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

trying to get here to tell you; at last, Mlle. Madeleine made an excuse for sending me out.”

“You must thank Mlle. Madeleine for her confidence in me. I suppose she carried out the plan we decided upon?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“She receives the Marquis of Clameran’s visits?”

“Since the marriage has been decided upon, he comes every day, and mademoiselle receives him with kindness. He seems to be delighted.”

These answers filled Prosper with anger and alarm. The poor young man, not comprehending the intricate moves of M. Verduret, felt as if he were being tossed about from pillar to post, and made the tool and laughing-stock of everybody.

“What!” he cried; “this worthless Marquis of Clameran, an assassin and a thief, allowed to visit at M. Fauvel’s, and pay his addresses to Madeleine? Where are the promises, monsieur, which you have made? Have you merely been amusing yourself by raising my hopes, to dash them—”

“Enough!” interrupted M. Verduret harshly; “you are too green to understand anything, my friend. If you are incapable of helping yourself, at least have sense enough to refrain from importuning those who are working for you. Do you not think you have already done sufficient mischief?”

Having administered this rebuke, he turned to Gypsy, and said in softer tones:

“Go on, my child: what have you discovered?”

“Nothing positive, monsieur; but enough to make me nervous, and fearful of impending danger. I am not certain, but suspect from appearances, that some dreadful catastrophe is about to happen. It may only be a presentiment. I cannot get any information from Mme. Fauvel; she refuses to answer any hints, and moves about like a ghost, never opening her lips. She seems to be afraid of her niece, and to be trying to conceal something from her.”

“What about M. Fauvel?”

“I was just about to tell you, monsieur. Some fearful misfortune has happened to him, you may depend upon it. He wanders about as if he had lost his mind. Something certainly occurred yesterday; his voice even is changed. He is so harsh and irritable that mademoiselle and M. Lucien were wondering what could be the matter with him. He seems to be on the eve of giving way to a burst of anger; and there is a wild, strange look about his eyes, especially when he looks at madame. Yesterday evening, when M. de Clameran was announced, he jumped up, and hurried out of the room, saying that he had some work to do in his study.”

A triumphant exclamation from M. Verduret interrupted Mme. Gypsy. He was radiant.

“Hein!” he said to Prosper, forgetting his bad humor of a few minutes before; “Hein! What did I tell you?”

“He has evidently–-”

“Been afraid to give way to his first impulse; of course he has. He is now seeking for proofs of your assertions. He must have them by this time. Did the ladies go out yesterday?”

“Yes, a part of the day.”

“What became of M. Fauvel?”

“The ladies took me with them; we left M. Fauvel at home.”

“Not a doubt of it!” cried the fat man; “he looked for proofs, and found them, too! Your letter told him exactly where to go. Ah, Prosper, that unfortunate letter gives more trouble than everything else together.”

These words seemed to throw a sudden light on Mme. Gypsy’s mind.

“I understand it now!” she exclaimed. “M. Fauvel knows everything.”

“That is, he thinks he knows everything; and what he has been led to fear, and thinks he has discovered, is worse than the true state of affairs.”

“That accounts for the order which M. Cavaillon overheard him give to his servant-man, Evariste.”

“What order?”

“He told Evariste to bring every letter that came to the house, no matter to whom addressed, into his study, and hand them to him; saying that, if this order was disobeyed, he should be instantly discharged.”

“At what time was this order given?” asked M. Verduret.

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“That is what I was afraid of,” cried M. Verduret. “He has clearly made up his mind what course to pursue, and is keeping quiet so as to make his vengeance more sure. The question is, Have we still time to counteract his projects? Have we time to convince him that the anonymous letter was incorrect in some of its assertions?”

He tried to hit upon some plan for repairing the damage done by Prosper’s foolish letter.

“Thank you for your information, my dear child,” he said after a long silence. “I will decide at once what steps to take, for it will never do to sit quietly and let things go on in this way. Return home without delay, and be careful of everything you say and do; for M. Fauvel suspects you of being in the plot. Send me word of anything that happens, no matter how insignificant it may be.”

Nina, thus dismissed, did not move, but said timidly:

“What about Caldas, monsieur?”

This was the third time during the last fortnight that Prosper had heard this name, Caldas.

The first time it had been whispered in his ear by a respectable-looking, middle-aged man, who offered his protection one day, when passing through the police-office passage.

The second time, the judge of instruction had mentioned it in connection with Gypsy’s history.

Prosper thought over all the men he had ever been connected with, but could recall none named Caldas.

The impassable M. Verduret started and trembled at the mention of this name, but, quickly recovering himself, said:

“I promised to find him for you, and I will keep my promise. Now you must go; good-morning.”

It was twelve o’clock, and M. Verduret suddenly remembered that he was hungry. He called Mme. Alexandre, and the beaming hostess of the Archangel soon placed a tempting breakfast before Prosper and his friend.

