At the appointed time the guests assembled, but the marquis did not appear. A letter, however, arrived announcing that by order of the king the marquis had gone to the Tuileries; he begged to be excused for the delay, and requested them to dine without him; he would be back at ten o’clock. The dinner took place without the son-in-law. The bride was in a bad temper, in spite of the congratulations on her husband’s distinguished position. Two courses had been dispatched. At dessert, a waiter laid a letter on the plate of each guest, informing them that the bridegroom was an escaped convict and had run away.
The consternation of M. and Mine. Loupian was terrible, but they did not see clearly into the cause of this misfortune. Four days afterward, one Sunday, while the whole family was on a trip into the country, fire broke out in nine different spots in the rooms below the cafe; a crowd gathered, and under pretense of assisting, stole, robbed, broke, and destroyed; the flames gained possession of the house,-which was consumed. The owner sued Loupian; he was utterly ruined, and the unfortunate couple had nothing left but a small sum belonging to the wife. All their cash, all their effects and furniture had been stolen or destroyed in the disastrous fire.
The Loupian family, in consequence, were deserted by their friends; the old servant, Prosper, alone remained faithful; he would not leave them; he followed them without wages, content to share their bread. He was lauded and admired, and a modest little cafe was set up in the Rue Saint-Antoine. Solari became a visitor there; but one evening, on returning home, he was seized with violent pains. A doctor was summoned, who declared Solari poisoned, and, in spite of all efforts, the unfortunate man died in terrible convulsions. Twelve hours after, the bier was, according to custom, exposed at the door of the house where Solari lived, and on the black cloth that covered the coffin a paper was found, on which these two ill-omened words were inscribed by means of printed letters, Number Two.
Besides the daughter whose fate had been so unhappy, Loupian had a son. This lad, falling in with bad companions of both sexes, after a few struggles, ended by plunging into reckless dissipation. One night his comrades proposed a “racket,” to break into a liquor-store, take a dozen bottles, drink them, and pay next day. Eugene Loupian, already half drunk, gleefully accepted the proposal; but just when the door had been forced, and the bottles selected, two for each member of the gang, the police, warned by a traitor, came on the scene; the six offenders were arrested, tried, and condemned for burglary, and young Loupian had to undergo twenty years in prison.
This catastrophe completed the ruin and ill-fortune of the family. The beautiful and rich Therese died of grief, and as she left no children, the remains of her dowry had to be restored to her family. The wretched Loupian and his daughter were thus left without resources; but the faithful waiter, who had a few savings, offered to advance some money to the young woman, but attached a price to these services, and made improper proposals to Mademoiselle Loupian. The girl, in hopes of saving her father, and in the depths of want, accepted the shameful condition, and sank from concubinage to the lowest stage of degradation.
Loupian could be hardly said to live; his misfortunes had shaken his reason. One evening, while he was walking in a dark alley in the garden of the Tuileries a man in a mask stood before him.
“Loupian,” he cried, “do you remember the year 1807?”
“Why?”
“Do you know what crime you committed at that time?”
“A crime!”
“An infamous crime! Out of jealousy, you flung into a dungeon your friend Picaud, – do you remember?”
“God has punished me severely!”
“No, not God, but Picaud himself. To allay his vengeance, he stabbed Chaubard on the Pont des Arts; he poisoned Solari; he gave your daughter a convict for a husband, and wove the net into which your son fell; his hand killed your dog and your wife’s parrot; his hand set fire to your house and urged on the robbers; he has caused your wife to die of sorrow; your daughter is his concubine. Yes, in your waiter, Prosper, recognize Picaud; recognize him at the moment when he will complete his Number Three!”
Furious with rage, he plunged his dagger into the heart of his victim, with such a well-directed blow that Loupian fell dead without uttering a cry. Having accomplished this last act of vengeance, Picaud turned to leave the garden, when an iron hand seized him by the neck and flung him to the ground beside the corpse, and a man, taking advantage of his surprise, tied his hands and feet, thrust a gag into his mouth, and, wrapping him up in his own cloak, carried him off.
Nothing could equal the rage and astonishment of Picaud when he found himself thus bound and hurried away. It was certain he had not fallen into the hands of the police, for even a single gendarme would not have taken such extraordinary precautions, as a shout would have brought to his aid the sentinels stationed near. Was it a robber who was carrying him off? What a strange robber! It could not be a joke. In any case, Picaud had fallen into a trap; this was the only conclusion that could be drawn by the murderer Picaud.