Let us leave the young couple asleep, and see what the engineers of this whole intrigue were doing.
On leaving Chérubin, Daréna had gone in search of his friend Poterne, who, still dressed as a Polish count, was waiting for him at a restaurant in Ménilmontant. The two gentlemen sat down to breakfast and discussed their plot.
“It goes as if it were on wheels,” said Daréna. “Chérubin is now with the girl, whom he thinks that I kidnapped for him! I trust that Chichette won’t make any slips of the tongue. But no matter! with that accent of hers, anything will go; and besides, a lover never pays any attention to idioms!”
“Yes; he is supposed to be the concierge’s son. That boy has the look of a famous scamp.”
“He has a lot of intelligence; he’ll go a long way!”
“Besides, for the last act of our comedy, it will be better to have nobody there but a boy, who won’t interfere with us at all. And then, too, it will be much more probable that I was able to force my way into the house, if there’s nobody but a boy to guard it; for we must strike the great blow now. A few thousand-franc notes, by the way, are all right; but they’re gone too soon. We have an opportunity to obtain a good round sum and we mustn’t let it slip; it won’t come again.”
“You are perfectly right, Poterne. What we are going to do to-day is not strictly honorable; but, after all, the little fellow is rich; sixty thousand francs won’t ruin him.”
“Oh, no! we mustn’t flay him. It’s understood then--in two hours you will go to the house.”
“My dear Poterne, how impatient you are! we must give the lovers time to breakfast and to abandon themselves to the joys of love. Deuce take it! everybody must amuse himself, after all; and consider, Poterne, that by leaving them together longer, you will inevitably take them _in flagrante delicto!_ That is much the shrewder way. You are supposed to be the husband; your wife has been spirited away, and you find her in her ravisher’s arms; you bellow and roar and swear that you will kill them both--your wife especially! Chérubin pleads for mercy for her, and you refuse to accord it unless he signs notes of hand for sixty thousand francs.--You have some stamped paper, haven’t you?”
“Oh! I have all that I need. But suppose the young marquis defends himself, suppose he refuses to sign?”