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

is nothing to be done but gain time, and wait for an opportunity.”

The fall of the horse at Clameran was what Louis called “an opportunity.”

He closed the window, and, throwing himself upon the bed, was soon in a sound sleep; being accustomed to danger, it never kept him awake.

At the breakfast-table, his calm, smiling face bore no traces of a wakeful, anxious night.

He was in a gayer, more talkative mood than usual, and said he would like to ride over the country, and visit the neighboring towns. Before leaving the table, he had planned several excursions which were to take place during the week.

He hoped to keep Gaston so amused and occupied, that he would forget all about going to Paris in search of Valentine.

He thought that with time, and skilfully put objections, he could dissuade his brother from seeking out his former love. He relied upon being able to convince him that this absolutely unnecessary interview would be painful to both, embarrassing to him, and dangerous to her.

As to the jewels, if Gaston persisted in claiming them, Louis could safely offer to go and get them for him, as he had only to redeem them from the pawnbroker.

But his hopes and plans were soon scattered to the winds.

“You know,” said Gaston, “I have written.”

Louis knew well enough to what he alluded, but pretended to be very much surprised, and said:

“Written? To whom? Where? For what?”

“To Beaucaire, to ask Lafourcade the name of Valentine’s husband.”

“You are still thinking of her?”

“She is never absent from my thoughts.”

“You have not given up your idea of going to see her?”

“Of course not.”

“Alas, Gaston! you forget that she whom you once loved is now the wife of another, and possibly the mother of a large family. How do you know that she will consent to see you? Why run the risk of destroying her domestic happiness, and planting seeds of remorse in your own bosom?”

“I know I am a fool; but my folly is dear to me, and I would not cure it if I could.”

The quiet determination of Gaston’s tone convinced Louis that all remonstrances would be unavailing.

Yet he remained the same in his manner and behavior, apparently engrossed in pleasure parties; but, in reality, his only thought was the mail. He always managed to be at the door when the postman came, so that he was the first to receive his brother’s letters.

When he and Gaston were out together at the time of the postman’s visit, he would hurry into the house first, so as to look over the letters which were always laid in a card-basket on the hall table.

His watchfulness was at last rewarded.

The following Sunday, among the letters handed to him by the postman, was one bearing the postmark of Beaucaire.

He quickly slipped it into his pocket; and, although he was on the point of mounting his horse to ride with Gaston, he said that he must run up to his room to get something he had forgotten; this was to gratify his impatient desire to read the letter.

He tore it open, and, seeing “Lafourcade” signed at the bottom of three closely written pages, hastily devoured the contents.

After reading a detailed account of events entirely uninteresting to him, Louis came to the following passage relating to Valentine:

 

“Mlle. de la Verberie’s husband is an eminent banker named Andre Fauvel. I have not the honor of his acquaintance, but I intend going to see him shortly. I am anxious to submit to him a project that I have conceived for the benefit of this part of the country. If he approves of it, I shall ask him to invest in it, as his name will be of great assistance to the scheme. I suppose you have no objections to my referring him to you, should he ask for my indorsers.”

 

Louis trembled like a man who had just made a narrow escape from death. He well knew that he would have to fly the country if Gaston received this letter.

But though the danger was warded off for the while, it might return and destroy him at any moment.

Gaston would wait a week for an answer, then he would write again; Lafourcade would instantly reply to express surprise that his first letter had not been received; all of this correspondence would occupy about twelve days. In those twelve days Louis would have to think over some plan for preventing Lafourcade’s visit to Paris; since, the instant he mentioned the name of Clameran to the banker, everything would be discovered.

Louis’s meditations were interrupted by Gaston, who called from the lower passage:

“What are you doing, Louis? I am waiting for you.”

“I am coming now,” he replied.

Hastily thrusting Lafourcade’s letter into his trunk, Louis ran down to his brother.

He had made up his mind to borrow a large sum from Gaston, and go off to America; and Raoul might get out of the scrape as best he could.

The only thing which now disturbed him was the sudden failure of the most skilful combination he had ever conceived; but he was not a man to fight against destiny, and determined to make the best of the emergency, and hope for better fortune in his next scheme.

The next day about dusk, while walking along the pretty road leading from the foundery to Oloron, he commenced a little story which was to conclude by asking Gaston to lend him two hundred thousand francs.

As they slowly went along arm in arm, about half a mile from the foundery they met a young laborer who bowed as he passed them.

Louis dropped his brother’s arm, and started back as if he had seen a ghost.

“What is the matter?” asked Gaston, with astonishment.

“Nothing, except I struck my foot against a stone, and it is very painful.”

Gaston might have known by the tremulous tones of Louis’s voice that this was a lie. Louis de Clameran had reason to tremble; in this workman he recognized Raoul de Lagors.

