For more than an hour after Raoul’s departure, Mme. Fauvel remained in a state of stupor bordering upon unconsciousness.
Gradually, however, she recovered her senses sufficiently to comprehend the horrors of her present situation; and, with the faculty of thought, that of suffering returned.
The dreadful scene in which she had taken part was still before her affrighted vision; all the attending circumstances, unnoticed at the time, now struck her forcibly.
She saw that she had been the dupe of a shameful conspiracy: that Raoul had tortured her with cold-blooded cruelty, had taken advantage of her tenderness, and had speculated upon her fright.
But had Prosper anything to do with the robbery? This Mme. Fauvel had no way of finding out. Ah, Raoul knew how the blow would strike when he accused Prosper. He knew that Mme. Fauvel would end by believing in the cashier’s complicity.
The unhappy woman sat and thought over every possible way in which Raoul could find out the secret word without Prosper’s knowledge. She rejected with horror the idea that the cashier was the instigator of the crime; but, in spite of herself, it constantly recurred. And finally she felt convinced that what Raoul said must be true; for who but Prosper could have betrayed the word? And who but Prosper could have left so large an amount of money in the safe, which, by order of the banker, was to be always left empty at night?
Knowing that Prosper was leading a life of extravagance and dissipation, she thought it very likely that he had, from sheer desperation, resorted to this bold step to pay his debts; her blind affection, moreover, made her anxious to attribute the crime to anyone, rather than to her darling son.
She had heard that Prosper was supporting one of those worthless creatures whose extravagance impoverishes men, and whose evil influence perverts their natures. When a young man is thus degraded, will he stop at any sin or crime? Alas! Mme. Fauvel knew, from her own sad experience, to what depths even one fault can lead. Although she believed Prosper guilty, she did not blame him, but considered herself responsible for his sins.
Had she not herself banished the poor young man from the fireside which he had begun to regard as his own? Had she not destroyed his hopes of happiness, by crushing his pure love for a noble girl, whom he looked upon as his future wife, and thus driven him into a life of dissipation and sin?
She was undecided whether to confide in Madeleine, or bury the secret in her own breast.
Fatally inspired, she decided to keep silent.
When Madeleine returned home at eleven o’clock, Mme. Fauvel not only was silent as to what had occurred, but even succeeded in so concealing all traces of her agitation, that she escaped any questions from her niece.
Her calmness never left her when M. Fauvel and Lucien returned, although she was in terror lest her husband should go down to the cash-room to see that everything was safely locked up. It was not his habit to open the money-safe at night, but he sometimes did.
As fate would have it, the banker, as soon as he entered the room, began to speak of Prosper, saying how distressing it was that so interesting a young man should be thus throwing himself away, and wondering what could have happened to make him suddenly cease his visits at the house, and resort to bad company.
If M. Fauvel had looked at the faces of his wife and niece while he harshly blamed the cashier, he would have been puzzled at their strange expressions.
All night long Mme. Fauvel suffered the most intolerable agony. She counted each stroke of the town-clock, as the hours dragged on.
“In six hours,” she said to herself, “in five hours—in four hours—in three hours—in one hour—all will be discovered; and then what will happen? Heaven help me!”
At sunrise she heard the servants moving about the house. Then the office-shutters opened; then, later, she heard the clerks going into the bank.
She attempted to get up, but felt so ill and weak that she sank back on her pillow; and lying there, trembling like a leaf, bathed in cold perspiration, she awaited the discovery of the robbery.
She was leaning over the side of the bed, straining her ear to catch a sound from the cash-room, when Madeleine, who had just left her, rushed into the room.
The white face and wild eyes of the poor girl told Mme. Fauvel that the crime was discovered.
“Do you know what has happened, aunt?” cried Madeleine, in a shrill, horrified tone. “Prosper is accused of robbery, and the police have come to take him to prison!”
A groan was Mme. Fauvel’s only answer.
“Raoul or the marquis is at the bottom of this,” continued Madeleine excitedly.
“How can they be concerned in it, my child?”
“I can’t tell yet; but I only know that Prosper is innocent. I have just seen him, spoken to him. He would never have looked me in the face had he been guilty.”
Mme. Fauvel opened her lips to confess all: fear kept her silent.
“What can these wretches want?” said Madeleine: “what new sacrifice do they demand? Dishonor Prosper! Good heavens! Why did they not kill him at once? He would rather be dead than disgraced!”
Here the entrance of M. Fauvel interrupted Madeleine. The banker was so angry that he could scarcely speak.
“The worthless scoundrel!” he cried; “to think of his daring to accuse me! To insinuate that I robbed my own safe! And that Marquis de Clameran must needs doubt my good faith in keeping my engagement to pay his money!”
Then, without noticing the effect of his story upon the two women, he proceeded to relate all that had occurred downstairs.
“I was afraid this extravagance would lead to something terrible,” he said in conclusion; “you know I told you last night that Prosper was growing worse in his conduct, and that he would get into trouble.”
Throughout the day Madeleine’s devotion to her aunt was severely tried.
The generous girl saw disgrace heaped upon the man she loved. She had perfect faith in his innocence; she felt sure she knew who had laid the trap to ruin him; and yet she could not say a word in his defence.
Fearing that Madeleine would suspect her of complicity in the theft, if she remained in bed and betrayed so much agitation, Mme. Fauvel arose and dressed for breakfast.
It was a dreary meal. No one tasted a morsel. The servants moved about on their tiptoes, as silently as if a death had occurred in the family.
About two o’clock, a servant came to M. Fauvel’s study, and said that the Marquis de Clameran desired to see him.
“What!” cried the banker; “does he dare——”
Then, after a moment’s reflection, he added:
“Ask him to walk up.”
The very name of Clameran had sufficed to arouse all the slumbering wrath of M. Fauvel. The victim of a robbery, finding his safe empty at the moment that he was called upon to make a heavy payment, he had been constrained to conceal his anger and resentment; but now he determined to have his revenge upon his insolent visitor.
