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

opinion? Oh, into what an abyss you have fallen, Valentine! and, oh, my God! if you were wearied by my constant devotion, had the thought of your children no power to restrain your evil passions; could you not remain untarnished for their sake?”

M. Fauvel spoke slowly, with painful effort, as if each word choked him.

Raoul, who listened with attention, saw that if the banker knew some things, he certainly did not know all.

He saw that erroneous information had misled the unhappy man, and that he was still a victim of false appearances.

He determined to convince him of the mistake under which he was laboring, and said:

“Monsieur, I hope you will listen.”

But the sound of Raoul’s voice was sufficient to break the charm.

“Silence!” cried the banker with an angry oath, “silence!”

For some moments nothing was heard but the sobs of Mme. Fauvel.

“I came here,” continued the banker, “with the intention of killing you both. But I cannot kill a woman, and I will not kill an unarmed man.”

Raoul once more tried to speak.

“Let me finish!” interrupted M. Fauvel. “Your life is in my hands; the law excuses the vengeance of an injured husband; but I refuse to take advantage of it. I see on your mantel a revolver similar to mine; take it, and defend yourself.”

“Never!”

“Defend yourself!” cried the banker raising his arm, “if you do not—”

Feeling the barrel of M. Fauvel’s revolver touch his breast, Raoul in self-defence seized his own pistol, and prepared to fire.

“Stand in that corner of the room, and I will stand in this,” continued the banker; “and when the clock strikes, which will be in a few seconds, we will both fire.”

They took the places designated, and stood perfectly still.

But the horror of the scene was too much for Mme. Fauvel to witness any longer without interposing. She understood but one thing: her son and her husband were about to kill each other before her very eyes. Fright and horror gave her strength to start up and rush between the two men.

“For God’s sake, have mercy, Andre!” she cried, wringing her hands with anguish, “let me tell you everything; don’t kill—”

This burst of maternal love, M. Fauvel thought the pleadings of a criminal woman defending her lover.

He roughly seized his wife by the arm, and thrust her aside, saying with indignant scorn:

“Get out of the way!”

But she would not be repulsed; rushing up to Raoul, she threw her arms around him, and said to her husband:

“Kill me, and me alone; for I am the guilty one.”

At these words M. Fauvel glared at the guilty pair, and, deliberately taking aim, fired.

Neither Raoul nor Mme. Fauvel moved. The banker fired a second time; then a third.

He cocked the pistol for a fourth shot, when a man rushed into the room, snatched the pistol from the banker’s hand, and, throwing him on the sofa, ran toward Mme. Fauvel.

This man was M. Verduret, who had been warned by Cavaillon, but did not know that Mme. Gypsy had extracted the balls from M. Fauvel’s revolver.

“Thank Heaven!” he cried, “she is unhurt.”

“How dare you interfere?” cried the banker, who by this time had joined the group. “I have the right to avenge my honor when it has been degraded; the villain shall die!”

M. Verduret seized the banker’s wrists in a vicelike grasp, and whispered in his ear:

“Thank God you are saved from committing a terrible crime; the anonymous letter deceived you.”

In violent situations like this, all the untoward, strange attending circumstances appear perfectly natural to the participators, whose passions have already carried them beyond the limits of social propriety.

Thus M. Fauvel never once thought of asking this stranger who he was and where he came from.

He heard and understood but one fact: the anonymous letter had lied.

“But my wife confesses she is guilty,” he stammered.

“So she is,” replied M. Verduret, “but not of the crime you imagine. Do you know who that man is, that you attempted to kill?”

“Her lover!”

“No: her son!”

The words of this stranger, showing his intimate knowledge of the private affairs of all present, seemed to confound and frighten Raoul more than M. Fauvel’s threats had done. Yet he had sufficient presence of mind to say:

“It is the truth!”

The banker looked wildly from Raoul to M. Verduret; then, fastening his haggard eyes on his wife, exclaimed:

“It is false! you are all conspiring to deceive me! Proofs!”

“You shall have proofs,” replied M. Verduret, “but first listen.”

And rapidly, with his wonderful talent for exposition, he related the principal points of the plot he had discovered.

The true state of the case was terribly distressing to M. Fauvel, but nothing compared with what he had suspected.

His throbbing, yearning heart told him that he still loved his wife. Why should he punish a fault committed so many years ago, and atoned for by twenty years of devotion and suffering?

For some moments after M. Verduret had finished his explanation, M. Fauvel remained silent.

So many strange events had happened, rapidly following each other in succession, and culminating in the shocking scene which had just taken place, that M. Fauvel seemed to be too bewildered to think clearly.

If his heart counselled pardon and forgetfulness, wounded pride and self-respect demanded vengeance.

If Raoul, the baleful witness, the living proof of a far-off sin, were not in existence, M. Fauvel would not have hesitated. Gaston de Clameran was dead; he would have held out his arms to his wife, and said:

“Come to my heart! your sacrifices for my honor shall be your absolution; let the sad past be forgotten.”

But the sight of Raoul froze the words upon his lips.

