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pubOne.info present you this new edition. The cold on the 8th of February, 186-, was more intense than the Parisians had experienced during the whole of the severe winter which had preceded it, for at twelve o'clock on that day Chevalier's thermometer, so well known by the denizens of Paris, registered three degrees below zero. The sky was overcast and full of threatening signs of snow, while the moisture on the pavement and roads had frozen hard, rendering traffic of all kinds exceedingly hazardous. The whole great city wore an air of dreariness and desolation, for even when a thin crust of ice covers the waters of the Seine, the mind involuntarily turns to those who have neither food, shelter, nor fuel.

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Historical fiction

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	06 novembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819940760
Langue	English

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CAUGHT IN THE NET
By Emile Gaboriau
CHAPTER I.
PUTTING ON THE SCREW.
The cold on the 8th of February, 186-, was moreintense than the Parisians had experienced during the whole of thesevere winter which had preceded it, for at twelve o'clock on thatday Chevalier's thermometer, so well known by the denizens ofParis, registered three degrees below zero. The sky was overcastand full of threatening signs of snow, while the moisture on thepavement and roads had frozen hard, rendering traffic of all kindsexceedingly hazardous. The whole great city wore an air ofdreariness and desolation, for even when a thin crust of ice coversthe waters of the Seine, the mind involuntarily turns to those whohave neither food, shelter, nor fuel.
This bitterly cold day actually made the landlady ofthe Hotel de Perou, though she was a hard, grasping woman ofAuvergne, gave a thought to the condition of her lodgers, and onequite different from her usual idea of obtaining the maximum ofrent for the minimum of accommodation.
“The cold, ” remarked she to her husband, who wasbusily engaged in replenishing the stove with fuel, “is enough tofrighten the wits out of a Polar bear. In this kind of weather Ialways feel very anxious, for it was during a winter like this thatone of our lodgers hung himself, a trick which cost us fiftyfrancs, in good, honest money, besides giving us a bad name in theneighborhood. The fact is, one never knows what lodgers are capableof doing. You should go up to the top floor, and see how they aregetting on there. ”
“Pooh, pooh! ” replied her husband, M. Loupins;“they will do well enough. ”
“Is that really your opinion? ”
“I know that I am right. Daddy Tantaine went out assoon as it was light, and a short time afterward Paul Violaine camedown. There is no one upstairs now but little Rose, and I expectthat she has been wise enough to stick to her bed. ”
“Ah! ” answered the landlady rather spitefully. “Ihave made up my mind regarding that young lady some time ago; sheis a sight too pretty for this house, and so I tell you. ”
The Hotel de Perou stands in the Rue de la Hachette,not twenty steps from the Place de Petit Pont; and no more cruellysarcastic title could ever have been conferred on a building. Theextreme shabbiness of the exterior of the house, the narrow, muddystreet in which it stood, the dingy windows covered with mud, andrepaired with every variety of patch, — all seemed to cry out tothe passers by: “This is the chosen abode of misery anddestitution. ”
The observer might have fancied it a robbers' den,but he would have been wrong; for the inhabitants were fairlyhonest. The Hotel de Perou was one of those refuges, growingscarcer and more scarce every day, where unhappy men and women, whohad been worsted in the battle of life, could find a shelter inreturn for the change remaining from the last five-franc piece.They treat it as the shipwrecked mariner uses the rock upon whichhe climbs from the whirl of the angry waters, and breathes a deepsigh of relief as he collects his forces for a fresh effort.However wretched existence may be, a protracted sojourn in such ashelter as the Hotel de Perou would be out of the question. Thechambers in every floor of the house are divided into small slipsby partitions, covered with canvas and paper, and pleasantly termedrooms by M. Loupins. The partitions were in a terrible condition,rickety and unstable, and the paper with which they were coveredtorn and hanging down in tatters; but the state of the attics waseven more deplorable, the ceilings of which were so low that theoccupants had to stoop continually, while the dormer windowsadmitted but a small amount of light. A bedstead, with a strawmattress, a rickety table, and two broken chairs, formed the solefurniture of these rooms. Miserable as these dormitories were, thelandlady asked and obtained twenty-two francs for them by themonth, as there was a fireplace in each, which she always pointedout to intending tenants.