But the marquis declined to come upstairs. The messenger returned with the answer that the gentleman had a particular reason for seeing M. Fauvel in the office below, where the clerks were.
“What does this fresh impertinence mean?” cried the banker, as he angrily jumped up and hastened downstairs.
M. de Clameran was standing in the middle of the room adjoining the cash-room; M. Fauvel walked up to him, and said bluntly:
“What do you want now, monsieur? You have been paid your money, and I have your receipt.”
To the surprise of all the clerks, and the banker himself, the marquis seemed not in the least offended at this rude greeting, but answered in a deferential but not at all humble manner:
“You are hard upon me, monsieur; but I deserve it, and that is why I am here. A gentleman always acknowledges when he is in the wrong: in this instance I am the offender; and I flatter myself that my past will permit me to say so without being accused of cowardice or lack of self-respect. I insisted upon seeing you here instead of in your study, because, having been rude to you in the presence of your clerks, I wished them to hear me apologize for my behavior of this morning.”
Clameran’s speech was so different from his usual overbearing, haughty conduct, that surprise almost stupefied the banker, and he could only answer:
“I must say that I was hurt by your doubts, insinuations, suspicions of my honor——”
“This morning,” continued the marquis, “I was irritated, and thoughtlessly gave way to my temper. Although I am gray-headed, my disposition is as excitable as that of a fiery young man of twenty years; and I hope you will forget words uttered in a moment of excitement, and now deeply regretted.”
M. Fauvel, being a kind-hearted though quick-tempered man, could appreciate Clameran’s feelings; and, knowing that his own high reputation for scrupulous honesty could not be affected by any hasty or abusive language uttered by a creditor, at once calmed down before so frank an apology; and, holding out his hand to Clameran, said:
“Let us forget what happened, monsieur.”
They conversed in a friendly manner for some minutes; and, after Clameran had explained why he had such pressing need of the money at that particular hour of the morning, turned to leave, saying that he would do himself the honor of calling upon Mme. Fauvel during the day.
“That is, if a visit from me would not be considered intrusive,” he said with a shade of hesitation. “Perhaps, after the trouble of this morning, she does not wish to be disturbed.”
“Oh, no!” said the banker; “come, by all means; I think a visit from you would cheer her mind. I shall be from home all day, trying to trace this unfortunate affair.”
Mme. Fauvel was in the same room where Raoul had threatened to kill himself the night previous; she looked very pale and ill as she lay on a sofa. Madeleine was bathing her forehead.
When M. de Clameran was announced, they both started up as if a phantom had appeared before them.
Although Louis had been gay and smiling when he parted from M. Fauvel downstairs, he now wore a melancholy aspect, as he gravely bowed, and refused to seat himself in the chair which Mme. Fauvel motioned him to take.
“You will excuse me, ladies, for intruding at this time of your affliction; but I have a duty to fulfil.”
The two women were silent; they seemed to be waiting for him to explain. He added in an undertone:
“I know all.”
By an imploring gesture, Mme. Fauvel tried to stop him. She saw that he was about to reveal her secret to Madeleine.
But Louis would not see this gesture; he turned his whole attention to Madeleine, who haughtily said:
“Explain yourself, monsieur.”
“Only one hour ago,” he replied, “I discovered that Raoul last night forced from his mother the key of the money-safe, and stole three hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
Madeleine crimsoned with shame and indignation; she leaned over the sofa, and seizing her aunt’s wrist shook it violently, and in a hollow voice cried:
“It is false, is it not, aunt? speak!”
“Alas! alas!” groaned Mme. Fauvel. “What have I done?”
“You have allowed Prosper to be accused,” cried Madeleine; “you have suffered him to be arrested, and disgraced for life.”
“Forgive me,” sighed Mme. Fauvel. “He was about to kill himself; I was so frightened! Then you know—Prosper was to share the money: he gave Raoul the secret word—”
“Good Heavens! Aunt, how could you believe such a falsehood as that?”
Clameran interrupted them.
“Unfortunately, what your aunt says of M. Bertomy is the truth,” he said in a sad tone.
“Your proofs, monsieur; where are your proofs?”
“Raoul’s confession.”
“Raoul is false.”
“That is only too true: but how did he find out the word, if M. Bertomy did not reveal it? And who left the money in the safe but M. Bertomy?”
These arguments had no effect upon Madeleine.
“And now tell me,” she said scornfully, “what became of the money?”
There was no mistaking the significance of these words: they meant:
“You are the instigator of the robbery, and of course you have taken possession of the money.”
This harsh accusation from a girl whom he so passionately loved, when, grasping bandit as he was, he gave up for her sake all the money gained by his crime, so cruelly hurt Clameran that he turned livid. But his mortification and anger did not prevent him from pursuing the part he had prepared and studied.
“A day will come, mademoiselle,” he said, “when you will deeply regret having treated me so cruelly. I understand your insinuation; you need not attempt to deny it.”
“I have no idea of denying anything, monsieur.”
“Madeleine!” remonstrated Mme. Fauvel, who trembled at the rising anger of the man who held her fate in his hands, “Madeleine, be careful!”
“Mademoiselle is pitiless,” said Clameran sadly; “she cruelly punishes an honorable man whose only fault is having obeyed his brother’s dying injunctions. And I am here now, because I believe in the joint responsibility of all the members of a family.”
Here he slowly drew from his pocket several bundles of bank-notes, and laid them on the mantel-piece.
“Raoul stole three hundred and fifty thousand francs,” he said: “I return the same amount. It is more than half my fortune. Willingly would I give the rest to insure this being the last crime committed by him.”
Too inexperienced to penetrate this bold, and yet simple plan of Clameran’s, Madeleine was dumb with astonishment; all her calculations were upset.
Mme. Fauvel, on the contrary, accepted this restitution as salvation sent from heaven.
“Oh, thanks, monsieur, thanks!” she cried, gratefully clasping Clameran’s hand in hers; “you are goodness itself!”
Louis’s eye lit up with pleasure. But he rejoiced too soon. A minute’s reflection brought back all of Madeleine’s distrust. She thought this magnanimity and generosity unnatural in a man whom she considered incapable of a noble sentiment, and at once concluded that it must conceal some snare beneath.