But the savory broiled oysters and flaky biscuit failed to smooth the perplexed brow of M. Verduret.

To the eager questions and complimentary remarks of Mme. Alexandre, he answered:

“Chut, chut! let me alone; keep quiet.”

For the first time since he had known the fat man, Prosper saw him betray anxiety and hesitation.

He remained silent as long as he could, and then uneasily said:

“I am afraid I have embarrassed you very much, monsieur.”

“Yes, you have dreadfully embarrassed me,” replied M. Verduret. “What on earth to do now, I don’t know! Shall I hasten matters, or keep quiet and wait for the next move? And I am bound by a sacred promise. Come, we had better go and advise with the judge of instruction. He can assist me. Come with me; let us hurry.”

XXIII

As M. Verduret had anticipated, Prosper’s letter had a terrible effect upon M. Fauvel.

It was toward nine o’clock in the morning, and M. Fauvel had just entered his study when his mail was brought in.

After opening a dozen business letters, his eyes fell on the fatal missive sent by Prosper.

Something about the writing struck him as peculiar.

It was evidently a disguised hand, and although, owing to the fact of his being a millionnaire, he was in the habit of receiving anonymous communications, sometimes abusive, but generally begging him for money, this particular letter filled him with an indefinite presentiment of evil. A cold chill ran through his heart, and he dreaded to open it.

With absolute certainty that he was about to learn of a new calamity, he broke the seal, and opening the coarse cafe paper, was shocked by the following words:

 

“DEAR SIR—You have handed your cashier over to the law, and you acted properly, convinced as you were of his dishonesty.

“But if it was he who took three hundred and fifty thousand francs from your safe, was it he also who took Mme. Fauvel’s diamonds?”

 

This was a terrible blow to a man whose life hitherto had been an unbroken chain of prosperity, who could recall the past without one bitter regret, without remembering any sorrow deep enough to bring forth a tear.

What! His wife deceive him! And among all men, to choose one vile enough to rob her of her jewels, and force her to be his accomplice in the ruin of an innocent young man!

For did not the letter before him assert this to be a fact, and tell him how to convince himself of its truth?

M. Fauvel was as bewildered as if he had been knocked on the head with a club. It was impossible for his scattered ideas to take in the enormity of what these dreadful words intimated. He seemed to be mentally and physically paralyzed, as he sat there staring blankly at the letter.

But this stupefaction suddenly changed to indignant rage.

“What a fool I am!” he cried, “to listen to such base lies, such malicious charges against the purest woman whom God ever sent to bless a man!”

And he angrily crumpled up the letter, and threw it into the empty fireplace, saying:

“I will forget having read it. I will not soil my mind by letting it dwell upon such turpitude!”

He said this, and he thought it; but, for all that, he could not open the rest of his letters. The anonymous missive stood before his eyes in letters of fire, and drove every other thought from his mind.

That penetrating, clinging, all-corroding worm, suspicion, had taken possession of his soul; and as he leaned over his desk, with his face buried in his hands, thinking over many things which had lately occurred, insignificant at the time, but fearfully ominous now, this unwillingly admitted germ of suspicion grew and expanded until it became certainty.

But, resolved that he would not think of his wife in connection with so vile a deed, he imagined a thousand wild excuses for the mischief-maker who took this mode of annoying him; of course there was no truth in his assertions, but from curiosity he would like to know who had written it. And yet suppose–-

“Merciful God! can it be true?” he wildly cried, as the idea of his wife’s guilt would obstinately return to his troubled mind.

Thinking that the writing might throw some light on the mystery, he started up and tremblingly picked the fatal letter out of the ashes. Carefully smoothing it out, he laid it on his desk, and studied the heavy strokes, light strokes, and capitals of every word.

“It must be from some of my clerks,” he finally said, “someone who is angry with me for refusing to raise his salary; or perhaps it is the one that I dismissed the other day.”

Clinging to this idea, he thought over all the young men in his bank; but not one could he believe capable of resorting to so base a vengeance.

Then he wondered where the letter had been posted, thinking this might throw some light upon the mystery. He looked at the envelope, and read the postmark:

“Rue du Cardinal Lemoine.”

This fact told him nothing.

Once more he read the letter, spelling over each word, and trying to put a different construction on the horrible phrases that stared him in the face.

It is generally agreed that an anonymous letter should be treated with silent contempt, and cast aside as the malicious lies of a coward who dares not say to a man’s face what he secretly commits to paper, and forces upon him.

This is all very well in theory, but is difficult to practise when the anonymous letter comes. You throw it in the fire, it burns; but, although the paper is destroyed by the flames, doubt remains. Suspicion arises from its ashes, like a subtle poison penetrates the inmost recesses of the mind, weakens its holiest beliefs, and destroys its faith.

The trail of the serpent is left.

The wife suspected, no matter