CHAPTER V

THE HOUSE OF COUNT CAMUS

Meanwhile, Lavenne, when Javotte had taken her departure, set out on the business of dressing himself for the part he was about to perform. In a cupboard opening off his bedroom he had all sorts of disguises, from the dress of an abbé to the rags of a beggar-man. He was a master in the art of disguise, and knew quite well that every profession and station in life has its voice and manner and walk, as well as its dress; that dress, in fact, is only part of the business of disguise, deportment, manner and voice being equally essential, and even perhaps more so.

In fifteen minutes, or less, he had converted himself into a perfect representation of a servant out of a place, slightly seedy, and seeking a situation. Then, having glanced round his rooms to see that all was in order, he locked his door, put the key in his pocket and started for the Hôtel de Sartines. Here he received the written character, which had been prepared for him under the name of Jouve, and he started for Camus’ house in the Rue du Trône.

It was a large house, decorated in the Italian style, and the _concierge_, who opened to Lavenne’s ring, did not receive him too civilly; but he passed him on to the kitchen premises, and here Lavenne, finding Jumeau, gave him the news of his mother’s mortal illness; and the distress of Jumeau was so well done and so natural, that Lavenne formed a better opinion of his capabilities than he had hitherto held, and made a mental note of the fact, afterwards to be incorporated in a report to de Sartines.

Jumeau, having dried his eyes, took Lavenne down a passage and, lighting a candle, drew him into the small bedroom which he occupied, and which was situated immediately beside the plate pantry. Jumeau had not only to clean the plate, but to act as a watchdog at night in case of thieves.

When the bedroom door was closed, Lavenne turned to Jumeau:

“Have you anything to report?”

“No, Monsieur Lavenne, nothing political at all has taken place in the house. Monsieur de Sartines told me to be especially watchful of any friends of Monsieur de Choiseul, or messengers, and to do my utmost to intercept any letter from the Duc. Not a scrap of paper of that description have I seen.”

“Well, you have done your duty evidently with care, and I shall note that in my report. I have come to take your place, as you guessed by this; so now take yourself off to the major-domo, get leave of absence to see your mother, and say that your cousin, Charles Jouve, is prepared to take your place, that he is an excellent servant, and has the highest testimonials; then come back here and tell me what he says.”

“Yes, Monsieur Lavenne.”

“What sort of a man is this major-domo, and what is his name?”

“His name is Brujon, Monsieur Lavenne, and he is rather stupid, fond of talk, and very fond of his glass of wine.”

“Good! He is a gossip?”

“You may say that.”

“Well, off you go; and use all your wits, now, so that he may accept me in your place.”

Jumeau left the bedroom, closing the door behind him, and Lavenne sat on the bed waiting his return, and glancing about him at the poorly furnished room, dimly lit by a candle tufted with a “letter,” like a miniature cauliflower.

In five minutes, Jumeau returned.

“Well,” said Lavenne, “what luck?”

“The best, Monsieur Lavenne. He is in a good humour. He asked me all sorts of questions as to my mother, spoke of filial duty and gave me leave of absence for three days. He wishes to see you.”

Lavenne rose from the bed.

“Let us go at once, then,” said he, “before his good-humour changes. Lead the way, introduce me to him, and then say nothing more. I will do the talking.”

They left the room.

Monsieur Brujon’s office was situated on the same floor, that is to say, the basement.

It was a fairly large room, with an old bureau in one corner, where Monsieur Brujon kept his receipted bills, his correspondence, his keys and a hundred odds and ends that had no place in a bureau; old playbills, ballades, wine labels, a questionable book or two, corks, shoe-buckles and so forth.

He was a character, Monsieur Brujon. Untidy as his bureau, stout, rubicund, with a fatherly manner and an eye for a pretty girl, he was a fine example of the old French servant that flourished in feudal times, the servant who became a part of the family, drank his master’s wine, knew his master’s secrets, and through other servants of his kind the secrets of half the town or countryside where he lived.

“Ah,” said Brujon, “this is the young man who has come to take your place. He has some knowledge of his work, then?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“In whose service did you say he was last?”

“Monsieur,” said Lavenne, “I was in the service of Monsieur Le Roux, and to expedite matters, I have brought with me the testimonial that he gave me on my leaving him?”

“And why did you leave him?”

“Oh, monsieur,” said Lavenne, remembering Monsieur Brujon’s instinct for gossip, “it was not that he had any fault to find with me, or I with him; it was on account of madame.”

“Eh, madame! Had she a temper, then?”

“It was not her temper so much as other things, monsieur.”

Monsieur Brujon read the testimonial and expressed himself satisfied, told Jumeau that he might take his departure, and Lavenne that he might remain; then when the door was shut, he turned to the new-comer.

“Well,” said he, “what was the matter with madame?”

When Lavenne had finished his revelations, M. Brujon, chuckling and gloating, rose to conduct the new-comer round the house, so that he might have the lie of the premises. He took him through the basement, showed him the kitchen, the plate pantry, the room he was to occupy by the pantry, and the other offices. Then upstairs, that the new servant might see the dining-room, to which it was his duty to convey the plate. As they went on their way, Brujon conversed, and Lavenne, who had already taken the measure of his man, led the talk to Camus.

“I need not hide it from you,” said he, “that I look on it as a feather in my cap taking service, even for a short time, under your master. I have heard much about him; it is even said that his cleverness is so great that he knows Arabic and all the secrets of the East.”

