Prosper had been languishing in his private cell for nine days, when on Thursday morning the jailer came to inform him of the judge’s decision. He was conducted before the officer who had searched him when he was arrested; and the contents of his pocket, his watch, penknife, and several little pieces of jewelry, were restored to him; then he was told to sign a large sheet of paper, which he did.
He was next led across a dark passage, and almost pushed through a door, which was abruptly shut upon him.
He found himself on the quay: he was alone; he was free.
Free! Justice had confessed her inability to convict him of the crime of which he was accused.
Free! He could walk about, he could breathe the pure air; but every door would be closed against him.
Only acquittal after due trial would restore him to his former position among men.
A decision of “Not proven” had left him covered with suspicion.
The torments inflicted by public opinion are more fearful than those suffered in a prison cell.
At the moment of his restoration to liberty, Prosper so cruelly suffered from the horror of his situation, that he could not repress a cry of rage and despair.
“I am innocent! God knows I am innocent!” he cried out. But of what use was his anger?
Two strangers, who were passing, stopped to look at him, and said, pityingly, “He is crazy.”
The Seine was at his feet. A thought of suicide crossed his mind.
“No,” he said, “no! I have not even the right to kill myself. No: I will not die until I have vindicated my innocence!”
Often, day and night, had Prosper repeated these words, as he walked his cell. With a heart filled with a bitter, determined thirst for vengeance, which gives a man the force and patience to destroy or wear out all obstacles in his way, he would say, “Oh! why am I not at liberty? I am helpless, caged up; but let me once be free!”
Now he was free; and, for the first time, he saw the difficulties of the task before him. For each crime, justice requires a criminal: he could not establish his own innocence without producing the guilty man; how find the thief so as to hand him over to the law?
Discouraged, but not despondent, he turned in the direction of his apartments. He was beset by a thousand anxieties. What had taken place during the nine days that he had been cut off from all intercourse with his friends? No news of them had reached him. He had heard no more of what was going on in the outside world, than if his secret cell had been a grave.
He slowly walked along the streets, with his eyes cast down dreading to meet some familiar face. He, who had always been so haughty, would now be pointed at with the finger of scorn. He would be greeted with cold looks and averted faces. Men would refuse to shake hands with him. He would be shunned by honest people, who have no patience with a thief.
Still, if he could count on only one true friend! Yes: he was sure of one. But what friend would believe him when his father, who should have been the last to suspect him, had refused to believe him?
In the midst of his sufferings, when he felt almost overwhelmed by the sense of his wretched, lonely condition, he thought of Gypsy.
He had never loved the poor girl: indeed, at times he almost hated her; but now he felt a longing to see her. He wished to be with her, because he knew that she loved him, and that nothing would make her believe him guilty; because he knew that a woman remains true and firm in her faith, and is always faithful in the hour of adversity, although she sometimes fails in prosperity.
On entering the Rue Chaptal, Prosper saw his own door, but hesitated to enter it.
He suffered from the timidity which an honest man always feels when he knows he is viewed with suspicion.
He dreaded meeting anyone whom he knew; yet he could not remain in the street. He entered.
When the porter saw him, he uttered an exclamation of glad surprise, and said:
“Ah, here you are at last, monsieur. I told everyone you would come out as white as snow; and, when I read in the papers that you were arrested for robbery, I said, ‘My third-floor lodger a thief! Never would I believe such a thing, never!’”
The congratulations of this ignorant man were sincere, and offered from pure kindness of heart; but they impressed Prosper painfully, and he cut them short by abruptly asking:
“Madame of course has left: can you tell me where she has gone?”
“Dear me, no, monsieur. The day of your arrest, she sent for a hack, got into it with her trunks, and disappeared; and no one has seen or heard of her since.”
This was another blow to the unhappy cashier.
“And where are my servants?”
“Gone, monsieur; your father paid and discharged them.”
“I suppose you have my keys?”
“No, monsieur; when your father left here this morning at eight o’clock, he told me that a friend of his would take charge of your rooms until you should return. Of course you know who he is—a stout gentleman with red whiskers.”
Prosper was stupefied. What could be the meaning of one of his father’s friends being in his rooms? He did not, however, betray any surprise, but quietly said:
“Yes: I know who it is.”
He quickly ran up the stairs, and knocked at his door.
It was opened by his father’s friend.
He had been accurately described by the porter. A fat man, with a red face, sensual lips, brilliant eyes, and of rather coarse manners, stood bowing to Prosper, who had never seen him before.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, monsieur,” said he to Prosper.
He seemed to be perfectly at home. On the table lay a book, which he had taken from the bookcase; and he appeared ready to do the honors of the house.
“I must say, monsieur,” began Prosper.
“That you are surprised to find me here? So I suppose. Your father intended introducing me to you; but he was compelled to return to Beaucaire this morning; and let me add that he departed thoroughly convinced, as I myself am, that you never took a cent from M. Fauvel.”
At this unexpected good news, Prosper’s face lit up with pleasure.
“Here is a letter from your father, which I hope will serve as an introduction between us.”
Prosper opened the letter; and as he read his eyes grew brighter, and a slight color returned to his pale face.
When he had finished, he held out his hand to the large gentleman, and said:
“My father, monsieur, tells me you are his best friend; he advises me to have absolute confidence in you, and follow your counsel.”
