File number 113 & The little old man of Batignolles & other talesÉmile Gaboriau


LIBRARY OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA

PRESENTED BY
It. Col. Philip Walker












"Kill me and me alone, for I
alone am guilty"
File Number 113





on 4 -r
\9o£>

Copyr1ght 1908
By P. F. COLLIER & SON


FILE NUMBER 113
IN the Paris journals of February 28, 186--, there appeared
the following intelligence:
"A daring robbery, committed during the night at one
of our principal banker's, M. Andre Fauvel, has created great
excitement this morning in the neighborhood of the Rue de
Provence. The thieves, who were as skilful as they were
daring, succeeded in effecting an entrance to the bank, in
forcing the lock of a safe that has heretofore been considered
impregnable, and in possessing themselves of bank-notes of the
value of three hundred and fifty thousand francs. The police,
immediately informed of the robbery, displayed their accus-
tomed zeal, and their efforts have been crowned with success.
Already, it is said, P. B., a clerk in the bank, has been arrested,
and there is every reason to hope that his accomplices will be
speedily overtaken by the hand of justice."
For four days this robbery was the talk of Paris. Then
public attention was engrossed by later and equally interesting
events: an acrobat broke his leg at the circus; an actress made
her debut at a minor theatre; and news of the 28th was soon
forgotten.
But for once the newspapers were—perhaps designedly—
wrong, or at least inaccurate in their information. The sum
of three hundred and fifty thousand francs had certainly been
stolen from M. Andre Fauvel's bank, but not in the manner
described. A clerk had also been arrested on suspicion, but
no conclusive proof had been forthcoming against him. This
robbery of unusual importance remained, if not inexplicable, at
least unexplained.
The following are the facts of the case as related with
scrupulous exactitude in the official police report.
913
1—Vol. 3


914
FILE NUMBER 113

HE banking-house of M. Andre Fauvel, No. 87 Rue de
* Provence, is a noted establishment, and, owing to its large
staff of clerks, presents very much the appearance of a govern-
ment department. On the ground-floor are the offices, with
windows opening on the street, protected by iron bars suffi-
ciently strong and close together to discourage all attempts at
effecting an entrance. A large glass door opens into a spacious
vestibule, where three or four messengers are always in wait-
ing. On the right are the rooms to which the public is ad-
mitted, and from which a narrow passageway leads to the head
cashier's office. The offices of the corresponding clerks, the
ledger-keeper, and general accounts are on the left. At the
farther end is a small glazed court with which seven or eight
small wickets communicate. These are kept closed, except only
on particular days when a considerable number of payments
have to be made, and then they are indispensable. M. Fauvel's
private office is on the first floor over the general offices, and
leads into his handsome private apartments. This office com-
municates directly with the bank by means of a dark, narrow
staircase, which opens into the room occupied by the head
cashier. This latter room is completely proof against all bur-
glarious attacks, no matter how ingeniously planned; indeed, it
could almost withstand a regular siege, sheeted as it is like a
monitor. The doors and the partition in which the wicket is
where payments are made are covered with thick iron plates;
and a heavy grating protects the fireplace. Fastened in the
wall by enormous iron clamps is a safe, a formidable and fan-
tastic piece of furniture, calculated to fill with envy the poor
devil who carries his fortune easily enough in a pocket-book.
This safe, considered the masterpiece of the well-known house
of Becquet, is six feet in height and four and a half in width,
and is made entirely of wrought iron, with triple sides, and
divided into isolated compartments in case of fire.
The safe is opened by a curious little key, which is, however,


FILE NUMBER 113
915
the least important part of the mechanism. Five movable steel
buttons, upon which are engraved all the letters of the alphabet,
constitute the real power of the ingenious lock. To open the
safe it is requisite, before inserting the key, to replace the let-
ters on the buttons in the same order in which they were when
the door was locked. In M. Fauvel's bank, as elsewhere, it was
always closed with a word that was changed from time to time.
This word was known only to the head of the bank and the
chief cashier, each of whom had a key to the safe. In such a
stronghold, a person might deposit more diamonds than the
Duke of Brunswick possessed, and sleep well assured, as he
would be, of their safety. But one danger seemed to threaten
—that of forgetting the secret word which was the "Open,
sesame" of the iron barrier.
About half-past nine o'clock on the morning of the 28th
of February, the bank clerks were all busy at their various
desks, when a middle-aged man of dark complexion and
military air, clad in deep mourning, appeared in the office
adjoining that of the head cashier, and expressed a desire to
see him.
He was told that the cashier had not arrived, and his atten-
tion was called to a placard in the entry, which stated that the
cashier's office opened at ten o'clock.
This reply seemed to disconcert the newcomer. "I expected,"
he said, in a tone of cool impertinence, "to find some one here
ready to attend to my business. I explained the matter to M.
Fauvel yesterday. I am Comte Louis de Clameran, owner of
iron-works at Oloron, and have come to receive three hundred
thousand francs deposited in this bank by my late brother,
whose heir I am. It is surprising that no instructions have
been given about it."
Neither the title of the noble manufacturer nor his remarks
appeared to have the slightest effect upon the clerks. "The
head cashier has not yet arrived," they repeated, "and we can
do nothing for you."
"Then conduct me to M. Fauvel."
There was a moment's hesitancy; then a clerk, named Cavail-
lon, who was writing by the window, said: "The chief is always
out at this hour."
"I will call again, then," replied M. de Clameran. And he
walked out, as he had entered, without saying "Good morning,"
or even raising his hat.


916
FILE NUMBER 113
"Not overpolite, that customer," said little Cavaillon; "but
he is unlucky, for here comes Prosper."
Prosper Bertomy, head cashier of Fauvel's banking-house,
was a tall, handsome man, of about thirty, with fair hair and
large dark blue eyes, fastidiously neat in appearance, and dressed
in the height of fashion. He would have been very prepos-
sessing but for a cold, reserved English-like manner, and a
certain air of self-sufficiency, which spoiled his naturally bright
and open countenance.
"Ah, here you are!" cried Cavaillon. "Some one has just
been inquiring for you."
"Who? An ironmaster, was it not?"
"Precisely."
"Well, he will come again. Knowing that I should be late
this morning, I made all my arrangements yesterday." Prosper
had unlocked his office door, and, as he finished speaking,
entered, and closed it behind him.
"Good!" exclaimed one of the clerks; "there is a man who
never lets anything disturb him. The chief has quarreled with
him twenty times for always coming late, and his remon-
strances have no more effect upon him than a breath of
wind." •
"And quite right, too; he knows he can get anything he
wants out of the chief."
"Besides, how could he come any sooner? A man who sits
up all night, and leads a fast life, doesn't feel inclined for work
early in the morning. Did you notice how pale he looked when
he came in?"
"He must have been playing heavily again. Couturier says
he lost fifteen hundred francs at a sitting last week."
"His work is none the worse done for all that," interrupted
Cavaillon. "If you were in his place—"
He stopped short. The door of the cashier's office suddenly
opened, and the cashier appeared before them with tottering
step, and a wild, haggard look on his ashy pale face. "Robbed!"
he gasped out; "I have been robbed!"
Prosper's horrified expression, his hollow voice and trembling
limbs, so alarmed the clerks that they jumped off their stools
and ran toward him. He almost dropped into their arms; he
was sick and faint, and sank into a chair. His companions
surrounded him, and begged him to explain himself. "Robbed?"
they said; "where, how, by whom?"


FILE NUMBER 113
917
Gradually, Prosper recovered himself. "All the money that
was in the safe," he said, "has been stolen."
"All?"
"Yes, all; three rolls, each containing one hundred notes of
a thousand francs, and one roll of fifty thousand. The four
were wrapped in a sheet of paper and tied together."
With the rapidity of lightning, the news of the robbery
spread throughout the banking-house, and the room was soon
filled with curious inquirers.
"Tell us, Prosper," said young Cavaillon, "has the safe been
broken open?"
"No; it is just as I left it."
"Well, then, how could—"
"All I know is that yesterday I placed three hundred and fifty
thousand francs in the safe, and this morning they are gone."
A deep silence ensued, which was at length broken by an
old clerk, who did not seem to share the general affright.
"Don't distress yourself, M. Bertomy," he said; "no doubt the
chief has disposed of the money."
The unhappy cashier started up with a look of relief; he
eagerly caught at the suggestion. "Yes!" he exclaimed, "it
must be as you say; the chief must have taken it." But, after
thinking a few minutes, he remarked in a tone of deep depres-
sion: "No, that is impossible. During the five years I have
had charge of the safe, M. Fauvel has never opened it except-
ing in my presence. Whenever he has needed money, he has
either waited until I came, or has sent for me, rather than
take it in my absence."
"Well," said Cavaillon, "before despairing, let us ascertain
the truth."
But a messenger had already informed M. Fauvel of the
robbery, and as Cavaillon was about to go in search of him, he
entered the office.
M. Andre Fauvel appeared to be a man of fifty, inclined to
corpulency, of medium height, with iron-gray hair; and, like
all hard workers, he had a slight stoop. Never did he by a
single action belie the kindly expression of his face. He had
a frank air, a lively, intelligent eye, and full, red hps. Born
in the neighborhood of Aix, he betrayed, when animated, a
slight Provencal accent that gave «i peculiar flavor to his genial
humor. The news of the robbery had extremely agitated him,
for his usually florid face was now quite pale. "What is this


918
FILE NUMBER 113
I hear? what has happened?" he said to the clerks, who respect-
fully stood aside when he entered the office.
The sound of M. Fauvel's voice inspired the cashier with
the factitious energy called forth by a great crisis. The
dreaded and decisive moment had come; he arose, and advanced
toward his chief. "Sir," he said, "having, as you know, a pay-
ment to make this morning, I yesterday drew from the Bank
of France three hundred and fifty thousand francs."
"Why yesterday?" interrupted the banker. "I think I have
a hundred times desired you to wait until the day payment has
to be made."
"I know it, sir, and I did wrong to disobey you. But the
mischief is done. Yesterday evening I locked the money up:
it has disappeared, and yet the safe has not been broken open."
"You must be mad!" exclaimed M. Fauvel; "you are
dreaming!"
These few words crushed all hope; but the horror of the
situation imparted to Prosper, not the coolness of a steadied
resolution, but that sort of stupid, stolid indifference which
often results from unexpected catastrophes. It was with appar-
ent calmness that he replied: "I am not mad; neither, unfortu-
nately, am I dreaming; I am simply telling the truth."
This tranquillity at such a moment appeared to exasperate
M. Fauvel. He seized Prosper by the arm, and shook him
roughly. "Speak!" he exclaimed; "speak! who can have
opened the safe?"
"I can not say."
"No one but you and I knows the secret word. No one but
you and I possesses a key."
This was a formal accusation; at least, all the auditors
present so understood it. Yet Prosper's strange calmness never
left him for an instant. He quietly released himself from M.
Fauvel's grasp, and slowly said: "In other words, sir, it is only
I who could have taken this money—"
"Miserable man!" exclaimed M. Fauvel.
Prosper drew himself up to his full height, and, looking M.
Fauvel full in the face, added: "Or you!"
The banker made a threatening gesture; and there is no
knowing what would have happened if he had not been inter-
rupted by loud and angry voices in the hall. A man insisted
upon entering despite the protestations of the messengers, and
succeeded in forcing his way in. It was M. de Clameran.


FILE NUMBER 113
919
The clerks stood looking on, bewildered and inert. The
silence was, profound and solemn. It was easy to perceive that
some terrible issue was being anxiously weighed by all these
men.
The ironmaster did not appear to observe anything unusual.
He advanced, and without lifting his hat said, in his former
impertinent tone: "It is after ten o'clock, gentlemen."
No one answered; and M. de Clameran was about to con-
tinue, when turning round, he for the first time saw the banker,
and, walking up to him, exclaimed: "Well, sir, I congratulate
myself upon finding you in at last. I have been here once before
this morning, and found the cashier's office not opened, the
cashier not arrived, and you absent."
"You are mistaken, sir, I was in my office."
"At any rate, I was told you were out; that gentleman there
assured me of the fact." And the ironmaster pointed out Ca-
vaillon. "However, that is of little importance," he went on
to say. "I return, and this time not only the cashier's office
is closed, but I am refused admittance to the banking-house,
and find myself compelled to force my way in. Be so good as
to tell me whether I can have my money."
M. Fauvel's pale face turned red with anger as he listened
to this harangue; yet he controlled himself. "I should be
obliged to you, sir," he said in a low voice, "for a short delay."
"I thought you told me—"
"Yes, yesterday. But this morning—this very instant—I find
I have been robbed of three hundred and fifty thousand francs."
M. de Clameran bowed ironically, and asked: "Shall I have
to wait long?"
"Long enough for me to send to the Bank of France."
Then, turning his back on the iron-founder, M. Fauvel said
to his cashier: "Write a check and send to the bank at once
to draw out all the available money. Let the messenger take
a cab." Prosper remained motionless. "Do you hear me?"
inquired the banker in an angry voice.
The cashier started; he seemed as if awakening from a
dream. "It is useless to send," he said in a slow, measured
tone: "this gentleman requires three hundred thousand francs,
and there is less than one hundred thousand at the bank."
M. de Clameran appeared to expect this answer, for he mut-
tered: "Of course." Although he only pronounced these words,
his voice, his manner, his countenance clearly said: "This


920
FILE NUMBER 113
comedy is well acted; but nevertheless it is a comedy, and I don't
intend to be duped by it."
Alas! After Prosper's answer, and the ironmaster's coarsely
expressed opinion, the clerks knew not what to think. The
fact was, that Paris had just been startled by several financial
crashes. The thirst for speculation had caused the oldest and
stanchest houses to totter. Men of the most unimpeachable
honor had to sacrifice their pride, and go from door to door
imploring aid. Credit, that rare bird of security and peace,
rested with none, but stood, with upraised wings, ready to fly
off at the first suggestion of suspicion.
This idea of a comedy arranged beforehand between the
banker and his cashier might therefore readily occur to the
minds of people who, if not suspicious, were at least aware of
all the expedients resorted to by speculators in order to gain
time, which with them often meant salvation.
M. Fauvel had had too much knowledge of mankind not
to instantly divine the impression produced by Prosper's an-
swer; he read the most mortifying doubt on the faces around
him. "Don't be alarmed, sir," said he to M. de Clameran, "this
house has other resources. Be kind enough to await my return."
He left the office, went up to his private room, and in a few
minutes returned, holding in his hand a letter and a bundle of
securities. "Here, quick, Couturier!" he said to one of his
clerks, "take my carriage, which is waiting at the door, and
go with this gentleman to M. de Rothschild. Hand the latter
this letter and these securities; in exchange, you will receive
three hundred thousand francs, which give to M. de Clameran."
The ironmaster was visibly disappointed; he seemed desirous
of apologizing for his rudeness. "I assure you," said he to
M. Fauvel, "that I had no intention of giving offense. Our
relations, for some years, have been such that I hope—"
"Enough, sir," interrupted the banker, "I desire no apologies.
In business, friendship counts for nothing. I owe you money:
I am not ready to pay: you are pressing: you have a perfect
right to demand what is your own. Accompany my messenger:
he will pay you your money." Then he turned to his clerks,
who stood curiously gazing on, and said: "As for you, gentle-
men, be good enough to resume your places at your desks."
In an instant the office was cleared of every one excepting
the clerks who habitually occupied it; and they resumed their
seats at their desks with their noses almost touching the paper


FILE NUMBER 113
921
before them, as if they were too engrossed in their work to
think of anything else.
Still excited by the events which had rapidly succeeded each
other, M. Andre Fauvel walked up and down the room with
quick, nervous steps, occasionally uttering some half-stifled
exclamation. Prosper had remained leaning against the par-
tition, with pale face and fixed eyes, looking as if he had lost
the faculty of thinking or of acting. Presently the banker,
after a long silence, stopped short before him; he had deter-
mined upon the line of conduct he would pursue. "We must
have an explanation," he said. "Go into your office."
The cashier mechanically obeyed; and his chief followed
him, taking the precaution to close the door after them. The
room bore no evidences of a successful burglary. Everything
was in perfect order; not even a paper was disturbed. The
safe was open, and on the top shelf lay several rouleaus of
gold, overlooked or disdained by the thieves.
M. Fauvel, without troubling himself to examine anything,
took a seat, and ordered his cashier to do the same. He had
quite recovered his equanimity, and his countenance wore its
usual kind expression. "Now that we are alone, Prosper," he
said, "have you nothing to tell me?"
The cashier started, as if surprised at the question. "Noth-
ing, sir, that I have not already told you," he replied.
"What! nothing? Do you persist in maintaining an attitude
so absurd and ridiculous that no one can possibly give you
credence? It is sheer folly? Confide in me: it is your only
chance of salvation. I am your employer, it is true; but I am
before and above all your friend—your best and truest friend.
I can not forget that in this very room, fifteen years ago, you
were intrusted to me by your father; and ever since that day
I have had cause to. congratulate myself on possessing so faith-
ful and efficient a clerk. Yes, it is fifteen years since you came
to me. I was then just commencing the foundation of my for-
tune. You have seen it gradually grow, step by step, from
almost nothing to its present magnitude. As my wealth in-
creased, I endeavored to better your condition; you who,
although so young, are the oldest of my clerks. At each
augmentation of my fortune I increased your salary."
Never had the cashier heard M. Fauvel express himself in
so feeling and paternal a manner. Prosper was silent with
astonishment.


FILE NUMBER 113
"Answer," persued M. Fauvel, "have I not always been like
a father to you? From the first day, my house has been open
to you; you were treated as a member of my family; my niece
Madeleine and my sons looked upon you as a brother. But
you grew weary of this peaceful life. One day, a year ago,
you suddenly began to shun us; and since then—"
The memories of the past thus called up by the banker seemed
too much for the unhappy cashier; he buried his face in his
hands, and wept bitterly.
"A man can confide everything to his father," resumed M.
Fauvel, also deeply affected. "Fear nothing. A father not
only pardons, he forgets. Do I not know the temptations that
beset a young man in a city like Paris? There are some inor-
dinate desires before which the firmest principles will give way,
and which so pervert our moral sense as to render us incapable
of judging between right and wrong. Speak, Prosper, speak!"
"What do you wish me to say?"
"The truth. When an honorable man yields, in an hour of
weakness, to temptation, his first step toward atonement is con-
fession. Say to me: 'Yes, I have been tempted, dazzled: the
sight of these piles of gold turned my brain. I am young: I
have passions.'"
"I!" murmured Prosper, "I!"
"Poor boy," said the banker sadly; "do you think I am igno-
rant of the life you have been leading since you left my roof
a year ago? Can you not understand that all your fellow clerks
are jealous of you? that they do not forgive you for earning
twelve thousand francs a year? Never have you committed a
piece of folly without my being immediately informed of it by
an anonymous letter. I could tell you the exact number of
nights you have spent at the gaming-table, and the money you
have squandered. Oh, envy has keen eyes and a quick ear! I
have great contempt for these cowardly denunciations, but was
forced, not only to heed them, but to make inquiries myself.
It is only proper that I should know what sort of life is led
by the man to whom I intrust my fortune and my honor."
Prosper seemed about to protest against this last speech.
"Yes, my honor," insisted M. Fauvel, in a voice that a sense
of humiliation made unsteady; "yes, my credit, which might
have been compromised to-day by this M. de Clameran. Do
you know how much I shall lose by paying him this money?
And suppose I had not had the securities which I have sacri-
ficed? you did not know I possessed them."


FILE NUMBER 113
923
The banker paused, as if hoping for a confession, which, how-
ever, did not come.
"Come, Prosper, have courage, be frank! I will go upstairs.
You will look again in the safe; I am sure that in your agita-
tion you did not search it thoroughly. This evening I will
return, and I am confident that, during the day, you will have
found, if not the three hundred and fifty thousand francs, at
least the greater portion of the amount; and to-morrow neither
you nor I will remember anything about this false alarm."
M. Fauvel had risen, and was about to leave the room when
Prosper arose, and seized him by the arm. "Your generosity
is useless, sir," he said bitterly; "having taken nothing I can
restore nothing. I have made a scrupulous search; the bank-
notes have been stolen."
"But by whom, poor fool? by whom?"
"By all that is sacred, I swear that it was not by me."
The banker's face turned crimson. "Miserable wretch!"
cried he, "do you mean to say that I took the money?"
Prosper bowed his head, and did not answer.
"Ah! it is thus, then," said M. Fauvel, unable to contain
himself any longer, "you dare— Then between you and me,
M. Prosper Bertomy, justice shall decide. God is my witness
that I have done all I could to save you. You will have yourself
to thank for what follows. I have sent for the commissary of
police; he must be waiting in my room. Shall I call him down?"
Prosper, with the fearful resignation of a man who entirely
abandons himself, replied in a stifled voice: "Do as you will."
The banker was near the door, which he opened, and, after
giving the cashier a last searching look, called to an office boy:
"Anselm, bid the commissary of police to step down."
IF there is one man in the world whom no event should
A move or surprise, always on his guard against deceptive
appearances, capable of admitting everything and explaining
everything, it certainly is a Parisian commissary of police.


924
FILE NUMBER 113
While the judge, from his lofty seat, applies the Code to
the facts submitted to him, the commissary of police observes
and watches all the odious circumstances the law can not reach.
He is, in spite of himself, the confidant of disgraceful details,
domestic crimes, and tolerated vices.
If, when he entered upon his office, he had any illusions,
before the end of a year they would all be dissipated. If he
does not absolutely despise the human race, it is because often,
side by side with abominations indulged in with impunity, he
discovers sublime generosities which remain unrewarded. He
sees impudent villains filching the public respect; and he con-
soles himself by thinking of the modest, obscure heroes whom
he has also encountered.
So often have his forecasts been deceived, that he has reached
a state of complete skepticism. He believes in nothing, neither
in evil nor in absolute good; not more in virtue than in vice.
His experience has forced him to come to the drear conclu-
sion, that not men, but events, are worth considering.
The commissary sent for by M. Fauvel soon made his
appearance. It was with a calm air, if not one of perfect in-
difference, that he entered the office. He was followed by a
short man dressed in a full suit of black, which was slightly
relieved by a ruffled collar.
The banker, scarcely bowing, said to the commissary:
"Doubtless, sir, you have been apprised of the painful circum-
stances which compel me to have recourse to your assistance?"
"It is about a robbery, I believe."
"Yes; an infamous and mysterious robbery committed in this
office, from the safe you see open there, of which my cashier"
(he pointed to Prosper) "alone possesses the key and the word."
This declaration seemed to arouse the unfortunate cashier
from his dull stupor. "Excuse me, sir," he said to the com-
missary in a low tone. "My chief also has the word and the
key."
"Of course, that is understood."
The commissary at once drew his own conclusions. Evidently
these two men accused each other. From their own statements,
one or the other was guilty. One was the head of an important
bank; the other was simply the cashier. One was the chief;
the other the clerk. But the commissary of police was too well
skilled in concealing his impressions to betray his thoughts by
any visible sign. Not a muscle of his face moved. Yet he


FILE NUMBER 113
925
became more grave, and alternately watched the cashier and
M. Fauvel, as if trying to draw some satisfactory conclusion
from their behavior.
Prosper was very pale and dejected. He had dropped into
a seat, and his arms hung inert on either side of the chair. The
banker, on the contrary, remained standing with flashing eyes
and crimson face, expressing himself with extraordinary
vehemence. "The importance of the theft is immense," con-
tinued he; "there is missing a fortune, three hundred and fifty
thousand francs! This robbery might have had the most dis-
astrous consequences. In times like these, the want of this
sum might compromise the credit of the wealthiest banking-
house in Paris."
"I believe so, if bills were falling due."
"Well, sir, I have this very day a heavy payment to make."
"Ah, really!" There was no mistaking the commissary's
tone; a suspicion, the first, had evidently entered his mind.
The banker understood it; he started, and added quickly: "I
met my engagements, but at the cost of a disagreeable sacrifice. I
ought to add further, that if my orders had been obeyed, the three
hundred and fifty thousand francs would not have been here."
"How is that?"
"I desire never to have large sums of money in my house
overnight. My cashier had positive orders invariably to
wait until the last moment before drawing money from the
Bank of France. I forbade him, above all, to leave large
sums of money in the safe overnight."
"You hear this?" said the commissary to Prosper.
"Yes, sir," replied the cashier, • "M. Fauvel's statement is
quite correct."
After this explanation, the suspicions of the commissary,
instead of being strengthened, were dissipated. "Well," he
said, "a robbery has been perpetrated, but by whom? Did
the robber enter from without?"
The banker hesitated a moment. "I think not," he said at last.
"And I am certain he did not," said Prosper.
The commissary expected and was prepared for these an-
swers; but it did not suit his purpose to follow them up im-
mediately. "However," said he, "we must make ourselves sure
of it." Turning toward his companion—"M. Fanferlot," he
said, "go and see if you can discover any traces that may have
escaped the attention of these gentlemen."


926
FILE NUMBER 113
M. Fanferlot, nicknamed "the squirrel," was indebted to his
prodigious agility for his title, of which he was not a little
proud. Slim and insignificant in appearance, in spite of his
iron muscles, he might be taken for the under clerk of a bailiff
as he walked along buttoned up to the chin in his thin black
overcoat. He had one of those faces that impress one dis-
agreeably—an odiously turned-up nose, thin lips, and little
restless black eyes.
Fanferlot, who had been in the detective force for five years,
burned to distinguish himself. He was ambitious. Alas! he
was unsuccessful, lacking opportunity—or genius. Already,
before the commissary spoke to him, he had ferreted every-
where; studied the doors, sounded the partitions, examined the
wicket, and stirred up the ashes in the grate. "I can not im-
agine," said he, "how a stranger could have effected an entrance
here." He walked round the office. "Is this door closed at
night?" he inquired.
"It is always locked."
"And who keeps the key?"
"The watchman," said Prosper, "to whom I always gave it
in charge before leaving the bank."
"And who," said M. Fauvel, "sleeps in the outer room on
a folding-beadstead, which he unfolds at night, and folds up
in the morning."
"Is he here now?" inquired the commissary.
"Yes," replied the banker, and he opened the door, and
called: "Anselme!"
This man was the favored servant of M. Fauvel, and had
lived with him for ten years. He knew that he would not be
suspected; but the idea of being connected in any way with a
robbery was too much for him, and he entered the door
trembling like a leaf.
"Did you sleep in the next room last night?" asked the com-
missary.
"Yes, sir, as usual."
"At what hour did you go to bed?"
"About half-past ten; I had spent the evening at a cafe near
by, with master's valet."
"Did you hear no noise during the night?"
"Not a sound; and still I sleep so lightly, that if M. Fauvel
comes down to the cashier's office when I am asleep, I am
instantly aroused by the sound of his footsteps."


FILE NUMBER 113
927
"M. Fauvel often comes to the cashier's office at night,
does he?"
"No, sir; very seldom."
"Did he come last night?"
"No, sir, I am very certain he did not; for I was kept awake
nearly all night by the strong coffee I had drunk with the valet."
"That will do; you can retire," said the commissary.
When Anselme had left the room, Fanferlot resumed his
search. He opened the door of the private staircase. "Where
do these stairs lead to?" he asked.
"To my private office," replied M. Fauvel.
"Is not that the room whither I was conducted when I first
arrived?" inquired the commissary.
"The same."
"I should like to see it," said Fanferlot, "and examine the
entrance to it."
"Nothing is easier," said M. Fauvel eagerly; "follow me,
gentlemen. And you too, Prosper."
M. Fauvel's private office consisted of two rooms, the waiting-
room, sumptuously furnished and elaborately decorated, and
the inner one where he transacted business. The furniture in
this room was composed of a large office-table, several leather-
covered chairs, and on either side of the fireplace a secretary
and a bookshelf.
These two rooms had only three doors; one opened on the
private staircase, another into the banker's bedroom, and the
third on to the landing. It was through this latter door that
the banker's clients and visitors were admitted.
M. Fanferlot examined the room at a glance. He seemed
puzzled, like a man who had flattered himself with the hope of
discovering some clue and had found nothing. "Let us see
the other side," he said. He passed into the waiting-room, fol-
lowed by the banker and the commissary of police.
Prosper remained behind. Despite the confused state of his
mind, he could not but notice that the situation was for
him momentarily becoming more serious. He had demanded
and accepted the contest with his chief; the struggle had
commenced, and now it no longer depended upon his own
will to arrest the consequences of his action. They were about
to engage in a bitter conflict, utilizing all weapons, until one
of the two should succumb, the loss of honor being the price
of defeat.


928
FILE NUMBER 113
In the eyes of justice who would be the innocent man?
•Alas! the unfortunate cashier saw only too clearly that the
chances were terribly unequal, and he was overwhelmed with
the sense of his own inferiority. Never had he thought that
his chief would carry out his threats; for in a contest of this
nature, M. Fauvel would have as much at stake as his cashier,
and more to lose.
Prosper was sitting near the fireplace, absorbed in the most
gloomy forebodings, when the banker's bedroom door suddenly
opened, and a lovely girl appeared upon the threshold. She was
tall and slender; a loose morning robe, confined at the waist by
a simple black ribbon, betrayed to advantage the graceful
elegance of her figure. Her dark eyes were large and soft;
her complexion had the creamy pallor of a white camellia; and
her beautiful black hair, carelessly held together by a tortoise-
shell comb, fell in a profusion of soft curls upon her finely
shaped neck. She was Madeleine, M. Fauvel's niece, of whom
he had spoken not long before. Seeing Prosper in the
room, where probably she had expected to find her uncle
alone, she could not refrain from an exclamation of sur-
prise: "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 an angel of hope.
"Madeleine!" he cried, "Madeleine!"
The young girl was blushing crimson. She seemed about to
hastily retreat, and stepped back; but Prosper having ad-
vanced toward her, she was overcome by a sentiment stronger
than her will, and extended her hand, which he took and pressed
with great respect. 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, I am
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 has gone
by, 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?"


FILE NUMBER 113
929
"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 my 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 checked 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 know-
ing," she said.
"Alas! mademoiselle," answered Prosper, "you will only too
soon learn my misfortune and disgrace; then, yes then, yoa
will applaud yourself for what you have done."
She became more urgent; instead of commanding she en-
treated; but Prosper was inflexible. "Your uncle is in the
adjoining room, with the commissary of police and a detective,"
said he. "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 M.
Fauvel entered. They had visited the main entrance and the
waiting-room, and had heard nothing of what had passed. 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 gesture that will
enlighten me."
Leaving M. Fauvel and the commissary to pursue their in-
vestigations, 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 ready was he in building a plan upon the slightest
incident, that he thought he saw in the past of these people,


930
FILE NUMBER 113
who were utter strangers to him, glimpses of a domestic drama.
If the commissary of police is a skeptic, 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 handsome, I suppose his love is recipro-
cated. 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 a vile
machination. But this conviction was at present of little service
to Prosper. Fanferlot, the ambitious man, who had deter-
mined 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 im-
possible; but Fanferlot, "the squirrel," had great confidence in
his own genius for investigation.
Meanwhile, the search upstairs was completed, and every
one had returned to Prosper's office. The commissary, who had
seemed so calm when he first came, now looked grave and per-
plexed. 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 opinion." M.
Fauvel and Prosper bowed assentingly.
"And what do you think, M. Fanferlot?" continued the com-
missary. Fanferlot did not answer. Occupied in studying the
lock of the safe, 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?" asked the banker eagerly.
Fanferlot turned round with a vexed air. He reproached
himself for not having concealed his impressions. "Oh!" said
he carelessly, "I have discovered nothing of importance."
"But we should like to know," said Prosper.


FILE NUMBER 113
931
"I have merely convinced myself that this safe has been
recently opened or shut, I know not which, with some violence
and haste."
"How so?" asked the commissary, becoming attentive.
"Look, sir, at this scratch near the lock."
The commissary stooped down, and carefully examined the
safe; he saw a slight scratch several inches long that had re-
moved the outer coat of varnish. "I see the scratch," said he,
"but what does it prove?"
"Oh, nothing at all!" said Fanferlot "I just now told you
it was of no importance."
Fanferlot said this, but it was not his real opinion. This
scratch, undeniably fresh, had for him a signification that
escaped the others. He said to himself: "This confirms my
suspicions. If the cashier had stolen millions, there was no
occasion for his being in a hurry; whereas the banker creeping
down in the dead of the night with furtive footsteps, for fear
of awakening the man in the outer room, in order to rifle his
own safe, had every reason to tremble, to hurry, to hastily
withdraw the key, which, slipping out of the lock, scratched
off the varnish."
Resolved to unravel alone the tangled thread of this mystery,
the detective determined to keep his conjectures to himself;
for the same reason he was silent as to the interview which he
had witnessed between Madeleine and Prosper. He hastened
to withdraw attention from the scratch upon the lock. "To
conclude," he said, addressing the commissary, "I am con-
vinced that no one outside of the bank could have obtained
access to this room. The safe, moreover, is intact. No sus-
picious pressure has been used on the movable buttons. I can
assert that the lock has not been tampered with by burgulars'
tools or false keys. Those who opened the safe knew the word,
and possessed the key."
This formal affirmation of a man whom he knew to be
skilful ended the hesitation of the commissary. "That being
the case," he replied, "I must request a few moments' conver-
sation with M. Fauvel."
"I am at your service," said the banker.
Prosper foresaw the result of this conversation. He quietly
placed his hat on the table to show that he had no intention of
attempting to escape, and passed into the adjoining office.
Fanferlot also went out, but not before the commissary had


932
FILE NUMBER 113
made him a sign, and received one in return. This sign signi-
fied, "You are responsible for this man."
The detective needed no hint to make him keep a strict
watch. His suspicions were too vague, his desire for success
was too ardent, for him to lose sight of Prosper an instant.
Closely following the cashier, he seated himself in a dark
corner of the office, and, pretending to be sleepy, he fixed
himself in a comfortable position for taking a nap, gaped
until his jawbone seemed about to be dislocated, then closed
his eyes and kept perfectly quiet.
Prosper took a seat at the desk of an absent clerk. The
others were burning to know the result of the investigation;
their eyes shone with curiosity, but they dared not ask a
question. Unable to restrain himself any longer, little Cavail-
lon, Prosper's defender, ventured to say: "Well, who stole the
money?"
Prosper shrugged his shoulders. "Nobody knows," he replied.
Was this conscious innocence or hardened recklessness? The
clerks observed with bewildered surprise that Prosper had re-
sumed his usual manner—that sort of icy haughtiness that kept
people at a distance, and made him so unpopular in the bank.
Save the deathlike pallor of his face, and the dark circles
around his swollen eyes, he bore no traces of the pitiable
agitation he had exhibited not long before. Never would a
stranger entering the office have supposed that this young man,
idly lounging in a chair and toying with a pencil, was resting
'under an accusation of robbery, and was about to be arrested.
He soon stopped playing with the pencil, and drew toward him
a sheet of paper upon which he hastily wrote a few lines.
"Ah, ha!" thought Fanferlot, the squirrel, whose hearing
and sight were wonderfully good in spite of his profound sleep;
"eh! eh! he makes his little confidential communication on
paper, I see; now we will discover something positive."
His note written, Prosper folded it carefully into the smallest
possible size, and after furtively glancing toward the detective,
-who remained motionless in his corner, threw it across the
desk to little Cavaillon with this one word—"Gipsy!"
All this was so quickly and cleverly done that Fanferlot was
confounded, and began to feel a little uneasy. "The devil take
him!" said he to himself; "for a suffering innocent this young
dandy has more pluck and nerve than many of my oldest cus-
tomers. This, however, shows the result of education!"


FILE NUMBER 113
933
Yes, innocent or guilty, Prosper must have been endowed
with great self-control and power of dissimulation to affect
this presence of mind at a time when his honor, his future
happiness, all that he held dear in life, were at stake. And he
was not more than thirty years old.
Either from natural deference, or from the hope of gaining
some ray of light by a private conversation, the commissary
determined to speak to the banker before acting decisively.
"There is not a shadow of doubt," said he, as soon as they
were alone; "this young man has robbed you. It would be
a gross neglect of duty if I did not secure his person. The
law will decide whether he shall be released or sent to prison."
This declaration seemed to distress the banker. He sank
into a chair, and murmured: "Poor Prosper!" Seeing the
astonished look of his listener, he added: "Until to-day, I have
always had the most implicit faith in my cashier's honesty, and
would have unhesitatingly confided my fortune to his keeping.
Almost on my knees have I besought and implored him to con-
fess that in a moment of desperation he had taken the money,
promising him pardon and forgetfulness; but I could not move
him. I loved him; and even now, in spite of the trouble and
humiliation that he is heaping upon me, I can not bring myself
to feel harshly toward him."
The commissary looked as if he did not understand. "What
do you mean by humiliation?" he asked.
"What!" said M. Fauvel excitedly, "is not justice the same
for all? Because I am the head of a bank, and he only a clerk,
does it follow that my word is more to be relied upon than his?
Why could I not have robbed myself? Such things have been
done. They will ask me for facts; and I shall be compelled to
expose the exact situation of my house, explain my affairs,
disclose the secret and method of my operations."
"It is possible that you will be called upon for some explana-
tion; but your well-known integrity—"
"Alas! He was honest too. His integrity has never been
doubted. Who would have been suspected this morning if I
had not been able to instantly produce a hundred thousand
crowns? Who would be suspected if I could not prove that my
assets exceed my liabilities by more than three millions?"
To a strictly honorable man, the thought, the possibility of
suspicion tarnishing his fair name, is cruel suffering. The
banker suffered, and the commissary of police saw it, and felt


934
FILE NUMBER 113
for him. "Be calm, sir," said he; "before the end of a week,
justice will have collected sufficient proof to establish the guilt
of this unfortunate man, whom we may now recall."
Prosper entered with Fanferlot—whom they had much trouble
to awaken—and with the most stolid indifference listened to the
announcement of his arrest. In response he calmly said: "I
swear that I am guiltless."
M. Fauvel, much more disturbed and excited than his cashier,
made a last attempt. "It is not too late yet, poor boy," he
said: "for heaven's sake reflect—"
Prosper did not appear to hear him. He drew from his pocket
a small key, which he laid on the table, and said: "Here, sir,
is the key of your safe. I hope for my sake that you will some
day be convinced of my innocence; and I hope for your sake
that the conviction will not come too late." Then as every one
was silent, he resumed: "Before leaving I hand over to you the
books, papers, and accounts necessary for my successor. I
must at the same time inform you that, without speaking of the
stolen three hundred and fifty thousand francs, I leave a deficit
in cash."
A deficit! This ominous word from the lips of the cashier
fell.like a bombshell upon the ears of Prosper's hearers. His
declaration was interpreted in divers ways. "A deficit!"
thought the commissary; "how, after this, can his guilt be
doubted? Before stealing the whole contents of the safe, he
has kept his hand in by occasional small thefts." "A deficit!"
said the detective to himself, "now, no doubt, the very inno-
cence of this poor wretch gives his conduct an appearance of
great depravity; were he guilty, he would have replaced the
first money by a portion of the second."
The grave importance of Prosper's statement was consider-
ably lessened by the explanation he proceeded to make: "There
is a deficit of three thousand five hundred francs on my cash
account, which has been disposed of in the following manner:
two thousand taken by myself in advance on my salary; fifteen
hundred advanced to several of my fellow clerks. This is the
last day of the month: to-morrow the salaries will be paid,
consequently—"
The commissary interrupted him: "Were you authorized to
draw money whenever you wished for yourself or the clerks?"
"No; but I knew that M. Fauvel would not have refused
me permission to oblige my friends in the bank. What I did


FILE NUMBER 113
935
is done everywhere; I have simply followed my predecessor's
example." The banker made a sign of assent. "As regards that
spent by myself," continued the cashier, "I had a sort of right
to it, all of my savings being deposited in this bank; about
fifteen thousand francs."
"That is true," said M. Fauvel, "M. Bertomy has at least
that amount on deposit."
This last question settled, the commissary's errand was at
an end, and his report might now be made. He announced his
intention of leaving, and ordered the cashier to prepare to
follow him.
Usually, the moment—when stern reality stares us in the
face, when our individuality is lost, and we feel that we are
being deprived of our liberty—is terrible. At the fatal com-
mand, "Follow me," which brings before our eyes the yawning
prison gates, the most hardened sinner feels his courage fail,
and abjectly begs for mercy. But Prosper lost none of that
studied stoicism which the commissary of police secretly pro-
nounced consummate impudence. Slowly, with as much care-
less ease as if going to lunch with a friend, he smoothed his
hair, drew on his overcoat and gloves, and said politely: "I am
ready, sir, to accompany you."
The commissary folded up his note-book, and bowing to M.
Fauvel, said to Prosper: "Come with me!"
They left the room, and with a distressed face, and eyes
filled with tears that he could not restrain, the banker stood
watching their retreating forms.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed: "gladly would I give twice
that sum to regain my old confidence in poor Prosper, and be
able to keep him with me!"
The quick-eared Fanferlot overheard these words, and prompt
to suspicion, and ever disposed to impute to others the deep
astuteness peculiar to himself, was convinced they had been
uttered for his benefit. He had remained behind the others,
under pretext of looking for an imaginary umbrella, and, as he
reluctantly departed, said he would call in again to see if it
had been found.
It was Fanferlot's task to escort Prosper to prison; but, as
they were about starting, he asked the commissary to leave
him at liberty to pursue another course, a request which his
superior granted. Fanferlot had resolved to obtain possession
of Prosper's note, which he knew to be in Cavaillon's pocket.


936
FILE NUMBER 113
To obtain this written proof, which must be an important one,
appeared the easiest thing in the world. He had simply to
arrest Cavaillon, frighten him, demand the letter, and, if neces-
sary, take it by force. But to what would this lead? To noth-
ing but an incomplete and doubtful result
.
Fanferlot was convinced that the note was intended, not
for the young clerk, but for a third person. If exasperated,
Cavaillon might refuse to divulge who this person was, who
after all might not bear the name "Gipsy" pronounced by the
cashier. And, even if he did answer his questions, would he
not lie? After mature reflection, Fanferlot decided that it
would be superfluous to ask for a secret when it could be sur-
prised. To quietly follow Cavaillon, and keep close watch on
him until he caught him in the very act of handing over the
letter, was but play for the detective. This method of pro-
ceeding, moreover, was much more in keeping with the charac-
ter of Fanferlot, who, being naturally soft and stealthy, deemed
it due to his profession to avoid all disturbance or anything
resembling violence.
Fanferlot's plan was settled when he reached the vestibule.
He began talking with an office-boy, and, after a few apparently
idle questions, discovered that Fauvel's bank had no outlet on
the Rue de la Victoire, and that consequently all the clerks
were obliged to pass in and out through the main entrance in
the Rue de Provence. From this moment the task he had
undertaken no longer presented a shadow of difficulty. He rap-
idly crossed the street, and took up his position under a gate-
way. His post of observation was admirably chosen; not only
could he see every one who entered and came out of the bank,
but he also commanded a view of all the windows, and by
standing on tiptoe could look through the grating and see
Cavaillon bending over his desk.
Fanferlot waited a long time, but did not get impatient, for
he had often remained on watch entire days and nights at a
time, with much less important objects in view than the present
one. Besides, his mind was busily occupied in estimating the
value of his discoveries, weighing his chances, and, like Per-
rette with her pot of milk, building the foundation of his for-
tune upon present success. Finally, about one o'clock, he saw
Cavaillon rise from his desk, change his coat, and take down
his hat. "Very good!" he exclaimed, "my man is coming out;
I must keep my eyes open."


FILE NUMBER 113
937
The next moment Cavaillon appeared at the door of the bank;
but before stepping on the pavement he looked up and down
the street in an undecided manner.
"Can he suspect anything?" thought Fanferlot.
No, the young clerk suspected nothing; only having a com-
mission to execute, and fearing his absence would be observed,
he was debating with himself which would be the shortest road
for him to take. He soon decided, entered the Faubourg Mont-
martre, and walked up the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette so
rapidly, utterly regardless of the grumbling passers-by whom
he elbowed out of his way, that Fanferlot found it difficult to
keep him in sight. Reaching the Rue Chaptal, Cavaillon sud-
denly stopped, and entered the house numbered 39. He had
scarcely taken three steps in the narrow hall when he felt a
touch on his shoulder, and turning abruptly found himself face
to face with Fanferlot. He recognized him at once, and turn-
ing very pale he shrank back, and looked around for means of
escape. But the detective, anticipating the attempt, barred the
way. Cavaillon saw that he was fairly caught. "What do you
want with me?" he asked in a voice tremulous with fright.
Fanferlot was distinguished among his colleagues for his
exquisite suavity and unequaled urbanity. Even with his pris-
oners he was the perfection of courtesy, and never was known
to handcuff a man without first apologizing for being compelled
to do so. "You will be kind enough, my dear sir," he said,
"to excuse the great liberty I take; but I really am under the
necessity of asking you for a little information."
"Information! From me?"
"From you, my dear sir; from M. Eugene Cavaillon."
"But I do not know yon."
"Oh, yes, you must remember seeing me this morning. It
is only about a trifling matter, and you will overwhelm me
with obligations if you will do me the honor to accept my arm,
and step outside for a moment." What could Cavaillon do?
He took Fanferlot's arm, and went out with him.
The Rue Chaptal is not one of those noisy thoroughfares
where foot-passengers are in perpetual danger of being run
over by numberless vehicles dashing to and fro; there are but
two or three shops, and from the corner of the Rue Fontaine,
occupied by an apothecary, to the entrance of the Rue Leonie,
extends a high, gloomy wall, broken here and there by some
small windows which light the carpenters' shops behind. It is
2—Vol. 3


938
FILE NUMBER 113
one of those streets where you can talk at your ease, without
having to step from the sidewalk every moment. So Fan-
ferlot and Cavaillon were in no danger of being disturbed by
passers-by.
"What I wished to say, my dear sir," began the detective,
"is that M. Prosper Bertomy threw you a note this morning."
Cavaillon vaguely foresaw that he was to be questioned about
this note and instantly put himself on his guard. "You are
mistaken," he said, blushing to his ears.
"Excuse me for presuming to contradict you, but I am quite
certain of what I say."
"I assure you that Prosper never gave me anything."
"Pray, sir, do not persist in a denial; you will compel me
to prove that four clerks saw him throw you a note written in
pencil and closely folded."
Cavaillon saw the folly of further contradicting a man so
well informed; so he changed his tactics, and said: "It is true
Prosper gave me a note this morning; but as it was intended
for me alone, after reading it, I tore it up, and threw the
pieces in the fire."
This might be the truth. Fanferlot feared so; but how could
he assure himself of the fact? He remembered that the most
palpable tricks often succeed the best, and, trusting to his star,
he said at hazard: "Permit me to observe that this state-
ment is not correct; the note was entrusted to you to give to
Gipsy."
A despairing gesture from Cavaillon apprised the detective
that he was not mistaken; he breathed again. "I swear to you,
sir—" began the young man.
"Do not swear," interrupted Fanferlot: "all the oaths in the
world would be useless. You not only preserved the note, but
you came to this house for the purpose of giving it to Gipsy,
and it is in your pocket now."
"No, sir, no!"
Fanferlot paid no attention to this denial, but continued in
his gentlest tone: "And I am sure you will be kind enough to
give it to me; believe me, nothing but the most absolute
necessity—"
"Never!" exclaimed Cavaillon; and, believing the moment
favorable, he suddenly attempted to jerk his arm from under
Fanferlot's and escape. But his efforts were vain; the detec-
tive's strength was equal to his suavity.


FILE NUMBER 113
939
"Don't hurt yourself, young man," he said, "but take my
advice, and quietly give up the letter."
"I have not got it."
"Very well; see, you reduce me to painful extremities. If
you persist in being so obstinate, I shall call two policemen, who
will take you by each arm, and escort you to the commissary
of police; and, once there, I shall be under the painful necessity
of searching your pockets, whether you will or not."
Cavaillon was devoted to Prosper, and willing to make any
sacrifice in his behalf; but he clearly saw that it was worse
than useless to struggle any longer, as he would have no time
to destroy the note. To deliver it under force was no betrayal;
but he cursed his powerlessness, and almost wept with rage.
"I am in your power," he said, and then suddenly drew from
his pocket-book the unlucky note, and gave it to the detective.
Fanferlot trembled with pleasure as he unfolded the paper;
yet, faithful to his habits of fastidious politeness, before read-
ing it, he bowed to Cavaillon and said: "You will permit me,
will you not, sir?" Then he read as follows:
"Dear N1na—If you love me, follow my instructions in-
stantly, without a moment's hesitation, without asking any
questions. On the receipt of this note, take everything you
have in the house, absolutely everything, and establish your-
self in furnished rooms at the other end of Paris. Do not
appear in public, but conceal yourself as much as possible. My
life may depend on your obedience. I am accused of an out-
rageous robbery, and am about to be arrested. Take with you
five hundred francs, which you will find in the secretary.
Leave your address with Cavaillon, who will explain what I
have not time to tell. Be hopeful, whatever happens. Good-by!
"Prosper."
Had Cavaillon been less bewildered, he would have seen
blank disappointment depicted upon the detective's face after
the perusal of the note. Fanferlot had cherished the hope that
he was about to possess a very important document which would
clearly prove the guilt or innocence of Prosper; whereas he had
only seized a love-letter written by a man who was evidently
more anxious about the welfare of the woman he loved than
about his own. Vainly did he puzzle over the letter, hoping
to discover some hidden meaning: twist the words as he would,


940
FILE NUMBER 113
they proved nothing for or against the writer. The two words
"absolutely everything" were underscored, it is true; but they
could be interpreted in so many ways. The detective, however,
determined not to drop the matter here. "This Madame Nina
Gipsy is doubtless a friend of M. Prosper Bertomy?" .
"She is his particular friend."
"Ah, I understand; and she lives here at No. 39?"
"You know it well enough, as you saw me go in there."
"I suspected it to be the house, but now tell me whether the
apartments she occupies are rented in her name."
"No. Prosper rents them."
"Exactly; and on which floor, if you please?"
"On the first."
During this colloquy, Fanferlot had folded up the note, and
slipped it into his pocket. "A thousand thanks," said he, "for
the information; and, in return, I will relieve you of the trouble
of executing your commission."
"Sir!"
"Yes; with your permission, I will myself take this note to
Madame Nina Gipsy."
Cavaillon began to remonstrate, but Fanferlot cut him short
by saying: "I will also venture to give you a piece of advice
Return quietly to your business and have nothing more to do
with this affair."
"But Prosper is a good friend of mine, and has saved me
from ruin more than once."
"Only the more reason for your keeping quiet. You can not
be of the slightest assistance to him, and I can tell you that
you may be of great injury. As you are known to be his
devoted friend, of course your absence at this time will be
remarked upon. Any steps that you take in this matter will
receive the worst interpretation."
"Prosper is innocent, I am sure."
Fanferlot was of the same opinion, but he had no idea of
betraying his private thoughts; and yet for the success of his
investigations it was necessary to impress the importance of
prudence and discretion upon the young man. He would have
told him to keep silent concerning what had passed between
them, but he dared not.
"What you say may be true," he said. "I hope it is for the
sake of M. Bertomy, and on your own account too; for, if he
is guilty, you will certainly be very much annoyed, and perhaps


FILE NUMBER 113
941
suspected of complicity, as you are well known to be intimate
with him."
Cavaillon was overcome.
"Now, you had better take my advice, and return to the
bank, and—good morning, sir."
The poor fellow obeyed. Slowly and with swelling heart
he returned to the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette. He asked
himself how he could serve Prosper, warn Madame Gipsy, and
above all, have his revenge upon this odious detective, who had
just made him suffer such humiliation. He had no sooner
turned the corner of the street than Fanferlot entered No. 39,
mentioned the name of Prosper Bertomy to the concierge, went
upstairs, and knocked at the first door he came to. It was
opened by a youthful footman, dressed in the most fanciful
livery.
"Is Madame Gipsy at home?" inquired Fanferlot.
The servant hesitated; seeing this, Fanferlot showed his note
and said: "M. Prosper told me to hand this note to madame
and wait for an answer."
"Walk in, and I will let madame know you are here."
The name of Prosper produced its effect. Fanferlot was
ushered into a little room furnished in blue and gold silk
damask. Heavy curtains darkened the windows, and hung in
front of the doors. The floor was covered with a blue velvet-
pile carpet.
"Our cashier was certainly well lodged," murmured the de-
tective. But he had no time to pursue his inventory. One of
the curtains was pushed aside, and Madame Nina Gipsy stood
before him. She was quite young, small, and graceful, with
a brown or rather gold-colored quadroon complexion, and the
hands and feet of a child. Long curling silk lashes softened
the piercing brilliancy of her large black eyes; her lips were
full, and her teeth were very white. She had not yet made
her toilet, but wore a velvet dressing-gown, which did not con-
ceal the lace ruffles beneath. But she had already been under the
hands of a hairdresser. Her hair was curled and frizzed high
on her forehead, and confined by narrow bands of red velvet;
her back hair was rolled in an immense coil, and held by a
beautiful gold comb. She was ravishing. Her beauty was
so startling that the dazzled detective was speechless with
admiration.
"Well," he said to himself, as he remembered the noble,


942
FILE NUMBER 113
severe beauty of Madeleine, whom he had seen a few hours
previous, "our young gentleman certainly has good taste—very
good taste—two perfect beauties!"
While he thus reflected, perfectly bewildered, and wondering
how he could begin the conversation, Madame Gipsy eyed him
with the most disdainful surprise: she was waiting for this
shabby little man in a threadbare coat and greasy hat to ex-
plain his presence in her dainty drawing-room. She had many
creditors, and was recalling them, and wondering which one
had dared send this man to wipe his dusty boots on her velvet-
pile carpets. After scrutinizing him from head to foot with
undisguised contempt, she said haughtily: "What is it that you
want?"
Any one but Fanferlot would have been offended at her in-
solent manner; but he only noticed it to gain some notion of
the young woman's disposition. "She is bad-tempered," he
thought, "and is uneducated."
While he was speculating upon her merits, Madame Nina
impatiently stamped her little foot, and waited for an answer;
finally she said: "Why don't you speak? What do you want
here?"
"I am charged, my dear madame," he answered in his
blandest tone, "by M. Bertomy to give you this note."
"From Prosper! You know him then?"
"I have that honor, madame; indeed, I may be so bold as
to claim him as a friend."
"What, sir! You a friend of Prosper!" exclaimed Madame
Gipsy in a scornful tone, as if her pride were wounded.
Fanferlot did not condescend to notice this offensive exclama-
tion. He was ambitious, and contempt failed to irritate him.
"I said a friend of his, madame, and there are few people who
would have the courage to claim friendship for him now."
Madame Gipsy was struck by the words and manner of Fan-
ferlot. "I never could guess riddles," she said tartly; "will you
be kind enough to explain what you mean?"
The detective slowly drew Prosper's note from his pocket,
and, with a bow, presented it to Madame Gipsy. "Read, ma-
dame," he said.
She certainly anticipated no misfortune; although her sight
was excellent, she stopped to fasten a tiny gold eyeglass on her
nose, then carelessly opened the note. At a glance she read its
contents. She turned very pale, then very red; she trembled


FILE NUMBER 113
943
as if with a nervous chill; her limbs seemed to give way, and
she tottered so that Fanferlot, thinking she was about to fall,
extended his arms to catch her.
Useless precaution! Madame Gipsy was one of those women
whose inert listlessness conceals indomitable energy; fragile-
looking creatures whose powers of endurance and resistance
are unlimited; cat-like in their soft grace and delicacy, espe-
cially cat-like in their nerves and muscles of steel. The diz-
ziness caused by the shock she had received quickly passed
off. She tottered, but did not fall, and stood up looking
stronger than ever; seizing the wrist of the detective, she held
it as if her delicate little hands were a vise, and cried out:
"Explain yourself! what does all this mean? Do you know
anything about the contents of this note?"
Although Fanferlot showed plenty of courage in daily con-
tending with the most dangerous rascals; he was almost terrified
by the action of Madame Gipsy. "Alas!" was all he murmured.
"Prosper is to be arrested, accused of being a thief?"
"Yes, madame, he is accused of taking three hundred and
fifty thousand francs from the bank safe."
"It is false, infamous, absurd!" she cried. She had dropped
Fanferlot's hand; and her fury, like that of a spoiled child,
found vent in violent actions. She tore her web-like handker-
chief, and the magnificent lace on her gown, to shreds. "Pros-
per steal!" she cried; "what a stupid idea! Why should he
steal? Is he not rich?"
"M. Bertomy is not rich, madame; he has nothing but his
salary."
This answer seemed to confound Madame Gipsy. "But," she
insisted, "I have always seen him with plenty of money; not
rich—then—" She dared not finish; but her eye met Fanferlot's,
and they understood each other.
Madame Nina's look meant: "He committed this robbery in
order to gratify my extravagant whims." Fanferlot's glance
signified: "Very likely, madame."
A few moments' reflection restored Nina's original assur-
ance. Doubt fled after hovering for an instant over her agitated
mind. "No!" she cried. "I regret to say that Prosper would
never have stolen a single sou for me. One can understand
a man robbing a bank to obtain the means of bestowing pleasure
and luxury upon the woman he loves; but Prosper does not love
me; he never has loved me."


FILE NUMBER 113
"Oh, my dear lady!" protested the gallant and insinuating
Fanferlot, "you surely can not mean what you say."
Her beautiful eyes filled with tears as she sadly shook her
head and replied: "I mean exactly what I say. It is only too
true. He is ready to gratify my every wish, you may say;
what does that prove? Nothing. I am too well convinced that
he does not love me. I know what love is. Once I was beloved
by an affectionate, true-hearted man; and my own sufferings
of the last year make me know how miserable I must have
made him by my cold return. Alas! we must suffer ourselves
before we can feel for others. No, I am nothing to Prosper;
he would not care if—"
"But then, madame, why—"
"Ah, yes," interrupted Nina, "why? You will be very wise
if you can answer me. For a year have I vainly sought an
answer to this question, so sad to me. I, a woman, can not
answer it; and I defy you to do so. You can not discover the
thoughts of a man who is so thoroughly master of himself that
he never permits a single idea that is passing through his mind
to be detected upon his countenance. I have watched him as
only a woman can watch the man upon whom her fate depends,
but it has always been in vain. He is kind and indulgent; but
he does not betray himself, never will commit himself, ignorant
people call him weak, yielding: I tell you that fair-haired man
is a rod of iron painted like a reed!"
Carried away by the violence of her feelings, Madame Nina
betrayed her inmost thoughts. She was without distrust, never
suspecting that the stranger listening to her was other than a
friend of Prosper. As for Fanferlot, he congratulated himself
upon his success. No one but a woman could have drawn him
so excellent a portrait; in a moment of excitement she had
given him the most valuable information; he now knew the
nature of the man with whom he had to deal, which, in an
investigation like that he was pursuing, is the principal point.
"You know that M. Bertomy gambles," he ventured to say,
"and gambling is apt to lead a man—"
Madame Gipsy shrugged her shoulders, and interrupted him.
"Yes, he plays," she said, "but he is not a gambler. I have
seen him lose and gain large sums without betraying the slight-
est agitation. He plays as he drinks, as he sups, as he dissi-
pates—without passion, without enthusiasm, without pleasure.
Sometimes he frightens me; he seems to drag about a body with-


FILE NUMBER 113
945
out a soul. Ah, I am not happy! Never have I been able to
overcome his indifference, an indifference so great, so reckless,
that I often think it must be despair; nothing will convince me
that he has not some terrible secret, some great misfortune
weighing upon his mind, and making life a burden."
"Then he has never spoken to you of his past?"
"Why should he tell me? Did you not hear me? I tell you
he does not love me!"
Madame Nina was overcome by thoughts of the past, and
tears silently coursed down her cheeks. But her despair was
only momentary. She started up, and, her eyes sparkling with
generous resolution, she exclaimed: "But I love him, and I
will save him! I will see his chief, the miserable wretch who
dares to accuse him. I will haunt the judges, and I will prove
that he is innocent. Come, sir, let us start, and I promise you
that before sunset he shall be free, or I shall be in prison
with him."
Madame Gipsy's project was certainly laudable, and prompted
by the noblest sentiments; but unfortunately it was imprac-
ticable. Moreover, it would be going counter to the plans of
the detective. Although he had resolved to reserve to himself
all the difficulties as well as the benefits of this inquiry, Fan-
ferlot saw clearly that he could not conceal the existence of
Madame Nina from the investigating magistrate. She would
necessarily be brought into the case, and be sought after. But
he did not wish her to take any steps of her own accord. He
proposed to let her appear when and how he judged proper,
so that he might gain for himself the merit of having dis-
covered her.
Fanferlot's first step was to try to calm the young woman's
excitement. He thought it easy to prove to her that the slight-
est interference in favor of Prosper would be a piece of folly.
"What will you gain by acting thus, my dear madame?" he
asked. "Nothing. I can assure you that you have not the least
chance of success. Remember that you will seriously compro-
mise yourself. Who knows if you will not be suspected as
M. Bertomy's accomplice?"
But this alarming perspective, which had frightened Cavaillon
into foolishly giving up a letter which he might so easily have
retained, only stimulated Gipsy's enthusiasm. Man calculates,
while woman follows the inspirations of her heart. Our most
devoted friend, if a man, hesitates and draws back; if a woman,


946
FILE NUMBER 113
rushes undauntedly forward, regardless of the danger. "What
matters the risk?" she exclaimed. "I don't believe any danger
exists; but, if it does, so much the better: it will be all the
more to my credit. I am sure Prosper is innocent; but, if
he should be guilty, I wish to share the punishment which
awaits him."
Madame Gipsy's persistence was becoming alarming. She
astily drew around her a cashmere shawl, put on her bonnet,
and, although still wearing her dressing-gown and slippers,
declared that she was ready to walk from one end of Paris to
the other, in search of this or the other magistrate.
"Come, sir," she said, with feverish impatience. "Are you
not coming with me?"
Fanferlot was perplexed. Happily he had always several
strings to his bow. Personal considerations having no hold
upon this impulsive nature, he resolved to appeal to her interest
in Prosper.
"I am at your command, my dear lady," he said; "let us go
if you desire it; only permit me, while there is yet time, to
say that we are very probably about to do great injury to
M. Bertomy."
"In what way, if you please?"
"Because we are taking a step that he expressly forbade in
his letter; we are surprising him—giving him no warning."
Nina scornfully tossed her head, and replied: "There are
some people who must be saved without warning, and against
their will. I know Prosper; he is just the man to let him-
self be murdered without a struggle, without speaking a word—
to give himself up through sheer recklessness and despair."
"Excuse me, madame," interrupted the detective; "M. Ber-
tomy has by no means the appearance of a man who has aban-
doned himself to despair. On the contrary, I think he has
already prepared his plan of defense. By showing yourself,
when he advises you to remain in concealment, you will very
likely render his most careful precautions useless."
Madame Gipsy was silently weighing the value of Fanferlot's
objections. Finally she said: "I can not remain here inactive
without attempting to contribute in some way to his safety.
Can you not understand that this floor burns my feet?"
Evidently, if she was not absolutely convinced, her resolution
was shaken. Fanferlot saw that he was gaining ground, and
this certainty, putting him more at east, gave weight to his


FILE NUMBER 113
947
persuasive eloquence. "You have it in your power, madame,"
he said, "to render a great service to the man you love."
"In what way, sir? tell me in what way."
"Obey him, my child," said Fanferlot in a paternal tone.
Madame Gipsy evidently expected very different advice.
"Obey," she murmured, "obey!"
"It is your duty," said Fanferlot with grave dignity; "it is
your sacred duty."
She still hesitated; and he took from the table Prosper's note,
which she had laid there, and continued: "What! M. Bertomy
at the most trying moment, when he is about to be arrested,
stops to point out your line of conduct; and you would render
vain this wise precaution! What does he say to you? Let us
read over this note, which is like the testament of his liberty.
He says, 'If you love me, I entreat you, obey.' And you hesi-
tate to obey. Then you do not love him. Can you not under-
stand, unhappy child, that M. Bertomy has his reasons, terrible,
imperious reasons, for your remaining in obscurity for the
present?"
Fanferlot understood these reasons the moment he put his
foot in the sumptuous apartment of the Rue Chaptal; and, if
he did not expose them now, it was because he kept them as
a good general keeps his reserve, for the purpose of deciding
the victory. Madame Gipsy was intelligent enough to divine
these reasons.
"Reasons for my hiding!" thought she. "Prosper wishes,
then, to keep every one in ignorance of our intimacy."
She remained thoughtful for a moment; then a ray of light
seemed to cross her mind, and she exclaimed: "Oh, I under-
stand now! Fool that I was for not seeing it before! My
presence here, where I have been for a year, would be an
•verwhelming charge against him. An inventory of my pos-
sessions would be taken—of my dresses, my laces, my jewels—
and my luxury would be brought against him as a crime. He
would be asked where he obtained the money requisite to lavish
all these elegancies on me."
The detective bowed, and said: "That is perfectly true,
madame."
"Then I must fly at once! Who knows that the police are
not already warned, and may appear at any moment?"
"Oh," said Fanferlot with easy assurance, "you have plenty
of time; the police are not so very prompt."