“So this is your son,” he said to his wife—“this man, who has plundered you and robbed me!”

Mme. Fauvel was unable to utter a word in reply to these reproachful words.

“Oh!” said M. Verduret, “madame will tell you that this young man is the son of Gaston de Clameran; she has never doubted it. But the truth is—”

“What!”

“That, in order to swindle her, he has perpetrated a gross imposture.”

During the last few minutes Raoul had been quietly creeping toward the door, hoping to escape while no one was thinking of him.

But M. Verduret, who anticipated his intentions, was watching him out of the corner of one eye, and stopped him just as he was about leaving the room.

“Not so fast, my pretty youth,” he said, dragging him into the middle of the room; “it is not polite to leave us so unceremoniously. Let us have a little conversation before parting; a little explanation will be edifying!”

The jeering words and mocking manner of M. Verduret made Raoul turn deadly pale, and start back as if confronted by a phantom.

“The clown!” he gasped.

“The same, friend,” said the fat man. “Ah, now that you recognize me, I confess that the clown and myself are one and the same. Yes, I am the mountebank of the Jandidier ball; here is proof of it.”

And turning up his sleeve he showed a deep cut on his arm.

“I think that this recent wound will convince you of my identity,” he continued. “I imagine you know the villain that gave me this little decoration, that night I was walking along the Rue Bourdaloue. That being the case, you know, I have a slight claim upon you, and shall expect you to relate to us your little story.”

But Raoul was so terrified that he could not utter a word.

“Your modesty keeps you silent,” said M. Verduret. “Bravo! modesty becomes talent, and for one of your age you certainly have displayed a talent for knavery.”

M. Fauvel listened without understanding a word of what was said.

“Into what dark depths of shame have we fallen!” he groaned.

“Reassure yourself, monsieur,” replied M. Verduret with great respect. “After what I have been constrained to tell you, what remains to be said is a mere trifle. I will finish the story.

“On leaving Mihonne, who had given him a full account of the misfortunes of Mlle. Valentine de la Verberie, Clameran hastened to London.

“He had no difficulty in finding the farmer’s wife to whom the old countess had intrusted Gaston’s son.

“But here an unexpected disappointment greeted him.

“He learned that the child, whose name was registered on the parish books as Raoul-Valentin Wilson, had died of the croup when eighteen months old.”

“Did anyone state such a fact as that?” interrupted Raoul: “it is false.”

“It was not only stated, but proved, my pretty youth,” replied M. Verduret. “You don’t suppose I am a man to trust to verbal testimony; do you?”

He drew from his pocket several officially stamped documents, with red seals attached, and laid them on the table.

“These are declarations of the nurse, her husband, and four witnesses. Here is an extract from the register of births; this is a certificate of registry of his death; and all these are authenticated at the French Embassy. Now are you satisfied, young man?”

“What next?” inquired M. Fauvel.

“The next step was this,” replied M. Verduret. “Clameran, finding that the child was dead, supposed that he could, in spite of this disappointment, obtain money from Mme. Fauvel; he was mistaken. His first attempt failed. Having an inventive turn of mind, he determined that the child should come to life. Among his large circle of rascally acquaintances, he selected a young fellow to impersonate Raoul-Valentin Wilson; and the chosen one stands before you.”

Mme. Fauvel was in a pitiable state. And yet she began to feel a ray of hope; her acute anxiety had so long tortured her, that the truth was a relief; she would thank Heaven if this wicked man was proved to be no son of hers.

“Can this be possible?” she murmured, “can it be?”

“Impossible!” cried the banker: “an infamous plot like this could not be executed in our midst!”

“All this is false!” said Raoul boldly. “It is a lie!”

M. Verduret turned to Raoul, and, bowing with ironical respect, said:

“Monsieur desires proofs, does he? Monsieur shall certainly have convincing ones. I have just left a friend of mine, M. Palot, who brought me valuable information from London. Now, my young gentleman, I will tell you the little story he told me, and then you can give your opinion of it.

“In 1847 Lord Murray, a wealthy and generous nobleman, had a jockey named Spencer, of whom he was very fond. At the Epsom races, this jockey was thrown from his horse, and killed. Lord Murray grieved over the loss of his favorite, and, having no children of his own, declared his intention of adopting Spencer’s son, who was then but four years old.

“Thus James Spencer was brought up in affluence, as heir to the immense wealth of the noble lord. He was a handsome, intelligent boy, and gave satisfaction to his protector until he was sixteen years of age; when he became intimate with a worthless set of people, and turned out badly.

“Lord Murray, who was very indulgent, pardoned many grave faults; but one fine morning he discovered that his adopted son had been imitating his signature upon some checks. He indignantly dismissed him from the house, and told him never to show his face again.

“James Spencer had been living in London about four years, managing to support himself by gambling and swindling, when he met Clameran, who offered him twenty-five thousand francs to play a part in a little comedy which he had arranged to suit the actors.”

“You are a detective!” interrupted Raoul.

The fat man smiled grimly.

“At present,” he