“Exactly. This morning your father said to me, ‘Verduret’—that is my name—‘Verduret, my son is in great trouble, he must be helped out.’ I replied, ‘I am ready,’ and here I am to help you. Now the ice is broken, is it not? Then let us go to work at once. What do you intend to do?”
This question revived Prosper’s slumbering rage. His eyes flashed.
“What do I intend to do?” he said, angrily: “what should I do but seek the villain who has ruined me?”
“So I supposed; but have you any hopes of success?”
“None; yet I shall succeed, because, when a man devotes his whole life to the accomplishment of an object, he is certain to achieve it.”
“Well said, M. Prosper; and, to be frank, I fully expected that this would be your purpose. I have therefore already begun to think and act for you. I have a plan. In the first place, you will sell this furniture, and disappear from the neighborhood.”
“Disappear!” cried Prosper, indignantly, “disappear! Why, monsieur? Do you not see that such a step would be a confession of guilt, would authorize the world to say that I am hiding so as to enjoy undisturbed the stolen fortune?”
“Well, what then?” said the man with the red whiskers; “did you not say just now the sacrifice of your life is made? The skilful swimmer thrown into the river by malefactors is careful not to rise to the surface immediately: on the contrary, he plunges beneath, and remains there as long as his breath holds out. He comes up again at a great distance, and lands out of sight; then, when he is supposed to be dead, lost forever to the sight of man, he rises up and has his vengeance. You have an enemy? Some petty imprudence will betray him. But, while he sees you standing by on the watch, he will be on his guard.”
It was with a sort of amazed submission that Prosper listened to this man, who, though a friend of his father, was an utter stranger to himself.
He submitted unconsciously to the ascendency of a nature so much more energetic and forcible than his own. In his helpless condition he was grateful for friendly assistance, and said:
“I will follow your advice, monsieur.”
“I was sure you would, my dear friend. Let us reflect upon the course you should pursue. And remember that you will need every cent of the proceeds of the sale. Have you any ready money? no, but you must have some. Knowing that you would need it at once, I brought an upholsterer here; and he will give twelve thousand francs for everything excepting the pictures.”
The cashier could not refrain from shrugging his shoulders, which M. Verduret observed.
“Well,” said he, “it is rather hard, I admit, but it is a necessity. Now listen: you are the invalid, and I am the doctor charged to cure you; if I cut to the quick, you will have to endure it. It is the only way to save you.”
“Cut away then, monsieur,” answered Prosper.
“Well, we will hurry, for time passes. You have a friend, M. de Lagors?”
“Raoul? Yes, monsieur, he is an intimate friend.”
“Now tell me, who is this fellow?”
The term “fellow” seemed to offend Prosper.
“M. de Lagors, monsieur,” he said, haughtily, “is M. Fauvel’s nephew; he is a wealthy young man, handsome, intelligent, cultivated, and the best friend I have.”
“Hum!” said M. Verduret, “I shall be delighted to make the acquaintance of one adorned by so many charming qualities. I must let you know that I wrote him a note in your name asking him to come here, and he sent word that he would be here directly.”
“What! do you suppose—”
“Oh, I suppose nothing! Only I must see this young man. Also, I have arranged and will submit to you a little plan of conversation—”
A ring at the front door interrupted M. Verduret.
“Sacrebleu! adieu to my plan; here he is! Where can I hide so as to hear and see?”
“There, in my bedroom; leave the door open and the curtain down.”
A second ring was heard.
“Now remember, Prosper,” said M. Verduret in a warning tone, “not one word to this man about your plans, or about me. Pretend to be discouraged, helpless, and undecided what to do.”
And he disappeared behind the curtain, as Prosper ran to open the door.
Prosper’s portrait of M. de Lagors had not been an exaggerated one. So handsome a face and manly a figure could belong only to a noble character.
Although Raoul said that he was twenty-four, he appeared to be not more than twenty. He had a superb figure, well knit and supple; a beautiful white brow, shaded by soft chestnut curly hair, soft blue eyes which beamed with frankness.
His first impulse was to throw himself into Prosper’s arms.
“My poor, dear friend!” he said, “my poor Prosper!”
But beneath these affectionate demonstrations there was a certain constraint, which, if it escaped the cashier, was noticed by M. Verduret.
“Your letter, my dear Prosper,” said Raoul, “made me almost ill, I was so frightened by it. I asked myself if you could have lost your mind. Then I left everything, to fly to your assistance; and here I am.”
Prosper did not seem to hear him; he was pre-occupied about the letter which he had not written. What were its contents? Who was this stranger whose assistance he had accepted?
“You must not feel discouraged,” continued M. de Lagors: “you are young enough to commence life anew. Your friends are still left to you. I have come to say to you, Rely upon me; I am rich, half of my fortune is at your disposal.”
This generous offer, made at a moment like this with such frank simplicity, deeply touched Prosper.
“Thanks, Raoul,” he said with emotion, “thank you! But unfortunately all the money in the world would be of no use now.”
“Why so? What are you going to do? Do you propose to remain in Paris?”
“I know not, Raoul. I have made no plans yet. My mind is too confused for me to think.”
“I will tell you what to do,” replied Raoul quickly, “you must start afresh; until this mysterious robbery is explained you must keep away from Paris. It will never do for you to remain here.”
“And suppose it never should be explained?”