948
FILE NUMBER 113
"No matter 1"
And, leaving the detective alone in the parlor, Madame Nina
hastily ran into her bedroom, and calling her maid, her cook,
and her little footman, ordered them to empty her drawers
and wardrobe of their contents, and assisted them to stuff her
best clothing and jewels into her trunks. Suddenly she rushed
back to Fanferlot, and said: "Everything will be ready for me
to start in a few minutes; but where am I to go?"
"Did not M. Bertomy say, my dear lady, to the other end
of Paris? To a hotel, or furnished apartments."
"But I don't know where to find any."
Fanferlot seemed to be reflecting; but he had great difficulty
in concealing his delight at a sudden idea that flashed upon
him; his little black eyes fairly danced with joy. "I know a
hotel," he said at last, "but it might not suit you. It is not
elegantly furnished like this apartment."
"Should I be comfortable there?"
"Upon my recommendation you would be treated like a
queen, and, above all, you would be kept concealed."
"Where is it?"
"On the other side of the river, on the Quai Saint Michel.
It is called the Grand Archangel, and is kept by Madame
Alexandre."
Madame Nina was never long making up her mind. "Here
are pen and paper," said she, "write your recommendation."
Fanferlot rapidly wrote, and handed her the letter, saying:
"With these three lines, madame, you can make Madame Alex-
andre do anything you wish."
"Very good. Now, how am I to let Cavaillon know my
address? It was he who should have brought me Prospers
letter."
"He was unable to come, madame," interrupted the detec-
tive; "but I will give him your address."
Madame Gipsy was about to send for a carriage, but Fan-
ferlot said he was in a hurry and would procure her one. He
seemed to be in luck that day; for a cab was passing the door,
and he hailed it. "Wait here," he said to the driver, after
telling him that he was a detective, "for a little brunette who
is coming down with some trunks. If she tells you to drive
her to the Quai Saint Michel, crack your whip; if she gives
you any other address, get down from your box and arrange
your harness. I will keep in sight."


FILE NUMBER 113
949
He stepped across the street, and stood in the door of a
wine-shop. He had not long to wait. In a few minutes the
loud cracking of a whip apprised him that Madame Nina had
started for the Hotel of the Grand Archangel. "Aha!" said
he gaily, "I hold her at any rate."
T the same hour that Madame Nina Gipsy was seeking
** refuge at the Grand Archangel, so highly recommended
by Fanferlot, Prosper Bertomy was being consigned to the
depot of the Prefecture of Police. From the moment he
had resumed his habitual composure, he never once faltered.
Vainly did the people around him watch for a suspicious ex-
pression, or any sign of his giving way under the embarrass-
ment of his situation. His face was stolid as marble, and one
would have supposed him insensible to the horrors of his con-
dition had not his heavy breathing, and the beads of perspira-
tion standing on his brow, betrayed the intense agony he was
suffering.
At the police station, where Prosper had to wait for two
hours while the commissary went to receive orders from higher
authorities, he entered into conversation with the two police
agents who had charge of him. At twelve o'clock he said he
was hungry, and sent to a restaurant near by for his lunch,
which he ate with a good appetite, and also drank nearly a
bottle of wine. While he was thus occupied, several clerks from
the Prefecture, who have to transact business daily with the
commissaries of police, eyed him curiously. They all formed
the same opinion, and admiringly said to each other: "Well,
he is certainly made of strong stuff, that fellow!" And again:
"The young gentleman doesn't seem to care much. He has
evidently something in reserve."
When he was told that a cab was waiting for him at the
door, he at once rose; but, before going out, requested per-
mission to light a cigar, which was granted him. A flower-girl
stood just by the door, and he stopped and bought a bunch of


950
FILE NUMBER 113
violets of her. The girl, seeing that he was arrested, said, by
way of thanks: "Good luck to you, my poor gentleman!"
Prosper appeared touched by this mark of interest, and re-
plied: "Thanks, my good girl, but 'tis a long time since luck
has been in my way."
It was magnificent weather, a bright spring morning. As
the cab went along the Rue Montmartre, Prosper kept his head
out of the window, smilingly complaining at the same time at
being imprisoned on such a lovely day, when everything outside
was so sunny and pleasant. "It is singular," he said, "I never
felt so great a desire to take a walk."
One of the police agents, a large, jovial, red-faced man,
received this remark with a hearty burst of laughter, and said;
"I understand."
While Prosper was going through the formalities of the com-
mitment, he replied with haughty brevity to the indispensable
questions that were put to him. But after, being ordered to
empty his pockets on the table, they began to search him, his
eyes flashed with indignation, and a single tear coursed down
his flushed cheek. In an instant he had recovered his stony
calmness, and stood up motionless, with his arms raised in the
air, so that the rough creatures about him could more con-
veniently ransack him from head to foot, to assure themselves
that he had no suspicious object concealed under his clothes.
The search would have, perhaps, been carried to the most
ignominious lengths but for the intervention of a middle-aged
man of rather distinguished appearance, who wore a white
cravat and gold spectacles, and was sitting at his ease by the
fire. He started with surprise, and seemed much agitated, when
he saw Prosper brought in by the officers; he stepped forward,
as if about to speak to him, then suddenly changed his mind,
and sat down again.
In spite of his own troubles, Prosper could not help per-
ceiving that this man kept his eyes fixed upon him. Did ho
know him? Vainly did he try to recollect having met him
before. This individual, treated with all the deference due to
a chief, was no less a personage than M. Lecoq, a celebrated
member of the detective police. When the men who were
searching Prosper were about to take off his boots, under the
idea that a knife might be concealed in them, M. Lecoq waved
them aside with an air of authority, and said: "You have done
enough."


FILE NUMBER 113
951
He was obeyed. AH the formalities being ended, the unfor-
tunate cashier was taken to a narrow cell; the heavily barred
door was swung to and locked upon him; he breathed freely;
at last he was alone. Yes, he believed himself to be alone.
He was ignorant that a prison is made of glass, that the pris-
oner is like a miserable insect under the microscope of an
entomologist.
He knew not that the walls have listening ears and
watchful eyes. He felt so certain of being alone that he at
once gave vent to his suppressed feelings, and, dropping his
mask of impassibility, burst into a flood of tears. His long-
restrained anger now flashed out like a smoldering fire. In a
paroxysm of rage he uttered imprecations and curses. He
dashed himself against the prison walls like a wild beast in
a cage.
Prosper Bertomy was not the man he appeared to be. This
haughty, correct gentleman had ardent passions and a fiery
temperament. One day, when he was about twenty-four years
of age, he had become suddenly fired by ambition. While all
•f his desires were repressed—imprisoned in his low estate, like
an athlete in a strait-waistcoat—seeing around him all those
rich people with whom money served the purpose of the wand
in the fairy tale, he envied them their lot.
He studied the beginnings of these financial princes, and
found that at the starting-point they possessed far less than
himself. How, then, had they succeeded? By the force of
energy, industry, and assurance. He determined to imitate and
excel them.
From that day, with a force of will much less rare than we
think, he imposed silence upon his instincts. He reformed not
his character, but the outside of his character; and his efforts
were not without success. Those who knew him had faith in
his character; and his capabilities and ambition inspired the
prophecy that he would be successful in attaining eminence
and wealth.
And the end of all was this—to be imprisoned for robbery;
that is, ruined!
For he did not attempt to deceive himself. He knew that,
guilty or innocent, a man once suspected is as ineffaceably
branded as the shoulder of a galley-slave. Therefore, what
was the use of struggling? What benefit was a triumph which
could not wash out the stain?


952
FILE NUMBER 113
When the prison attendant brought him his supper, he found
him lying on his mattress, with his face buried in the pillow,
weeping bitterly. Ah, he was not hungry now! Now that he
was alone, he was fed upon his own bitter thoughts. He sank
from a state of frenzy into one of stupefying despair, and vainly
did he endeavor to clear his confused mind, and account for
the dark cloud gathering about him; no loophole for escape
could he discover.
The night was long and terrible, and for the first time he
had nothing to count the hours by, as they slowly dragged on,
but the measured tread of the patrol who came to relieve the
sentinels. He was now thoroughly wretched.
At dawn he dropped into a sleep, a heavy, oppressive sleep,
which was more wearisome than refreshing; from which he
was startled by the rough voice of the jailer.
"Come, sir!" said he, "it is time for you to appear before
the investigating magistrate."
Prosper jumped up at once, and, without stopping to set right
his disordered toilet, said: "I am ready, lead the way."
The jailer remarked as they walked along: "You are very
fortunate in having your case brought before a very worthy
man." He was right.
Endowed with remarkable penetration, firm, unbiased, equally
free from false pity and excessive severity, M. Patrigent pos-
sessed in an eminent degree all the qualities necessary for the
delicate and arduous office of investigating magistrate. Per-
haps he was wanting in the feverish activity which is sometimes
necessary for coming to a quick and just decision;; but he pos-
sessed unwearying patience, which nothing could discourage.
He would cheerfully devote years to the examination of a case;
he was even now engaged in an affair of Belgian bank-notes,
of which he did not collect all the threads, and solve the mys-
tery, until after four years' investigation. Thus it was always
to him that they brought the endless proceedings, the half-
finished inquiries, and the incomplete processes.
This was the man before whom Prosper was being conducted,
and he was certainly taken by a difficult road. He was escorted
along a corridor, through a room full of police agents, down a
narrow flight of steps, across a kind of vault, and then up a
steep staircase which seemed to have no end. Finally he reached
a long, narrow gallery, on which opened numerous doors, bear-
ing different numbers. The custodian of the unhappy cashiec


FILE NUMBER 113
953
stopped before one of these doors, and said: "Here we are, and
here your fate will be decided."
At this remark, uttered in a tone of deep commiseration,
Prosper could not refrain from shuddering. It was only too
true, that on the other side of the door was a man who would
interrogate him, and according to his answers would either re-
lease him from custody or commit him for trial. Summoning
all his courage, he turned the door-knob, and was about to
enter when the jailer stopped him. "Don't be in such haste,"
he said; "you must sit down here and wait till your turn comes;
then you will be called." The wretched man obeyed, and his
keeper took a seat beside him.
Nothing is more doleful and terrible than having to wait in
this gloomy gallery of the investigating magistrates. Occupy*
ing the entire length of the wall is a wooden bench blackened
by constant use. This bench has for the last ten years been
daily occupied by the murderers, thieves, and suspicious char-
acters of the department of the Seine. Sooner or later, as filth
rushes to a sewer, does crime reach this dreadful gallery with
one door opening on the galleys, the other on the scaffold. This
place was bitterly though vulgarly denominated by a certain
magistrate as the great public wash-house of all the foul linen
in Paris.
When Prosper reached the gallery it was full of people. The
bench was almost entirely occupied. Close beside him, so as
to touch his shoulder, sat a man with a sinister countenance,
dressed in rags.
Before each door, giving access to the offices of the investi-
gating magistrates, stood groups of witnesses conversing in an
undertone. Gendarmes were constantly arriving and departing
with prisoners. Sometimes, above the noise of their heavy
tramping along the flagstones, a woman's stifled sob might be
heard, when, looking around, you would see some poor mother
or wife with her face buried in her handkerchief, weeping bit-
terly. At short intervals a door would open and shut, when an
officer would call out a name or number.
The stifling atmosphere, and the sight of so much misery,
made Prosper feel ill and faint; he felt as if another five min-
utes' stay among these wretched creatures would make him
deathly sick, when a little old man dressed in black, wearing
a steel chain, the insignia of his office, cried out: "Prosper
Bertomy 1"


954
FILE NUMBER 113
The unhappy man rose, and, without knowing how, found
himself in the room of the investigating magistrate. For a
moment he was blinded. He had come out of a dark passage;
and the room in which he now found himself had a window
directly opposite the door, so that a flood of light streamed sud-
denly upon him. This room, like all the others in the gallery,
was of very ordinary appearance, and small and dingy. The
wall was covered with a cheap dark paper, and on the floor
was a hideous brown carpet, very much worn. Opposite the
door was a large writing-table strewn with bundles of papers,
furnishing the antecedents of those persons who were subjected
to examinations, and behind was seated the magistrate, imme-
diately facing those who entered, so that his countenance re-
mained in the shade, while that of the prisoner or witness whom
he questioned was in a glare of light.
Before a little table, on the right, sat a clerk, the indispensable
auxiliary of the magistrate, engaged in writing.
But Prosper observed none of these details: his whole atten-
tion was concentrated upon the arbiter of his fate, and as he
closely examined his face he was convinced that the jailer was
right in styling him an honorable man. M. Patrigent's homely
face, with its irregular outline and short red whiskers, lit up
by a pair of bright, intelligent eyes, and a kindly expression,
was calculated to impress one favorably at first sight. "Take
a chair," he said to Prosper.
This little attention was gratefully welcomed by the prisoner,
for he had expected to be treated with "harsh contempt. He
looked upon it as a good sign, and his mind felt a slight relief.
M. Patrigent turned toward the clerk, and said: "We will begin
now, Sigault; pay attention."
Looking at Prosper, he then asked him his name.
"Auguste Prosper Bertomy," replied the cashier.
"How old are you?"
"I shall be thirty on the fifth of next May."
"What is your profession?"
"I am—that is, I was—chief cashier in M. Andre Fauvel's
bank."
The magistrate stopped to consult a little memorandum book
lying on his desk. Prosper, who followed closely his every
movement, began to be hopeful, saying to himself that never
would a man seemingly so unprejudiced be cruel enough to send
him to prison again. After finding what he looked for, M.


FILE NUMBER 113
955
Patrigent resumed the examination. "Where do you live?"
he asked.
"At No. 39, Rue Chaptal, for the last four years. Before
that time I lived at No. 7, Boulevard des Batignolles."
"Where were you born?"
"At Beaucaire, in the department of Le Gard."
"Are your parents living?"
"My mother died two years ago; my father is still living."
"Does he reside in Paris?"
"No, sir; he lives at Beaucaire with my sister, who married
one of the engineers of the Southern Canal." It was in broken
accents that Prosper answered these last questions. Though
there are moments in the life of a man when home memories
encourage and console him, there are also moments when he
would be thankful to be without a single tie, when he bitterly
regrets that he is not alone in the world.
M. Patrigent observed the prisoner's emotion when he spoke
of his parents. "What is your father's calling?" he continued.
"He was formerly a superintendent of roads and bridges;
then he was employed on the Southern Canal like my brother-
in-law; now he has retired on a pension."
There was a moment's silence. The magistrate had turned
his chair round, so that, although his head was apparently
averted, he had a good view of the workings of Prosper's coun-
tenance. "Well," he said abruptly, "you are accused of having
robbed M. Fauvel of three hundred and fifty thousand francs."
During the last twenty-four hours the wretched young man
had had time to familiarize himself with the terrible idea of
this accusation; and yet, uttered as it was now in this formal,
brief tone, it seemed to strike him with a horror which ren-
dered him incapable of opening his lips. "What have you to
answer?" asked the investigating magistrate.
"That I am innocent, sir; I swear that I am innocent!"
"I hope you are," said M. Patrigent, "and you may count
upon me to assist you, to the extent of my ability, in proving
your innocence. You must have some facts to allege in your
defense, some proofs you can furnish me with."
"Ah, sir, what can I say when I am myself unable to under-
stand this dreadful business? I can only refer you to my
past life."
The magistrate interrupted him: "Let us be specific; the rob-
bery was committed under circumstances that prevent suspicion


956
FILE NUMBER 113
from falling upon any one but M. Fauvel and yourself. Do
you suspect any one else?"
"No, sir."
"You declare yourself to be innocent, therefore the guilty
party must be M. Fauvel." Prosper remained silent. "Have
you," persisted the magistrate, "any cause for believing that
M. Fauvel robbed himself?" The prisoner preserved a rigid
silence.
•"I see," said the magistrate, "that you need time for reflec-
tion. Listen to the reading of your examination, and after
signing it you will return to prison."
The unhappy man was overcome. The last ray of hope was
gone. He heard nothing of what Sigault read, and he signed
the paper without looking at it. He tottered as he left the
magistrate's room, so that the agent who had him in charge
was forced to support him. "I" fear your case looks bad," said
the man, "but don't be disheartened; keep up your courage."
Courage! Prosper had not a spark of it when he returned
to his cell; but his heart was filled with anger and resentment.
He had determined that he would defend himself before the
magistrate, that he would prove his innocence; and he had not
had time to do so. He reproached himself bitterly for having
trusted to the magistrate's benevolent face. "What a farce,"
he angrily exclaimed, "to call that an examination!"
It was not really an examination that Prosper had been sub-
jected to, but a mere formality. In summoning him, M. Patri-
gent obeyed Article 93 of the Criminal Code, which says, "Every
suspected person under arrest must be examined within twenty-
four hours." But it is not in twenty-four hours, especially in
a case like this, with no evidence or material proof, that a
magistrate can collect the materials for an examination. To
triumph over the obstinate defense of a prisoner who shuts
himself up in absolute denial as though in a fortress, valid
proofs are needed. These weapons M. Patrigent was busily
preparing.
If Prosper had remained a little longer in the gallery, he
would have seen the same official who had called him come
from the magistrate's room, and cry out, No. 3. The witness
who was awaiting his turn, and answered the call for No. 3,
was M. Fauvel.
The banker was no longer the same man. Yesterday he was
kind and affable in his manner; now, as he entered the magis-


FILE NUMBER 113
957
trate's room, he seemed irritated against his cashier. Reflec-
tion, which usually brings calmness and a desire to pardon, had
in his case led to anger and a thirst for vengeance. The in-
evitable questions which commence every examination had
scarcely been addressed to him before his impetuous temper
gained the mastery, and he burst forth in invectives against
Prosper.
M. Patrigent was obliged to impose silence upon the banker,
reminding him of what was due to himself, no matter what
wrongs he had suffered at the hands of his clerk. Although
he had very slightly examined Prosper, the magistrate was now
scrupulously attentive and particular in having every question
answered. Prosper's examination had been a mere formality,
the verifying of a positive fact. M. Patrigent now occupied
himself in ferreting out all the attendant circumstances and the
most trifling particulars, in order to group them together, and
arrive at a-just conclusion.
"Let us proceed with regularity," said the magistrate to M.
Fauvel, "and pray confine yourself to answering my questions.
Did you ever suspect your cashier of being dishonest?"
"Certainly not. Yet there were reasons which should have
made me hesitate to trust him."
"What reasons?"
"M. Bertomy gambled. I have known of his spending whole
nights at the card-table, and losing large sums of money. He
was intimate with an unprincipled set. Once he was mixed up
with one of my customers, M. de Clameran, in a scandalous
gambling affair at the house of some disreputable woman, and
which ended in an investigation at the police court."
For some minutes the banker continued to revile Prosper.
"You must confess, sir," interrupted the magistrate, "that you
were very imprudent, if not culpable, to have entrusted the
contents of your safe to such a man."
"Ah, sir, Prosper was not always thus. Until the past year
he was a perfect model for men of his age. He frequented my
house as one of my family; he spent all of his evenings with
us, and was the bosom friend of my eldest son Lucien. One
day he suddenly left us, and never came to the house again.
Yet I had every reason to believe him to be attached to my
niece Madeleine."
M. Patrigent had an odd way of contracting his brows when
he thought he had discovered some new proof. He now did


958
FILE NUMBER 113
this, and said: "Might not this admiration for the young lady
have been the cause of M. Bertomy's estrangement?"
"How so?" asked the banker with surprise. "I was willing
to bestow Madeleine's hand upon him, and, to be frank, was
astonished that he did not ask for her in marriage. My niece
would be a good match for any man, and he should have con-
sidered himself fortunate in obtaining her. She is very hand-
some, and her dowry will be half a million."
"Then you can discover no motive for your cashier's con-
duct?"
"It is impossible for me to account for it. I have, however,
always supposed that Prosper was led astray by a young man
whom he met at my house about that time, M. Raoul de
Lagors."
"Ah! and who is this young man?"
"A relative of my wife's; a very attractive, intelligent young
man, somewhat wild, but rich enough to pay for his follies."
The magistrate wrote the name Lagors at the bottom of an
already long list of his memoranda. "Now," he said, "let us
come to the point. You are sure that the theft was not com-
mitted by any one of your household?"
"Quite sure, sir."
"You always kept your key?"
"I generally carried it about on my person; and whenever
I left it at home, I placed it in the drawer of the secretary in
my bedroom."
"Where was it on the evening of the robbery?"
"In my secretary."
"But then—"
"Excuse me for interrupting you," said M. Fauvel, "and per-
mit me to tell you that, to a safe like mine, the key is of no
importance. To open it, one must know the word upon which
the five movable buttons turn. With the word one can even
open it without the key; but without the word—"
"And you never told this word to any one?"
"To no one, sir, and sometimes I should have been puzzled
to know myself with what word the safe had been closed.
Prosper, would change it when he chose, and then inform me
of the change, but I often forgot it."
"Had you forgotten it on the day of the theft?"
"No; the word had been changed the day before; and ita
peculiarity struck me."


FILE NUMBER 113
959
"What was it?"
"Gipsy—g-i-p-s-y," said the banker, spelling the name.
M. Patrigent wrote down this name. "One more question,
sir," said he, "were you at home the evening before the
robbery?"
"No; I dined and spent the evening with a friend; when I
returned home, about one o'clock, my wife had retired, and
I went to bed immediately."
"And you were not aware of the amount of money in the
safe?"
"Absolutely. In conformity with my positive orders, I could
only suppose that a small sum had been left there overnight;
I stated this fact to the commissary in M. Bertomy's presence,
and he acknowledged it to be the case."
"It is perfectly correct, sir: the commissary's report proves
it." M. Patrigent was for a time silent. To him everything
depended upon this one fact, that the banker was unaware of
the three hundred and fifty thousand francs being in the safe,
and Prosper had disobeyed orders by placing them there over-
night; hence the conclusion was very easily drawn.
Seeing that his examination was over, the banker thought
he would relieve his mind of what was weighing upon it. "I
believe myself above suspicion, sir," he began, "and yet I can
never rest easy until Bertomy's guilt has been clearly proved.
Calumny prefers attacking a successful man, and I may be
calumniated: three hundred and fifty thousand francs is a for-
tune capable of tempting even a rich man. I should be obliged
if you would have the condition of my affairs strictly examined.
This examination will prove that I could have had no interest
in robbing my own safe. The prosperous condition—"
"That is sufficient, sir."
M. Patrigent was already well informed of the high standing
of the banker, and knew almost as much of his affairs as M.
Fauvel himself. He asked him to sign his testimony, and then
escorted him to the door of his office, a rare favor on his part.
When M. Fauvel had left the room, Sigault indulged in a
remark. "This seems to be a very cloudy case," he said; "if
the cashier is shrewd and firm, it will be difficult to convict
him."
"Perhaps it will," said the magistrate; "but let us hear what
the other witnesses have to say."
The person who answered to the call for No. 4 was Lucien,


960
FILE NUMBER 113
M. FauveFs eldest son. He was a tall, handsome young man
of twenty-two. To the magistrate's questions he replied that
he was very fond of Prosper, was once very intimate with him,
and had always regarded him as a strictly honorable man,
incapable of doing anything unbecoming a gentleman. He de-
clared that he could not imagine what fatal circumstances
could have induced Prosper to commit the theft. He knew that
he played cards, but not to the extent that was reported. He
had never known him to indulge in expenses beyond his means.
In regard to his cousin Madeleine, he replied: "I always
thought that Prosper was in love with Madeleine, and, until
yesterday, I was certain he would marry her, knowing that
my father would not oppose their union. I have always attrib-
uted the discontinuance of Prospers visits to a quarrel with my
cousin, but supposed they would ultimately become reconciled."
This information threw more light upon Prosper's past life
than that furnished by M. Fauvel, but did not apparently dis-
close any evidence which could be used in the present state of
affairs. Lucien signed his deposition, and withdrew.
Cavaillon's turn for examination came next. The poor fellow
was in a pitiable state of mind when he appeared before the
magistrate. Having confided to a friend his adventure with
the detective, as a great secret, and being jeered at for his
cowardice in giving up the note, he felt great remorse, and
passed the night in reproaching himself for having ruined
Prosper. He endeavored to repair, as well as he could, what
he called his treason. He did not exactly accuse M. Fauvel,
but he courageously declared that he was the cashier's friend,
and that he was as certain of his innocence as he was of his
own. Unfortunately, besides having no proofs to strengthen
his assertions, the latter were deprived of most of their value
by his violent professions of friendship for the accused.
After Cavaillon, six or eight clerks of Fauvel's bank suc-
cessively defiled in the magistrate's room; but their depositions
were nearly all insignificant. One of them, however, stated a
fact which the magistrate carefully noted. He said he knew
that Prosper had speculated on the Bourse, through the medium
of M. Raoul de Lagors, and had gained immense sums. Five
o'clock struck before the list of witnesses summoned for the
day was exhausted. But M. Patrigent's task was not yet fin-
ished. He rang for his attendant, who instantly appeared, when
he said to him: "Go at once and bring Fanferlot."


FILE NUMBER 113
961
It was some time before the detective answered the summons.
Having met a colleague in the gallery, he thought it his duty
to treat him; and the official had to fetch him from the wine-
shop at the corner.
"How is it that you keep people waiting?" said the magis-
trate, when the detective entered bowing and scraping. Fan-
ferlot bowed more profoundly still. Despite his smiling face,
he was very uneasy. To unravel the Bertomy case alone, it
was requisite to play a double game that might be discovered
at any moment. In serving at the same time the cause of
justice and his own ambition, he ran great risks, the least of
which was the losing of his place.
"I have had a great deal to do," he said, to excuse himself,
"and have not wasted any time." And he began to give a de-
tailed account of his movements. He was embarrassed, for he
spoke with all sorts of restrictions, picking out what was to be
said, and avoiding what was to be left unsaid. Thus he gave
the history of Cavaillon's letter, which he handed to the magis-
trate; but he did not breathe a word of Madeleine. On the
other hand, he furnished minute biographical details of Prosper
and Madame Gipsy, which he had collected from various quar-
ters during the day.
As the detective progressed, M. Patrigent's conviction was
strengthened. "This young man is evidently guilty," he mur-
mured. Fanferlot did not reply; his opinion was different, but
he was delighted that the magistrate was on the wrong track,
thinking that his own glorification would thereby be the greater
when he discovered the real culprit. True, this grand dis-
covery was as far off as it had ever been.
After hearing all he had to say, the magistrate dismissed
Fanferlot, telling him to return the next day. "Above all," he
said, as Fanferlot left the room, "do not lose sight of the
woman Gipsy; she must know where the money is, and can
put us on the right scent."
Fanferlot smiled cunningly. "You may rest easy about that,
sir," replied he; "the lady is in good hands."
Left to himself, although the evening was far advanced, M.
Patrigent continued to busy himself with the case, and to ar-
range for the rest of the depositions being taken. The affair had
obtained complete possession of his mind; it was, at the same
time, puzzling and attractive. It seemed to be surrounded by a
cloud of mystery, which he determined to penetrate and dispel.
3—Vol. 3


062
FILE NUMBER 113
The next morning he was in his room much earlier than
usual. On this day he examined Madame Gipsy, recalled Ca-
vaillon, and sent again for M. Fauvel. For several days he
displayed the same activity. Of all the witnesses summoned,
only two failed to appear. One was the messenger sent by
Prosper to bring the money from the Bank of France, and who
was ill from a fall. The other was M. Raoul de Lagors. But
their absence did not prevent the memoranda relating to Pros-
pers case from daily increasing; and on the ensuing Monday,
five days after the robbery, M. Patrigent thought he held in his
hands enough moral proof to crush the accused.
\T HILE his whole past was the object of the most minute
investigations, Prosper was in prison, in solitary confine-
ment. The two first days had not appeared very long to him.
He had requested, and been supplied with some sheets of paper*
numbered, for they had to be accounted for; and he wrote, with
a sort of fury, plans of defense and a narrative of justification.
The third day he began to feel uneasy at not seeing any one
except the condemned prisoners employed to serve those under-
going solitary confinement, and the jailer who brought him his
food. "Am I not to be examined again?" he would ask.
"Your turn is coming," the jailer invariably answered.
Time passed; and the wretched man, tortured by the suffer-
ings of solitary confinement which quickly breaks the spirit,
sank into the depths of despair. "Am I to stay here forever?"
he moaned.
No, he was not forgotten; for on the Monday morning, at
one o'clock, an hour,when the jailer never came, he heard the
heavy bolt of his cell pushed back. He ran toward the door.
But the sight of a gray-headed man standing there rooted him
to the spot.
"Father," he gasped, "father!"
"Your father, yes!"
Prosper's astonishment at seeing his father was instantly sue-


FILE NUMBER 113
963
ceeded by a feeling of great joy. A father is 4he one friend
upon whom we can always rely. In the hour of need, when
all else fails, we remember him upon whose knees we sat when
children, and who soothed our sorrows; and even though he
may be unable to assist us, his mere presence serves to comfort
and strengthen us.
Without reflecting, Prosper, impelled by tender feeling, was
about to throw himself into his father's arms, but M. Bertomy
harshly repulsed him. "Do not approach me!" he exclaimed.
He then advanced into the cell, and closed the door. The
father and son were alone together—Prosper heart-broken,
crushed; M. Bertomy angry, almost threatening.
Cast off by his last friend, by his father, the miserable young
man seemed to be stupefied with pain and disappointment.
"You, too!" he bitterly cried. "You—you believe me guilty?
Oh, father!"
"Spare yourself this shameful comedy," interrupted M. Ber-
tomy: "I know all."
"But I am innocent, father; I swear it by the sacred memory
of my mother."
"Unhappy wretch!" cried M. Bertomy, "do not blaspheme!"
He seemed overcome by tender thoughts of the past, and in a
weak, broken voice added: "Your mother is dead, Prosper, and
little did I think that the day would come when I could thank
God for having taken her from me. Your crime would have
killed her, would have broken her heart!"
After a painful silence, Prosper said: "You overwhelm me,
father, and at the moment when I need all my courage; when
I am the victim of a hideous plot."
"Victim!" cried M. Bertomy, "victim! Dare you utter your
insinuations against the honorable man who has taken care of
you, loaded you with benefits, and had ensured you a brilliant
future! It is enough for you to have robbed him; do not
calumniate him."
"For pity's sake, father, let me explain!"
"I suppose you would deny your benefactor's kindness. Yet
you were at one time so sure of his affection that you wrote me
to hold myself in readiness to come to Paris and ask M. Fauvel
for the hand of his niece. Was that, then, a lie?"
"No," said Prosper in a choked voice, "no."
"That was a year ago; you then loved Mademoiselle Made-
leine; at least you told me so."


964
FILE NUMBER 113
"Father, I love her now, more than ever; I have never ceased
to love her."
M. Bertomy made a gesture of contemptuous pity. "Indeed!"
he cried. "And the thought of the pure, innocent girl whom
you loved did not prevent your entering upon a path of sin.
You loved her! How dared you, then, without blushing, ap-
proach her presence after associating with the shameless
creatures with whom you were so intimate?"
"For heaven's sake, let me explain by what fatality Made-
leine—"
"Enough, sir, enough. I told you that I know everything.
I saw M. Fauvel yesterday; this morning I saw the magistrate,
and 'tis to his kindness that I am indebted for this interview.
Do you know what mortification I suffered before being allowed
to see you? I was searched and made to empty all my pockets.
They suspected I was conveying some weapon to you!"
Prosper ceased to justify himself, but in a helpless, dejected
way dropped down upon a seat.
"I have seen your apartments, and at once recognized the
proofs of your crime. I saw silk curtains hanging before all
the windows and doors and the walls covered with pictures. In
my father's house the walls were whitewashed; and there was
but one armchair in the whole place, and that was my mother's.
Our luxury was our honesty. You are the first member of
our family who has possessed Aubusson carpets; though, to
be sure, you are the first thief of our blood." At this last
insult Prosper's face flushed crimson, but he remained silent and
immovable.
"But luxury is necessary now," continued M. Bertomy, be-
coming more excited and angry as he went on; "luxury must
be had at any price. You must have the insolent opulence and
display of an upstart, without the upstart's wealth. You must
support worthless women who wear satin slippers lined with
swan's-down, like those I saw in your rooms, and keep ser-
vants in livery—and to do this you steal! Bankers will no
longer dare trust the keys of their safes with any one, for
every day honest families are disgraced by the discovery of
some new piece of villainy."
M. Bertomy suddenly stopped. He saw for the first time that
his son was not in a condition to hear his reproaches. "But
I will say no more," he added. "I came here not to reproach
you, but to save, if possible, the honor of our name, to prevent


FILE NUMBER 113 965
it from being published in the papers among the names of
thieves and murderers. Stand up and listen to me!" At his
father's imperious tone, Prosper arose. So many successive
blows had reduced him to a state of torpor.
"First of all," began M. Bertomy, "how much have you re-
maining of the stolen three hundred and fifty thousand francs?"
"Once more, father," replied the unfortunate man in a tone
of hopeless resignation, "once more I swear I am innocent."
"So I supposed you would say. Then our family will have
to repair the injury you have done M. Fauvel."
"What do you mean?"
"The day your brother-in-law heard of your crime he
brought me your sister's dowry—seventy thousand francs. I
succeeded in collecting a hundred and forty thousand francs
more. This makes two hundred and ten thousand francs
which I have brought with me to give to M. Fauvel."
This threat aroused Prosper from his torpor. "You shall
do nothing of the kind!" he cried with unrestrained indignation.
"I will do so before the sun goes down this day. M. Fauvel
will grant me time to pay the rest. My pension is fifteen hun-
dred francs. I can live upon five hundred; I am strong enough
to go to work again; and your brother-in-law—" M. Bertomy
stopped short, frightened at the expression of his son's face.
His features were contracted with such furious rage that he
was scarcely recognizable, and his eyes glared like a maniac's.
"You dare not disgrace me thus!" cried Prosper; "you have
no right to do it. You are free to disbelieve me yourself, but
you have no right to take a step which would be a confession
of guilt, and ruin me forever. Who and what convinces you
of my guilt? When cold justice hesitates, you, my father,
hesitate not, but, more pitiless than the law, condemn me
unheard!"
"I will do my duty!"
"Which means that I stand on the edge of a precipice, and
you push me over! Do you call that your duty? What! be-
tween strangers who accuse me, and myself who swear that I
am innocent, you do not hesitate? Why? Is it because I am
your son? Our honor is at stake, it is true; but that is only
the more reason why you should stand by me, and assist me
to defend myself."
Prosper's earnest, truthful manner was enough to unsettle
the firmest convictions, and make doubt penetrate the most


966
FILE NUMBER 113
Stubborn mind. "Yet," said M. Bertomy in a hesitating tone,
"everything seems to accuse you."
"Ah, father, you do not know that I was suddenly banished
from Madeleine's presence; that I was compelled to avoid her.
I became desperate, and tried to forget my sorrow in dissipa-
tion. I sought oblivion, and found shame and disgust. Oh,
Madeleine, Madeleine!" He was overcome with emotion; but
in a few minutes he resumed with renewed violence in his voice
and manner: "Everything is against me; but no matter. I will
clear myself or perish. Human justice is liable to error; al-
though innocent, I may be convicted; so be it. I will undergo
my penalty; but people are not kept galley-slaves forever."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, father, that I am now another man. My life, hence-
forth, has an object—vengeance! I am the victim of a vile
plot. As long as I have a drop of blood in my veins, I will
seek its author. And I will certainly find him; and then bitterly
shall he expiate all of my cruel suffering. The blow has come
from Fauvel's, and I will seek the villain there."
"Take care: your anger makes you say things that you will
repent hereafter."
"Yes, I see, you are going to descant upon the probity of
M. Andre Fauvel. You will tell me that all the virtues have
taken refuge in the bosom of this patriarchal family. What
do you know about it? Would this be the first instance in
which the most shameful secrets are concealed beneath the
fairest appearances? Why did Madeleine suddetfly forbid me
to think of her? Why has she exiled me, when she suffers as
much from otir separation as I myself, when she still loves me?
For she does love me. I am sure of it. I have proofs of it."
The jailer here came to say that the time allotted to M. Ber-
tomy had expired, and that he must leave the cell. A thousand
conflicting emotions seemed to rend the old man's heart. Sup-
pose Prosper were telling the truth: how great would be his
own remorse, if he had added to the frightful weight of sorrow
and trouble his son already had to bear! And who could prove
that he was not sincere in what he said?
The voice of his son, of whom he had ever been proud, had
aroused all his paternal affection which he had so violently re-
repressed. Ah, were he guilty, and guilty of a worse crime,
still he was his son, his only son! His countenance lost its
severity, and his eyes filled with tears. He wished to leave


FILE NUMBER 113
967
as he had entered, stern and angry, but he had not the cruel
courage. His heart was breaking. He opened his arms, and
pressed Prosper to his breast. "Oh, my son!" he murmured,
"God grant you have spoken the truth!"
Prosper was triumphant: he had almost convinced his father
of his innocence. But he had no time to rejoice over this vic-
tory. The cell door again opened, and the jailer's gruff voice
called out: "It is time for you to appear before the investigating
magistrate."
Prosper instantly obeyed the summons. His step was no
longer unsteady, as a few days previous: a complete change
had come over him. He walked firmly, with his head erect,
and the fire of resolution in his eye. He knew the way now,
and he proceeded a little ahead of the officer who escorted him.
As he was passing through the room full of police agents, he
encountered the individual with the gold spectacles, who had
watched him so intently the day he was searched. "Courage,
M. Prosper Bertomy," he said; "if you are innocent, there are
those who will help you."
Prosper started with surprise, and was about to reply, when
the man disappeared. "Who is that gentleman?" he asked of
the officer who was escorting him.
"Is it possible that you don't know him?" replied the man
with surprise. "Why, it is M. Lecoq of the detective service."
"You say his name is Lecoq?"
"You might as well say 'Monsieur Lecoq,'" said the offended
official; "it would not burn your mouth. M. Lecoq is a man
who knows everything that he wants to know, without its ever
being told to him. If your case had been in his hands instead
of in those of that smooth-tongued, imbecile Fanferlot, it would
have been settled long ago. Nobody is allowed to waste time
when he is in command. But he seems to be a friend of yours."
"I never saw him until the first day I came here."
"You can't swear to that, because no one can boast of know-
ing the real face of M. Lecoq. It is one thing to-day, and
another to-morrow; sometimes he is a dark man, sometimes
a fair one, sometimes quite young, and then an octogenarian.
Why, at times he even deceives me. I begin to talk to a
stranger—bah! it turns out to be M. Lecoq! Anybody on the
face of the earth might be he. If I were told that you were
he, I should say: 'Very likely it is so.' Ah! he can convert
himself into any form he pleases. He is a wonderful man!"


968
FILE NUMBER 113
The speaker would have continued forever his praises of M.
Lecoq, had not the sight of the magistrate's room put an end
to them.
This time, Prosper was not kept waiting on the wooden
bench; on the contrary, the magistrate was waiting for him.
M. Patrigent, who was a profound observer of human nature,
had contrived the interview between M. Bertomy and his son.
He was certain that between the father, a man of such stubborn
honor, and the son, accused of theft, an affecting scene would
take place, and this scene would completely unman Prosper,
and induce him to confess. He determined to send for him
as soon as the interview was over, while his nerves were vibrat-
ing with terrible emotions: he would then tell the truth, to
relieve his troubled, despairing mind.
The magistrate's surprise therefore was great to see the
cashier's bearing; resolute without obstinacy, firm and assured
without defiance. "Well," he said to him, "have you reflected?"
"Not being guilty, sir, I had nothing to reflect upon."
"Ah, I see the prison has not been a good counselor; you
forget that sincerity and repentance are the first things neces-
sary to obtain the indulgence of the law."
"I crave no indulgence, sir."
M. Patrigent looked vexed, and said: "What would you say
if I told you what had become of the three hundred and fifty
thousand francs?"
Prosper shook his head sadly. "If it were known, sir, I
should not be here, but at liberty."
This device had often been used by the magistrate, and had
generally succeeded; but, with a man so thoroughly master of
himself as Prosper then was, there was small chance of suc-
cess on this occasion. It had been used at a venture, and had
failed. "Then you persist in accusing M. Fauvel?" remarked
M. Patrigent.
"Him, or some one else."
"Excuse me: no one else, since he alone knew the word.
Had he any interest in robbing himself?"
"I can think of none."
"Well, now I will tell you what interest you had in robbing
him."
M. Patrigent spoke as a man who was convinced of the facts
he was about to state; but his assurance was all assumed. He
had relied upon crushing at a blow a despairing, wretched


FILE NUMBER 113
969
man, and was nonplused by seeing him appear so determined
upon resistance. "Will you be good enough to tell me," he said
in a vexed tone, "how much you have spent during the last
year?"
Prosper did not find it necessary to stop to reflect and cal-
culate. "Yes, sir," he answered, unhesitatingly. "Circum-
stances made it necessary for me to preserve the greatest order
in my wild career; I spent about fifty thousand francs."
"Where did you obtain them?"
"In the first place, twelve thousand francs were left to me
by my mother. I received from M. Fauvel fourteen thousand
francs for my salary, and share of the profits. By speculating
on the Bourse I gained eight thousand francs. The rest I bor-
rowed, and intend repaying out of the fifteen thousand francs
which I have deposited in M. Fauvel's bank." The account
was clear, exact, and could be easily proved; it must be a
true one.
"Who lent you the money?" inquired M. Patrigent.
"M. Raoul de Lagors." This witness had left Paris the day
of the robbery, and could not be found; so for the time being,
M. Patrigent was compelled to rely upon Prosper's word.
"Well," he said, "I will not press this point. Tell me why,
in spite of M. Fauvel's formal order, you drew the money from
the Bank of France the night before, instead of waiting till the
morning of the payment?"
"Because M. de Clameran had informed me that it would be
convenient, necessary even, for him to have his money early
in the morning. He will testify to that fact, if you summon
him; and I knew that I should reach my office late."
"Then M. de Clameran is a friend of yours?"
"By no means. I have always had an aversion to him, which
there was nothing whatever to justify; he is, however, the inti-
mate friend of M. de Lagors."
While Sigault was writing down these answers, M. Patrigent
was racking his brain to imagine what could have occurred
between M. Bertomy and his son to cause this transformation
in Prosper. "One thing more," said the magistrate: "how did
you spend your evening the night of the crime?"
"When I left my office, at five o'clock, I took the St. Germain
train, and went to Vesinet to M. de Lagors's country house, to
return him fifteen hundred francs which he had asked for; and,
not finding him at home, I left the money with his servant."


970
FILE NUMBER 113
"Did the latter tell you that M. de Lagors was going away?"
"No, sir. I did not know that he had left Paris."
"Where did you go when you left Vesinet?"
"I returned to Paris, and dined at a restaurant with a friend."
"And then?" Prosper hesitated.
"You are silent," said M. Patrigent. "I will therefore tell
you how you employed your time. You returned to your rooms
in the Rue Chaptal, dressed yourself, and went to a party given
by one of those women who style themselves dramatic artists,
and who are a disgrace to the stage; who receive salaries of
a hundred crowns a year, and yet keep their carriages. Yon
went to Mademoiselle Wilson's."
"You are right, sir."
"There is heavy playing at Wilson's?"
"Sometimes."
"You are in the habit of visiting places of this sort. Were
you not connected in some way with a scandalous affair which
took place at the house of a woman named Crescenzi?"
"I was summoned to give evidence, having been witness of a
theft."
"Gambling generally leads to stealing. And did you not
play baccarat at Wilson's, and lose eighteen hundred francs?"
"Excuse me, sir, only eleven hundred."
"Very well. In the morning you paid a bill that fell due
of a thousand francs."
"Yes, sir."
"Moreover, there remained in your desk five hundred francs,
and you had four hundred in your purse when you were ar-
rested. So that altogether, in twenty-four hours, four thousand
five hundred francs—"
Prosper was not discountenanced, but amazed. Not being
aware of the powerful means of investigation which the law
has at its command, he wondered how the magistrate could
have obtained such accurate information in so short a time.
"Your statement is correct, sir," he finally said.
"Where did all this money come from? The evening before
you had so little that you were obliged to defer the payment of
a small account."
"The day to which you allude I sold some bonds I had,
through an agent, which realized about three thousand francs.
In addition I took from the safe two thousand francs in advance
of my salary. I have nothing to conceal."


FILE NUMBER 113
971
Prosper had given clear answers to all questions put to him,
and M. Patrigent thought he would now attack him from a
new point. "You say you have no wish to conceal any of your
actions; then why this note stealthily thrown to one of your
companions?" Here he held up the mysterious note.
This time the blow struck. Prosper's eyes dropped before
the inquiring look of the magistrate. "I thought," he stam-
mered, "I wished—"
"You wished to hide your mistress?"
"Well, yes, sir, I did. I knew that a man in my condition,
accused of a robbery, has every fault, every weakness he has
ever indulged in, charged against him as a great crime."
"Which means that you knew that the presence of a woman
at your apartments would tell very much against you, and that
justice would not excuse this scandalous defiance of public
morality. A man who respects himself so little as to live with
a worthless woman does not elevate her to his standard, but
descends to her base level."
"Sir!"
"I suppose you know who the woman is, whom you permit
to bear the honest name borne by your mother?"
"Madame Gipsy was a governess when I first knew her. She
was born at Oporto, and came to France with a Portuguese
family."
"Her name is not Gipsy: she has never been a governess,
and she is not a Portuguese."
Prosper began to protest against this statement; but M. Pa-
trigent shrugged his shoulders, and after looking over a lot of
papers on his desk, said: "Ah, here it is; listen: Palmyre Cho-
careille, born at Paris in 1840, daughter of James Chocareille,
undertaker's assistant, and of Caroline Piedlent, his wife."
Prosper looked vexed and impatient; he was not aware that
the magistrate was reading him this report in order to con-
vince him that nothing can escape the police. "Palmyre Cho-
careille," continued M. Patrigent, "was apprenticed at twelve
years of age to a shoemaker, and remained with him until she
was sixteen. Traces of her for one year are lost. At the age
of seventeen she was hired as a servant by a grocer in the Rue
St. Denis, named Dombas, and remained with him three months.
She entered during this same year, 1857, eight different situa-
tions. In 1858 she entered the service of a dealer in fans in the
Passage Choiseul."


972
FILE NUMBER 113
As he read, the magistrate watched Prosper's face to observe
the effect of these revelations. "Toward the close of 1858,"
continued he, "she was employed as a servant by Madame
Nunes, and accompanied her to Lisbon. How long she re-
mained in Lisbon, and what she did while she remained there,
is not reported. But in 1861 she returned to Paris, and was
sentenced to three months' imprisonment for assault and bat-
tery. Ah, she returned from Portugal with the name of Nina
Gipsy."
"But I assure you, sir—" Prosper began.
"Yes, I understand: this history is less romantic, doubtless,
than the one related to you; but then it has the merit of being
true. We lose sight of Palmyre Chocareille, called Gipsy, upon
her release from prison; but we meet her again six months
later, she having made the acquaintance of a commercial trav-
eler named Caldas, who became infatuated with her beauty, and
furnished some rooms for her near the Bastille. She assumed
his name for some time, then she deserted him to devote herself
to you. Did you ever hear of this Caldas?"
"Never, sir."
"This foolish man so deeply loved this creature that her
desertion drove him almost insane through grief. He was very
resolute, and publicly swore that he would kill his rival if he
ever found him. The current report afterward was, that he
committed suicide. He certainly sold the furniture of the house
occupied by the woman Chocareille, and suddenly disappeared.
All the efforts made to discover him proved fruitless."
The magistrate paused a moment as if to give Prosper time
for reflection, and then slowly said: "And this is the woman
whom you made your companion, the woman for whom you
robbed the bank!"
Once more M. Patrigent was on the wrong track, owing to
Fanferlot's incomplete information. He had hoped that Pros-
per would betray himself by uttering some passionate retort
when thus wounded to the quick; but the latter remained im-
passible. Of all that the magistrate had said to him his mind
dwelt upon only one word—"Caldas," the name of the poor
commercial traveler who had killed himself.
"At any rate," insisted M. Patrigent, "you will confess that
this girl has caused your ruin."
"I can not confess that, sir, for it is not true."
"Yet she is the cause of your extravagance. "Listen"—the


FILE NUMBER 113
magistrate here drew a bill from the file of papers—"during
December you paid her dressmaker, Van Klopen, for two out-
door costumes, nine hundred francs; one evening dress, seven
hundred francs; one domino, trimmed with lace, four hundred
francs."
"I spent that money of my own free will; but, nevertheless,
I was not in the least attached to her."
M. Patrigent shrugged his shoulders. "You can not deny the
evidence," said he. "I suppose you will also say that it was not
for this girl's sake you ceased spending your evenings at M.
Fauvel's?"
"I assure you that she was not the cause of my ceasing to
visit M. Fauvel's family."
"Then why did you suddenly break off your attentions to a
young lady whom you confidently expected to marry, and whose
hand you had written to your father to ask for you?"
"I had reasons which I can not reveal," answered Prosper
with emotion.
The magistrate breathed freely; at last he had discovered a
vulnerable point in the prisoner's armor. "Did Mademoiselle
Madeleine banish you from her presence?" Prosper was silent,
and seemed agitated. "Speak," said M. Patrigent; "I must tell
you that this is one of the most important circumstances in
your case."
"Whatever the cost may be, on this subject I am compelled
to keep silence."
"Beware of what you do; justice will not be satisfied with
scruples of conscience." M. Patrigent waited for an answer.
None came.
"You persist in your obstinacy, do you?" continued he.
"Well, we will go on to the next question. You have, during
the last year, spent fifty thousand francs. Your resources are
at an end, and your credit is exhausted; to continue your mode
of life was impossible. What did you intend to do?"
"I had no settled plan. I thought it might last as long as it
would, and then I—"
"And then you would abstract money from the safe; was it
not so?"
"Ah, sir, if I were guilty I should not be here! I should
never have been such a fool as to return to the bank; I should
have fled."
M. Patrigent could not restrain a smile of satisfaction, and


974
FILE NUMBER 113
exclaimed: "Exactly the argument I expected you to use. You
showed your shrewdness precisely by staying to face the storm,
instead of flying the country. Several recent cases have taught
dishonest cashiers that flight abroad is dangerous. Railways
travel fast, but telegrams travel faster. A French thief can be
arrested in London within forty-eight hours after his descrip-
tion has been telegraphed. Even America is no longer a refuge.
You remained, prudently and wisely, saying to yourself: 'I will
manage to avoid suspicion; and, even if I am found out, I shall
be free again after three or five years' seclusion, with a large
fortune to enjoy.' Many people would sacrifice five years of
their lives for three hundred and fifty thousand francs."
"But, sir, had I calculated in the manner you describe, I
should not have been content with three hundred and fifty thou-
sand francs—I should have waited for an opportunity to steal
a million. I often had that sum in my charge."
"Oh! it is not always convenient to wait."
Prosper was buried in deep thought for some minutes. "Sir,"
he finally said, "there is one detail I forgot to mention before,
and it may be of importance."
"Explain, if you please."
"The messenger whom I sent to the Bank of France for the
money must have seen me tie up the bundles of notes and put
them away in the safe. At any rate, he knows that I left my
office before he did."
"Very well; the man shall be examined. Now you can re-
turn to your cell; and once more I advise you to consider the
consequences of your persistent denial." M. Patrigent thus
abruptly dismissed Prosper because he wished to act imme-
diately upon this last piece of information.
"Sigault," said he, as soon as Prosper had left the room, "is
not this messenger the man who was excused from being ex-
amined from his having sent a doctor's certificate declaring him
too ill to appear?"
"It is, sir."
"Where does he live?"
"Fanferlot says he was so ill that he was taken to the hospi-
tal—the Dubois Hospital."
"Very good. I am going to examine him to-day, this very
hour. Take your pen and paper, and send for a cab."
It was some distance from the Palais de Justice to the Dubois
Hospital; but the cabman, urged by the promise of a handsome


FILE NUMBER 113
present for himself, made his sorry jades fly as if they were
blood horses.
Would the messenger be able to answer any questions? That
was the point. The physician in charge of the hospital said
that, although the man suffered severely from a broken knee,
his mind was perfectly clear. "That being the case," said the
magistrate, "I wish to examine him, and desire that no one be
admitted while he makes his deposition."
"Oh! you will not be intruded upon; his room contains four
beds, but with the exception of his own they are just now all
unoccupied."
When the messenger saw the magistrate enter, followed by
a tall, thin young man with a portfolio under his arm, he at once
knew what they had come for. "Ah," he said, "you have come
to see me about M. Bertomy's affair?"—"Precisely."
M. Patrigent remained standing by the sick-bed while Sigault
arranged his papers on a little table. In answer to the usual
questions, the messenger stated that he was named Antonin
Poche, was forty years old, born at Cadaujac in the Gironde,
and was unmarried.
"Now," said the magistrate, "are you well enough to answer
clearly any questions I may put to you?"
"Yes, certainly, sir."
"Did you, on the 27th of February, go to the Bank of
France for the three hundred and fifty thousand francs that
were stolen?"—"Yes, sir."
"At what hour did you return with the money?"
"It must have been five o'clock when I got back."
"Do you remember what M. Bertomy did when you handed
him the notes? Now, do not be in a hurry; think before you
answer the question."
"Let me see: first he counted the notes, and made them up
into four packages; then he put them in the safe, which he
afterward locked, and then—it seems to me—yes, I am not mis-
taken, he went out!"
He uttered these last words with so much energy that, for-
getting his knee, he half started up in bed, giving vent at the
same time to a cry of pain.
"Are you sure of what you say?" asked the magistrate.
M. Patrigent's solemn tone seemed to frighten Antonin.
"Sure!" he exclaimed with marked hesitation; "I would bet
my head on it, yet I am not more sure than that!"


976
FILE NUMBER 113
It was impossible to get him to be more precise in his
answers. He had been frightened. He already imagined him-
self compromised, and for a trifle would have retracted every-
thing. But the effect was none the less produced, and when
they retired M. Patrigent said to Sigault: "This is a very
important piece of evidence."
THE hotel of the Grand Archangel, Madame Gipsy's asylum,
was the most elegant one on the Quai St. Michel. At
this hotel a person who pays her fortnight's board in advance
is treated with marked consideration.
Madame Alexandre, who had been a handsome woman, was
now stout, laced till she could scarcely breathe, always over-
dressed,and fond of wearing a number of flashy gold chains
around her fat neck. She had bright eyes and white teeth;
but, alas, a red nose. Of all her weaknesses—and heaven knows
she had indulged in every variety—only one remained; she
loved a good dinner, washed down with plenty of good wine.
But she loved her husband; and, about the time M. Patrigent
was leaving the hospital, she began to feel worried because her
"little man" had not returned to dinner. She was about to sit
down without him, when the waiter cried out: "Here is master."
And Fanferlot appeared in person.
Three years before, Fanferlot had kept a little private inquiry
office; Madame Alexandre dealt without a license in perfumery
and toilet articles, and, finding it necessary to have some of
her doubtful customers watched, engaged Fanferlot's services;
this was the origin of their acquaintance.
If they went through the marriage ceremony for the good
of the mayoralty and the church, it was because they imagined
it would, like a baptism, wash out the sins of the past. "Upon
this momentous day Fanferlot gave up his private inquiry
office, and entered the police, where he had already been
occasionally employed, and Madame Alexandre retired from
business.


FILE NUMBER 113
977
Uniting their savings, they hired and furnished the Grand
Archangel, which they were now carrying on prosperously,
esteemed by their neighbors, who were ignorant of Fanferlot's
connection with the police force.
"Why, how late you are, my little man!" exclaimed Madame
Alexandre as she dropped her knife and fork, and rushed for-
ward to embrace her husband.
Fanferlot received her caresses with an air of abstraction.
"My back is broken," he said. "I have been the whole day
playing billiards with Evariste, M. Fauvel's valet, and allowed
him to win as often as he wished—a man who does not know
what pool is! I became acquainted with him yesterday, and
now I am his best friend. If I wish to enter M. Fauvel's service
in Antonin's place, I can rely upon Evariste's good word."
"What, you be an office messenger? you?"
"Of course I would. How else am I to get an opportunity
of studying my characters, if I am not on the spot to continually
watch them?"
"Then the valet gave you no information?"
"None that I could make use of, and yet I turned him inside
out like a glove. This banker is a remarkable man; you don't
often meet with one of his sort nowadays. Evariste says he
has not a single vice, not even a little defect by which his
valet could gain ten sous. He neither smokes, drinks, nor
plays; in fact, he is a saint. He is worth millions, and lives
as respectably and quietly as a grocer He is devoted to his
wife, adores his children, is very hospitable, but seldom goes
into society."
"Then his wife is young?"
"No, she must be about fifty."
Madame Alexandre reflected a minute, then asked: "Did you
inquire about the other members of the family?"
"Certainly. The younger son is in the army. The elder son,
Lucien, lives with his parents, and is altogether as proper as a
young lady. He is so good, indeed, that he is perfectly stupid."
"And what about the niece?"
"Evariste could tell me nothing about her."
Madame Alexandre shrugged her fat shoulders. "If you
have discovered nothing," she said, "it is because there is
nothing to be discovered. -Still, do you know what I would
do if I were you?"
"Tell me."


978
FILE NUMBER 115
"I would consult M. Lecoq."
Fanferlot jumped up as if he had been shot. "Now, that's
pretty advice!" he exclaimed. "Do you want me to lose my
place? M. Lecoq does not suspect that I have anything to do
with the case, excepting to obey his orders."
"Nobody told you to let him know you were investigating
it on your own account. You can consult him with an air of
indifference, as if you were not at all interested; and, after you
have got his opinion, you can take advantage of it."
The detective weighed his wife's words, and then said: "Per-
haps you are right; yet M. Lecoq is so deucedly shrewd that
he might see through me."
"Shrewd!" echoed Madame Alexandre; "shrewd! All of you
at the Prefecture say that so often that he has gained his repu-
tation by it. You are just as sharp as he is."
"Well, we will see. I will think the matter over; but, in the
mean time, what does the girl say?" The "girl" was Madame
Nina Gipsy.
In taking up her abode at the Grand Archangel, Madame
Nina thought she was following good advice; and, as Fanferlot
had never appeared in her presence since, she was still under
the impression that she had obeyed a friend of Prosper's. When
she received her summons from M. Patrigent, she admired the
wonderful skill of the police in discovering her hiding-place;
for she had established herself at the hotel under a false, or
rather her true, name, Palmyre Chocareille. Artfully ques-
tioned by her inquisitive landlady, she had, without any mis-
trust, confided her history to her. Thus Fanferlot was able to
impress the magistrate with the idea of his being a skilful
detective, when he pretended to have discovered all this infor-
mation from a variety of sources.
"She is still upstairs," replied Madame Alexandre. "She
suspects nothing; but to keep her in the house becomes every
day more difficult. I don't know what the magistrate told her,
but she came home quite beside herself with anger. She wanted
to go and make a fuss at M. Fauvel's. Then she wrote a letter,
which she told Jean to post for her; but I kept it to show
you."
"What!" interrupted Fanferlot, "you have a letter, and did
not tell me before? Perhaps it contains the clue to the mystery.
Give it to me, quick."
Obeying her husband, Madame Alexandre opened a little cup-


FILE NUMBER 113 979
board and took out a letter, which she handed to him. "Here,
take it," she said, "and be satisfied."
Considering that she used to be a chambermaid, Palmyre
Chocareille, since become Madame Gipsy, wrote well. Her
letter bore the following address, written in a free, flowing
hand:
"M. L. de Clameran,
"Forgemaster, Hotel du Louvre.
"To be handed to M. Raoul de Lagors.
"(Immediate.)"
"Oh, ho!" said Fanferlot, accompanying his exclamation with
a little whistle, as was his habit when he thought he had made
a grand discovery. "Oh, ho!"
"Are you going to open it?" inquired Madame Alexandre.
"A little bit," said Fanferlot, as he dexterously opened the
envelope.
Madame Alexandre leaned over her husband's shoulder, and
they both read the following:
"Mons1eur Raoul—Prosper is in prison, accused of a rob-
bery which he never committed. I wrote to you three days ago."
"What!" interrupted Fanferlot, "this silly girl wrote, and I
never saw the letter?"
"But, little man, she must have posted it herself the day she
went to the Palais de Justice."
"Very likely," said Fanferlot, propitiated. He continued
reading:
"I wrote to you three days ago, and have no reply. Who
will help Prosper if his best friends desert him? If you don't
answer this letter, I shall consider myself released from a cer-
tain promise, and without scruple will tell Prosper of the con-
versation I overheard between you and M. de Clameran. But
I can count on you, can I not? I shall expect you at the
Grand Archangel, on the Quai St. Michel, the day after to-
morrow, between twelve and four. N1na G1psy."
The letter read, Fanferlot at once proceeded to copy it.
"Well!" said Madame Alexandre, "what do you think?"
Fanferlot was delicately refastening the letter when the door
of the hotel office was abruptly opened, and the waiter twice
whispered: "Pst! Pst!"