“What are we to do with the money?” she demanded.
“Restore it to M. Fauvel, mademoiselle.”
“We restore it, monsieur, and how? Restoring the money is denouncing Raoul, and ruining my aunt. Take back your money, monsieur. We will not touch it.”
Clameran was too shrewd to insist; he took up the money, and prepared to leave.
“I comprehend your refusal, mademoiselle, and must find another way of accomplishing my wish. But, before retiring, let me say that your injustice pains me deeply. After the promise you made to me, I had reason to hope for a kinder welcome.”
“I will keep my promise, monsieur; but not until you have furnished security.”
“Security! And for what? Pray, explain yourself.”
“Something to protect my aunt against the molestations of Raoul after my—marriage. What is to prevent his coming to extort money from his mother after he has squandered my dowry? A man who spends a hundred thousand francs in four months will soon run through my little fortune. We are making a bargain; I give you my hand in exchange for the honor and life of my aunt; and of course you must give me some guarantee to secure the performance of your promise.”
“Oh! I will give you ample securities,” cried Clameran, “such as will quiet all your suspicious doubts of my good faith. Alas! you will not believe in my devotion; what shall I do to convince you of its sincerity? Shall I try to save M. Bertomy?”
“Thanks for the offer, monsieur,” replied Madeleine disdainfully; “if Prosper is guilty, let him be punished by the law; if he is innocent, God will protect him.”
Here Madeleine stood up, to signify that the interview was over.
Clameran bowed, and left the room.
“What pride! What determination! The idea of her demanding securities of me!” he said to himself as he slowly walked away. “But the proud girl shall be humbled yet. She is so beautiful! and, if I did not so madly love her, I would kill her on the spot!”
Never had Clameran been so irritated.
Madeleine’s quiet determination and forethought had unexpectedly thrown him off his well-laid track; not anticipating any such self assertion on her part, he was disconcerted, and at a loss how to proceed.
He knew that it would be useless to attempt deceiving a girl of Madeleine’s character a second time; he saw that she had penetrated his motives sufficiently to put her on the defensive, and prepare her for any new surprise. Moreover, she would prevent Mme. Fauvel from being frightened and forced into submission any longer.
With mortification and rage, Louis saw that after all his plotting, when success was in his reach, when his hopes were almost crowned, he had been foiled and scornfully set at defiance by a girl: the whole thing would have to be gone over again.
Although Madeleine had resigned herself to sacrifice, it was still evident that she had no idea of doing so blindly, and would not hazard her aunt’s and her own happiness upon the uncertainty of a verbal promise.
Clameran racked his brain to furnish guarantees; how could he convince her that Raoul had no idea or desire of annoying Mme. Fauvel in the future?
He could not tell Madeleine that her dowry was to be the bribe received by Raoul for his future good behavior and past crimes.
The knowledge of all the circumstances of this shameful criminal intrigue would have reassured her upon her aunt’s peace of mind; but then it would never do to inform her of these details, certainly not before the marriage.
What securities could he give? Not one could he think of.
But Clameran was not one of those slow-minded men who take weeks to consider a difficulty. When he could not untie a knot, he would cut it.
Raoul was a stumbling-block to his wishes, and he swore to rid himself of his troublesome accomplice as soon as possible.
Although it was not an easy matter to dispose of so cunning a knave, Clameran felt no hesitation in undertaking to accomplish his purpose. He was incited by one of those passions which age renders terrible.
The more certain he was of Madeleine’s contempt and dislike, the more determined he was to marry her. His love seemed to be a sort of insane desire to possess and call his own the one being whom he recognized as his superior in every way.
But he had sense enough to see that he might ruin his prospects by undue haste, and that the safest course would be to await the result of the robbery and its effect upon Prosper.
He waited in anxious expectation of a summons from Mme. Fauvel. At last he concluded that Madeleine was waiting for him to make the next move in the direction of yielding.
He was right; Madeleine knew that after the last bold step the accomplices would remain quiet for a while; she knew resistance could have no worse results than would cowardly submission; and therefore assumed the entire responsibility of managing the affair so as to keep at bay both Raoul and Clameran.
She knew that Mme. Fauvel would be anxious to accept any terms of peace, but she determined to use all her influence to prevent her doing this, and to force upon her the necessity of preserving a dignified silence.
This accounted for the silence of the two women, who were quietly waiting for their adversaries to renew hostilities.
They even succeeded in concealing their anxiety beneath assumed indifference; never asking any questions about the robbery, or those in any way connected with it.
M. Fauvel brought them an account of Prosper’s examination, the many charges brought against him, his obstinate denial of having stolen the money; and finally how, after great perplexity and close study of the case by the judge of instruction, the cashier had been discharged for want of sufficient proof against him.
Since Clameran’s offer to restore the notes, Mme. Fauvel had not doubted Prosper’s guilt. She said nothing, but inwardly accused him of having seduced her son from the path of virtue, and enticed him into crime—her son whom she would never cease to love, no matter how great his faults.
Madeleine had perfect faith in Prosper’s innocence.
She was so confident of his being restored to liberty that she ventured to ask her uncle, under pretext of some charitable object, to give her ten thousand francs, which she sent to the unfortunate victim of circumstantial evidence; who, from what she had heard of his poverty, must be in need of assistance.
In the letter—cut from her prayer-book to avoid detection by writing—accompanying the money, she advised Prosper to leave France, because she knew that it would be impossible for a man of his proud nature to remain on the scene of his disgrace; the greater his innocence, the more intolerable his suffering.
Besides, Madeleine, at that time feeling that she would be obliged to marry Clameran, was anxious to have the man she loved far, far away from her.
On the day that this anonymous present was sent, in opposition to the wishes of Mme. Fauvel, the two poor women were entangled fearfully in pecuniary difficulties.
The tradesmen whose money had been squandered by Raoul refused to give credit any longer, and insisted upon their bills being paid at once; saying they could not understand how a man of M. Fauvel’s wealth and position could keep them waiting for such insignificant sums.