“Only the more reason for your remaining in oblivion. I have been talking about you to Clameran. ‘If I were in Prosper’s place,’ he said, ‘I would turn everything into money, and embark for America; there I would make a fortune, and return to crush with my millions those who have suspected me.’”
This advice offended Prosper’s pride, but he said nothing. He was thinking of what the stranger had said to him.
“I will think it over,” he finally forced himself to say. “I will see. I would like to know what M. Fauvel says.”
“My uncle? I suppose you know that I have declined the offer he made me to enter his banking-house, and we have almost quarrelled. I have not set foot in his house for over a month; but I hear of him occasionally.”
“Through whom?”
“Through your friend Cavaillon. My uncle, they say, is more distressed by this affair than you are. He does not attend to his business, and wanders about as if he had lost every friend on earth.”
“And Mme. Fauvel, and”—Prosper hesitated—“and Mlle. Madeleine, how are they?”
“Oh,” said Raoul lightly, “my aunt is as pious as ever; she has mass said for the benefit of the sinner. As to my handsome, icy cousin, she cannot bring herself down to common matters, because she is entirely absorbed in preparing for the fancy ball to be given day after to-morrow by MM. Jandidier. She has discovered, so one of her friends told me, a wonderful dressmaker, a stranger who has suddenly appeared from no one knows where, who is making a costume of Catherine de Medici’s maid of honor; and it is to be a marvel of beauty.”
Excessive suffering brings with it a sort of dull insensibility and stupor; and Prosper thought that there was nothing left to be inflicted upon him, and had reached that state of impassibility from which he never expected to be aroused, when this last remark of M. de Lagors made him cry out with pain:
“Madeleine! Oh, Madeleine!”
M. de Lagors, pretending not to have heard him, rose from his chair, and said:
“I must leave you now, my dear Prosper; on Saturday I will see these ladies at the ball, and will bring you news of them. Now, do have courage, and remember that, whatever happens, you have a friend in me.”
Raoul shook Prosper’s hand, closed the door after him, and hurried up the street, leaving Prosper standing immovable and overcome by disappointment.
He was aroused from his gloomy revery by hearing the red-whiskered man say, in a bantering tone:
“So these are your friends.”
“Yes,” said Prosper with bitterness. “You heard him offer me half his fortune?”
M. Verduret shrugged his shoulders with an air of compassion.
“That was very stingy on his part,” he said, “why did he not offer the whole? Offers cost nothing; although I have no doubt that this sweet youth would cheerfully give ten thousand francs to put the ocean between you and him.”
“Monsieur! what reason?”
“Who knows? Perhaps for the same reason that he had not set foot in his uncle’s house for a month.”
“But that is the truth, monsieur, I am sure of it.”
“Naturally,” said M. Verduret with a provoking smile. “But,” he continued with a serious air, “we have devoted enough time to this Adonis. Now, be good enough to change your dress, and we will go and call on M. Fauvel.”
This proposal seemed to stir up all of Prosper’s anger.
“Never!” he exclaimed with excitement, “no, never will I voluntarily set eyes on that wretch!”
This resistance did not surprise M. Verduret.
“I can understand your feelings toward him,” said he, “but at the same time I hope you will change your mind. For the same reason that I wished to see M. de Lagors, do I wish to see M. Fauvel; it is necessary, you understand. Are you so very weak that you cannot put a constraint upon yourself for five minutes? I shall introduce myself as one of your relatives, and you need not open your lips.”
“If it is positively necessary,” said Prosper, “if—”
“It is necessary; so come on. You must have confidence, put on a brave face. Hurry and fix yourself up a little; it is getting late, and I am hungry. We will breakfast on our way there.”
Prosper had hardly passed into his bedroom when the bell rang again. M. Verduret opened the door. It was the porter, who handed him a thick letter, and said:
“This letter was left this morning for M. Bertomy; I was so flustered when he came that I forgot to hand it to him. It is a very odd-looking letter; is it not, monsieur?”
It was indeed a most peculiar missive. The address was not written, but formed of printed letters, carefully cut from a book, and pasted on the envelope.
“Oh, ho! what is this?” cried M. Verduret; then turning toward the porter he cried, “Wait.”
He went into the next room, and closed the door behind him; there he found Prosper, anxious to know what was going on.
“Here is a letter for you,” said M. Verduret.
He at once tore open the envelope.
Some bank-notes dropped out; he counted them; there were ten.
Prosper’s face turned purple.
“What does this mean?” he asked.
“We will read the letter and find out,” replied M. Verduret.
The letter, like the address, was composed of printed words cut out and pasted on a sheet of paper.
It was short but explicit:
“MY DEAR PROSPER—A friend, who knows the horror of your situation, sends you this succor. There is one heart, be assured, that shares your sufferings. Go away; leave France; you are young; the future is before you. Go, and may this money bring you happiness!”
As M. Verduret read the note, Prosper’s rage increased. He was angry and perplexed, for he could not explain the rapidly succeeding events which were so calculated to mystify his already confused brain.
“Everybody wishes me to go away,” he cried; “then there must be a conspiracy against me.”
M. Verduret smiled with satisfaction.
“At last you begin to open your eyes, you begin to understand. Yes, there are people who hate you because of the wrong they have done you; there are people to whom your presence in Paris is a constant danger, and who will not feel safe till they are rid of you.”
“But who are these people, monsieur? Tell me, who dares send this money?”