FILE NUMBER 113
Fanferlot rapidly disappeared into a dark closet. He Ka3
barely time to close the door before Madame Gipsy entered the
room. The poor girl was sadly changed. She was pale and
hollow-cheeked, and her eyes were red with weeping.
On seeing her, Madame Alexandre could not conceal her sur-
prise. "Why, my child, you are not going out?" said she.
"I am obliged to do so, madame; and I have come to ask
you to tell any one that may call during my absence to wait
until I return."
"But where in the world are you going at this hour, unwell
as you are?"
For a moment Madame Gipsy hesitated. "Oh," she said,
"you are so kind that I am tempted to confide in you; read this
note which a messenger just now brought to me."
"What!" cried Madame Alexandre perfectly aghast; "a mes-
senger enter my house, and go up to your room!"
"Is there anything surprising in that?"
"No, oh, no! nothing surprising." And in a tone loud enough
to be heard in the closet, Madame Alexandre read the note:
"A friend of Prosper's who can neither receive you, nor pre-
sent himself at your hotel, is very anxious to speak to you. Be
in the omnibus office opposite the tower of Saint Jacques to-night
at nine precisely, and the writer will be there, and tell you what
he has to say.
"I have appointed this public place for the rendezvous so as
to relieve your mind of all fear."
"And you are going to this rendezvous?"
"Certainly, madame."
"But it is imprudent, foolish: it is a snare to entrap you."
"It makes no difference," interrupted Nina. "1 am so un-
fortunate already that I have nothing more to dread. Any
change would be a relief." And, without waiting to hear any
more, she went off. The door had scarcely closed upon her
before Fanferlot bounced from the closet.
The mild detective was white with rage, and swore violently.
"What is the meaning of this?" he cried. "Am I to stand by
and have people walking all over the Grand Archangel as if it
were a public street?" Madame Alexandre stood trembling,
and dared not speak. "Was ever such impudence heard of
before!" he continued. "A messenger comes into my house


FILE NUMBER 113
981
and goes upstairs without being seen by anybody! I will look
into this. And the idea of you, Madame Alexandre, you, a
sensible woman, being idiotic enough to try and persuade that
little viper not to keep the appointment!"
"But, my dear—"
"Had you not sense enough to know that I would follow her,
and discover what she is attempting to conceal? Come, make
haste and help me, so that she won't recognize me."
In a few minutes Fanferlot was completely disguised by a
thick beard, a wig, and a linen blouse, and looked for all the
world like one of those disreputable working men who go about
seeking for employment, and, at the same time, hoping they
may not find any.
"Have you your life-preserver?" asked the solicitous Madame
Alexandre.
"Yes, yes; make haste and have that letter to M. de Clameran
posted, and keep on the lookout." And without listening to his
wife, who called after him, "Good luck," Fanferlot darted into
the street.
Madame Gipsy had some minutes' start of him; but he ran
up the street he knew she must have taken, and overtook her
on the Pont-au-Change. She was walking with the uncertain
manner of a person who, impatient to be at a rendezvous, has
started too soon, and is obliged to occupy the intervening time.
First she would walk slowly, then quicken her steps, and pro-
ceed very rapidly. She strolled up and down the Place du
Chatelet several times, read the theatre-bills, and finally seated
herself on a bench. One minute before a quarter to nine she
entered the omnibus office and sat down.
A moment afterward Fanferlot entered; but, as he feared
that Madame Gipsy might recognize him in spite of his beard,
he took a seat at the opposite end of the room, in a dark
corner. "Singular place for a conversation," he thought, as
he watched the young woman. "Who in the world can have
made this appointment in an omnibus office? Judging from
her evident curiosity and uneasiness, I could swear she has not
the faintest idea for whom she is waiting."
Meanwhile, the office was rapidly filling with people. Every
minute an official would shout out the destination of an omni-
bus which had just arrived, and the passengers would rush in
to obtain tickets, hoping to be able to proceed by it.
As each newcomer entered, Nina would tremble, and Fan-


982
FILE NUMBER 113
ferlot would say, "This must be him!" Finally, as the Hotel
de Ville clock was striking nine, a man entered, and, without
going to the ticket-desk, walked directly up to Nina, bowed,
and took a seat beside her. He was of medium size, rather
stout, with a crimson face, and fiery-red whiskers. His dress
was that of a well-to-do merchant, and there was nothing in his
manner or appearance to excite attention.
Fanferlot watched him eagerly. "Well, my friend," he said
to himself, "in future I shall recognize you, no matter where
we meet; and this very evening I will find out -who you are."
Despite his intent listening, Fanferlot could not hear a word
spoken by either the stranger or Nina. All he could do was
to judge what the subject of their conversation might be by
their gestures.
When the stout man bowed and spoke to her, Madame Gipsy
looked so surprised that it was evident she had never seen him
before. When he sat down by her, and said a few words, she
started up with a frightened air, as if seeking to escape. A
single word and look made her resume her seat. Then, as the
stout man went on talking, Nina's attitude betrayed a certain
apprehension. She evidently refused to do something required
of her; then suddenly she seemed to consent, when a good
reason was given for her doing so. At one moment she appeared
ready to weep, and the next her pretty face was illumined by
a bright smile. Finally she shook hands with her companion,
as if she were confirming a promise.
"What can all this mean?" said Fanferlot to himself, as he
sat in his dark corner, biting his nails. "What an idiot I am
to have stationed myself so far off!" He was thinking how
he could manage to approach nearer without arousing their sus-
picions, when the stout man rose, offered his arm to Madame
Gipsy, who accepted it without hesitation, and they walked
together toward the door.
They were so engrossed with each other, that Fanferlot
thought he could, without risk, follow them closely; and it
was well he did, for the crowd was dense outside, and he
would soon have lost sight of them. Reaching the door, he
saw the stout man and Nina cross the pavement, hail a cab,
and enter it
.
"Very good," muttered Fanferlot, "I've got them now. There
is no need to hurry."
While the driver was gathering up his reins, Fanferlot pre-


FILE NUMBER 113
983
pared himself; and, when the cab started, he set off at a brisk
trot, determined upon following it to the end of the earth.
The cab proceeded along the Boulevard Sebastopol. It went
pretty fast; but it was not for nothing that Fanferlot had been
dubbed the Squirrel. With his elbows glued to his sides, and
economizing his wind, he ran on. By the time he had reached
the Boulevard St. Denis, he began to get winded, and stiff from
the pain in his side. The cabman abruptly turned into the
Rue Faubourg St. Martin.
But Fanferlot, who, at eight years of age, had played about
the streets of Paris, was not to be baffled; he was a man of
resources. He seized hold of the springs of the cab, raised
himself up by the strength of his wrists, and hung on, with
his legs resting on the axletree of the hind wheels. He was
not particularly comfortable, but then he no longer ran the risk
of being distanced. "Now," he chuckled, behind his false beard,
"you may drive as fast as you please, cabby."
The man whipped up his horses, and drove furiously along
the hilly street of the Faubourg St. Martin. Finally the cab
stopped in front of a wine-shop, and the driver jumped down
from his seat, and went in.
The detective also left his uncomfortable post, and crouching
in a doorway waited for Nina and her companion to alight,
with the intention of following closely upon their heels. Five
minutes passed, and still there were no signs of them. "What
can they be doing all this time?" grumbled the detective. With
great precautions he approached the cab and peeped in. Oh,
cruel deception! it was empty!
Fanferlot felt as if some one had thrown a bucket of ice-
water over him; he remained rooted to the spot with his mouth
open, the picture of blank bewilderment. He soon recovered his
wits sufficiently to burst forth into a volley of oaths, loud enough
to rattle all the window-panes in the neighborhood. "Tricked!"
he cried, "fooled! Ah! but won't I make them pay for this!"
In a moment his quick mind had run over the gamut of pos-
sibilities, probable and improbable. "Evidently," he muttered,
"this fellow and Nina entered by one door and got out by the
other; the trick is simple enough. If they resorted to it, 'tis
because they feared being followed. If they feared being fol-
lowed, they have uneasy consciences, therefore—" He suddenly
interrupted his monologue as the idea struck him that he had
better endeavor to find out something from the driver.


984
FILE NUMBER 113
Unfortunately, the driver was in a very surly mood, and not
only refused to answer, but shook his whip in so threatening a
manner that Fanferlot deemed it prudent to beat a retreat. "Oh,
hang it!" he muttered, "perhaps the driver is mixed up in the
affair also!"
But what could he do now at this time of night? He could
not imagine. He walked dejectedly back to the quay, and it
was half-past eleven when he reached his own door. "Has the
little fool returned?" he inquired of Madame Alexandre the
instant she let him in.
"No; but here are two large bundles which have come for her."
Fanferlot hastily opened them. They contained three cotton
dresses, some heavy shoes, and some linen caps. "Well," said
the detective in a vexed tone, "now she is going to disguise
herself. Upon my word, I am getting puzzled! What can she
be up to?"
When Fanferlot was sulkily walking down the Faubourg St.
Martin he had fully made up his mind that he would not tell
his wife of his discomfiture. But once at home, confronted
with a new fact of a nature to negative all his conjectures, his
vanity disappeared. He confessed everything—his hopes so
nearly realized, his strange mischance, and his suspicions. They
talked the matter over and finally decided that they would not
go to bed until Madame Gipsy, from whom Madame Alexandre
was determined to obtain an explanation of what had happened,
returned. At one o'clock the worthy couple were about giving
over all hope of her reappearance when they heard the bell ring.
Fanferlot instantly slipped into the closet, and Madame Alex-
andre remained in the office to receive Nina. "Here you are
at last, my dear child!" she cried. "Oh, I have been so uneasy,
so afraid lest some misfortune had happened!"
"Thanks for your kind interest, madame. Has a bundle been
sent here for me?"
Poor Nina's appearance had strikingly changed; she was still
sad, but no longer dejected as she had been. To her prostra-
tion of the last few days had succeeded a firm and generous
resolution, which was betrayed in her sparkling eyes and reso-
lute step.
"Yes, two bundles came for you; here they are. I suppose
you saw M. Bertomy's friend?"
"Yes, madame, and his advice has so changed my plans that,
I regret to say, I must leave you to-morrow."


FILE NUMBER 113
985
"Going away to-morrow! then something must have hap-
pened."
"Oh! nothing that would interest you, madame."
After lighting her candle at the gas-burner, Madame Gipsy
said "Good night" in a very significant way, and left the room.
"And what do you think of that, Madame Alexandre?" asked
Fanferlot, as he emerged from his hiding-place.
"It is incredible! This girl writes to M. de Lagors to meet
her here, and then does not wait for him."
"She evidently mistrusts us; she knows who I am."
"Then this friend of the cashier must have told her."
"Nobody knows who told her. I begin to think that I have
to do with some very knowing thieves. They guess I am on
their track, and are trying to escape me. I should not be at
all surprised if this little rogue has the money herself, and
Intends to run off with it to-morrow."
"That is not my opinion; but listen to me, you had better
take my advice, and consult M. Lecoq."
Fanferlot meditated awhile, then exclaimed: "Very well; I
will see him, just for your satisfaction; because I know that
if I have not discovered anything, neither will he. But if he
takes upon himself to be domineering, it won't do; for only
let him show his insolence to me, and I will let him know
his place!"
Notwithstanding this brave speech, the detective passed an
uneasy night, and at six o'clock the next morning he was up—
it was necessary to rise very early if one wished to catch
M. Lecoq at home—and, refreshed by a cup of strong coffee,
he directed his c: jps toward the dwelling of the famous detective.
Fanferlot the Squirrel was certainly not afraid of his chief,
as he called him, for he started off with his nose in the air
and his hat cocked on one side. But by the time he reached
the Rue Montmartre, where M. Lecoq lived, his courage had
vanished; he pulled his hat over his eyes, and hung his head,
as if looking for relief among the paving-stones. He slowly
ascended the stairs, pausing several times, and looking around
as if he would like to fly. Finally he reached the third floor,
and stood before a door decorated with the arms of the famous
detective—a cock, the symbol of vigilance—and his heart failed
Jiim so that he had scarcely the courage to ring the bell.
The door was opened by Janouille, M. Lecoq's old servant,
who had very much the manner and appearance of a grenadier.
4—Vol. 3


986
FILE NUMBER 113
She was as faithful to her master as a watchdog, and always
stood ready to attack any one who did not treat him with the
august respect which she considered his due. "Well, M. Fan-
ferlot," she said, "you come at a right time for once in your
life. The chief is waiting to see you."
Upon this announcement Fanferlot was seized with a violent
desire to retreat. By what chance could Lecoq be waiting for
him? While he thus hesitated, Janouille seized him by the arm
and pulled him in, saying: "Do you want to take root there?
Come along, the master is busy at work in his study."
Seated at a desk in the middle of a large room, half library
and half theatrical dressing-room, furnished in a curious style,
was the same individual with gold spectacles who had said to
Prosper at the Prefecture, "Have courage." This was M. Lecoq
in his official character.
Fanferlot on his entrance advanced respectfully, bowing till
his backbone was a perfect curve. M. Lecoq laid down his pen,
and, looking sharply at him, said: "Ah, so here you are, young
man. Well, it seems that you haven't made much progress in
Bertomy's case."
"What," murmured Fanferlot, "you know—"
"I know that you have muddled everything until you can't
see your way out; so that you are ready to give in."
"But, M. Lecoq, it was not I—"
M. Lecoq rose, and walked up and down the room; suddenly
he confronted Fanferlot, and said in a tone of scornful irony:
"What would you think, Master Squirrel, of a man who abuses
the confidence of those who employ him, who reveals just
enough to lead the prosecution on the wrong scent, who sac-
rifices to his own foolish vanity the cause of justice and the
liberty of an unfortunate prisoner?"
Fanferlot started back with a scared look. "I should say,"
he stammered, "I should say—"
"You would say this man ought to be punished, and dis-
missed from his employment; and you are right. The less a
profession is honored, the. more honorable should those be
who belong to it. And yet you have been false to yours. Ah!
Master Squirrel, we are ambitious, and we try to make the
police service forward our own views! We let justice go
astray, and we go on a different tack. One must be a more
cunning bloodhound than you are, my friend, to be able to hunt
without a huntsman. You are too self-reliant by half."


FILE NUMBER 113
987
"But, my chief, I swear—"
"Silence! Do you pretend to say that you did your duty,
and told all you knew to the investigating magistrate? While
others were giving information against the cashier, you were
getting up evidence against the banker. You watch his move-
ments: you become intimate with his valet."
Was M. Lecoq really angry, or pretending to be so? Fan-
ferlot, who knew him well, was puzzled as to whether all this
indignation was real.
"Still, if you were only skilful," continued M. Lecoq, "it
would be another matter; but no: you wish to be master, and
you are not even fit to be a journeyman."
"You are right, my chief," said Fanferlot piteously, for he
saw that it was useless for him to deny anything. "But how
could I go about an affair like this, where there was not even
a trace, a sign of any kind to start from?"
M. Lecoq shrugged his shoulders. "You are an ass!" ex-
claimed he. "Why, don't you know that on the very day you
were sent for with the commissary to verify the fact of the
robbery, you held—I do not say certainly, but very probably
held—in your great stupid hands the means of knowing which
key had been used when the money was stolen?"
"How is that?"
"You want to know, do you? I will tell you. Do you re-
member the scratch you discovered on the safe? You were so
struck by it that you could not refrain from calling out directly
you saw it. You carefully examined it, and were convinced
that it was a fresh scratch, only a few hours old. You thought,
and rightly too, that this scratch was made at the time of the
theft. Now, with what was it made? Evidently with a key.
That being the case, you should have asked for the keys both
of the banker and the cashier. One of them would have prob-
ably had some particles of the hard green paint sticking to it."
Fanferlot listened with open mouth to this explanation. At
the last words, he violently slapped his forehead with his hand
and cried out: "Idiot! idiot!"
"You have correctly named yourself," said M. Lecoq. "Idiot!
This proof stares you right in the face, and you don't see it!
This scratch is the only clue there is to follow, and you must
like a fool neglect it. If I find the guilty party, it will be by
means of this scratch; and I am determined that I will find
him."


988
FILE NUMBER 113
At a distance the Squirrel very bravely abuses and defies
M. Lecoq, but in his presence he yields to the influence which
this extraordinary man exercises upon all who approach him.
This exact information, these minute details just given him,
so upset his mind that he could not imagine where and how
M. Lecoq had obtained them. Finally he humbly said: "You
have then been occupying yourself with this case, my chief?"
"Probably I have; but I am not infallible, and may have over-
looked some important evidence. Take a seat, and tell me all
you know."
M. Lecoq was not the man to be hoodwinked, so Fanferlot
told the exact truth, a rare thing for him to do. However, as
he reached the end of his statement, a feeling of mortified vanity
prevented his telling how he had been fooled by Nina and the
stout man. Unfortunately for poor Fanferlot, M. Lecoq was
always fully informed on every subject in which he interested
himself. "It seems to me, Master Squirrel," said he, "that you
have forgotten something. How far did you follow the empty
cab?"
Fanferlot blushed, and hung his head like a guilty schoolboy.
"Oh, my chief!" he cried, "and you know all about that too!
How could you have—" But a sudden idea flashed across his
mind, he stopped short, bounded off his chair, and exclaimed:
"Oh! I know now: you were the stout gentleman with the red
whiskers."
His amazement gave so singular an expression to his face
that M. Lecoq could not restrain a smile. "Then it was you!"
continued the bewildered detective; "you were the stout gen-
tleman at whom I stared, so as to impress his appearance upon
my mind, and I never recognized you! You would make a
superb actor, my chief, if you would go on the stage; but I was
disguised too—very well disguised."
"Very poorly disguised: it is only just to you that I should
let you know what a failure it was, Fanferlot. Do you think
that a huge beard and a blouse are a sufficient transformation?
The eye is the thing to be changed—the eye! The art lies in
being able to change the eye. That is the secret." This theory
of disguise explained why the lynx-eyed Lecoq never appeared
at the Prefecture of Police without his gold spectacles.
"Then, my chief," said Fanferlot, clinging to his idea, "you
have been more successful than Madame Alexandre; you have
made the little girl confess? You know why she leaves the


FILE NUMBER 113 989
Grand Archangel, why she does not wait for M. de Lagors,
and why she has bought herself some cotton dresses?"
"She is following my advice."
"That being the case," said the detective dejectedly, "there
is nothing left for me to do but to acknowledge myself an ass."
"No, Squirrel," said M. Lecoq, kindly. "You are not an ass.
You merely did wrong in undertaking a task beyond your
capacity. Have you progressed one step since you started in
this affair? No. That shows that, although you are incom-
parable as a lieutenant, you do not possess the qualities of a
general. I am going to present you with an aphorism; remem-
ber it, and let it be your guide in the future: A man can shine
in the second rank who would be totally eclipsed in the first."
Never had Fanferlot seen his chief so talkative and good-
natured. Finding his deceit discovered, he had expected to be
overwhelmed with a storm of anger; whereas he had escaped
with a little shower that had cooled his brain. Lecoq's anger
disappeared like one of those heavy clouds which threaten in
the horizon for a moment, and then are suddenly swept away
by a gust of wind.
But this unexpected affability made Fanferlot feel uneasy.
He was afraid that something might be concealed beneath it.
"Do you know who the thief is, my chief?" he inquired.
"I know no more than you do, Fanferlot; and you seem to
have made up your mind, whereas I am still undecided. You
declare the cashier to be innocent, and the banker guilty. I
don't know whether you are right or wrong. I follow after
you, and have got no further than the preliminaries of my in-
vestigation. I am certain of but one thing, and that is, the
scratch on the safe-door. That scratch is my starting-point."
As he spoke, M. Lecoq took from his desk an immense sheet
of paper which he unrolled. On this paper was photographed
the door of M. Fauvel's safe. Every detail was rendered per-
fectly. There were the five movable buttons with the engraved
letters, and the narrow, projecting brass lock. The scratch
was indicated with great exactness.
"Now," said M. Lecoq, "here is our scratch. It runs from
top to bottom, starting diagonally, from the keyhole, and pro-
ceeding from left to right; that is to say, it terminates on the
side next to the private staircase leading to the banker's apart-
ments. Although very deep at the keyhole, it ends in a scarcely
perceptible mark."


990
FILE NUMBER 113
"Yes, my chief, I see all that."
"Naturally you thought that this scratch was made by the
person who took the money. Let us see if you were right. I
have here a little iron box, painted green like M. Fauvel's safe;
here it is. Take a key, and try to scratch it."
"The deuce take it!" said Fanferlot after several attempts,
"this paint is awfully hard to move!"
"Very hard, my friend, and yet that on the safe is harder
still, and more solid. So you see the scratch you discovered
could not have been made by the trembling hand of a thief
letting the key slip."
"Sapristi!" exclaimed Fanferlot amazed; "I never should have
thought of that. It certainly required great force to make the
deep scratch on the safe."
"Yes, but how was that force applied? I have been racking
my brain for three days, and it was only yesterday that I came
to a conclusion. Let us examine if my conjectures present
enough chances of probability to establish a starting-point."
M. Lecoq put the photograph aside, and, walking to the door
communicating with his bedroom, took the key from the lock,
and, holding it in his hands, said: "Come here, Fanferlot, and
stand by my side, there; very well. Now suppose that I want
to open this door, and that you don't wish me to open it; when
you see me about to insert the key, what would be your first
impulse?"
"To put my hands on your arm, and draw it toward me so
as to prevent your introducing the key."
"Precisely so. Now let us try it; go on." Fanferlot obeyed;
and the key held by M. Lecoq, pulled aside from the lock,
slipped along the door, and traced upon it, from above to below
a diagonal scratch, the exact reproduction of the one in the
photograph.
"Oh, oh, oh!" exclaimed Fanferlot in three different tones
of admiration, as he stood gazing in a reverie at the door.
"Do you begin to understand?" asked M. Lecoq.
"Understand, my chief? Why, a child could understand it
now. Ah, what a man you are! I see the scene as if I had
been there. Two persons were present at the robbery; one
wished to take the money, the other wished to prevent its being
taken. That is clear, that is certain."
Accustomed to triumphs of this sort, M. Lecoq was much
amused at Fanferlot's enthusiasm. "There you go off, half-


FILE NUMBER 113
991
primed again," he said good-humoredly; "you regard as certain
proof a circumstance which may be accidental, and at the most
only probable."
"No, my chief; no! a man like you could not be mistaken;
doubt is no longer possible."
"That being the case, what deductions would you draw from
our discovery?"
"In the first place, it proves that I am correct in thinking the
cashier innocent."
"How so?"
"Because, being at perfect liberty to open the safe whenever
he wished to do so, it is not likely that he would have had a
witness present when he intended to commit the. theft."
"Well reasoned, Fanferlot. But on this supposition the
banker would be equally innocent; reflect a little."
Fanferlot reflected, and all his confidence vanished. "You
are right," he said in a despairing tone. "What can be done
now?"
"Look for the third rogue, or rather the real rogue, the one
who opened the safe and stole the notes, and who is still at
large, while others are suspected."
"Impossible, my chief, impossible! Don't you know that M.
Fauvel and his cashier had keys, and they only? And they
always kept these keys in their possession."
"On the evening of the robbery the banker left his key in his
escritoire."
"Yes; but the key alone was not sufficient to open the safe;
It was necessary that the word also should be known."
M. Lecoq shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "What was
the word?" he asked.
"Gipsy."
"Which is the name of the cashier's mistress. Now keep
your eyes open. The day you find a man sufficiently intimate
with Prosper to be aware of all the circumstances connected
with this name, and who is at the same time on such a footing
with the Fauvel family as would give him the privilege of
entering M. Fauvel's chamber, then, and not until then, will
you discover the guilty party. On that day the problem will
be solved."
Self-sufficient and vain, like all famous men, M. Lecoq had
never had a pupil, and never wished to have one. He worked
alone, because he hated assistants, wishing to share neither the


992
FILE NUMBER 113
pleasures of success nor the pain of defeat. Thus Fanferlot,
who knew his chief's character, was astonished to hear him
giving advice who heretofore had only given orders. He was
so puzzled that, in spite of his preoccupation, he could not help
betraying his surprise. "My chief," he ventured to say, "you
6eem to take a great interest in this affair, you have so deeply
studied it."
M. Lecoq started nervously, and replied, frowning: "You are
too curious, Master Squirrel; be careful that you do not go too
far. Do you understand?"
Fanferlot began to apologize.
"That will do," interrupted M. Lecoq. "If I choose to lend
you a helping hand, it is because it suits my fancy to do so. It
pleases me to be the head, and to let you be the hand. Unas-
sisted, with your preconceived ideas, you never would have
found the culprit; if we two together don't find him, my name
is not Lecoq."
"We shall certainly succeed, as you interest yourself in the
case."
"Yes, I am interested in it, and during the last four days I
have discovered many important facts. But listen to me. I
have reasons for not appearing in this affair. No matter what
happens, I forbid you mentioning my name. If we succeed, all
the success must be attributed to you. And, above all, don't
try to find out what I choose to keep from you. Be satisfied
with what explanations I give you. Now, be careful."
These conditions seemed to suit Fanferlot perfectly. "I will
obey your instructions and be discreet," he replied.
"I shall rely upon you," continued M. Lecoq. "Now, to
begin, you must carry this photograph to the investigating
magistrate. I know M. Patrigent is much perplexed about the
case. Explain to him as if it were your own discovery what
I have just shown you; repeat for his benefit the experiment
we have performed, and I am convinced that this evidence will
determine him to release the cashier. Prosper must be at liberty
before I can commence my operations."
"Of course, my chief; but must I let him know that I suspect
any one besides the banker or cashier?"
"Certainly. The authorities must not be kept in ignorance of
your intention of following up this affair. M. Patrigent will tell
you to watch Prosper; you will reply that you will not lose sight
of him. I myself will answer for his being in safe keeping."


FILE NUMBER 113
993
"Suppose he asks me about Nina Gipsy?"
M. Lecoq hesitated for a moment. "Tell him," he finally
said, "that you persuaded her, in the interest of Prosper, to live
in a house where she can watch some one whom you suspect."
Fanferlot rolled up the photograph and joyously seized hold
of his hat, intending to depart,-when M. Lecoq checked him by
waving his hand, and said: "I have not finished yet. Do you
know how to drive a carriage and manage horses?"
"How can you ask such a question as this, my chief, of a
man who used to be a rider in the Bouthor Circus?"
"Very good. As soon as the magistrate dismisses you, re-
turn home immediately, obtain for yourself a wig and the com-
plete dress of a valet; and, when you are ready, take this
letter to the agency for servants at the corner of the Passage
Delorme."
"But, my chief—"
"There must be no but, my friend; the agent will send you
to M. de Clameran, who is wanting a valet, his man having left
him yesterday."
"Excuse me, if I venture to suggest that I think you are
laboring under a wrong impression. This De Clameran is not
the cashier's friend."
"Why do you always interrupt me?" said M. Lecoq imperi-
ously. "Do what I tell you, and don't disturb your mind about
the rest. I know that De Clameran is not a friend of Prosper's;
but he is the friend and protector of Raoul de Lagors. Why
so? Whence the intimacy of these two men of such different
ages? That is what I must find out. I must also find out who
this ironmaster is who spends all his time in Paris, and never
goes to look after his forges. An individual who takes it into
his head to live at the Hotel du Louvre, in the midst of a con-
stantly changing crowd, is a fellow difficult to watch. Through
you I will keep an eye upon him. He has a carriage, which
you will have to drive; you will soon be able to give me
an account of his manner of life, and of the sort of people
with whom he associates."
"You shall be obeyed, my chief."
"Another thing. M. de Clameran is irritable and suspicious.
You will be presented to him under the name of Joseph Dubois.
He will ask for certificates of your good character. Here are
three, which state that you have lived with the Marquis de
Sairmeuse and the Count de Commarin, and that you have just


994
FILE NUMBER 113
left the Baron de Wortschen, who went to Germany the other
day. Now keep your eyes open; be careful of your get-up and
manners. Be polite, but not excessively so. And, above all
things, don't be too honest: it might arouse suspicion."
"I understand, my chief. Where shall I report to you?"
"I will see you daily. Until I tell you differently, don't put
foot in this house; you might be followed. If anything impor-
tant should happen, send a telegram to your wife, and she will
inform me. Go, and be prudent."
The door closed on Fanferlot as M. Lecoq passed into his
bedroom. In the twinkling of an eye the latter divested himself
of the appearance of chief detective. He took off his stiff
cravat and gold spectacles and removed the close wig from his
thick black hair. The official Lecoq had disappeared, leaving
in his place the genuine Lecoq whom nobody knew—a good-
looking young man, with a bold, determined manner, and bril-
liant, piercing eyes. But he only remained himself for an in-
stant. Seated before a dressing-table covered with more cos-
metics, paints, perfumes, false hair, and other shams than are
to be found on the toilet-tables of our modern belles, he began
to undo the work of nature and to make himself a new face.
He worked slowly, handling his brushes with great care. But
in an hour he had accomplished one of his daily masterpieces.
When he had finished, he was no longer Lecoq: he was the
stout gentleman with red whiskers whom Fanferlot had failed
to recognize.
"Well," he said, casting a last look in the mirror, "I have
forgotten nothing: I have left nothing to chance. All my plans
are fixed; and I shall make some progress to-day, provided the
Squirrel does not waste time."
But Fanferlot was too happy to waste even a minute. He
did not run, he flew, toward the Palais de Justice. At last he
was able to convince some one that he, Fanferlot, was a man
of wonderful perspicacity. As to acknowledging that he was
about to obtain a triumph with the ideas of another man, he
never thought of such a thing. It is generally in perfect good
faith that the jackdaw struts about in the peacock's feathers.
Fanferlot's hopes were not deceived. If the magistrate was
not absolutely convinced, he admired the ingenuity and shrewd-
ness of the whole proceeding. "This decides me," he said, as
he dismissed Fanferlot. "I will draw up a favorable report
to-day; and it is highly probable that the accused will be


FILE NUMBER 113
995
released to-morrow." He began at once to write out one of
those terrible decisions of "Not proven," which restores liberty,
but not honor, to the accused man; which says that he is not
guilty, but does not say that he is innocent.
"Whereas sufficient proofs are wanting against the accused,
Prosper Bertomy, in pursuance of Article 128 of the Criminal
Code, we hereby declare that no grounds at present exist for
prosecuting the aforesaid prisoner; and we order that he be
released from the prison where he is confined, and set at
liberty by the jailer," etc.
"Well," said he to the clerk, "here we have another of those
crimes which justice can not clear up. The mystery remains to
be solved. There is another file to be stowed away among the
police records." And with his own hand he wrote on the cover
of the bundle of papers relating to Prosper's case its number
of rotation: File Number 113.
PROSPER had been languishing in his cell for nine days,
*' when one Thursday morning the jailer came to apprise
him of the magistrate's decision. He was conducted before the
officer who had searched him when he was arrested: and his
watch, penknife, and several small articles of jewelry were re-
stored to him; then he was told to sign a large sheet of paper,
which he did.
He was next led across a dark passage, and almost pushed
through a door, which was abruptly shut upon him. He found
himself on the quay: he was alone; he was free.
Free! Justice had confessed her inability to convict him of
the crime of which he was accused. Free! He could walk
about, he could breathe the fresh air; but every door would be
closed against him. Only acquittal after due trial would re-
store him to his former position among men. A decision of
"Not proven" had left him exposed to continual suspicion.
The torments inflicted by public opinion are more fearful than
those endured in a prison cell. At the moment of his restora-


996 FILE NUMBER 113
tion to liberty, Prosper suffered so cruelly from the horror of
his situation that he could not repress a cry of rage and despair.
"I am innocent! God knows I am innocent!" he cried out.
But of what use was his anger? Two strangers, who were
passing, stopped to look at him, and said pityingly: "The poor
fellow is crazy."
The Seine was at his feet. A thought of suicide crossed his
mind. "No," he said, "no! I have not even the right to kill
myself. No: I will not die until I have proved my innocence!"
Often, day and night, had Prosper repeated these words, as
he walked his cell. With a heart filled with a bitter, deter-
mined 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 estab-
lish his own innocence without producing the guilty individual;
how was he to find the thief and hand him over to the law?
Despondent, but not discouraged, Prosper turned in the direc-
tion 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 tomb.
He walked slowly 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. Still, if he could count
on only one true friend! Yes, only 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 over-
whelmed by the sense of his wretched, lonely condition, Pros-
per thought of Nina Gipsy. He had never loved the poor girl:
indeed, at times he almost hated her; but now he felt a longing
to see her, because he knew that she loved him, and that noth-
ing would make her think him guilty; because, too, woman
remains true and firm in her belief, and is always faithful in
the hour of adversity, although she sometimes fails in prosperity.
On reaching his house in the Rue Chaptal, Prosper hesitated


FILE NUMBER 113
997
at the moment he was about to cross the threshold. He suf-
fered from the timidity which an honest man always feels when
he knows he is regarded with suspicion. He dreaded meeting
any one whom he knew; still he could not remain in the street,
so he entered. When the concierge saw him, he uttered an
exclamation of glad surprise, and said: "Ah, here you are at
last, sir. I told every one 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 V"
The congratulations of this ignorant man were sincere, and
came from pure kindness of heart; but they impressed .Prosper
painfully and he cut them short by abruptly exclaiming: "Ma-
dame, of course, has left; can you tell me where she has ~one?"
"Dear me, no, I can not. The day of your arrest, she sent
for a cab and left with her trunks, and no one has seen or heard
of her since."
This was another blow to the unhappy cashier. "And where
are my servants?"
"Gone, sir. Your father paid them their wages and dis-
charged them."
"I suppose, then, you have my key?"
"No, sir; 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 returned. Of course you know who he
is—a stout gentleman with red whiskers."
Prosper was astounded. What could be the meaning of one
of his father's friends occupying his rooms? He did not, how-
ever, betray his surprise, but quietly said: "Yes, I know who
it is."
He quickly ran up the stairs, and knocked at his door, which
was at once opened by his father's friend. He had been ac-
curately described by the concierge. A stout man, with a red
face, full lips, sharp eyes, and of rather coarse manners, stood
bowing to Prosper, who had never seen him before. "Delighted
to make your acquaintance, sir," said he.
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 place.
"I must say, sir," began Prosper.
"That you are surprised to find me here? So I suppose.
Your father intended introducing me to you; but he was com-


998
FILE NUMBER 113
pelled to return to Beaucaire this morning; and let me add
that he departed thoroughly convinced, as I myself am, that
you never took a sou 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 stout gentleman,
and said: "My father tells me, sir, that you are his best friend;
he advises me to have absolute confidence in you, and to follow
your advice."
"Exactly. This morning your father said to me: 'Verduret'
—that is my name—'Verduret, my son is in great trouble, and
must be helped out of it.' I replied: 'I am both ready and will-
ing,' and here I am to assist you. Now the ice is broken, is it
not? Then let us go to work at once. What do you intend
doing?"
This question revived Prosper's slumbering rage. His eyes
flashed. "What do I intend doing?" said he angrily. "What
should I do but seek the villain who has ruined me?"
"So I supposed; but have you any means 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."
"WeH 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 first
place, you will sell this furniture, and disappear from the
neighborhood."
"Disappear!" cried Prosper indignantly; "disappear! Why,
sir! do you not see that such a step would be a confession of
guilt, would authorize the world to say that I am hiding so
as to enjoy undisturbed the stolen three hundred and fifty
thousand francs?"
"Well, what then?" said the man with the red whiskers; "did
you not say just now that the sacrifice of your life is made?
The expert swimmer thrown into the river, after being robbed,
is careful not to rise to the surface immediately: on the con-
trary, he plunges beneath, and remains there as long as his
breath holds out. He comes up again at a great distance off.


FILE NUMBER 113
999
and lands out of sight; then, when he is supposed to be dead,
he suddenly reappears and has- his revenge. You have an
enemy? Some petty imprudence will betray him. But, while
he sees you standing by on the watch, he will be on his guard."
It was with a sort of amazed submission that Prosper lis-
tened to this man, who, though a friend of his father, was an
utter stranger to himself. He submitted unconsciously to the
ascendency of a nature so much more energetic and forcible
than his own. In his helpless condition he was grateful for
friendly assistance, and said: "I will follow your advice, sir."
"I was sure you would, my dear fellow. Let us reflect upon
the course you ougl : to pursue. And remember that you will
need every franc of '.he proceeds of the sale. Have you any
ready money? no, but you must have some. Knowing that you
would need this at once, I have already spoken to an uphol-
sterer; and he will give you twelve thousand francs for every-
thing minus the pictures."
The cashier could not refrain from shrugging his shoulders,
which M. Verduret observed. "Well," said he, "it is rather
hard, I admit, but it is a necessity. Now listen: you are the
invalid, and I am the doctor charged to cure you; if I cut to
the quick, you will have to endure it. It is the only way to
save you."
"Cut away then," answered Prosper.
"Well, we will make haste, for time presses. You have a
friend, M. de Lagors?"
"Raoul? Yes, he is an intimate friend of mine."
"Now tell me, who is this fellow?"
The term "fellow" seemed to offend Prosper. "M. de La-
gors," he said haughtily, "is M. Fauvel's nephew; he is a
wealthy young man, handsome, intelligent, cultivated, and the
best friend I have."
"Hum!" said M. Verduret, "I shall be delighted to make the
acquaintance of one adorned by so many charming qualities.
I must let you know that I wrote him a note in your name ask-
ing him to come here, and he sent word that he would come."
"What! do you suppose—"
"Oh, I suppose nothing! Only I must see this young man.
Also I have arranged and will submit to you a little plan of
conversation—" A ring at the outer door interrupted M. Ver-
duret. "The deuce!" exclaimed he; "adieu to my plan; here
he is! Where can I hide so as to both hear and see?"


1000
FILE NUMBER 113
"There, in my bedroom; leave the door open and the curtain
down."
A second ring was heard. "Now remember, Prosper," said
M. Verduret in a warning tone, "not one word to this man
about your plans, or about me. Pretend to be discouraged,
helpless, and undecided what to do." And he disappeared be-
hind the curtain as Prosper ran to open the door.
Prosper's portrait of M. de Lagors was no exaggerated one.
Such an open and handsome countenance and manly figure
could belong only to a noble character. Although Raoul said
that he was twenty-four, he appeared to be not more than
twenty. He had a fine figure, well knit and supple; an abun-
dance of light chestnut-colored hair, curled over his intelligent-
looking forehead, and his large blue eyes, which beamed with
candor. His first impulse was to throw himself into Prosper's
arms. "My poor, dear friend!" he said, "my poor Prosper!"
But beneath these affectionate demonstrations there was a
certain constraint, which, if it escaped the perception of the
cashier, was noticed by M. Verduret. "Your letter, my dear
Prosper," said Raoul, "made me almost ill, I was so frightened by
it. I asked myself if you could have lost your mind. Then I put
aside everything, to hasten to your assistance; and here I am."
Prosper did not seem to hear him; his thoughts were occu-
pied with the letter which he had not written. What were its
contents? Who was this stranger whose assistance he had
accepted?
"You must not feel discouraged," continued M. de Lagors;
"you are young enough to commence life anew. Your friends
are still left to you. I have come to say to you: 'Rely upon
me; I am rich, half of my fortune is at your disposal."
This generous offer, made at a moment like this with such
frank simplicity, deeply touched Prosper. "Thanks, Raoul," he
said with emotion, "thank you! But unfortunately all the
money in the world would be of no use now."
"Why so? What, then, are you going to do? Do you pro-
pose to remain in Paris?"
"I know not, Raoul. I have formed no plans yet. My mind
is too confused for me to think."
"I will tell you what to do," resumed Raoul quickly; "you
must start afresh; until this mysterious robbery is explained
you must keep away from Paris. Excuse my frankness, but it
will never do for you to remain here."


FILE NUMBER 113
1001
"And suppose it never should be explained?"
"Only the more reason for your remaining in oblivion. I
have been talking about you to De Clameran. 'If I were in
Prosper's place,' he said, 'I would turn everything into money,
and embark for America; there I would make a fortune, and
return to crush with my millions those who have suspected me."
This advice offended Prosper's pride, but he interposed no
kind of objection. He was recalling to mind what his unknown
visitor had said to him. "I will think it over," he finally ob-
served. "I will see. I should like to know what M. Fauvel
says."
"My uncle? I suppose you know that I have declined the
offer he made me to enter his banking-house, and we have
almost quarreled. 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 seems as though he had just recovered from
some serious illness."
"And Madame Fauvel, and—" Prosper hesitated—"and Made-
moiselle 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 hand-
some, icy cousin, she can not bring herself down to common
matters, because she is entirely absorbed in preparing for the
fancy ball to be given the day after to-morrow by MM. Jan-
didier. She has discovered, so one of her friends told me, a
wonderful dressmaker, a stranger who has suddenly appeared
from no one knows where, and who is making for her a cos-
tume of one of Catherine de Medicis's maids of honor. I hear
it is to be a marvel of beauty."
Excessive suffering brings with it a kind of dull insensibility
and stupor; but this last remark of M. de Lagors's touched
Prosper to the quick, and he murmured faintly: "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 shall see these ladies at the ball, and bring you
news of them. Now, take courage, and remember that, what-
ever happens, you have a friend in me."
Raoul shook Prosper by the hand and departed, leaving the


1002
FILE NUMBER 113
latter standing immovable and overcome by disappointment.
He was aroused from his gloomy reverie by hearing the red-
whiskered man say in a bantering tone: "So that is one o£
your friends?"
"Yes," said Prosper with bitterness. "Yet you heard him
offer me half of his fortune?"
M. Verduret shrugged his shoulders with an air of compassion.
"That was very stingy on his part," said he; "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."
"What reason, sir, would he have for doing this?"
"Who knows? Perhaps for the same reason that he told
you he had not set foot in his uncle's house for a month."
"But that is the truth, I am sure of it."
"Naturally," said M. Verduret with a provoking smile.
"But," continued he with a serious air, "we have devoted
enough time to this Adonis, whose measure I have taken. Now,
be good enough to change your dress, and we will go and call
on M. Fauvel."
This proposal aroused Prosper's anger. "Never!" he ex-
claimed excitedly; "no, never will I voluntarily set eyes on
that wretch!"
This resistance did not surprise M. Verduret. "I can under-
stand 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 I desire to see M. Fauvel;
it is necessary, you understand. Are you so very weak that
you can not constrain yourself for five minutes? I shall intro-
duce 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,
and put on a brave face. Hurry and make yourself trim; it
is getting late, and I am hungry. We will lunch on our way
there."
Prosper had hardly passed into his bedroom when the bell
rang again. M. Verduret opened the door. It was the con-
cierge, who handed him a bulky 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, sir?"


FILE NUMBER 113 1008
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, hoi what is this!" cried M. Verduret; then turning
toward the man he said: "Wait a moment." 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," observed M. Verduret.
Prosper at once tore open the envelope. Some bank-notes
dropped out; he counted them; there were ten. The cashier
turned very red. "What does this mean?" he asked.
"We will read the letter and find out," replied 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 as-
sured, 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 al-
ready confused brain. "Everybody wishes me to go away," he
cried; "there is evidently 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? Tell me, who dares send this
money?"
"If I knew, my dear Prosper, my task would be at an end,
for then I should know who committed the robbery. But we
will continue our researches. 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 words, he
felt hope rising in his breast.


1004 FILE NUMBER 113
"Now," said M. Verduret, "we must take advantage of this
evidence, gained by the imprudence of our enemies, without
delay. We will begin with the concierge."
He opened the door, and called out: "I say, my good man,
step here a moment."
The concierge entered, looking very much surprised at the
authority exercised over his lodger by this stranger.
"Who gave you this letter?" asked M. Verduret.
"A messenger, who said he was paid for bringing it."
"Do you know him?"
"I know him well; he is the commissionaire whose post is at
the corner of the Rue Pigalle."
"Go and bring him here."
After the concierge had gone, M. Verduret drew his diary
from his pocket and compared a page of it with the notes which
he had spread over the table. "These notes were not sent by
the thief," he said, after an attentive examination of them.
"Do you think so?"
"I am confident of it; that is, unless he is endowed with
extraordinary penetration and forethought. One thing is cer-
tain: these ten thousand francs are not part of the three hun-
dred and fifty thousand which were stolen from the safe."
"Yet," said Prosper, who could not account for this certainty
on the part of his protector, "yet—"
"There is no yet about it: I have the numbers of all the
stolen notes."
"What! When even I did not know them myself?"
"But the bank did, fortunately. When we undertake an
affair we must anticipate everything, and forget nothing. It is
a poor excuse for a man to say, 'I did not think of it,' when
he commits some oversight. I thought of the bank."
If in the beginning Prosper had felt some repugnance about
confiding in his father's friend, the feeling had now disappeared.
He understood that alone, scarcely master of himself, governed
only by the inspirations of inexperience, he would never have
had the patient perspicacity of this singular man.
Verduret continued, talking to himself, as if he had absolutely
forgotten Prosper's presence: "Then, as this missive did not
come from the thief, it can only come from the other person,
who was near the safe at the time of the robbery, but could
not prevent it, and now feels remorse. The probability of two
persons assisting at the robbery, a probability suggested by the


FILE NUMBER 113
1005
scratch, is now converted into a certainty. Ergo, I was right."
Prosper, listening attentively, tried hard to comprehend this
monologue, which he dared not interrupt.
"Let us seek," the stout man went on to say, "this second
person, whose conscience pricks him, and yet who dares not
reveal anything." Here he read the letter over several times,
scanning the sentences, and weighing every word. "Evidently
this letter was composed by a woman," he finally said. "Never
would a man doing another man a service, and sending him
money, use the word 'succor.' A man would have said loan,
money, or some other equivalent, but succor, never. No one
but a woman, ignorant of masculine susceptibilities, would have
naturally made use of this word to express the idea it represents.
As to the sentence, 'There is one heart,' and so on, it could
only have been written by a woman."
"You are mistaken, sir, I think," said Prosper; "no woman
is mixed up in this affair."
M. Verduret paid no attention to this interruption; perhaps
he did not hear it, perhaps he did not care to argue the matter.
"Now, let us see if we can discover whence the printed words
were taken to compose this letter."
He went to the window, and began to study the pasted words
with all the scrupulous attention which an antiquary would
devote to an old, half-effaced manuscript. "Small type," he
said, "very slender and clear; the paper is thin and glossy.
Consequently, these words have not been cut from a news-
paper, magazine, or even a novel. Yet I have seen type like
this—I recognize it, I am sure Didot often uses it, so does
Mame of Tours."
He suddenly stopped, his mouth open, and his eyes fixed,
appealing as though anxiously to his memory. Suddenly he
struck his forehead exultingly. "Now I have it!" he cried;
"now I have it! Why did I not see it at once? These words
have all been cut from a prayer-book. We will look, at least,
and then we shall be certain."
He moistened one of the words pasted on the paper with his
tongue, and when it was sufficiently softened, he detached it
with a pin. On the other side of this word was the Latin word,
Deus.
"Ah, ah!" he exclaimed with a little laugh of satisfaction,
"I knew it. Old Tabaret would be pleased to see this. But
what has become of the mutilated prayer-book?. Can it have


1006
FILE NUMBER 113
been burned? No, because a heavy-bound book ts not easily
burned. It has been thrown aside in some corner."
He was here interrupted by the concierge, who returned with
the commissionaire from the Rue Pigalle.
"Ah, here you are," said M. Verduret, encouragingly. Then
he showed him the envelope of the letter, and asked: "Do you
remember bringing this letter here this morning?"
"Perfectly, sir. I took particular notice of the direction; we
don't often see anything like it."
"Who told you to bring it ?—a gentleman or a lady J"
"Neither, sir, it was a commissionaire."
This reply made the concierge laugh very much, but not a
muscle of M. Verduret's face moved.
"A commissionaire? Well, do you know this colleague of
yours?"
"I never saw him before."
"What was he like?"
"He was neither tall nor short; he wore a green velvet
jacket and his badge."
"Your description is so vague that it would suit every com-
missionaire in the city; but did your colleague tell you who
sent the letter?"
"No, sir. He simply put ten sous in my hand, and said:
'Here, carry this to No. 39 Rue Chaptal; a cabman on the
boulevard handed it to me.' Ten sous! I warrant you he made
more than that by it."
This answer seemed to disconcert M. Verduret. The taking
of so many precautions to send this letter disturbed him and
upset all his plans.
"Do you think you would recognize the commissionaire
again?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, if I saw him."
"How much do you gain a day as a commissionaire?"
"I can't exactly tell; but mine is a good corner, and I am
busy going errands nearly all day. I suppose I make from
eight to ten francs."
"Very well: I will give you ten francs a day if you will walk
about the streets and look for the commissionaire who gave you
this letter. Every evening, at eight o'clock, come to the Grand
Archangel, on the Quai Saint Michel, to give me a report of
your search and receive your pay. Ask for M. Verduret. If
you find the man I will give you fifty francs. Do you agree?"


FILE NUMBER 113
1007
"I should rather think I do."
"Then don't lose a minute. Start off!"
Although ignorant of M. Verduret's plans, Prosper began to
comprehend the sense of his investigations. His fate depended
upon their success, and yet he almost forgot this fact in his
admiration of this singular man; for his energy, his bantering
coolness when he wished to discover anything, the certainty of
his deductions, the fertility of his expedients, and the rapidity
of his movements, were astonishing.
"Do you still think, sir," said Prosper when the man had left
the room, "you see a woman's hand in this affair?"
"More than ever; and a pious woman too, who has at least
two prayer-books, since she could cut up one to write to you."
"And you hope to find the mutilated book?"
"I do, thanks to the opportunity I have of making an imme-
diate search; which I will set about at once."
Saying this, he sat down, and rapidly scratched off a few
lines on a slip of paper, which he folded up, and put in his
waistcoat pocket. "Are you ready to go to M. Fauvel's?" he
then asked. "Yes? Come on, then; we have certainly earned
our lunch to-day."
HEN Raoul de Lagors spoke of M. Fauvel's extraordi-
vv nary dejection, he had been guilty of no exaggeration.
Since the fatal day when, upon his denunciation, his cashier
had been arrested, the banker, this active, energetic man of
business, had been a prey to the most gloomy melancholy, and
ceased to take any interest in the affairs of his banking-house.
He, who had always been so devoted to his family, never
came near them except at meals, when as soon as he had swal-
lowed a few mouthfuls, he would hastily leave the room. Shut
up in his study, he would deny himself to visitors. His anxious
countenance, his indifference to everybody and everything, his
constant reveries and fits of abstraction, betrayed the presence
of some fixed idea or of some hidden sorrow.


1008
FILE NUMBER 113
The day of Prosper's release, about three o'clock, M. Fauvel
was, as usual, seated in his study, with his elbows resting on
the table, and his face buried in his hands, when his valet
abruptly entered, and, with a frightened look, said:
"M. Bertomy, the former cashier, is here, sir, with one of
his relatives; he says he must see you."
At these words the banker jumped up as if he had been shot
at. "Prosper!" he cried in a voice choked by anger, "what!
does he dare—" Then remembering that he ought to control
himself before his servant, he waited a few moments, and said,
in a tone of forced calmness: "Ask the gentlemen to walk in."
If M. Verduret had counted upon witnessing a strange and
affecting scene, he was not disappointed. Nothing could be
more terrible than the attitude of these two men as they stood
confronting each other. The banker's face was almost purple
with suppressed anger, and he looked as if he were about to
be seized with a fit of apoplexy. Prosper was pale and motion-
less as a corpse. Silent and immovable, they stood glaring at
each other with mortal hatred.
M. Verduret watched these two enemies with the indifference
and coolness of a philosopher, who, in the most violent outbursts
of human passion, merely see subjects for meditation and study.
Finally, the silence becoming more and more threatening, he
decided to break it by speaking to the banker:
"I suppose you know, sir," said he, "that my young relative
has just been released from prison."
"Yes," replied M. Fauvel, making an effort to control him-
self, "yes, for want of sufficient proof."
"Exactly so, sir; and this want of proof, as stated in the
decision of 'Not proven,' ruins the prospects of my relative, and
compels him to leave here at once for America."
On hearing this statement, M. Fauvel's features relaxed as if
he had been relieved of some fearful agony. "Ah, he is going
away," he kept repeating, "he is going abroad." There was no
mistaking the insulting intonation of the words; "going away!"
M. Verduret took no notice of M. Fauvel's manner. "It
appears to me," he continued in an easy tone, "that Prosper's
determination is a wise one. I merely wished him, before leav-
ing Paris, to come and pay his respects to his former chief."
The banker smiled bitterly. "M. Bertomy might have spared
us both this painful meeting. I have nothing to say to him, and
of course he can have nothing to tell me."


FILE NUMBER 113
This was a formal dismissal; and M. Verduret, understand-
ing it thus, bowed to M. Fauvel and left the room, accompanied
by Prosper, who had not opened his lips.
They had reached the street before Prosper recovered the use
of his tongue. "I hope you are satisfied, sir," said he in a
gloomy tone. "You exacted this painful step, and I could but
acquiesce. Have I gained anything by adding this humiliation
to the others which I have had to suffer?"
"You have not, but I have," replied M. Verduret. "I could
find no way of gaining access to M. Fauvel save through you;
and now I have found out what I wanted to know. I am con-
vinced that M. Fauvel had nothing to do with the robbery."
"But you know, sir, innocence can be feigned," objected
Prosper.
"Certainly, but not to this extent. And this is not all. I
wished to find out if M. Fauvel would be accessible to certain
suspicions. I can now confidently reply 'yes.'"
Prosper and his companion had stopped to talk more at their
ease near the corner of Rue Lafitte, in the middle of a large
space which had lately been cleared by pulling down an old
house. M. Verduret seemed to be anxious, and was constantly
looking around as if he expected some one. He soon uttered
an exclamation of satisfaction. At the other end of the vacant
space he saw Cavaillon, who was bareheaded and running.
The latter was so excited that he did not even stop to shake
hands with Prosper, but darted up to M. Verduret, and said:
"They have gone, sir!"
"How long since?"
"They went about a quarter of an hour ago."
"The deuce they did! Then we have not an instant to lose."
He handed Cavaillon the note he had written some hours
before at Prosper's house.
"Here, pass this on, and then return at once to your desk;
you might be missed. It was very imprudent of you to come
out without your hat."
Cavaillon ran off as quickly as he had come. Prosper was
astounded. "What!" he exclaimed. "You know Cavaillon?"
"So it seems," answered M. Verduret with a smile. "But
we have no time to talk; come on, we must hurry!"
"Where are we going now?"
"You will soon know; let us walk fast!" And he set the
example by striding rapidly toward the Rue Lafayette. As
S—Vol. 3


1010
FILE NUMBER 113
they went along he continued talking more to himself than to
Prosper.
"Ah," said he, "it is not by putting both feet in one shoe
that one wins a race. The trace once found, we should never
rest an instant . When the savage discovers the footprints of
an enemy he follows it persistently, knowing that falling rain
or a gust of wind may efface the footprints at any moment.
It is the same with us; the most trifling incident may destroy
the traces we are following up."
M. Verduret suddenly stopped before a door bearing the
number 81. "We are going in here," he said to Prosper; "come
along."
They went upstairs, and stopped on the second floor before a
door over which was inscribed, "Modes and Confections." A
handsome bell-rope was hanging against the wall, but M. Ver-
duret did not touch it. He tapped with the ends of his fingers
in a peculiar way, and the door instantly opened, as if some
one had been watching for his signal on the other side.
A neatly dressed woman of about forty received Verduret
and Prosper, and quietly ushered them into a small dining-room
with several doors opening into it. This woman bowed respect-
fully to M. Verduret, as if he were some superior being. He
scarcely noticed her salutation, but questioned her with a look,
which asked, "Well?"
She nodded affirmatively, "Yes."
"In there?" asked M. Verduret in a low tone, pointing to
one of the doors.
"No," replied the woman in the same tone; "there, in the
little parlor."
M. Verduret opened the door of the room indicated, and
pushed Prosper forward, whispering as he did so, "Go in, and
keep your presence of mind."
But this injunction was useless. The instant he cast his
eyes round the room into which he had so unceremoniously been
pushed without any warning, Prosper exclaimed in a startled
voice: "Madeleine!"
It was indeed M. Fauvel's niece, looking more beautiful than
ever. Hers was that calm, dignified beauty which imposes ad-
miration and respect. Standing in the middle of the room, near
a table covered with silks and satins, she was arranging a skirt
of red velvet embroidered in gold; probably the dress she was
to wear as maid of honor to Catherine de Medicis. At sight


FILE NUMBER 113
1011
of Prosper, all the blood rushed to her face, and her beautiful
eyes half closed, as if she were about to faint; she clung to the
table to prevent herself from falling.
Prosper well knew that Madeleine was not one of those cold-
hearted women whom nothing could disturb, and who feel sen-
sations, but never a true sentiment. Of a tender, dreamy nature,
she betrayed in the minute details of her life the most exquisite
delicacy. But she was also proud, and incapable in any way of
violating her conscience. When duty spoke, she obeyed.
She recovered from her momentary weakness, and the soft
expression of her eyes changed to one of haughty resentment.
In an offended tone she said: "What has emboldened you, sir,
to be watching my movements? Who gave you permission to
follow me—to enter this house?"
Prosper was certainly innocent. He longed with a word to
explain what had just happened, but he was powerless to do so,
and could only remain silent.
"You promised me upon your honor, sir," continued Made-
leine, "that you would never again seek my presence. Is this
the way you keep your word?"
"I did promise, mademoiselle, but—" He stopped.
"Oh, speak!"
"So many things have happened since that terrible day that
I think I am excusable in forgetting for one hour an oath torn
from me in a moment of blind weakness. It is to chance, at
least to another will than my own, that I am indebted for the
happiness of once more finding myself near you. Alas! the
instant I saw you my heart bounded with joy. I did not think—
no, I could not think—that you would prove more pitiless than
strangers have been, that you would cast me off when I am so
miserable and heartbroken."
Had not Prosper been so agitated he could have read in
Madeleine's eyes—those beautiful eyes which had so long been
the arbiters of his destiny—the signs of a great inward struggle.
It was, however, in a firm voice that she replied: "You know
me well enough, Prosper, to be sure that no blow can strike you
without reaching me at the same time. You suffer, I suffer with
you: I pity you as a sister would pity a beloved brother."
"A sister!" said Prosper bitterly. "Yes, that was the word
you used the day you banished me from your presence. A sis-
ter! Then why during three years did you delude me with
vain hopes? Was I a brother to you the day we went to Notre


1012 FILE NUMBER 113
Dame de Fourvieres—that day when, at the foot of the altar,
we swore to love each other forever and ever, and you fast-
ened around my neck a holy relic, and said, 'Wear this always
for my sake; never part from it, and it will bring you good
fortune?"'
Madeleine attempted to interrupt him by a supplicating ges-
ture; but he did not heed it, and continued with increased bit- .
terness: "One month after that happy day—a year ago—you
gave me back my promise, told me to consider myself free from
any engagement, and never to come near you again. If I
could have discovered in what way I had offended you—but
no, you refused to explain. You drove me away, and to obey
you I let every one suppose that I had left you of my own
accord. You told me that an invincible obstacle had arisen
between us, and I believed you, fool that I was! The obstacle
was your own heart, Madeleine. I have always worn the relic;
but it has not brought me happiness or good fortune."
Pale and motionless as a statue, Madeleine listened with
bowed head and weeping eyes to these passionate reproaches.
"I told you to forget me," she murmured.
"Forget!" exclaimed Prosper excitedly, "forget! Can I for-
get? Is it in my power to stop, by an effort of will, the circula-
tion of my blood? Ah! you have never loved! To forget, as to
stop the beatings of the heart, there is but one means—death!"
This word, uttered with the fixed determination of a desperate,
reckless man, caused Madeleine to shudder.
"Miserable man!" she exclaimed.
"Yes, miserable man, and a thousand times more miserable
than you can imagine! You can never understand the tor-
tures I have suffered, when for a year past I have awoke every
morning, and said to myself, 'It is all over, she has ceased to
love meT This great sorrow stares me in the face day and
night in spite of all my efforts to dispel it. And you speak of
forgetting! I sought it in poisoned cups, but found it not.
I tried to extinguish this memory of the past, which burns
within me like a devouring flame, but in vain. When my body
succumbed, my pitiless thoughts still survived. Do you wonder,
then, that I should seek that rest which can only be obtained
by suicide?"
"I forbid you to utter that word."
"You forget, Madeleine, that you have no right to forbid me
now you love me no more."


FILE NUMBER 113
1013
With an imperious gesture, Madeleine interrupted him as
if she wished to speak, and perhaps to explain all, to exculpate
herself. But a sudden thought arrested her; she clasped her
hands despairingly, and cried: "My God! this suffering is beyond
endurance!"
Prosper seemed to misconstrue her words. "Your pity comes
too late," he said. "There is no happiness in store for one
Hke myself, who has had a glimpse of divine felicity, has had
the cup of bliss held to his lips, and then dashed to the ground.
There is nothing left to attach me to life. You have destroyed
my holiest belief. I come forth from prison disgraced by my
enemies; what is to become of me? Vainly do I question the
future; for me there is no hope of happiness. I look around me
to see nothing but abandonment, ignominy, and despair!"
"Prosper, my brother, my friend, if you only knew—"
"I know but one thing, Madeleine, which is, that you no
longer love me, and that I love you more madly than ever.
Oh, Madeleine, God only knows how I love you!"
He was silent. He hoped for an answer. None came. But
suddenly the silence was broken by a stifled sob. It was Made-
leine's maid, who, seated in a corner, was weeping bitterly.
Madeleine had forgotten her presence.
Prosper on entering the room was so amazed on finding him-
self in the presence of Madeleine, that he noticed nothing else.
With a feeling of surprise, he turned and looked at the weep-
ing woman. He was not mistaken; this neatly dressed waiting-
maid was Nina Gipsy.
Prosper was so startled that he became perfectly dumb. He
Stood there with ashy lips, and a chilly sensation creeping
through his veins. He was terrified at the position in which
he found himself. He was there, between the two women
who had ruled his fate; between Madeleine, the proud heiress
who spurned his love, and Nina Gipsy, the poor girl whose
devotion to him he had so disdainfully rejected. And she had
heard all! Poor Nina had heard the passionate avowal of her
lover, had heard him swear that he could never love any woman
but Madeleine, that if his love were not reciprocated he would
kill himself, as he had nothing else to live for.
Prosper could judge of her sufferings by his own. For she
was wounded not only in the present, but in the past. What
must be her humiliation and anger on hearing the miserable
part which he, in his disappointed love, had imposed upon her?


1014
FILE NUMBER 113
He was astonished that Nina—violence itself—remained silently
weeping, instead of rising and bitterly denouncing him.
Meanwhile Madeleine had succeeded in recovering her usual
calmness. Slowly and almost unconsciously she had put on
her bonnet and mantle, which were lying on the sofa. Then
she approached Prosper, and said: "Why did you come here?
We both have need of all the courage we can command. You
are unhappy, Prosper: I am more than unhappy, I am most
wretched. You have a right to complain: I have not the right
to shed a tear. While my heart is slowly breaking, I must wear
a smiling face. You can seek consolation in the bosom of a
friend: I can have no confidant but God."
Prosper tried to murmur a reply, but his pale lips refused
to articulate; he was stifling. "I wish to tell you," continued
Madeleine, "that I have forgotten nothing. But oh! let not
this knowledge give you any hope: the future is blank for us;
but if you love me you will live. You will not, I know, add
to my already heavy burden of sorrow the agony of mourn-
ing your death. For my sake, live; live the life of a good
man, and perhaps the day will come when I can justify myself
in your eyes. And now, O my brother, O my only friend, adieu!
adieu!" She pressed a kiss upon his brow, and rushed from
the room, followed by Nina Gipsy!
Prosper was alone. He seemed to be awaking from a troubled
dream. He tried to think over what had just happened, and
asked himself if he were losing his mind, or whether he had
really spoken to Madeleine and seen Nina? He was obliged
to attribute all this to the mysterious power of the strange man
whom he had seen for the first time that very morning. How
did this individual gain this wonderful power of controlling
events to suit his own purposes? He seemed to anticipate every-
thing, to know everything. He was acquainted with Cavaillon,
he knew all Madeleine's movements; he had made even Nina
become humble and submissive.
While thinking over this, Prosper had reached such a degree
of exasperation, that when M. Verduret entered the little par-
lor, he strode toward him white with rage, and, in a threaten-
ing voice, exclaimed:
"Who are you?"
The stout man did not manifest any surprise at this burst
of anger, but quietly answered: "A friend of your father's;
did you not know it?"


FILE NUMBER 113
1015
"That, sir, is no answer; I have been surprised into being
influenced by a stranger, but now—"
"Do you want my biography—what I have been, what I am,
and what I may be? What difference does it make to you?
I told you that I would save you; the main point is that I am
saving you."
"Still I have the right to ask by what means you are
saving me."
"What good will it do you to know what my plans are?"
"In order to decide whether I will accept or reject them."
"But suppose I guarantee success?"
"That is not sufficient. I do not choose to be any longer
deprived of my own free will—to be exposed, without warning,
to trials like those I have undergone to-day. A man of my age
must know what he is doing."
"A man of your age, Prosper, when he is blind, takes a guide,
and does not undertake to point out the way to his leader."
The half-bantering, half-commiserating tone of M. Verduret
was not calculated to calm Prosper's irritation.
"That being the case, sir," he exclaimed, "I will thank you
for your past services, and decline them for the future, as I
have no need of them. If I attempted to defend my honor and
my life, it was because I hoped that Madeleine would be re-
stored to me. I have been convinced to-day that all is at an
end between us; I retire from the struggle, and care not what
becomes of me now."
Prosper was so decided that M. Verduret seemed alarmed.
"You must be mad," he firmly said.
"No, unfortunately I am not. Madeleine has ceased to love
me, and of what importance is anything else?"
His heartbroken tone aroused M. Verduret's sympathy, and
he said in a kind, soothing voice: "Then you suspect nothing?
You did not fathom the meaning of what she said?"
"You were listening?" cried Prosper fiercely.
"I certainly was."—"Sir!"
"Yes. It was a presumptuous thing to do, perhaps, but the
end justified the means in this instance. I am glad I did listen,
because it enables me to say to you: Take courage, Prosper;
Mademoiselle Madeleine loves you—she has never ceased to
love you."
Like a dying man who eagerly listens to deceitful promises
of recovery, although he feels himself sinking into the grave,


FILE NUMBER 113
Prosper felt his sad heart cheered by M. Verduret's assertion.
"Oh," he murmured, suddenly calmed, "if I only could hope!"
"Rely upon me, I am not mistaken. Ah, I could see the
torture endured by this generous girl while she struggled be-
tween her love and what she believed to be her duty. Were you
not convinced of her love when she bade you farewell?"
"She loves me, she is free, and yet she shuns me."
"No, she is not free! In breaking off her engagement with
you, she was governed by some powerful, irrepressible event.
She is sacrificing herself—for whom? We shall soon know;
and the secret of her self-sacrifice will reveal to us the secret
of the plot against you."
As M. Verduret spoke, Prosper felt his resolutions of revolt
slowly melting away, and their place occupied by confidence and
hope. "If what you say were only true!" he mournfully said.
"Foolish young man! Why do you persist in obstinately
shutting your eyes to the proof I place before you? Can you
not see that Mademoiselle Madeleine knows who the thief is?
Yes, you need not look so shocked; she knows the thief, but
no human power can tear it from her. She sacrifices you,
but then she almost has the right, since she first sacrificed
herself."
Prosper was almost convinced; and it nearly broke his heart
to leave the little apartment where he had seen Madeleine.
"Alas!" he said, pressing M. Verduret's hand, "you must think
me a ridiculous fool! but you don't know how I suffer."
The man with the red whiskers sadly shook his head, and
his voice sounded very unsteady as he replied in a low tone:
"What you suffer, I have suffered. Like you, I loved, not a
pure, noble girl, yet a girl fair to look upon. For three years
I was at her feet, a slave to her every whim, when one day
she suddenly deserted me who adored her, to throw herself into
the arms of a man who despised her. Then, like you, I wished
to die. Neither threats nor entreaties could induce her to return
to me. Passion never reasons, and she loved my rival."
"And did you know who this rival was?"
"Yes, I knew."
"And you did not seek revenge?"
"No," replied M. Verduret. And with a singular expression
he added: "For fate charged itself with my vengeance."
For a minute Prosper was silent; then he said: "I have
finally decided. My honor is a sacred trust for which I must


FILE NUMBER 113
account to my family. I am ready to follow you to the end
of the world; dispose of me as you judge proper."
That same day Prosper, faithful to his promise, sold his
furniture, and wrote to his friends announcing his intended
departure for San Francisco. In the evening he and M. Ver-
duret installed themselves at the hotel of the Grand Archangel.
Madame Alexandre gave Prosper her prettiest room, but it
was very ugly compared with the coquettish little drawing-room
in the Rue Chaptal. His state of mind did not permit him,
however, to notice the difference between his former and pres-
ent quarters. He lay on an old sofa, meditating upon the events
of the day, and feeling a bitter satisfaction in his isolated con-
dition. About eleven o'clock he thought he would open 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 Gipsy; 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 Mademoiselle Ma . . ."
Prosper never closed his eyes all that night.