The butcher, grocer, and wine-merchant had bills of one, two, and five hundred francs only; but, not having even that small amount, Mme. Fauvel had difficulty in prevailing upon them to receive a part on account, and wait a little longer for the residue.
Some of the store-keepers threatened to ask the banker for their money, if everything was not settled before the end of the week.
Alas! Mme. Fauvel’s indebtedness amounted to fifteen thousand francs.
Madeleine and her aunt had declined all invitations during the winter, to avoid purchasing evening dresses; having always been remarkable for their superb toilets, seldom appearing in the same ball-dress twice, they dared not give rise to comment by wearing their old dresses, and knowing that M. Fauvel would be the first to ask the cause of this sudden change, as he liked to see them always the best-dressed women in the room.
But at last they were obliged to appear in public. M. Fauvel’s most intimate friends, the Messrs. Jandidier, were about to give a splendid ball, and, as fate would have it, a fancy ball, which would require the purchasing of costumes.
Where would the money come from?
They had been owing a large bill to their dressmaker for over a year. Would she consent to furnish them dresses on credit? They were ashamed to ask her.
Madeleine’s new maid, Palmyre Chocareille, extricated them from this difficulty.
This girl, who seemed to have suffered all the minor ills of life—which, after all, are the hardest to bear—seemed to have divined her mistress’s anxiety.
At any rate, she voluntarily informed Madeleine that a friend of hers, a first-class dressmaker, had just set up for herself, and would be glad to furnish materials and make the dresses on credit, for the sake of obtaining the patronage of Mme. Fauvel and her niece, which would at once bring her plenty of fashionable customers.
But, after this dilemma was settled, a still greater one presented itself.
Mme. Fauvel and her niece could not appear at a ball without jewelry; and every jewel they owned had been taken by Raoul, and pawned.
After thinking the matter over, Madeleine decided to ask Raoul to take some of the stolen money, and redeem the last set of jewels he had forced from his mother. She informed her aunt of her intention, and said, in a tone that admitted of no contradiction:
“Appoint an interview with Raoul: he will not dare to refuse you; and I will go in your stead.”
The next day, the courageous girl took a cab, and, regardless of the inclement weather, went to Vesinet.
She would have been filled with consternation had she known that M. Verduret and Prosper were following close behind, and witnessed her interview from the top of a ladder.
Her bold step was fruitless. Raoul swore that he had divided with Prosper; that his own half of the money was spent, and that he had not a napoleon wherewith to redeem anything.
He even refused to give up the pledges; and Madeleine had to resort to threats of exposure, before she could induce him to surrender the tickets of four or five trifling articles that were indispensable to their toilet.
Clameran had ordered him to refuse positively to give up a single ticket, because he hoped that in their distress they would call upon him for relief.
The violent altercation witnessed by Clameran’s new valet, Joseph Dubois, had been caused by the exaction of this promise.
The accomplices were at that time on very bad terms. Clameran was seeking a safe means of getting rid of Raoul; and the young scamp, having a presentiment of his uncle’s intentions, was determined to outwit him.
Nothing but the certainty of impending danger could reconcile them. The danger was revealed to them both at the Jandidier ball.
Who was the mysterious mountebank that indulged in such transparent allusions to Mme. Fauvel’s private troubles, and then said, with threatening significance to Louis: “I was the best friend of your brother Gaston?”
Who he was, where he came from, they could not imagine; but they clearly saw that he was a dangerous enemy, and forthwith attempted to assassinate him upon his leaving the ball.
Having been followed and watched by their would-be victim, they became alarmed—especially when he suddenly disappeared—and wisely decided that the safest thing they then could do was to return quietly to their hotel.
“We cannot be too guarded in our conduct,” whispered Clameran; “we must discover who he is before taking any further steps in this matter.”
Once more, Raoul tried to induce him to give up his project of marrying Madeleine.
“Never!” he exclaimed fiercely, “I will marry her or perish in the attempt!”
He thought that, now they were warned, the danger of being caught was lessened; when on his guard, few people could entrap so experienced and skilful a rogue.
Little did Clameran know that a man who was a hundred-fold more skilful than he was closely pursuing him.
Such are the facts that, with an almost incredible talent for investigation, had been collected and prepared by the stout man with the jovial face who had taken Prosper under his protection, M. Verduret.
Reaching Paris at nine o’clock in the evening, not by the Lyons road as he had said, but by the Orleans train, M. Verduret hurried up to the Archangel, where he found the cashier impatiently expecting him.
“You are about to hear some rich developments,” he said to Prosper, “and see how far back into the past one has to seek for the primary cause of a crime. All things are linked together and dependent upon each other in this world of ours. If Gaston de Clameran had not entered a little cafe at Tarascon to play a game of billiards twenty years ago, your money-safe would not have been robbed three weeks ago.
“Valentine de la Verberie is punished in 1866 for the murder committed for her sake in 1840. Nothing is neglected or forgotten, when stern Retribution asserts her sway. Listen.”
And he forthwith related all that he had discovered, referring, as he went along, to a voluminous manuscript which he had prepared, with many notes and authenticated proofs attached.
During the last week M. Verduret had not had twenty-four hours’ rest, but he bore no traces of fatigue. His iron muscles braved any amount of labor, and his elastic nature was too well tempered to give way beneath such pressure.
While any other man would have sunk exhausted in a chair, he stood up and described, with the enthusiasm and captivating animation peculiar to him, the minutest details and intricacies of the plot that he had devoted his whole energy to unravelling; personating every character he brought upon the scene to take part in the strange drama, so that his listener was bewildered and dazzled by his brilliant acting.
As Prosper listened to this narrative of events happening twenty years back, the secret conversations as minutely related as if overheard the moment they took place, it sounded more like a romance than a statement of plain facts.
All these ingenious explanations might be logical, but what foundation did they possess? Might they not be the dreams of an excited imagination?
