"Now, Monsieur Balloquet, please examine Charles."
Balloquet looked at my wound and dressed it, declared that there was not the slightest danger to be apprehended, but that it would be as well for me to keep my bed for a few days. I was about to obey my doctor, albeit with regret, when the doorbell rang violently. I supposed that it was Mignonne; but Ballangier appeared, pale as death and so excited that he could hardly speak.
"In heaven's name, what's the matter?" I asked; "what has happened?"
"Ah! a terrible misfortune, a—— Mon Dieu! are you wounded?"
"It's almost nothing. Pray go on."
"You urged me yesterday to watch over Mignonne. When I left you, as I was still disturbed by what you had said, I walked in the direction of her home. When I reached Rue Ménilmontant, although I was persuaded that Mignonne had not gone out, as she had not been at your rooms at all that day, something impelled me to go and ask the concierge. 'Madame Landernoy isn't in,' she said; 'she went out this morning to go and work at Monsieur Rochebrune's, on Rue Bleue, as usual.'—I knew that she hadn't been here, so you can imagine my anxiety. I told that to the concierge. She shared my uneasiness. We waited. The evening passed, and the night, and Mignonne did not return. This morning I went to Père-Lachaise, where Mignonne often goes to visit her little girl's grave. I inquired there. The gate-keeper said that he did see her yesterday morning; he knows her well, she has such a gentle, courteous way! After passing half an hour, as usual, at her daughter's grave, she went away—to come here, no doubt. But since then she hasn't been seen."
"Mon Dieu!" cried Frédérique; "what can have happened to her?"
"What has happened to her!" cried Ballangier, clenching his fists frantically; "ah! I suspect, and so does Charles! There's a man—a vile scoundrel—who looks respectable, unfortunately; he's been watching Mignonne a long while. I thrashed him some time ago, but it seems that that didn't sicken him. I ought to have killed him then and there! When you come away from Père-Lachaise toward Paris, there are some deserted streets, nothing more than alleyways, where you don't meet anyone even in broad daylight. We don't know which streets Mignonne usually took, but he knew, no doubt; he must have been on the watch for her and abducted her, forced her into a cab. Here in Paris, with a little money one can always find a hundred vagabonds, miserable wretches, who are ready to do any rascally thing. It must be the man we met last night who has carried Mignonne off—it can't be anyone else; and you remember, Charles, when I pointed him out to you, how he was sneaking along, looking furtively on all sides, as if to see whether anyone was following him. And when he saw that you were looking at him, he scuttled away fast Oh! to think that if I had followed him then, I should know where Mignonne is! For he was going to her, I am sure of it! But you know the man, Charles; you told me last night that you knew him; you said: 'The day of reckoning must come some time.'—So tell me who he is, tell me where I can find him and kill him if he doesn't give Mignonne back to me!"
Frédérique and Balloquet gazed anxiously at me. Should I name that man? name him before her? Why should I spare the monster? Why should not his wife, as well as I, have the right to despise him utterly?
"The man who was watching Mignonne," I said, at last, "was your husband, Frédérique; it was Monsieur Dauberny."