^J"OT far from the Palais Royal, in the Rue St. Honore, is
the sign of "La Bonne Foi," a small establishment, half
cafe and half fruiterer's shop, much frequented by the work-
people of the neighborhood.
It was in this modest cafe that Prosper, the day after his
release, awaited M. Verduret, who had promised to meet him
at four o'clock. Just as the clock struck the hour, M. Verduret,


1018
FILE NUMBER 113
who was punctuality itself, appeared. He was more red-faced
and self-satisfied, if possible, than on the day before. As soon
as the waiter, of whom he ordered a glass of beer, had left
them, M. Verduret said to Prosper: "Well, are all our com-
missions executed?"
"Yes, every one."
"Have you seen the costumier?"
"I gave him your letter, and everything you ordered will be
sent to the Grand Archangel to-morrow."
"Very good; you have not lost time, neither have I. I have
a lot of news for you."
The "Bonne Foi" is almost deserted at four o'clock. The
hour of coffee is passed, and the hour for absinthe has not yet
come. M. Verduret and Prosper could therefore talk at their
ease without fear of being overheard by listening neighbors.
The former drew forth his precious diary, which, like the en-
chanted book in the fairy-tale, had an answer for every ques-
tion. "While awaiting our emissaries whom I appointed to
meet me here," said he, "let us devote a little time to M. de
Lagors."
At this name Prosper did not protest, as he had done the
previous day. Like those imperceptible insects which having
once penetrated the root of a tree devour it in a single night,
suspicion, when it invades our minds, soon develops itself and
destroys our firmest beliefs. De Lagors's visit and the frag-
ment of Gipsy's letter had filled Prosper with suspicions which
had grown stronger and more settled as time went on.
"Do you know, my dear friend," asked M. Verduret, "what
part of France this devoted friend of yours comes from?"
"He was born at St. Remy, which is also Madame Fauvel's
native town."
"Are you certain of that?"
"Oh, perfectly! He has not only often told me so, but I
have heard him tell M. Fauvel; and he would talk to Madame
Fauvel by the hour about his mother, who was cousin to
Madame Fauvel, and dearly beloved by her."
"Then you think there is no possible doubt or error about
this part of his story?"
"None in the least."
"Well, things are assuming a queer appearance," said M. Ver-
duret. And he began to whistle between his teeth, which, with
him, was a sign of intense inward satisfaction.


FILE NUMBER 113
1019
"What do you refer to?" inquired Prosper.
"To what I have just discovered—to what I have all along
expected. Good people!" he exclaimed, imitating the manner
of a showman at a fair, "it is a lovely town, St. Remy, with
six thousand inhabitants, charming boulevards on the site of
the old fortifications, handsome town hall, numerous fountains,
large charcoal market, silk factories, famous hospital, and
so on."
Prosper was on thorns. "Please be so good," said he, "as
to explain what you—"
"It also contains," continued M. Verduret, "a Roman tri-
umphal arch, which is of unparalleled beauty, and a Greek
mausoleum; but no De Lagors. St. Remy is the native town
of Nostradamus, but not of your friend."
"Yet I have had proofs."
"Naturally. But proofs can be fabricated; relatives can be
improvised. Your evidence is open to suspicion. My informa-
tion is undeniable, perfectly authenticated. While you were
pining in prison, I was preparing my batteries and collecting
ammunition to open fire. I wrote to St. Remy, and received
answers to my questions."
"Will you not let me know what they were?"
"Have patience," said M. Verduret as he turned over the
leaves of his dairy. "Ah, here is number one. Bow to it
respectfully, 'tis official." He then read:
"'De Lagors—Very old family, originally from Maillane, set-
tled 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 De Lagors (Jules Rene Henri), bearing
without clear authority the title of count, married in 1829 Made-
moiselle Rosalie Clarisse Fontanet of Tarascon; died December,
1848, leaving two daughters, but no male issue. The town
registers make no mention of any person in the district bearing
the name of De Lagors.'"
"Now what do you think of this information?" asked the
stout man with a triumphant smile.
Prosper was astounded. "But why, then, does M. Fauvel
treat Raoul as his nephew?" he asked.
"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 your friend's income of twenty thousand francs.


1020
FILE NUMBER 113
"'Jules Rene Henri de Lagors, last of his name, died at St.
Remy on the 29th of December, 1848, in a state verging on
poverty. He at one time was possessed of a moderate fortune,
but invested it in a nursery for silkworms, and lost it all.
"'He had no son, but left two daughters, one of whom is
a teacher at Aix, and the other married to a small tradesman
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 of De Lagors lives in the
district of Aries.'"
"That is all," said M. Verduret; "do you think it enough?"
"Really, sir, I don't know whether I am awake or dreaming."
"You will be awake after awhile. Now, I wish to mention
one thing. Some people may assert that the widow of De
Lagors had a child born after her husband's death. This
objection is destroyed by the age of your friend. Raoul is
twenty-four, and M. de Lagors has not been dead twenty
years."
"But," observed Prosper, thoughtfully, "who then can
Raoul be?"
"I don't know. The fact is, I am more perplexed to find
out who he is than to know who he is not. There is one man
who could give us all the information we seek, but he will
take good care to keep his mouth shut."
"You mean M. de Clameran?"
"Him, and no one else."
"I have always felt the most inexplicable aversion toward
him. Ah, if we could only get an account of his life!"
"I have been furnished with a few notes concerning the De
Clameran family by your father, who knew them well; they
are brief, but I expect more."
"What did my father tell you?"
"Nothing favorable, you may be sure. I will read you the
synopsis of his information:
"'Louis de Clameran was born at the Chateau de Clameran,
near Tarascon. He had an elder brother named Gaston, who,
in consequence of an affray in which he had the misfortune to
kill a man and badly wound another, was compelled to fly the
country in 1842. Gaston was an honest, noble youth, univer-
sally beloved. Louis, on the contrary, was a wicked, despicable
fellow, detested by all who knew him.
'"Upon the death of his father, Louis came to Paris, and


1022
FILE NUMBER 113
called for some absinthe, was preparing it by holding the water
aloft and slowly dropping it into the glass.
"What have you to tell me?" inquired M. Verduret. \
"In the first place, my chief, I must say that the position
of valet and coachman to M. de Clameran is by no means a
bed of roses."
"Go on; come to the point. You can complain to-morrow."
"Very good. Yesterday my master walked out at two o'clock.
I, of course, followed him. ' Do you know where he went?
The thing was as good as a farce. He went to the Grand
'Archangel to see Madame Nina Gipsy."
"Well, make haste. They told him she was gone. What
then?"
"What then? Ah! he was not at all pleased, I can tell
you. He hurried back to the hotel where the other, M. de
Lagors, awaited him. He swore like a trooper, and M. Raoul
asked him what had happened to put him in such a bad humor.
'Nothing,' replied my master, 'except that the little devil has
run off, and no one knows where she is; she has slipped through
our fingers.' Then they both appeared to be vexed and uneasy.
De Lagors asked if she knew anything serious. 'She knows
nothing but what I told you,' replied De Clameran; 'but this
nothing, falling into the ear of a man with any suspicions, will
be more than enough to work on.'"
M. Verduret smiled like a man who had his reasons for
appreciating at their just value De Clameran's fears. "Well,
your master is not without sense after all," said he; "don't you
think he showed it by saying that?"
"Yes, my chief. Then De Lagors exclaimed: 'If it is as
serious as that, we must get rid of the little beggar!' But my
master shrugged his shoulders, and, laughing loudly, said: 'You
talk like an idiot; when one is annoyed by a woman of this sort,
one must take measures to get rid of her administratively.'
This idea seemed to amuse them both very much."
"I can understand their being entertained by it," said M.
Verduret; "it is an excellent idea; but the misfortune is, it is
too late to carry it out. The nothing which made De Clameran
uneasy has already fallen into a knowing ear."
With breathless curiosity, Prosper listened to this report,
every word of which seemed to throw light upon past events.
Now, he thought, he understood the fragment of Gipsy's letter.
He saw that this Raoul, in whom he had confided so deeply,


FILE NUMBER 113 1023
was nothing better than a scoundrel. A thousand little circum-
stances, unnoticed at the time, now recurred to his mind, and
made him wonder how he could have remained blind so long.
Master Joseph Dubois continued his report:
"Yesterday, after dinner, my master decked himself out like
a bridegroom. I shaved him, curled his hair, and perfumed him
with especial care, after which I drove him to the Rue de
Provence to call on Madame Fauvel."
"Whatl" exclaimed Prosper, "after the insulting language
he used the day of the robbery, did he dare to visit the house?"
"Yes, my young gentleman; he not only dared this, but he
also stayed there until nearly midnight, to my great discom-
fort; for I got thoroughly drenched while waiting for him."
"How did he look when he came out?" asked M. Verduret.
"Well, he certainly looked less pleased than when he went
in. After putting up my carriage, and rubbing down my horse,
I went to see if he wanted anything; I found the door locked,
and he. abused me without stint through the keyhole."
And to assist the digestion of this insult, Master Joseph here
gulped down a mouthful of absinthe.
"Is that all?" questioned M. Verduret.
"All that occurred yesterday, my chief; but this morning my
master rose late, still in a horribly bad humor. At noon Raoul
arrived, also in a rage. They at once began to dispute, and
there was such a row! Why, the most abandoned thieves
would have blushed at their foul language. At one time my
master seized the other by the throat and shook him like a
reed. But Raoul was too quick for him, and saved himself from
strangulation by drawing out a sharp-pointed knife, the sight of
which made my master drop him in a hurry, I can tell you."
"But what was it that they said?"
"Ah, there is the rub, my chief," replied Joseph in a piteous
tone; "the scamps spoke English, so I could not understand
them. But I am sure they were disputing about money."
"How do you know that?"
"Because in view of the Exhibition I learned the word money
in every language, and it constantly recurred in their con-
versation."
M. Verduret sat with knit brows, talking in an undertone to
himself; and Prosper, who was watching him, wondered if he
was trying to divine the subject of the dispute by the mere
force of reflection.


1024
FILE NUMBER 113
"When they had done fighting," continued Joseph, "the ras-
cals began to talk in French again; but they only spoke of a
fancy ball which is to be given by some banker. When Raoul
was leaving, my master said: 'Since this thing is inevitable, and
must take place to-day, you had better remain at home, at
Vesinet, this evening.' Raoul replied: 'Of course.'"
Evening was approaching, and the cafe was gradually filling
with customers, who were all together calling for either absinthe
or bitters. The waiters, mounting on stools, lit the gas-burners
placed round the room. "It is time to go," said M. Verduret to
Joseph, "your master may want you; besides, here is some one
come for me. I will see you to-morrow."
The newcomer was no other than Cavaillon, more troubled
and frightened than ever. He looked uneasily around, as if he
expected a posse of policemen to make their appearance, and
carry him off to prison. He did not sit down at M. Verduret's
table, but stealthily gave his hand to Prosper, and, after assur-
ing himself that no one was observing them, handed M. Ver-
duret a parcel, saying: "She found this in the cupboard."
It was a handsomely bound prayer-book. M. Verduret rap-
idly turned over the leaves, and soon found the pages from
which the words pasted on Prosper's letter had been cut. "I
had moral proofs," he said, handing the book to Prosper, "but
here is material proof sufficient in itself to save you."
When Prosper looked at the book, he turned as pale as a
ghost. He recognized it instantly. He had given it to Made-
leine in exchange for the relic. He opened it, and on the fly-
leaf Madeleine had written "Souvenir of Notre Dame de
Fourvieres, 17th January, 1866." "This book belongs to Made-
leine," he cried.
M. Verduret did not reply, but walked toward a young man
dressed like a wine cooper, who had just entered the cafe.
Glancing at a note which this person handed to him, he has-
tened back to the table, and said in an agitated voice: "I think
we have got them now!"
Throwing a five-franc piece on the table, and without saying
a word to Cavaillon, M. Verduret seized Prosper's arm, and
hurried from the room. "What a fatality!" he said, as he has-
tened along the street: "we may perhaps miss them. We shall
certainly reach the St. Lazare station too late for the St. Ger-
main train."
"For heaven's sake, where are you going?" asked Prosper.


FILE NUMBER 113
1025
"Never mind, we can talk after we start. Hurry!"
On arriving at the Place du Palais Royal, M. Verduret
stopped in front of one of the cabs stationed there, and ex-
amined the horses at a glance. "How much will you want for
driving us to Vesinet?" he asked the driver.
"I don't know the road very well," replied the cabman.
The name of Vesinet was enough for Prosper. "I will point
out the road," he quickly said.
"Well," said the driver, "at this time of night, in such dread-
ful weather,- it ought to be—twenty-five francs—"
"And to drive very fast?"
"Bless my soul! Why, I leave that to your honor's generos-
ity; but if you put it at thirty-five francs—"
"You shall have a hundred," interrupted M. Verduret, "if
you overtake a vehicle which has half an hour's start of us."
"By Jingo!" cried the delighted driver; "jump in quick: we
are losing time!" And whipping up his lean horses, he gal-
loped them down the Rue de Valois at a fearful speed.

/~\N quitting the little station of Vesinet, we come upon two
roads. One, to the left, macadamized and kept in perfect
repair, leads to the village, and along it glimpses are here and
there obtained of the new church through the openings between
the trees. The other road, newly laid out and scarcely leveled,
leads through the woods. Along the latter, which before the
lapse of five years will be a busy street, are a few houses, taste-
less in design, rising here and there out of the foliage: rural
retreats of Paris tradesmen, occupied only during the summer.
It was at the junction of these two roads that Prosper stopped
the cab. The driver had gained his hundred francs. The
horses were completely worn out, but they had accomplished
all that was expected of them; M. Verduret could distinguish
the lamps of another cab, about fifty yards ahead of him.
M. Verduret jumped out, and handing the driver a hundred-
franc note, said: "Here is what I promised you. Go to the


1026
FILE NUMBER 113
first tavern on the right-hand side of the road as you enter the
village. If we do not meet you there in an hour, you will be
at liberty to return to Paris."
The driver was overwhelming in his thanks; but neither
Prosper nor his friend heard them. They had alreatiy started
along the new road. The weather, which had been inclement
when they set out, was now fearful. The rain fell in torrents,
and a furious wind howled dismally through the woods. The
intense darkness was rendered more dreary by the occasional
glimmer of the lamps of the distant railway station, and which
seemed about to be extinguished by every fresh gust of wind.
M. Verduret and Prosper had been running along the muddy
road for about five minutes, when suddenly the latter stopped
and said: "This is Raoul's house."
Before the iron gate of an isolated house was the cab which
M. Verduret had followed. In spite of the pouring rain, the
driver, wrapped in a thick cloak, and leaning back on his seat,
was already fast asleep, while waiting for the person whom he
had brought to the house a few minutes ago.
M. Verduret pulled his cloak, and said, in a low voice: "Wake
up, my good man."
The driver started, and mechanically gathering up his reins,
yawned out: "I am ready; jump in!" But when, by the light
of his lamps, he caught sight of two men in this lonely spot,
he concluded they meant to rob him, and perhaps to take his
life. "I am engaged!" he cried out, as he shook his whip; "I
am waiting here for some one."
"I know that, you fool," replied M. Verduret, "and only
wish to ask you a question, which you can gain five francs by
answering. Did you not bring a middle-aged lady here?"
This question, with the promise of five francs, far from re-
assuring the cabman, only increased his alarm. "I have already
told you I am waiting for some one," he said; "and if you don't
go away and leave me alone, I will call out for help."
M. Verduret drew back quickly. "Come away," he whis-
pered to Prosper, "the fool will do as he says; and the alarm
once given, farewell to our projects. We must find some other
entrance than by the gate."
They then went along the wall surrounding the garden, in
search of a place where it was possible to scale it. This was
difficult to discover, the wall being twelve feet high, and the
night very dark. Fortunately, M. Verduret was very agile; and.


FILE NUMBER 113
1027
having decided upon the spot to be scaled, he drew back a few
paces, and making a sudden spring, seized hold of one of the
projecting stones on the top; then drawing himself up by the
aid of his hands and feet, soon found himself astride the wall.
It was now Prosper's turn to climb up; but, though much
younger than his companion, he had not his agility and strength,
and would never have succeeded if M. Verduret had not pulled
him up and then helped him down on the other side.
Once in the garden, M. Verduret looked about him to study
the situation. The house occupied by M. de Lagors stood in
the middle of a large garden. It was narrow, two stories high,
and had attics. In only one window, on the second story, was
there any light.
"As you have often been here," said M. Verduret, "you must
know all about the arrangement of the house: what room is
that where we see the light?"
"That is Raoul's bedchamber."
"Very good. What rooms are on the ground floor?"
"The kitchen, pantry, billiard-room, and dining-room."
"And on the floor above?"
"Two drawing-rooms, separated by folding-doors and a
Study."
"Where do the servants sleep?"
"Raoul has none at present. He is waited on by a man and
his wife, who live at Vesinet; they come in the morning, and
leave after dinner."
M. Verduret, rubbed his hands gleefully. "That suits our
plans exactly," he said; "it will be strange if we do not hear
what Raoul has to say to this person who has come from Paris
at this time of night to see him. Let us go in."
Prosper seemed averse to this, and said: "That would be a
serious thing for us to do."
"Bless my soul! what else did we come here for?" exclaimed
M. Verduret. "Did you think ours was a pleasure trip, merely
to enjoy this lovely weather?" continued he in a bantering tone.
"But we might be discovered."
"Suppose we are? If the least noise betrays our presence,
you have only to advance boldly as a friend come to visit a
friend, and who, finding the door open, walked in."
But unfortunately the heavy oak door was locked. M. Ver-
duret shook it in vain. "How foolish!" he said with vexation,
"I ought to have brought my instruments with me. A common


1028
FILE NUMBER 113
lock which could be opened with a nail, and I have not even a
piece of wire!" Seeing it useless to attempt the door, he tried
successively every window on the ground floor. Alas! each
shutter was securely fastened on the inside.
M. Verduret was provoked. He prowled round the house like
a fox round a hen-roost, seeking an entrance, but finding none.
Despairingly he came back to the spot in front of the house,
whence he had the best view of the lighted window. "If I
could only look in," he said. "To think that in there," and he
pointed to the window, "is the solution of the mystery; and we
are cut off from it by thirty feet or so of wall!"
Prosper was more surprised than ever at his companion's
strange behavior. The latter seemed perfectly at home in this
garden, and ran about it without any precaution. One would
have supposed him accustomed to such expeditions, especially
when he spoke of picking the lock of an occupied house, as
coolly as though he were talking of opening a snuff-box. He
was utterly indifferent to the rain and sleet driven in his face
by the gusts of wind as he splashed about in the mud trying
to find some means of entrance. "I must get a peep into that
window," he said, "and I will certainly do so, cost what it may!"
Prosper seemed :3 suddenly remember something. "There
is a ladder here," he remarked in an undertone.
"Why did you not tell me that before? Where is it?"
"At the end of the garden, under the trees."
They ran to the spot, and in a fevr minutes the ladder was
standing against the house. But to their annoyance they found
it five feet too short. Five long feet of wall between the top
of the ladder and the lighted window was a discouraging sight
to Prosper, who exclaimed: "We can not reach it."
"We can reach it," cried M. Verduret triumphantly. And
quickly seizing the ladder, he cautiously raised it, and rested
the bottom round on his shoulders, holding, at the same time,
the two uprights firmly and steadily with his hands. The
obstacle was overcome. "Now mount," he said to his com-
panion.
Prosper did not hesitate. Enthusiasm at seeing difficulties
so skilfully conquered, and the hope of triumph, gave him a
strength and agility which he had never imagined he possessed.
He climbed up gently till he reached the lower rounds, then
quickly mounted the ladder, which swayed and trembled beneath
his weight.


FILE NUMBER 113
1029
But he had scarcely looked in at the lighted window when
he uttered a cry, which was drowned in the roaring tempest,
and sliding part way down the ladder, he dropped like a log on
the wet grass, exclaiming: "The villain! the villain!"
With wonderful promptitude and vigor M. Verduret laid the
ladder on the ground, and ran toward Prosper, fearing he was
dangerously injured. "Are you hurt? What did you see?" he
asked.
But Prosper had already risen. Although he had had a vio-
lent fall, he felt nothing; he was in that state when mind
governs matter so absolutely that the body is insensible to pain.
"I saw," he answered in a hoarse voice, "I saw Madeleine
—do you understand, Madeleine?—in that room, alone with
Raoul."
M. Verduret was confounded. Was it possible that he, the
infallible expert, had been mistaken in his deductions?
He well knew that M. de Lagors's visitor was a woman; but
his own conjectures, and the note which Madame Gipsy had
sent to him at the cafe, had caused him to believe that this
woman was Madame Fauvel.
"You must be mistaken," he said to Prosper.
"No, sir, no. Never could I mistake another for Madeleine.
Ah! you who heard what she said to me yesterday, tell me:
was I to have expected such infamous treason as this? You
said to me then: 'She loves you, she loves you!' What do you
think now? Speak!"
M. Verduret did not answer. He had been completely bewil-
dered by his mistake, and was now racking his brain to dis-
cover the cause of it, which was soon discerned by his pene-
trating mind.
"This is the secret discovered by Nina," continued Prosper.
"Madeleine, this pure and noble Madeleine, whom I believed
to be as immaculate as an angel, is the mistress of this thief,
who has even stolen the name he bears. And I, trusting fool
that I was, made this scoundrel my best friend. I confided to
him all my hopes and fears; and he was her lover! Of course
they amused themselves by ridiculing my silly devotion and
blind confidence!"
He stopped, overcome by his violent emotions. Wounded
vanity is the worst of miseries. The certainty of having been
so shamefully deceived and betrayed made Prosper almost in-
sane with rage. "This is the last humiliation I shall submit


1080 FILE NUMBER 113
to," he fiercely cried. "It shall not be said that I was coward
enough to let an insult like this go unpunished."
He started toward the house; but M. Verduret seized his
arm, and said:
"What are you going to do?"
"To have my revenge! I will break down the door; what
do I care for the noise and scandal, now that I have nothing
to lose? I shall not attempt to creep into the house like a
thief, but as a master—as one who has a right to enter; as a
man who, having received a deadly insult, comes to demand
satisfaction."
"You will do nothing of the sort, Prosper."
"Who will prevent me?"
"I will!"
"You? Do not hope that you will be able to deter me. I
will appear before them, put them to the blush, kill them both,
and then put an end to my own wretched existence. That is
what I intend tc do, and nothing shall hinder me!"
If M. Verduret had not held Prosper with a vise-like grip,
he would have escaped, and attempted to carry out his threat.
"If you make any noise, Prosper, or raise an alarm, all your
hopes are ruined," said M. Verduret.
"I have no hopes now."
"Raoul, put on his guard, will escape us, and you will remain
dishonored forever."
"What is that to me?"
"It is everything to me. I have sworn to prove your inno-
cence. A man of your age can easily find a wife, but can never
restore lustre to a tarnished name. Let nothing interfere with
the establishing of your innocence."
Genuine passion is uninfluenced by surrounding circum-
stances. M. Verduret and Prosper stood foot-deep in mud, wet
to the skin, with the rain pouring down on their heads, and
yet still continued their dispute. "I will be avenged," repeated
Prosper, with the persistency of a fixed idea: "I will be
avenged."
"Well, avenge yourself then like a man, and not like a child!"
said M. Verduret angrily.
"Sirl"
"Yes, I repeat it, like a child. What will you do after you
get into the house? Have you any arms? No. You rush
upon Raoul, and a struggle ensues; and while you two are


FILE NUMBER 113
1031
fighting, Madeleine jumps in the cab and drives off. What
then? Which is the stronger, you or Raoul?"
Overcome by the sense of how powerless he was, Prosper
remained silent.
"And of what use would arms be?" continued M. Verduret.
"It would be the height of folly to shoot a man whom you can
send to the galleys."
"What then shall I do?"
"Wait. Vengeance is a delicious fruit, which must be al-
lowed to ripen in order that it may be fully enjoyed."
Prosper was unsettled in his resolution; M. Verduret, seeing
this, advanced his last and strongest argument. "How do we
know," said he, "that Mademoiselle Madeleine is here on her
own account? Did we not come to the conclusion that she was
sacrificing herself for the benefit of some one else? That supe-
rior will which compelled her to banish you may have con-
strained this step to-night."
Whatever coincides with our secret wishes is always eagerly
welcomed, and this apparently improbable supposition struck
Prosper as being possibly correct.
"That might be the case," he murmured, "who knows?"
"I would soon know," said M. Verduret, "if I could only see
them together in that room."
"Will you promise me, sir, to tell me the truth, exactly what
you yourself think, no matter how painful it may be for me?"
"I swear it, upon my word of honor."
At these words Prosper, with a strength which a few min-
utes before he would not have believed himself possessed of,
raised the ladder, placed the last round on his shoulders, and
said to M. Verduret:
"Mount!"
M. Verduret rapidly ascended the ladder, scarcely shaking it,
and soon had his head on a level with the window. Prosper
had seen but too well. There was Madeleine, at this hour of
the night, alone with Raoul de Lagors in his bedchamber!
M. Verduret noticed that she still wore her bonnet and man-
tle. She was standing in the middle of the room, talking with
great animation. Her look and gestures betrayed indignant
scorn. There was an expression of ill-disguised loathing upon
her beautiful face. Raoul was seated in a low chair by the
fire, stirring up the embers with a pair of tongs. Every now
and then he would shrug his shoulders, like a man resigned to


1032
FILE NUMBER 113
everything he heard, and had no answer to make beyond: "I
can not help it. I can do nothing for you."
M. Verduret would willingly have given the handsome ring
on his finger to be able to hear what was being said; but the
roaring wind completely drowned the voices of the speakers,
and he dared not place his ear close to the window for fear of
being perceived. "They are evidently quarreling," he thought;
"but it is certainly not a lovers' quarrel."
Madeleine continued talking; and it was by closely watching
Raoul's face, clearly revealed by the lamp on the chimney-
piece, that M. Verduret hoped to discover the meaning of the
scene before him. Now and again De Lagors would start
and tremble in spite of his pretended indifference; or else he
would strike at the fire with the tongs, as if giving vent to his
rage at some reproach uttered by Madeleine. Finally, Made-
leine changed her threats into entreaties, and, clasping her
hands, almost fell on her knees. Raoul turned away his head,
and refused to answer save in monosyllables.
Several times she was about to leave the room, but each time
returned, as if asking a favor, and unable to make up her mind
to quit the house till she had obtained it. At last she seemed
to have uttered something decisive; for Raoul quickly rose and
took from a desk near the fireplace a bundle of papers, which
he handed to her.
"Well," thought M." Verduret, "this looks bad. Can it be a
compromising correspondence which the young lady wants to
secure!"
Madeleine took the papers, but was apparently still dissatis-
fied. She seemed to entreat Raoul to give her something else,
kut he refused; and she then threw the papers on the table.
These papers puzzled M. Verduret very much, as he gazed at
them through the window. "I am not blind," he said, "and I
certainly am not mistaken; those red, green, and gray papers
are evidently pawn tickets!"
Madeleine turned over the papers as if looking for some par-
ticular ones. She selected three, which she put in her pocket,
disdainfully pushing the others aside. She was now evidently
preparing to take her departure, and said a few words to Raoul,
who took up the lamp as if to escort her downstairs.
There was nothing more for M. Verduret to see. He care-
fully descended the ladder, muttering to himself: "Pawn tickets 1
What infamous mystery lies at the bottom of all this?" Th«


FILE NUMBER 113
1033
first thing to be done was to hide the ladder. Raoul might
take it into his head to look round the garden, when he came
to the door with Madeleine, and if he did so the ladder could
scarcely fail to attract his attention. M. Verduret and Pros-
per hastily laid it on the ground, regardless of the shrubs which
they destroyed in doing so, and then concealed themselves
among the trees, whence they could watch at once the front
door and the outer gate.
Madeleine and Raoul appeared in the doorway. Raoul placed
the lamp on the floor, and offered his hand to the girl; but she
refused it with haughty contempt, which somewhat soothed
Prosper's lacerated heart. This scornful behavior did not,
however, seem to surprise or hurt Raoul, who simply answered
by an ironical gesture which implied, "As you please!" He
followed Madeleine to the gate, which he opened and closed
after her; then he hurried back to the house, while the cab
drove rapidly away.
"Now," said Prosper, "you must tell me what you think.
You promised to let me know the truth no matter how bitter
it might be. Speak; I can bear it, be it what it may!"
"You will have only joy to bear, my friend. Within a month
you will bitterly regret your suspicions of to-night. You will
blush to think that you ever imagined Mademoiselle Madeleine
to have been the mistress of a man like De Lagors."
"But, sir, appearances—"
"It is precisely against appearances that we must be on our
guard. Always distrust them. A suspicion, false or just, is
necessarily based on something. But we must not stay here
forever; and as Raoul has fastened the gate, we shall have to
climb over the wall."
"But there is the ladder."
"Let it stay where it is; as we can not efface our footprints,
he will think thieves have been trying to get into the house."
They scaled the wall, and had not walked fifty steps when
they heard the noise of a gate being unlocked. They stood
aside and waited; a man soon passed by on his way to the
station.
"That is Raoul," said M. Verduret, "and Joseph will report
to us that he has been to tell De Clameran what has just taken
place. If they are only kind enough to speak French!" M.
Verduret walked along quietly for some time, trying to connect
the broken chain of his deductions. "Why the deuce," he
6-Vol. 3


1034 FILE NUMBER 113
abruptly asked, "did this Raoul, who is devoted to gay society,
come to choose a lonely country house like this to live in?"
"I suppose it was because M. Fauvel's villa is only fifteen
minutes' ride from here, on the banks of the Seine."
"That accounts for his staying here in the summer; but in
winter?"
"Oh, in winter he has a room at the Hotel du Louvre, and
all the year round keeps up an apartment in Paris."
This did not enlighten M. Verduret much; he hurried his
pace. "I hope our driver has not gone," said he. "We can
not take the train which is about to start, as Raoul would see
us at the station."
Although it was more than an hour since M. Verduret and
Prosper left the cab, where the road turned off, they found it
waiting for them in front of the tavern.
The driver, being unable to resist the desire to change his
bank-note, had ordered supper, and finding the wine very good,
he was in no hurry to leave.
While delighted at the idea of having a fare back to Paris,
he could not refrain from remarking on M. Verduret and Pros-
pers altered appearance. "Well, you are in a strange state!"
he exclaimed.
Prosper replied that they had been to see a friend, and losing
their way, had fallen into a quagmire; as if there were such
things in Vesinet wood.
"So that's the way you got covered with mud, is it!" ex-
claimed the driver, who, though apparently contented with this
explanation, strongly suspected that his two customers had
been engaged in some nefarious transaction. This opinion
seemed to be entertained by the people present, for they
looked at Prosper's muddy clothes and then at each other in
a knowing way.
But M. Verduret put an end to all further comment by say-
ing: "Come on!"
"All right, your honor: get in while I settle my bill; I will
be with you in a minute."
The drive back was silent and seemed interminably long.
Prosper at first tried to draw his strange companion into con-
versation, but as he received nothing but monosyllables in re-
ply, he held his peace for the rest of the journey. He was
again beginning to feel irritated at the absolute empire exer-
cised over him by this man. Physical discomfort was added


FILE NUMBER 113 1035
to his other troubles. He was stiff and numb; every bone in
him ached with the cold. Although mental endurance may be
unlimited, bodily strength must in the end give way. A violent
effort is always followed by reaction.
Lying back in a corner of the cab, with his feet upon the
front seat, M. Verduret seemed to be enjoying a nap; yet he
was never more wide awake. He was in a perplexed state of
mind. This expedition, which he had been confident would
solve all his doubts, had only added mystery to mystery. His
chain of evidence, which he thought so strongly linked, was
completely broken. For him the facts remained the same, but
circumstances had changed. He could not imagine what com-
mon motive, what moral or material complicity, what influ-
ences, existed to cause the four actors in his drama, Madame
Fauvel, Madeleine, Raoul, and De Clameran, to have appar-
ently the same object in view. He was seeking, in his fertile
mind, that encyclopedia of craft and subtlety, for some combi-
nation which would throw light on the problem before him.
Midnight struck as they reached the Grand Archangel, and
for the first time M. Verduret remembered that he had not
dined. Fortunately Madame Alexandre was still up, and in the
twinkling of an eye had improvised a tempting supper. It was
more than attention, more than respect, that she showed her
guest. Prosper observed that she gazed admiringly at M. Ver-
duret all the while that he was eating.
"You will not see me during the daytime to-morrow," said
M. Verduret to Prosper, when he had risen to leave the room;
"but I will be here about this time at night. Perhaps I shall
discover what I am seeking at Jandidiers' ball."
Prosper was almost dumb with astonishment. What! would
M. Verduret venture to appear at a fancy dress ball given by
the wealthiest and most fashionable bankers in Paris? This
accounted for his sending to the costumier. "Then you are
invited to this ball 1" he presently asked.
The expressive eyes of M. Verduret sparkled with amuse-
ment. "Not yet," he said; "but I shall be."
Oh, the inconsistency of the human mind! Prosper was tor-
mented by the most serious reflections. He looked sadly round
his chamber, and as he thought of M. Verduret's projected
pleasure at the ball, exclaimed: "Ah, how fortunate he is! To-
morrow he will see Madeleine more lovely than ever."


1036 FILE NUMBER 113

BOUT the middle of the Rue St. Lazare are the almost
.** regal residences of the brothers Jandidier, two celebrated
financiers, who, if deprived of the prestige of immense wealth,
would still be looked up to as remarkable men. Why can not
the same be said of all men?
These two mansions, which were regarded as marvels of mag-
nificence at the time they were built, are entirely distinct from
each other, but so planned as to form a single building when
this is desired. When the brothers Jandidier give grand parties,
they have the movable partitions taken away, and thus obtain
the most superb suite of drawing-rooms in Paris. Princely
magnificence, lavish hospitality, and an elegant, graceful man-
ner of receiving their guests, make the entertainments given
by the brothers eagerly sought after by the fashionable circles
of the capital. On the Saturday the Rue St. Lazare was blocked
up by a file of carriages, whose fair occupants impatiently
awaited their turn to alight. Dancing commenced at ten o'clock.
The ball was a fancy dress one, and the majority of the cos-
tumes were superb; many were in the best taste, and some were
quite original. Among the latter was that of a merry-andrew.
Everything about the wearer was in perfect keeping: the inso-
lent eye, coarse lips, inflamed cheek-bones, and a beard so red
that it seemed to emit fire in the reflection of the dazzling
lights.
He carried in his left hand a canvas banner, upon which
were six or eight coarsely painted pictures, like those seen at
country fairs. In his right he waved a little switch, with which
he would every now and then strike his banner, after the fash-
ion of a showman seeking to attract the attention of the crowd.
A compact group gathered round him in the expectation of
hearing some witty speeches; but he remained silent, near the
door.
About half-past ten he quitted his post. M. and Madame
Fauvel, followed by their niece Madeleine, had just entered.


FILE NUMBER 113
1037
During the last ten days the affair of the Rue de Provence
had been the general topic of conversation; and friends and
enemies were alike glad to seize this opportunity of approach-
ing the banker to tender their sympathy, or to offer equivocal
condolence, which of all things is the most exasperating and
insulting.
Belonging to the class of men of a serious turn, M. Fauvel
had not assumed a fancy costume, but had merely thrown over
his shoulders a short silk cloak. On his arm leaned Madame
Fauvel, nie Valentine de la Verberie, bowing and gracefully
greeting her numerous friends.
She had once been remarkably beautiful; and to-night, in
the artificial light, her very becoming dress seemed to have
restored all her youthful freshness and comeliness. No one
would have supposed her to be forty-eight years old. She wore
a robe of embroidered satin and black velvet, of the later years
of Louis XIV's reign, magnificent and severe, without the adorn-
ment of a single jewel. She looked superb and grand in her
court dress and her powdered hair, as became a La Verberie,
so some ill-natured people remarked, who had made the mistake
of marrying a man of money.
Madeleine, too, on her part was the object of universal ad-
miration, so dazzlingly beautiful and queen-like did she appear
in her costume of maid of honor, which seemed to have been
especially invented to set forth her beautiful figure. Her love-
liness expanded in the perfumed atmosphere and dazzling light
of the ballroom. Never had her hair looked so brilliant a
black, her complexion so exquisite, or her large eyes so spar-
kling. Having greeted their hosts, Madeleine took her aunt's
arm, while M. Fauvel wandered about in search of the card-
tables, the usual refuge of bored men who find themselves
enticed into a ballroom.
Dancing was now at its height. Two orchestras, led by
Strauss and one of his lieutenants, filled the saloons with in-
toxicating sounds. The motley crowd whirled in the waltz,
presenting a curious confusion of velvets, satins, laces, and
diamonds. Almost every head and bosom sparkled with jewels;
the palest cheeks became rosy; heavy eyes now shone like
stars; and the glistening shoulders of fair women were like
drifted snow in an April sun.
Forgotten by the crowd, the merry-andrew had taken refuge
in the embrasure of a window, and seemed to be meditating


1038
FILE NUMBER 113
upon the gay scene before him; at the same time he kept his
eyes upon a couple not far distant. It was Madeleine, leaning
on the arm of a gorgeously attired doge, that attracted his
gaze, and the doge was the Marquis de Clameran, who appeared
radiant, rejuvenated, and whose attentions to his partner had
an air of triumph. At an interval in the quadrille, he leaned
over her and whispered compliments of unbounded admiration;
and she seemed to listen, if not with pleasure, at least with-
out repugnance. She now and then smiled, and coquettishly
shrugged her shoulders.
"Evidently," muttered the merry-andrew, "this noble scoun-
drel is paying court to the banker's niece; so I was right yes-
terday. But how can Mademoiselle Madeleine resign herself
so graciously to his insipid flattery? Fortunately, Prosper is
not here now."
He was interrupted by an elderly man wrapped in a Vene-
tian mantle, who said to him: "You remember, M. Verduret"—
this name was uttered half-seriously, half-banteringly—"what
you promised me?"
The merry-andrew bowed with great respect, but not the
slightest shade of humility. "I remember," he replied.
"But do not be imprudent, I beg you."
"Monsieur le Comte need not be uneasy; he has my promise."
"Very good. I know its value." The comte walked off; but
during this short colloquy the quadrille had ended, and M. de
Clameran and Madeleine were lost to sight.
"I shall find them near Madame Fauvel," thought the merry-
andrew. And he at once started in search of the banker's wife.
Incommoded by the stifling heat of the room, Madame Fauvel
had sought a little fresh air in the grand picture gallery, which,
thanks to the talisman called gold, was now transformed into
a fairy-like garden, filled with orange trees, japonicas, oleanders,
and white lilacs, the delicate bunches of which hung in grace-
ful clusters. The merry-andrew saw her seated near the door
of the card-room. Upon her right was Madeleine, and on her
left stood Raoul de Lagors, dressed in a costume of the time
of Henry III.
"I must confess," muttered the merry-andrew from his post
of observation, "that the young scamp is a handsome-looking
fellow."
Madeleine appeared very sad. She had plucked a camellia
from a plant near by, and was mechanically pulling it to pieces


FILE NUMBER 113
1039
as she sat with her eyes cast down. Raoul and Madame Fauvel
were engaged in earnest conversation. Their faces seemed com-
posed, but the gestures of the one and the trembling of the
other betrayed that a serious discussion was taking place be-
tween them. In the card-room sat the doge, M. de Clameran,
so placed as to have a full view of Madame Fauvel and Made-
leine, although he was himself concealed by an angle of the
apartment.
"It is the continuation of yesterday's scene," thought the
merry-andrew. "If I could only get behind those camellias, I
might hear what they are saying." He pushed his way through
the crowd, but just as he had reached the desired spot, Made-
leine rose, and, taking the arm of a bejeweled Persian, walked
away. At the same moment Raoul went into the card-room
and whispered a few words to De Clameran.
"There they go," muttered the merry-andrew. "The pair of
scoundrels certainly hold these poor women in their power; and
it is in vain that they struggle to free themselves. What can
be the secret of their influence?"
Suddenly a great commotion was caused in the picture gallery
by the announcement of a wonderful minuet to be danced in
the grand saloon; then by the arrival of'the Comtesse de Com-
marin as Aurora; and finally, by the presence of the Princess
Korasoff, with her.superb suite of emeralds, reported to be the
finest in the world. In an instant the gallery became almost
deserted.
Only a few forlorn-looking people remained; mostly sulky
husbands, whose wives were dancing with partners they were
jealous of, and some melancholy youths, looking awkward
and unhappy in their gay fancy dresses. The merry-andrew
thought the opportunity favorable for carrying out his designs.
He abruptly left his corner,- brandishing his banner, and tap-
ping upon it with his switch, hammering affectedly all the
time, as though about to speak. Having crossed the gallery,
he placed himself between the chair occupied by Madame
Fauvel and the door. As soon as the people left in the gal-
lery had collected in a circle round him, he struck a comical
attitude, and in a tone of great buffoonery proceeded to address
them as follows:
"Ladies and gentlemen, this morning I obtained a license
from the authorities of this city. And for what? Why, gen-
tlemen, for the purpose of exhibiting to you a spectacle which


1040
FILE NUMBER 113
has already excited the admiration of the four quarters of the
globe, and of several other academies. Inside this booth, ladies,
is about to commence the representation of a most unheard-of
drama, acted for the first time at Pekin, and translated by our
most famous authors. Gentlemen, you can take your seats at
once; the lamps are lighted, and the actors are dressing."
Here he stopped speaking, and imitated to perfection the
screeching sounds which mountebanks educe from their mu-
sical instruments. "Now, ladies and gentlemen," he resumed,
"you will wish to know what I am doing here if the piece is
to be performed inside the booth. The fact is, gentlemen, that
I intend to give you a foretaste of the agitations, sensations,
emotions, palpitations, and other entertainments which you may
enjoy for the small sum of ten sous. You see this superb
picture? Well, it represents the eight most thrilling scenes in
the drama. Ah, you begin to shudder already; and yet this is
nothing compared to the play itself. This splendid picture gives
you no more idea of the actual performance than a drop of
water gives an idea of the sea, or a spark of fire of the sun.
My picture, gentlemen, is merely a foretaste of what takes place
inside, like the odors which emanate from the kitchen of a
restaurant."
"Do you know the fellow?" asked an enormous Turk of a
melancholy Punch.
"No, but he imitates a trumpet splendidly."
"Oh, very well indeed! But what is he driving at?"
He was endeavoring to attract the attention of Madame Fau-
vel, who, since Raoul and Madeleine had left her, had abandoned
herself to a mournful reverie. He succeeded in his object. His
shrill voice brought the banker's wife back to a sense of reality;
she started and looked quickly about her, as if suddenly awaken-
ed; then she turned toward the merry-andrew.
He, however, continued: "Now, ladies, we are in China. The
first of the eight pictures on my canvas, here, in the left hand
corner,"—here he touched the top daub,—"represents the cele-
brated Mandarin Li-F6, in the bosom of his family. The pretty
young lady leaning over him is his wife; and the children
playing on the carpet are the bonds of love between this happy
pair. Do you not inhale the odor of contentment and happi-
ness emanating from this admirable picture, gentlemen?
Madame Li-F6 is the most virtuous of women, adoring her hus-
band and idolizing her children. Being virtuous she is happy,


FILE NUMBER 113
1041
or as the wise Confucius says, 'The ways of virtue are more
pleasant than the ways of vice.'"
Madame Fauvel had quitted her seat, and taken another nearer
to the speaker.
"Do you see anything on the banner like what he has been de-
scribing?" asked the melancholy Punch of his neighbor.
"No, nothing. Do you?"
The fact is, that the daubs of paint on the canvas represented
nothing in particular, so that the merry-andrew could pretend
they were anything he pleased.
"Picture No. 2!" he cried, after a flourish of music. "This
old lady, seated before a mirror tearing out her hair—especially
the gray ones—you have seen before; do you recognize her?
No, you do not. Well, she is the fair mandarine of the first
picture. I see the tears in your eyes, ladies and gentlemen.
Ah, you have cause to weep; for she is no longer virtuous,
and her happiness has departed with her virtue. Alas, it is a
sad tale! One fatal day she met in a street of Pekin a young
ruffian, fiendish, but beautiful as an angel, and she loves him—.
the wretched woman loves him!"
The last words were uttered in the most tragic tone as he
raised his clasped hands to heaven. During this tirade he had
turned slightly round, so that he now found himself facing the
banker's wife, whose countenance he closely watched while he
was speaking.
"You are surprised, gentlemen," he continued; "I am not.
The great Bilboquet, my master, has proved to us that the
heart never grows old, and that the most vigorous wall-flowers
flourish on the oldest ruins. This unhappy woman is nearly
fifty years old—fifty years old, and in love with a youth!
Hence this heartrending scene which should serve as a warn-
ing to us all."
"Really!" grumbled a cook dressed in white satin, who had
passed the evening distributing bills of fare, which no one read;
"I thought he would be more amusing."
"But," continued the merry-andrew, "you must go inside the
booth to witness the effects of the mandarine's folly. At times
a ray of reason penetrates her diseased brain, and then the
sight of her anguish would soften a heart of stone. Enter,
and for the small sum of ten sous you shall hear sobs such as
the Odeon Theatre never echoed in its halcyon days. The
unhappy woman has waked up to the absurdity and inanity of


1042
FILE NUMBER 113
her blind passion; she confesses to herself that she is madly
pursuing a fantom. She knows but too well that he, in the
vigor and beauty of youth, can not love a faded old woman
like herself, who vainly endeavors to retain the last traces of
her once entrancing beauty. She feels that the sweet words he
once whispered in her charmed ear were deceitful falsehoods.
She knows that the day is near when she will be left alone,
with nothing save his mantle in her hand."
As the merry-andrew addressed this voluble harangue to the
crowd around him, he narrowly watched the countenance of the
banker's wife. But nothing he had said seemed to affect her.
She leaned back in her armchair, perfectly calm, with the accus-
tomed brightness in her eyes and an occasional smile upon
her lips.
"Good heavens!" muttered the merry-andrew uneasily, "can
I be on the wrong track?" Preoccupied, however, as he was,
he observed an addition to his circle of listeners in the person
of M. de Clameran. "The third picture," said he, after imi-
tating a roll of drums, "depicts the old mandarine after she
has dismissed that most annoying of guests—remorse—from
her bosom. She promises herself that interest will supply the
place of love in chaining the too seductive youth to her side.
It is with this object that she invests him with false honors
and dignity, and introduces him to the chief mandarins of the
capital of the Celestial Empire; then, since so handsome a
youth must cut a fine figure in society, and as a fine figure
can not be cut without money, the lady sacrifices all she pos-
sesses for his sake. Necklaces, rings, bracelets, diamonds, and
pearls, are all surrendered. The monster carries all these
jewels to the pawnbrokers in the Tien-Tsi Street, and then
has the cruelty to refuse her the tickets, by means of which
she might redeem her treasures."
The merry-andrew thought that he had at last hit the mark.
Madame Fauvel began to betray signs of agitation. Once she
made an attempt to rise from her seat and to retire, but it
seemed as if her strength failed her, and she sank back, forced
to listen to the end.
"Finally, ladies and gentlemen," continued the merry-andrew,
"the richly filled jewel-cases became empty. The day arrived
when the mandarine had nothing more to give. It was then
that the young scoundrel conceived the project of carrying off
the jasper button belonging to the mandarin Li-F6—a splendid


FILE NUMBER 113
1043
jewel of incalculable value, which, being the badge of his dig-
nity, was kept in a granite stronghold, and guarded by three
soldiers night and day. Ah! the mandarine resisted for a long
time! She knew the innocent soldiers would be accused and
crucified, as is the custom in Pekin, and this thought restrained
her. But her lover besought her so tenderly that she finally
yielded to his entreaties; and—the jasper button was stolen.
The fourth picture represents the guilty couple stealthily creep-
ing down the private staircase: see their frightened looks—
see—"
The merry-andrew abruptly stopped. Three or four of his
auditors rushed to the assistance of Madame Fauvel, who
seemed about to faint; and at the same moment he felt his
arm roughly seized by some one behind him. He turned round
and found himself face to face with M. de Clameran and Raoul
de Lagors, both of whom were pale with anger.
"What do you require, gentlemen?" he asked politely.
"To speak with you," they answered in a breath.
"I am at your service." And he followed them to the end
of the picture gallery, near a window opening on to a balcony.
Here they were unobserved except by the man in the Vene-
tian cloak, whom the merry-andrew had so respectfully ad-
dressed as "Monsieur le Comte." The minuet having ended,
the musicians were resting, and the crowd began rapidly to fill
the gallery. Madame Fauvel's sudden faintness had passed off
unnoticed save by a few, who attributed it to the heat of the
room. M. Fauvel had been sent for; but when he came hur-
rying in, and found his wife composedly talking to Madeleine,
his alarm was dissipated, and he returned to the card-tables.
Not having as much control over his temper as Raoul, M. de
Clameran angrily remarked to the merry-andrew: "In the first
place, sir, I should like to know whom I am speaking to."
The merry-andrew, determined to answer as if he thought the
question were a jest, replied in the bantering tone of a buf-
foon: "You want my passport, do you, my lord doge? I left
it in the hands of the city authorities; it contains my name,
age, profession, domicile, and every detail."
With an angry gesture, M. de Clameran interrupted him.
"You have just committed a most vile action!"
"I, my lord doge?"
"Yes, you! What is the meaning of the abominable story
you have been relating?"


1044
FILE NUMBER 113
"Abominable! You may say so, if you like; but I, who com-
posed it, entertain a different opinion."
"Enough, sir; you might at least have the courage to ac-
knowledge that your allusions conveyed a vile insinuation
against Madame Fauvel."
The merry-andrew stood with his head thrown back, and
mouth wide open, as if astounded at what he heard. But any
one who knew him would have detected his bright black eyes
sparkling with malicious satisfaction.
"Bless my heart!" he cried, as if speaking to himself. "This
is the strangest thing I ever heard of! How can my drama
of the Mandarine Li-Fo have any reference to Madame Fauvel,
whom I don't know from Adam or Eve? I can't think how the
resemblance—unless—but no, that is impossible."
"Do you pretend," said M. de Clameran, "to be ignorant of
M. Fauvel's misfortune?"
The merry-andrew looked very innocent, and asked: "A mis-
fortune?"
"I mean the robbery of which M. Fauvel is the victim. It is
in every one's mouth, and you must have heard of it."
"Ah, yes, yes; I remember. His cashier has run off with
three hundred and fifty thousand francs. Gracious me! It is
a thing that almost happens daily. But, as to discovering any
connection between this robbery and my story, that is quite
another matter."
M. de Clameran did not hasten to reply. A nudge from
De Lagors had calmed him as if by enchantment. He looked
suspiciously at the mountebank, and seemed to regret having
uttered the significant words forced from him by angry ex-
citement. "Very well," he finally said in his usual haughty
tone: "I must have been mistaken. I accept your explanation."
But the merry-andrew, hitherto so humble and foolish-look-
ing, seemed to take offense at the last word, and, assuming a
defiant attitude, exclaimed: "I have not given, nor had I to give,
any explanation."
"Sir!" began De Clameran.
"Allow me to finish, if you please. If, unintentionally, I have
offended the wife of a man whom I highly esteem, it is, I fancy,
his business to seek redress, and not yours. Perhaps you will
tell me he is too old to demand satisfaction, very likely; but
he has sons, and I have just seen one ot them here. You ask
who I am; in return I ask you who are you—you who under-


FILE NUMBER 113
1045
take to act as Madame Fauvel's champion? Are you her rela-
tive, friend, or ally? What right have you to insult her by
pretending to discover an allusion to her in a story invented for
amusement t"
There was nothing to be said in reply to this. M. de Clam-
eran sought a means of evading a complete answer. "I am a
friend of M. Fauvel's," he said, "and this title gives me the
right to be as jealous of his reputation as if it were my own.
If you do not think this a sufficient reason for my interference,
I must inform you that his family will shortly be mine."
"Ah!"
"Next week, sir, my marriage with Mademoiselle Madeleine
will be publicly announced."
This news was so unexpected, so strange, that for a moment
the merry-andrew was fairly astounded. But he soon recovered
himself, and, bowing with deference, said, with covert irony:
"Permit me to offer you my congratulations, sir. Besides being
the belle of to-night's ball, Mademoiselle Madeleine is worth,
I hear, half a million."
Raoul de Lagors had anxiously been watching the people
near them, to see if they overheard this conversation. "We
have had enough of this gossip," he said in a disdainful tone;
"I will only say one thing to you, my fine fellow, and that is,
your tongue is too long."
"Perhaps it is, my pretty youth, perhaps it is; but my arm
is still longer."
De Clameran here interrupted them by exclaiming: "It is
impossible to have an explanation with a man who conceals
his identity under the guise of a fool."
"You are at liberty, my lord doge, to ask the master of the
house who I am—if you dare."
"You are," cried Clameran, "you are—" A warning look
from Raoul checked the noble iron-founder from using an
epithet which might have led to an affray, or at least a
scandalous scene.
The merry-andrew stood by with a sardonic smile, and, after
a moment's silence, stared M. de Clameran steadily in the face,
and, in measured tones, said: "I was the best friend, sir, that
your dead brother Gaston ever had. I was his adviser, and the
confidant of his last hopes."
These words came like a clap of thunder on De Clameran,
who turned deadly pale, and started back with his hands


1046
FILE NUMBER 113
stretched out before him, as if shrinking from a fantom. He
tried to answer, to protest, to say something, but terror froze
the words upon his tongue.
"Come, let us go," said De Lagors, who had remained per-
fectly self-possessed. And he dragged De Clameran away,
half supporting him, for he staggered like a drunken man,
and clung to every object he passed, to prevent himself from
falling.
"Oh, oh, oh!" exclaimed the merry-andrew, in three different
tones. He was almost as much astonished as the forge-master,
and remained rooted to the spot, watching the latter as he
slowly left the room. It was with no decided object in view
that the merry-andrew had ventured to use the last myste-
riously threatening words, but he had been inspired to do so
by his wonderful instinct, which with him was like the scent
of a bloodhound. "What can this mean ?" he murmured. "Why
was he so frightened? What terrible memory have I awakened
in his base soul? I need not boast of my penetration, or the
subtlety of my plans. There is a great master, who, without
any effort, in an instant destroys all our chimeras; he is called
'Chance.'"
His mind had wandered far from the present scene, when
he was brought back to his situation by some one touching
him on the shoulder. It was the man in the Venetian cloak.
"Are you satisfied, M. Verduret?" he inquired.
"Yes and no, Monsieur the Comte. No, because I have not
completely achieved the object I had in view when I asked
you to obtain an invitation for me here to-night; yes, because
these two rascals behaved in a manner which dispels all doubt."
"And yet you complain—"
"I do not complain, sir; on the contrary, I bless chance, or
rather Providence, which has just revealed to me the existence
of a secret that I did not before even suspect."
Five or six people approached the comte, and he went off
with them after giving M. Verduret a friendly nod. The
latter instantly threw aside his banner, and started in pursuit
of Madame Fauvel. Hte found her sitting on a sofa, in the
ball-room, engaged in an animated conversation with Madeleine.
"Of course they are talking over the scene; but what has
become of De Lagors and De Clameran?" thought he. H«
soon caught sight of them wandering among the groups scat-
tered about the room, and eagerly asking questions. "I will


FILE NUMBER 113
1047
bet my head," he muttered, "these honorable gentlemen are
trying to find out who I am. Ask away, my friends, ask away!"
They soon gave over their inquiries, but were so preoccupied,
and anxious to be alone in order to reflect and deliberate, that,
without waiting for the supper, they took leave of Madame
Fauvel and her niece, saying they were going home. The
Merry-andrew saw them enter the cloak-room to fetch their
cloaks; and in a few minutes they left the house. "I have
nothing more to do here," he murmured; "I may as well go too."
Completely covering his dress with an ample overcoat, he
started for home, thinking the cold frosty air would cool his
confused brain. He lit a cigar and, walking up the Rue St.
Lazare, crossed the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, and struck
into the Faubourg Montmartre. A man suddenly darted out
from some place of concealment, and rushed upon him with a
dagger. Fortunately the merry-andrew had a cat-like instinct,
which enabled him to protect himself against immediate danger,
and detect any harm which threatened. He saw, or rather
divined, the man crouching in the dark shadow of a house,
and had the presence of mind to step back and spread out his
arms before him, and so ward off the would-be assassin. This
Movement certainly saved his life, for he received in the arm
a furious stab, which would have instantly killed him had it
penetrated his breast. Anger, more than pain, made him ex-
claim: "Ah, you villain \" and recoiling a few feet, he put
himself on the defensive. The precaution, however, was use-
less; for seeing his blow miss the mark, the assassin did not
return to the attack, but made rapidly off.
"That was certainly De Lagors," thought the merry-andrew,
"and De Clameran must be somewhere near. While I walked
round one side of the church, they must have gone the other
and lain in wait for me."
His wound began to pain him very much, and he stood under
a gas-lamp to examine it. It did not appear to be dangerous,
although the arm was cut through to the bone. He tore his hand-
kerchief into four bands, and tied his arm up with them with
the dexterity of a surgeon. "I must be on the track of some great
crime," said he, "since these fellows are resolved upon murder.
When such cunning rogues are only in danger of the police
court, they do not gratuitously risk the chance of being tried
for murder." He thought that by enduring a great deal of
pain he might still use his arm, so he started in pursuit of his


1048
FILE NUMBER 113
enemy, taking care to keep in the middle of the road, and to
avoid all dark corners. Although he saw no one, he was con-
vinced that he was being followed. He was not mistaken.
When he reached the Boulevard Montmartre, he crossed the
street, and, as he did so, distinguished two shadows which he
recognized. They also crossed the street a little higher up.
"I have to deal with desperate men," he muttered. "They
do not even take the pains to conceal their pursuit of me. They
seem to be accustomed to this kind of adventure, and the car-
riage trick which fooled Fanferlot would never succeed with
them. Besides, my light hat is a perfect beacon to lead them
on in the night." He continued his way up the boulevard, and,
without turning his head, felt sure that his enemies were not
more than thirty paces behind him. "I must get rid of them
somehow," he said to himself. "I can neither return home nor
to the Grand Archangel with these devils at my heels. They
are following me now to find out where I live, and who I am.
If they discover the merry-andrew is M. Verduret, and that
M. Verduret is M. Lecoq, my plans will be ruined. They will
escape abroad with the money, and I shall be left to console my-
self with a wounded arm. A pleasant ending to all my ex-
ertions!"
The idea of Raoul and De Clameran escaping him so exasper-
ated him that for an instant he thought of having them arrested
at once. This was easy enough, for he only had to rush upon
them, shout for help, and they would all three be arrested,
conducted to the police station and brought before the com-
missary. The police often resort to this ingenious and simple
means to arrest a criminal whom they may meet by chance, and
whom they can not seize without a warrant. The merry-
andrew had sufficient proof to sustain him in the arrest of De
Lagors. He could produce the letter and the mutilated prayer-
book, he could reveal the existence of the pawnbroker's
tickets in the house at Vesinet, he could show his wounded arm.
He could, if necessary, force Raoul to confess how and why
he had assumed the name of De Lagors, and what his motive
was in passing himself off as a relative of M. Fauvel. On the
other hand, in acting thus hastily, he would be, perhaps, in-
suring the safety of the principal plotter, De Clameran. What
absolute proofs had he against him? Not one. He had strong
suspicions, but no real grounds for making any charge. On
reflection, the detective decided that he would act alone, as


FILE NUMBER 113
1049
he had thus far done, and that alone and unaided he would
discover the truth of his suspicions.
Having arrived at this decision, the first step to be taken
was to put his pursuers on the wrong scent. He walked rapidly
along the Boulevard Sevastopol, and, reaching the square of
the Arts et Metiers, he abruptly stopped, and asked some in-
significant questions of two policemen, who were standing
talking together. This maneuvre had the result he expected;
Raoul and De Clameran stood perfectly still about twenty
steps off, not daring to advance. While talking with the consta-
bles, the merry-andrew pulled the bell of the door before which
they were standing, and the sound that ensued apprised him
that the door was open. He bowed, and entered the house.
A minute later the constables had passed on, and De Lagors
and De Clameran in their turn rang the bell. When the door
was opened, they roused up the concierge and asked who it
was that had just gone in disguised as a merry-andrew. They
were told that he had seen no such person, and that none of
the lodgers had gone out in fancy costume that night. "How-
ever," added the man, "I am not perfectly sure, for this house
has another door which opens on the Rue St. Denis."
"We are tricked," interrupted De Lagors, "and will never
know who this merry-andrew is."
"Unless we learn it too soon for our own advantage," said
De Clameran musingly.
While the pair were lamenting their failure in discovering
the merry-andrew's identity, Verduret hurried along and
reached the Grand Archangel as the clock struck three. Pros-
per, who was watching from his window, saw him in the
distance, and ran down to open the door for him. "What have
you learned?" he asked: "What did you find out? Did you see
Madeleine? Were Raoul and De Clameran at the ball?"
But M. Verduret was not in the habit of discussing private
affairs where he might be overheard. "First of all, let us go
into your room," said he, "and then get me some water to wash
this cut, which burns like fire."
"Heavens! Are you wounded?"
"Yes, it is a little souvenir of your friend Raoul. Ah, I will
soon teach him the danger of scratching my skin!" Prosper
was surprised at the look of merciless rage on his friend's face,
as he calmly washed and dressed his arm. "Now, Prosper, we
will talk as much as you please," resumed M. Verduret. "Our