M. Verduret did not finish his report until four o’clock in the morning; then he cried, with an accent of triumph:
“And now they are on their guard, and sharp, wary rascals too: but they won’t escape me; I have cornered them beautifully. Before a week is over, Prosper, you will be publicly exonerated, and will come out of this scrape with flying colors. I have promised your father you shall.”
“Impossible!” said Prosper in a dazed way, “it cannot be!”
“What?”
“All this you have just told me.”
M. Verduret opened wide his eyes, as if he could not understand anyone having the audacity to doubt the accuracy ofhisreport.
“Impossible, indeed!” he cried. “What! have you not sense enough to see the plain truth written all over every fact, and attested by the best authority? Your thick-headedness exasperates me to the last degree.”
“But how can such rascalities take place in Paris, in our very midst, without——”
“Parbleu!” interrupted the fat man, “you are young, my friend! Are you innocent enough to suppose that crimes, forty times worse than this, don’t occur every day? You think the horrors of the police-court are the only ones. Pooh! You only read in theGazette des Tribunauxof the cruel melodramas of life, where the actors are as cowardly as the knife, and as treacherous as the poison they use. It is at the family fireside, often under shelter of the law itself, that the real tragedies of life are acted; in modern crimes the traitors wear gloves, and cloak themselves with public position; the victims die, smiling to the last, without revealing the torture they have endured to the end. Why, what I have just related to you is an everyday occurrence; and you profess astonishment.”
“I can’t help wondering how you discovered all this tissue of crime.”
“Ah, that is the point!” said the fat man with a self-satisfied smile. “When I undertake a task, I devote my whole attention to it. Now, make a note of this: When a man of ordinary intelligence concentrates his thoughts and energies upon the attainment of an object, he is certain to obtain ultimate success. Besides that, I have my own method of working up a case.”
“Still I don’t see what grounds you had to go upon.”
“To be sure, one needs some light to guide one in a dark affair like this. But the fire in Clameran’s eye at the mention of Gaston’s name ignited my lantern. From that moment I walked straight to the solution of the mystery, as I would walk to a beacon-light on a dark night.”
The eager, questioning look of Prosper showed that he would like to know the secret of his protector’s wonderful penetration, and at the same time be more thoroughly convinced that what he had heard was all true—that his innocence would be more clearly proved.
“Now confess,” cried M. Verduret, “you would give anything in the world to find out how I discovered the truth?”
“I certainly would, for it is the darkest of mysteries, marvellous!”
M. Verduret enjoyed Prosper’s bewilderment. To be sure, he was neither a good judge nor a distinguished amateur; but he was an astonished admirer, and sincere admiration is always flattering, no matter whence it comes.
“Well,” he replied, “I will explain my system. There is nothing marvellous about it as you will soon see. We worked together to find the solution of the problem, so you know my reasons for suspecting Clameran as the prime mover in the robbery. As soon as I had acquired this certainty, my task was easy. You want to know what I did? I placed trustworthy people to watch the parties in whom I was most interested. Joseph Dubois took charge of Clameran, and Nina Gypsy never lost sight of Mme. Fauvel and her niece.”
“I cannot comprehend how Nina ever consented to this service.”
“That is my secret,” replied M. Verduret. “Having the assistance of good eyes and quick ears on the spot, I went to Beaucaire to inquire into the past, so as to link it with what I knew of the present. The next day I was at Clameran; and the first step I took was to find the son of St. Jean, the old valet. An honest man he was, too; open and simple as nature herself; and he made a good bargain in selling me his madder.”
“Madder?” said Prosper with a puzzled look; “what did you——”
“Of course I wanted to buy his madder. Of course I did not appear to him as I do to you now. I was a countryman wanting to buy madder; he had madder for sale; so we began to bargain about the price. The debate lasted almost all day, during which time we drank a dozen bottles of wine. About supper-time, St. Jean was as drunk as a bunghole, and I had purchased nine hundred francs’ worth of madder which your father will sell to-morrow.”
Prosper’s astonished countenance made M. Verduret laugh heartily.
“I risked nine hundred francs,” he continued, “but thread by thread I gathered the whole history of the Clamerans, Gaston’s love-affair, his flight, and the stumbling of the horse ridden by Louis. I found also that about a year ago Louis returned, sold the chateau to a man named Fougeroux, whose wife, Mihonne, had a secret interview with Louis the day of the purchase. I went to see Mihonne. Poor woman! her rascally husband has pounded all the sense out of her; she is almost idiotic. I told her I came from the Clameran family, and she at once related to me everything she knew.”
The apparent simplicity of this mode of investigation confounded Prosper. He wondered it had not occurred to him before.
“From that time,” continued M. Verduret, “the skein began to disentangle; I held the principal thread. I now set about finding out what had become of Gaston. Lafourcade, who is a friend of your father, informed me that he had bought a foundery, and settled in Oloron, where he soon after suddenly died. Thirty-six hours later I was at Oloron.”
“You are certainly indefatigable!” said Prosper.
“No, but I always strike while the iron is hot. At Oloron I met Manuel, who had gone there to make a little visit before returning to Spain. From him I obtained a complete history of Gaston’s life, and all the particulars of his death. Manuel also told me of Louis’s visit; and the inn-keeper described a young workman who was there at the same time, whom I at once recognized as Raoul.”
“But how did you know of all the conversations between the villains?” said Prosper. “You seem to be aware of their secret thoughts.”
“You evidently think I have been drawing upon my imagination. You will soon see to the contrary,” said Verduret good-humoredly. “While I was at work down there, my aids did not sit with their hands tied together. Mutually distrustful, Clameran and Raoul preserved all the letters received from each other. Joseph Dubois copied them, or the important portions of them, and forwarded them to me. Nina spent her time listening at all doors under her supervision, and sent me a faithful report. Finally, I have at the Fauvels another means of investigation which I will reveal to you later.”
“I understand it all now,” murmured Prosper.
“And what have you been doing during my absence, my young friend?” asked M. Verduret; “have you heard any news?”
At this question Prosper turned crimson. But he knew that it would never do to keep silent about his imprudent step.
“Alas!” he stammered, “I read in a newspaper that Clameran was about to marry Madeleine; and I acted like a fool.”
