotion of the Rue Bassano so objectionable that he bitterly regretted having left the Rue Clarisse. This little romance took so well that Pierre improved on it by saying that Monsieur Bouchard was trying to sublet the apartment, so he could return to peace and quiet in the Rue Clarisse. Mademoiselle Bouchard was touched, charmed, delighted to hear this.
Not so Élise. She was not of a trusting or confiding nature. When Pierre turned up, late in the day, yawning, and still only half-awake, she did not believe in the least his account of being kept awake by the noises of the carts and carriages in the Rue Bassano. She boldly taxed him with leading a riotous life, which Pierre strenuously denied, and going to Mademoiselle Bouchard, actually wept over Élise’s want of confidence in him after thirty years of married life. Mademoiselle sharply rebuked Élise, and ordered her henceforth to believe everything Pierre told her. Élise made no reply to this beyond her usual sniff, but privately resolved the first day she had time to slip around to the Rue Bassano and interview the concierge. She knew the ways of concierges as well as the ways of men.
For four days Monsieur Bouchard gave himself, body and bones, to the business of a private detective in trying to locate Madame Vernet. Vain effort! He of course expected to have to pay handsomely for the return of the paste necklace, but he valued his peace of mind more than money, and was ready enough to come down with some cash provided he could get hold of the necklace.