1050
FILE NUMBER 113
enemies are on the alert, and we must crush them instantly. I
have made a mistake. I have been on the wrong track; it is
an accident liable to happen to any man, no matter how intel-
ligent he may be. I took the effect for the cause. The day I
was convinced that culpable relations existed between Raoul
and Madame Fauvel, I thought I held the end of the thread
that would lead us to the truth. I ought to have been more
mistrustful; this solution was too simple, too natural."
"Do you suppose Madame Fauvel to be innocent?"
"Certainly not; but her guilt is not such as I first supposed.
I imagined that, infatuated with a seductive young adventurer,
Madame Fauvel had bestowed upon him the name of one of
her relatives, and then introduced him to her husband as her
nephew. This was an adroit stratagem to gain him admission
to the house. She began by giving him all the money she
could dispose of; then she let him have her jewels to pawn;
and at length having nothing more to give, she allowed him to
steal the money from her husband's safe. That is what I
first thought."
"And in this way everything was explained?"
"No, this did not explain everything, as I well knew at the
time, and should, consequently, have studied my characters
more thoroughly. How is De Clameran's ascendency to be
accounted for, if my first idea was the correct one?"
"De Clameran is De Lagors's accomplice, of course."
"Ah, there is the mistake! I for a long time believed De
Lagors to be the person principally concerned, whereas, in
fact, he is nothing. Yesterday, in a dispute between them, the
forge-master said to him: 'And, above all, my young friend, I
would advise you not to resist me, for if you do I will crush
you to atoms.' That explains all. The elegant De Lagors is
not Madame Fauvel's lover, but De Clameran's tool. Besides,
did our first suppositions account for Madeleine's resigned
obedience? It is De Clameran, and not De Lagors, whom she
obeys."
Prosper began to remonstrate. M. Verduret shrugged his
shoulders. To convince him he had only to tell him that three
hours ago De Clameran had announced his approaching mar-
riage with Madeleine; but he refrained from doing so. "De
Clameran," he continued, "De Clameran alone has Madame
Fauvel in his power. Now, the question is, what is the secret
of this terrible influence he has gained over her? I have posi-


FILE NUMBER 113
1051
tive proof that they have not met since their early youth until
fifteen months ago; and, as Madame Fauvel's reputation has
always been above the reach of slander, we must seek in the
past for the cause of her resigned obedience to his will."
"We shall never discover it," said Prosper mournfully.
"We shall know it as soon as we have learned the history of
De Clameran's past life. Ah, to-night he turned as white as
a sheet when I mentioned his brother Gaston's name. And
then I remembered that Gaston died suddenly, while his brother
Louis was on a visit to him."
"Do you think he was murdered?"
"I think the men who tried to assassinate me would do any-
thing. The robbery, my friend, has now become a secondary
affair. It is easily explained, and, if that were all that had
to be accounted for, I would say to you: 'My task is done, let
us go and ask the investigating magistrate for a warrant of
arrest.'"
Prosper started up with sparkling eyes, and exclaimed:
"What, you know then—is it possible?"
"Yes, I know who gave the key, and I know who told the
secret word."
"The key may have been M. Fauvel's. But the word—"
"The word, unlucky man, you gave yourself. You have for-
gotten, I suppose. But, fortunately, Nina remembered. You
know that a couple of days before the robbery, you took De
Lagors and two other friends to sup with Madame Gipsy?
Nina was sad, and reproached you for not being more de-
voted to her."
"Yes, I remember that."
"But do you remember what you replied to her?"
"No, I do not," said Prosper, after thinking a moment.
"Well, I will tell you; you said: 'Nina, you are unjust in
reproaching me with not thinking constantly of you, for af this
very moment it is your dear name that guards my employer's
safe.'"
The truth suddenly burst upon Prosper like a thunderclap.
He wrung his hands despairingly and exclaimed: "Yes, oh, yes!
I remember now."
"Then you can easily understand the rest. One of the scoun-
drels went to Madame Fauvel, and compelled her to give up
her husband's key; then, at a venture, he placed the movable
buttons on the name of Gipsy, opened the safe, and took from


1052
FILE NUMBER 113
it the three hundred and fifty thousand francs. And Madame
Fauvel must have been terribly frightened before she yielded.
The day after the robbery the poor woman was near dying;
and it was she who at the greatest risk sent you the ten thou-
sand francs."
"But who was the thief, Raoul or De Clameran? What en-
ables them to thus tyrannize over Madame Fauvel? And how
does Madeleine come to be mixed up in this disgraceful affair?"
"These questions, my dear Prosper, I can not yet answer;
therefore I postpone going to see the magistrate. I must ask
you to wait ten days; and, if in that time I can not discover the
solution of this mystery, I will return and we will go together
to M. Patrigent."
"Are you then going away?"
"In an hour I shall be on the road to Beaucaire. It was from
that neighborhood that De Clameran came, as well as Madame
Fauvel, who was a Mademoiselle de la Verberie before her
marriage."
"Yes, I have heard of both families."
"I must go there to study them. Neither Raoul nor De Cla-
meran can escape during my absence. The police will not lose
sight of them. But you, Prosper, must be prudent. Promise
me to remain a prisoner here while I am away."
All that M. Verduret asked, Prosper willingly promised.
But he could not let him depart thus. "Will you not tell me,
sir," he asked, "who you are, and your reasons for coming to
my assistance?"
M. Verduret smiled sadly, and replied: "I will tell you in
the presence of Nina, on the day before your marriage with
Madeleine takes place."
Once left to his own reflection, Prosper began to appre-
ciate the powerful assistance rendered him by his friend. Re-
calling the field of investigation gone over by his mysterious
acquaintance, he was amazed at its extent. How many facts
had been discovered in a week, and with what precision, too,
although he had stated he was on the wrong track! Verduret
had grouped his evidence, and reached a result which Prosper
felt he never could have hoped to have attained by his own
exertions. He was conscious that he possessed neither M. Ver-
duret's penetration nor his subtlety, still less the art of exact-
ing obedience, of creating friends at every step, and of making
men and circumstances conduce to the attainment of a common


FILE NUMBER 113
1053
result. He soon began to regret the absence of this friend, who
had risen up in the hour of adversity. He missed the some-
times rough but always kindly voice, which had encouraged
and consoled him. He felt wofully lost and helpless, not daring
to act or think for himself, more timid than a child when
deserted by its nurse. He had at least the good sense to follow
the recommendations of his mentor. He remained shut up at
the Grand Archangel, not even showing himself at the win-
dows. Twice he had news of M. Verduret. The first time he
received a letter in which this friend said he had seen his
father, and had a long talk with him. Afterward, Dubois, M.
de Clameran's valet, came to tell him that his "chief" reported
everything as progressing finely. On the ninth day of his vol-
untary seclusion, Prosper began to feel restless, and at ten
o'clock at night wished to go for a walk, thinking the fresh
air would relieve the headache which had kept him awake the
previous night. Madame Alexandre, who seemed to have some
knowledge of M. Verduret's affairs, begged Prosper to remain
at home.
"What do I risk by taking a walk at this hour, in a quiet part
of the city?" he asked. "I can certainly stroll as far as the
Jardin des Plantes without the chance of meeting any one."
Unfortunately he did not strictly follow this programme; for,
having reached the Orleans railway station, he went into a
cafe near by, and called for a glass of beer. As he sat drink-
ing it, he glanced at a daily paper, "Le Soleil," and under the
heading of "Rumors of the Day," read the following paragraph:
"We understand that the niece of one of our most prominent
bankers, M. Andre Fauvel, will be shortly married to the Mar-
quis Louis de Clameran, a Provencal nobleman." This news,
coming upon him so unexpectedly, proved to Prosper the just-
ness of M. Verduret's calculations. Alas! why did not this
certainty inspire him with absolute faith? Why did it not
give him the courage to wait, the strength of mind to refrain
from acting on his own responsibility? Frenzied by distress of
mind, he already saw Madeleine indissolubly united to this vil-
lain, and, thinking that M. Verduret would perhaps arrive too
late to be of use, determined at all risks to throw an obstacle
in the way of the marriage. He called for pen and paper, and,
forgetting that no situation can excuse the mean cowardice of
an anonymous letter, wrote in a disguised hand the following
lines to M. Fauvel:


1054
FILE NUMBER 113
"Dear S1r—You consigned your cashier to prison; you acted
rightly, since you were convinced of his dishonesty and faith-
lessness. But, even if he stole three hundred and fifty thou-
sand francs from your safe, does it follow that he also stole
Madame Fauvel's diamonds, and took them to the pawnbroker's,
where they now are? Warned as you are, were I you, I would
not be the subject of public scandal, but I would watch my wife,
and would soon discover that one should ever be distrustful of
handsome cousins. Moreover, before signing Mademoiselle
Madeleine's marriage contract, I would call at the Prefecture of
Police, and obtain some information concerning the noble Mar-
quis de Clameran.—A Fr1end."
Prosper hastened off to post his letter. Fearing that it would
not reach M. Fauvel in time, he walked to one of the head
offices in the Rue Cardinal Lemoine, and put it into the letter-
box. Until this moment he had not doubted the propriety of
his action. But now, when too late, when he heard the sound
of his letter falling into the box, a thousand scruples filled his
mind. Was it not wrong to act thus hurriedly? Would not
this letter interfere with all M. Verduret's plans? Upon reach-
ing the hotel, his doubts were changed into bitter regrets.
Joseph Dubois was waiting for him; he had received a tele-
gram from his chief saying that his business was finished, and
that he would return the next evening at nine o'clock. Prosper
was wretched. He would have given all he had to recover
the anonymous letter. And he had. cause for regret. For at
that very hour M. Verduret was taking his seat in the train
at Tarascon, and meditating upon the most advantageous plan
to be adopted in pursuance of his discoveries. For he had dis-
covered everything.
Adding to what he already knew the story of an old servant
of Mademoiselle de la Verberie, the affidavit of an old footman
who had always lived in the De Clameran family, and the depo-
sitions of the married couple in the service of De Lagors at
his Vesinet country-house, the latter having been sent to him
by Dubois (Fanferlot), with a good deal of information obtained
from the Prefecture of Police, he had worked up a complete
case, and could now act upon a chain of evidence without a
missing link. As he had predicted, he had been compelled to
search into the distant past for the first causes of the crime
of which Prosper had been the victim. The following is the


FILE NUMBER 113
1055
drama, as written out by him for the benefit of the examining
magistrate with the certainty that it contained sufficient grounds
for preferring an indictment.
BOUT six miles from Tarascon, on the left bank of the
* Rhone, not far from Messrs. Audibert's wonderful gardens,
stood the chateau of Clameran, a weather-stained, neglected,
but massive structure. Here lived, in 1841, the old Marquis de
Clameran and his two sons, Gaston and Louis. The marquis
was an eccentric old man. He belonged to the race of nobles,
now almost extinct, whose watches stopped in 1789, and who
keep the time of a past century. More attached to his illu-
sions than to his life, the old marquis insisted upon consider-
ing all the stirring events which had happened since the first
revolution as a series of deplorable practical jokes. Emigrating
in the suite of the Comte d'Artois, he did not return to France
until 1815, with the allies. He should have been thankful to
heaven for the recovery of a portion of his immense family
estates; a comparatively small portion, it is true, but still suf-
ficient to support him honorably. He said, however, that he
did not think the few paltry acres worth thanking heaven for.
At first he tried every means to obtain an appointment at court;
but, finding all his efforts fail, he resolved to retire to his cha-
teau, which he did, after cursing and pitying his king, whom he
worshiped, and whom, at the bottom of his heart, he regarded
as a thorough Jacobin.
The Marquis de Clameran soon became accustomed to the
free and indolent life of a country nobleman. Possessing about
fifteen thousand francs a year, he spent twenty-five or thirty
thousand, borrowing even on his, estates, on the pretense that
a genuine Restoration would soon take place, and that he would
then regain possession of all his properties. Following his ex-
ample, his younger son, Louis, lived extravagantly, and was
always in pursuit of adventure, or idling away his time in
drinking and gambling. The elder son, Gaston, anxious to par-


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FILE NUMBER 113
ticipate in the stirring events of the time, studied hard, and
read certain papers and pamphlets surreptitiously received, the
mere titles of which were regarded by his father as blasphe-
mous. Altogether the old marquis was the happiest of mortals,
eating and drinking well, hunting a good deal, tolerated by the
peasants, and execrated by the neighboring townspeople, whom
he treated with contempt and raillery. Time never hung heavy
on his hands, excepting in the summer, when the valley of the
Rhone was intensely hot; but even then he had infallible means
of amusement ever fresh, though always the same. It was to
speak ill of his daughter, the Comtesse de la Verberie.
The Comtesse de la Verberie, the marquis's special aver-
sion, was a tall, wiry woman, angular in character, as well as
in appearance, cold and arrogant toward her equals, and domi-
neering over her inferiors. Like her noble neighbor, she had
emigrated with her husband, who was afterward killed at
Lutzen, but, unfortunately for his memory, not in the French
ranks. In 1815 the comtesse also came back to France. But
while the Marquis de Clameran returned to comparative ease,
she could obtain nothing from royal munificence but the small
estate and chateau of La Verberie, and a pension of two thou-
sand five hundred francs. The comtesse had but one child, a
lovely girl of eighteen, named Valentine, fair, slender, and
graceful, with large, soft eyes, beautiful enough to make the
stone saints of the village church thrill in their niches when
she knelt piously at their feet. The renown of her great beauty,
carried along on the rapid waters of the Rhone, had spread
far and wide. Often the boatmen and the robust drivers urging
their powerful horses along the towpath would stop to gaze
with admiration upon Valentine, seated under some grand old
trees on the bank of the river, absorbed in a book. At a dis-
tance, in her white dress and flowing tresses, she seemed to
these honest people a mysterious spirit from another world,
and they regarded it as a good omen when they caught a
glimpse of her. All along between Aries and Valence she was
spoken of as the "lovely fairy" of La Verberie.
If M. de Clameran detested the comtesse, Madame de la
Verberie execrated the marquis. If he nicknamed her "the
witch," she retaliated by calling him "the old gander." And
yet they ought to have agreed, for at heart they cherished the
came opinions, though viewing them in different ways. The
marquis considered himself a philosopher, scoffed at every-


FILE NUMBER 113 1057
thing, and had an excellent digestion. The comtesse nursed
her old grievances, and grew sallow and thin from rage and
envy. Still, they might have spent many pleasant evenings
together, for, after all, they were neighbors. From Clameran
could be seen Valentine's greyhound running about the park
of La Verberie; from La Verberie glimpses were had of the
. lights in the dining-room windows of Clameran. And, regu-
larly as these lights were discerned every evening, the com-
tesse would say in a spiteful tone: "Ah, now their orgies are
about to commence!" The two chateaux were only separated
by the fast-flowing Rhone, which at this spot was rather nar-
row. But between the two families existed a hatred deeper
and more difficult to avert than even the river's course. What
was the cause of this hatred? The comtesse, no less than the
marquis, would have found it difficult to tell. It was related
that under the reign of Henri IV, or Louis XIII, a La Verberie
had seduced a fair daughter of the De Clamerans. The mis-
deed in question led to a duel; swords flashed in the sunlight,
and blood stained the fresh green grass. This groundwork of
facts had been highly embellished by fiction; handed down from
generation to generation, it became a long tragic history of
perfidy, murder, and rapine, precluding any intercourse between
the two families.
The usual result followed, as it always does in real life, and
often in romances, which, however exaggerated they may be,
generally preserve a reflection of the truth which inspires them.
Gaston met Valentine at an entertainment, and fell in love with
her at first sight. Valentine saw Gaston, and from that moment
his image filled her heart. But so many obstacles separated
them! For more than a year they both religiously guarded
their secret, buried like a treasure in the inmost recesses of
their hearts. This year of charming, dangerous reveries de-
cided their fate. To the sweetness of their first impressions
a more tender sentiment succeeded; then came love, each of
them endowing the other with superhuman qualities and ideal
perfections. Deep, sincere passion expands only in solitude;
in the impure air of a city it fades and dies, like the hardy
plants of the south, which lose their color and perfume when
transplanted into our hot-houses. Gaston and Valentine had
only seen each other once, but seeing was to love; and,
as the time passed, their love grew stronger, until at last the
fatality which had presided over their first meeting brought
7—Vol. 3


1058
FILE NUMBER 113
them once more together. They chanced to be visiting at the
same time the old Duchesse d'Arlange, who had recently re-
turned to the neighborhood to dispose of her remaining prop-
erty. They spoke to each other, and, like old friends, surprised
to find that they entertained the same thoughts and echoed the
same memories. Again they were separated for months. But
ere long, as if by accident, both chanced to be regularly on
the banks of the Rhone at a certain hour, when they would sit
and gaze across the river at each other. Finally, one mild
May evening, when Madame de la Verberie had gone to Beau-
caire, Gaston ventured into the park, and presented himself
before Valentine. She was neither surprised nor indignant.
Genuine innocence displays none of the startled modesty as-
sumed by its conventional counterfeit. It never occurred to
Valentine to bid Gaston to leave her. She leaned upon his
arm, and strolled up and down the grand old avenue of oaks
with him. They did not say they loved each other, they felt
it; but they did say with tears in their eyes that their love
was hopeless. They well knew that the inveterate family feud
could never be overcome, and that the attempt would be mere
folly. They swore never, never to forget each other, and
mournfully resolved never to meet again, excepting just once
more!
Alas! Valentine was not without excuse. Possessed of a
timid, loving heart, her expansive affection had always been
repressed and chilled by a harsh mother. Never had there
been one of those long private talks between the Comtesse de
la Verberie and Valentine which enables a good mother to
read her daughter's heart like an open book. Madame de la
Verberie concerned herself only with her daughter's beauty.
She was wont to think: "Next winter I will borrow enough
to take the child to Paris, and I am much mistaken if her
handsome looks do not win her a rich husband and release me
from this wretched state of poverty." She considered this
loving her daughter! The second meeting of the lovers was
not the last. Gaston dared not trust a boatman, so that he
had to walk a league in order to cross the bridge. He thought
it would be shorter work to swim the river; but he could not
swim well, and to cross the Rhone where it ran so rapidly
was a rash proceeding even for the most skilful swimmer.
However, he practised privately, and to such good purpose
that one evening Valentine was startled by seeing him rise


FILE NUMBER 113
1059
out of the water at her feet. She made him promise never
to attempt this exploit again. Still he repeated the feat and
the promise the next and every successive evening. As Val-
entine was always imagining he was being drowned in the furi-
ous current, they agreed upon a signal to relieve her anxiety.
At the moment of starting, Gaston would place a light in his
window at Clameran, and in a quarter of an hour he would be
at his idol's feet.
What were the projects and hopes of the lovers? Alas!
they had no projects, and they hoped for nothing. Blindly,
thoughtlessly, almost fearlessly, they abandoned themselves to
the dangerous happiness of a daily meeting. Regardless of the
storm that threatened to burst over their heads, they reveled
in their present happiness. Is it not like this with every sincere
passion? Love subsists upon itself and in itself; and the very
things which ought to extinguish it, absence and obstacles,
only cause it to burn more fiercely. It is exclusive and troubled
neither with the past nor the future; it sees and cares for noth-
ing beyond its present enjoyment. Moreover, Valentine and
Gaston believed every one ignorant of their secret. They had
always been so exceedingly cautious! they had kept such a strict
watch! They flattered themselves that their conduct had been
a masterpiece of dissimulation and prudence. Valentine had
fixed upon a time for their meetings when she was certain her
mother would not miss her. Gaston had never confided his
secret to any one, not even to his brother Louis. They never
mentioned each other's name. They denied themselves a last
sweet word, a final kiss, when they felt these would be attended
with danger. Poor blind lovers! As if anything could be con-
cealed from the idle curiosity of country gossips; from the
slanderous spirits ever on the lookout for some new bit of scan-
dal, on which they improve and eagerly spread far and near.
They believed their secret well kept, whereas it had long since
been a matter of public notoriety; the story of their love, the
particulars of their meetings, were topics of conversation
throughout the neighborhood. Sometimes at dusk they would
see a boat gliding through the water, close to the shore, and
would say to each other: "It is a belated fisherman returning
home." They were mistaken. On board the boat were spies,
who, delighted at having discovered them, hastened to report,
with a number of false details, the result of their shameful
expedition.


1060
FILE NUMBER 113
One dreary November evening, Gaston was awakened to the
true state of affairs. The Rhone was so swollen by heavy rains
that an inundation was daily expected. To attempt to swim
across this impetuous torrent would be tempting Providence.
Gaston therefore went to Tarascon, intending to cross the
bridge there, and to walk along the bank to the usual place
of meeting at La Verberie, where Valentine expected him at
eleven o'clock. Whenever Gaston went to Tarascon, he dined
with a relative living there; but on this occasion a strange
fatality led him to accompany a friend to the Hotel of the
Three Emperors. After dinner, instead of going to the Cafe
Simon, their usual resort, they went to the little cafe facing
the open space where the fairs are held. They found the small
apartment crowded with young men of the town. Gaston and
his friend called for a bottle of beer, and commenced a game
at billiards. After they had been playing for a short time,
Gaston's attention was attracted by peals of forced laughter
from a party at the other end of the room. From this moment,
with his attention taken up by this continued laughter, of which
he believed himself the object, he knocked the balls about reck-
lessly. His conduct surprised his friend, who remarked to him:
"Why, what is the matter? You are missing the simplest
strokes."
"It is nothing."
The game continued a little while longer, when Gaston sud-
denly turned as white as a sheet, and, throwing down his cue,
strode toward the table which was occupied by five young men,
playing dominoes and drinking mulled wine. He addressed the
elder of the group, a handsome man of twenty-six, with large
bright eyes, and a fierce black mustache, named Jules Lazet.
"Repeat, if you dare," he said, in a voice trembling with pas-
sion, "the remark you just now made!"
"Who would prevent me?" asked Lazet calmly. "I said, and
I repeat, that a nobleman's daughter is no better than a work-
man's daughter; that virtue does not necessarily accompany a
title."
"You mentioned a particular name!"
Lazet rose from his chair as if he knew his answer would
exasperate Gaston, and that from words they would come to
blows. "I did," he said, with an insolent smile. "I mentioned
the name of the pretty little fairy of La Verberie."
At this all the young men, and even a couple of commercial


FILE NUMBER 113
1061
travelers who were dining at the cafe, rose and surrounded the
two disputants. The provoking looks, the murmurs, the shouts,
which were directed toward Gaston as he walked up to Lazet,
convinced him that he was surrounded by enemies. The wick-
edness and the evil tongue of the old marquis were bearing their
fruit. Rancor ferments quickly and fiercely in the hearts and
heads of the people of Provence. But Gaston de Clameran was
not a man to withdraw, even if his foes were a hundred, instead
of fifteen or twenty.
"No one but a coward," he said, in a clear, ringing voice,
which the pervading silence rendered almost startling; "no one
but a contemptible coward would be base enough to calumniate
a young girl who has neither father nor brother to defend her
honor."
"If she has no father or brother," sneered Lazet, "she has
her lovers, and that suffices."
The insulting words, "her lovers," enraged Gaston beyond
control; he struck Lazet violently in the face. Every one in the
cafe simultaneously uttered a cry of alarm. Lazet's violence of
character, his herculean strength and undaunted courage, were
well known. He sprang over the table that separated him from
Gaston, and seized him by the throat. Then arose a scene of
excitement and confusion. De Clameran's friend, attempting
to assist him, was knocked down with billiard-cues, and kicked
'under a table. Equally strong and agile, Gaston and Lazet
struggled for some minutes without either gaining an advan-
tage. Lazet, as loyal as he was courageous, would not accept
assistance from his friends. He continually called out: "Keep
away; let me fight it out alone!"
But the others were too excited to remain inactive spectators
of the scene. "A blanket, quick !" cried one of them; "a blanket
to toss the marquis!"
Five or six young men now rushed upon Gaston, and sep-
arated him from Lazet. Some tried to throw him down, others
to trip him up. He defended himself with the energy of de-
spair, exhibiting in his furious struggles a strength of which
no one would have thought him capable. He struck right and
left as he showered fierce epithets upon his adversaries, who
were twelve against one. He was endeavoring to get round
the billiard-table so as to be near the door, and had almost
succeeded, when an exultant cry arose: "Here is the blanket!"
"Put him in the blanket—the little fairy's lover!"


1062
FILE NUMBER 113
Gaston heard these cries. He saw himself overcome, and
suffering an ignoble outrage at the hands of these enraged men.
By a dexterous movement he extricated himself from the grasp
of the three who were holding him, and felled a fourth to the
ground. His arms were free; but all his enemies returned to
the charge. Then he seemed to lose his head, and seizing a
knife which lay on the table where the commercial travelers
had been dining, he plunged it twice into the breast of the
first man who rushed upon him. This unfortunate man was
Jules Lazet. He dropped to the ground. There was a second
of silent horror. Then four or five of the young men rushed
forward to raise Lazet. The landlady ran about wringing her
hands, and screaming with fright. Some of the younger assail-
ants rushed into the streets shouting: "Murder! Murder!" But
all the others turned upon Gaston with cries of vengeance.
He felt that he was lost. His enemies seized the first objects
they could lay their hands upon and he received several wounds.
He jumped upon the billiard-table, and making a rapid spring,
dashed at the large window of the cafe. He was fearfully cut
by the broken glass and splinters, but he passed through.
Gaston was outside, but he was not yet saved. Astonished
and disconcerted at his desperate feat, his assailants for a mo-
ment were stupefied; but recovering their presence of mind,
they started in pursuit of him. Gaston ran on from tree to
tree, making frequent turnings. Finally he determined, if pos-
sible, to reach Clameran. With incredible rapidity he darted
diagonally across the open space, in the direction of the em-
bankment which protects the valley of Tarascon from inunda-
tions. Unfortunately, upon reaching this embankment, Gaston
forgot that the entrance was partially closed by three posts,
such as are always placed before walks intended for foot-
passengers only, and rushed against one of them with such vio-
lence that he was thrown back and badly bruised. He quickly
sprang up; but his pursuers were upon him. This time he could
expect no mercy. The infuriated men at his heels yelled: "To
the Rhone with him! To the Rhone with the marquis!"
His forehead was cut, and the blood trickled from the wound
into his eyes, and blinded him. He must escape, or die in the
attempt. He had tightly clasped the bloody knife with which
he had stabbed Lazet. He struck his nearest foe; the man fell
to the ground with a heavy groan. This blow gained him a
moment's respite, which gave him time to pass between the


FILE NUMBER 113
1063
posts, and rush along the embankment. Two men remained
kneeling over their wounded companion, and five others resumed
the pursuit. But Gaston ran fast, for the horror of his situa-
tion tripled his energy. With elbows kept tight to his sides,
and holding his breath, he went along at such a speed that he
soon distanced his pursuers. Gaston ran on for another mile,
and only when he knew he was safe from capture sank down
at the foot of a tree to rest. Only forty minutes had elapsed
since Gaston and his friend entered the cafe. These forty
minutes had given him more cause for sorrow and remorse
than the whole of his previous life put together. He had killed
a man, and still convulsively held the murderous instrument; he
cast it from him with horror. He tried to account for the dread-
ful circumstances which had just taken place. If he alone had
been lost! But Valentine was dragged down with him; her
reputation was gone. And it was his want of self-command
which had cast to the winds this honor, confided to his keeping,
and which he held far dearer than his own.
But he could not remain here bewailing his misfortune. The
authorities must soon be on his track. They would certainly
go to the chateau of Clameran to seek him. He started to
walk, but with great pain, for the reaction had come, and his
nerves and muscles, so violently strained, had now begun to
relax. His hip and shoulder pained him almost beyond endur-
ance. The cut on his forehead had almost stopped bleeding,
but the coagulated blood round his eyes nearly blinded him.
After a painful walk he reached home at ten o'clock. The old
valet who admitted him started back terrified. "Good heavens,
sir! what is the matter ?"—"Silence!" said Gaston in the brief,
compressed tone always inspired by imminent danger, "silence!
Where is my father?"—"The marquis is in his room with M.
Louis. He has had a sudden attack of the gout, and can not
put his foot to the ground; but you, sir—" Gaston did not stop
to listen further. He hurried to his father's room. The old
marquis, who was playing backgammon with Louis, dropped his
dice-box with a cry of horror, when he looked up and saw his
eldest son standing before him covered with blood. "What is
the matter? what have you been doing, Gaston?" he exclaimed.
"I have come to embrace you for the last time, father, and to
ask for assistance to escape abroad."—"You wish to fly?"—"I
must, father, and instantly; I am pursued, the gendarmes may
be here at any moment. I have killed two men."


1064
FILE NUMBER 113
The marquis was so shocked that he forgot the gout, and
attempted to rise; a violent twinge made him drop back into his
chair. "Where? When?" he gasped.—"At Tarascon, in a
cafe, an hour ago; fifteen men attacked me, and I seized a knife
to defend myself."—"The old tricks of '93," said the marquis.
"Did they insult you, Gaston?"—"They insulted in my pres-
ence the name of a noble young girl."—"And you punished
the rascals? By heaven! you did well. But who was the lady
you defended?"
"Mademoiselle Valentine de la Verberie."
"What!" cried the marquis, "what! the daughter of that
old witch! Those accursed La Verberies have always brought
misfortune upon us." He certainly abominated the comtesse;
but his respect for her noble blood was greater than his re-
sentment toward her individuality, and he added: "Nevertheless,
Gaston, you did your duty."
Meanwhile, the curiosity of Jean, the marquis's old valet,
made him venture to open the door, and ask: "Did Monsieur
the Marquis ring?"—"No, you rascal," answered M. de Cla-
meran, "you know very well I did not. But now you are here,
be useful. Quickly bring some clothes for M. Gaston, some
clean linen, and some warm water: everything necessary to
dress his wounds."
These orders were promptly executed, and Gaston found he
was not so badly hurt as he had thought. With the exception
of a deep stab in his left shoulder, his wounds were not seri-
ous. The marquis made a sign to the servants to leave the
room. "Do you still think you ought to leave France?" he
asked Gaston.—"Yes, father."—"My brother ought not to hesi-
tate," interposed Louis; "he will be arrested here, thrown into
prison, vilified in court, and—who knows?"—"We all know
well enough that he will be convicted," grumbled the old mar-
quis. "These are the benefits of the immortal Revolution, as it
is called."
"There is no time to lose," observed Louis.—"True," said
the marquis, "but to fly, to go abroad, one must have money;
and I have none by me to give to him."—"Father!"—"No, I
have none. Ah, what a prodigal old fool I have been! Have
I even a hundred louis?" Then he told Louis to open the
secretary. The drawer in which the money was kept contained
only nine hundred and twenty francs in gold. "Nine hundred
and twenty francs," cried the marquis; "it is not enough. The


FILE NUMBER 113
1065
eldest son of our house can not fly the country with this
paltry sum."
He sat lost in reflection. Suddenly his brow cleared, and
he told Louis to open a secret drawer in the secretary, and
bring him a small casket. Then the marquis took from his
neck a black ribbon, to which was attached the key of the
casket. His sons observed with what deep emotion he unlocked
it, and slowly took out a necklace, a cross, several rings, and
various other jewels. His countenance assumed a solemn ex-
pression. "Gaston, my dear son," he said, "at a time like this
your life may depend upon bought assistance; money is power."
—"I am young, father, and have courage."—"Listen to me.
These jewels belonged to your sainted mother, a noble woman,
who is now in heaven watching over us. They have never left
me. During my days of misery and want, when I was com-
pelled to earn a livelihood by teaching music in London, I
piously treasured them. I never thought of selling them; and
to pawn them, in the hour of direst need, would have seemed
to me a sacrilege. But now, take them, my son, and sell them;
they will fetch twenty thousand francs."—"No, my father, no,
I can not take them!"—"You must, Gaston. If your mother
were on earth, she would tell you to take them, as I do now.
I command you to take and use them. The safety, the honor,
of the heir of the house of De Clameran must not be imperiled
for want of a little gold."
With tearful eyes, Gaston sank on his knees, and, carrying
his father's hand to his lips, murmured: "Thanks, father,
thanks! In my heedless, ungrateful presumption I have hith-
erto misjudged you. I did not know your noble character.
Forgive me. I accept; but I take them as a sacred deposit,
confided to my honor, and for which I will some day account
to you."
In their emotion, the marquis and Gaston forgot the threat-
ened danger. But Louis was not touched by the affecting scene.
"Time presses," he said: "you had better hasten."—"He is
right," cried the marquis; "go, Gaston, go, my son; and Heaven
protect the heir of the De Clamerans!" Gaston slowly got up,
and said with an embarrassed air: "Before leaving you, father,
I must fulfil a sacred duty. I have not told you everything. I
love Valentine, the young girl whose honor I defended this
evening."—"Oh!" cried the marquis, thunderstruck, "oh, oh!"
—"And I entreat you, father, to ask Madame de la Verberie


1066
FILE NUMBER 113
for her daughter's hand. Valentine will gladly join me abroad,
and share my exile."
Gaston stopped, frightened at the effect of his words. The
old marquis had become crimson, or rather purple, as if struck
by apoplexy. "Preposterous!" he gasped. "Impossible! Per-
fect folly!"—"I love her, father, and have promised her never
to marry another."—"Then you will remain a bachelor."—"I
shall marry her!" cried Gaston excitedly. "I shall marry her
because I have sworn I would, and I will not be so base as to
desert her."—"Nonsense !"—"I tell you Mademoiselle de la Ver-
berie must and shall be my wife. It is too late for me to draw
back. Even if I no longer loved her, I would still marry her,
because she has given herself to me; because, can't you under-
stand? what was said at the cafe to-night was true: Valentine
is my mistress."
Gaston's confession, forced from him by circumstances, pro-
duced a very different impression from that which he had ex-
pected. The enraged marquis instantly became cool, and his
mind seemed relieved of an immense weight. A wicked joy
sparkled in his eyes, as he replied: "I congratulate you, Gaston."
"Sir!" interrupted Gaston indignantly; "I have told you that
I love her, and have promised to marry her. You seem to for-
get."—"Ta, ta, ta!" cried the marquis, "your scruples are ab-
surd. You know full well that one of her ancestors led one
of our girls astray. Now we are quits! And so she is your
mistress—"
"I swear by my mother's memory that Valentine shall be
my wife!"—"Do you dare assume that tone toward me?" cried
the exasperated marquis. "Never, understand me clearly, never
will I give my consent. You know how dear to me is the honor
of our house. Well, I would rather see you tried for murder,
and even condemned, than married to this hussy!"
This last word was too much for Gaston. "Then your wish
shall be gratified, sir. I will remain here, and be arrested. I
care not what becomes of me! What is life to me without the
hope of Valentine? Take back these jewels; they are useless
now."
A terrible scene would have ensued between the father and
son had they not been interrupted by a domestic who rushed
into the room, and excitedly exclaimed: "The gendarmes'! here
are the gendarmes!" At this news the old marquis started up,
and seemed to forget his gout, which had yielded to more vio-


FILE NUMBER 113
1067
lent emotions. "Gendarmes!" he cried, "in my house, at Cla-
meran! They shall pay dear for their insolence! You will
help me, will you not, my men?"—"Yes, yes," answered the ser-
vants. "Down with the gendarmes! down with them!"
Fortunately, Louis, during all this excitement, preserved his
presence of mind. "To resist would be folly," he said. "Even
if we repulsed the gendarmes to-night, they would return to-
morrow with reenforcements."—"Louis is right," said the
marquis bitterly. "Might is right, as they said in '93. The
gendarmes are all-powerful. Do they not even have the im-
pertinence to come up to me while I am out shooting, and ask
to see my license ?—I, a De Clameran, show a license!"
"Where are they?" asked Louis of the servants.
"At the outer gate," answered La Verdure, one of the grooms.
"Do you not hear the noise they are making with their sabres,
sir?"—"Then Gaston must escape by the garden door."—"It
is guarded, sir," said La Verdure in despair, "and the little
gate in the park also. There seems to be a regiment of them.
They are even stationed along the park walls."
"Then." said the marquis, "we are surrounded?"—"Not a
single chance of escape," groaned Jean.—"We shall see about
that!" cried the marquis. "Ah, we are not the strongest, but
we can be the most artful. Attention! Louis, my son, you
and La Verdure go down to the stables, and mount the fastest
horses; then as quietly as possible station yourselves, you,
Louis, at the park gate, and you, La Verdure, at the outer gate.
You others, go and post yourselves at either of the gates. Upon
the signal I shall give by firing off a pistol, let both gates be
instantly opened. Louis and La Verdure must spur on their
horses, and do all they can to pass through the gendarmes,
who are sure to follow in pursuit."
"I will make them run," said La Verdure.
"Listen. During this time, Gaston, aided by Jean, will scale
the park wall, and hasten along the river-bank to the cabin of
Pilorel, the fisherman. He is an old sailor, and devoted to our
house. He will take Gaston in his boat; and, when they are
once on the Rhone, there is nothing to be feared save heaven.
Now go, all of you; do as I have said."
Left alone with his son, the old marquis slipped the jewels
into a silk purse, and stretching out his arms toward Gaston
said, in broken accents: "Come here, my son, and let me bless
you." Gaston hesitated. "Come," insisted the old man, "I


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must embrace you for the last time. I may never see you
again. Save yourself, save your name, Gaston, and then—you
know how I love you. Take back these jewels—" For an
instant father and son clung to each other, overpowered by
emotion. But the continued noise at the gate now reached
their ears. "We must part!" said M. de Clameran. And,
taking a pair of small pistols, he handed them to his son, and
added with averted eyes: "You must not be captured alive,
Gaston!"
Unfortunately Gaston did not immediately hasten to the park
wall. He yearned more than ever to see Valentine, and he
perceived a possibility of being able to bid her farewell. He
could persuade Pilorel to stop the boat when they reached the
park of La Verberie. He therefore employed the few minutes
respite that destiny had allowed him in going to his room
and placing in the window the signal that would tell Valentine
he was coming; and even waited for an answering light.
"Come, M. Gaston," entreated old Jean, who could not under-
stand this strange conduct. "For heaven's sake, make haste!
your life is at stake!"
At .last he came running down the stairs, and had just
reached the hall when a pistol-shot, the signal given by the
marquis, resounded through the house. The swinging open of
the large gate, the rattling of the sabres of the gendarmes, the
furious galloping of many horses, and a chorus of loud shouts
and angry oaths, were next heard. Leaning against the win-
dow of his room, his brow covered with perspiration, the
Marquis de Clameran breathlessly awaited the issue of this
expedient, upon which depended the life of his eldest son. His
measures were excellent. As he had planned, Louis and La
Verdure managed to dash out through the gates, one to the
right and the other to the left, each one pursued by a crowd of
mounted men. Their horses flew like arrows, and kept far
ahead of the pursuers. Gaston was as good as saved, when
fate—but was it only fate ?—interfered. Suddenly Louis's horse
stumbled, and fell to the ground with his rider under him.
Immediately surrounded by the gendarmes, M. de Clameran's
second son was easily recognized. "He is not the murderer!"
cried one of the young men of the town. "Let us hurry back,
they are trying to deceive us!"
They returned just in time to see, by the uncertain light
of the moon peeping from behind a cloud, Gaston climbing the


FILE NUMBER 113
1069
wall. "There is our man!" exclaimed a corporal. "Keep
your eyes open, and gallop after him!" They spurred their
horses, and hastened to the spot where Gaston had jumped
from the wall. He found himself in an immense madder-field,
and it is well known that this valuable root, having to remain
in the ground three years, the furrows are necessarily plowed
very deep. Horses cannot gallop over its uneven surface;
indeed, they can scarcely stand steadily upon it. This circum-
stances brought the gendarmes to a dead halt. Jumping from
furrow to furrow, Gaston soon left his pursuers far behind,
and reached a vast plantation covered with undergrowth. The
horsemen urged each other on, and called out every time they
saw Gaston running from one clump of trees to another. Being
familiar with the country, young De Clameran did not despair.
He knew that after the plantation came a field of thistles, and
that the two were separated by a wide, deep ditch. He re-
solved to jump into this ditch, run along the bottom, and climb
out at the further end, while the others were still looking
for him among the trees. But he had forgotten the rising of
the river.
Upon reaching the ditch, he found it full of water. Dis-
couraged but not disconcerted, he was about to jump across,
when three horsemen appeared on the opposite side. They
were gendarmes who had ridden round the madder-field and
the plantation, knowing they would easily make up for lost
time on the level ground of the field of thistles. At the sight of
these three men, Gaston stood perplexed. He would certainly be
captured if he attempted to run through the field, at the end
of which he could see the cabin of Pilorel, the fisherman. To
retrace his steps would be to surrender to the hussars. At a
little distance on his right was a small wood, but he was sepa-
rated from it by a road upon which he heard the sound of
horses' hoofs. He would certainly be caught there also. On
his left was the surging, foaming river. What was to be done?
He felt the circle of which he was the centre fast narrowing
around him. Must he, then, fall back upon the pistols, and
there, in the midst of the country, hunted by gendarmes like
a wild beast, blow his brains out? No! He would seize the
one chance of salvation left him—the river. Holding a pistol
in either hand, he ran to the edge of a little promontory,
projecting a few yards into the Rhone. This cape of refuge
was formed by the giant trunk of a fallen tree, which swayed


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and cracked fearfully under Gaston's weight, as he stood on
the further end, and looked back upon his pursuers; there
were fifteen of them, some on the right, some on the left, all
uttering cries of joy.
"Do you surrender?" called out the corporal of gendarmes.
'Gaston did not answer; he was weighing his chances. He
was above the park of La Verberie; would, he be able to swim
there, granting that he was not swept away and drowned the
instant he plunged into the angry torrent before him? He
pictured Valentine,' at that very moment, watching, waiting
and praying for him on the other shore.
"For the second time do you surrender?" cried the corporal.
The unfortunate man did not hear; he was deafened by the
waters which were roaring and rushing past him. Although
death stared him in the face, Gaston calmly considered which
would be the best spot to take his plunge, and commended his
soul to God.
"He will stand there until we go after him," said a gendarme;
"so we may as well do so at once." But Gaston had finished
his prayer. He flung his pistols in the direction of the gen-
darmes: he was ready. He made the sign of the cross, and then,
with outstretched arms, plunged into the Rhone. The violence
of his spring loosened the few remaining roots of the old tree;
it swayed for a moment, turned over, and then rapidly drifted
way. The spectators uttered a cry of horror and pity rather
than of anger.
"That is the end of him," muttered one of the gendarmes;
"he is done for; a man can't fight against the Rhone; his body
will be washed ashore at Aries to-morrow."
The hussars seemed really grieved at the tragic fate of this
brave, handsome, young man, whom a moment before they
had pursued so tenaciously.
"An ugly piece of work!" grumbled the old sergeant who
had command of the hussars.
"Bah!" exclaimed the philosophic corporal, "the Rhone is
no worse than the assize-court. Right about, my men. The
thing that troubles me is the idea of that poor old man who
is waiting to hear his son's fate. I would not be the one to
tell him what has happened. March!"
lover came not.


FILE NUMBER 113 1071

ALENTINE knew that fatal evening that Gaston would
have to walk to Tarascon to cross the Rhone by the sus-
pension bridge which connects Tarascon with Beaucaire, and
did not expect to see him until eleven o'clock, the time which
they had agreed upon the previous evening. But, happening
to look up at the windows of Clameran long before the ap-
pointed hour, she saw lights hurrying to and fro in the different
rooms in a most unusual manner. A secret and imperious voice
within her breast told her that something terrible and extraor-
dinary was going on at the chateau of Clameran. With her
eyes fastened upon the dark mass looming in the distance she
watched the going and coming of the lights, as if their move-
ments would give her a clue to what was taking place within
those walls. Her anxiety grew more intolerable every moment,
when suddenly the well-known, beloved signal appeared in
Gaston's window, informing her that her lover was about to
swim across the Rhone. She could scarcely believe her eyes,
and not until the signal had been thrice repeated did she an-
swer it. Then, more dead than alive, she hastened, trembling,
through the park to the river-bank. Never had she seen the
Rhone so furious. Since Gaston was risking his life to see her,
she could no longer doubt that something fearful had occurred
at Clameran. She fell on her knees, and with clasped hands,
her wild eyes fixed upon the dark waters, besought the pitiless
stream to yield up her dear Gaston. Every dark object floating
by assumed a human form. Once she thought she heard above
the roaring of the water, the terrible, agonized cry of a drown-
ing man. She watched and prayed, but her lover came not.
While the gendarmes and hussars slowly and silently returned
to the chateau of Clameran, Gaston experienced one of those
miracles which would seem incredible were they not confirmed
by the most convincing proof. When he first plunged into the
river, he rolled over five or six times, and was then drawn
toward the bottom. In a swollen river the current varies at


1072
FILE NUMBER 113
different depths, being much stronger in some places than in
others; hence the great danger. Gaston knew this, and guarded
against it. Instead of wasting his strength in vain struggles,
he held his breath and drifted with the flood. After he had
been carried a considerable distance, he made a sudden spring,
which brought him to the surface. Rapidly drifting by him was
the old tree, and for some seconds he was entangled in a mass
of rubbish; an eddy set him free. He did not dream of mak-
ing for the opposite shore. He determined to land whereso-
ever he could. With great presence of mind he exerted all his
strength, so as to slowly take an oblique course, knowing well,
however, that there was no hope for him if the current took him
crosswise. This fearful current is, moreover, as capricious as
it is terrible; sometimes rushing to the right, sometimes to the
left, sparing one shore and ravaging the other. Gaston, familiar
with every bend of the river, knew that there was an abrupt
turning just below Clameran, and relied upon the eddy formed
there to sweep him in the direction of La Verberie. His ex-
pectations were fulfilled. An oblique current suddenly swept
him toward the right bank, and, had he not been on his guard,
would have sunk him. He was still some distance from the
shore, when, with lightning rapidity, he was swept past the
park of La Verberie. He caught a glimpse of a white shadow
among the trees: Valentine was waiting for him. At a con-
siderable distance below, finding himself nearer the bank, he
attempted to land. Feeling a foothold, he twice raised himself,
each time being thrown down by the force of the current.
Finally seizing some willow branches, and, clinging to them,
he climbed up the steep bank. Without waiting to take breath,
he darted off at once in the direction of the park. It was
time he arrived, for, overcome by the intensity of her emotions,
Valentine had fainted, lying apparently lifeless on the ground.
Gaston's kisses aroused her.
"You!" she cried in a tone that revealed all the love she
felt for him. "Is it indeed you? Then God heard my prayers,
and had pity upon us."
"No, Valentine," he murmured, "God has had no pity."
The sad tones of Gaston's voice convinced her that her pre-
sentiment of evil was well founded. "What new misfortune
strikes us now?" she exclaimed. "Why have you thus risked
your life—a life far dearer to me than my own? What has
happened?"


FILE NUMBER 113
1078
"This is what has happened, Valentine: our secret is a secret
no longer; our love is the jest of the country."
She shrank back, and, burying her face in her hands, moaned
piteously.
"This," continued Gaston, forgetting everything but his pres-
ent misery; "this is the result of the blind enmity of our fam-
ilies. Our noble and pure love, which ought to be a glory in
the eyes of God and man, has to be concealed, as though it were
some evil deed."
"All is known, all is discovered!" murmured Valentine.
In the midst of the angry elements, Gaston had preserved
his self-possession; but the heart-broken tones of his beloved
Valentine overcame him. "And I was unable," he cried, "to
crush the villains who dared to utter your adored name. Ah,
why did I only kill two of the scoundrels!"
"You have killed some one, Gaston!"
"Yes," he replied, trying to overcome his emotion; "I have
killed two men. I swam across the Rhone to save the honor
of my name. Only a short time ago all the gendarmes of the
place were pursuing me. I have escaped them, and now am
flying the country."
Valentine struggled to preserve her composure. "Whither
do you hope to fly?" she asked.
"I know not. God only knows whither I am to go or what
will become of me. I must assume a false name and a dis-
guise, and try to reach some foreign land which offers a refuge
to murderers." Gaston stopped, expecting an answer to this
speech. None came, and he resumed with extraordinary vehe-
mence: "And before disappearing, Valentine, I wished to see
you, because now, when I am abandoned by every one else,
I have relied upon you, and had faith in your love. A tie
unites us, my darling, stronger than all other earthly bonds—
the tie of love. Before God you are my wife; I am yours and
you are mine for life! Would you let me fly alone, Valentine?
To the pain and toil of exile, to the bitter regrets of a ruined
life, could you add the torture of separation?"
"Gaston, I implore you—"
"Ah, I knew it," he interrupted, mistaking the sense of her
exclamation; "I knew you would not let me go alone. I knew
your sympathetic heart would long to share the burden of my
miseries. This moment effaces the wretched suffering I have
endured. Let us fly! Having our happiness to defend, I fear


1074
FILE NUMBER 113
nothing; I can brave and conquer all. Come, my Valentine,
we will escape, or die together! This is the long-dreamed-of
happiness! The glorious future of love and liberty opens
before us!"
He had worked himself into a state of delirious excitement.
He seized Valentine round the waist and tried to carry her
off. But, as his exaltation increased, she managed to regain her
composure. Gently, yet with a firmness he had not expected in
her, she withdrew herself from his embrace, and said sadly,
but resolutely: "What you wish, Gaston, is impossible."
This cold, inexplicable resistance seemed to confound her
lover. "Impossible?" he stammered.
"You know me well enough, Gaston, to be convinced that
sharing the greatest hardships with you would to me be the
height of happiness. But above your pleading, to which I fain
would yield, above the voice of my own heart, which urges
me to follow you, there is another—powerful, imperious—which
bids me stay: the voice of duty."
"What! Would you think of remaining here after the hor-
rible affair of to-night, after the scandal that will be spread
abroad to-morrow!"
"What do you mean? That I am lost, dishonored? Am I
any more so to-day than I was yesterday? Do you think that
the jeers and scoffing of the world could make me suffer more
than the pangs of my guilty conscience? I have long since
passed judgment upon myself, Gaston; and, although the sound
of your voice and the touch of your hand made me forget all
save the bliss of love, no sooner had you gone than I wept
tears of shame and remorse."
Gaston listened, motionless, astounded. He seemed to see
a new Valentine before him, an entirely different woman from
the one whose tender soul he thought he knew so well. "And
your mother?" he murmured.
"It is my duty to her that keeps me here. Do vou wish me
to prove an unnatural daughter, and desert her now that she
is poor, lonely, and friendless, with no one but me to cling to?
Could I abandon her to follow my lover?"
"But our enemies will inform her of everything, Valentine;
she will know all."
"No matter. The dictates of conscience must be obeyed.
Ah, why can I not, even at the price of my life, spare her
the agony of learning that her only daughter, her Valentine,


FILE NUMBER 113
1075
has disgraced her name? She may be hard, cruel, pitiless
toward me; but have I not deserved it? Oh, my only friend,
we have been basking in a dream too beautiful to last! I have
long dreaded this awful awakening. Like two weak, credu-
lous fools, we imagined that happiness could exist beyond the
pale of duty. Sooner or later stolen joys must be dearly paid
for. We must bow our heads and drink the cup to the dregs."
This cold reasoning, this sad resignation, was more than
Gaston's fiery nature could bear. "Do not talk like that!" he
cried. "Can you not feel that the bare idea of your suffering
this humiliation drives me mad?"
"Alas! I must expect greater humiliation yet."
"What do you mean, Valentine?"
"Know then, Gaston—" But she stopped short, hesitated, and
then added: "Nothing! I know not what I say."
Had Gaston been less excited, he would have suspected some
new misfortune beneath Valentine's reticence; but his mind was
too full of his one idea. "All hope is not lost," he resumed.
"My father is kind hearted, and was touched by my love and
despair. I am sure that my letters, together with the inter-
cession of my brother Louis, will induce him to ask Madame de
la Verberie for your hand."
This notion seemed to terrify Valentine. "Heaven forbid!"
she exclaimed, "that the marquis should take this rash step!"
"Why, Valentine?"
"Because my mother would reject his offer; because, I must
confess it now, she has sworn I shall marry none but a rich
man; and your father is not rich."
"Good heavens!" cried Gaston with disgust, "and it is to such
a mother that you sacrifice me?"
"She is my mother; that is sufficient. I have not the right
to judge her. My duty is to remain with her, and remain I
will." Valentine's manner showed such determined resolution
that Gaston saw that further prayers would be in vain.
"Alas!" he cried as he wrung his hands with despair, "you
do not love me; you have never loved me!"
"Gaston, Gaston! you do not think what you say!"
"If you loved me," he cried, "you could never, at this mo-
ment of separation, have the cruel courage to reason and cal-
culate so coldly. Ah, far different is my love for you. Without
you the world is void; to lose you is to die. So let the Rhone
take back this life so miraculously saved; for it is now a bur-


1076
FILE NUMBER 113
den to me!" And he would have rushed toward the river,
determined to die, had Valentine not held him back. "Is this
the way to show your love for me?" she asked.
"What is the use of living?" he murmured dejectedly. "What
is left to me now?"
"God is left to us, Gaston; and in His hands lies our future."
Like a shipwrecked man seizing a rotten plank, Gaston
eagerly caught at the word "future." "Your command shall be
obeyed," he cried with sudden enthusiasm. "Away with weak-
ness! Yes, I will live, and struggle, and triumph. Madame
de la Verberie wants gold; well, in three years I shall either
be rich or dead." With clasped hands Valentine thanked heaven
for this determination, which was more than she had dared
hope for. "But," continued Gaston, "before going away I
wish to intrust a sacred deposit to your keeping." And, draw-
ing the jewels from his pocket and handing them to Valentine,
he added: "These jewels belonged to my poor mother; you alone
are worthy to wear them. I always intended them for you."
And as she refused to accept them, he insisted. "Take them
as a pledge of my return. If I do not come back within three
years, you will know that I am dead, and then you must keep
them as a. souvenir of him who loved you so fondly." She
burst into tears, and took the jewels. "And now," resumed
Gaston, "I have a last request to make. Everybody believes
me dead, but I can not let my poor old father remain under
this impression. Swear to me that you will go yourself to-
morrow morning and tell him that I am still alive."
"I will tell him," she replied.
Gaston felt that he must now tear himself away before his
courage failed him. He enveloped Valentine in a last fond
embrace, and started up. "What is your plan of escape?" she
asked.
"I shall go to Marseilles, and take refuge in a friend's house
until I can procure a passage on board some foreign-bound
vessel."
"You must have assistance; I will secure you a guide in
whom I have unbounded confidence; old Menoul, who lives
near us. He owns the boat which he plies on the Rhone."
The lovers passed through the little park gate, of which
Gaston had the key, and soon reached the boatman's cabin.
He was dozing in his easy-chair by the fireside. When Valen-
tine stood before him with Gaston, the old man jumped up,


FILE NUMBER 113
1077
and kept rubbing his eyes, thinking it must be a dream. "M.
Menoul," said Valentine, "M. Gaston is compelled to hide him-
self; he wants to reach the sea, so that he can embark secretly.
Can you take him in your boat as far as the mouth of the
Rhone?"
"It is impossible," said the old man, shaking his head; "I
dare not venture on the river in its present state."
"But, M. Menoul, you would be rendering an immense ser-
vice to me; would you not venture for my sake?"
"For your sake? certainly I would, Mademoiselle Valentine;
I am ready to start." He looked at Gaston, and, seeing his
clothes wet and covered with mud, said to him: "Allow me,
sir, to offer you some clothes of a son of mine who is dead;
they will, at least, serve as a disguise: come this way."
In a few minutes old Menoul returned with Gaston, whom
no one would have recognized in his sailor dress. Valentine
went with them to the place where the boat was moored. While
the old man was unfastening it, the disconsolate lovers tear-
fully embraced each other for the last time. "In three years,"
cried Gaston, "in three years!"
"Adieu, mademoiselle," interrupted the old boatman; "and
you, sir, hold fast and keep steady." Then, with a vigorous
shove of the boat-hook, he sent the boat into the middle of
the stream.
Three days later, thanks to the assistance of old Menoul,
Gaston was concealed on board the American three-master,
"Tom Jones," Captain Warth, which was to start the next day
for Valparaiso.
/^•OLD and white like a marble statue, Valentine stood on
the river-bank, watching the frail bark which was carrying
her lover away. It flew along like a bird in a tempest, and,
after a few seconds, seemed like a black speck in the midst of
the heavy fog. Gaston gone, she had no motive for concealing
her despair; and, wringing her hands, she sobbed as if her


1078
FILE NUMBER 113
heart would break. Her calmness, bravery, and hopefulness
were gone. She felt crushed and lost, as if that swiftly dis-
appearing bark had carried off the better part of herself. For
while Gaston treasured a ray of hope, she looked forward only
to shame and sorrow. The horrible facts which stared her in
the face convinced her that happiness in this life was over; the
future was worse than blank. She wept and shuddered at the
prospect. She slowly retraced her footsteps through the little
gate which had so often admitted Gaston; and, as she closed
it behind her, she fancied she was placing an impassable barrier
between herself and happiness. Before retiring, Valentine care-
fully walked round the chateau, and examined the windows of
her mother's chamber. They were still brilliantly lighted, for
Madame de la Verberie passed a part of the night in reading,
and did not rise till late in the morning. Enjoying the com-
forts, which are not expensive in the country, the selfish com-
tesse was little concerned about her daughter. She left her at
perfect liberty to go and come, and to take long walks, never
• making a remark.
But on this night Valentine feared being seen. She would
be called upon to explain her torn, muddy dress—and what
answer could she give? Fortunately she reached her room
without meeting any one, and there, seated before her little
. work-table, she examined the purse of jewels. It would be a
sweet, sad comfort to wear the simplest of the rings, she
thought; but her mother would ask her where it came from,
and she would have to deceive her again. She kissed the purse,
in memory of Gaston, and then concealed it at the bottom of a
drawer.
Blinded by his passion, Gaston did not think of the obstacles
and dangers to be braved in going to Clam'eran to inform the
old marquis of his son's miraculous preservation. Valentine
saw them only too clearly; yet it did not occur to her for an
instant to break her promise or delay to go. At sunrise she
dressed herself. When the bell was ringing for early mass, she
started on her errand. One of the servants, Mihonne, who
always waited on Valentine, was scrubbing the hall.
"If my mother asks for me," she said to the girl, "tell her
I have gone to early mass."
As she often went to church at this hour, there was nothing
to be feared so far; but Valentine knew that she could scarcely
return in time for breakfast, for she must walk a league to the


FILE NUMBER 113
1079
bridge, and it was another league to Clameran; four leagues
there and back. She set out at a rapid pace. The conscious-
ness of performing an extraordinary action, and the feverish
anxiety of incurred peril, increased her haste. She forgot
fatigue, and that she had worn herself out with weeping all
night. It was after eight, however, when she reached the long
avenue leading to the chateau of Clameran. She had only pro-
ceeded a few steps along it, when she saw old Jean, the mar-
quis's valet, coming down the path. She stopped and waited
for him, and he hastened his steps at sight of her. He looked
very much excited, and his eyes were swollen with weeping.
To Valentine's surprise, he did not take off his cap to her, but
accosted her most rudely.
"Are you going to the chateau, mademoiselle?"
"Yes."
"If you are going after M. Gaston," continued the servant
with an insolent sneer, "you are taking useless trouble. M.
Gaston is dead, mademoiselle; he sacrificed himself for a mis-
tress he had."
Valentine turned white at this insult, but took no notice of
it. Jean, who expected to see her overcome by the dreadful
news, was bewildered and indignant at her composure. "I am
going to the chateau," she resumed quietly, "to speak to the
marquis."
Jean stifled a sob, and said: "Then it is not worth while to
go any farther."
"Why?"
"Because the Marquis de Clameran died at five o'clock this
morning."
Valentine leaned against a tree to prevent herself from fall-
ing. "Dead!" she gasped.
"Yes," said Jean fiercely, "yes, dead!" A faithful servant
of the old regime, Jean shared all the passions, weaknesses,
friendships, and enmities of his master. He had a horror of
the La Verberies. And now he saw in Valentine the woman
who had caused the death of the marquis whom he had served
for forty years, and of Gaston whom he worshiped. "I will
tell you how he died," continued the bitter old man. "Yester-
day evening, when the news reached the marquis that his eldest
son was dead, he who was hardy as an oak dropped down as if
struck by lightning. I was there. He beat the air wildly with
his hands, and fell without uttering one word. We put him to


1080
FILE NUMBER 113
bed, and M. Louis galloped into Tarascon for a doctor. But
the blow had struck too deeply. When Dr. Raget arrived he
said there was no hope. At daybreak, the marquis recovered
consciousness enough to ask for M. Louis, with whom he re-
mained alone for some minutes. His last words were: 'Father
and son on the same day, there will be rejoicing at la Ver-
berie.'"
Valentine might have soothed the faithful servant's sorrow
by telling him that Gaston still lived; but she feared it would
be indiscreet, and so, unfortunately, she merely said: "Then I
must see M. Louis."
These words seemed to anger Jean the more. "You!" he
exclaimed. "You would dare to take such a step, Mademoiselle
de la Verberie? What! would you presume to appear before
him after what has happened? I will never allow it! And
you had best, moreover, take my advice, and return home at
once. I will not answer for the tongues of the servants here,
when they see you." And, without waiting for an answer, he
hurried away.
What could Valentine do? Humiliated and miserable, she
could only wearily drag her aching limbs back the way she had
so rapidly come but a short time before. On the road, she met
many country people coming from the town, where they had
heard of the events of the previous night; and at every step
the poor girl was greeted with insulting looks and mocking
bows. When she reached La Verberie, she found Mihonne
watching for her.
"Ah, mademoiselle," said the girl, "make haste. Madame
had a visitor this morning, and ever since she left has been
calling out for you. Hurry; but take care what you do, for she
is in a violent passion."
Madame de la Verberie had preserved the manners of the
good old times, when grand ladies swore like troopers. When
Valentine appeared, she was overwhelmed with coarse epithets
and violent abuse. The comtesse had been informed of every-
thing, with many gross additions added by public scandal. An
old dowager, her most intimate friend, had hurried over early
in the morning to offer her this most poisoned dish of gossip,
seasoned with her own pretended condolences. In this sad
affair, Madame de la Verberie mourned less over her daughter's
loss of reputation than over the ruin of her own projects—
projects of arranging a grand marriage for Valentine, and of


FILE NUMBER 113
1081
herself living in luxury the rest of her days. A young girl so
compromised would not find it easy to get a husband. It would
now be absolutely necessary to keep her two years longer in the
country before introducing her into Parisian society. The
world must have time to forget this shameful affair.
"You worthless wretch!" cried the comtesse, red with fury;
"is it thus you respect the noble traditions of our family? Up
to now it has never been considered necessary to watch the
La Verberies; they could take care of their honor: but it was
reserved for you to take advantage of your liberty to lower
yourself to the level of those harlots who are the disgrace of
their sex!"
With a sinking heart, Valentine had foreseen this tirade. She
felt that it was only a fitting punishment for her guilty love.
Knowing that her mother's indignation was just, she meekly
hung her head like a repentant culprit at the bar of justice.
But this silence only exasperated the angry comtesse the more.
"Why do you not answer me?" she screamed with a threatening
gesture.
"What can I say, mother?"
"Say, miserable girl? Say that they lied when they accused
a La Verberie of disgracing her name! Speak, defend your-
self!" Valentine mournfully shook her head, but said nothing.
"It is true, then!" shrieked the comtesse, beside herself with
rage; "what they said is true ¥'
"Forgive me, mother," moaned the poor girl; "forgive me."
"What! Forgive you! I have not then been deceived. For-
give you! Do you own it then, you hussy! Good heavens!
what blood have you in your veins? Do you not know that
some faults should be persistently denied, no matter how glaring
the evidence against them? And you are my daughter! Can
you not understand that an ignominious confession like this
should never be forced from a woman by any human power?
But no, you have lovers, and unblushingly avow it. Glory in
it, it would be something new!"
"Alas! you are pitiless, mother!"
"Did you have any pity for me, my dutiful daughter? Did
it never occur to you that your disgrace might kill me? Ah!
many a time, I dare say, you and your lover have laughed at my
blind confidence. For I had confidence in you as in myself.
I believed you to be as chaste and pure as when I watched you
lying in your cradle. And it has come to this: drunken men
8-Vol. 3


1082
FILE NUMBER 113
make a jest of your name in the wine-shops, then fight about
you, and kill each other. I intrusted to you the honor of our
name, and what have you done with it? You have given it to
the first comer!" This was too much for Valentine. The
words, "first comer," wounded her pride more than all the
other abuse heaped upon her. She tried to protest against this
unmerited insult. "Ah, I have made a mistake. Your lover is
not the first comer," said the comtesse. "With the number you
had to choose from, you must fix on the heir of our enemies
of a hundred years, Gaston de Clameran. A coward, who
publicly boasted of your favors; a wretch, who tried to avenge
himself for the heroism of our ancestors by ruining you and
me—an old woman and a child!"
"No, mother, that is false. He loved me, and, had he dared
hope for your consent—"
"He would have married you? Ah! never. I would rather
see you fall lower than you are, even to the gutter, than know
you to be the wife of such a man!" Thus the comtesse ex-
pressed her hatred very much in the same terms as the old
marquis had used to his son. "Besides," she added, with a
ferocity which only a woman is capable of, "besides, your
lover is drowned, and the old marquis is dead, so I have been
told. God is just; we are avenged."
Old Jean's words, "There will be rejoicing at La Verberie,"
rung in Valentine's ears as she saw the comtesse's eyes sparkle
with malignant joy. This was the crowning blow for the un-
fortunate young girl. For half an hour she had been exerting
all her strength to bear up against her mother's cruel violence;
but her physical endurance was not equal to the task. She
turned, if possible, paler, and with half-closed eyes extended her
arms as though to find some support, and fell, striking her head
against a side table. It was with dry eyes that the comtesse
beheld her daughter stretched at her feet. Her vanity was
deeply wounded, but no other emotion disturbed her. Hers was
a heart so full of anger and hatred that there was no room for
any noble sentiment. Seeing, however, that Valentine remained
unconscious, she rang the bell; and the affrighted maidservants,
who were trembling in the passage at the loud and angry tones
of the voice they all dreaded, came running in.
"Carry mademoiselle to her room," she ordered; "lock her
in, and bring me the key."
The comtesse intended keeping Valentine a close prisoner


FILE NUMBER 113
1083
for a long time. She well knew the mischievous, gossiping
propensities of country people, who, from mere idleness, indulge
in limitless scandal. A poor fallen girl must either leave the
place, or drink to the very dregs the chalice of premeditated
humiliation and brutal irony. Each one delights in casting a
stone at her. But the comtesse's plans were destined to be
baffled. The servants came to tell her that Valentine had recov-
ered consciousness, but seemed to be very ill. She replied that
it was all pretense; whereupon Mihonne insisted upon her going
up and judging for herself. She unwillingly went to her daugh-
ter's room, and perceived that something serious was the mat-
ter. However, she betrayed no apprehension, but sent to Taras-
con for Dr. Raget, who was the oracle of the neighborhood; it
was he who had been called in to see the Marquis de Clameran.
Dr. Raget was one of those men who leave a blessed memory,
which lives long after their departure from this world. Intel-
ligent and noble-hearted, he devoted himself to his art; wealthy,
he never demanded to be paid for his services. At all hours of
the night and day, his gray horse and old cabriolet might be
seen along the roads, with a hamper of wine and soup under
the seat for his poorer patients. The servant fortunately found
him at home, and brought him back with him. On beholding
Valentine, the doctor's face assumed a most serious expression.
He studied the young girl and her mother alternately; and the
penetrating gaze which he fixed on the old comtesse so discon-
certed her that she felt her wrinkled face turning very red.
"This child is very ill," he said, at length. And as Madame
de la Verberie made no reply, he added: "I desire to remain
alone with her for a few minutes."
The comtesse dared not resist the authority of a man of Dr.
Raget's character and reputation, and retired to the next room,
apparently calm, but in reality disturbed by the most gloomy
forebodings. At the end of half an hour—it seemed a century
—the doctor entered the room where she was waiting. He,
who had witnessed so much suffering and misery, appeared
deeply affected.
"Well?" asked the comtesse.
"You are a mother, madame," he answered sadly—"that is
to say, your heart is full of indulgence and pardon. Summon
all your courage. Mademoiselle Valentine will soon become a
mother."
"The worthless creature! I feared as much."