“What did you do?” inquired Verduret anxiously.
“I wrote an anonymous letter to M. Fauvel, informing him that his wife was in love with Raoul—”
M. Verduret here brought his clinched fist down upon the little table near by, with such violence that the thin plank was shivered. His cheerful face in an instant clouded over.
“What folly!” he exclaimed, “how could you go and ruin everything?”
He arose from his seat, and strode up and down the room, oblivious of the lodgers below, whose windows shook with every angry stamp of his foot.
“What made you act so like a child, an idiot, a fool?” he said indignantly to Prosper.
“Monsieur!”
“Here you are, drowning; an honest man springs into the water to save you, and just as he approaches the shore you entangle his feet to prevent him from swimming! What was my last order to you when I left here?”
“To keep quiet, and not go out of the hotel.”
“Well.”
The consciousness of having done a foolish thing made Prosper appear like a frightened school-boy, accused by his teacher of playing truant.
“It was night, monsieur,” he hesitatingly said, “and, having a violent headache, I took a walk along the quay thinking there was no risk in my entering a cafe; there I picked up a paper, and read the dreadful announcement.”
“Did you not promise to trust everything to me?”
“You were absent, monsieur; and you yourself might have been surprised by an unexpected—”
“Only fools are ever surprised into committing a piece of folly,” cried M. Verduret impatiently. “To write an anonymous letter! Do you know to what you expose me? Breaking a sacred promise made to one of the few persons whom I highly esteem among my fellow-beings. I shall be looked upon as a liar, a cheat—I who—”
He abruptly stopped, as if afraid to trust himself to speak further; after calming down a little, he turned to Prosper, and said:
“The best thing we can do is to try and repair the harm you have done. When and where did you post this idiotic letter?”
“Yesterday evening, at the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. It hardly reached the bottom of the box before I regretted having written it.”
“You had better have regretted it before dropping it in. What time was it?”
“About ten o’clock.”
“Then your sweet little letter must have reached M. Fauvel with his early mail; probably he was alone in his study when he read it.”
“I know he was: he never goes down to the bank until he has opened his letters.”
“Can you recall the exact terms of your letter? Stop and think, for it is very important that I should know.”
“Oh, it is unnecessary for me to reflect. I remember the letter as if I had just written it.”
And almost verbatim he repeated what he had written.
After attentively listening, M. Verduret sat with a perplexed frown upon his face, as if trying to discover some means of repairing the harm done.
“That is an awkward letter,” he finally said, “to come from a person who does not deal in such things. It leaves everything to be understood without specifying anything; it is vague, jeering, insidious. Repeat it to me.”
Prosper obeyed, and his second version did not vary from the first in a single word.
“Nothing could be more alarming than that allusion to the cashier,” said the fat man, repeating the words after Prosper. “The question, ‘Was it also he who stole Mme. Fauvel’s diamonds?’ is simply fearful. What could be more exasperating than the sarcastic advice, ‘In your place, I would not have any public scandal, but would watch my wife?’ The effect of your letter must have been terrible,” he added thoughtfully as he stood with folded arms looking at poor Prosper. “M. Fauvel is quick-tempered, is he not?”
“He has a violent temper, when aroused.”
“Then the mischief is not irreparable.”
“What! do you suppose—”
“I think that an impulsive man is afraid of himself, and seldom carries out his first angry intentions. That is our chance of salvation. If, upon the receipt of your bomb-shell, M. Fauvel, unable to restrain himself, rushed into his wife’s room, and cried, ‘Where are your diamonds?’ Mme. Fauvel will confess all; and then good-by to our hopes.”
“Why would this be disastrous?”
“Because, the moment Mme. Fauvel opens her lips to her husband, our birds will take flight.”
Prosper had never thought of this eventuality.
“Then, again,” continued M. Verduret, “it would deeply distress another person.”
“Anyone whom I know?”
“Yes, my friend, and very well too. I should certainly be chagrined to the last degree, if these two rascals escape, without having obtained complete satisfaction from them.”
“It seems to me that you know how to take care of yourself, and can do anything you please.”
M. Verduret shrugged his shoulders, and said:
“Did you not perceive the gaps in my narrative?”
“I did not.”
“That is because you don’t know how to listen. In the first place, did Louis de Clameran poison his brother, or not?”
“Yes; I am sure of it, from what you tell me.”
“There you are! You are much more certain, young man, than I am. Your opinion is mine; but what proof have we? None. I skilfully questioned Dr. C——. He has not the shadow of suspicion; and Dr. C—— is no quack; he is a cultivated, observing man of high standing. What poisons produce the effects described? I know of none; and yet I have studied up on poisons from Pomerania digitalis to Sauvresy aconite.”
“The death took place so opportunely——”
“That anybody would be convinced of foul play. That is true; but chance is sometimes a wonderful accomplice in crime. In the second place, I know nothing of Raoul’s antecedents.”
“Is information on that point necessary?”
“Indispensable, my friend; but we will soon know something. I have sent off one of my men—excuse me, I mean one of my friends—who is very expert and adroit, M. Palot; and he writes that he is on the track. I am interested in the history of this sentimental, sceptical young rascal. I have an idea that he must have been a brave, honest sort of youth before Clameran ruined him.”
Prosper was no longer listening.
M. Verduret’s words had inspired him with confidence. Already he saw the guilty men arraigned before the bar of justice; and enjoyed, in anticipation, this assize-court drama, where he would be publicly exonerated and restored to position.
Then he would seek Madeleine; for now he understood her strange conduct at the dressmaker’s, and knew that she had never ceased to love him.
This certainty of future happiness restored all the self-possession that had deserted him the day he found the safe robbed. For the first time he was astonished at the peculiarity of his situation.
Prosper had at first only been surprised at the protection of M. Verduret and the extent of his investigations: now he asked himself, what could have been his motives for acting thus?
What price did he expect for this sacrifice of time and labor?
His anxiety made him say nervously:
“It is unjust to us both, monsieur, for you to preserve your incognito any longer. When you have saved the honor and life of a man, you should at least let him know whom he is to thank for it.”
