File No. 113, Emile Gaboriau [ink book reader TXT] 📗

eyes; her lips were full, and her teeth were very white.

She had not yet made her toilet, but wore a velvet dressing-wrapper, which did not conceal the lace ruffles beneath. But she had already been under the hands of a hairdresser.

Her hair was curled and frizzed high on her forehead, and confined by narrow bands of red velvet; her back hair was rolled in an immense coil, and held by a beautiful gold comb.

She was ravishing. Her beauty was so startling that the dazzled detective was speechless with admiration.

“Well,” he said to himself, as he remembered the noble, severe beauty of Madeleine, whom he had seen a few hours previous, “our young gentleman certainly has good taste—very good taste—two perfect beauties!”

While he thus reflected, perfectly bewildered, and wondering how he could begin the conversation, Mme. Gypsy eyed him with the most disdainful surprise; she was waiting for this shabby little man in a threadbare coat and greasy hat to explain his presence in her dainty parlor.

She had many creditors, and was recalling them, and wondering which one had dared send this man to wipe his dusty boots on her velvet carpets.

After scrutinizing him from head to foot with undisguised contempt, she said, haughtily:

“What do you want?”

Anyone but Fanferlot would have been offended at her insolent manner; but he only noticed it to gain some notion of the young woman’s disposition.

“She is bad-tempered,” he thought, “and is uneducated.”

While he was speculating upon her merits, Mme. Nina impatiently tapped her little foot, and waited for an answer; finally she said:

“Why don’t you speak? What do you want here?”

“I am charged, my dear madame,” he answered in his softest tone, “by M. Bertomy, to give you this note.”

“From Prosper! You know him, then?”

“I have that honor, madame; indeed, I may be so bold as to claim him as a friend.”

“Monsieur! You a friend of Prosper!” exclaimed Mme. Gypsy in a scornful tone, as if her pride were wounded.

Fanferlot did not condescend to notice this offensive exclamation. He was ambitious, and contempt failed to irritate him.

“I said a friend of his, madame, and there are few people who would have the courage to claim friendship for him now.”

Mme. Gypsy was struck by the words and manner of Fanferlot.

“I never could guess riddles,” she said, tartly: “will you be kind enough to explain what you mean?”

The detective slowly drew Prosper’s note from his pocket, and, with a bow, presented it to Mme. Gypsy.

“Read, madame,” he said.

She certainly anticipated no misfortune; although her sight was excellent, she stopped to fasten a tiny gold eyeglass on her nose, then carelessly opened the note.

At a glance she read its contents.

She turned very red, then very pale; she trembled as if with a nervous chill; her limbs seemed to give way, and she tottered so that Fanferlot, thinking she was about to fall, extended his arms to catch her.

Useless precaution! Mme. Gypsy was one of those women whose inert listlessness conceals indomitable energy; fragile-looking creatures whose powers of endurance and resistance are unlimited; cat-like in their soft grace and delicacy, especially cat-like in their nerves and muscles of steel.

The dizziness caused by the shock she had received quickly passed off. She tottered, but did not fall, and stood up looking stronger than ever; seizing the wrist of the detective, she held it as if her delicate little hand were a vice, and cried out:

“Explain yourself! what does all this mean? Do you know anything about the contents of this note?”

Although Fanferlot betrayed courage in daily contending with the most dangerous rascals, he was positively terrified by Mme. Gypsy.

“Alas!” he murmured.

“Prosper is to be arrested, accused of being a thief?”

“Yes, madame, he is accused of taking three hundred and fifty thousand francs from the bank-safe.”

“It is false, infamous, absurd!” she cried. She had dropped Fanferlot’s hand; and her fury, like that of a spoiled child, found vent in violent actions. She tore her web-like handkerchief, and the magnificent lace on her gown, to shreds.

“Prosper steal!” she cried; “what a stupid idea! Why should he steal? Is he not rich?”

“M. Bertomy is not rich, madame; he has nothing but his salary.”

The answer seemed to confound Mme. Gypsy.

“But,” she insisted, “I have always seen him have plenty of money; not rich—then——”

She dared not finish; but her eye met Fanferlot’s, and they understood each other.

Mme. Nina’s look meant:

“He committed this robbery in order to gratify my extravagant whims.”

Fanferlot’s glance answered:

“Very likely, madame.”

A few minutes’ reflection convinced Nina that her first impression was the correct one. Doubt fled after hovering for an instant over her agitated mind.

“No!” she cried, “I regret to say that Prosper would never have stolen one cent for me. One can understand a man robbing a bank to obtain means of bestowing pleasure and luxury upon the woman he loves; but Prosper does not love me, he never has loved me.”

“Oh, fair lady!” protested the gallant and insinuating Fanferlot, “you surely cannot mean what you say.”

Her beautiful eyes filled with tears, as she sadly shook her head, and said:

“I mean exactly what I say. It is only too true. He is ready to gratify my every wish, you may say; what does that prove? Nothing. I am too well convinced that he does not love me. I know what love is. Once I was beloved by an affectionate, true-hearted man; and my own sufferings of the last year make me know how miserable I must have made him by my cold return. Alas! we must suffer ourselves before we can feel for others. No, I am nothing to Prosper; he would not care if—”

“But then, madame, why—”

“Ah, yes,” interrupted Nina, “why? you will be very wise if you can answer me. For a year have I vainly sought an answer to this question, so sad to me. I, a woman, cannot answer it; and I defy you to do so. You cannot discover the thoughts of a man so thoroughly master of himself that never is a single