1084
FILE NUMBER 113
The doctor was shocked at the dreadful expression of the
comtesse's eye. He laid his hand on her arm, and giving her
a penetrating look, beneath which she instantly quailed, he
added: "And the child must live." ,
The doctor's suspicions were correct. A dreadful idea had
flashed across Madame de la Verberie's mind—the idea of de-
stroying this child which would be a living proof of Valen-
tine's sin. Feeling her evil intention divined, the proud, stern
woman's eyes fell beneath the doctor's gaze. "I do not under-
stand you, Dr. Raget," she murmured.
"But I know what I mean, madame; and I simply wished
to tell you that a crime does not obliterate a fault."
"Doctor!"
"I merely say what I think, madame. If I was mistaken in
my impression, so much the better for you. At present, your
daughter's condition is serious, but not dangerous. Excitement
and distress of mind have unstrung her nerves, and she is now
in a high fever, which I hope soon to allay."
The comtesse saw that the old doctor's suspicions were not
dispelled; so she thought she would try maternal anxiety, and
said: "At least, doctor, you can assure me that the dear child's
life is not in danger?"
"No, madame," answered Dr. Raget, with cutting irony, "your
maternal tenderness need not be alarmed. All the poor child
needs is rest of mind, which you alone can give her. A few
kind words from you will do her more good than all my pre-
scriptions. But remember, madame, that the least shock of ner-
vous excitement will produce the most fatal consequences."
"I must confess," said the comtesse, hypocritically, "that I
was unable to control my anger upon first hearing that my
darling child had fallen a victim to a vile seducer."
"But now that the first shock is over, madame, being a mother
and a Christian, you will do your duty. My duty is to save your
daughter and her child, and I will do so. I will call to-morrow."
Madame de la Verberie had no idea of letting the doctor go
off in this way. She motioned him to stay, and, without reflect-
ing that she was betraying herself, exclaimed: "Do you pretend
to say, sir, that you will prevent my taking every means to
conceal the terrible misfortune that has fallen upon me? Do
you wish our shame to be made public—to make us the laughing-
stock of the neighborhood?"
The doctor remained a moment without answering; the con-


FILE NUMBER 113
1085
dition of affairs was serious. "No, madame," he at length re-
plied; "I can not prevent your leaving La Verberie—that would
be overstepping my duty; but I must hold you to account for
the child. You are at liberty to go where you please; but you
must give me proof of the child's being alive, or at least that
no attempt was made against its life."
After uttering these threatening words he left the house. The
comtesse was choking with suppressed rage. "Insolent up-
start!" she cried, "to presume to dictate to a woman of my
rank! Ah, if I were not completely at his mercy!" But,
being in his power, she knew very well that she must forever
bid adieu to all her ambitious plans. No more hopes of luxury,
of a millionaire son-in-law, of splendid carriages, rich dresses,
and charming card parties, where she could gamble to her
heart's content. She must die as she had lived, poor, neglected,
condemned to a life of privation. And it was Valentine who
brought this misery upon her. This reflection aroused all
her inherent bitterness, and she felt for her daughter one of
those implacable hatreds which, instead of becoming appeased,
are strengthened by time. She wished she could see her lying
dead before her, and the accursed infant as well. But she re-
membered the doctor's threatening look, and dared not attempt
anything. She even forced herself to go and say a few for-
giving words to Valentine, and then left her to the care of
the faithful Mihonne.
Poor Valentine! She had suffered so much that she had lost
all power of action. She was, however, getting better. She
felt that dull, heavy sensation, almost free from pain, which
always follows violent mental or physical suffering. When she
was able to reflect, she thought to herself: "Well, it is over;
my mother knows everything. I have no longer her anger to
fear, and must trust to time for her forgiveness." This was
the secret which Valentine had been unwilling to reveal to
Gaston, because she felt certain that he would refuse to leave
her if he knew it. But she wished him to escape; and duty
at the same time bade her remain. Even now she did not regret
having done so.
The only thought which distressed her was Gaston's danger.
Had he succeeded in embarking? How could she find out?
For two days the doctor had allowed her to get up; but she
could not possibly walk as far as old Menoul's cabin. Happily,
the devoted old boatman was intelligent enough to anticipate


1086
FILE NUMBER 113
her wishes. Hearing that the young lady at the chateau was
very ill, he set about devising some means of informing her
of her friend's safety. He went to La Verberie several times
on pretended errands, and finally succeeded in seeing Valen-
tine. They were not alone, so he could not speak to her; but
he made her understand by a significant look that Gaston
was out of danger. This knowledge contributed more toward
Valentine's recovery than all the medicines administered by
the doctor, who, after visiting her daily for six weeks, at length
pronounced his patient sufficiently strong to bear the fatigues
of a journey. The comtesse had waited with the greatest im-
patience for this decision. In order to prevent any delay, she
had already realized half of her capital at a loss, and said to
herself that the sum thus raised, some twenty-five thousand
francs, would suffice for all contingent expenses. For a fort-
night she had been calling on all her friends, saying that as
soon as her daughter had recovered her health she meant to
take her to England to visit a rich old relation, who had ex-
pressed a wish to see her.
Valentine looked forward to this journey with terror, and
shuddered when her mother said to her, on the evening that
the doctor gave her permission to set out: "We shall start the
day after to-morrow." Only one day left! And Valentine
had been unable to let Louis de Clameran know that his brother
was still living. In this extremity she was obliged to confide
in Mihonne, and sent her with a letter to Louis. But the
faithful servant had a useless walk. The chateau of Clameran
was deserted; all the servants had been dismissed, and M.
Louis, whom they now called the marquis, had gone away.
At last they started. Madame de la Verberie, feeling that
she could trust Mihonne, decided to take her with them, after
making her swear eternal secrecy. It was in a little village
near London that the comtesse, under the assumed name of
Mrs. Wilson, took up her abode with her daughter and maid-
servant. She selected England, because she had lived there
a long time, and was well acquainted with the manners and
habits of the people, and spoke their language as well as
she did her own. She had kept up an acquaintance with some
of the English nobility, and often dined and went to the
theatre with her friends in London. On these occasions she
always took the humiliating precaution of locking Valentine in
her room. It was in their sad, solitary house, one night in


FILE NUMBER 113
1087
the month of May, that the son of Valentine de la Verberie
was born. He was taken to the parish priest, and christened
Valentin Raoul Wilson. The comtesse had prepared everything,
and for five hundred pounds had engaged an honest farmer's
wife to bring the child up as her own, and, when old enough,
have him taught a trade. Little Raoul was handed over to her
a few hours after his birth. The good woman thought him
the child of an English lady, and there seemed no probability
that he would ever discover the secret of his birth. Restored
to consciousness, Valentine asked for her child. She yearned
to clasp it to her bosom; but the cruel comtesse was pitiless.
"Your child!" she cried, "I do not know what you mean; you
must be dreaming; you are mad!" And as Valentine persisted,
she replied: "Your child is safe, and will want for nothing;
let that suffice. You must forget what has happened, as you
would forget a painful dream. The past must be wiped out
forever. You know me well enough to understand that I mean
to be obeyed."
The moment had come when Valentine ought in some degree
to have resisted the comtesse's continually increasing tyranny.
She had the idea, but not the courage to do so. If, on one
side, she saw the dangers of almost culpable resignation—for
she, too, was a mother!—on the other she felt crushed by the
consciousness of her guilt. She yielded; and surrendered
herself forever into the hands of a mother whose conduct she
refrained from questioning, to escape the necessity of con-
demning it. So much suffering, so many regrets and internal
struggles, for a long time delayed her recovery, but toward
the end of June, the comtesse took her back to La Verberie.
This time the mischief-makers and gossips were not so sharp
as usual. The comtesse went about, complaining of the bad
success of her trip to England, and was able to assure herself
that no one suspected her real reason for the journey. Only
one man, Dr. Raget, knew the truth; and, although Madame de
la Verberie hated him from the bottom of her heart, she did
him the justice to feel sure that he would not prove indiscreet.
Her first visit was paid to him. When he entered the room,
she abruptly threw on the table the official documents which
she had procured especially for this purpose. "These will,
prove to you, sir, that the child is living, and well cared for
at a cost that I can ill afford."—"These are perfectly correct,
madame," he replied, after an attentive examination of the


1088
FILE NUMBER 113
papers, "and, if your conscience does not reproach you, of
course I have nothing to say."—"My conscience reproaches
me with nothing, sir."
The old doctor shook his head, and gazing searchingly into
her eyes, retorted: "Can you say that you have not been harsh,
even to cruelty?" She turned away her head, and, assuming
her grand air, answered: "I have acted as a woman of my
rank should act; and I am surprised to find in you an advocate
of misconduct."
"Ah, madame," said the doctor, "it is your place to show
kindness to the poor girl. What indulgence do you expect from
strangers toward your unhappy daughter, when you, her mother,
are so pitiless?"
Such plain spoken truths were more than the comtesse
cared to hear, and she rose to leave. "Is that all that you have
to say to me, Dr. Raget?" she asked haughtily. "Yes, madame;
I have done. My only object was to spare you eternal remorse."
The good doctor was mistaken in his idea of Madame de
la Verberie's character. She was utterly incapable of feeling
remorse; but she suffered cruelly when her selfish vanity was
wounded, or her comfort disturbed. She resumed her old
mode of living, but, having disposed of a part of her income,
found it difficult to make both ends meet. This furnished her
with an inexhaustible text for complaint; and at every meal
she reproached Valentine most unmercifully. She seemed to
forget her own command, that the past should be buried in
oblivion, and constantly recurred to it; a day seldom passed,
without her saying to Valentine: "Your conduct has ruined us."
One day her daughter could not refrain from replying: "I
suppose you would have forgiven me had it enriched us." But
these revolts on Valentine's part were rare, although her life
was a series of tortures inflicted with most refined cruelty.
Even the memory of Gaston had become a suffering. Perhaps,
discovering the uselessness of her sacrifice, of her courage, and
her devotion to what she had considered her duty, she regretted
not having followed him. What had become of him? Why
had he not contrived to send her a letter, a word to let her
know that he was still alive? He had sworn to return a rich
man before three years had passed. Would he ever return?
There was a risk in his returning under any circumstances.*
His disappearance had not put an end to the terrible affair at
Tarascon. He was supposed to be dead; but, as there was no


FILE NUMBER 113
1089
positive proof of his death, and his body could not be found,
justice was compelled to listen to the clamor of public opinion.
The case was brought before the assize court; and Gaston de
Clameran was sentenced to several years' imprisonment. As
to Louis de Clameran, no one knew positively what had be-
come of him. Some people said he was leading a life of reck-
less extravagance at Paris. Informed of these facts by her
faithful Mihonne, Valentine became more hopeless than ever.
All her energy was gone, and she finally reached that state
of passive resignation peculiar to people who are constantly
oppressed.
In this miserable way four years passed since the fatal even-
ing when Gaston had escaped in old Menoul's boat. Madame
de la Verberie had spent these four years most unprofitably.
Seeing that she could not live upon her income, and having
too much false pride to sell her land, which was so badly
managed that it did not even bring her in two per cent, she
resigned herself to borrowing and spent her capital with her
income. As in such matters, it is only the first step that costs;
the comtesse soon made rapid strides, saying to herself, like
the late Marquis de Clameran: "After me, the deluge!" She
no longer thought of anything but taking her ease. She had
frequent "at homes," and paid many visits to the neighboring
towns of Nimes and Avignon; she sent to Paris for the most
elegant toilets, and indulged her taste for good living. She
allowed herself all the luxury that she had hoped to obtain
by the acquisition of a rich son-in-law. Great sorrows require
consolation! The first year after she returned from London
she did not hesitate to treat herself to a horse; it was rather
old, to be sure, but when harnessed to a second-hand carriage
bought on credit at Beaucaire made quite a good appearance.
She would quiet her conscience, which occasionally reproached
her for this constant extravagance, by saying: "I am so un-
happy!" The unhappiness was that this seeming luxury cost
her dear, very dear. After having sold the rest of her bonds,
the comtesse first mortgaged the estate of La Verberie and then
the chateau itself. And in less than four years she owed more
than forty thousand francs, and was unable even to pay the
interest of her debt.
She was racking her mind to discover some means of escape
from her difficulties, when chance came to her rescue. For
some time a young engineer, employed in surveys along the


1090
FILE NUMBER 113
Rhone, had made the village close to La Verberie the centre
of his operations. Being handsome, agreeable, and of polished
manners, he had been warmly welcomed by the neighboring
society, and the comtesse frequently met him at the houses of
her friends where she went to play cards of an evening. This
young engineer was named Andre Fauvel. The first time he
met Valentine he was struck by her beauty, and after once
looking into her large, melancholy eyes, his admiration deep-
ened into love, though he had not even spoken to her. He
was well off; a splendid career was open to him; he was free;
and he swore that Valentine should be his. It was to an old
friend of Madame de la Verberie, as noble as a Montmorency
and as poor as Job, that he first confided his matrimonial plans.
With the precision of a graduate of the polytechnic school, he
enumerated all his qualifications for being a model son-in-law.
For a long time the old lady listened to him without interrup-
tion; but when he had finished she did not hesitate to tell him
that his pretensions were most presumptuous. What! he, a
man of no pedigree, a Fauvel, a common surveyor, to aspire
to the hand of a La Verberie! After having enumerated all
the superior advantages of that superior order of beings, the
nobility, she condescended to take a common-sense view of the
case, and said: "However, you may succeed. The poor com-
tesse owes money in every direction; scarcely a day passes
without the bailiffs calling upon her; so that, you understand,
if a rich suitor appeared, and agreed to her terms respecting the
settlements—well, well, there is no knowing what might happen."
Andre Fauvel was young; the old lady's insinuations seemed
to him odious. On reflection, however, when he had studied
the character of the nobility of the neighborhood, who were
rich in nothing but prejudices, he clearly saw that pecuniary
considerations alone would be strong enough to induce the
proud Comtesse de la Verberie to grant him her daughter's
hand. This certainty ended his hesitations, and he turned his
whole attention to devising a plan for presenting his claim.
He did not find this an easy thing to accomplish. To go in
quest of a wife with her purchase-money in his hand was re-
pugnant to his feelings, and contrary to his ideas of delicacy.
But he knew no one who could undertake the matter for him,
and his love was strong enough to make him swallow his re-
pugnance. The occasion so anxiously awaited, to explain his
intentions, soon presented itself.


FILE NUMBER 113
1091
One day as he entered a hotel at Beaucaire to dine, he saw
Madame de la Verberie about to seat herself at the table. He
blushed deeply, and asked permission to sit beside her, which
was granted him with a most encouraging smile. Did the
comtesse suspect the love of the young engineer? Had she
been warned by her friend? Perhaps so. At any rate, with-
out giving Andre time to gradually approach the subject weigh-
ing on his mind, she began to complain of the hard times, the
scarcity of money, and the grasping meanness of the trades-
people. The truth is, she had come to Beaucaire to borrow
money, and had found every cash-box closed against her; and
her lawyer had advised her to sell her land for what it would
bring. Anger, joined to that secret instinct of the situation
of affairs which is the sixth sense of a woman, loosened her
tongue, and made her more communicative to this comparative
stranger than she had ever been to her bosom friends. She
explained to him the horror of her situation, her present needs,
her anxiety for the future, and, above all, her great distress at
not being able to marry off her beloved daughter. Andre lis-
tened to these complaints with becoming commiseration, but
in reality he was delighted. Without giving her time to finish
her tale, he began to state what he called his view of the mat-
ter. He said that, although he sympathized deeply with the
comtesse, he could not account for her uneasiness about her
daughter. What? Could she be disturbed at having no dowry
for her? Why, the rank and beauty of Mademoiselle Valen-
tine were a fortune in themselves, of which any man might be
proud. He knew more than one man who would esteem him-
self only too happy if Mademoiselle Valentine would accept
his name, and confer upon him the sweet duty of relieving her
mother from all anxiety and care. Finally, he did not think
the situation of the comtesse's affairs nearly so desperate as she
imagined. How much money would be necessary to pay off
the mortgages upon La Verberie? About forty thousand francs,
perhaps? Indeed! That was but a mere trifle. Besides, this
sum would not be a gift from the son-in-law, but only a loan,
because the estate would be his in the end, and greatly increased
in value. A man, too, worthy of Valentine's love could never
let his wife's mother want for the comforts and luxuries due
to a lady of her age, rank, and misfortunes. He would be
only to glad to offer her a sufficient income, not only to provide
comfort, but even luxury.


1092
FILE NUMBER 113
As Andre spoke in a tone too earnest to be assumed, it
seemed to the comtesse that a celestial dew was dropping upon
her pecuniary wounds. Her countenance was radiant with joy,
her fierce little eyes beamed with the most encouraging ten-
derness, her thin lips were wreathed in the most friendly smiles.
One thought alone disturbed the young engineer. "Does she
understand me? Does she think I'm serious?" he wondered.
She certainly did, as her subsequent remarks proved. "Alas!"
she sighed, "forty thousand francs will not save La Verberie;
the principal and interest of the debt amount to at least sixty
thousand."
"Oh, either forty or sixty thousand is nothing worth speak-
ing of."
"Then my son-in-law, the phenix we are supposing, would he
have the forethought to provide for my requirements?"
"I should fancy he would be delighted to add four thousand
francs to the income you derive from your estate."
The comtesse did not reply at once; she was calculating.
"Four thousand francs is not much," she said after a pause.
"Everything is so dear in this part of the country! But with
six thousand francs—yes, six thousand francs would make me
happy!"
The young man thought that her demands were becoming ex-
cessive, but, with the generosity of an ardent lover, he replied:
"The son-in-law of whom we are speaking would not be very
devoted to Mademoiselle Valentine if the paltry sum of two
thousand francs caused him to hesitate."
"You promise too much!" murmured the comtesse. A sud-
den objection, however, occurred to her. "But this imaginary
son-in-law," she remarked, "must be possessed of the means to
fulfil his promises. I have my daughter's happiness too much
at heart to give her to a man who did not produce—what do
you call them?—securities, guarantees."
"Decidedly," thought Fauvel with mortification, "we are mak-
ing a bargain." Then he added aloud: "Of course, your son-
in-law would bind himself in the marriage contract to—"
"Never !—sir, never! Think of the impropriety of the thing!
What would the world say?"
"Excuse me, it would be stated that it was the interest of a
sum received from you."
"Ah! yes, that might do very well."
The comtesse insisted upon seeing Andre home in her car-


FILE NUMBER 113
1093
riage. During the drive no definite plan was agreed upon be-
tween them; but they understood each other so well that, when
the comtesse set the young engineer down at his own door, she
invited him to dinner the next day, and held out her skinny
hand, which Andre kissed with devotion as he thought of Val-
entine's pretty eyes. When Madame de la Verberie returned
home, the servants were dumb with astonishment at her good
humor; they had not seen her in this happy frame of mind for
years. And her day's work was of a nature to elevate her
spirits: she had been most unexpectedly' raised from a very
difficult position to affluence. "An annuity of six thousand
francs," said she to herself, "and a thousand crowns from the
estate, that makes nine thousand francs a year! My daughter
will live in Paris after she is married, and I can go and see
my dear children without expense." At this price she would
have sold not only one but three daughters, if she had pos-
sessed them. But suddenly her blood ran cold at a sudden
thought which crossed her mind: "Would Valentine consent?"
Her anxiety to set her mind at rest sent her straightway to
her daughter's room. She found Valentine reading by the
light of a flickering candle. "My daughter," she said abruptly,
"a young man of whom I approve has demanded your hand in
marriage, and I have promised it to him."
At this startling announcement, Valentine started up: "Im-
possible!" she murmured, "impossible!"
"And why, if you please?"
"Did you tell him, mother, what I am? Did you own—"
"Your past folly? No, thank heavens! and I hope you will
have the good sense to keep silent on the subject."
Although Valentine's spirit was completely crushed by her
mother's tyranny, her sense of honor revolted at the idea. "You
certainly would not wish me to marry an honest man, mother,
without confessing to him everything connected with the past?
I could never practise a deception so base."
The comtesse felt very much like flying into a passion; but
she knew that threats would be of no avail in this instance,
where resistance would be a matter of conscience with her
daughter. Instead of commanding, she entreated. "Poor child,"
she said, "my poor dear Valentine, if you only knew the dread-
ful state of our affairs you would not talk in this way. Your
folly commenced our ruin; to-day it is complete. Do you know
that our creditors threaten to turn us out of La Verberie? Then
»


1094
FILE NUMBER 113
what will become of us, my poor child? Must I in my old age
go begging from door to door? We are utterly lost, and this
marriage is our only hope of salvation."
These tearful entreaties were followed by plausible argu-
ments. The dear comtesse made use of strange and subtle
theories. What she formerly regarded as a monstrous crime,
she now spoke of as a peccadillo. According to her, girls in
Valentine's position were to be met with every day. She could
understand, she said, her daughter's scruples if there were any
danger of the past being brought to light; but she had taken
such precautions that there was no fear of that. Would it make
her love her husband any the less? No. Would he be less
happy? No. Then that being so, why hesitate? Shocked, be-
wildered, Valentine asked herself if this was really her mother,
the haughty woman who had always been such a worshiper of
honor and duty, who now contradicted every word she had
uttered during her life! Valentine could not understand the
sudden change. The comtesse's subtle arguments and shameful
sophistry neither moved nor convinced her; but she had not
the courage to resist the tearful entreaties of that mother, who
ended by falling on her knees, and with clasped hands imploring
her child to save her. Violently agitated, distracted by a thou-
sand conflicting emotions, daring neither to refuse nor to prom-
ise, fearing the consequences of a decision thus forced from
her, the unhappy girl begged her mother to grant her a few
hours to reflect. 1
Madame de la Verberie dared not refuse this request, and
acquiesced.
"I will leave you, my daughter," she said, "and I trust your
heart will tell you how to decide between a useless confession
and your mother's salvation." With these words she left the
room, indignant but hopeful.
Placed between two obligations equally sacred, equally bind-
ing, but diametrically opposed, Valentine's troubled mind could
no longer clearly discern the path of duty. Could she reduce
her mother to want and misery? Could she basely deceive the
confidence and love of an honorable man? However she de-
cided, her future life would be one of suffering and remorse.
Alas! why had she not a wise and kind adviser to point out
the right course to pursue, and assist her in struggling against
evil influences? Why had she not that gentle, discreet friend
who had helped her in her first misfortunes, old Dr. Raget?


FILE NUMBER 113
1095
Formerly, the memory of Gaston had been her guiding star;
but now this far-off memory was nothing but a sort of van-
ishing dream. In romance we meet with heroines of life-long
constancy; real life produces few such miracles. For a'long time
Valentine's mind had been filled with the image of Gaston. As
the hero of her dreams, she dwelt fondly on his memory; but
the mists of time had gradually dimmed the brilliancy of her
idol, which was now no more than a cold relic at the bottom
of her heart. When she arose the next morning, pale and weak
from a sleepless, tearful night, she was almost resolved to con-
fess everything; but when the evening came, and she found
herself in the company of Andre Fauvel, and in the presence
of her mother's alternately threatening and supplicating glances,
her courage failed her. She would say to herself: "I will tell
him." But later on she added: "I will wait till to-morrow."
The comtesse saw all these struggles, but was not made un-
easy by them. She knew by experience that when a painful
duty is put off it is never performed. There was,-perhaps, some
excuse for Valentine in the horror of her situation. Perhaps,
unknown to herself, she felt a faint hope arise within her.
Any marriage, even an unhappy one, offered the prospect of
a change, of a new life, a relief from the insupportable suf-
fering she was then enduring. Sometimes, in her ignorance of
human life, she imagined that time and close intimacy would
make it almost easy for her to confess her terrible fault, and
that Andre would pardon her and marry her all the same, since
he loved her so much. That he sincerely loved her, she knew
full well. It was not the impetuous passion of Gaston, with
its excitements and terrors, but a calm, steady, and perhaps
more lasting affection, obtaining a sort of blissful rest in its
legitimacy and constancy.
Thus Valentine gradually became accustomed to Andre's pres-
ence, and was surprised into feeling very happy at the constant
delicate attentions and affectionate looks that he lavished upon
her. She did not feel any love for him yet; but a separation
would have distressed her deeply. During the courtship, the
comtesse's conduct was a masterpiece. She suddenly ceased
arguing and importuning, and with tearful resignation said she
would not attempt to influence her daughter's decision; but she
went about sighing and groaning as if she were on the eve
of starving to death. She also made arrangements for being
tormented by the bailiffs. Distress-warrants and legal notices


1096
FILE NUMBER 113
poured in at La Verberie, and she would show Valentine all
these documents, saying: "God grant we may not be driven
from the home of our ancestors before your marriage, my dar-
ling!" Knowing that her presence was sufficient to freeze any
confession on her daughter's lips, she never left her alone with
Andre. "Once married," she thought, "they can settle the mat-
ter to please themselves." She was as impatient as Andre, and
hastened the preparations for the wedding. She gave Valen-
tine no opportunity for reflection. She kept her constantly
busy, either in driving to town to purchase some article of
dress, or in paying visits.
At last the eve of the wedding-day found the comtesse hope-
ful, though oppressed with anxiety, like the gambler playing
for a high stake. On this evening, for the first time, Valen-
tine found herself alone with the man who was to become her
husband. It was twilight, and she was sitting in the drawing-
room, miserable and trembling, anxious to unburden her mind,
when Andre entered. Seeing that she was agitated, he pressed
her hand, and gently begged her to tell him the cause of her
sorrow. "Am I not your best friend," he said, "and ought I
not to be the confidant of your troubles, if you have any? Why
these tears, my darling?"
At this moment she was on the point of confessing every-
thing. But suddenly she perceived the scandal that would
result, the pain she would cause Andre, and her mother's anger;
she saw her own future life ruined—she exclaimed, like all
young girls when the eventful moment draws near: "I am
afraid." Imagining that she was merely disturbed by some
vague fears, he tried to console and reassure her; but he was
surprised to find that his affectionate words only seemed to
increase her distress. But already Madame de la Verberie
came to interrupt them: they were wanted to sign the marriage
contract. Andre Fauvel was left in ignorance.
On the morrow, a lovely spring day, Andre Fauvel and Val-
entine de la Verberie were married at the village church.
Early in the morning the chateau was filled with the bride's
friends, who came, according to custom, to assist at her wed-
ding toilet. Valentine forced herself to appear calm, even
smiling; but her face was whiter than her veil—her heart was
torn by remorse. She felt as though the sad truth were written
upon her brow, and that her white dress was but a bitter irony,
a galling humiliation. She shuddered when her most intimate


FILE NUMBER 113
1097
friend placed the wreath of orange-blossoms upon her head.
It seemed to her that this emblem of purity would burn her.
It did not do so, but one of the wire stems of the flowers,
badly covered, scratched her forehead, which bled a great deal,
and a drop of blood fell upon her dress. What an evil omenl
Valentine almost fainted. But presages are deceitful, as it
proved with Valentine; for a year after her marriage she was,
according to report, the happiest of wives. Happy! yes, she
would have been completely so could she only have forgotten
the past. Andre adored her. He had gone into business, and
everything succeeded with him. But he wished to be immensely
rich, not for himself, but for the wife he loved, whom he longed
to surround with every luxury. Thinking her the most lovely,
he wished to see her the most adorned.
Eighteen months after her marriage, Madame Fauvel had
a son. But, alas! neither this child, nor a second son, born a
year after, could make her forget the other one—the poor, for-
saken babe whom, for a sum of money, a stranger had consented
to receive. Loving her children passionately, and bringing
them up like the sons of princes, she would murmur to herself:
"Who knows if the abandoned one has even bread to eat?" If
she had only known where he was; if she had only dared in-
quire !—but she was afraid. Sometimes, too, she would be uneasy
about Gaston's jewels, constantly fearing that their hiding-place
would be discovered. Other times she would say to herself:
"1 may as well be tranquil; misfortune has forgotten me." Poor
deluded woman! Misfortune is a visitor who sometimes delays
his visits, but always comes in the end.
IOUIS DE CLAMERAN, the second son of the marquis, was
one of those self-controlled men, who beneath a cool, care-
less manner, conceal a fiery temperament, and ungovernable
passions. Apparently occupied in the pursuit of pleasure, this
precocious hypocrite longed for a larger field in which to in-
dulge his evil inclinations, secretly cursing the stern necessity


1098
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which chained him down to this dreary country life, and the
old chateau, which to him was more gloomy than a prison, and
as lifeless as the grave. The paternal authority, though gently
exercised, exasperated his rebellious temper. Louis did not love
his father, and he hated his brother Gaston. The old marquis,
in his culpable thoughtlessness, had kindled this burning envy
in the heart of his second son. A strict observer of traditional
rights, he had always declared that the eldest son of a noble
house should inherit all the family possessions, and that he
intended to leave Gaston his entire fortune. Gaston always said
that he would never consent to profit by this paternal partiality,
but would share equally with his brother. Judging others by
himself, Louis placed no faith in this assertion, which he called
an ostentatious affectation of generosity. Although this hatred
was unsuspected by the marquis and Gaston, it was betrayed by
acts significant enough to attract the attention of the servants.
They were so fully aware of Louis's sentiments toward his
brother that, when the latter was prevented from escaping be-
cause of the stumbling horse, they refused to believe it an
accident, and muttered under their breath the word: "Fratri-
cide!" A deplorable scene took place between Louis and Jean,
who was allowed, on account of his fifty years' faithful service,
to take liberties which he sometimes abused by making rough
speeches to his superiors.
"It is a great pity," said the old servant, "that a «kilful rider
like yourself should have fallen at the very moment when your
brother's safety depended upon your good horsemanship. La
Verdure did not fall." At this broad insinuation, Louis turned
pale, and threateningly exclaimed: "You insolent scoundrel,
what do you mean?"—"You know well enough what I mean,
sir," the old man replied significantly.—"I do not knowl Ex-
plain yourself."
The servant only answered by a meaning look, which so in-
censed Louis that he rushed toward him with upraised whip,
and would have beaten him unmercifully, had not the other
servants interfered, and dragged Jean from the spot. This
altercation occurred while Gaston was in the madder-field try-
ing to escape his pursuers. After a while, the gendarmes and
hussars returned, with slow tread and sad faces, and announced
that Gaston de Clameran had plunged into the Rhone and was
most certainly drowned. This melancholy news was received
with groans and tears by every one save Louis, who remained


FILE NUMBER 113
1099
calm and unmoved—not a single muscle of his face quivered;
but his eyes sparkled with triumph. A secret voice cried within
him: "Now you are assured of the family possessions, and a
marquis's coronet."
The corporal of the gendarmes had said: "I would not be
the one to tell the poor old man that his son is drowned." Louis
felt none of the tender-hearted scruples of the brave old soldier.
He instantly went to his father's sick-room, and said, in a firm
voice: "Between disgrace and death, my brother has chosen: he
is dead."
Like a sturdy oak stricken by lightning, the marquis tottered
and fell when these fatal words sounded in his ears. The
doctor soon arrived, but, alas! only to say that science was of
no avail. Toward daybreak, Louis, without a tear, received
his father's last sigh. Louis was now the master. All the un-
just precautions taken by the marquis to elude the law, and
ensure beyond dispute the possession of his entire fortune to his
eldest son, turned against him. By means of a fraudulent deed
of trust drawn by his dishonest lawyer, M. de Clameran had
disposed everything so that, on the day of his death, every
farthing he owned would be Gaston's. It was Louis who bene-
fited by this precaution. He came into possession without even
being called upon for the certificate of his brother's death. He
was now Marquis de Clameran; he was free, he was compara-
tively rich. He who had never had twenty-five crowns in his
pocket at a time, now found himself the possessor of close upon
two hundred thousand francs. This sudden and most unex-
pected fortune so completely turned his head that he forgot his
skilful dissimulation. His demeanor at the funeral of the mar-
quis attracted general notice. He followed the coffin, with his
head bowed down and his face buried in a handkerchief; but
his looks belied him, his face was beaming, and one could trace
a smile beneath the grimaces of his feigned grief. The day
after the funeral, Louis sold off everything that could be dis-
posed of—horses, carriages, and family plate. The next day
he discharged all the old servants, who had hoped to end their
days beneath the hospitable roof of Clameran. Several, with
tears in their eyes, took him aside, and entreated him to let
them stay, even without wages. He roughly ordered them to
be gone. He sent for his father's lawyer, and gave him a power
of attorney to sell the estate, and received in return the sum
of twenty thousand francs as the first payment in advance. At


1100
FILE NUMBER 113
the end of the week, he locked up the chateau, with a vow
never to enter it again, and left the keys with Jean, who,
owning a little house near Clameran, would continue to live in
the neighborhood.
Poor Jean! little did he think that, in preventing Valentine
from seeing Louis, he had ruined the prospects of his beloved
Gaston. On receiving the keys, he asked but one question:
"Shall we not search for your brother's body, sir?" he inquired
in broken-hearted tones. "And, if it is found, what is to be
done with it?"—"I shall leave instructions wifh my lawyer,"
answered Louis. And he hurried away from Clameran as if
the ground burned his feet. He went to Tarascon, where he
had already forwarded his luggage, and took the stage-coach
which traveled between Marseilles and Paris, the railroad not
then being finished.
At last he was off. The lumbering vehicle rattled along,
drawn by six horses; and the deep gullies made by the wheels
seemed so many abysses between the past and the future.
Lying back in his corner, Louis de Clameran enjoyed in antic-
ipation the pleasures of which he was about to partake. At
the end of the journey, Paris appeared before him—radiant,
brilliantly dazzling as the sun. There, all ambitions are
crowned, all dreams are realized, all passions, all desires, good
and evil, are satisfied. In twenty theatres tragedy weeps, or
comedy laughs; while at the opera, the rr.ost beautiful women
in the world, sparkling with diamonds, are ready to die with
ecstasy at the sound of divine music; everywhere noise, excite-
ment, luxury, and pleasure. What a dream! The heart of
Louis de Clameran was overflowing with desire; and it seemed
to him that the horses crawled along like tortoises. What mat-
tered it to him how his father and brother had died? He was
young, rich, handsome, and a marquis; he had a constitution
of iron; he carried twenty thousand francs in his pocket, and
would soon have ten times as many more. He, who had always
been poor, regarded this sum as an inexhaustible treasure; and
at nightfall, when he jumped from the coach on to the muddy
pavement of the brilliantly lighted Paris street, he seemed to
be taking possession of the great city, and felt as though he
could buy everything in it. His illusions were those common to
all young men who, never having been thrown upon their own
resources, suddenly come into possession of a patrimony. Im-
bued with his own importance, accustomed to the deference of


FILE NUMBER 113
1101
the country people, the young marquis came to Paris with the
expectation of being a lion, on account of his name and fortune.
To his great surprise, he learned that he possessed nothing
which constituted a position in this immense city. He found
that in the midst of the busy, indifferent crowd, he was as much
lost and unnoticed as a drop of water in a torrent.
But this not very flattering reality could not discourage a
man who was determined to gratify his passions at all costs.
His ancestral name gained him but one privilege, disastrous
for his future; it opened to him the doors of the aristocratic
Faubourg St. Germain. There he became acquainted with men
of his own age and rank, whose annual incomes almost equaled
his entire fortune. Nearly all of them confessed that they only
kept up their extravagant style of living by dint of skilful
economy behind the scenes, and by regulating their vices and
follies as judiciously as a hosier would arrange his Sunday
holidays. This information astonished Louis, but did not open
his eyes. He endeavored to imitate the dashing style of these
economically wasteful young men, without attempting to con-
form to their prudential rules. He learned how to spend, but
not how to reckon as they did. At the club where he was pro-
posed and elected shortly after his arrival, he found several
obliging persons who took pleasure in initiating him into the
secrets of fashionable life, and correcting any little provincial-
isms betrayed in his manners and conversation. He profited
well and quickly by their lessons. At the end of three months
he was fairly launched; his reputation as a skilful gambler was.
fully established; and he had nobly and gloriously compromised
himself with one of the fast women of the day. He had rented
handsome apartments in the vicinity of the Madeleine, with a
coach-house and stabling for three horses. Although he only
furnished this bachelor's establishment with what was absolutely
necessary, he found that necessaries were very costly; so that
the day he took possession of his apartments, and tried to make
up his accounts, he made the startling discovery that his short
apprenticeship in Paris had cost him fifty thousand francs,
one-fourth of his fortune. And yet he remained, when com-
pared to his brilliant friends, in a state of inferiority which
was mortifying to his vanity, like a worthy countryman who
strains every nerve to make his nag keep up with thorough-
breds. Fifty thousand francs! For a moment Louis had a
slight inclination to retire from the contest. But then, what a


1102
FILE NUMBER 113
come down! Besides, his vices bloomed and flourished in
these charming surroundings. He had heretofore considered
himself wonderfully fast, and now a host of new corruptions
were revealed to him. Then the sight of suddenly acquired
fortunes, and the many examples of the successful results of
hazardous ventures, inflamed his mind. He thought that in this
great, rich city, he certainly could succeed in securing a share
of the loaves and fishes. But how? He had no idea, and he
did not seek to find one. He simply persuaded himself that,
like many others, he would have his lucky day. In this furious
race of self-interest it requires great skill to bestride that
capricious mare called opportunity, and ride her to the goal.
But Louis did not devote so much thought to the matter. As
stupid as the man who expected to win the prize at the lottery
without having purchased a ticket, he said to himself: "Pshaw!
opportunity—chance—a rich marriage will set me right again!"
The rich bride failed to appear, but the turn of the last bank-
note arrived. To a pressing demand for money, his notary re-
plied by a refusal. "You have nothing left to sell, sir," he
wrote, "with the exception of the chateau. It is no doubt very
valuable; but it is difficult, if not impossible, to find a purchaser
for so large a building situated as it is now. I will use every
effort to secure a purchaser; and, believe me, sir," etc. Louis
was thunderstruck at this final catastrophe, as much surprised
as if he had not foreseen it. What was he to do? But Louis could
not give up the life of ease and pleasure which he had been
leading for the past three years. He first of all lived on the
reputation of his dissipated fortune—on the credit that remains
to the man who has spent much in a short space of time. This
resource was soon exhausted. The day came when his credi-
tors seized all they could lay their hands upon—the last remains
of his opulence, his carriages, horses, and costly furniture. He
retired to a very quiet hotel, but he could not keep away from
the wealthy set whom he had considered his friends. He now
lived upon them as he had lived upon his tradesmen, borrow-
ing from one louis up to twenty-five, from anybody who would
lend to him, and never attempting to repay them. Constantly
betting, no one ever saw him pay a wager. He piloted all the
novices who fell into his hands, and utilized, in the most shame-
ful services, an experience which had cost him two hundred
thousand francs: he was half a courtier, and half an adventurer.
His acquaintances did not cut him, but made him cruelly expiate


FILE NUMBER 113
1103
the favor of being tolerated. No one had the least regard for his
feelings, or hesitated to say before him what was thought of his
conduct; therefore, whenever alone in his little den, he would
give way to fits of violent rage. Envy and covetousness had long
since stifled every sentiment of honor and self-respect in him.
For a few years of opulence, he felt ready to commit even a crime.
He did not commit a crime, however, but he became mixed
up in a disgraceful affair of swindling and extortion. The
Comte de Commarin, an old friend of his family, came to his
assistance, hushed up the matter, and furnished him with money
to take him to England. And what were his means of liveli-
hood in London? The detectives of the most corrupt capital
in the world could alone tell us. Descending to the lowest
stages of vice, the Marquis de Clameran finally found his level
in a society composed oi fallen women and of sharpers, whose
chances and shameful profits he shared. Compelled to quit
London, he traveled about Europe, with no other capital than
his audacity, his deep depravity, and his skill at cards. Finally,
in 1865, having met a run of good luck at Homburg, he re-
turned to Paris, where he imagined himself entirely forgotten.
Eighteen years had passed since he left France. The first step
which he took on his return, before even settling himself in
Paris, was to make a visit to his old home. Not that he had
any relative or even friend in that part of the country, from
whom he could expect any assistance; but he remembered the
old chateau which his notary had been unable to sell. He
thought that perhaps by this time a purchaser had appeared, and
he determined to go himself and ascertain the point; he thought,
too, that once in the neighborhood, he would always be able to
get something for his property, which had cost more than a
hundred thousand francs to build.
Three days later, on a beautiful October evening, he reached
Tarascon, and there learned that he was still the owner of the
chateau. Early the next morning, he set out on to foot to visit
the paternal home at Clameran, which he had not seen for
twenty-five years. Everything was so changed that he scarcely
recognized the locality where he was born, and where he passed
his youth; yet the impression was so strong that this man, tried
by such varied, strange adventures, for a moment felt like turn-
ing back. A« Louis advanced, however, the changes appeared
less striking; he began to recognize the ground. Soon, through
the trees, he distinguished the village steeple, then the village


1104
FILE NUMBER 113
itself, built upon the gentle slope of a hill, crowned by a wood
of olive trees. He recognized the first houses he came to; the
farrier's shed, with its roof covered with vine; the old parson-
age, and farther on the village inn, where he and Gaston used
to play billiards on its primitive table. In spite of what he
styled his scorn of vulgar prejudices, a thrill of strange emotion
oppressed his heart. He could not overcome a feeling of sad-
ness as scenes of the past rose up before him. How many
events had occurred since he last walked along this path, and
received a friendly bow and smile from every villager! Then,
life appeared to him like a fairy scene in which his every wish
was gratified. And now, he returned, dishonored, worn out,
disgusted with the realities of life, having tasted the bitter dregs
of the cup of shame, stigmatized, poverty-stricken, and friend-
less, with nothing to lose and nothing to look forward to.
Upon reaching Jean's house, he found the door open; he
walked into the immense kitchen, with its monumental fireplace,
and rapped on the table. "Coming!" answered a voice from
another room. The next moment a man of about forty years
appeared in the doorway, and seemed much surprised at finding
a stranger in his kitchen. "What do you desire, sir?" he in-
quired.—"Does not Jean, the Marquis de Clameran's old valet,
live here?"—"My father died five years ago, sir," replied the
man in a sad tone.
This news affected Louis painfully, as if he had expected the
old man to restore him some of his lost youth. He sighed, and
said: "I am the Marquis de Clameran." The man, at these
words, uttered an exclamation of joy. He seized Louis's hand,
and pressing it with respectful affection, cried: "You are the
marquis! Alas! why is not my poor father alive to see you?
—he would be so happy! He is beneath the sod now, resting
after a well-spent life; but I, Joseph, his son, am here to take
his place, and devote my life to your service. What an honor
it is to have you in my house! Ah! my wife will be so happy
to see you; she has all her life heard of the De Clamerans."
Here he ran into the garden, and called: "'Toinette! I say,
'Toinette!—Come here quickly!"
This cordial welcome delighted Louis. So many years had
gone by since he had been treated with an expression of kind-
ness, or felt the pressure of a friendly hand. In a few moments
a handsome, dark-eyed young woman entered the room, and
stood blushing with confusion at sight of the stranger. "This


FILE NUMBER 113
1105
is my wife, sir," said Joseph, leading her toward Louis; "but
I have not given her time to put on her finery. This is Mon-
sieur le Marquis, Antoinette." The young wife bowed, and
having nothing to say, gracefully uplifted her brow, upon which
the marquis pressed a kiss. "You will see the children in a
few minutes, Monsieur le Marquis," said Joseph; "I have sent
to the school for them."
The worthy couple overwhelmed the marquis with attentions.
After so long a walk he must be hungry, they said: he must
take a glass of wine now, and lunch would soon be ready; they
would be so proud and happy if Monsieur le Marquis would
partake of a country lunch. And Joseph went to the cellar
after the wine, while 'Toinette ran to catch her fattest pullet.
In a short time, Louis sat down to a table laden with the best
of everything, waited upon by Joseph and his wife, who watched
him with tender interest. The children came running in from
school, smeared with the juice of berries. After Louis had em-
braced them, they stood in a corner and gazed at him with eyes
wide open. The important news had spread, and a number of
villagers and countrymen appeared at the open door to speak
to the Marquis de Clameran.
"I am such a one, Monsieur le Marquis; don't you remem-
ber me? Ah! I recognized you at once. The late marquis was
very good to me," said an old man. Another asked: "Don't
you remember the time when you lent me your gun to go shoot-
ing?" Louis welcomed with secret delight all these protesta-
tions and proofs of devotion, which had not chilled with time.
The kindly voices of these honest people recalled many pleas-
ant moments of the past, and made him feel once more the
fresh sensations of his youth. He, the adventurer, the bully,
the base accomplice of London swindlers, delighted in these
marks of respect and veneration bestowed upon him as the
representative of the house of De Clameran; it seemed to make
him once more feel a little self-respect. Ah! had he possessed
only a quarter of his squandered inheritance, how happy he
would have been to peacefully end his days in his native vil-
lage! But this rest after so many vain excitements, this
haven after so many storms and shipwrecks, was denied him.
He was penniless. How could he live here when he had noth-
ing to live upon? This knowledge of his pressing need gave
him courage to ask Joseph for the keys of the chateau, that
he might go and examine it.
9—Vol. 3


1106
FILE NUMBER 113
"You won't need any key, except the one to the iron gate,
Monsieur le Marquis," replied Joseph. It was but too true.
Time had done its work, and the lordly chateau of Clameran
was nothing but a ruin. The rain and sun had rotted the
doors and shutters so that they were crumbling and dilapi-
dated. Here and there were traces of the friendly hands of
Jean and his son, who had tried to retard the total ruin of the
old chateau; but what use were their efforts? All of the furni-
ture which Louis had not dared to sell stood in the position
he left it, but in what a state! All the tapestry hangings and
coverings were moth-eaten and in tatters; nothing seemed left
but the dust-covered woodwork of the chairs and sofas. Louis
was almost afraid to enter the grand, gloomy rooms, where
every footfall echoed lugubriously. He almost expected to see
the angry old marquis start up from some dark corner, and
heap curses on his head for having dishonored the name. His
nerves could not bear it, and he hurried out into the open air
and sunshine. After a while, he recovered sufficiently to re-
member the object of his visit.
"Poor Jean was foolish not to make use of the furniture left
in the chateau. It is now destroyed without having been of
use to any one."—"My father would not have dared to touch
anything without permission, Monsieur le Marquis."—"And
he was wrong. As for the chateau, it is fast approaching the
condition of the furniture. My fortune, I regret to say, does
not permit me to repair it; I am, therefore, resolved to sell it
while the walls are still standing." Joseph received this infor-
mation very much as a proposal to commit a sacrilege; but he
was not bold of speech, like his father, so he dared not express
what he thought.
"Would there be much difficulty in selling these ruins?" con-
tinued Louis.—"That depends upon the price you ask, Monsieur
le Marquis. I know a man of the neighborhood who would
purchase the lot if he could get it cheap."—"Who is he?"—
"A person named Fougeroux, who lives on the other side of
the Rhone, at Montagnette. He came from Beaucaire, and
twelve years ago married a servant-maid of the late Comtesse
de la Verberie. Perhaps Monsieur le Marquis remembers her
—a plump, bright-eyed brunette, named Mihonne." Louis did
not remember Mihonne. "When can we see this Fougeroux?"
he inquired.—"At any time, by crossing the Rhone on the
ferry."—"Well, let us go now. I am in a hurry."


FILE NUMBER 113
1107
An entire generation had passed away since Louis had left
his old home. It was no longer the old republican sailor,
Pilorel, who kept the ferry, but his son. But he also had a
respect for tradition; and when he learned the name of the
stranger who accompanied Joseph, he hastily got his boat ready,
and was soon in the middle of the river with his two pas-
sengers. While young Pilorel rowed with all his might, Joseph
did his best to warn the marquis against the wily Fougeroux.
"He is a cunning fox," said he. "I have had a bad opinion of
him ever since his marriage, which was a shameful affair alto-
gether. Mihonne was over fifty years of age, and he was not
twenty-five when he married her; so you will understand it
was the money, and not the wife, that he wanted. She, poor
fool, believed that the young scamp really loved her, and gave
herself and her money up to him."—"And he has made good
use of it," interrupted Pilorel.
"That is true. Fougeroux is not the man to let the money
lie idle. He is now very rich; but he ought, at least, to be
thankful to Mihonne for his prosperity. One can easily under-
stand his not feeling any love for her, when she looks like his
grandmother; but that he should deprive her of everything and
beat her cruelly is shameful."—"He would like to know her
six feet under ground," said the ferryman.—"And he will see
her there before long. She has been half dead, the poor old
woman, ever since Fougeroux brought home a worthless jade,
whose servant she has become."
They had reached the opposite shore; Joseph and the mar-
quis asked young Pilorel to await their return, and then took
the road to Montagnette. They soon arrived at a well-culti-
vated farm, and Joseph, having inquired for the master, a farm
boy said that "M. Fougeroux" was out in the fields, but he
would send for him. He soon appeared. He was a very little
man, with a red beard, and restless sunken eyes. Although M.
Fougeroux professed to despise the nobility and the clergy, the
hope of driving a good bargain made him servilely obsequious.
He hastened to usher Louis into "his parlor," with many bows
and endless repetitions of "Monsieur le Marquis." Upon
entering the room, he roughly ordered the old woman, who
was crouching over some dying embers, to make haste and
bring some wine for Monsieur the Marquis de Clameran. At
this name, the old woman started as if she had received an
electric shock. She opened her mouth to say something, but


1108
FILE NUMBER 113
a look from her tyrant froze the words upon her lips. With
a wild air, she hobbled out to obey his orders, and in a few
minutes returned with a bottle of wine and three glasses.
Then she resumed her seat by the fire, and kept her eyes fas-
tened upon the marquis. Could this really be the plump and
merry Mihonne, who had been the confidante of the little fairy
of La Verberie? Only those who have lived in the country
know what time and worry can do to a woman.
The bargain, meanwhile, was being discussed between Joseph
and Fougeroux. The dealer offered a ridiculously small sum
for the chateau, saying that he would only buy it to pull down
and sell the materials. Joseph enumerated the beams, joists,
ironwork, and the ground. As for Mihonne, the sight of the
marquis was an event in her existence. If the faithful servant
had hitherto never breathed a word of the secrets confided 1o
her probity, they had seemed to her none the less heavy to bear.
After marrying, and being so harshly treated that she daily
prayed for death to come to her relief, she began to blame
everybody but herself for her misfortunes. Having no child,
after having ardently longed for one, she was persuaded that
God had stricken her with barrenness for having assisted in
the abandonment of an innocent, helpless babe. She often
thought that by revealing everything she might appease the
wrath of Heaven, and once more bring happiness to her home.
Nothing but her love for Valentine gave her strength to resist
this constant temptation. But to-day the sight of Louis de-
cided her. She thought there could be no danger in confiding
in Gaston's brother. The bargain was at length struck. It was
agreed that Fougeroux should give five thousand two hundred
and eighty francs in cash for the chateau and land attached;
and Joseph was to have the remains of the furniture. The mar-
quis and the dealer shook hands as they uttered the final word:
"Agreed!" and Fougeroux at once went himself to get a bottle
of extra good wine with which to seal the bargain.
The occasion was favorable to Mihonne. She walked quickly
over to where the Marquis sat, and said in a nervous whisper:
"Monsieur le Marquis, I must speak with you alone."—"With
me, my good woman?"—"With you. It is a secret of life and
death. This evening, at dusk, meet me under the walnut trees
over there, and I will tell you everything." Hearing her hus-
band's footsteps, she hastened back to her seat. Fougeroux
gaily filled the glasses, and drank De Clameran's health.


FILE NUMBER 113
1109
As they returned to the boat, Louis debated within himself
whether he should keep this singular appointment. "Joseph,
what the deuce can that old witch want with me?" he asked.—
"Who can tell? She used to be in the service of a lady who
was M. Gaston's mistress, so my father used to say. If I were
in your place, sir, I would go. You can dine at my place, and
after dinner Pilorel will row you over."
Curiosity decided Louis; and about seven o'clock he arrived
under the walnut trees, where old Mihonne had already been
waiting a long time. "Ah! here you are at last, my dear, good
sir," she said in a tone of joy. "I was beginning to despair."—
"Yes, here I am, my good woman; what have you to tell me ?"—
"Ah! many things, Monsieur le Marquis. But first, tell me
have you heard from your brother." Louis almost regretted
having come, supposing that the old woman was wandering.
"You know well enough that my poor brother was drowned
in the Rhone."—"Good heavens!" cried Mihonne, "are you ig-
norant, then, of his escape? Yes, he did what will never be
done again: he swam across the swollen Rhone. The next
day Mademoiselle Valentine went to Clameran to tell the news;
but Jean prevented her seeing you. Afterward I took a letter
for you, but you had left."
These revelations, after twenty years, confounded Louis.
"Are you sure you are not mistaking your dreams for real
events, my good woman?" he asked gently.—"No," replied
Mihonne, mournfully shaking her head. "If old Menoul were
alive, he would tell you how he took charge of M. Gaston until
he embarked at Marseilles. But that is nothing compared to
the rest. M. Gaston has a son."—"My brother, a son! Really,
you are out of your mind."—"Alas! no, unfortunately for my
happiness in this world and in the world to come. He had a
son, and Mademoiselle Valentine was the mother. I received
the poor babe in my arms and carried it to a woman abroad,
who was paid to take charge of it."
Then Mihonne told everything—the comtesse's anger, the
journey to London, and the desertion of little Raoul. With
the accurate memory natural to people unable to read and write,
she related the most minute particulars—the names of the vil-
lage and the farmer's wife, the child's Christian and surname,
and the exact date of everything which had occurred. Then she
told of Valentine's sufferings after her fault, of the impend-
ing ruin of the comtesse, and, finally, of the poor girl's marriage


1110 FILE NUMBER 113
with a gentleman from Paris, who was so rich that he did not
know the extent of his fortune, a banker named Fauvel. A
piercing and prolonged cry here interrupted the old woman.
"Heavens!" she exclaimed in a frightened voice, "that is my
husband calling me," and she hurried back to the farmhouse as
fast as her trembling limbs could carry her.
For several minutes after her departure, Louis stood rooted
to the spot. Her recital had filled his wicked mind with an
idea so infamous, so detestable, that even his vile nature shrank
for a moment from its enormity. He knew the rich banker by
reputation, and was calculating the advantages he might gain
by the strange information of which he was now possessed.
The few faint scruples he felt were silenced by the prospect of
an old age spent in poverty. "But first of all," he thought, "I
must ascertain the truth of the old woman's story; then I will
decide upon a plan." This was why, two days later, having
received the five thousand two hundred and eighty francs from
Fougeroux, Louis de Clameran set out for London.

T"\URING the twenty years of her married life, Valentine had
experienced but one real sorrow; and this was one which,
in the course of nature, must happen sooner or later. In 1859
her mother died from inflammation of the lungs, during one of
her frequent journeys to Paris. The comtesse preserved her
faculties to the last, and with her dying breath said to her
daughter: "Ah, well! was I not right in prevailing upon you
to bury the past? Your silence has made my old age peaceful
and happy, for which I now thank you, and it assures you a
quiet future."
Madame Fauvel constantly said that, since the loss of her
mother, she had never had cause to shed a tear. And what
more could she wish for? As years rolled on, Andre's love re-
mained the same as it had been during the first days of their
union. To the love that had not diminished was added that
sweet intimacy which results from long conformity of ideas and


FILE NUMBER 113
1111
unbounded confidence. Everything prospered with this happy-
couple. Andre was far more wealthy than he had ever hoped
to be, even in his wildest visions; more so even than he or
Valentine desired. Their two sons, Lucian and Abel, were
beautiful as their mother, noble-hearted and intelligent young
men, whose honorable characters and graceful bearing were
the glory of their family. Nothing was wanting to insure
Valentine's felicity. When her husband and her sons were
absent, her solitude was cheered by the companionship of an
accomplished young girl, whom she loved as her own daugh-
ter, and who in return filled the place of a devoted child.
Madeleine was M. Fauvel's niece, who, when an infant, had
lost both parents, poor but very worthy people. Valentine
adopted the babe, perhaps in memory of the poor little crea-
ture who had been abandoned to strangers. It seemed to her
that God would bless her for this good action, and that Made-
leine would be the guardian angel of the house. The day of
the little orphan's arrival, M. Fauvel invested for her ten thou-
sand francs, which he presented to Madeleine as her dowry.
The banker amused himself by increasing these ten thousand
francs in the most marvelous ways. He, who never ventured
upon a rash speculation with his own money, always invested
his niece's in the most hazardous schemes, and was always so
successful that, at the end of fifteen years, the ten thousand
francs had become half a million. People were right when
they said that the Fauvel family were to be envied. Time had
dulled Valentine's remorse and anxiety. In the genial atmos-
phere of a happy home, she had almost found forgetfulness and
a peaceful conscience. She had suffered so much at being com-
pelled to deceive Andre that she hoped she was now at quits
with fate. She began to look forward to the future, and her
youth seemed but buried in an impenetrable mist, the memory
of a painful dream.
Yes, she believed herself saved, when, one rainy day in No-
vember, during an absence of her husband's, who had gone into
. the provinces on business, one of the servants brought her a
letter, which had been left by a stranger, who refused to give
his name. Without the faintest presentiment of evil she care-
lessly broke the seal, and read:
"Madame—Would it be relying too much upon the memories
of the past to hope for half an hour of your time? To-morrow,


1112
FILE NUMBER 113
between two and three, I will do myself the honor of calling
upon you. Marqu1s de Clameran."
Fortunately, Madame Fauvel was alone. Trembling like a
leaf, she read the letter over and over again, as if to convince
herself that she was not the victim of a horrible hallucination.
Half a dozen times, with a sort of terror, she whispered that
name once so dear—Clameran! spelling it aloud as if it were
a strange name which she could not pronounce. And the eight
letters forming the name seemed to shine like the lightning
which precedes the thunderbolt. Ah! she had hoped and be-
lieved that the fatal past was atoned for, and buried in obliv-
ion; and now it suddenly stood before her, pitiless and threat-
ening. It was in this hour of security when she imagined
herself pardoned, that the storm was to burst upon the fra-
gile edifice of her happiness, and destroy her every hope.
A long time passed before she could collect her scattered
thoughts sufficiently to reflect upon a course of action. Then
she began to think she was foolish to be so frightened. This
letter was written by Gaston, of course, therefore she need feel
no apprehension. Gaston had returned to France, and wished
to see her. She could understand this desire, and she knew
too well this man, upon whom she had lavished her young
affection, to attribute any bad motives to his visit. He would
come, and finding her the wife of another, the mother of a
family, they would exchange thoughts of the past, perhaps a
few regrets; she would restore the jewels which she had faith-
fully kept for him, and—that would be all. But one distressing
doubt beset her agitated mind. Should she conceal from Gas-
tone the birth of his son? To confess was to expose herself to
many dangers. It was placing herself at the mercy of a man—
a loyal, honorable man, to sure—confiding to him not only her
own honor and happiness, but the honor of her husband and
her sons. Still, silence would be a crime. After abandoning her
child, and depriving him of a mother's care and affection, she
would rob him of his father's name and fortune.
She was still undecided when the servant announced dinner.
But she had not the courage to meet the glances of her sons.
She sent word that she was not well, and would not be down
to dinner. For the first time in her life she rejoiced at her
husband's absence. Madeleine came hurrying into her aunt's
room to see what was the matter; but Valentine dismissed her,


FILE NUMBER 113
1113
saying she would try to sleep off her indisposition. She wished
to be alone in her trouble, and her mind tried to imagine what
the morrow would bring forth. This dreaded morrow soon
came. She counted the hours until two o'clock; then she counted
the minutes. At half-past two the servant announced: "Mon-
sieur the Marquis de Clameran."
Madame Fauvel had promised herself to be calm, even cold.
During a long, sleepless night, she had mentally arranged before-
hand every detail of this painful meeting. She had even de-
cided upon what she should say. But, at the dreaded moment,
her strength gave way; a frightful emotion fixed her to her
seat; she could neither speak nor think. He, however, bowed
respectfully, and remained waiting in the middle of the room.
He appeared about fifty years of age, with iron-gray hair and
mustache, and a cold, severe cast of countenance; his expres-
sion was of haughty severity as he stood there in his full suit
of black. The agitated woman tried to discover in his face
some traces of the man whom she had so madly loved, who had
pressed her to his heart—the father of her son; and she was
surprised to find in the person before her no resemblance to the
youth whose memory had haunted her life—no, nothing. At
length, as he continued to remain motionless, she faintly mur-
mured: "Gaston!"
But he, shaking his head, replied: "I am not Gaston, madame;
my brother succumbed to the misery and suffering of exile.
I am Louis de Clameran." What! it was not Gaston, then,
who had written to her—it was not Gaston who stood before
her? She trembled with terror; her head whirled, and her
eyes grew dim. What, then, could this man want—this brother
in whom Gaston had never cared to confide? A thousand
probabilities, each one more terrible than the other, flashed
across her brain. Yet she succeeded in overcoming her weak-
ness, so that Louis scarcely perceived it.
Pointing to a chair, she said to Louis with affected indiffer-
ence: "Will you be kind enough, then, sir, to explain the object
of this most unexpected visit?" The marquis, seeming not
to notice this sudden change of manner, took a seat without
removing his eyes from Madame Fauvel's face. "First of all,
madame," he began, "I must ask if we can be overheard by any
one?"—"Why this question? You can have nothing to say to
me that my husband and children should not hear." Louis
shrugged his shoulders, and said: "Be good enough to answer


1114
FILE NUMBER 113
me, madame; not for my sake, but for your own."—"Speak,
then, sir, you will not be heard."
In spite of this assurance, the marquis drew his chair close
to the sofa where Madame Fauvel sat, so as to speak in a
very low tone, as if almost afraid to hear his own voice. "As
I told you, madame," he resumed, "Gaston is dead; and it was
I who closed his eyes, and received his last wishes. Do you
understand?" The poor woman understood only too well, but
was racking her brain to discover what could be the purpose
of this fatal visit. Perhaps it was only to claim Gaston's
jewels.—"It is unnecessary to recall," continued Louis, "the
painful circumstances which blasted my brother's life. However
happy your own lot has been, you can not entirely have for-
gotten that friend of your youth who, unhesitatingly, sacrificed
himself in defense of your honor." Not a muscle of Madame
Fauvel's face moved; she appeared to be trying to recall the
circumstances to which Louis alluded.—"Have you forgotten,
madame?" he asked with bitterness. "Then I must try and
explain myself more clearly. A long, long time ago you loved
my unfortunate brother."—"Sir!"—"Ah, it is useless to deny it,
madame. I told you that Gaston confided everything to me—
everything," he added significantly.
But Madame Fauvel was not frightened by this information.
This "everything" could not be of any importance, for Gaston
had gone abroad in total ignorance of her secret. She rose,
and said with an apparent assurance she was far from feeling:
"You forget, sir, that you are speaking to a woman who is
now advanced in life, who is married, and who is the mother
of a family. If your brother loved me, it was his affair, and not
yours. If, young and ignorant, I was led into imprudence, it is
not your place to remind me of it. He would not have done so.
This past which you evoke I buried in oblivion twenty years ago."
"Then you have forgotten all that happened?"—"Absolutely
all."—"Even your child, madame?" This question, accompanied
by one of those looks which penetrate the innermost recesses
of the soul, fell upon Madame Fauvel like a thunderbolt. She
dropped, tremblingly, into her seat, murmuring: "He knows!
How did he discover it?" Had her own happiness alone been
at stake, she would have instantly thrown herself upon De
Clameran's mercy. But she had her family to defend, and
the consciousness of this gave her strength to resist him. "Do
you wish to insult me, sir?" she asked.


