By eight o'clock, ferret eyes are watching the Santos mansion, the home of discreet elegance.
A stunning toilet is made by Joseph, in the vain hope of impressing the madame. He will face this Lucrezia Borgia "in his raiment of price." He has a dim idea, that splendid garb will cover his business-like manner of coming to "first principles."
A happy man is he at his well-ordered d‚jeuner, for though Joe is no De Rohan or Montmorency, yet he eats like a lord and drinks like a prince of the blood. He is the "first of his family"—a golden fact.
He revenges himself daily for the volunteer cuisine of the American River. Often has he laughed over haughty Valois' iron-clad bread, his own flinty beans, the slabs of pork, cooked as a burnt offering by slow combustion. Only one audacious Yankee in the camp ever attempted a pie. That was a day of crucial experiment, a time of bright hopes, a period of sad failure.
Vimont reports at noon. A visit from Villa Rocca of a half-hour. Sauntering up the Elys‚es, after his departure, the count, shadowed carefully, strolled to his club. He seemed to know nothing. The waxen mask of Italian smoothness fits him like a glove. He hums a pleasant tune as he strolls in. The morning journals? Certainly; an hour's perusal is worthy the attention of the elegant "flƒneur." Ah! another murder. He enjoys the details.
PŠre Fran‡ois enters the colonel's rooms, with grave air. While Vimont frets over his cigar, in the courtyard, the story of Marie B‚rard is partly told.
She will not live through the night. At her bedside, Sisters of Charity twain, tell the beads and watch the flickering pulse of the poor lost girl. The police have done their perfunctory work. They are only owls frightened by sunlight. Fools! Skilful fools! She knows nothing of her assailant. Her feeble motions indicate ignorance. She must have rest and quiet. The saddened PŠre Fran‡ois can not disguise from Woods that he suspects much. Much more than the police can dream in their theories.
What is it? Hopes, fears, the rude story of a strange life, and upon it all is the awful seal of the confessional. For, Marie B‚rard has unfolded partly, her own life-story. Joe Woods clasps the padre's hands.
"You know which of these children is a million-heiress, and which a pauper?"
The padre's eyes are blazing. He is mute. "Let us trust to God. Wait, my friend," says PŠre Fran‡ois solemnly. Before that manly voice, the miner hushes his passionate eagerness. Violence is vain, here.