“If I knew, my dear Prosper, my task would be at an end, for then I would know who committed the robbery. But we will continue our searches. I have finally procured evidence which will sooner or later become convincing proof. I have heretofore only made deductions more or less probable; I now possess knowledge which proves that I was not mistaken. I walked in darkness: now I have a light to guide me.”
As Prosper listened to M. Verduret’s reassuring words, he felt hope arising in his breast.
“Now,” said M. Verduret, “we must take advantage of this evidence, gained by the imprudence of our enemies, without delay. We will begin with the porter.”
He opened the door and called out:
“I say, my good man, step here a moment.”
The porter entered, looking very much surprised at the authority exercised over his lodger by this stranger.
“Who gave you this letter?” said M. Verduret.
“A messenger, who said he was paid for bringing it.”
“Do you know him?”
“I know him well; he is the errand-runner who keeps his cart at the corner of the Rue Pigalle.”
“Go and bring him here.”
After the porter had gone, M. Verduret drew from his pocket his diary, and compared a page of it with the notes which he had spread over the table.
“These notes were not sent by the thief,” he said, after an attentive examination of them.
“Do you think so, monsieur?”
“I am certain of it; that is, unless the thief is endowed with extraordinary penetration and forethought. One thing is certain: these ten thousand francs are not part of the three hundred and fifty thousand which were stolen from the safe.”
“Yet,” said Prosper, who could not account for this certainty on the part of his protector, “yet——”
“There is no doubt about it: I have the numbers of all the stolen notes.”
“What! When even I did not have them?”
“But the bank did, fortunately. When we undertake an affair we must anticipate everything, and forget nothing. It is a poor excuse for a man to say, ‘I did not think of it’ when he commits some oversight. I thought of the bank.”
If, in the beginning, Prosper had felt some repugnance about confiding in his father’s friend, the feeling had now disappeared.
He understood that alone, scarcely master of himself, governed only by the inspirations of inexperience, never would he have the patient perspicacity of this singular man.
Verduret continued talking to himself, as if he had absolutely forgotten Prosper’s presence:
“Then, as this package did not come from the thief, it can only come from the other person, who was near the safe at the time of the robbery, but could not prevent it, and now feels remorse. The probability of two persons assisting at the robbery, a probability suggested by the scratch, is now converted into undeniable certainty.Ergo, I was right.”
Prosper listening attentively tried hard to comprehend this monologue, which he dared not interrupt.
“Let us seek,” went on the fat man, “this second person, whose conscience pricks him, and yet who dares not reveal anything.”
He read the letter over several times, scanning the sentences, and weighing every word.
“Evidently this letter was composed by a woman,” he finally said. “Never would one man doing another man a service, and sending him money, use the word ‘succor.’ A man would have said, loan, money, or some other equivalent, but succor, never. No one but a woman, ignorant of masculine susceptibilities, would have naturally made use of this word to express the idea it represents. As to the sentence, ‘There is one heart,’ and so on, it could only have been written by a woman.”
“You are mistaken, monsieur,” said Prosper: “no woman is mixed up in this affair.”
M. Verduret paid no attention to this interruption, perhaps he did not hear it; perhaps he did not care to argue the matter.
“Now, let us see if we can discover whence the printed words were taken to compose this letter.”
He approached the window, and began to study the pasted words with all the scrupulous attention which an antiquarian would devote to an old, half-effaced manuscript.
“Small type,” he said, “very slender and clear; the paper is thin and glossy. Consequently, these words have not been cut from a newspaper, magazine, or even a novel. I have seen type like this, I recognize it at once; Didot often uses it, so does Mme. de Tours.”
He stopped with his mouth open, and eyes fixed, appealing laboriously to his memory.
Suddenly he struck his forehead exultantly.
“Now I have it!” he cried; “now I have it! Why did I not see it at once? These words have all been cut from a prayer-book. We will look, at least, and then we shall be certain.”
He moistened one of the words pasted on the paper with his tongue, and, when it was sufficiently softened, he detached it with a pin. On the other side of this word was printed a Latin word,Deus.
“Ah, ha,” he said with a little laugh of satisfaction. “I knew it. Father Taberet would be pleased to see this. But what has become of the mutilated prayer-book? Can it have been burned? No, because a heavy-bound book is not easily burned. It is thrown in some corner.”
M. Verduret was interrupted by the porter, who returned with the messenger from the Rue Pigalle.
“Ah, here you are,” he said encouragingly. Then he showed the envelope of the letter, and said:
“Do you remember bringing this letter here this morning?”
“Perfectly, monsieur. I took particular notice of the direction; we don’t often see anything like it.”
“Who told you to bring it? a gentleman, or a lady?”
“Neither, monsieur; it was a porter.”
This reply made the porter laugh very much, but not a muscle of M. Verduret’s face moved.
“A porter? Well, do you know this colleague of yours.”
“I never even saw him before.”
“How does he look?”
“He was neither tall nor short; he wore a green vest, and his medal.”
“Your description is so vague that it would suit every porter in the city; but did your colleague tell you who sent the letter?”
“No, monsieur. He only put ten sous in my hand, and said, ‘Here, carry this to No. 39, Rue Chaptal: a coachman on the boulevard handed it to me.’ Ten sous! I warrant you he made more than that by it.”
This answer seemed to disconcert M. Verduret. So many precautions taken in sending the letter disturbed him, and disarranged his plans.