FILE NUMBER 113
1115
"It is true, then, you have forgotten Valentine Raoul?" She
saw that this man did indeed know all. How? It little mat-
tered. He certainly knew; but she determined to deny every-
thing, even in the face of the most positive proofs, if he should
produce them. She thought it best to find out what he was
driving at. "Well," she asked, with a forced laugh, "what is
it you want?"
"Listen, madame. Two years ago the vicissitudes of exile
took my brother to London. There, at the house of a friend,
he met a young man bearing the name of Raoul. Gaston was
so struck by the youth's appearance and intelligence, that he
inquired who he was, and discovered that beyond a doubt this
boy was his son, and your son, madame."—"This is quite a
romance you are relating."—"Yes, madame, a romance, the
denouement of which is in your hands. The comtesse, your
mother, certainly used every precaution to conceal your secret;
but the best-laid plans always have some weak point. After
your departure, one of your mother's London friends came to
the village where you had been staying. This lady pronounced
your real name before the farmer's wife who was bringing up
the child. Thus everything was revealed. My brother wished
for proofs, he procured the most positive, the most unobjection-
able." He stopped and closely watched Madame Fauvel's face
to see the effect of his words. To his astonishment she be-
trayed not the slightest agitation or alarm; she was smiling.
"Well, what next?" she asked carelessly.
"Then, madame, Gaston acknowledged the child. But the
De Clamerans are poor; my brother died in a lodging-house,
and I have only an annuity of twelve hundred francs.to live
upon. What is to become of Raoul, alone without relations or
friends to assist him? This anxiety embittered my brother's
last moments."—"Really, sir—" "I will conclude," interrupted
Louis. "It was then that Gaston opened his heart to me. He
told me to seek you. 'Valentine,' said he, 'Valentine will remem-
ber; she will not allow our son to want for everything, even
bread; she is wealthy, very wealthy; I die in peace."'
Madame Fauvel rose from her seat, evidently with the inten-
tion of dismissing her visitor. "You must confess, sir," she
said, "that I have shown great patience."—This imperturbable
assurance amazed Louis so much that he did not reply.—"I do
not deny," she continued, "that I at one time possessed the con-
fidence of M. Gaston de Clameran. I will prove it to you by


1116
FILE NUMBER 113
restoring to you your mother's jewels, with which he entrusted
me at the time of his departure." While speaking she took from
beneath the sofa-cushion the bag of jewels, and handed it to
Louis. "Here they are, sir," she added; "permit me to express
my surprise that your brother never asked me for them."—
Had he been less master of himself, Louis would have shown
how great was his surprise. "I was told," he said sharply, "not
to mention this matter."
Madame Fauvel, without making any reply, laid her hand on
the bell-rope. "You will allow me, sir," she said, "to end this
interview, which was only granted for the purpose of placing
in your hands these precious jewels."—Thus dismissed, M.
de Clameran was obliged to take his leave without attaining
his object. "As you will, madame," he said; "I leave you; but
before doing so I must tell you the rest of my brother's dying
injunctions: 'If Valentine disregards the past, and refuses to
provide for our son, I enjoin upon you to compel her to do
her duty.' Meditate upon these words, madame, for what I have
sworn to do, upon my honor, shall be done!"
At last Madame Fauvel was alone. She could give vent to
her despair. Exhausted by her efforts at self-restraint during
De Clameran's presence, she felt weary and crushed in body
and spirit. She had scarcely strength to -drag herself up to her
bed-chamber and to lock the door. Now there was no room for
doubt; her fears had become realities. She could fathom the
abyss into which she was about to be hurled, and knew that in
her fall she would drag her family with her. God alone, in
this hour of danger, could help her, could save her from destruc-
tion. She prayed. "Oh, God," she cried, "punish me, for I am
very guilty, and I will evermore adore Thy chastising hand.
Punish me, for I have been a bad daughter, an unworthy
mother, and a perfidious wife. In Thy just anger spare the
innocent; have pity on my husband and my children!" Ah,
why did she listen to her mother? Why did she hold her
tongue? Hope had fled forever. This man who had left her
presence with a threat upon his lips would return; she knew
it well. What answer could she give him? To-day she had
succeeded in subduing her heart and conscience; would she
again have the strength to master her feelings? She well knew
that her calmness and courage were entirely due to De Cla-
meran's unskilfulness. Why did he not use entreaties instead
of threats? When Louis spoke of Raoul, she could scarcely


FILE NUMBER 118
1117
conceal her emotion; her maternal heart yearned toward the
innocent child who was expiating his mother's faults. A chill
of horror passed over her at the idea of his enduring the pangs
of hunger. Her child wanting bread, when she, his mother,
was rolling in wealth! With what delight would she undergo
the greatest privations for his sake! If she could but send
him enough money to support him comfortably! But no; she
could not take this step without compromising herself and her
family. Prudence forbade her acceptance of Louis de Cht-
meran's intervention. To confide in him was placing herself,
and all she held dear, at his mercy, and this inspired her with
instinctive terror. Then she began to ask herself if he had
really spoken the truth. In thinking over Louis's story, it
seemed improbable and disconnected. If Gaston had been liv-
ing in Paris, in the poverty described by his brother, why had
he not demanded of the married woman the deposit entrusted to
the maiden? Why, when anxious about their child's future,
had he not come to her, since he' believed her to be so rich
that, on his deathbed, it was she he relied upon. A thousand
vague apprehensions beset her mind; she felt suspicion and dis-
trust of every one and everything. She was aware that a
decisive step would bind her forever, and then, what would not
be exacted of her? . For a moment she thought of throwing
herself at her husband's feet and confessing all. She pictured
to herself the mortification and sorrow that her noble-hearted
husband would suffer upon discovering, after a lapse of twenty
years, how shamefully he had been deceived. Having been
deceived from the very first, would he not believe that it had
been so ever since? Would he believe in her fidelity as a wife
when he discovered her perfidy as a young girl? She under-
stood Andre well enough to know that he would say nothing,
and would use every means to conceal the scandal. But his
domestic happiness would be gone forever. He would forsake
his home; his sons would shun her presence, and every family
bond would be severed. She thought of ending her doubts by
suicide; but her death would not silence her implacable enemy,
who, not able to disgrace her while alive, would dishonor her
memory.
Fortunately, the banker was still absent; and during the
two days succeeding Louis's visit Madame Fauvel was able to
keep to her room under pretense of illness. But Madeleine,
with her feminine instinct, saw that her aunt was troubled hy


1118 FILE NUMBER 113
something worse than the nervous attack for which the phy-
sician was prescribing all sorts of remedies. She noticed, too,
that this sudden illness seemed to have been caused by the visit
of a stern-looking stranger, who had been closeted for a long
time with her aunt. Madeleine felt so sure that something was
wrong, that, on the second day, seeing Madame Fauvel more
anxious still, she ventured to say: "What makes you so sad,
dear aunt? Tell me, shall I ask our good priest to come and
see you?" With a sharpness foreign to her nature, which was
gentleness itself, Madame Fauvel refused to listen to her niece's
suggestion. What Louis calculated upon happened. After long
reflection, not seeing any issue to her deplorable situation, Ma-
dame Fauvel little by little determined to yield. By consent-
ing to all, she had a chance of saving everything. She well
knew that to act thus was to prepare a life of torture for her-
self; but she alone would be the victim, and, at any rate, she
would be gaining time. In the mean time, M. Fauvel had re-
turned home, and Valentine resumed her accustomed ways. But
she was no longer the happy mother and devoted wife, whose
smiling presence was wont to fill the house with sunshine and
comfort. She was beset by the most frightful anxieties. Hear-
ing nothing of De Clameran, she expected to see him appear,
so to say, at any moment; trembling at every ring of the bell,
turning pale whenever the door opened, and not daring to leave
the house, for fear he should come during her absence. De
Clameran did not come; he wrote, or rather, as he was too
prudent to furnish arms which could be used against himself,
he had a note written, which Madame Fauvel alone might un-
derstand, in which he said that, being ill, he begged she would
excuse his being obliged to make an appointment with her for
the next day at the Hotel du Louvre. The letter was almost
a relief to Madame Fauvel. Anything was preferable to sus-
pense. She was ready to consent to everything. She burned
the letter, and said to herself: "I will go."
The next day, toward the appointed time, she dressed herself
in the plainest of her black dresses, in the bonnet which con-
cealed her face the most, placed a thick veil in her pocket, and
started forth. It was not until she found herself a considerable
distance from her home that she ventured to hail a cab, which
soon set her down at the Hotel du Louvre. Her circle of ac-
quaintances being large, she was in terror of being recognized.
What would her friends think, if they saw her at the Hotel du


FILE NUMBER 113
1119
Louvre dressed as she was? Any one would naturally suspect
an intrigue, a rendezvous; and her character would be ruined
forever. This was the first time since her marriage that she
had had occasion for mystery; and, in her inexperience, her
efforts to escape notice were in every way calculated to attract
attention. The concierge said that the Marquis de Clameran's
room was on the third floor. She hurried up the stairs, glad
to escape the scrutinizing glances which she imagined were
fixed upon her; but, in spite of the minute directions given by
the concierge, she lost her way in the immense hotel, and for
a long time wandered about the interminable corridors. Finally,
she found a door bearing the number sought—317. She stood
leaning against the wall with her hand pressed to her throbbing
heart, which seemed ready to burst. The sight of a stranger
traversing the corridor ended her hesitations. With a trembling
hand she knocked at the door. "Come in," said a voice. She
entered. But it was not the Marquis de Clameran who stood
in the middle of the room, it was quite a young man, almost a
youth, who looked at her with a singular expression. Ma-
dame Fauvel thought that she had mistaken the room. "Excuse
me, sir," she said, blushing deeply: "I thought that this was
the Marquis de Clameran's room."
"It is his room, madame," replied the young man; then see-
ing she was silent, and about to leave, he added: "I presume
I have the honor of addressing Madame Fauvel?" She nodded
affirmatively, shuddering at the sound of her own name, and
frightened at this proof of De Clameran's betrayal of her secret
to a stranger. With visible anxiety she awaited an explanation.
"Fear nothing, madame," resumed the young man: "you are as
safe here as if you were in your own drawing-room. M. de
Clameran desired me to make his excuses; you will not see
him."—"But, sir, from an urgent letter sent by him yesterday,
I was led to suppose—I inferred—"
"When he wrote to you, madame, he had projects in view
which he has since renounced forever."
Madame Fauvel was too surprised, too agitated to think
clearly. Beyond the present she could see nothing. "Do you -
mean," she asked with distrust, "that he has changed his inten-
tions?" The young man's face was expressive of sad compas-
sion, as if he shared the unhappy woman's sufferings. "The
marquis has renounced," he said in a melancholy tone, "what
he wrongly considered a sacred duty. Believe me, he hesitated


1120
FILE NUMBER 113
a long time before he could decide to apply to you on a subject
painful to you both. You repelled him, you were obliged to re-
fuse to hear him. He knew not what imperious reasons dictated
your conduct. Blinded by unjust anger, he swore to obtain by
threats what you refused to give him voluntarily. Resolved to
attack your domestic happiness, he had collected overwhelming
proofs against you. Pardon him: an oath given to his dying
brother bound him." He took from the mantelpiece a bundle
of papers through which he glanced as he continued speaking:
"These proofs that can not be denied, I now hold in my hand.
This is the certificate of the Rev. Mr. Sedley; this the declara-
tion of Mrs. Dobbin, the farmer's wife; and these others are
the statements of the physician and of several persons who
were acquainted with Madame de la Verberie during her stay
near London. Not a single link is missing. I had great diffi-
culty in getting these papers away from M. de Clameran. Per-
haps he had a suspicion of my intentions. This, madame, is
what I intended doing with these proofs."
With a rapid motion he threw the bundle of papers into the
fire, where they blazed up, and, in a moment, nothing remained
of them but a little heap of ashes. "All is now destroyed, ma-
dame," he resumed, his eyes sparkling with the most generous
resolutions. "The past, if you desire it, is as completely anni-
hilated as those papers. If any one, hereafter, dares accuse you
of having had a son before your marriage, treat him as a vile
calumniator. There are no longer any proofs; you are free."
Madame Fauvel began to understand the sense of this scene
—the truth dawned upon her bewildered mind. This noble
youth, who protected her from De Clameran's anger, who re-
stored her peace of mind and the exercise of her own free will,
by destroying all proofs of her past, who in fact saved her, was,
must be, the child whom she had abandoned—Valentine Raoul.
At this moment she forgot everything. Maternal tenderness, so
long restrained, now welled up and overflowed as, in a scarcely
audible voice, she murmured: "Raoul!" At this name, uttered
in so thrilling a tone, the young man staggered, as if overcome
. by an unhoped-for happiness. "Yes, Raoul," he cried; "Raoul,
who would rather die a thousand times than cause his mother
the slightest pain; Raoul, who would shed his life's blood to
spare her one tear."
She made no attempt to struggle or resist; all her body
trembled as she recognized her first-born. She opened her


FILE NUMBER 113
1121
arms, and Raoul sprang into them, saying, in a choked voice:
"Mother! my dear mother! Bless you for this first kiss!"
Alas! this was the sad truth. This dear son she had never
seen before. He had been taken from her, despite her prayers
and tears, without a mother's embrace; and this kiss she had
just given him was indeed the first. But joy so great, follow-
ing upon so much anguish, was more than the excited mother
could bear; she sank back in her chair almost fainting, and,
with a sort of meditative rapture, gazed in an eager way upon
her long-lost son, who was now kneeling at her feet. With
her hand she stroked his soft curls; she admired his white
forehead, pure as a young girl's, and his large, trembling eyes;
and she hungered after his red lips.
"Oh, mother!" he said; "words can not describe my feelings
when I heard that my uncle had dared to threaten you. Ah!
when my father told him to apply to you, he was no longer in
his right mind. I have known you for a long, long time. Often
have my father and I hovered around your happy home to catch
a glimpse of you through the window. When you passed by
in your carriage, he would say to me: 'There is your mother,
Raoul!' To look upon you was our greatest joy. When we
knew you were going to a ball, we would wait near the door
to see you enter, beautiful and adored. How often, in the
depth of winter, have I raced with your fast horses, to admire
you till the last moment!"
Tears—the sweetest tears she had ever shed—coursed down
Madame Fauvel's cheeks, as she listened to the musical tones
of Raoul's voice. This voice was so like Gaston's that it re-
called to her the fresh and adorable sensations of her youth.
She seemed to live over again those early stolen meetings—to
feel once more the beatings of her virgin heart. It seemed as
though nothing had happened' since Gaston folded her in his
fond embrace. Andre, her two sons, Madeleine—all were for-
gotten in this new-found affection.
Raoul went on to say: "Only yesterday I learned that my
uncle had been to demand for me a few crumbs of your wealth.
Why did he take such a step? I am poor, it is true—very poor;
but I am too familiar with poverty to be frightened by it. I
have a clear brain and willing hands—they will earn me a
living. You are very rich, I have been told. What is that
to me? Keep all your fortune, my darling mother; but give
me a corner in your heart. Let me love you. Promise me that


1122 FILE NUMBER 113
this first kiss shall not be the last. No one will ever know; be
not afraid. I shall be able to hide my happiness."
And Madame Fauvel had dreaded this son! Ah! how bit-
terly did she now reproach herself for not having sooner flown
to meet him. She questioned him regarding the past; she
wished to know how he had lived—what he had been doing.
He replied that he had nothing to conceal; his existence had
been that of every poor man's child. The farmer's wife who
had brought him up had always treated him with affection.
She had even given him an education superior to his condition
in life, and rather beyond her means, because she thought him
so handsome and intelligent. When about sixteen years of age,
she procured him a situation in a banking-house; and he was
commencing to earn his own living, when one day a stranger
came to him, and said: "I am your father," and took him away
with him. Since then nothing was wanting to his happiness,
save a mother's tenderness. He had suffered but one great sor-
row, and that was the day when Gaston de Clameran—his
father—had died in his arms. "But now," he said, "all is for-
gotten. Have I been unhappy? I no longer know, since I see
you—since I love you."
Madame Fauvel was oblivious of the lapse of time, but for-
tunately Raoul was on the watch. "Why, it is seven o'clock!"
he suddenly exclaimed. This exclamation brought Madame
Fauvel abruptly back to the reality. Seven o'clock! What
would her family think of this long absence? "Shall I see you
again, mother?" asked Raoul, as they were about to separate—
"Oh, yes!" she replied, fondly; "yes, often, every day, to-
morrow."
But now for the first time since her marriage, Madame Fau-
vel perceived that she was not mistress of her actions. Never
before had she had occasion to wish for uncontrolled liberty.
She left her heart and soul behind her in the room of the Hotel
du Louvre, where she had just found her son. She was com-
pelled to leave him, to undergo the intolerable agony of com-
posing her face to conceal this great happiness, which had
changed her whole life and being. Having some difficulty in
procuring a cab, it was more than half-past seven when she
reached the Rue de Provence, where she found the family
waiting dinner for her. She thought her husband silly, and
even vulgar, when he joked her upon being late. So strange
are the sudden effects of a new passion, that she regarded al-


FILE NUMBER 113
1123
most with contempt this unbounded confidence he reposed in
her. And she, ordinarily so timorous, replied to his jest with
imperturbable calmness, almost without an effort. So intoxi-
cating had been her sensations while with Raoul that in her
joy she was incapable of desiring anything else—of dreaming
of aught save the renewal of those delightful emotions. No
longer was she a devoted wife—an incomparable mother. She
scarcely thought of her two sons. They had always been happy
and beloved. They had a father—they were rich; while the
other, the other! oh, how much reparation was owing to him!
In her blindness, she almost regarded her family as responsible
for Raoul's sufferings. No remorse for the past, no apprehen-
sions for the future, disturbed her conscience. To her the
future was to-morrow; eternity—the sixteen hours which sep-
arated her from another interview. To her, Gaston's death
seemed to absolve the past as well as the present. But she
regretted she was married. Free, she could have consecrated
herself exclusively to Raoul. She was rich, but how gladly
would she have sacrificed her affluence to enjoy poverty with
him! Neither her husband nor sons would ever suspect the
thoughts which absorbed her mind; but she dreaded her niece.
She imagined that Madeleine looked at her strangely on her
return home. Did she suspect something. For several days
she had asked embarrassing questions. She must beware of
her.
This uneasiness changed the affection which Madame Fauvel
had hitherto felt for her adopted daughter into positive dislike.
She, so kind and loving, regretted having placed over herself
a vigilant spy from whom nothing escaped. She pondered what
means she could take to avoid the penetrating watchfulness of
a girl who was accustomed to read in her face every thought
that crossed her mind. With unspeakable satisfaction she
thought of a way which she imagined would please all parties.
During the last two years the banker's cashier and protege,
Prosper Bertomy, had been devoted in his attentions to Made-
leine. Madame Fauvel decided to do all in her power to hasten
matters, so that, Madeleine once married and out of the house,
there would be no one to criticize her own movements. That
very evening, with a duplicity of which she would have been
incapable a few days before, she began to question Madeleine
about her sentiments toward Prosper.
"Ah, ah, mademoiselle," she said gaily, "is it thus you per-


1124
FILE NUMBER 113
mit yourself to choose a husband without my permission."—
"But, aunt! I thought you—"—"Yes, I know; you thought I
had suspected the true state of affairs? That is precisely what
I had done." Then, in a serious tone, she added: "Therefore,
nothing remains but to obtain the consent of Master Prosper.
Do you think he will grant it ?"—"He! aunt. Ah! if he only
dared—"—"Ah, indeed! you seem to know all about it, made-
moiselle."
Madeleine, blushing and confused, hung her head, and said
nothing. Madame Fauvel drew her toward her, and continued
in her most affectionate voice: "My dear child, do not be dis-
tressed. Did you think that Prosper would have been so warmly
welcomed by your uncle and myself, had we not approved of
him in every respect?"
Madeleine threw her arms round her aunt's neck, and mur-
mured: "Oh, thank you, my dear aunt, thank you; you are
kind, you love me!" Madame Fauvel said to herself: "I will
make Andre speak to Prosper, and before two months are over
the marriage can take place."
Unfortunately, Madame Fauvel was so engrossed by her new
passion, which did not leave her a moment for reflection, that
she put off this project. Spending a portion of each day at the
Hotel du Louvre with Raoul, she did not cease devoting her
thoughts to insuring him an independent fortune and a good
position. She had not yet ventured to speak to him on the
subject. She imagined that she had discovered in him all his
father's noble pride and sensitiveness. She anxiously won-
dered if he would ever accept the least assistance from her.
The Marquis de Clameran quieted her doubts on this point.
She had frequently met him since the day on which he had so
frightened her, and to her first aversion had succeeded a secret
sympathy. She felt kindly toward him for the affection he
lavished on her son. If Raoul, with the heedlessness of youth,
mocked at the future, Louis, the man of the world, seemed
very anxious about his nephew's welfare. So that, one day,
after a few general observations, he approached this serious
question: "The pleasant life my nephew leads is all very well,"
he commenced, "but would it not be prudent for him to seek
some employment? He has no fortune."—"Ah, my dear uncle,
do let me enjoy my present happiness. What is the use of any
change? What do I want?"—"You want for nothing at pres-
ent, Raoul; but when your resources are exhausted, and mine


FILE NUMBER 113
1125
too—which will be in a short time—what will become of you?"
"Oh! I will enter the army. All the De Clamerans are born
soldiers; and if a war breaks out—"
Madame Fauvel laid her hand upon his lips, and said in a
reproachful tone: "Cruel boy! become a soldier? Would you,
then, deprive me of the joy of seeing you?"—"No, mother dear;
no."—"You see," insisted Louis, "that you must listen to us."
—"I am quite willing; but some other time. I will work and
earn no end of money."—"How, poor foolish boy? What can
you do?"—"Oh! never mind. I don't know how; but set your
mind at rest, I will find a way."
Finding it impossible to make this self-sufficient youth listen
to reason, Louis and Madame Fauvel, after discussing the mat-
ter fully, decided that assistance must be forced upon him. It
was difficult, however, to choose a profession; and De Cla-
meran thought it prudent to wait a while, and study the bent
of the young man's mind. In the mean while, it was decided
that Madame Fauvel should place funds at the marquis's dis-
posal for Raoul's support. Regarding Gaston's brother in the
light of a father to her child, Madame Fauvel soon found him
indispensable. She continually wanted to see him, either to
consult him concerning some new idea which occurred to her,
or to impress upon him some good advice to be given. Thus
she was well pleased when one day he requested the honor of
being allowed to call upon her at her own house. Nothing was
easier than to introduce the Marquis de Clameran to her hus-
band as an old friend of her family; and, after once being ad-
mitted, he could soon become an intimate acquaintance. Ma-
dame Fauvel soon had reason to congratulate herself upon this
arrangement. Unable to continue to go to Raoul every day,
and not daring, if she wrote to him, to receive his replies, she
obtained news of him through Louis.
For about a month things went on smoothly, when one day
the marquis confessed that Raoul was giving him a great
deal of trouble. His hesitating, embarrassed manner frightened
Madame Fauvel. She thought something had happened, and
that he was trying to break the bad news gently. "What is
the matter?" she asked.—"I am sorry to say," replied De Cla-
meran, "that .this young man has inherited all the pride and
passions of his ancestors. He is one of those natures who stop
at nothing, who find incitement in opposition; and I can think
of no way of checking him in his mad career."—"Merciful


FILE NUMBER 113
heaven! what has he been doing?"—"Nothing particularly cen-
surable, nothing irreparable, certainly; but I am afraid of the
future. He is still unaware of the liberal allowance which you
have placed in my hands for his benefit; he thinks that I sup-
port him, and yet he throws away money as if he were the son
of a millionaire."
Like all mothers, Madame Fauvel attempted to excuse her
son. "Perhaps you are a little severe," she said. "Poor child,
he has suffered so much! He has undergone so many priva-
tions during his childhood, that this sudden happiness and
wealth has turned his head; he seizes on pleasure as a starving
man seizes on a piece of bread. Is it so surprising? Ah, only
have patience, and he will soon return to the path of duty;
he has a good heart." "He has suffered so much!" was
Madame Fauvel's constant excuse for Raoul. This was her
invariable reply to M. de Clameran's complaints of his nephew's
conduct . And, having once commenced, he was now constant
in his accusations against Raoul. "Nothing restrains his ex-
travagance and dissipation," Louis would say in a mournful
voice; "the instant a piece of folly enters his head, it is carried
out, no matter at what cost."
But Madame Fauvel saw no reason why her son should be
thus harshly judged. "We must remember," she replied in
an aggrieved tone, "that from infancy he has been left to
his own unguided impulses. The unfortunate boy never had
a mother to tend and counsel him. You must remember, too,
that in his childhood he never knew a father's guidance."—
"There is some excuse for him, to be sure; but nevertheless he
must change his present course. Could you not speak seriously
to him, madame? You have more influence over him than I."
She promised, but did not keep her promise. She had so
little time to devote to Raoul, that it seemed cruel to spend it
in reprimands. Sometimes she would hurry from home for
the purpose of following the marquis's advice; but, the instant
she saw Raoul, her courage failed, a pleading look from his
soft, dark eyes silenced the rebuke upon her lips, the sound of
his voice banished every anxious thought from her mind.
But De Clameran was not a man to lose sight of the main
object; he would have no compromise with duty. His brother
had bequeathed to him, as a precious trust, his son Raoul; he
regarded himself, he said, as his guardian, and would be held
responsible in another world for his welfare. He entreated


FILE NUMBER 113
1127
Madame Fauvel to use her influence, when he found himself
powerless in trying to check the heedless youth in his down-
ward career. She ought, for the sake of her child, to see
more of him, in fact, every day.
"Alas," the poor woman replied, "that would be my heart's
desire. But how can I do it? Have I the right to ruin myself?
I have other children, for whom I must be careful of my
reputation." This answer appeared to astonish De Clameran.
A fortnight before, Madame Fauvel would not have alluded
to her other sons. "I will think the matter over," said Louis,
"and perhaps when I see you next I shall be able to submit
to you a plan which will reconcile everything."
The reflections of a man of so much experience could not
be fruitless. He had a relieved, satisfied look, when he called
to see Madame Fauvel in the following week. "I think I have
solved the problem," he said.—"What problem?"—"The means
of saving Raoul."
He explained himself by saying that as Madame Fauvel
could not, without arousing her husband's suspicions, visit
Raoul daily, she must receive him at her own house. This
proposition shocked Madame Fauvel; for though she had been
imprudent, even culpable, she was the soul of honor, and
naturally shrank from the idea of introducing Raoul into the
midst of her family, and seeing him welcomed by her husband,
and perhaps become the friend of her sons. Her instinctive
sense of justice made her declare that she would never con-
sent to such an infamous step.
"Yes," said the marquis thoughtfully; "but then it is the
only chance of saving your child." But this time, at least,
she resisted, and with an indignation and an energy capable
of shaking a will less strong than the Marquis de Clameran's.
"No," she repeated, "no; I can never consent."
Before a week had passed she listened to this project, which
at first had filled her with horror, with a willing ear, and even
began to devise means for its speedy execution. Yes, after
a cruel struggle, she finally yielded to the pressure of De Cla-
meran's politely uttered threats and Raoul's wheedling en-
treaties. "But how?" she asked, "upon what pretext can I
receive Raoul ?"—"It would be the easiest thing in the world,"
replied De Clameran,. "to introduce him as an ordinary ac-
quaintance, as I, myself, have the honor of being. But Raoul
must be more than that."


1128
FILE NUMBER 113
After torturing Madame Fauvel for a long time and almost
driving her out of her mind, he finally revealed his scheme,
"We have in our hands," he said, "the solution of the problem.
It is an inspiration." Madame Fauvel eagerly scanned his
face as she listened with the pitiable resignation of a martyr.
"Have you not a cousin, a widow lady, who had two daughters,
living at St . Remy?" continued Louis.—"Yes, Madame de
Lagors."—"Precisely so. What fortune has she?"—"She is
poor, sir, very poor."—"And but for the assistance you render
her secretly, she would be thrown upon the charity of the
world." Madame Fauvel was bewildered at finding the marquis
so well informed of her private affairs. "How could yon
have discovered this?" she asked.—"Oh, I know all about this
affair, and many others besides. I know, for instance, that
your husband knows none of your relatives, and that he is
scarcely aware of the existence of your cousin De Lagors.
Do you begin to comprehend my plan?" She understood it
slightly, and was asking herself how she could resist it.
"This," continued Louis, "is what I have planned. To-mor-
row or next day, you will receive a letter from your cousin at
St. Remy, telling you that she has sent her son to Paris, and
begging you to watch over him. Naturally you show this
letter to your husband; and a few days afterward he warmly
welcomes your nephew, Raoul de Lagors, a handsome, rich,
attractive young man, who will do everything he can to please
him, and who will succeed."
"Never, sir," replied Madame Fauvel, "my cousin is a
pious, honorable woman, and nothing would induce her to
countenance so shameful a transaction." The marquis smiled
scornfully, and asked: "Who told you that I intended to con-
fide in her?"—"But you would be obliged to do sol"
"You are very simple, madame. The letter which you will
receive, and show to your husband, will be dictated by me,
and posted at St. Remy by a friend of mine. If I spoke of
the obligations under which you have placed your cousin, it
was merely to show you that, in case of accident, her own
interest would make her serve you. Do you see any other
obstacle to this plan, madame?"
Madame Fauvel's eyes flashed with indignation. "Is my
will of no account?" she exclaimed. "You seem to have
made your arrangements without consulting me at all."—"Ex-
cuse me," said the marquis with ironical politeness; "I am


FILE NUMBER 113
1129
sure that you will take the same view of the matter as myself."
—"But it is a crime, sir, that you propose—an abominable
crime!"
This speech seemed to arouse all the bad passions slum-
bering in De Clameran's bosom; and his pale face had a
fiendish expression as he fiercely replied: "I think we do not
quite understand each other. Before you begin to talk about
crime, think over your past life. You were not so timid and
scrupulous when you gave yoursell up to your lover. It is
true that you did not hesitate to refuse to share his exile, when
for your sake he had just jeopardized his life by killing two
men. You felt no scruples at abandoning your child in London;
although rolling in wealth, you never even inquired if this
poor waif had bread to eat. You felt no scruples about mar-
rying M. Fauvel. Did you tell your confiding husband of the
lines of shame concealed beneath your wreath of orange-blos-
soms? No! All these crimes you indulge in; and, when in
Gaston's name I demand reparation, you indignantly refuse!
It is too late! You ruined the father; but you shall save the
son, or I swear you shall no longer cheat the world of* its
esteem."—"I will obey you, sir," murmured the trembling,
frightened woman.
The following week Raoul, now Raoul de Lagors, was seated
at the banker's dinner-table, between Madame Fauvel and
Madeleine.
I T was not without the most acute suffering and self-con-
*' demnation that Madame Fauvel submitted to the will of the
relentless Marquis de Clameran. She had used every argument
and entreaty to soften him; but he merely looked upon her with
a triumphant, sneering smile when she knelt at his feet, and
implored him to be merciful. Neither tears nor prayers moved
his depraved soul. Disappointed, and almost desperate, she
sought the intercession of her son. Raoul was in a state of
furious indignation at the sight of his mother's distress, and

1o—Vol. 3


1130
FILE NUMBER 113
hastened to demand an apology from De Clameran. But he
had reckoned without his host. He soon returned with down-
cast eyes, and moodily angry at his own powerlessness, de-
claring that safety demanded a complete surrender to the
tyrant. Now only did the wretched woman fully fathom
the abyss into which she was being dragged, and clearly see the
labyrinth of crime of which she was becoming the victim.
And all this suffering was the consequence of a fault, an in-
terview granted to Gaston. Ever since that fatal day she had
been vainly struggling against the implacable logic of events.
Her life had been spent in trying to overcome the past, and
now it had risen to crush her. The hardest thing of all to
do, the act that most wrung her heart, was showing to her
husband the forged letter from St. Remy, and saying that she
expected soon to see her nephew, a quite young man, and very
rich! But words can not paint the torture she endured on the
evening she introduced Raoul to her family. It was with a
smile on his lips that the banker welcomed this nephew, of
whom he had never heard before. "It is natural," said he, as
he held out his hand, "when one is young and rich, to prefer
Paris to St. Remy." Raoul did his utmost to deserve this cor-
dial reception. If his early education had been neglected, and
he lacked those delicate refinements of manner and conversa-
tion which home influence imparts, his superior tact concealed
these defects. He possessed the happy faculty of reading char-
acters, and adapting his conversation to the minds of his lis-
teners. Before a week had gone by he was a favorite with
M. Fauvel, intimate with Abel and Lucien, and inseparable
from Prosper Bertomy, the cashier, who then spent all his
evenings with the banker's family. Charmed at the favorable
impression made by Raoul, Madame Fauvel recovered compara-
tive ease of mind, and at times almost congratulated herself
upon having obeyed the marquis, and began once more to hope.
Raoul's intimacy with his cousins threw him among a set of
rich young men, and as a consequence, instead of reforming,
he daily grew more dissipated and reckless. Gambling, racing,
expensive suppers, made money slip through his fingers like
grains of sand. This proud young man, whose sensitive deli-
cacy not long since made him refuse to accept aught save
• affection from his mother, now never approached her without
demanding large sums of money. At first she gave with pleas-
ure, without stopping to count the cash. But she soon per-


FILE NUMBER 113
1131
ceived that her generosity, if she did not keep it within bounds,
would be her ruin. This rich woman, whose magnificent dia-
monds, elegant toilets, and superb equipages were the admira-
tion and envy of Paris, knew misery in its bitterest form: that
of not being able to gratify the desires of a beloved being.
Her husband had never thought of giving her a fixed sum for
expenses. The day after their wedding he gave her a key to
his secretary, and ever since she had been in the habit of freely
taking the money necessary for keeping up the establishment,
and for her own personal requirements. But from the fact of
her having always been so modest in her personal expenses, that
her husband used to jest her on the subject, and of her hav-
ing managed the household expenditure in a most judicious
manner, she was not able to suddenly dispose of large sums
without giving rise to embarrassing questions. M. Fauvel, the
most generous of millionaires, would have been delighted to see
his wife indulge in any extravagance, no matter how foolish;
but he would naturally expect to see traces of the money spent,
something to show for it. The banker might suddenly discover
that much more than the usual amount of money was used in
the house; and if he should ask the cause of this astonishing
outlay, what answer could she give?
In three months Raoul had squandered a little fortune. In
the first place, he was obliged to have bachelor's apartments,
prettily furnished. He was in want of everything, just like a
shipwrecked sailor. He asked for a horse and brougham—how
could she refuse him? Then every day there was some fresh
whim to be satisfied. When she would gently remonstrate,
Raoul's beautiful eyes would fill with tears, and in a sad, hum-
ble tone he would say: "Alas! I am a child, a poor fool, I ask
too much. I forget that I am only the son of poor Valentine,
and not of the rich banker's wife!"
This touching repentance wrung her heart. The poor boy
had suffered so much that it was her duty to console him, and
she would finish by excusing him. She soon discovered that
he was jealous and envious of his two brothers—for, after all,
they were his brothers—Abel and Lucien.
"You never refuse them anything," he would say; "they were
fortunate enough to enter life by the golden gate. Their every
wish is gratified; they enjoy wealth, position, home affection,
and have a splendid future awaiting them."
"But what is lacking to your happiness, unhappy child?"


1132
FILE NUMBER 113
Madame Fauvel would ask in despair.—"What do I want? ap-
parently nothing, in reality everything. Do I possess anything
legitimately? What right have I to your affection, to the com-
forts and luxuries you heap upon me, to the name I bear? Have
I not, so to say, stolen even my life?"
When Raoul talked in this strain, she was ready to do any-
thing, so that he should not be envious of her two other sons.
As spring approached, she told him she wished him to spend
the summer in the country, near her villa at St. Germain. She
expected he would offer some objection. But not at all. The
proposal seemed to please him, and a few days after he told
her he had rented a little house at Vesinet, and intended hav-
ing his furniture moved into it. "Then, just think, dear mother,
what a happy summer we will spend together!" he said with
beaming eyes.
She was delighted for many reasons, one of which was that
the prodigal's expenses would probably diminish. Anxiety as
to the exhausted state of her finances made her bold enough to
chide him at the dinner table one day for having lost two thou-
sand francs at the races the day before.
"You are severe, my dear," said M. Fauvel, with the care-
lessness of a rich man. "Mama de Lagors will pay; mamas
were created for the special purpose of paying." And, not ob-
serving the effect these words had upon his wife, he turned to
Raoul, and added: "Don't worry yourself, my boy; when you
want money, come to me, and I will lend you some." What
could Madame Fauvel say? Had she not followed De Cla-
meran's orders, and announced that Raoul was very rich? Why
had she been made to tell this unnecessary lie? She all at once
perceived the snare which had been laid for her; but now she
was caught, and it was too late to struggle. The banker's offer
was soon accepted. That same week Raoul went to his uncle
and boldly borrowed ten thousand francs. When Madame
Fauvel heard of this piece of audacity, she wrung her hands
in despair. "What can he want with so much money?" she
moaned to herself.
For some time De Clameran had kept away from Madame
Fauvel's house. She decided to write and ask him to call. She
hoped that this energetic, determined man, who was so fully
awake to his duties as a guardian, would make Raoul listen
to reason. When De Clameran heard what had taken place,
his surprise and anger were unbounded. A violent alterca-


FILE NUMBER 113
1133
tion ensued between him and Raoul. But Madame Fauvel's
suspicions were aroused; she watched them, and it seemed to
her—could it be possible—that their anger was feigned; that,
although they abused and even threatened each other in the
bitterest language, their eyes were smiling. She dared not
breathe her doubts; but, like a subtle poison which disorgan-
izes everything with which it comes in contact, this new sus-
picion filled her thoughts, and added to her already intolerable
sufferings. Yet she never once thought of blaming Raoul, for
she still loved him madly. She accused the marquis of taking
advantage of the youthful weaknesses and inexperience of his
nephew. She knew that she would have to suffer insolence and
extortion from this man who had her completely in his power;
but she could not penetrate his motive for acting as he did.
He soon acquainted her with it.
One day, after complaining-more bitterly than usual of Raoul,
and proving to Madame Fauvel that it was impossible for this
state of affairs to continue much longer, the marquis declared
that he saw but one way of preventing a catastrophe. This
was, that he (De Clameran) should marry Madeleine. Madame
Fauvel had long ago been prepared for anything his cupidity
could attempt. But if she had given up all hope of happiness
for herself, if she consented to the sacrifice of her own peace
of mind, it was because she thus hoped to insure the security of
those dear to her. This unexpected declaration shocked her.
"Do you suppose for an instant, sir," she indignantly exclaimed,
"that I will consent to any such disgraceful project?" With a
nod, the marquis answered; "Yes."—"What sort of a woman
do you think I am, sir? Alas! I was very guilty once, but the
punishment now exceeds the fault. And does it become you to
be constantly reproaching me with my long-past imprudence?
So long as I alone had to suffer, you found me weak and timid;
but now that you attack those I love, I rebel."—"Would it
then, madame, be such a very great misfortune for Mademoi-
selle Madeleine to become the Marquise de Clameran?"
"My niece, sir, chose, of her own free will, a husband whom
she will shortly marry. She loves M. Prosper Bertomy." The
marquis disdainfully shrugged his shoulders. "A school-girl
love affair," said he; "she will forget all about it when you wish
her to do so."—"I will never wish it."
"Excuse me," he replied in the low, suppressed tone of a
man trying to control himself; "let us not waste time-in these


1134
FILE NUMBER 113
idle discussions. Hitherto you have always commenced by pro-
testing against my proposed plans, and in the end acknowledged
the good sense and justness of my arguments. This time, also,
you will oblige me by yielding."—"Never," said Madame Fau-
vel; "never!"
De Clameran paid no attention to this interruption, but went
on: "If I insist upon this marriage, it is because it will reestab-
lish your affairs, as well as ours. Of course you see that the
allowance you give your son is insufficient for his extravagant
style of living. The time approaches when you will have noth-
ing more to give him, and you will no longer be able to conceal
from your husband your constant encroachments on the house-
keeping money. When that day comes, what is to be done?"
Madame Fauvel shuddered. The dreaded day of which the
marquis spoke could not be far off. "Then," he continued, "you
will render justice to my wise forethought, and to my good
intentions. Mademoiselle Madeleine is rich; her dowry will
enable me to supply the deficit, and save you."—"I would rather
be ruined than be saved by such means."—"But I will not per-
mit you to ruin us all. Remember, madame, that we are asso-
ciated in a common cause—Raoul's future welfare."—"Cease
your importunities," she said, looking him steadily in the face.
"I have made up my mind irrevocably."—"To what?"—"To do
everything and anything to escape your shameful persecution.
Oh! you need not smile. I shall, if necessary, throw myself at
M. Fauvel's feet and confess everything. He loves me, and,
knowing how I have suffered, will forgive me."—"Do you think
so?" asked De Clameran, derisively.—"You mean to say that
he will be pitiless, and banish me from his roof! So be it; it
will only be what I deserve. There is no torture that I can not
bear after what I have suffered through you."
This inconceivable resistance so upset all the marquis's plans
that he lost all constraint, and, dropping the mask of politeness,
appeared in his true character. "Indeed!" he said, in a fierce,
brutal tone; "so you have decided to confess to your husband!
A famous idea! What a pity you did not think of it before!
Confessing everything the first day I called on you, you might
have been forgiven. Your husband might have pardoned a
youthful fault, atoned for by twenty years of irreproachable
conduct; for none can deny that you have been a faithful wife
and a good mother. But picture the indignation of your trust-
ing husband when you tell him that this pretended nephew—


FILE NUMBER 113
1135
whom you impose upon his family circle, who sits at his table,
who borrows his money—is your illegitimate son! M. Fauvel
is, no doubt, an excellent, kind-hearted man; but I scarcely
think he will pardon a deception of this nature, which betrays
such depravity, duplicity, and audacity."
All that the angry marquis said was horribly true; yet Ma-
dame Fauvel listened unflinchingly. "Upon my word," he went
on, "you must be very much infatuated with this M. Bertomy!
Between the honor of your husband's name, and pleasing this
love-sick cashier, you refuse to hesitate. Well, I suppose it
will console you when M. Fauvel separates from you, and Abel
and Lucien avert their faces at your approach, and blush at
being your sons—it will be very sweet to be able to say: 'I have
made Prosper happy!"'
"Happen what may, I shall do what is right," said Madame
Fauvel.—"You shall do what I tell you!" cried De Clameran,
threateningly. "Do you suppose that I will allow your senti-
mentality to blast all my hopes? Your niece's fortune is indis-
pensable to us, and, more than that, I love the fair Madeleine."
The blow once struck, the marquis judged it prudent to await
the result. With cool politeness, he added: "I will leave you
now, madame, to think the matter over. Believe me, consent
to this sacrifice—it will be the last required of you. Think of
the honor of your family, and not of your niece's love affairs.
I will call in three days for your answer."—"You will come
uselessly, sir. I shall tell my husband everything as soon as
he returns." If Madame Fauvel had not been so agitated her-
self she would have detected an expression of alarm upon De
Clameran's face. With a shrug, which meant, "Just as you
please," he said: "I think you have sense enough to keep
your secret." He bowed ceremoniously, and left the room, but
slammed the door after him with a violence that betrayed the
constraint he had imposed upon himself. De Clameran had
cause for fear. Madame Fauvel's determination was not
feigned. "Yes," she cried, with the enthusiasm of a noble
resolution; "yes, I will tell Andre everything."
She believed herself to be alone, but turned round suddenly
at the sound of footsteps, and found herself face to face with
Madeleine, who was pale as a statue, and whose eyes were
full of tears. "You must obey this man, aunt," she quietly
said. Adjoining the drawing-room were two little card-rooms,
shut off only by heavy silk surtains. Madeleine, unknown to


1136
FILE NUMBER 113
her aunt, was sitting in one of the little rooms when the mar-
quis arrived, and had overheard the conversation.
"Good heavens!" cried Madame Fauvel with terror; "do you
know?"—"I know everything, aunt."—"And you wish me to
sacrifice you to this fiend?"—"I implore you to let me save
you."—"You must certainly hate M. de Clameran."—"I hate
him, aunt, and despise him. He will always be for me the
basest of men; nevertheless I will marry him."
Madame Fauvel was overcome by the magnitude of this de-
votion. "And what is to become of Prosper, my poor child—
Prosper, whom you love?" Madeleine stifled a sob, and replied
in a firm voice: "To-morrow I will break off my engagement
with M. Bertomy."—"I will never permit such a wrong," cried
Madame Fauvel. "I will not add to my sins by suffering an
innocent girl to bear their penalty."
The noble girl sadly shook her head, and replied: "Neither
will I suffer dishonor to fall upon this house, which is my home,
while I have power to prevent it. Am I not indebted to you for
more than life? What would I now be had you not taken pity on
me? A factory girl in my native town. You warmly welcomed
the poor orphan, and became a mother to her. Is it not to your
husband that I owe the fortune which excites this villain's
cupidity? Are not Abel and Lucien brothers to me? And now,
when the happiness of us all is at stake, do you suppose I would
hesitate? No. I will become the wife of De Clameran."
Then began a struggle of self-sacrifice between Madame
Fauvel and her niece, as to which should be the victim; and all
the more sublime, because each offered her life to the other,
not from any sudden impulse, but deliberately and willingly.
But Madeleine was bound to triumph, fired as she was by that
holy enthusiasm of sacrifice which makes martyrs.—"I am re-
sponsible to none but myself," she said, well knowing this to
be the most vulnerable point she could attack; "while you, dear
aunt, are accountable to your husband and children. Think
of my uncle's pain and sorrow if he should ever learn the
truth! It would kill him."
The generous girl was right. After having sacrificed her
husband to her mother, Madame Fauvel was about to immolate
her husband and children for Raoul. As an impalpable snow-
flake may be the beginning of an avalanche, so an imprudence
is often the prelude to a great crime. To false situations there
is but one safe issue—truth.


FILE NUMBER 113
1137
i
Madame Fauvel's resistance grew weaker and weaker. "But,"
she faintly argued, "1 can not accept your sacrifice. What
sort of a life will you lead with this man?"—"We can hope
for the best," replied Madeleine, with a cheerfulness she was
far from feeling; "he loves me, he says; perhaps he will be
kind to me."—"Ah, if I only knew where to obtain money! It
is money that the grasping man wants; money alone will satisfy
him."—"Does he not want it for Raoul? Has not Raoul, by
his extravagant follies, dug an abyss which must be bridged
over by money? If I could only believe M. de Clameran!"
Madame Fauvel looked at her niece with bewildered curi-
osity. What! this inexperienced girl had weighed the matter
in its different lights before deciding upon a surrender; whereas,
she, a wife and a mother, had blindly yielded to the inspirations
of her heart! "What do you mean?" she asked.—"I mean this,
aunt, that I do not believe that De Clameran has any thought
of his nephew's welfare. Once in possession of my fortune, he
may leave you and Raoul to your fates. And there is another
dreadful suspicion that tortures my mind."—"A suspicion?"—
"Yes, and I would reveal it to you, if I dared; if I did not fear
that you—"—"Speak!" insisted Madame Fauvel. "Alas! mis-
fortune has given me strength. I can fear nothing worse than
what has already happened. I am ready to hear anything."
Madeleine hesitated; she wished to enlighten her credulous
aunt, and yet feared to distress her. "I would like to be cer-
tain," she said, "that some secret understanding between M. de
Clameran and Raoul does not exist, that they are not acting a
part agreed upon between them beforehand."
Love is blind and deaf. Madame Fauvel no longer remem-
bered the laughing eyes of the two men, upon the occasion of
the pretended quarrel in her presence. She could not, she would
not, believe in such hypocrisy. "It is impossible," she said:
"the marquis is really indignant and distressed at his nephew's
mode of life, and he certainly would never give him any bad
advice. As to Raoul, he is vain, trifling, and extravagant; but
he has a good heart. Prosperity has turned his head, but he
loves me. Ah, if you could see and hear him, when I reproach
him for his faults, your suspicions would fly to the winds.
When he tearfully promises to be more prudent, he means to
keep his word. If he breaks his promises, it is because per-
fidious friends lead him astray."
Mothers always blame their children's friends. The friend


1138
FILE NUMBER 113
is the guilty one. Madeleine had not the heart to undeceive
her aunt. "God grant that what you say may be true," she
said; "if so, my marriage will not be useless. We will write
to M. de Clameran to-night."—"Why to-night, Madeleine?
We need not hurry so. Let us wait a little; something might
happen to save us."
These words—this confidence in chance, in a mere nothing—
revealed Madame Fauvel's true character, and accounted for
her troubles. Timid, hesitating, easily swayed, she never could
come to a firm decision, form a resolution, and abide by it, in
spite of all arguments brought to bear against it. In the hour
of peril she would always shut her eyes, and trust to chance
for a relief which never came. Quite different was Madeleine's
character. Beneath her gentle timidity, lay a strong, self-
reliant will. Once decided upon a sacrifice, it was to be carried
out to the letter; she shut out all deceitful illusions, and walked
straight forward without one look back.
"We had better end the matter at once, dear aunt," she said,
in a gentle but firm tone. "Believe me, the reality of mis-
fortune is not as painful as its apprehension. You can not
bear the shocks of sorrow, and delusive hopes of happiness,
much longer. Do you know what anxiety of mind has done to
you? Have you looked in your mirror during the last four
months?" She led her aunt up to a looking-glass, and said:
"Look at yourself." Madame Fauvel was, indeed, a mere
shadow of her former self. She had reached the age when
a woman's beauty, like a full-blown rose, fades in a day. Four
months of trouble had made her an old woman. Sorrow had
stamped its fatal seal upon her brow. Her fair, soft skin was
wrinkled, her hair was streaked with silver. "Do you not agree
with me," continued Madeleine, pityingly, "that peace of mind
is necessary to you? Do you not see that you are a wreck of
your former self? Is it not a miracle that M. Fauvel has not
noticed this sad change in you?" Madame Fauvel, who flat-
tered herself that she had displayed wonderful dissimulation,
shook her head. "Alas! my poor aunt! did I not discover that
you had a secret?"
"You, Madeleine?"—"Yes! only I thought— Oh! pardon
an unjust suspicion, but I was wicked enough to suppose—"
She stopped, too distressed to finish her sentence; then, making
a painful effort, she added: "I was afraid that perhaps you loved
another man better than my uncle."


FILE NUMBER 113
1139
Madame Fauvel sobbed aloud. Madeleine's suspicion might
be entertained by others. "My reputation is gone," she moaned.
—"No, dear aunt, no," exclaimed the young girl, "do not be
alarmed. Have courage: we two can fight now; we will defend
ourselves, we will save ourselves."
The Marquis de Clameran was agreeably surprised that even-
ing by receiving a letter from Madame Fauvel, saying that she
consented to everything, but must have a little time to carry out
the plan. Madeleine, she said, could not break off her engage-
ment with M. Bertomy in a day. M. Fauvel would make ob-
jections, for he had an affection for Prosper, and had tacitly
approved of the match. It would be wiser to leave to time the
smoothing away of certain obstacles which a sudden attack
might render insurmountable. A line from Madeleine, at the
bottom of her letter, assured him of her consent.
Poor girl! she did not spare herself. The next day she took
Prosper aside, and forced from him the fatal promise to shun
her in the future, and to take upon himself the responsibility
of breaking their engagement. He implored Madeleine to at
least explain the reason of this banishment, which destroyed
all his hopes of happiness. She simply replied that her peace
of mind and honor depended upon his obedience. He left her
sick at heart. As he went out of the house, the marquis
entered. Yes, he had the audacity to come in person, to tell
Madame Fauvel that, now he had the promise of herself and
Madeleine, he would consent to wait awhile. He himself saw
the necessity of patience, knowing that he was not liked by
the banker. Having the aunt and niece in his power, he was
certain of success. He said to himself that the moment would
come when a deficit impossible to be replaced would force them
to hasten the wedding. And Raoul did all he could to bring
matters to a crisis. Madame Fauvel went sooner than usual
to her country seat, and Raoul at once moved into his house
at Vesinet. But living in the country did not lessen his ex-
penses. Gradually he laid aside all hypocrisy, and only came
to see his mother when he wanted money; and his demands
were frequent and more exorbitant each time. As for the
marquis, he prudently absented himself, awaiting the propi-
tious moment. And it was quite by chance that three weeks
later, meeting the banker at a friend's, he was invited to din-
ner the next day.
Twenty people were seated at the table; and as the dessert


1140
FILE NUMBER 113
was being served, the banker suddenly turned to De Clameran
and said: "I have a question to ask you, marquis. Have you
any relatives bearing your name?"—"None that I know of,
«r."—"I am surprised. About a week ago, I became acquainted
with another Marquis de Clameran."
Although so hardened by crime, impudent enough to deny
anything, De Clameran was taken aback and turned pale. "Oh,
indeed! That is strange. A De Clameran may exist; but I
can not understand the title of marquis."
M. Fauvel was not sorry to have the opportunity of annoying
a guest whose aristocratic pretensions had often piqued him.
"Marquis or not," he replied, "the De Clameran in question
seems to be able to do honor to the title."—"Is he rich?"—
"I have reason to suppose that he is very wealthy. I have
been authorized to collect for him four hundred thousand
francs."
De Clameran had a wonderful faculty of self-control; he
had so schooled himself that his face never betrayed what was
passing through his mind. But this news was so startling, so
strange, so pregnant of danger, that his usual assurance de-
serted him. He detected a peculiar look of irony in the banker's
eye. The only persons who noticed this sudden change in the
marquis's manner were Madeleine and her aunt. They saw
him turn pale, and exchange a meaning look with Raoul.
"Then I suppose this new marquis is a merchant," said De
Gameran, after a moment's pause.—"You ask too much. All
that I know is, that four hundred thousand francs are to be
deposited to his account by some shipowners of Havre, after
the sale of the cargo of a Brazilian ship."—"Then he comes
from Brazil ?"—"I do not know, but I can, if you like, give yoo
his Christian name."—"I would be obliged."
M. Fauvel rose from the table, and brought from the next
room a memorandum-book, and began to read over the names
written in it. "Wait a moment," he said: "let me see—the 22d,
no, it was later than that. Ah, here it is: De Clameran, Gaston.
His name is Gaston."
But this time Louis betrayed no emotion or alarm; he had
had sufficient time to recover his self-possession, and nothing
could now throw him off his guard. "Gaston?" he queried
carelessly. "I know who he is now. He must be the son of
my father's sister, whose husband lived at Havana. I suppose,
upon his return to France, he must have taken his mother's


FILE NUMBER 113
1141
name, which is more sonorous than his father's, that being, if
I recollect aright, Moirot or Boirot."
The banker laid down his memorandum-book, and, resuming
his seat, said: "Boirot or De Clameran, I hope to have the
pleasure of inviting you to dine with him before long. Of the
four hundred thousand francs which I was ordered to collect
for him, he only wishes to draw one hundred, and tells me to
keep the rest on current account. I judge from this, that he
intends coming to Paris."—"I shall be delighted to make his
acquaintance."
De Clameran broached another topic, and seemed to have
entirely forgotten the news told him by the banker. Although
apparently engrossed in the conversation at the table, he closely
watched Madame Fauvel and her niece. He saw that they were
unable to conceal their agitation, and stealthily exchanged sig-
nificant looks. Evidently the same terrible idea had crossed their
minds. Madeleine seemed more nervous and startled than her
aunt. When M. Fauvel uttered Gaston's name, she saw Raoul
begin to draw back his chair and glance in a frightened manner
toward the window, like a detected thief looking for means of
escape. Raoul, less experienced than his uncle, was thoroughly
discountenanced. He, the original talker, the lion of a dinner
party, never at a loss for some witty speech, was now perfectly
dumb; he sat anxiously watching Louis. At last the dinner
ended, and as the guests passed into the drawing-rooms, De
Clameran and Raoul managed to remain last in the dining-room.
When they were alone, they no longer attempted to conceal their
anxiety.
"It is he!" said Raoul.—"I have no doubt of it."—"Then all
is lost; we had better make our escape."
But a bold adventurer like De Clameran had no idea of
giving up the ship till forced to do so. "Who knows what
may happen?" he asked thoughtfully. "There is hope yet.
Why did not that muddle-headed banker tell us where this De
Clameran is to be found?" Here he uttered a joyful excla-
mation. He saw M. Fauvel's memorandum book lying on the
side-board. "Watch!" he said to Raoul.
Seizing the note-book, he hurriedly turned over the leaves,
and, in an undertone, read: "Gaston, Marquis de Clameran,
Oloron, Lower Pyrenees."—"Well, does finding out his address
assist us?" inquired Raoul eagerly.—"It may save us: that is
all. Let us return to the drawing-room; our absence might be


1142
FILE NUMBER 113
observed. Exert yourself to appear unconcerned and gay. You
almost betrayed us once by your agitation."—"The two women
suspect something."—"Well, suppose they do?"—"It is not safe
for us here."—"Were you any better in London? Don't be so
easily frightened. I am going to plant my batteries."
They joined the other guests. But, if their conversation had
not been overheard, their movements had been watched. Made-
leine had come on tiptoe, and, looking through the half-open
door, had seen De Clameran consulting her uncle's note-book.
But what benefit would she derive from this proof of the mar-
quis's anxiety? She no longer doubted the villainy of the man
to whom she had promised her hand. As he had said to Raoul,
neither Madeleine nor her aunt could escape him. Two hours
later, De Clameran was on the road to Vesinet with Raoul,
explaining to him his plans.
"It is he, and no mistake," he said. "But we are too easily
alarmed, my fine nephew."—"Nonsense! the banker is expect-
ing him; he may be among us to-morrow."—"Don't be an
idiot!" interrupted De Clameran. "Does he know that Fauvel
is Valentine's husband? If he knows that little fact, we must
take to our heels; if he is ignorant of it, our case is not des-
perate."—"How can we find out?"—"By simply going and ask-
ing him."—"That is a brilliant idea," said Raoul, admiringly;
"but dangerous."—"It is not as dangerous as not doing it.
And, as to running away at the first suspicion of alarm, it
would be downright imbecility."
"And who will go and see him?"
"I will!"
"Oh, oh, oh!" exclaimed Raoul in three different tones. De
Clameran's audacity confounded him. "But what am I to do?"
he inquired.
"You will oblige me by remaining here. At the least sign
of danger, I will send you a telegram, and then you must
make off."
As they parted at Raoul's door, De Clameran said: "It is
then understood you will remain here. But mind, so long as
my absence lasts, become once more the best of sons. Set
yourself against me, calumniate me if you can. But no non-
sense. No demands for money. So now, good-by! To-morrow
night I shall be at Oloron and shall have seen this De Clameran.


FILE NUMBER 113
1143

A FTER leaving Valentine de la Verberie, Gaston underwent
great peril and difficulty in effecting his escape. But for
the experienced and faithful Menoul, he never would have
succeeded in embarking. Having left his mother's jewels with
Valentine, his sole fortune consisted of not quite a thousand
francs; and it is not with a paltry sum like that that a fugitive
who has just killed two men can pay for his passage on board
a ship. But Menoul was a man of experience. While Gaston
remained concealed in a farmhouse at Camargue, Menoul went
to Marseilles, and the same evening learned that a three-masted
American vessel was in the roadstead, whose commander, Cap-
tain Warth, a not overscrupulous person, would be glad to wel-
come on board an able-bodied man who would be of assistance
to him at sea, and would not trouble himself about his ante-
cedents. After visiting the vessel and taking a glass of rum
with the captain, old Menoul returned to Gaston.
"If it was a question of myself, sir," he said, "I should avail
myself of the opportunity, but you?"—"What suits you, suits
me," interrupted Gaston.—"You see, the fact is, you will be
obliged to work very hard. You will only be a common sailor,
you know! And I must confess that the ship's company is not
the most moral one I ever saw. The captain, too, seems a
swaggering bully."—"I have no choice," said Gaston. "I will
go on board at once."
Old Menoul's suspicions were correct. Before Gaston had
been on board the "Tom Jones" forty-eight hours, he saw
that chance had cast him among a collection of the most de-
praved bandits and cut-throats. The crew, recruited seem-
ingly anywhere, contained specimens of the rascals of almost
every country. But Gaston's mind was undisturbed as to the
character of the people with whom his lot was cast for several
months. It was only his body that the vessel was carrying to
another land. His heart and soul rested in the shady park of
La Verberie, beside his beloved Valentine. And what would


1144 FILE NUMBER 113
become of her now, poor child, when he was no longer there
to love, console, and defend her? Happily, he had no time for
sad reflections. His every moment was occupied in learning
the rough apprenticeship of a sailor's life. All his energies
were spent in bearing up under the heavy burden of labor
allotted to him. This was his salvation. Physical suffering
calmed and deadened his mental agony. The few hours' relaxa-
tion granted him were spent in sleep. He had sworn that he
would return before the end of three years, rich enough to
satisfy the exactions of Madame de la Verberie. Judging from
the conversation of his companions, he was not now on the
road to the fortune he so much desired. The "Tom Jones" was
sailing for Valparaiso, but certainly went in a roundabout way
to reach her destination. The real fact was that Captain Warth
proposed visiting the Gulf of Guinea. A friend of his, a black
prince, he said, with a loud laugh, was waiting for him at
Badagri, to exchange a cargo of "ebony" for some pipes of
rum, and a hundred flint-lock muskets which were on board.
Gaston soon saw that he was serving his apprenticeship on one
of the numerous slavers equipped yearly by some free and
philanthropic Americans. Although this discovery filled Gas-
ton with indignation and shame, he was prudent enough to
conceal his impressions. His remonstrances, no matter how
eloquent, would have made no change in Captain Warth's opin-
ions regarding a traffic which brought him in more than one
hundred per cent, in spite of the French and English cruisers,
the damages, sometimes entire loss of cargoes, and many
other risks. The crew had a certain respect for Gaston when
the story of his having killed two men, as related by Menoul to
the captain, transpired. To have given vent to his feelings
would have incurred the enmity of the whole of his shipmates,
without bettering his own situation. He therefore kept quiet,
but swore mentally that he would desert on the first opportu-
nity. This opportunity, like everything impatiently longed for,
came not. By the end of three months Captain Warth found
Gaston indispensable. Seeing him so intelligent, he took a
fancy to him, liked to have him at his own table, listened to
his conversation with pleasure, and was glad of his company
in a game of cards. The mate of the ship dying, Gaston was
chosen to replace him. In this capacity he made two successive
voyages to Guinea, bringing back a thousand blacks, whom he
superintended during a trip of fifteen hundred leagues, and


FILE NUMBER 113
1145
finally landed clandestinely on the coast of Brazil. When
Gaston had been about three years on board, the "Tom Jones"
put into Rio de Janeiro. He now had an opportunity of leaving
the captain, who was after all a worthy man, who never would
have engaged in the diabolical traffic of human beings but for
his little daughter's sake, his little Mary, whose dowry he
wished to make a magnificent one. Gaston had saved twelve
thousand francs out of his share of the profits, when he landed
in Brazil. As a proof that the slave trade was repugnant to
his nature he left the slaver the moment he possessed a little
capital with which to enter some honest business. But he was
no longer the high-minded, pure-hearted Gaston, who had been
so beloved by the little fairy of La Verberie. As the exposure
to rain, sun, and sea air first darkened and then hardened his
skin, so did wicked associates first shock and then destroy the
refinement and purity of Gaston's mind. His heart had become
as hard and coarse as his sailor hands. He still remembered
Valentine, and sighed for her presence; but though she was
still the most beloved, she was no longer the one woman
in the world to him. However, the three years, after which
he had pledged himself to return, had passed; perhaps Valen-
tine was expecting him. Before deciding on any definite proj-
ect, he wrote to an intimate friend at Beaucaire to learn what
had happened during his long absence. He also wrote to his
father, to whom he had already sent several letters, whenever
he had an opportunity of doing so. At the end of a year, he
received his friend's reply. It told him that his father was
dead, that his brother had left France, that Valentine was mar-
ried, and, finally, that he, Gaston, had been sentenced to several
years' imprisonment for manslaughter. Henceforth he was
alone in the world, with no country, disgraced by a public
sentence. Valentine was married, and he had no further ob-
ject in life! He would hereafter have faith in no one, since
she, Valentine, had cast him off and forgotten him, had lacked
the courage to keep her promise and wait for him. In his
despair, he almost regretted the "Tom Jones."
But Gaston was not a man to be long cast down. "I will
earn money, then," he cried with rage, "since money is the only
thing in this world which never deceives!" And he set to
work with a greedy activity which increased every day. He
tried all the many speculations open to adventurers. Alter-
nately he traded in furs, worked a mine, and cultivated lands.