“Oh!” said M. Verduret smilingly, “you are not out of the woods yet. You are not married either: so you must wait a little longer; patience and faith.”
The clock struck six.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed M. Verduret. “Can it be six o’clock? I did hope to have a good night’s rest, but I must keep on moving. This is no time to be asleep.”
He went into the passage, and, leaning over the balusters, called, “Mme. Alexandre! I say, Mme. Alexandre!”
The hostess of the Archangel, the portly wife of Fanferlot the Squirrel, evidently had not been to bed. This fact struck Prosper.
She appeared, obsequious, smiling, and eager to please.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” she inquired.
“You can send your—Joseph Dubois and Palmyre to me as soon as possible. Let me know when they arrive. I will rest a few minutes, and you can awake me when they come.”
As soon as Mme. Alexandre left the room, the fat man unceremoniously threw himself on the bed.
“You have no objections, I suppose?” he said to Prosper.
In five minutes he was fast asleep; and Prosper sat by the bed watching him with a perplexed gaze, wondering who this strange man could be.
About nine o’clock someone tapped timidly at the door.
Slight as the noise was, it aroused M. Verduret, who sprang up, and called out:
“Who is it?”
Prosper arose and opened the door.
Joseph Dubois, the valet of the Marquis of Clameran, entered.
This important assistant of M. Verduret was breathless from fast running; and his little rat eyes were more restless than ever.
“Well, patron, I am glad to see you once more,” he cried. “Now you can tell me what to do; I have been perfectly lost during your absence, and have felt like a jumping monkey with a broken string.
“What! did you get frightened too?”
“Bless me! I think I had cause for alarm when I could not find you anywhere. Yesterday afternoon I sent you three despatches, to the addresses you gave me, Lyons, Beaucaire, and Oloron, but received no answer. I was almost crazy with anxiety when your message reached me just now.”
“Things are getting hot, then.”
“Hot! They are burning! The place is too warm to hold me any longer; upon my soul, I can’t stand it!”
M. Verduret occupied himself in repairing his toilet, become disarranged by lying down.
When he had finished, he threw himself in an easy-chair, and said to Joseph Dubois, who remained respectfully standing, cap in hand, like a soldier awaiting orders:
“Explain yourself, my boy, and quickly, if you please; no circumlocution.”
“It is just this, patron. I don’t know what your plans are, or what line you are taking now; but I can just tell you this: that you will have to wind up the affair pretty quickly.”
“That is your opinion, Master Joseph?”
“Yes, patron, because if you wait any longer, good-by to our covey: you will certainly find an empty cage, and the birds flown. You smile? Yes, I know you are clever, and can accomplish anything; but they are cunning blades, and as slippery as eels. They know that they are watched, too.”
“The devil they do!” cried M. Verduret. “Who has been committing blunders?”
“Oh! nobody has done anything wrong,” replied Joseph. “You know, patron, that they suspected something long ago. They gave you a proof of it, the night of the fancy ball; that ugly cut on your arm was the beginning. Ever since, they have had one eye open all the time. They had begun to feel easier, when all of a sudden, yesterday,ma foi, they began to smell a rat!”
“Was that the cause of your telegrams?”
“Of course. Now listen: yesterday morning when my master got up, about ten o’clock, he took it into his head to arrange the papers in his desk; which, by the way, has a disgusting lock which has given me a deal of trouble. Meanwhile, I pretended to be fixing the fire, so as to remain in the room to watch him. Patron, the man has an eye like a Yankee! At the first glance he saw, or rather divined, that his papers had been meddled with, he turned livid, and swore an oath; Lord, what an oath!”
“Never mind the oath; go on.”
“Well, how he discovered the little attentions I had devoted to his letters, I can’t imagine. You know how careful I am. I had put everything in perfect order; just as I found things I left them, when, lo and behold! my noble marquis picks up each paper, one at a time, turns it over, and smells it. I was just thinking I would offer him a magnifying-glass, when all of a sudden he sprang up, and with one kick sent his chair across the room, and flew at me with his eyes flashing like two pistols. ‘Somebody has been at my papers,’ he shrieked; ‘this letter has been photographed!’ B-r-r-r! I am not a coward, but I can tell you that my heart stood perfectly still; I saw myself as dead as Caesar, cut into mince-meat; and says I to myself, ‘Fanfer—excuse me—Dubois, my friend, you are lost, dead;’ and I thought of Mme. Alexandre.”
M. Verduret was buried in thought, and paid no attention to the worthy Joseph’s analysis of his personal sensations.
“What happened next?” said Verduret after a few minutes.
“Why, he was just as frightened as I was, patron. The rascal did not even dare to touch me. To be sure, I had taken the precaution to get out of his reach; we talked with a large table between us. While wondering what could have enabled him to discover the secret, I defended myself with virtuous indignation. I said:
“‘It cannot be; M. le marquis is mistaken. Who would dare touch his papers?’
“Bast! Instead of listening to me, he flourished an open letter, and said:
“‘This letter has been photographed! here is proof of it!’ and he pointed to a little yellow spot on the paper, shrieking out, ‘Look! Smell! Smell it, you devil! It is—’ I forget the name he called it, but some acid used by photographers.”
“I know, I know,” said M. Verduret; “go on; what next?”
“Then, patron, we had a scene; what a scene! He ended by seizing me by the throat, and shaking me like a plum-tree, saying he would shake me until I told him who I was, what I knew, and where I came from. As if I knew, myself! I was obliged to account for every minute of my time since I had been in his service. The devil was worse than a judge of instruction, in his questions. Then he sent for the hotel porter, who had charge of the front door, and questioned him closely, but in English, so that I could not understand. After a while, he cooled down, and when the boy was gone, presented me with twenty francs, saying, ‘I am sorry I was so sharp with you; you are too stupid to have been guilty of the offence.’”
“He said that, did he?”
“He used those very words to my face, patron.”
“And you think he meant what he said?”
“Certainly I do.”