The young woman whom M. Loupins alluded to by thename of Rose was seated in one of these dreary dens on this bitterwinter's day. Rose was an exquisitely beautiful girl about eighteenyears of age. She was very fair; her long lashes partiallyconcealed a pair of steely blue eyes, and to a certain extentrelieved their hard expression. Her ripe, red lips, which seemedformed for love and kisses, permitted a glimpse of a row of pearlyteeth. Her bright waving hair grew low down upon her forehead, andsuch of it as had escaped from the bondage of a cheap comb, withwhich it was fastened, hung in wild luxuriance over her exquisitelyshaped neck and shoulders. She had thrown over her ragged printgown the patched coverlet of the bed, and, crouched upon thetattered hearthrug before the hearth, upon which a few stickssmouldered, giving out hardly a particle of heat, she was tellingher fortune with a dirty pack of cards, endeavoring to consoleherself for the privations of the day by the promise of futureprosperity. She had spread those arbiters of her destiny in a halfcircle before her, and divided them into threes, each of which hada peculiar meaning, and her breast rose and fell as she turned themup and read upon their faces good fortune or ill-luck. Absorbed inthis task, she paid but little attention to the icy chilliness ofthe atmosphere, which made her fingers stiff, and dyed her whitehands purple.
“One, two, three, ” she murmured in a low voice. “Afair man, that's sure to be Paul. One, two, three, money to thehouse. One, two, three, troubles and vexations. One, two, three,the nine of spades; ah, dear! more hardships and misery, — alwaysthat wretched card turning up with its sad story! ”
Rose seemed utterly downcast at the sight of thelittle piece of painted cardboard, as though she had receivedcertain intelligence of a coming misfortune. She soon, however,recovered herself, and was again shuffling the pack, — cut it,taking care to do so with her left hand, spread them out beforeher, and again commenced counting: one, two, three. This time thecards appeared to be more propitious, and held out promises ofsuccess for the future.
“I am loved, ” read she, as she gazed anxiously uponthem, — “very much loved! Here is rejoicing, and a letter from adark man! See, here he is, — the knave of clubs. Always the same, ”she continued; “I cannot strive against fate. ”
Then, rising to her feet, she drew from a crack inthe wall, which formed a safe hiding-place for her secrets, asoiled and crumpled letter, and, unfolding it, she read for perhapsthe hundredth time these words:—
“MADEMOISELLE, — ”To see you is to love you. I giveyou my word of honor that this is true. The wretched hovel whereyour charms are hidden is no fit abode for you. A home, worthy inevery way to receive you, is at your service— Rue de Douai. It hasbeen taken in your name, as I am straightforward in these matters.Think of my proposal, and make what inquiries you like concerningme. I have not yet attained my majority, but shall do so in fivemonths and three days, when I shall inherit my mother's fortune. Myfather is wealthy, but old and infirm. From four to six in theafternoon of the next few days I will be in a carriage at thecorner of the Place de Petit Pont.
“GASTON DE GANDELU. ” The cynical insolence of theletter, together with its entire want of form, was a perfectexample of the style affected by those loiterers about town, knownto the Parisians as “mashers; ” and yet Rose did not appear at alldisgusted by the reception of such an unworthily worded proposal,but, on the contrary, rather pleased by its contents. “If I onlydared, ” mused she, with a sigh, — “ah, if I only dared! ” For atime she sat deeply immersed in thought, with her face buried inher hands, until she was aroused from her meditations by the soundof an active and youthful step upon the creaking stairs. “He hascome back, ” she gasped; and with the agile movement of a cat sheagain concealed the letter in its hiding-place, and she hadscarcely done so, when Paul Violaine entered the miserable room. Hewas a young man of twenty-three, of slender figure, but admirablyproportioned. His face was a perfect oval, and his complexion ofjust that slight olive tint which betrays the native of the southof France. A slight, silky moustache concealed his upper lip, andgave his features that air of manliness in which they would haveotherwise been deficient. His curly chestnut hair fell gracefullyover a brow upon which an expression of pride was visible, andenhanced the peculiar, restless glance of his large dark eyes. Hisphysical beauty, which was fully equal to that of Rose, wasincreased by an aristocratic air, popularly believed to be onlyfound in the scions of noble families. The landlady, in her momentsof good humor, used to assert her belief that her lodger was adisguised prince; but if this were the case, he was certainly onethat had been overtaken by poverty. His dress, to which the closestattention had been paid, revealed the state of destitution in whichhe was, — not the destitution which openly asks for alms, but thehidden poverty which shuns communication and blushes at a singleglance of pity. In this almost Arctic winter he wore clothesrendered thin by the constant friction of the clothes brush, overwhich was a light overcoat about as thick as the web of a spider.His shoes were well blacked, but their condition told the piteoustale of long walks in search of employment, or of that good luckwhich seems to evade its pursuer.
Paul was holding a roll of manuscript in his hand,and as he entered the room he threw it on the bed with a despairinggesture. “A failure again! ” exclaimed he, in accents of the utmostdepression. “Nothing else but failures! ”
The young woman rose hastily to her feet; sheappeared to have forgotten the cards completely; the smile ofsatisfaction faded from her face and her features, and anexpression of utter weariness took its place.
“What! no success? ”