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

almost quarrelled. I have not set foot in his house for over a month; but I hear of him occasionally.”

“Through whom?”

“Through your friend Cavaillon. My uncle, they say, is more distressed by this affair than you are. He does not attend to his business, and wanders about as if he had lost every friend on earth.”

“And Mme. Fauvel, and”⁠—Prosper hesitated⁠—“and Mlle. Madeleine, how are they?”

“Oh,” said Raoul lightly, “my aunt is as pious as ever; she has mass said for the benefit of the sinner. As to my handsome, icy cousin, she cannot bring herself down to common matters, because she is entirely absorbed in preparing for the fancy ball to be given day after tomorrow by MM. Jandidier. She has discovered, so one of her friends told me, a wonderful dressmaker, a stranger who has suddenly appeared from no one knows where, who is making a costume of Catherine de Médici’s maid of honor; and it is to be a marvel of beauty.”

Excessive suffering brings with it a sort of dull insensibility and stupor; and Prosper thought that there was nothing left to be inflicted upon him, and had reached that state of impassibility from which he never expected to be aroused, when this last remark of M. de Lagors made him cry out with pain:

“Madeleine! Oh, Madeleine!”

M. de Lagors, pretending not to have heard him, rose from his chair, and said:

“I must leave you now, my dear Prosper; on Saturday I will see these ladies at the ball, and will bring you news of them. Now, do have courage, and remember that, whatever happens, you have a friend in me.”

Raoul shook Prosper’s hand, closed the door after him, and hurried up the street, leaving Prosper standing immovable and overcome by disappointment.

He was aroused from his gloomy revery by hearing the red-whiskered man say, in a bantering tone:

“So these are your friends.”

“Yes,” said Prosper with bitterness. “You heard him offer me half his fortune?”

M. Verduret shrugged his shoulders with an air of compassion.

“That was very stingy on his part,” he said, “why did he not offer the whole? Offers cost nothing; although I have no doubt that this sweet youth would cheerfully give ten thousand francs to put the ocean between you and him.”

“Monsieur! what reason?”

“Who knows? Perhaps for the same reason that he had not set foot in his uncle’s house for a month.”

“But that is the truth, monsieur, I am sure of it.”

“Naturally,” said M. Verduret with a provoking smile. “But,” he continued with a serious air, “we have devoted enough time to this Adonis. Now, be good enough to change your dress, and we will go and call on M. Fauvel.”

This proposal seemed to stir up all of Prosper’s anger.

“Never!” he exclaimed with excitement, “no, never will I voluntarily set eyes on that wretch!”

This resistance did not surprise M. Verduret.

“I can understand your feelings toward him,” said he, “but at the same time I hope you will change your mind. For the same reason that I wished to see M. de Lagors, do I wish to see M. Fauvel; it is necessary, you understand. Are you so very weak that you cannot put a constraint upon yourself for five minutes? I shall introduce myself as one of your relatives, and you need not open your lips.”

“If it is positively necessary,” said Prosper, “if⁠—”

“It is necessary; so come on. You must have confidence, put on a brave face. Hurry and fix yourself up a little; it is getting late, and I am hungry. We will breakfast on our way there.”

Prosper had hardly passed into his bedroom when the bell rang again. M. Verduret opened the door. It was the porter, who handed him a thick letter, and said:

“This letter was left this morning for M. Bertomy; I was so flustered when he came that I forgot to hand it to him. It is a very odd-looking letter; is it not, monsieur?”

It was indeed a most peculiar missive. The address was not written, but formed of printed letters, carefully cut from a book, and pasted on the envelope.

“Oh, ho! what is this?” cried M. Verduret; then turning toward the porter he cried, “Wait.”

He went into the next room, and closed the door behind him; there he found Prosper, anxious to know what was going on.

“Here is a letter for you,” said M. Verduret.

He at once tore open the envelope.

Some banknotes dropped out; he counted them; there were ten.

Prosper’s face turned purple.

“What does this mean?” he asked.

“We will read the letter and find out,” replied M. Verduret.

The letter, like the address, was composed of printed words cut out and pasted on a sheet of paper.

It was short but explicit:

“My dear Prosper⁠—A friend, who knows the horror of your situation, sends you this succor. There is one heart, be assured, that shares your sufferings. Go away; leave France; you are young; the future is before you. Go, and may this money bring you happiness!”

As M. Verduret read the note, Prosper’s rage increased. He was angry and perplexed, for he could not explain the rapidly succeeding events which were so calculated to mystify his already confused brain.

“Everybody wishes me to go away,” he cried; “then there must be a conspiracy against me.”

M. Verduret smiled with satisfaction.

“At last you begin to open your eyes, you begin to understand. Yes, there are people who hate you because of the wrong they have done you; there are people to whom your presence in Paris is a constant danger, and who will not feel safe till they are rid of you.”

“But who are these people, monsieur? Tell me, who dares send this money?”

“If I knew, my dear Prosper, my task would be at an end, for then I would know who committed the robbery. But we will continue our searches. I have finally procured evidence which will sooner or later become convincing proof. I have heretofore only made deductions more or less probable; I now possess knowledge which proves that I was not mistaken. I walked in darkness: now I have a light to guide me.”

As Prosper listened to M. Verduret’s reassuring