Instinctive fear paralyzed and overwhelmed him.

The story he had planned for the purpose of obtaining the two hundred thousand francs was forgotten; his volubility was gone; and he silently walked along by his brother’s side, like an automaton, totally incapable of thinking or acting for himself.

He seemed to listen, he did listen; but the words fell upon his ear unmeaningly; he could not understand what Gaston was saying, and mechanically answered “yes” or “no,” like one in a dream.

Whilst necessity, absolute necessity, kept him here at Gaston’s side, his thoughts were all with the young man who had just passed by.

What had brought Raoul to Oloron? What plot was he hatching? Why was he disguised as a laborer? Why had he not answered the many letters which Louis had written him from Oloron? He had ascribed this silence to Raoul’s carelessness, but now he saw it was premeditated. Something disastrous must have happened at Paris; and Raoul, afraid to commit himself by writing, had come himself to bring the bad news. Had he come to say that the game was up, and they must fly?

But, after all, perhaps he was mistaken in supposing this to be his accomplice. It might be some honest workman bearing a strong resemblance to Raoul.

If he could only run after this stranger, and speak to him! But no, he must walk on up to the house with Gaston, quietly, as if nothing had happened to arouse his anxiety. He felt as if he would go mad if his brother did not move faster; the uncertainty was becoming intolerable.

His mind filled with these perplexing thoughts, Louis at last reached the house; and Gaston, to his great relief, said that he was so tired that he was going directly to bed.

At last he was free!

He lit a cigar, and, telling the servant not to sit up for him, went out.

He knew that Raoul, if it was Raoul, would be prowling near the house, waiting for him.

His suspicions were well founded.

He had barely proceeded thirty yards, when a man suddenly sprang from behind a tree, and stood before him.

The night was clear, and Louis recognized Raoul.

“What is the matter?” he impatiently demanded; “what has happened?”

“Nothing.”

“What! Do you mean to say that nothing has gone wrong in Paris—that no one is on our track?”

“Not the slightest danger of any sort. And moreover, but for your inordinate greed of gain, everything would have succeeded admirably; all was going on well when I left Paris.”

“Then why have you come here?” cried Louis fiercely. “Who gave you permission to desert your post, when your absence might bring ruin upon us? What brought you here?”

“That is my business,” said Raoul with cool impertinence.

Louis seized the young man’s wrists, and almost crushed them in his vicelike grasp.

“Explain this strange conduct of yours,” he said, in a tone of suppressed rage. “What do you mean by it?”

Without apparent effort Raoul released his hands from their imprisonment, and jeeringly said:

“Hein! Gently, my friend! I don’t like being roughly treated; and, if you don’t know how to behave yourself, I have the means of teaching you.”

At the same time he drew a revolver from his pocket.

“You must and shall explain yourself,” insisted Louis: “if you don’t–-”

“Well, if I don’t? Now, you might just as well spare yourself the trouble of trying to frighten me. I intend to answer your questions when I choose; but it certainly won’t be here, in the middle of the road, with the bright moonlight showing us off to advantage. How do you know people are not watching us this very minute? Come this way.”

They strode through the fields, regardless of Gaston’s plants, which were trampled under foot in order to take a short cut.

“Now,” began Raoul, when they were at a safe distance from the road, “now, my dear uncle, I will tell you what brings me here. I have received and carefully read your letters. I read them over again. You wished to be prudent; and the consequence was, that your letters were unintelligible. Only one thing did I understand clearly: we are in danger.”

“Only the more reason for your watchfulness and obedience.”

“Very well put: only, before braving danger, my venerable and beloved uncle, I want to know its extent. I am not a man to retreat in the hour of peril, but I want to know exactly how much risk I am running.”

“I told you to keep quiet, and follow my directions.”

“But to do this would imply that I have perfect confidence in you, my dear uncle,” said Raoul, sneeringly.

“And why should you not? What reasons for distrust have you after all that I have done for you? Who went to London, and rescued you from a state of privation and ignominy? I did. Who gave you a name and position when you had neither? I did. And who is working now to maintain your present life of ease, and insure you a splendid future? I am. And how do you repay me?”

“Superb, magnificent, inimitable!” said Raoul, with mocking derision. “But, while on the subject, why don’t you prove that you have sacrificed yourself for my sake? You did not need me as a tool for carrying out plans for your own benefit; did you? oh no, not at all! Dear, kind, generous, disinterested uncle! You ought to have the Montyon prize; I think I must recommend you as the most deserving person I have ever met!”

Clameran was so angry at these jeering words that he feared to trust himself to speak.

“Now, my good uncle,” continued Raoul