File No. 113, Émile Gaboriau [best ereader for graphic novels .TXT] 📗

thirst for vengeance, which gives a man the force and patience to destroy or wear out all obstacles in his way, he would say, “Oh! why am I not at liberty? I am helpless, caged up; but let me once be free!”

Now he was free; and, for the first time, he saw the difficulties of the task before him. For each crime, justice requires a criminal: he could not establish his own innocence without producing the guilty man; how find the thief so as to hand him over to the law?

Discouraged, but not despondent, he turned in the direction of his apartments. He was beset by a thousand anxieties. What had taken place during the nine days that he had been cut off from all intercourse with his friends? No news of them had reached him. He had heard no more of what was going on in the outside world, than if his secret cell had been a grave.

He slowly walked along the streets, with his eyes cast down dreading to meet some familiar face. He, who had always been so haughty, would now be pointed at with the finger of scorn. He would be greeted with cold looks and averted faces. Men would refuse to shake hands with him. He would be shunned by honest people, who have no patience with a thief.

Still, if he could count on only one true friend! Yes: he was sure of one. But what friend would believe him when his father, who should have been the last to suspect him, had refused to believe him?

In the midst of his sufferings, when he felt almost overwhelmed by the sense of his wretched, lonely condition, he thought of Gypsy.

He had never loved the poor girl: indeed, at times he almost hated her; but now he felt a longing to see her. He wished to be with her, because he knew that she loved him, and that nothing would make her believe him guilty; because he knew that a woman remains true and firm in her faith, and is always faithful in the hour of adversity, although she sometimes fails in prosperity.

On entering the Rue Chaptal, Prosper saw his own door, but hesitated to enter it.

He suffered from the timidity which an honest man always feels when he knows he is viewed with suspicion.

He dreaded meeting anyone whom he knew; yet he could not remain in the street. He entered.

When the porter saw him, he uttered an exclamation of glad surprise, and said:

“Ah, here you are at last, monsieur. I told everyone you would come out as white as snow; and, when I read in the papers that you were arrested for robbery, I said, ‘My third-floor lodger a thief! Never would I believe such a thing, never!’ ”

The congratulations of this ignorant man were sincere, and offered from pure kindness of heart; but they impressed Prosper painfully, and he cut them short by abruptly asking:

“Madame of course has left: can you tell me where she has gone?”

“Dear me, no, monsieur. The day of your arrest, she sent for a hack, got into it with her trunks, and disappeared; and no one has seen or heard of her since.”

This was another blow to the unhappy cashier.

“And where are my servants?”

“Gone, monsieur; your father paid and discharged them.”

“I suppose you have my keys?”

“No, monsieur; when your father left here this morning at eight o’clock, he told me that a friend of his would take charge of your rooms until you should return. Of course you know who he is⁠—a stout gentleman with red whiskers.”

Prosper was stupefied. What could be the meaning of one of his father’s friends being in his rooms? He did not, however, betray any surprise, but quietly said:

“Yes: I know who it is.”

He quickly ran up the stairs, and knocked at his door.

It was opened by his father’s friend.

He had been accurately described by the porter. A fat man, with a red face, sensual lips, brilliant eyes, and of rather coarse manners, stood bowing to Prosper, who had never seen him before.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, monsieur,” said he to Prosper.

He seemed to be perfectly at home. On the table lay a book, which he had taken from the bookcase; and he appeared ready to do the honors of the house.

“I must say, monsieur,” began Prosper.

“That you are surprised to find me here? So I suppose. Your father intended introducing me to you; but he was compelled to return to Beaucaire this morning; and let me add that he departed thoroughly convinced, as I myself am, that you never took a cent from M. Fauvel.”

At this unexpected good news, Prosper’s face lit up with pleasure.

“Here is a letter from your father, which I hope will serve as an introduction between us.”

Prosper opened the letter; and as he read his eyes grew brighter, and a slight color returned to his pale face.

When he had finished, he held out his hand to the large gentleman, and said:

“My father, monsieur, tells me you are his best friend; he advises me to have absolute confidence in you, and follow your counsel.”

“Exactly. This morning your father said to me, ‘Verduret’⁠—that is my name⁠—‘Verduret, my son is in great trouble, he must be helped out.’ I replied, ‘I am ready,’ and here I am to help you. Now the ice is broken, is it not? Then let us go to work at once. What do you intend to do?”

This question revived Prosper’s slumbering rage. His eyes flashed.

“What do I intend to do?” he said, angrily: “what should I do but seek the villain who has ruined me?”

“So I supposed; but have you any hopes of success?”

“None; yet I shall succeed, because, when a man devotes his whole life to the accomplishment of an object, he is certain to achieve it.”

“Well said, M. Prosper; and, to be frank, I fully expected that this would be your purpose. I have therefore already begun to think and act for you. I have a plan. In the