“Do you think you would recognize the porter again?”
“Yes, monsieur, if I saw him.”
“How much do you gain a day as a porter?”
“I can’t tell exactly; but my corner is a good stand, and I am busy doing errands nearly all day. I suppose I make from eight to ten francs.”
“Very well; I will give you ten francs a day if you will walk about the streets, and look for the porter who brought this letter. Every evening, at eight o’clock, come to the Archangel, on the Quai Saint Michel, give me a report of your search, and receive your pay. Ask for M. Verduret. If you find the man I will give you fifty francs. Do you accept?”
“I rather think I will, monsieur.”
“Then don’t lose a minute. Start off!”
Although ignorant of M. Verduret’s plans, Prosper began to comprehend the sense of his investigations. His fate depended upon their success, and yet he almost forgot this fact in his admiration of this singular man; for his energy, his bantering coolness when he wished to discover anything, the surety of his deductions, the fertility of his expedients, and the rapidity of his movements, were astonishing.
“Monsieur,” said Prosper when the porter had left the room, “do you still think you see a woman’s hand in this affair?”
“More than ever; and a pious woman too, and a woman who has two prayer-books, since she could cut up one to write to you.”
“And you hope to find the mutilated book?”
“I do, thanks to the opportunity I have of making an immediate search; which I will set about at once.”
Saying this, he sat down, and rapidly scratched off a few lines on a slip of paper, which he folded up, and put in his vest-pocket.
“Are you ready to go to M. Fauvel’s? Yes? Come on, then; we have certainly earned our breakfast to-day.”
When Raoul de Lagors spoke of M. Fauvel’s extraordinary dejection, he had not exaggerated.
Since the fatal day when, upon his denunciation, his cashier had been arrested, the banker, this active, energetic man of business, had been a prey to the most gloomy melancholy, and absolutely refused to take any interest in his affairs, seldom entering the banking-house.
He, who had always been so domestic, never came near his family except at meals, when he would swallow a few mouthfuls, and hastily leave the room.
Shut up in his study, he would deny himself to visitors. His anxious countenance, his indifference to everybody and everything, his constant reveries and fits of abstraction, betrayed the preoccupation of some fixed idea, or the tyrannical empire of some hidden sorrow.
The day of Prosper’s release, about three o’clock, M. Fauvel was, as usual, seated in his study, with his elbows resting on the table, and his face buried in his hands, when his office-boy rushed in, and with a frightened look said:
“Monsieur, the former cashier, M. Bertomy, is here with one of his relatives; he says he must see you on business.”
The banker at these words started up as if he had been shot.
“Prosper!” he cried in a voice choked by anger, “what! does he dare—”
Then remembering that he ought to control himself before his servant, he waited a few moments, and then said, in a tone of forced calmness:
“Ask them to walk in.”
If M. Verduret had counted upon witnessing a strange and affecting sight, he was not disappointed.
Nothing could be more terrible than the attitude of these two men as they stood confronting each other. The banker’s face was almost purple with suppressed anger, and he looked as if about to be struck by apoplexy. Prosper was as pale and motionless as a corpse.
Silent and immovable, they stood glaring at each other with mortal hatred.
M. Verduret curiously watched these two enemies, with the indifference and coolness of a philosopher, who, in the most violent outbursts of human passion, merely sees subjects for meditation and study.
Finally, the silence becoming more and more threatening, he decided to break it by speaking to the banker:
“I suppose you know, monsieur, that my young relative has just been released from prison.”
“Yes,” replied M. Fauvel, making an effort to control himself, “yes, for want of sufficient proof.”
“Exactly so, monsieur, and this want of proof, as stated in the decision of ‘Not proven,’ ruins the prospects of my relative, and compels him to leave here at once for America.”
M. Fauvel’s features relaxed as if he had been relieved of some fearful agony.
“Ah, he is going away,” he said, “he is going abroad.”
There was no mistaking the resentful, almost insulting intonation of the words, “going away!”
M. Verduret took no notice of M. Fauvel’s manner.
“It appears to me,” he continued, in an easy tone, “that Prosper’s determination is a wise one. I merely wished him, before leaving Paris, to come and pay his respects to his former chief.”
The banker smiled bitterly.
“M. Bertomy might have spared us both this painful meeting. I have nothing to say to him, and of course he can have nothing to tell me.”
This was a formal dismissal; and M. Verduret, understanding it thus, bowed to M. Fauvel, and left the room, accompanied by Prosper, who had not opened his lips.
They had reached the street before Prosper recovered the use of his tongue.
“I hope you are satisfied, monsieur,” he said, in a gloomy tone; “you exacted this painful step, and I could only acquiesce. Have I gained anything by adding this humiliation to the others which I have suffered?”
“You have not, but I have,” replied M. Verduret. “I could find no way of gaining access to M. Fauvel, save through you; and now I have found out what I wanted to know. I am convinced that M. Fauvel had nothing to do with the robbery.”
“Oh, monsieur!” objected Prosper, “innocence can be feigned.”
“Certainly, but not to this extent. And this is not all. I wished to find out if M. Fauvel would be accessible to certain suspicions. I am now confident that he is.”
Prosper and his companion had stopped to talk more at their ease, near the corner of the Rue Lafitte, in the middle of a large space which had lately been cleared by pulling down an old house.
M. Verduret seemed to be anxious, and was constantly looking around as if he expected someone.
He soon uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.
