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

installed themselves in the “Archangel.”

Mme. Alexandre gave Prosper her prettiest room, but it was very ugly compared with the coquettish little parlor on the Rue Chaptal. His state of mind did not permit him, however, to notice the difference between his former and present quarters. He lay on an old sofa, meditating upon the events of the day, and feeling a bitter satisfaction in his isolated condition.

About eleven o’clock he thought he would raise the window, and let the cool air fan his burning brow; as he did so a piece of paper was blown from among the folds of the window-curtain, and lay at his feet on the floor.

Prosper mechanically picked it up, and looked at it.

It was covered with writing, the handwriting of Nina Gypsy; he could not be mistaken about that.

It was the fragment of a torn letter; and, if the half sentences did not convey any clear meaning, they were sufficient to lead the mind into all sorts of conjectures.

The fragment read as follows:

“of M. Raoul, I have been very im⁠ ⁠… plotted against him, of whom never⁠ ⁠… warn Prosper, and then⁠ ⁠… best friend⁠ ⁠… he⁠ ⁠… hand of Mlle. Ma⁠ ⁠…”

Prosper never closed his eyes during that night.

IX

Not far from the Palais Royal, in the Rue St. Honoré, is the sign of “La Bonne Foi,” a small establishment, half café and half shop, extensively patronized by the people of the neighborhood.

It was in the smoking-room of this modest café that Prosper, the day after his release, awaited M. Verduret, who had promised to meet him at four o’clock.

The clock struck four; M. Verduret, who was punctuality itself, appeared. He was more red-faced and self-satisfied, if possible, than the day before.

As soon as the servant had left the room to obey his orders, he said to Prosper:

“Well, are our commissions executed?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Have you seen the costumer?”

“I gave him your letter, and everything you ordered will be sent to the Archangel tomorrow.”

“Very good; you have not lost time, neither have I. I have good news for you.”

The “Bonne Foi” is almost deserted at four o’clock. The hour for coffee is passed, and the hour for absinthe has not yet come. M. Verduret and Prosper could talk at their ease without fear of being overheard by gossiping neighbors.

M. Verduret drew forth his memorandum-book, the precious diary which, like the enchanted book in the fairytale, had an answer for every question.

“While awaiting our emissaries whom I appointed to meet here, let us devote a little time to M. de Lagors.”

At this name Prosper did not protest, as he had done the night previous. Like those imperceptible insects which, having once penetrated the root of a tree, devour it in a single night, suspicion, when it invades our mind, soon develops itself, and destroys our firmest beliefs.

The visit of Lagors, and Gypsy’s torn letter, had filled Prosper with suspicions which had grown stronger and more settled as time passed.

“Do you know, my dear friend,” said M. Verduret, “what part of France this devoted friend of yours comes from?”

“He was born at St. Remy, which is also Mme. Fauvel’s native town.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“Oh, perfectly so, monsieur! He has not only often told me so, but I have heard him tell M. Fauvel; and he would talk to Mme. Fauvel by the hour about his mother, who was cousin to Mme. Fauvel, and dearly beloved by her.”

“Then you think there is no possible mistake or falsehood about this part of his story?”

“None in the least, monsieur.”

“Well, things are assuming a queer look.”

And he began to whistle between his teeth; which, with M. Verduret, was a sign of intense inward satisfaction.

“What seems so, monsieur?” inquired Prosper.

“What has just happened; what I have been tracing. Parbleu!” he exclaimed, imitating the manner of a showman at a fair, “here is a lovely town, called St. Remy, six thousand inhabitants; charming boulevards on the site of the old fortifications; handsome hotel; numerous fountains; large charcoal market, silk factories, famous hospital, and so on.”

Prosper was on thorns.

“Please be so good, monsieur, as to explain what you⁠—”

“It also contains,” continued M. Verduret, “a Roman triumphal arch, which is of unparalleled beauty, and a Greek mausoleum; but no Lagors. St. Remy is the native town of Nostradamus, but not of your friend.”

“Yet I have proofs.”

“Naturally. But proofs can be fabricated; relatives can be improvised. Your evidence is open to suspicion. My proofs are undeniable, perfectly authenticated. While you were pining in prison, I was preparing my batteries and collecting munition to open fire. I wrote to St. Remy, and received answers to my questions.”

“Will you let me know what they were?”

“Have patience,” said M. Verduret as he turned over the leaves of his memoranda. “Ah, here is number one. Bow respectfully to it, ’tis official.”

He then read:

“ ‘Lagors⁠—Very old family, originally from Maillane, settled at St. Remy about a century ago.’ ”

“I told you so,” cried Prosper.

“Pray allow me to finish,” said M. Verduret.

“ ‘The last of the Lagors (Jules-René-Henri) bearing without warrant the title of count, married in 1829 Mlle. Rosalie-Clarisse Fontanet, of Tarascon; died December 1848, leaving no male heir, but left two daughters. The registers make no mention of any person in the district bearing the name of Lagors.’

“Now what do you think of this information?” queried the fat man with a triumphant smile.

Prosper looked amazed.

“But why did M. Fauvel treat Raoul as his nephew?”

“Ah, you mean as his wife’s nephew! Let us examine note number two: it is not official, but it throws a valuable light upon the twenty thousand livres income of your friend.”

“ ‘Jules-René-Henri de Lagors, last of his name, died at St. Remy on the 29th of December, 1848, in a state of great poverty. He at one time was possessed of a moderate fortune, but invested it in a silkworm nursery, and lost it all.

“ ‘He had no son, but left two daughters, one of whom is a teacher at Aix, and the other married a retail merchant at Orgon. His widow, who lives at Montagnette, is supported entirely by one of her relatives, the wife of a rich banker in Paris. No person of the name