“You may well say that,” replied Brujon, pompously, “not only is he of one of the oldest families, but he has here—” and he tapped his empty forehead—“what all the others have not got. I, who know him so well, and whom he trusts, can speak of that.”

“_Ma foi_!” said Lavenne, in an awed voice, “is it a fact, then, that he is an alchemist?”

Brujon pursed out his lips as he closed the door of the dining-room, having shown the place to his companion. “It is not for me to say anything of his secrets, but I can tell you this, he is clever enough to put Monsieur Mesmer in his pocket.”

“_Mon Dieu_! but he must be even a greater man than I thought, and to think that you have seen him at work, perhaps. Why, it would frighten me to death—and where does he do these wonderful things?”

“Come here,” said Brujon.

He led the way down the corridor, leading from the dining-room, paused at a door, took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and, choosing a key, opened the door.

The lamp which he was carrying disclosed a room lined with shelves containing bottles, glass cupboards containing bottles and flasks stood in the corners, and in the centre, on a heavy bench-like table, were more bottles, some retorts, and a lamp. Heavy red curtains hung before the window.

It was a chemist’s laboratory.

“This is the room where my master works,” said Brujon, “he and I only have access to it. I am exceeding my duties, even, in showing it to you; though, indeed, he has never given me orders on that matter. Now you may see the truth of what I say—but never say that you have seen it.”

“Oh, _mon Dieu_, no! The place frightens me. You see, I am not clever like you, Monsieur Brujon; indeed, all my schooling taught me was just to repeat the _Credo_, and to read a few words of print.”

“Well, if it taught you also to hold your tongue,” replied the most inveterate gossip in Paris, “it has taught you enough to make you a good servant. Well, it is now time for bed. You know your duties, and should any noise awaken you in the night, your first thought will be of the plate under your keeping. You will give the alarm, call me and hold the thief should you be able to seize him. But I may tell you at once that there is little need of fear. All the doors are impossible to open, there are no windows on the ground floor, and there is always a watchman in the courtyard. Still, it is your duty to be on the _qui vive_.”

“You may trust that I will do my duty, Monsieur Brujon; and now, where is your bedroom, so that, in the event of anything happening, I may call you?”

“I will show you,” replied Brujon.

He led the way downstairs and showed the room, which was situated off the same passage as that on which Lavenne’s opened.

“The menservants sleep in the basement, the maids under the roof,” said Brujon, with a fat smile.

He bade good-night to the new man and shuffled off to his office, whilst Lavenne retired to his room. Lavenne had a theory that every mind is like a safe in this particular: that the strongest safe can be picked if only the locksmith is clever enough. He knew that to get at a man’s secrets all questioning is useless, unless you bring your mind in tune with his. He knew that men run in tribes, and that there is a quite unconscious freemasonry between members of the same tribe.

His instinct told him the tribe to which M. Brujon belonged, and his marvellous power of adaptability made him for the moment a member of the same tribe. In short, his scandalous stories about the unfortunate Madame Le Roux had put him at once _en rapport_ with the jovial, easy-going, scandal-loving and eminently Gallic mind of M. Brujon.

That mind had opened without any difficulty to the skilful pick-lock, giving up the fact as to the situation of the room where his master busied himself with his strange chemistry.

Lavenne had captured the situation of the room; it was now his business, and a much more difficult business, to capture the key, or, failing that, to pick the lock. He had brought with him an instrument similar to the old _crochet_ used by the burglars of France ever since the time of the Coquillards—the instrument that is used still under the name of the Nightingale. With this he could unlock and lock a door as easily as with a key. It remained to be seen whether the door of Camus’ room could be opened by this means.

He blew out the candle, lay down on the bed, and closing his eyes began, as a pastime, to review the whole situation.

It was a difficult situation enough. If Camus caught him in the act of making an examination of his room, Camus would certainly kill him, unless he killed Camus. Even in the latter event he would almost certainly be lost, unless he could make his escape, which was very unlikely. For if he killed Count Camus in his own house, he would, if caught, be most certainly hanged by de Sartines; it being the unwritten law of the Hôtel de Sartines that an agent caught on a business of this sort must never reveal his identity, or seek protection from the Law which employed him, suffering even death, if necessary, in the execution of his duty.

But this consideration did not deflect our man a hair’s-breadth from the course he had mapped out for himself. The thing that was now occupying his mind was the room itself, of which he had caught a glimpse, its contents and its possible secrets.

It was the dark centre of Camus’ life, the depository, without doubt, of his secrets. What he would find there in the way of written or other evidence, Lavenne did not know; of how he would prosecute his search, he had no definite plan; yet he knew that here was the only place where Justice might rest her lever as on a fulcrum, and with one swift movement send the Poisoner crashing to the pit that awaited him.

As he lay in the darkness revolving these matters in his mind, he heard the great clock of the Hôtel chiming the hour of eleven. He determined to wait till midnight. Jumeau had told him that Camus had gone to the Hôtel Dubarry and would not be home, most likely, till the small hours, if then.

Lavenne felt that he had the whole night before him, unconscious of the fact that Camus’ hour of return that night was not at all to be counted on, simply for the reason that Camus, when Camille Fontrailles left the party, had become restless, and though he had taken his place at the card-table, showed such absence of mind that Luck, who hates a cold lover, declared herself dead against him.

Meanwhile Monsieur Brujon retired to rest, but not before sending a special messenger to Monsieur Gaston Le Roux with a note, enclosing the testimonial, and an inquiry as to whether the man mentioned in it was to be trusted.

M. Le Roux’s reply consisted of only one word, “Absolutely.”