At the other end of the vacant space, he saw Cavaillon, who was bareheaded and running.
He was so excited that he did not even stop to shake hands with Prosper, but darted up to M. Verduret, and said:
“They have gone, monsieur!”
“How long since?”
“They went about a quarter of an hour ago.”
“The deuce they did! Then we have not an instant to lose.”
He handed Cavaillon the note he had written some hours before at Prosper’s house.
“Here, send him this, and then return at once to your desk; you might be missed. It was very imprudent in you to come out without your hat.”
Cavaillon ran off as quickly as he had come. Prosper was stupefied.
“What!” he exclaimed. “You know Cavaillon?”
“So it seems,” answered M. Verduret with a smile, “but we have no time to talk; come on, hurry!”
“Where are we gong now?”
“You will soon know; walk fast!”
And he set the example by striding rapidly toward the Rue Lafayette. As they went along he continued talking more to himself than to Prosper.
“Ah,” said he, “it is not by putting both feet in one shoe, that one wins a race. The track once found, we should never rest an instant. When the savage discovers the footprints of an enemy, he follows it persistently, knowing that falling rain or a gust of wind may efface the footprints at any moment. It is the same with us: the most trifling incident may destroy the traces we are following up.”
M. Verduret suddenly stopped before a door bearing the number 81.
“We are going in here,” he said to Prosper; “come.”
They went up the steps, and stopped on the second floor, before a door over which was a large sign, “Fashionable Dressmaker.”
A handsome bell-rope hung on the wall, but M. Verduret did not touch it. He tapped with the ends of his fingers in a peculiar way, and the door instantly opened as if someone had been watching for his signal on the other side.
The door was opened by a neatly dressed woman of about forty. She quietly ushered M. Verduret and Prosper into a neat dining-room with several doors opening into it.
This woman bowed humbly to M. Verduret, as if he were some superior being.
He scarcely noticed her salutation, but questioned her with a look. His look said:
“Well?”
She bowed affirmatively:
“Yes.”
“In there?” asked M. Verduret in a low tone, pointing to one of the doors.
“No,” said the woman in the same tone, “over there, in the little parlor.”
M. Verduret opened the door pointed out, and pushed Prosper into the little parlor, whispering, as he did so:
“Go in, and keep your presence of mind.”
But his injunction was useless. The instant he cast his eyes around the room into which he had so unceremoniously been pushed without any warning, Prosper exclaimed, in a startled voice:
“Madeleine!”
It was indeed M. Fauvel’s niece, looking more beautiful than ever. Hers was that calm, dignified beauty which imposes admiration and respect.
Standing in the middle of the room, near a table covered with silks and satins, she was arranging a skirt of red velvet embroidered in gold; probably the dress she was to wear as maid of honor to Catherine de Medicis.
At sight of Prosper, all the blood rushed to her face, and her beautiful eyes half closed, as if she were about to faint; she clung to the table to prevent herself from falling.
Prosper well knew that Madeleine was not one of those cold-hearted women whom nothing could disturb, and who feel sensations, but never a true sentiment.
Of a tender, dreamy nature, she betrayed in the minute details of her life the most exquisite delicacy. But she was also proud, and incapable of in any way violating her conscience. When duty spoke, she obeyed.
She recovered from her momentary weakness, and the soft expression of her eyes changed to one of haughty resentment. In an offended tone she said:
“What has emboldened you, monsieur, to be watching my movements? Who gave you permission to follow me, to enter this house?”
Prosper was certainly innocent. He would have given worlds to explain what had just happened, but he was powerless, and could only remain silent.
“You promised me upon your honor, monsieur,” continued Madeleine, “that you would never again seek my presence. Is this the way you keep your word?”
“I did promise, mademoiselle, but——”
He stopped.
“Oh, speak!”
“So many things have happened since that terrible day, that I think I am excusable in forgetting, for one hour, an oath torn from me in a moment of blind weakness. It is to chance, at least to another will than my own, that I am indebted for the happiness of once more finding myself near you. Alas! the instant I saw you my heart bounded with joy. I did not think, no I could not think, that you would prove more pitiless than strangers have been, that you would cast me off when I am so miserable and heart-broken.”
Had not Prosper been so agitated he could have read in the eyes of Madeleine—those beautiful eyes which had so long been the arbiters of his destiny—the signs of a great inward struggle.
It was, however, in a firm voice that she replied:
“You know me well enough, Prosper, to be sure than no blow can strike you without reaching me at the same time. You suffer, I suffer with you: I pity you as a sister would pity a beloved brother.”
“A sister!” said Prosper, bitterly. “Yes, that was the word you used the day you banished me from your presence. A sister! Then why during three years did you delude me with vain hopes? Was I a brother to you the day we went to Notre Dame de Fourvieres, that day when, at the foot of the altar, we swore to love each other for ever and ever, and you fastened around my neck a holy relic and said, ‘Wear this always for my sake, never part from it, and it will bring you good fortune’?”
Madeleine attempted to interrupt him by a supplicating gesture: he would not heed it, but continued with increased bitterness:
“One month after that happy day—a year ago—you gave me back my promise, told me to consider myself free from any engagement, and never to come near you again. If I could have discovered in what way I had offended you—But no, you refused to explain. You drove me away, and to obey you I told everyone that I had left you of my own accord. You told me that an invincible obstacle had arisen between us, and I believed you, fool that I was! The obstacle was your own heart, Madeleine. I have always worn the medal; but it has not brought me happiness or good fortune.”
