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

together by a tortoise-shell comb, fell in a profusion of soft curls upon her exquisite neck. She was Madeleine, M. Fauvel’s niece, of whom he had spoken not long before.

Seeing Prosper in the study, where probably she expected to find her uncle alone, she could not refrain from an exclamation of surprise.

“Ah!”

Prosper started up as if he had received an electric shock. His eyes, a moment before so dull and heavy, now sparkled with joy as if he had caught a glimpse of a messenger of hope.

“Madeleine,” he gasped, “Madeleine!”

The young girl was blushing crimson. She seemed about to hastily retreat, and stepped back; but, Prosper having advanced toward her, she was overcome by a sentiment stronger than her will, and extended her hand, which he seized and pressed with much agitation.

They stood thus face to face, but with averted looks, as if they dared not let their eyes meet for fear of betraying their feelings; having much to say, and not knowing how to begin, they stood silent.

Finally Madeleine murmured, in a scarcely audible voice:

“You, Prosper—you!”

These words broke the spell. The cashier dropped the white hand which he held, and answered bitterly:

“Yes, this is Prosper, the companion of your childhood, suspected, accused of the most disgraceful theft; Prosper, whom your uncle has just delivered up to justice, and who, before the day is over, will be arrested, and thrown into prison.”

Madeleine, with a terrified gesture, cried in a tone of anguish:

“Good heavens! Prosper, what are you saying?”

“What, mademoiselle! do you not know what has happened? Have not your aunt and cousins told you?”

“They have told me nothing. I have scarcely seen my cousins this morning; and my aunt is so ill that I felt uneasy, and came to tell uncle. But for Heaven’s sake speak: tell me the cause of your distress.”

Prosper hesitated. Perhaps it occurred to him to open his heart to Madeleine, of revealing to her his most secret thoughts. A remembrance of the past chilled his confidence. He sadly shook his head, and replied:

“Thanks, mademoiselle, for this proof of interest, the last, doubtless, that I shall ever receive from you; but allow me, by being silent, to spare you distress, and myself the mortification of blushing before you.”

Madeleine interrupted him imperiously:

“I insist upon knowing.”

“Alas, mademoiselle!” answered Prosper, “you will only too soon learn my misfortune and disgrace; then, yes, then you will applaud yourself for what you have done.”

She became more urgent; instead of commanding, she entreated; but Prosper was inflexible.

“Your uncle is in the adjoining room, mademoiselle, with the commissary of police and a detective. They will soon return. I entreat you to retire that they may not find you here.”

As he spoke he gently pushed her through the door, and closed it upon her.

It was time, for the next moment the commissary and Monsieur Fauvel entered. They had visited the main entrance and waiting-room, and had heard nothing of what had passed in the study.

But Fanferlot had heard for them.

This excellent bloodhound had not lost sight of the cashier. He said to himself, “Now that my young gentleman believes himself to be alone, his face will betray him. I shall detect a smile or a wink that will enlighten me.”

Leaving M. Fauvel and the commissary to pursue their investigations, he posted himself to watch. He saw the door open, and Madeleine appear upon the threshold; he lost not a single word or gesture of the rapid scene which had passed.

It mattered little that every word of this scene was an enigma. M. Fanferlot was skilful enough to complete the sentences he did not understand.

As yet he only had a suspicion; but a mere suspicion is better than nothing; it is a point to start from. So prompt was he in building a plan upon the slightest incident that he thought he saw in the past of these people, who were utter strangers to him, glimpses of a domestic drama.

If the commissary of police is a sceptic, the detective has faith; he believes in evil.

“I understand the case now,” said he to himself. “This man loves the young lady, who is really very pretty; and, as he is quite handsome, I suppose his love is reciprocated. This love-affair vexes the banker, who, not knowing how to get rid of the importunate lover by fair means, has to resort to foul, and plans this imaginary robbery, which is very ingenious.”

Thus to M. Fanferlot’s mind, the banker had simply robbed himself, and the innocent cashier was the victim of an odious machination.

But this conviction was, at present, of little service to Prosper.

Fanferlot, the ambitious, who had determined to obtain renown in his profession, decided to keep his conjectures to himself.

“I will let the others go their way, and I’ll go mine,” he said. “When, by dint of close watching and patient investigation I shall have collected proof sufficient to insure certain conviction, I will unmask the scoundrel.”

He was radiant. He had at last found the crime, so long looked for, which would make him celebrated. Nothing was wanting, neither the odious circumstances, nor the mystery, nor even the romantic and sentimental element represented by Prosper and Madeleine.

Success seemed difficult, almost impossible; but Fanferlot, the Squirrel, had great confidence in his own genius for investigation.

Meanwhile, the search upstairs completed, M. Fauvel and the commissary returned to the room where Prosper was waiting for them.

The commissary, who had seemed so calm when he first came, now looked grave and perplexed. The moment for taking a decisive part had come, yet it was evident that he hesitated.

“You see, gentlemen,” he began, “our search has only confirmed our first suspicion.”

M. Fauvel and Prosper bowed assentingly.

“And what do you think, M. Fanferlot?” continued the commissary.

Fanferlot did not answer.

Occupied in studying the safe-lock, he manifested signs of a lively surprise. Evidently he had just made an important discovery.

M. Fauvel, Prosper, and the commissary rose, and surrounded him.

“Have you discovered any trace?” said the banker, eagerly.

Fanferlot turned around with a vexed air. He reproached himself for not having concealed his impressions.

“Oh!” said he, carelessly, “I have discovered nothing of importance.”