During this conversation Paul’s cheek had grown paler and paler, for, occupied as he was, he could not fail to comprehend something of what was going on.  During the breakfast Mascarin had partially disclosed many strange secrets, and since then he had been even more enlightened.  It was but too evident to him that his protector was engaged in some dark and insidious plot, and Paul felt that he was standing over a mine which might explode at any moment.  He now began to fancy that there was some mysterious link between the woman Schimmel, who was so carefully watched, and the Marquis de Croisenois, so haughty, and yet on such intimate terms with the proprietor of the registry office.  Then there was the Countess de Mussidan, Flavia, the rich heiress, and Gaston de Gandelu, who was to be led into a crime the result of which would be penal servitude,—­all jumbled and mixed up together in one strange phantasmagoria.  Was he, Paul, to be a mere tool in such hands?  Toward what a precipice was he being impelled!  Mascarin and Van Klopen were not friends, as he had at first supposed, but confederates in villainy.  Too late did he begin to see collusion between Mascarin and Tantaine, which had resulted in his being accused of theft during his absence.  But the web had been woven too securely, and should he struggle to break through it, he might find himself exposed to even more terrible dangers.  He felt horrified at his position, but with this there was mingled no horror of the criminality of his associates, for the skilful hand of Mascarin had unwound and mastered all the bad materials of his nature.  He was dazzled at the glorious future held out before him, and said to himself that a man like Mascarin, unfettered by law, either human or Divine, would be most likely to achieve his ends.  “I should be in no danger,” mused he to himself, “if I yield myself up to the impetuous stream which is already carrying me along, for Mascarin is practised swimmer enough to keep both my head and his own above water.”

Little did Paul think that every fleeting expression in his countenance was caught up and treasured by the wily Mascarin; and it was intentionally that he had permitted Paul to listen to this compromising conversation.  He had decided that very morning, that if Paul was to be a useful tool, he must be at once set face to face with the grim realities of the position.

“Now,” said he, “for the really serious reason for my visit.  How do we stand now with regard to the Viscountess Bois Arden?”

Van Klopen gave his shoulders a shrug as he answered, “She is all right.  I have just sent her several most expensive costumes.”

“How much does she owe you?”

“Say twenty-five thousand francs.  She has owed us more than that before.”

“Really?” remarked Mascarin, “that woman has been grossly libelled; she is vain, frivolous, and fond of admiration, but nothing more.  For a whole fortnight I have been prying into her life, but I can’t hit upon anything in it to give us a pull over her.  The debt may help us, however.  Does her husband know that she has an account with us?”