File No. 113, Emile Gaboriau [digital e reader txt] 📗

be understood without specifying anything; it is vague, jeering, insidious. Repeat it to me.”

Prosper obeyed, and his second version did not vary from the first in a single word.

“Nothing could be more alarming than that allusion to the cashier,” said the fat man, repeating the words after Prosper. “The question, ‘Was it also he who stole Mme. Fauvel’s diamonds?’ is simply fearful. What could be more exasperating than the sarcastic advice, ‘In your place, I would not have any public scandal, but would watch my wife?’ The effect of your letter must have been terrible,” he added thoughtfully as he stood with folded arms looking at poor Prosper. “M. Fauvel is quick-tempered, is he not?”

“He has a violent temper, when aroused.”

“Then the mischief is not irreparable.”

“What! do you suppose—”

“I think that an impulsive man is afraid of himself, and seldom carries out his first angry intentions. That is our chance of salvation. If, upon the receipt of your bombshell, M. Fauvel, unable to restrain himself, rushed into his wife’s room, and cried, ‘Where are your diamonds?’ Mme. Fauvel will confess all; and then good-by to our hopes.”

“Why would this be disastrous?”

“Because, the moment Mme. Fauvel opens her lips to her husband, our birds will take flight.”

Prosper had never thought of this eventuality.

“Then, again,” continued M. Verduret, “it would deeply distress another person.”

“Anyone whom I know?”

“Yes, my friend, and very well too. I should certainly be chagrined to the last degree, if these two rascals escape, without having obtained complete satisfaction from them.”

“It seems to me that you know how to take care of yourself, and can do anything you please.”

M. Verduret shrugged his shoulders, and said:

“Did you not perceive the gaps in my narrative?”

“I did not.”

“That is because you don’t know how to listen. In the first place, did Louis de Clameran poison his brother, or not?”

“Yes; I am sure of it, from what you tell me.”

“There you are! You are much more certain, young man, than I am. Your opinion is mine; but what proof have we? None. I skilfully questioned Dr. C–-. He has not the shadow of suspicion; and Dr. C–- is no quack; he is a cultivated, observing man of high standing. What poisons produce the effects described? I know of none; and yet I have studied up on poisons from Pomerania digitalis to Sauvresy aconite.”

“The death took place so opportunely–-”

“That anybody would be convinced of foul play. That is true; but chance is sometimes a wonderful accomplice in crime. In the second place, I know nothing of Raoul’s antecedents.”

“Is information on that point necessary?”

“Indispensable, my friend; but we will soon know something. I have sent off one of my men—excuse me, I mean one of my friends—who is very expert and adroit, M. Palot; and he writes that he is on the track. I am interested in the history of this sentimental, sceptical young rascal. I have an idea that he must have been a brave, honest sort of youth before Clameran ruined him.”

Prosper was no longer listening.

M. Verduret’s words had inspired him with confidence. Already he saw the guilty men arraigned before the bar of justice; and enjoyed, in anticipation, this assize-court drama, where he would be publicly exonerated and restored to position.

Then he would seek Madeleine; for now he understood her strange conduct at the dressmaker’s, and knew that she had never ceased to love him.

This certainty of future happiness restored all the self-possession that had deserted him the day he found the safe robbed. For the first time he was astonished at the peculiarity of his situation.

Prosper had at first only been surprised at the protection of M. Verduret and the extent of his investigations: now he asked himself, what could have been his motives for acting thus?

What price did he expect for this sacrifice of time and labor?

His anxiety made him say nervously:

“It is unjust to us both, monsieur, for you to preserve your incognito any longer. When you have saved the honor and life of a man, you should at least let him know whom he is to thank for it.”

“Oh!” said M. Verduret smilingly, “you are not out of the woods yet. You are not married either: so you must wait a little longer; patience and faith.”

The clock struck six.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed M. Verduret. “Can it be six o’clock? I did hope to have a good night’s rest, but I must keep on moving. This is no time to be asleep.”

He went into the passage, and, leaning over the balusters, called, “Mme. Alexandre! I say, Mme. Alexandre!”

The hostess of the Archangel, the portly wife of Fanferlot the Squirrel, evidently had not been to bed. This fact struck Prosper.

She appeared, obsequious, smiling, and eager to please.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” she inquired.

“You can send your—Joseph Dubois and Palmyre to me as soon as possible. Let me know when they arrive. I will rest a few minutes, and you can awake me when they come.”

As soon as Mme. Alexandre left the room, the fat man unceremoniously threw himself on the bed.

“You have no objections, I suppose?” he said to Prosper.

In five minutes he was fast asleep; and Prosper sat by the bed watching him with a perplexed gaze, wondering who this strange man could be.

About nine o’clock someone tapped timidly at the door.

Slight as the noise was, it aroused M. Verduret, who sprang up, and called out:

“Who is it?”

Prosper arose and opened the door.

Joseph Dubois, the valet of the Marquis of Clameran, entered.