The fat man smiled, and whistled a little tune expressive of contempt.
“If you think that,” he said, “Clameran was right in his estimate of your brilliancy.”
It was easy to see that Joseph Dubois was anxious to hear his patron’s grounds for considering him stupid, but dared not ask.
“I suppose I am stupid, if you think so,” said poor Fanferlot humbly. “Well, after he had done blustering about the letters, M. le marquis dressed, and went out. He did not want his carriage, but I saw him hire a cab at the hotel door. I thought he had perhaps disappeared forever; but I was mistaken. About five o’clock he returned as gay as a bull-finch. During his absence, I had telegraphed to you.”
“What! did you not follow him?”
“I stayed on the spot in case of his return; but one of our friends kept watch on him, and this friend gave me a report of my dandy’s movements. First he went to a broker’s, then to the bank and discount office: so he must be collecting his money to take a little trip.”
“Is that all he did?”
“That is all, patron. But I must tell you how the rascals tried to shut up, ‘administratively,’ you understand, Mlle. Palmyre. Fortunately you had anticipated something of the kind, and given orders to watch over her safety. But for you, she would now be in prison.”
Joseph looked up to the ceiling by way of trying to remember something more. Finding nothing there, he said:
“That is all. I rather think M. Patrigent will rub his hands with delight when I carry him my report. He did not expect to see me any more, and has no idea of the facts I have collected to swell the size of his FILE 113.”
There was a long silence. Joseph was right in supposing that the crisis had come. M. Verduret was arranging his plan of battle while waiting for the report of Nina—now Palmyre, upon which depended his point of attack.
But Joseph Dubois began to grow restless and uneasy.
“What must I do now, patron?” he asked.
“Return to the hotel; probably your master had noticed your absence; but he will say nothing about it, so continue—”
Here M. Verduret was interrupted by an exclamation from Prosper, who was standing near a window.
“What is the matter?” he inquired.
“There is Clameran!” cried Prosper, “over there.”
M. Verduret and Joseph ran to the window.
“Where is he?” said Joseph, “I don’t see him.”
“There, at the corner of the bridge, behind that orange-woman’s stall.”
Prosper was right. It was the noble Marquis of Clameran, who, hid behind the stall, was watching for his servant to come out of the Archangel.
At first the quick-sighted Verduret had some doubts whether it was the marquis, who, being skilled in these hazardous expeditions, managed to conceal himself behind a pillar so as to elude detection.
But a moment came, when, elbowed by the pressing crowd, he was obliged to come out on the pavement in full view of the window.
“Now don’t you see I was right!” cried the cashier.
“Well,” said the amazed Joseph, “I am amazed!”
M. Verduret seemed not in the least surprised, but quietly said:
“The game needs hunting. Well, Joseph, my boy, do you still think that your noble master was duped by your acting injured innocence?”
“You assured me to the contrary, patron,” said Joseph in an humble tone; “and your opinion is more convincing than all the proofs in the world.”
“This pretended outburst of rage was premeditated on the part of your noble master. Knowing that he is being tracked, he naturally wishes to discover who his adversaries are. You can imagine how uncomfortable he must be at this uncertainty. Perhaps he thinks his pursuers are some of his old accomplices, who, being starved, want a piece of his cake. He will remain there until you come out: then he will come in to find out who you are.”
“But, patron, I can go home without his seeing me.”
“Yes, I know. You will climb the little wall separating the Archangel from the wine-merchant’s yard, and keep along the stationer’s area, until you reach the Rue de la Huchette.”
Poor Joseph looked as if he had just received a bucket of ice-water upon his head.
“Exactly the way I was going, patron,” he gasped out. “I heard that you knew every plank and door of all the houses in Paris, and it certainly must be so.”
The fat man made no reply to Joseph’s admiring remarks. He was thinking how he could catch Clameran.
As to the cashier, he listened wonderingly, watching these strangers, who seemed determined to reinstate him in public opinion, and punish his enemies, while he himself stood by powerless and bewildered. What their motives for befriending him could be, he vainly tried to discover.
“I will tell you what I can do,” said Joseph after deep thought.
“What is it?”
“I can innocently walk out of the front door, and loaf along the street until I reach the Hotel du Louvre.”
“And then?”
“Dame! Clameran will come in and question Mme. Alexandre, whom you can instruct beforehand; and she is smart enough to put any sharper off the track.”
“Bad plan!” pronounced M. Verduret decidedly; “a scamp so compromised as Clameran is not easily put off the track; now his eyes are opened, he will be pretty hard to catch.”
Suddenly, in a brief tone of authority which admitted of no contradiction, the fat man said:
“I have a way. Has Clameran, since he found that his papers had been searched, seen Lagors?”
“No, patron.”
“Perhaps he has written to him?”
“I’ll bet you my head he has not. Having your orders to watch his correspondence, I invented a little system which informs me every time he touches a pen; during the last twenty-four hours the pens have not been touched.”
“Clameran went out yesterday.”
“But the man who followed him says he wrote nothing on the way.”
“Then we have time yet!” cried Verduret. “Hurry! Hurry! I give you fifteen minutes to make yourself a head; you know the sort; I will watch the rascal until you come up.”
The delighted Joseph disappeared in a twinkling; while Prosper and M. Verduret remained at the window observing Clameran, who, according to the movements of the crowd, was sometimes lost to sight, and sometimes just in front of the window, but was evidently determined not to quit his post until he had obtained the information he sought.
“Why do you devote yourself exclusively to the marquis?” asked Prosper.
“Because, my friend,” replied M. Verduret, “because—that is my business, and not yours.”
Joseph Dubois had been granted a quarter of an hour in which to metamorphose himself; before ten minutes had elapsed he reappeared.
The dandified coachman with Bergami whiskers, red vest, and foppish manners, was replaced by a sinister-looking individual, whose very appearance was enough to scare any rogue.
His black cravat twisted around a paper collar, and ornamented by an imitation diamond pin; his long-tailed black boots and heavy cane, revealed the employee of the Rue de Jerusalem, as plainly as the shoulder-straps mark a soldier.