As white and motionless as a statue, Madeleine stood with bowed head before this storm of passionate reproach.
“I told you to forget me,” she murmured.
“Forget!” exclaimed Prosper, excitedly, “forget! Can I forget! Is it in my power to stop, by an effort of will, the circulation of my blood? Ah, you have never loved! To forget, as to stop the beatings of the heart, there is but one means—death!”
This word, uttered with the fixed determination of a desperate, reckless man, caused Madeleine to shudder.
“Miserable man!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, miserable man, and a thousand times more miserable than you can imagine! You can never understand the tortures I have suffered, when for a year I would awake every morning, and say to myself, ‘It is all over, she has ceased to love me!’ This great sorrow stared me in the face day and night in spite of all my efforts to dispel it. And you speak of forgetfulness! I sought it at the bottom of poisoned cups, but found it not. I tried to extinguish this memory of the past, that tears my heart to shreds like a devouring flame; in vain. When the body succumbed, the pitiless heart kept watch. With this corroding torture making life a burden, do you wonder that I should seek rest which can only be obtained by suicide?”
“I forbid you to utter that word.”
“You forget, Madeleine, that you have no right to forbid me, unless you love me. Love would make you all powerful, and me obedient.”
With an imperious gesture Madeleine interrupted him as if she wished to speak, and perhaps to explain all, to exculpate herself.
But a sudden thought stopped her; she clasped her hands despairingly, and cried:
“My God! this suffering is beyond endurance!”
Prosper seemed to misconstrue her words.
“Your pity comes too late,” he said. “There is no happiness in store for one like myself, who has had a glimpse of divine felicity, had the cup of bliss held to his lips, and then dashed to the ground. There is nothing left to attach me to life. You have destroyed my holiest beliefs; I came forth from prison disgraced by my enemies; what is to become of me? Vainly do I question the future; for me there is no hope of happiness. I look around me to see nothing but abandonment, ignominy, and despair!”
“Prosper, my brother, my friend, if you only knew——”
“I know but one thing, Madeleine, and that is, that you no longer love me, and that I love you more madly than ever. Oh, Madeleine, God only knows how I love you!”
He was silent. He hoped for an answer. None came.
But suddenly the silence was broken by a stifled sob.
It was Madeleine’s maid, who, seated in a corner, was weeping bitterly.
Madeleine had forgotten her presence.
Prosper had been so surprised at finding Madeleine when he entered the room, that he kept his eyes fastened upon her face, and never once looked about him to see if anyone else were present.
He turned in surprise and looked at the weeping woman.
He was not mistaken: this neatly dressed waiting-maid was Nina Gypsy.
Prosper was so startled that he became perfectly dumb. He stood there with ashy lips, and a chilly sensation creeping through his veins.
The horror of the situation terrified him. He was there, between the two women who had ruled his fate; between Madeleine, the proud heiress who spurned his love, and Nina Gypsy, the poor girl whose devotion to himself he had so disdainfully rejected.
And she had heard all; poor Gypsy had witnessed the passionate avowal of her lover, had heard him swear that he could never love any woman but Madeleine, that if his love were not reciprocated he would kill himself, as he had nothing else to live for.
Prosper could judge of her sufferings by his own. For she was wounded not only in the present, but in the past. What must be her humiliation and danger on hearing the miserable part which Prosper, in his disappointed love, had imposed upon her?
He was astonished that Gypsy—violence itself—remained silently weeping, instead of rising and bitterly denouncing him.
Meanwhile Madeleine had succeeded in recovering her usual calmness.
Slowly and almost unconsciously she had put on her bonnet and shawl, which were lying on the sofa.
Then she approached Prosper, and said:
“Why did you come here? We both have need of all the courage we can command. You are unhappy, Prosper; I am more than unhappy, I am most wretched. You have a right to complain: I have not the right to shed a tear. While my heart is slowly breaking, I must wear a smiling face. You can seek consolation in the bosom of a friend: I can have no confidant but God.”
Prosper tried to murmur a reply, but his pale lips refused to articulate; he was stifling.
“I wish to tell you,” continued Madeleine, “that I have forgotten nothing. But oh! let not this knowledge give you any hope; the future is blank for us, but if you love me you will live. You will not, I know, add to my already heavy burden of sorrow, the agony of mourning your death. For my sake, live; live the life of a good man, and perhaps the day will come when I can justify myself in your eyes. And now, oh, my brother, oh, my only friend, adieu! adieu!”
She pressed a kiss upon his brow, and rushed from the room, followed by Nina Gypsy.
Prosper was alone. He seemed to be awaking from a troubled dream. He tried to think over what had just happened, and asked himself if he were losing his mind, or whether he had really spoken to Madeleine and seen Gypsy?
He was obliged to attribute all this to the mysterious power of the strange man whom he had seen for the first time that very morning.
How did he gain this wonderful power of controlling events to suit his own purposes?
He seemed to have anticipated everything, to know everything. He was acquainted with Cavaillon, he knew all Madeleine’s movements; he had made even Gypsy become humble and submissive.
Thinking all this, Prosper had reached such a degree of exasperation, that when M. Verduret entered the little parlor, he strode toward him white with rage, and in a harsh, threatening voice, said to him:
“Who are you?”
