File No. 113 - Emile Gaboriau (large screen ebook reader TXT) 📗

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 preoccupied 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.”