This important assistant of M. Verduret was breathless from fast running; and his little rat eyes were more restless than ever.

“Well, patron, I am glad to see you once more,” he cried. “Now you can tell me what to do; I have been perfectly lost during your absence, and have felt like a jumping monkey with a broken string.

“What! did you get frightened too?”

“Bless me! I think I had cause for alarm when I could not find you anywhere. Yesterday afternoon I sent you three despatches, to the addresses you gave me, Lyons, Beaucaire, and Oloron, but received no answer. I was almost crazy with anxiety when your message reached me just now.”

“Things are getting hot, then.”

“Hot! They are burning! The place is too warm to hold me any longer; upon my soul, I can’t stand it!”

M. Verduret occupied himself in repairing his toilet, become disarranged by lying down.

When he had finished, he threw himself in an easy-chair, and said to Joseph Dubois, who remained respectfully standing, cap in hand, like a soldier awaiting orders:

“Explain yourself, my boy, and quickly, if you please; no circumlocution.”

“It is just this, patron. I don’t know what your plans are, or what line you are taking now; but I can just tell you this: that you will have to wind up the affair pretty quickly.”

“That is your opinion, Master Joseph?”

“Yes, patron, because if you wait any longer, good-by to our covey: you will certainly find an empty cage, and the birds flown. You smile? Yes, I know you are clever, and can accomplish anything; but they are cunning blades, and as slippery as eels. They know that they are watched, too.”

“The devil they do!” cried M. Verduret. “Who has been committing blunders?”

“Oh! nobody has done anything wrong,” replied Joseph. “You know, patron, that they suspected something long ago. They gave you a proof of it, the night of the fancy ball; that ugly cut on your arm was the beginning. Ever since, they have had one eye open all the time. They had begun to feel easier, when all of a sudden, yesterday, ma foi, they began to smell a rat!”

“Was that the cause of your telegrams?”

“Of course. Now listen: yesterday morning when my master got up, about ten o’clock, he took it into his head to arrange the papers in his desk; which, by the way, has a disgusting lock which has given me a deal of trouble. Meanwhile, I pretended to be fixing the fire, so as to remain in the room to watch him. Patron, the man has an eye like a Yankee! At the first glance he saw, or rather divined, that his papers had been meddled with, he turned livid, and swore an oath; Lord, what an oath!”

“Never mind the oath; go on.”

“Well, how he discovered the little attentions I had devoted to his letters, I can’t imagine. You know how careful I am. I had put everything in perfect order; just as I found things I left them, when, lo and behold! my noble marquis picks up each paper, one at a time, turns it over, and smells it. I was just thinking I would offer him a magnifying-glass, when all of a sudden he sprang up, and with one kick sent his chair across the room, and flew at me with his eyes flashing like two pistols. ‘Somebody has been at my papers,’ he shrieked; ‘this letter has been photographed!’ B-r-r-r! I am not a coward, but I can tell you that my heart stood perfectly still; I saw myself as dead as Caesar, cut into mince-meat; and says I to myself, ‘Fanfer—excuse me —Dubois, my friend, you are lost, dead;’ and I thought of Mme. Alexandre.”

M. Verduret was buried in thought, and paid no attention to the worthy Joseph’s analysis of his personal sensations.

“What happened next?” said Verduret after a few minutes.

“Why, he was just as frightened as I was, patron. The rascal did not even dare to touch me. To be sure, I had taken the precaution to get out of his reach; we talked with a large table between us. While wondering what could have enabled him to discover the secret, I defended myself with virtuous indignation. I said:

“‘It cannot be; M. le marquis is mistaken. Who would dare touch his papers?’

“Bast! Instead of listening to me, he flourished an open letter, and said:

“‘This letter has been photographed! here is proof of it!’ and he pointed to a little yellow spot on the paper, shrieking out, ‘Look! Smell! Smell it, you devil! It is—’ I forget the name he called it, but some acid used by photographers.”

“I know, I know,” said M. Verduret; “go on; what next?”

“Then, patron, we had a scene; what a scene! He ended by seizing me by the throat, and shaking me like a plum-tree, saying he would shake me until I told him who I was, what I knew, and where I came from. As if I knew, myself! I was obliged to account for every minute of my time since I had been in his service. The devil was worse than a judge of instruction, in his questions. Then he sent for the hotel porter, who had charge of the front door, and questioned him closely, but in English, so that I could not understand. After a while, he cooled down, and when the boy was gone, presented me with twenty francs, saying, ‘I am sorry I was so sharp with you; you are too stupid to have been guilty of the offence.’”

“He said that, did he?”

“He used those very words to my face, patron.”

“And you think he meant what he said?”

“Certainly I do.”

The fat man smiled, and whistled a little tune expressive of contempt.

“If you think that,” he said, “Clameran was right in his estimate of your brilliancy.”

It was easy to see that Joseph Dubois was anxious to hear his patron’s grounds for considering him stupid, but dared not ask.

“I suppose I am stupid, if you