The stout man did not show any surprise at this burst of anger, but quietly answered:
“A friend of your father’s; did you not know it?”
“That is no answer, monsieur; I have been surprised into being influenced by a stranger, and now—”
“Do you want my biography, what I have been, what I am, and what I may be? What difference does it make to you? I told you that I would save you; the main point is that I am saving you.”
“Still I have the right to ask by what means you are saving me.”
“What good will it do you to know what my plans are?”
“In order to decide whether I will accept or reject them?”
“But suppose I guarantee success?”
“That is not sufficient, monsieur. I do not choose to be any longer deprived of my own free will, to be exposed without warning to trials like those I have undergone to-day. A man of my age must know what he is doing.”
“A man of your age, Prosper, when he is blind, takes a guide, and does not undertake to point out the way to his leader.”
The half-bantering, half-commiserating tone of M. Verduret was not calculated to calm Prosper’s irritation.
“That being the case, monsieur,” he cried, “I will thank you for your past services, and decline them for the future, as I have no need of them. If I attempted to defend my honor and my life, it was because I hoped that Madeleine would be restored to me. I have been convinced to-day that all is at an end between us; I retire from the struggle, and care not what becomes of me now.”
Prosper was so decided, that M. Verduret seemed alarmed.
“You must be mad,” he finally said.
“No, unfortunately I am not. Madeleine has ceased to love me, and of what importance is anything else?”
His heart-broken tone aroused M. Verduret’s sympathy, and he said, in a kind, soothing tone:
“Then you suspect nothing? You did not fathom the meaning of what she said?”
“You were listening,” cried Prosper fiercely.
“I certainly was.”
“Monsieur!”
“Yes. It was a presumptuous thing to do, perhaps; but the end justified the means in this instance. I am glad I did listen, because it has enabled me to say to you, Take courage, Prosper: Mlle. Madeleine loves you; she has never ceased to love you.”
Like a dying man who eagerly listens to deceitful promises of recovery, although he feels himself sinking into the grave, did Prosper feel his sad heart cheered by M. Verduret’s assertion.
“Oh,” he murmured, suddenly calmed, “if only I could hope!”
“Rely upon me, I am not mistaken. Ah, I could see the torture endured by this generous girl, while she struggled between her love, and what she believed to be her duty. Were you not convinced of her love when she bade you farewell?”
“She loves me, she is free, and yet she shuns me.”
“No, she is not free! In breaking off her engagement with you, she was governed by some powerful, irrepressible event. She is sacrificing herself—for whom? We shall soon know; and the secret of her self-sacrifice will discover to us the secret of her plot against you.”
As M. Verduret spoke, Prosper felt all his resolutions of revolt slowly melting away, and their place taken by confidence and hope.
“If what you say were true!” he mournfully said.
“Foolish young man! Why do you persist in obstinately shutting your eyes to the proof I place before you? Can you not see that Mlle. Madeleine knows who the thief is? Yes, you need not look so shocked; she knows the thief, but no human power can tear it from her. She sacrifices you, but then she almost has the right, since she first sacrificed herself.”
Prosper was almost convinced; and it nearly broke his heart to leave this little parlor where he had seen Madeleine.
“Alas!” he said, pressing M. Verduret’s hand, “you must think me a ridiculous fool! but you don’t know how I suffer.”
The man with the red whiskers sadly shook his head, and his voice sounded very unsteady as he replied, in a low tone:
“What you suffer, I have suffered. Like you, I loved, not a pure, noble girl, yet a girl fair to look upon. For three years I was at her feet, a slave to her every whim; when, one day she suddenly deserted me who adored her, to throw herself in the arms of a man who despised her. Then, like you, I wished to die. Neither threats nor entreaties could induce her to return to me. Passion never reasons, and she loved my rival.”
“And did you know this rival?”
“I knew him.”
“And you did not seek revenge?”
“No,” replied M. Verduret with a singular expression, “no: fate took charge of my vengeance.”
For a minute Prosper was silent; then he said:
“I have finally decided, monsieur. My honor is a sacred trust for which I must account to my family. I am ready to follow you to the end of the world; dispose of me as you judge proper.”
That same day Prosper, faithful to his promise, sold his furniture, and wrote a letter to his friends announcing his intended departure to San Francisco.
In the evening he and M. Verduret installed themselves in the “Archangel.”
Mme. Alexandre gave Prosper her prettiest room, but it was very ugly compared with the coquettish little parlor on the Rue Chaptal. His state of mind did not permit him, however, to notice the difference between his former and present quarters. He lay on an old sofa, meditating upon the events of the day, and feeling a bitter satisfaction in his isolated condition.
About eleven o’clock he thought he would raise the window, and let the cool air fan his burning brow; as he did so a piece of paper was blown from among the folds of the window-curtain, and lay at his feet on the floor.
Prosper mechanically picked it up, and looked at it.
It was covered with writing, the handwriting of Nina Gypsy; he could not be mistaken about that.
It was the fragment of a torn letter; and, if the half sentences did not convey any clear meaning, they were sufficient to lead the mind into all sorts of conjectures.
The fragment read as follows:
“of M. Raoul, I have been very im . . . plotted against him, of whom never . . . warn Prosper, and then . . . best friend. he . . . hand of Mlle. Ma . . .”
Prosper never closed his eyes during that night.