1146
FILE NUMBER 113
Five times he went to bed rich, and waked up ruined; five
times, with the patience of the beaver, whose hut is swept
away by the current, he recommenced the building of his for-
tune. Finally, after long, weary years of toil and struggle, he
was worth about a million in gold, besides immense tracts of
land. He had often said that he would never leave Brazil, that
he wanted to end his days in Rio. He had forgotten that love
for his native land never dies in a Frenchman's breast. Now
that he was rich, he wished to die in France. He made in-
quiries, and found that the law of limitations would permit him
to return without being disturbed by the authorities. He real-
ized what he could of his property, and, leaving the rest in
charge of an agent, embarked for France. Twenty-three years
and four months had elapsed since he fled from home, when,
on a bright day in January, 1866, he stood upon the quays at
Bordeaux. He had departed a young man, with his heart brim-
ful of hope; he returned gray-haired, and believing in nothing.
His health, too, on his arrival, began to suffer from the sudden
change of climate. Rheumatism confined him to his bed for
several months. As soon as he could sit up, the physicians sent
him to some baths, where they said he would regain his health.
When cured, he felt that inactivity would kill him. Charmed
with the beauty of the Pyrenees, and the lovely valley of Aspe,
he resolved to take up his abode there. An iron foundry was
for sale near Oloron, on the banks of the Gave; he bought it
with the intention of utilizing the immense quantity of wood,
which for want of means of transport was wasting in the
mountains.
He had been settled some weeks in his new house, when one
evening his servant brought him the card of a stranger who de-
sired to see him. He read the name on the card: Louis de
Clameran. Many years had passed since Gaston had experi-
enced such violent agitation. His blood rushed to his head,
and he trembled like a leaf. The old home affections which
he thought dead now sprung up anew in his heart. A thou-
sand confused memories rushed through his mind. Words rose
to his lips, but he was unable to utter them. "My brother!" he
at length gasped, "my brother!" Hurriedly passing by the
frightened servant, he ran downstairs. In the hall a man,
Louis de Clameran, stood waiting. Gaston threw his arms
round his neck and held him in a close embrace for some
minutes, and then drew him into a room. Seated close beside


FILE NUMBER 113
1147
Louis, and tightly clasping his two hands, Gaston gazed on his
face as a fond mother would gaze at her son just returned
from the battlefield.
"And is this really Louis?" he cried. "My dearly loved
brother? Why, I should have recognized you among a thou-
sand; the expression of your face has not in the least changed,
your smile is the same as it used to be."
Louis did indeed smile, just as he perhaps smiled on that
fatal night when his horse stumbled, and prevented Gaston's
escape. He smiled now as if he were perfectly happy; he seemed
overjoyed. He had exerted all the courage he possessed to
venture upon this meeting. Nothing but the most terrible neces-
sity would have induced him to present himself thus. His teeth
chattered and he trembled in every limb when he rang Gaston's
bell, and handed the servant his card, saying: "Take this to
your master." The few moments that elapsed before Gaston's
appearance seemed to him centuries. He said to himself: "Per-
haps it is not he. And if it is, does he know? Does he sus-
pect anything?" He was so anxious that, when he saw Gaston
rushing downstairs, he felt like fleeing from the house. Not
knowing the nature of Gaston's feelings toward him, he stood
perfectly motionless. But one glance at his brother's face con-
vinced him that he was the same affectionate, credulous, trust-
ing Gaston of old; and, now that he was almost certain that his
brother harbored no suspicions, he recovered himself and smiled.
"After all," continued Gaston, "I am not alone in the world;
I shall have some one to love, some one to care for me." Then,
as if suddenly struck by a thought, he asked: "Are you mar-
ried, Louis?"—"No."—"That is a pity, a great pity. It would
so have added to my happiness to see you the husband of a
good, affectionate woman, the father of bright, lovely children!
It would have been a comfort to have a happy family about me.
I should have looked upon them all as my own. To live alone,
without a loving wife to share one's joys and sorrows, is not
living at all. Oh, the sadness of having only one's self to care
for! But what am I saying? I have you, Louis, and is not
that enough? I have a brother, a friend with whom I can talk
aloud, as I have for so long talked to myself."
"Yes, Gaston, yes, a good friend!"—"Of course! for are
you not my brother? So you are not married! Then we will
keep house together. We will live like two old bachelors, as
we are, and be as happy as kings; we will amuse each other,


1148
FILE NUMBER 113
we will thoroughly enjoy ourselves. What a capital idea! Yo«
make me feel young again, barely twenty. I feel as active and
strong as I did the night I swam across the swollen Rhone.
And that was long, long ago; and since, I have struggled, I
have suffered, I have cruelly aged and changed."
"You!" interrupted Louis; "why, you have not aged as much
as I have."—"You are jesting."—"I assure you."—"Would you
have recognized me ?"—"Instantly. You are very little changed."
And Louis was right. He himself had a worn-out, used-up
appearance rather than an aged one; while Gaston, in spite of
his gray hair and weather-beaten face, was a robust man, in his
prime. It was a relief to turn from Louis's restless eyes and
crafty smiles to Gaston's frank, honest face. "But," said Gas-
ton, "how did you know that I was living? What kind fairy
guided you to my house?"
Louis was prepared for this question. During his eighteen
hours' ride in the train he had had time to arrange all his
answers. "We must thank Providence for this happy meeting,"
he replied. "Three days ago, a friend of mine returned from
some baths, and mentioned that he had heard that a Marquis
de Clameran was near there, in the Pyrenees. You can im-
agine my surprise. I instantly supposed that some impostor
had assumed our name. I took the next train, and finally found
my way here."
"Then you did not expect to see me?"—"My dear brother,
how could I hope for that? I thought that you were drowned
twenty-three years ago."—"Drowned! Mademoiselle de la Ver-
berie certainly told you of my escape. She promised that she
would go herself, the next day, and tell my father of my safety."
Louis assumed a distressed look, as if he hesitated to tell the
sad truth, and murmured in a regretful tone: "Alas! she never
told us."
Gaston's eyes flashed with indignation. He thought that
perhaps Valentine had been glad to get rid of him. "She did
not tell you?" he exclaimed. "Did she have the cruelty to let
you mourn my death? To let my old father die of a broken
heart? Ah! she must have been very fearful of the world's
opinion. She sacrificed me, then, for the sake of her repu-
tation."
"But why did you not write to us?" asked Louis.—"I did
write as soon as I had an opportunity; and Lafourcade wrote
back, saying that my father was dead, and that you had left


FILE NUMBER 113
1149
the neighborhood."—"I left Clameran because I believed you to
be dead."
Gaston rose, and walked up and down the room as if to shake
off a feeling of sadness; then he said cheerfully: "Well, it's of
no use mourning over the past. All the memories in the world,
good or bad, are not worth one slender hope for the future;
and, thank heaven, we have a bright future before us." Louis
was silent. His footing was not sure enough to risk any
questions. "But here I have been talking incessantly for an
hour," said Gaston, "and I dare say that you have not dined."
—"No, I have not, I own."—"Why did you not say so before?
I forgot that I had not dined myself. I will not let you starve
the first day of your arrival. Ah! I have some splendid old
Cape wine."
He pulled the bell, and ordered the servant to hasten dinner;
and within half an hour the two brothers were seated at a
sumptuous repast. Gaston kept up an uninterrupted stream of
questions. He wished to know all that had happened during
his absence. "What about Clameran?" he abruptly asked.
Louis hesitated a moment. Should he tell the truth or not?
"I have sold Clameran," he finally said.—"The chateau too?"—
"Yes."
"You acted as you thought best," said Gaston, sadly; "but
it seems to me that, if I had been in your place, I should have
kept the old homestead. Our ancestors lived there for many
generations, and our father died there." Then seeing Louis
appeared sad and distressed, he quickly added: "However, it
is just as well; it is in the heart that memory dwells, and not
in a pile of old stones. I myself had not the courage to return
to Provence. I could not trust myself to go to Clameran, where
I would have to gaze on the park of La Verberie. Alas, the
only happy moments of my life were spent there!"
Louis's countenance immediately cleared. The certainty that
Gaston had not been to Provence relieved his mind of an im-
mense weight. The next day he telegraphed to Raoul: "Wis-
dom and prudence. Follow my directions. All goes well. Be
sanguine."
All was going well; and yet Louis, in spite of his skilfully
plied questions, had obtained none of the information which
he had come to seek. Gaston was communicative on every sub-
ject except the one in which Louis was most interested. Louis,
like all villains, was ever ready to attribute to others the bad


1150
FILE NUMBER 113
motives by which he himself would be influenced. Anything
was better than this uncertainty; he determined to ask his
brother what he intended doing. They had just sat down to
lunch, and he thought the moment an opportune one. "Do you
know, my dear Gaston," he began by saying, "that thus far
we have spoken of everything except serious matters?"—"Why
do you look so solemn, Louis! What are the grave subjects
you allude to ?"—"Well, there is this: believing you to be dead,
I inherited all our father left."—"Is that what you call a seri-
ous matter?" asked Gaston with an amused smile.—"Certainly.
I owe you an account of your share; you have a right to half."
—"I have," interrupted Gaston, "a right to ask you never to
allude to the subject again. What you have is yours by limi-
tation."—"No, I can not accept it."—"But you must. Our
father wished to have only one of us to inherit his property;
we will be carrying out his wishes by not dividing it." Seeing
that Louis's face still remained clouded, Gaston added: "Come
now, you must be very rich, or think me very poor, to insist thus."
Louis started at this remark. What could he say so as not
to commit himself? "I am neither rich nor poor," he finally
observed.—"I am delighted to hear it," exclaimed his brother.
"I wish you were as poor as Job, so that I might share what
I have with you."
Luncheon over, Gaston rose and said: "Come, I want to
show you my—that is, our property." Louis uneasily followed.
It seemed to him that Gaston obstinately shunned anything like
an explanation. Could all this brotherly affection be assumed
to blind him as to his real plans? Louis's fears were again
aroused, and he almost regretted his hasty telegram. But his
calm, smiling face betrayed none of the anxious thoughts which
filled his mind. He was called upon to examine everything.
First he was taken over the house and then the servants' quar-
ters, the stables, kennels, and the vast, beautifully laid-out
garden. Across a pretty meadow was the iron foundry in full
operation. Gaston, with all the enthusiasm of a new proprie-
tor, explained everything, down to the smallest file and hammer.
He detailed all his projects; how he intended substituting wood
for coal, and how, besides having plenty to work the forge, he
could make immense profits by felling the forest trees, which
had hitherto been considered impracticable. Louis approved
of everything; but only answered in monosyllables: "Ah, in-
deed! excellent idea! quite a success!" His mind was tortured


FILE NUMBER 113
1151
by a new pain; he was paying no attention to Gaston's remarks,
but enviously comparing all this wealth and prosperity with his
own poverty. He found Gaston rich, respected, and happy, en-
joying the price of his own industry; while he— Never had
he so cruelly felt the misery of his condition, which was of his
own making. After a lapse of twenty-three years, all the envy
and hate he had felt toward Gaston, when they were boys
together, revived.
"What do you think of my purchase?" asked Gaston when
the inspection was over.—"I think you possess, my dear brother,
a most charming property, situated in the loveliest spot in the
world. It is enough to excite the envy of any poor Parisian."—
"Do you really think so ?"—"Certainly."
"Then, my dear Louis," said Gaston joyfully, "this property
is yours, as well as mine. You like it, then live here always.
Do you really care for your foggy Paris? Do you not prefer
this beautiful Beara sky? The scanty and paltry luxury of
Paris is not equal to the good and plentiful living you will
find here. You are a bachelor, therefore you have no ties.
Remain, we shall want for nothing. And, to employ our time,
there is the foundry. Does my plan suit you?"
Louis was si'ent. A year ago this proposal would have been
eagerly welcomed. How gladly he would have seized this offer
of a comfortable, luxurious home, after having been buffeted
about the world so long! How delightful it would have been
to turn over a new leaf and become an honest man! But he
saw, with disappointment and rage, that he would now be com-
pelled to decline it. No, he was no longer free. He could not
leave Paris. He had become entangled in one of those haz-
ardous plots which are lost if neglected, and the loss of which
generally leads the projector into penal servitude. Alone, he
could easily remain where he was; but he was trammeled with
an accomplice.
"You do not answer me," said Gaston, with surprise; "are
there any obstacles to my plans ?"—"None."—"What is the mat-
ter, then?"—"The matter is, my dear brother, that the salary
of an appointment which I hold in Paris is all that I have to
support me."—"Is that your only objection? Yet you just now
wanted to pay me back half of the family inheritance! Louis,
that is unkind; you are not acting as a brother should." Louis
hung his head. Gaston was unconsciously telling the truth.
"I should be a burden to you, Gaston."


1152
FILE NUMBER 113
"A burden! Why, Louis, you must be mad! Did I not tell
you I was very rich? Do you suppose that you have seen all
I possess? This house and the iron-works do not constitute a
fourth of my fortune. Do you think that I would have risked
my twenty years' savings in an experiment of this sort? I
have invested, in State securities, an income of twenty-four
thousand francs. And that is not all; it seems that I shall be
able to sell my grants in Brazil; I am lucky! My agent has
already forwarded me four hundred thousand francs."
Louis trembled with pleasure. He was, at last, to know the
extent of the danger menacing him. "What agent?" he asked,
with assumed indifference.—"Why, my old partner at Rio, of
course. The money is now at my Paris banker's, quite at my
disposal."—"Some friend of yours?"—"Well, no. He was rec-
ommended to me by my banker at Pau, as a very rich, prudent,
and reliable man. His name is—let me see—Andre Fauvel, and
he lives in the Rue de Provence."
Master of himself as he was, and prepared for what he was
about to hear, Louis turned pale and red by turns. "Do you
know this banker?" asked Gaston, who, full of his own thoughts,
did not notice his brother's condition.—"Only by reputation."
"Then we can shortly make his acquaintance together, for
I think of accompanying you to Paris when you return there to
wind up your affairs before establishing yourself here."
At this unexpected announcement of a step which would
prove his utter ruin, Louis managed to maintain his self-pos-
session. It seemed to him that his brother was looking him
through and through. "You are going to Paris?" he uttered.—
"Certainly I am. What is there extraordinary in that ?"—"Oh!
nothing."—"I hate Paris, although I have never been there;
but I am called there by interest, by sacred duties," he hesi-
tatingly said. "The truth is, I understand that Mademoiselle
de la Verberie lives in Paris, and I wish to see her again."—
"Ah!"
Gaston was silent and thoughtful for some moments, and
then resumed, nervously: "I can tell you, Louis, why I wish
to see her. When I went away, I left our mother's jewels in
her keeping."—"And you intend, after a lapse of twenty-three
years, to claim these jewels?"—"Yes—or rather no; that is only
a vain excuse for seeing her, with which I try to satisfy my-
self. I must see her, because—because—I loved her; that is
the truth."—"But how^will you find her?"—"Oh! that is easy


FILE NUMBER 113
1153
enough. Any one can tell me her husband's name, and then
I will go to see her. I will write to-morrow, to Beaucaire,
for the information."
Louis made no reply. Men of his character, when brought
face to face with imminent danger, always weigh their words,
and say as little as possible, for fear of committing themselves
by some indiscreet remark. Above all things, Louis was care-
ful to avoid raising any objections to his brother's proposed
trip to Paris. To oppose a man's wishes has generally the
effect of fixing them more firmly in his mind. Each argument
is like striking a nail with a hammer. Knowing this, Louis
changed the conversation, and nothing more during the day was
said of Valentine or Paris. At night, alone in his room, he
brought his cunning mind to bear upon the difficulties of his
situation, and wondered by what means he could extricate him-
self. During the twenty years Louis had been at war with
society, trusted by none, living upon his wits and the credulity
of foolish men, he had, many a time, found himself in a des-
perate position. He had been caught at the gaming-table with
his hands full of marked cards; he had been tracked all over
Europe by the police, and obliged to fly from city to city under
an assumed name; he had sold to cowards his skilful handling
of the sword and pistol; he had been thrown into a prison, and
miraculously made his escape. He had braved everything, and
feared nothing. He had often conceived and carried out the
most criminal plans without the slightest hesitation or re-
morse. And now here he sat, utterly bewildered—unable to
think clearly; his usual impudence and ready cunning seemed
to have deserted him. Thus driven into a corner, he saw no
means of escape, and was almost tempted to give in, and retire
from the struggle. He asked himself if it would not be wiser
to borrow a large sum from Gaston and fly the country. Fatally,
inevitably, he was about to be caught in a trap laid by himself.
He had to fear the wrath of M. Fauvel, his wife, and niece.
Gaston would have speedy vengeance the moment he discov-
ered the truth; and Raoul, his accomplice, would certainly turn
against him in the hour of misfortune, and become his most
implacable enemy. Was there no possible way of preventing a
meeting between Valentine and Gaston? No, none that he could
think of. And their meeting would be his destruction.
Daybreak found him sitting at the window, exposing to the
morning breeze his burning brow, which seemed on the point
n—Vol. 3


1154
FILE NUMBER 113
of bursting. "It is useless for me to think," he muttered. "There
is nothing to be done but gain time, and wait for an oppor-
tunity." The fall of the horse at Clameran was, no doubt,
what Louis called "an opportunity." He closed the window,
threw himself upon the bed, and so accustomed was he to dan-
ger that he soon slept. At the breakfast-table his calm, smiling
face bore no traces of a wakeful, anxious night. He was in a
gayer, more talkative, and affectionate mood than usual, and
said he would like to ride about the country. Before leaving
the table he had planned several excursions in the neighborhood.
The truth is, he hoped to keep Gaston so amused and occupied
that he would forget all about going to Paris in search of Val-
entine. He thought that, with time, and skilfully put objec-
tions, he could dissuade his brother from seeking out his former
love. He relied upon being able to convince him that this abso-
lutely unnecessary interview would be painful to both, embar-
rassing to him, and dangerous to her. As to the jewels, if
Gaston persisted in claiming them, Louis could safely offer to
go and get them for him, as he well knew where they were.
But his hopes and plans were soon scattered to the winds.
"You know," said Gaston one morning, "I have written."
Louis knew well enough to what he alluded, but pretended
to be very much surprised, and said: "Written? To whom?
Where? What for?"—"To Beaucaire, to ask Lafourcade the
name of Valentine's husband."—"You are, then, still thinking
of her?"—"Always."—"You have not given up your idea of
going to see her?"—"Not in the least."
"Alas! brother, you forget that she whom you once loved
is now the wife of another, and possibly the mother of a fam-
ily. How do you know that she will consent to see you? Why
run the risk of destroying her domestic happiness and plant-
ing seeds of remorse in your own bosom?"—"I know I am a
fool, but my folly is dear to me."
The quiet determination of Gaston's tone convinced Louis
that all remonstrances would be unavailing. Yet he remained
the same in his manner and behavior, apparently engrossed in
pleasure parties; but, in reality, his only thought was of the
letters delivered at the house. He always managed to be near
the door when the postman came. When he and Gaston were
out together at the time of the postman's visit, he would hurry
into the house first, so as to look over the letters delivered in
their absence. His watchfulness was at last rewarded. The


FILE NUMBER 113
1155
following Sunday, among the letters handed to him by the post-
man, was one bearing the postmark of Beaucaire. He quickly
slipped it into his pocket; and, although he was on the point of
mounting his horse, to ride with Gaston, he found a pretext for
running up to his room, so as to gratify his impatient desire
to read the letter. He tore it open, and, seeing "Lafourcade"
signed at the bottom of three closely written pages, hastily de-
voured the contents. After reading a detailed account of events
entirely uninteresting to him, Louis came to the following pas-
sage relating to Valentine: "Mademoiselle de la Verberie's hus-
band is an eminent banker, named Andre Fauvel. I have not
the honor of his acquaintance, but I intend going to see him
shortly. I am anxious to submit to him a project that I have
conceived for the benefit of this part of the country. If he
approves of it, I shall ask him to invest in it, as his name will
be of great assistance to the scheme. I suppose you have no
objections to my mentioning your name as a reference." Louis
trembled like a man who had just had a narrow escape from
death. He well knew that he would have to fly if Gaston re-
ceived this letter. But though the danger was warded off for
the while, it might return and destroy him at any moment.
Gaston would wait a week or so for an answer, then he would
write again; Lafourcade would instantly reply to express sur-
prise that his first letter had not been received; all this corre-
spondence would occupy, at the most, not more than twelve
days. And then, Lafourcade's visit to Paris was another source
of danger, for the instant he mentioned the name of De Cla-
meran to the banker, everything would be discovered.
But Gaston was getting tired of waiting. "Are you coming?"
he cried.—"I am coming now," replied Louis.
Hastily thrusting Lafourcade's letter into a secret compart-
ment of his trunk, Louis ran down to his brother. He had made
up his mind to borrow a large sum from Gaston, and go off to
America; and Raoul might get out of the scrape as best he
could. The only thing which he regretted was the sudden fail-
ure of the most skilful combination he had ever conceived; but
he was not a man to fight against destiny, so he determined to
make the best of the emergency, and hope for better fortune
in his next scheme. The following day, about dusk, while walk-
ing along the pretty road leading from the foundry to Oloron,
he commenced the prologue of a little story, which was to con-
clude by asking Gaston to lend him two hundred thousand


1156
FILE NUMBER 113
francs. As they went slowly along, arm in arm, about half
mile from the foundry they met a young laborer, who bov
as he passed them. Louis started back so violently that his
brother asked him in surprise what was the matter. "Nothing,
except I struck my foot against a stone, and it hurt me."
Gaston might have known, by the tremulous tones of Louis's
voice, that this was a lie. Louis de Clameran had reason to
tremble, for in the workman he recognized Raoul de Lagors.
Instinctive fear paralyzed and overwhelmed him. His volubil-
ity was gone; and he silently walked along by his brother's
side, like an automaton, totally incapable of thinking or acting
for himself. He seemed to listen—he did listen; but the words
fell upon his ear unmeaningly; he could not understand what
Gaston was saying, and mechanically answered "yes" or "no,"
like one in a dream. While necessity—absolute necessity—kept
him at Gaston's side, his thoughts were all with the young man
who had just passed by. What had brought Raoul to Oloron?
What plot was he hatching? Why was he disguised as a la-
borer? Why had he not answered the many letters which
Louis had written him from Oloron? He had ascribed this
silence to Raoul's carelessness, but now he saw it was pre-
meditated. Something disastrous must have happened at Paris;
and Raoul, afraid to commit himself by writing, had come him-
self to bring the bad news. Had he come to say that the game
was up, and they must fly? But, after all, he might have been
mistaken. Perhaps it was some workman bearing a strong re-
semblance to Raoul. If he could only run after the stranger
and speak to him! His anxiety increased minute by minute,
and at length became intolerable. Fortunately, Gaston was
rather tired that evening, and returned home much earlier than
usual. He went to his own room at once. At last Louis was
free! He lit a cigar, and, telling the servant not to sit up for
him, went out. He expected that Raoul, if it was Raoul, would
be prowling near the house, waiting for him. He was not mis-
taken. He had hardly proceeded thirty yards when a man sud-
denly sprang from behind a tree and stood before him. The
night was clear, and Louis at once recognized Raoul.
"What is the matter?" he impatiently demanded; "what has
happened?"—"Nothing."—"What! Do you mean to say that
nothing has gone wrong in Paris?"—"Nothing whatever. I
will add, too, that, but for your inordinate greed of gain, every-
thing would be going on swimmingly."—"Then why have you


FILE NUMBER 113 • 1157
come here?" cried Louis fiercely. "Who gave you permission
to desert your post, at the risk of ruining us both?"—"That is
my business," said Raoul coolly.
Louis seized the young man's wrists, and almost crushed them
in his vise-like grasp. "Explain this strange conduct of yours,"
he exclaimed in a tone of suppressed rage. Without apparent
effort, Raoul released his hands from their imprisonment, and
jeeringly said: "Gently, my friend! I don't like being roughly
treated, and I have other means of answering you." At the
same time he drew a revolver from his pocket.
"You must and shall explain yourself," insisted Louis; "if
you don't."—"Well, if I don't? Now you might just as well
spare yourself the trouble of trying to frighten me. I intend
to answer your questions when I choose; but it certainly won't
be here, in the middle of the road, with the bright moonlight
showing us off to advantage. How do you know people are not
watching us this very minute? Come this way." They strode
through the fields, regardless of the plants, which they tram-
pled under foot in order to take a short cut.
"Now," began Raoul when they were at a safe distance from
the road, "now, my dear uncle, I will tell you what brings
me here. I have received and carefully read your letters, and
read them more than once. You wished to be prudent, and
the consequence was that your letters were unintelligible. Only
one thing did I understand clearly: we are in danger."—"Only
the more reason for your watchfulness and obedience."—"Very
well put. Only, before braving danger, my venerable and be-
loved uncle, I want to know its extent. I am not a man to
retreat in the hour of peril, but I want to know exactly how
much risk I am running."
"Did I not tell you to keep quiet?"
"But to do this would imply that I have perfect confidence in
you, my dear uncle," said Raoul, sneeringly.
"And why should you not? What reasons for distrust have
you after all that I have done for you? Who went to London,
and rescued you from a state of privation and ignominy? I did.
Who gave you a name and position when you had neither? I
did. And who is working even now to maintain your present
life of ease, and insure you a splendid future? I am."
"Superb, magnificent, inimitable!" said Raoul with mocking
admiration. "But, while on the subject, why don't you prove
that you have sacrificed yourself for my sake? You did not


FILE NUMBER 113
1159
to escape punishment for her fault from her deceived husband
and a censuring world."
"That is so. I know we have a secure hold on her," said
Raoul. "It is not of her I am afraid."—"Of whom, then ?"—"An
enemy of your own making, my respected uncle, a most im-
placable enemy—Madeleine."—"Fiddlesticks!" replied De Cla-
meran disdainfully.
"It is all very well for you to treat her with contempt," said
Raoul gravely; "but I can tell you, you are much mistaken in
your estimate of her character. I have studied her lately, and
see that she has devoted herself to save her aunt; but she has
not given in. She has promised to marry you, she has dis-
carded Prosper, who is broken-hearted, it is true; but she has
not given up hope. You imagine her to be weak and yielding,
easily frightened? It's a great mistake: she is self-reliant and
fearless. More than that, she is in love, my good uncle; and
a woman will defend her love as a tigress defends her young."
"She is worth five hundred thousand francs."—"So she is;
and at five per cent we would each have an income of twelve
thousand five hundred francs. But, for all that, you had better
take my advice, and give up Madeleine."—"Never, I swear by
heaven!" exclaimed De Clameran. "Rich or poor, she shall be
mine! I first wanted her for her money, but now I want her—
I love her for herself, Raoul!"
Raoul seemed to be amazed at this declaration of his uncle.
He raised his hands, and started back with astonishment. "Is
it possible," he said, "that you are in love with Madeleine?—
you!"—"Yes," replied Louis in a tone of suspicion. "Is there
anything so very extraordinary in it ?"—"Oh, no; certainly not!
only this sentimental state you are in explains your strange
behavior. So, you love Madeleine! Then, my venerable uncle,
we may as well surrender at once."—"Why so ?"—"Because you
know the axiom, 'When the heart is interested, the head is
lost.' The day is not far off when your infatuation for Made-
leine will make you sell us both for a smile. And, mark my
words, she is shrewd, and watching us as only an enemy can
watch."
With a forced laugh De Clameran interrupted his nephew.
"Just see how you fire up for nothing," he said. "You must
dislike the charming Madeleine, then, very much."—"She will
prove to be our ruin; that is all."—"You might as well be
frank, and say you are in love with her yourself."—"I am only


1160
FILE NUMBER 113
in love with her money," retorted Raoul with an angry frown.—
"Then what are you complaining of? I shall give you half
her fortune. You will have the money without being troubled
with the wife; the profit without the burden."
"I am not over fifty years old," said Raoul conceitedly.—
"Enough of this," interrupted Louis angrily. "The day I re-
lieved your pressing wants, and brought you to Paris, it was
agreed that I should be the master."—"Yes; but you forget that
my liberty, perhaps my life, is at stake. You may hold the
cards, but I must have the right of advising you."
It was midnight before the accomplices separated. "It won't
do to stand idle," said Louis. "I agree with you that some-
thing must be done at once; but I can't decide what it shall
be on the spur of the moment. Meet me here at this hour
to-morrow night, and I will have some plan ready for you."-
"Very good. I will be here."
"And remember, don't be imprudent!"
"My costume ought to convince you that I am not anxious
to be recognized by any one. I left such an ingenious alibi,
that I defy anybody to prove that I have been absent from
the house at Vesinet. I even took the precaution of traveling
here third-class. Well, good night; I am going to the inn."
Raoul went off after these words, apparently unconscious of
having aroused suspicion in the breast of his accomplice. Dur-
ing his adventurous life, De Clameran had transacted "busi-
ness" with too many scamps not to know the precise amount
of confidence to place in a man like Raoul. He foresaw already
a thousand reasons for fear and disputes. "Why," he pon-
dered, "did Raoul assume this disguise? Why this alibi at
Paris? Can he be laying a trap for me? It is true that I have
a hold upon him; but, then, I am completely at his mercy. Those
accursed letters which I have written to him, while here, are so
many proofs against me. Can he be thinking of cutting loose
from me and making off with all the profits of our enterprise?"
Louis never once during the night closed his eyes; but by
daybreak he had fully made up his mind how to act, and with
feverish impatience waited for night. His anxiety made him
so restless that the unobserving Gaston finally noticed it, and
asked him what the matter was; if he was ill, or troubled about
anything. At last evening came, and Louis was able to join
Raoul, whom he found lying on the grass, smoking in the field
where they had talked on the preceding evening.


FILE NUMBER 113
1161
"Well," he carelessly asked, as Louis approached, "have you
decided upon anything?"—"Yes, I have two projects, either
of which is, I think, sure of success."—"I am listening."
Louis was silent for a minute, as if arranging his thoughts
so as to present them as clearly and briefly as possible. "My
first plan," he began, "depends upon your approval. What
would you say if I proposed to you to give up the affair alto-
gether?"—"What!"—"Would you consent to disappear, leave
France, and return to London, if I paid you a good round sum?"
—"What do you call a good round sum?"—"I could give you
a hundred and fifty thousand francs."
"My respected uncle," said Raoul, with a contemptuous shrug,
"I am distressed to see how little you know me! You try to
deceive me, to outwit me, which is ungenerous and foolish on
your part—ungenerous, because it fails to carry out your agree-
ment; foolish, because, as you ought to know by now, my power
equals yours."—"I don't understand you."—"I am sorry for it.
I understand myself, and that is sufficient. Oh, I know you,
my dear uncle! I have watched you with careful eyes, which
are not to be deceived; I see through you clearly. If you offer
me one hundred and fifty thousand francs, it is because you
intend to walk off with a million for yourself."
"You are talking like a fool," said De Clameran, with virtu-
ous indignation.—"Not at all; I only judge the future by the
past. Of all the large sums extorted from Madame Fauvel,
often against my wishes, I have scarcely received a tenth part."
—"But you know we have a reserve fund."
"All very good; but you have the keeping of it, my good
uncle. If our little plot were to be discovered to-morrow, you
would walk off with the money-box, and leave your devoted
nephew to be sent to prison."—"Ungrateful fellow!" mut-
tered Louis, as if distressed at these undeserved reproaches.—
"Bravo!" cried Raoul; "you said it splendidly. But we have
not time'for this nonsense. I will end the matter by proving
how you have been trying to deceive me."
"I would like to hear you do so, if you can."—"Very good.
In the first place, you told me that your brother only possessed
a modest competency. Now, I learn that Gaston has an income
of at least sixty thousand francs; it is useless for you to deny
it. And how much is this property worth? A hundred thou-
sand crowns. He has four hundred thousand francs deposited
in M. Fauvel's bank. Total, seven hundred thousand francs.


1162
FILE NUMBER 113
And besides all this, the broker in Oloron has instructions to
buy up a large amount of government stock for him. I have
not wasted my day, as you see."
Raoul's information was too concise and exact for Louis to
deny it. "You might have sense enough," Raoul went on, "to
know how to manage your forces if you undertake to be a com-
mander. We had a splendid game in our hands; and you, who
held the cards, have made a perfect muddle of it."
"I think—"
"That the game is lost? That is my opinion too, and all
through you."—"I could not control events."
"Yes, you could, if you had been shrewd. What did we
agree upon in London? We were to implore my good mother
to assist us a little, and if she complied with our wishes, we
were to be flattering and affectionate in our devotion to her;
but, at the risk of killing the golden goose, you have made me
torment the poor woman until she is almost crazy."
"It was prudent to hasten matters."—"You think so, do you?
Was it also to hasten matters that you took it into your head
to marry Madeleine? That made it necessary to let her into
the secret; and, ever since, she has advised and set her aunt
against us. I would not be surprised if she makes her confess
everything to M. Fauvel, or even inform against us at the
Prefecture of Police."
"I love Madeleine!"—"You told me that before. And sup-
pose you do love her. You led me into this piece of business
without having studied its various bearings—without knowing
what you were about. No one but an idiot, my beloved uncle,
would go and put his foot into a trap, and then say: 'If I
had only known about it!' You should have made it your busi-
ness to know everything. You came to me, and said: 'Your
father is dead.' But not at all, he is living: and, after what
we have done, I dare not appear before him. He would have
left me a million, and now I shall not get a sou. He will find
his Valentine, and then good-by."
"Enough!" angrily interrupted Louis. "If I have made a
mistake, I know how to redeem it. I can save everything yet."
—"You can? How so?"—"That is my secret," said Louis,
gloomily.
Louis and Raoul were silent for a minute; and this silence
between them, in this lonely spot, at dead of night, was so hor-
ribly significant that both of them shuddered. An abominable


FILE NUMBER 113
1163
thought had flashed across their evil minds, and, without a
word or look they understood each other. Louis broke the
ominous silence by abruptly saying: "Then you refuse to dis-
appear if I pay you a hundred and fifty thousand francs? Think
it over before deciding; it is not too late yet."—"I have fully
thought it over. I know you will not attempt to deceive me
any more. Between certain ease and the probability of an
immense fortune, I choose the latter at all risks. I will share
your success or your failure; we will swim or sink together."
—"And you will follow my instructions?"—"Blindly."
Raoul must have been very certain of Louis's intentions, for
he did not ask him a single question. Perhaps he dared not.
Perhaps he preferred doubt to shocking certainty, as if he
could thus escape the remorse attendant upon criminal com-
plicity. "In the first place," said Louis, "you must at once re-
turn to Paris."—"I will be there in forty-eight hours."—"You
must be constantly at Madame Fauvel's and keep me informed
of everything that takes place in the family."—"I understand."
Louis laid his hand on Raoul's shoulder, as if to impress upon
his mind what he was about to say. "You have a sure means
of being restored to your mother's confidence and affection by
blaming me for everything that has happened to distress her.
Abuse me constantly. The more odious you render me in her
eyes and those of Madeleine, the better you will serve me.
Nothing would please me more than to be denied admittance
to the house when I return to Paris. You must say that you
have quarreled with me, and that if I still come to see you,
it is because you can not prevent it. That is the scheme: you
can develop it."
Raoul listened to these strange instructions with astonish-
ment. "What!" he cried; "you adore Madeleine, and take this
'means of winning her good graces? An odd way of carrying
on a courtship, I must confess! I will be shot if I can com-
prehendv"—"There is no necessity for your comprehending."—
"All right," said Raoul, submissively. "If you say so."
"Did you ever hear," Louis asked Raoul, "of the man who
burned down his lady-love's house so as to have the bliss of
carrying her out in his arms ?"—"Yes; what of it?"
"At the proper time, I will charge you to set fire morally to
Madame Fauvel's house; and I will rush in and save her and
her niece. Now, in the eyes of those women, my conduct will
appear more magnanimous and noble in proportion to the con-


1164
FILE NUMBER 113
tempt and abuse they have heaped upon me. I gain nothing
by patient devotion; I have everything to hope from a sudden
change of tactics. A well-managed stroke, will transform a
demon into an angel."
"Very well; a good idea!" said Raoul, approvingly, when his
uncle had finished.—"Then you understand what is to be
done?"—"Yes; but you will write to me?"—"Of course; and
if anything should happen at Paris?"—"I will telegraph to
you."—"And never lose sight of my rival, the cashier."—"Pros-
per? Not much danger of our being troubled by him, poor
boy! He is just now my most devoted friend. Trouble has
driven him into a path of life which will soon prove his destruc-
tion. Every now and then I pity him from the bottom of my
soul."—"Pity him as much as you like."
The two men shook hands and separated, apparently the best
friends in the world; in reality, the bitterest enemies. Raoul
would not forgive Louis for having attempted to appropriate
all the booty and leave him in the lurch, when it was he who
had risked the greatest dangers. Louis, on his part, was
alarmed at the attitude taken by Raoul. Thus far he had found
him tractable, and even blindly obedient; and now he had sud-
denly become rebellious and threatening. Instead of ordering
Raoul, he was forced to consult and bargain with him. What
could be more wounding to his vanity and self-conceit than the
reproaches, well founded though they were, to which he had
been obliged to listen from a mere youth? As he walked back
to his brother's house, thinking over what had just occurred,
Louis swore that sooner or later he would be revenged, and
that as soon as he could, he would take means of getting rid
of Raoul forever. But for the present he was so afraid of his
young accomplice that, according to his promise, he wrote to
him the next day, and every succeeding day, full particulars
of everything that happened. Seeing how important it was to
restore his shaken confidence, Louis entered into the most mi-
nute details of his plans. The situation remained the same: the
dark cloud hung threateningly near, but grew no larger.
Gaston seemed to have forgotten that he had written to Beau-
caire, and never mentioned Valentine's name once. Like all
men accustomed to a busy life, Gaston was miserable except
when occupied, and spent his whole time in the foundry, which
seemed to absorb him entirely. It was losing money when he
purchased it; but he determined to work it until it should be


FILE NUMBER 113
1165
equally beneficial to himself and the neighborhood. He engaged
the services of an intelligent engineer, and, thanks to untiring
energy and new improvements in machinery, his receipts soon
more than equaled his expenses.
"Now that we are doing so well," said Gaston joyously, "we
shall certainly make twenty-five thousand francs next year."
Next year! Alas, poor Gaston! Five days after Raoul's de-
parture, one Saturday afternoon, Gaston was suddenly taken
ill. He had a sort of vertigo, and was so dizzy that he was
forced to lie down. "I know what is the matter," he said. "1
have often been ill in this way at Rio. A couple of hours' sleep
will cure me. I will lie down, and you can send some one to
awaken me when dinner is ready, Louis."
But when the servant came to announce dinner, he found
Gaston much worse. He had a violent headache, a choking sen-
sation in his throat, and dimness of vision. But his worst
symptom was dysphonia; he would try to articulate one word,
and find himself using another. His jaw-bones became so stiff
that it was with the greatest difficulty that he opened his mouth.
Louis came up to his brother's room, and urged him to send for
the physician. "No," said Gaston, "I won't have any doctor
to make me ill with all sorts of medicines. I know what is
the matter with me, and my indisposition will be cured by a
simple remedy which I have always used." At the same time
he ordered Manuel, his old Spanish servant, who had lived with
him for ten years, to prepare him some lemonade.
The next day Gaston apeared to be much better. He ate
his breakfast, and was about to take a walk, when the pains
of the previous day suddenly returned in a more violent form.
Without consulting his brother, Louis sent to Oloron for Dr.
C , whose wonderful cures had won him a wide reputation.
The doctor declared that there was no danger, and merely
prescribed a dose of valerian, and a blister with some grains
of morphine sprinkled on it. But in the middle of the night,
all the symptoms suddenly changed for the worse. The pain
in the head was succeeded by a fearful oppression, and the sick
man suffered torture in trying to get his breath. Daybreak
found him still tossing restlessly from pillow to pillow. When
Dr. C came early in the morning, he appeared very much
surprised at this change for the worse. He inquired if they had
not used too much morphine. Manuel said that he had put
the blister on his master, and the doctor's directions had been


1166
FILE NUMBER 113
accurately followed. The doctor, after having examined Gas-
ton, and found his breathing heavy and irregular, prescribed
leeches and a heavy dose of sulphate of quinine; he then re-
tired, saying he would return the next day. As soon as the
doctor had gone, Gaston sent for a friend of his, a lawyer, to
come to him as soon as possible.
"For Heaven's sake! what do you want with a lawyer?" in-
quired Louis.—"I want his advice, brother. It is useless to try
and deceive ourselves; I know I am extremely ill. Only timid
fools are superstitious about making their wills. I would rather
have the lawyer at once, and then my mind will be at rest."
Gaston did not think he was about to die; but, knowing
the uncertainty of life, determined to be prepared for the worst.
He had too often imperiled his life, and been face to face with
death, to feel any fear now. He had made his will while ill
at Bordeaux; but now that he had found Louis, he wished
to leave him all his property, and sent for his business man
to advise as to the best means of disposing of his wealth for
his benefit. The lawyer was a shrewd, wiry little man, very
popular, and perfectly familiar with all the intricacies of the
law. Nothing delighted him more than to succeed in eluding
some stringent article of the Code; and he often sacrificed
large fees for the sake of outwitting his opponent, and con-
troverting the justness of a decision. Once aware of his client's
wishes and intentions, he had but one idea, and that was to
carry them out as inexpensively as possible, by skilfully evading
the heavy costs to be paid by the inheritor of the estate. He
explained to Gaston that he could, by an act of partnership,
associate Louis in his business enterprises, by signing an ac-
knowledgment that half of the money invested in these various
concerns belonged to and had been advanced by his brother; so
that in the event of Gaston's death, Louis would only have to
pay taxes on half the fortune. Gaston eagerly took advantage
of this fiction; not that he thought of the money saved by the
transaction if he died, but this would be a favorable opportu-
nity for sharing his riches with Louis without wounding his
delicate sensibility. A deed of partnership between Gaston and
Louis de Clameran, for the working of a cast-iron mill, was
drawn up; this deed acknowledged Louis to have invested five
hundred thousand francs as his share of the capital.
When Louis was called in to sign the paper, he violently
opposed his brother's project. "Why do you distress me by


FILE NUMBER 113
1167
making these preparations for death, merely because you are
suffering from a slight indisposition? Do you think that I
would consent to accept your wealth during your lifetime? If
you die, I am your heir; if you live, I enjoy your property as
if it were my own. What more can you wish?"
Vain remonstrances. Gaston was not a man to be persuaded
from accomplishing a purpose upon which he had fully set his
heart. When, after mature deliberation, he made a resolution,
he always carried it out in spite of all opposition. After a
long and heroic resistance, which showed great nobleness of
character and rare disinterestedness, Louis, urged by the physi-
cian, finally yielded, and signed his name to the papers drawn
up by the lawyer. It was done. Now he was legally Gaston's
partner, and possesser of half his fortune. No court of law
could deprive him of what had been deeded with all the legal
formalities, even if his brother should change his mind and try
to get back his property. The strangest sensations now filled
Louis's breast. He was in a state of delirious excitement, often
felt by persons suddenly raised from poverty to affluence.
Whether Gaston lived or died, Louis was the lawful possessor
of an income of twenty-five thousand francs, without counting
the eventual profits of the iron-works. At no time in his life
had he hoped for or dreamed of such wealth. His wildest
wishes were surpassed. What more could he want? Alas!
he wanted the power of enjoying these riches in peace: they
had come too late. This fortune, fallen from the skies, should
have filled his heart with joy, whereas it only made him melan-
choly and angry. This unlooked-for happiness seemed to have
been sent by cruel fate as a punishment for his past sins. Al-
though his conscience told him that he deserved this misery, he
blamed Gaston entirely for his present torture. Yes, he held
Gaston responsible for the horrible situation in which he found
himself. His letters to Raoul for several days expressed all the
fluctuations of his mind, and revealed glimpses of coming evil.
"I have twenty-five thousand francs a year," he wrote to
him, a few hours after signing the deed of partnership; "and
I possess in my own right five hundred thousand francs. One-
fourth of this sum would have made me the happiest of men
a year ago; now it is of no use to me. All the gold on earth
could not remove one of the difficulties of our situation. Yes,
you were right. I have been imprudent; but I pay dear for
my precipitation. Rich or poor, I have cause to tremble as long


1168
FILE NUMBER 113
as there is any risk of a meeting between Gaston and Valentine.
How can they be kept apart? Will my brother renounce his
plan of discovering the whereabouts of this woman whom he
so loved?"
No: Gaston would never be turned from his search for his
first love, as he proved by calling her in the most beseeching
tones when he was suffering his worst paroxysms of pain. He
grew no better. In spite of the most careful nursing his symp-
toms changed, but showed no improvement. Each attack was
"more violent than the preceding one. Toward the end of the
week, however, the pains left his head, and he felt well enough
to get up and partake of a slight nourishment. But poor
Gaston was a mere shadow of his former self. In one week he
had aged ten years. His strong constitution was broken. He,
who ten days ago was boasting if his vigorous health, was now
weak and bent like an old man. He could hardly drag himself
along, and shivered in the warm sun as if he were bloodless.
Leaning on Louis's arm, he slowly walked down to look at the
forge, and, seating himself before a furnace at full blast, he
declared that he felt very much better, that this intense heat
revived him. His pains were all gone, and he could breathe
without difficulty.
His spirits rose, and he turned to the workmen gathered
around, and said cheerfully: "I was not blest with a good
constitution for nothing, my friends, and I shall soon be well
again."
When the neighbors called to see him, and insisted that this
illness was entirely owing to change of climate, Gaston replied
that he supposed they were right, and that he ought to return
to Rio as soon as he was well enough to travel. What hope
this answer roused in Louis's breast! "Yes," he eagerly said,
"I will go with you. A trip to Brazil would be charming!"
But the next day Gaston had changed his mind. He told
Louis that he felt almost well, and was determined not to leave
France. He proposed going to Paris to consult the best phy-
sicians, and then he would see Valentine. As his illness in-
creased, he became more surprised and troubled at not hearing
from Beaucaire. He wrote again in the most pressing terms,
and asked for a reply by return of post. This letter was never
received by Lafourcade. That night, Gaston's sufferings re-
turned with renewed violence, and for the first time Dr. C
was uneasy. A fatal termination seemed possible. Gaston's


FILE NUMBER 113
1169
pain left him in a measure, but he was growing weaker every
moment. His heart beat slower, and his feet were as cold as ice.
On the fourteenth day of his illness, after lying in a stupor
for several hours, he revived sufficiently to ask for a priest,
saying that he would follow the example of his ancestors,
and die like a Christian. The priest left him after half an hour's
interview, and all the workmen were summoned to receive
their master's farewell. Gaston spoke a few kind words to
them all, saying that he had provided for them in his will.
After they had gone, he made Louis promise to carry on the
iron-works, embraced him for the last time, and sank back on
his pillow in a dying state. As the bell tolled for noon he
quietly breathed his last. Now Louis was in reality Marquis
de Clameran, and a millionaire besides. Two weeks later,
having made arrangements with the engineer in charge of
the iron-works to attend to everything during his absence, he
took his seat in the train for Paris. He had sent the following
significant telegram to Raoul the night previous: "I arrive
to-morrow."
FAITHFUL to the program laid down by his accomplice,
while Louis watched at Oloron, Raoul remained in Paris
with the purpose of recovering Madame Fauvel's confidence
and affection, and of lulling any suspicions which might have
arisen in her breast. The task was difficult, but not impos-
sible. Madame Fauvel had been distressed by Raoul's wild
extravagance, but had never ceased to love him. Whatever
faults he had committed, whatever future follies he might
indulge in, he would always remain her best loved child, her
first-born, the living image of her noble, handsome Gaston,
the lover of her youth. She adored her two sons, Lucien and
Abel; but she could not overcome an indulgent weakness for
the unfortunate child, torn from her arms the day of his birth,
abandoned to the mercies of hired strangers, and for twenty
years deprived of home influences and a mother's love. She


1170 FILE NUMBER 113
blamed herself for Raoul's misconduct, and accepted the re-
sponsibility of it, saying to herself: "It is my fault." Knowing
these to be her sentiments, Raoul did not hesitate to take
advantage of them. Never were more irresistible fascina-
tions employed for the accomplishment of a wicked object.
Beneath an air of innocent frankness, this precocious scoundrel
concealed wonderful astuteness and penetration. He could
at will adorn himself with the confiding artlessness of youth,
so that angels might have yielded to the soft look of his
large dark eyes. There were few women living who could
have resisted the thrilling tones of his sympathetic voice.
During the month of Louis's absence, Madame Fauvel was
in a state of comparative happiness. Never had this mother
and wife—this pure, innocent woman, in spite of her first
and only fault—enjoyed such tranquillity. She felt as one
under the influence of enchantment, while reveling in the sun-
shine of filial love, which almost bore the character of a
lover's passion; for Raoul's devotion was ardent and constant,
his manner so tender and winning, that any one would have
taken him for Madame Fauvel's suitor. As she was still
at her country house, and M. Fauvel went to town every
morning, she had the whole of her time to devote to Raoul.
When she had spent the morning with him at his house in
Vesinet, she would often bring him home to dine and spend
the evening with her. All his past faults were forgiven, or
rather the whole blame of them was laid upon De Clameran;
for, now that he was absent, had not Raoul once more become
her noble, generous and affectionate son? Raoul enjoyed
the life he was leading, and took such an interest in the part
that he was playing, that his acting was perfect. He possessed
the faculty which makes cheats successful—faith in his own
impostures. Sometimes he would stop to think whether he
was telling the truth, or acting a shameful comedy. His success
was wonderful. Even Madeleine, the prudent, distrustful
Madeleine, without being able to shake off her prejudice against
the young adventurer, confessed that perhaps she had been
influenced by appearances, and had judged unjustly. Raoul
never asked for money now. He seemed to live on nothing.
Affairs were in this happy state when Louis arrived from
Oloron. Although now immensely rich, he resolved to make
no change in his style of living, but returned to his apartments
at the Hotel du Louvre. His only outlay was the purchase of


FILE NUMBER 113
1171
a handsome carriage; and this was driven by Manuel, who con-
sented to enter his service, although Gaston had left him a
sufficient sum to support him comfortably. Louis's dream, the
height of his ambition, was to be ranked among the great
manufacturers of France. He was prouder of being called
"iron-founder" than of his marquisate. During his adventurous
life, he had met with so many titled gamblers and cut-throats,
that he no longer believed in the prestige of nobility. It was
impossible to distinguish the counterfeit from the genuine. He
thought what was so easily imitated was not worth the having.
Dearly bought experience had taught him that our unromantic
century attaches no value to armorial bearings, unless their
possessor is rich enough to display them upon a splendid
coach. One can be a marquis without a marquisate, but it
is impossible to be forge-master without owning a forge.
Louis now thirsted for the homage of the world. All the badly
digested humiliations of the past weighed upon him. He had
suffered so much contempt and scorn from his fellow-men, that
he burned to avenge himself. After a disgraceful youth, he
longed to live a respected and honored old age. His past career
disturbed him little. He was sufficiently acquainted with the
world to know that the sound of his carriage wheels would
silence the jeers of those who knew his former life. These
thoughts fermented in Louis's brain as he journeyed from Pau
to Paris. He troubled his mind not in the least about Raoul,
determining to use him as a tool so long as he needed his
services, and then pay him a large sum if he would consent
to leave him. All these plans and thoughts were afterward
found noted down in the diary which he had in his pocket at
the time of the journey.
The first interview between the accomplices took place at
the Hotel du Louvre. Raoul, having a practical turn of mind,
said he thought that they ought both to be contented with the
result already obtained, and that it would be folly to try and
secure anything more. "What more do we want?" he asked
his uncle. "We now possess over a million; let us divide it
and keep quiet. We had better be satisfied with our good luck,
and not tempt Providence."
But this moderation did not suit Louis. "I am rich," he
replied, "but I desire more than wealth. I am determined
to marry Madeleine; I swear she shall be my wife! In the
first place, I madly love her; and then, as the nephew of the


1172
FILE NUMBER 113
most eminent banker in Paris, I at once gain high position
and public consideration."—"I tell you, uncle, your courtship
will involve you in great risks."—"I don't care if it does. I
choose to run them. My intention is to share my fortune with
you; but I will not do so till the day after my wedding.
Madeleine's dowry will be your share."
Raoul was silent. De Clameran held the money, and was,
therefore, master of the situation. "You don't seem to antici-
pate any difficulty in carrying out your wishes," he resumed,
discontentedly; "how are you to account for your suddenly
acquired fortune? M. Fauvel knows that a De Clameran lived
at Oloron, and had money in his bank. You told him that you
never heard of this person bearing your name, and then, at
the end of a month, you come and say you have inherited his
fortune."
"You are an innocent youth, nephew; your ingenuousness is
amusing."—"Explain yourself."—"Certainly. The banker, his
wife, and Madeleine must be informed that the De Clameran of
Oloron was a natural son of my father, consequently my brother,
born at Hamburg, and recognized during the emigration. Of
course, he wished to leave his fortune to his own family. This
is the story which you must tell Madame Fauvel to-morrow."
"That is a bold step to take."—"How so ?"—"Inquiries might
be made."—"Who would make them? The banker would not
trouble himself to do so. What difference is it to him whether
I had a brother or not? My title as heir is legally authenti-
cated; and all he has to do is to pay the money he holds, and
there his business ends."
"I am not afraid of his giving trouble."—"Do you think that
Madame Fauvel and her niece will ask any questions? Why
should they? They have no grounds for suspicion. Besides,
they can not take a step without compromising themselves. If
they knew all our secrets, I would not have the least fear of
their making revelations. They have sense enough to know
that they had best keep quiet."
Not finding any other objections to make, Raoul said: "Very
well, then, I will obey you; but I am not to call upon Madame
Fauvel for any more money, am I ?"—"And why not, pray ?"—
"Because, my uncle, you are rich now."—"Suppose I am rich,"
replied Louis triumphantly; "what does that matter? Have we
not pretended to have quarreled, and have you not abused me
sufficiently to justify you in refusing my assistance? Ah! I


FILE NUMBER 113
1173
foresaw everything, and when I explain my present plan you
will say with me, 'Success is certain.'" Louis de Clameran's
scheme was very simple, and therefore, unfortunately, pre-
sented the strongest chances of success. "We will go back
and look at our balance-sheet. As heretofore, my brilliant
nephew, you seem to have misunderstood my management of
this affair; I will now explain it to you."—"I am listening."
"In the first place, I presented myself to Madame Fauvel,
and said, not 'Your money or your life,' but 'Your money or
your reputation!' It was a rude blow to strike, but effective.
As I expected, she was frightened, and regarded me with the
greatest aversion."—"Aversion is a mild term, uncle."—"I know
that. Then I brought you upon the scene, and, without flatter-
ing you in the least, I must say that your opening act was a
perfect success. I was concealed behind the curtain, and saw
your first interview; it was sublime! She saw you, and loved
you; you spoke a few words, and won her heart."
"And but for you—"—"Let me finish. This was the first act
of our comedy. Let us pass to the second. Your extravagant
follies—your grandfather would have said your dissoluteness—
soon changed our respective situations. Madame Fauvel, with-
out ceasing to worship you—you resemble Gaston so closely—
was frightened of you. She was so frightened that she was
forced to come to me for assistance."—"Poor woman!"
"I acted my part very well, as you must confess. I was
grave, cold, indignant, and represented the distressed uncle to
perfection. I spoke of the old probity of the De Clamerans,
and bemoaned that the family honor should be dragged in the
dust by a degenerate descendant. For a short time I triumphed
at your expense. Madame Fauvel forgot her former prejudice
against me, and soon showed that she esteemed and liked me."
"That was a long time ago."
Louis paid no attention to this ironical interruption. "Now
we come to the third act," he went on to say, "the time when
Madame Fauvel, having Madeleine for an adviser, nearly judged
us at our true value. Oh! you need not flatter yourself that
she did not fear and despise us both. If she did not hate you,
Raoul, it was because a mother's heart always forgives a sin-
ful child. A mother can despise and worship her son at the
same time."
"She has proved it to me in so many touching ways that I—
yes, even I, hardened as I am—was moved, and felt remorse."—


1174
FILE NUMBER 113
"No doubt. I have felt some pangs myself. Where did I leave
off? Oh, yes! Madame Fauvel was frightened, and Made-
leine, bent on sacrificing herself, had discarded Prosper, and
consented to marry me, when Gaston's existence was suddenly
revealed to us. And what has happened since? You have suc-
ceeded in convincing Madame Fauvel that you are purer than
an angel, and that I am blacker than hell. She is blinded by
your noble qualities, and she and Madeleine regard me as your
evil genius, whose pernicious influence led you astray."
"You are right, my venerated uncle; that is precisely the
position you occupy."—"Very good. Now we come to the fifth
act, and our comedy needs entire change of scenery. We must
veer around."—"Change our tactics?"—"You think it difficult,
I suppose? Nothing easier. Listen attentively, for the future
depends upon your skilfulness." Raoul leaned back in his chair
with folded arms, as if prepared for anything, and said: "I am
ready."
"The first thing for you to do," said Louis, "is to go to Ma-
dame Fauvel to-morrow, and tell her the story about my natural
brother. She will not believe you, but that makes no differ-
ence. The important thing is for you to appear convinced of
the truth of what you tell her."—"Consider me convinced."
"Five days hence I will call on M. Fauvel, and confirm the
notification sent him by my notary at Oloron, that the money
deposited in the bank now belongs to me. I will repeat, for
his benefit, the story of the natural brother, and ask him to
keep the money for me, as I have no occasion for it at pres-
ent. You, who are so distrustful, my good nephew, may regard
this deposit as a guarantee of my sincerity."—"We will talk
of that another time. Go on."
"Then I will go to Madame Fauvel, and say: 'Being very
poor, my dear madame, necessity compelled me to claim your
assistance in the support of my brother's son, who is also
yours. This youth is worthless and extravagant.'"—"Thanks,
my good uncle."—"He has poisoned your life when he should
have added to your happiness; he is a constant anxiety and
sorrow to your maternal heart. I have come to offer my regrets
for your past trouble, and to assure you that you will have no
annoyance in the future. I am now rich, and henceforth take
the whole responsibility of Raoul upon myself."—"Is that what
you call a scheme?"
"Wait, you will soon see whether it is. After listening to


FILE NUMBER 113
1175
this speech, Madame Fauvel will feel inclined to throw herself
in my arms, by way of expressing her gratitude and joy. She
will refrain, however, on account of her niece. She will ask
me to relinquish my claim on Madeleine's hand now that I am
rich. I will roundly tell her, 'No.' I will make this an oppor-
tunity for an edifying display of magnanimity and disinterest-
edness. I will say, 'Madame, you have accused me of cupidity.
I am now able to prove your injustice. I have been infatuated,
as every man must be, by the beauty, grace, and intelligence
of Mademoiselle Madeleine; and—I love her. If she were pen-
niless, my devotion would only be the more ardent. She has
been promised to me, and I must insist upon this one article of
our agreement. This must be the price of my silence. And
to prove that I am not influenced by her fortune, I give you
my sacred promise that the day after the wedding I will send
Raoul sufficient to secure him an income of twenty-five thou-
sand francs per annum."
Louis expressed himself with such convincing candor, that
Raoul, an artist in knavery, was charmed and astonished.
"Beautifully done," he cried, clapping his hands with glee.
"That last sentence may create a chasm between Madame
Fauvel and her niece. The promise of a fortune for me will
most likely bring my mother over to our side."
"I hope so," said Louis with pretended modesty. "And I
have strong reasons for hoping so, as I shall be able to furnish
the good lady with excellent arguments for excusing herself
in her own eyes. You know when some one proposes some
little—what shall we call it?—transaction to an honest per-
son, it must be accompanied by justifications sufficient to quiet
all qualms of conscience. I shall prove to Madame Fauvel and
her niece that Prosper has shamefully deceived them. I shall
prove to them that he is cramped by debts, dissipated, and
a reckless gambler, openly associating with a woman of no
character."
"And very pretty besides, by Jove! You must not neglect
to expatiate upon the beauty and fascinations of the adorable
Gipsy; that will be your strongest point."—"Don't be alarmed;
I shall be more eloquent than a popular divine. Then I will
explain to Madame Fauvel that if she really loves her niece,
she will persuade her to marry, not an insignificant cashier,
but a man of position, a great manufacturer, a marquis, and,
more than this, one rich enough to establish you in the world."


FILE NUMBER 113
1177
become my wife. The day on which you have led Madame
Fauvel and her niece to the extreme edge of the precipice,
pointed out its dark depths, and convinced them that they are
irretrievably lost, I shall appear, and rescue them. Why, it will
be the crowning scene of our drama. I will play my part with
such grandeur, such lofty magnanimity, that Madeleine will be
touched. When she finds that it is her sweet self, and not her
money, that I want, she will soften, and no longer despise me.
No true woman can be indifferent to a grand passion. I don't
pretend to say that she will love, but she will give herself to
me without repugnance; that is all I ask."
Raoul was shocked at the cold-blooded perversity of his
uncle; but De Clameran showed his immense superiority in
wickedness, and the apprentice admired the master. "You
would certainly succeed, uncle," he said, "were it not for the
cashier. Prosper will always stand between you and Made-
leine; if not in person, certainly in memory."
Louis smiled scornfully, and, throwing away his cigar, which
had gone out, said: "I don't mind Prosper, or attach any more
importance to him than to that cigar."—"But she loves him."—
"So much the worse for him. Six months hence she will despise
him; he is already morally ruined, and at the proper time I will
make an end of him socially. Do you know whither the road
of dissipation leads, my good nephew? Prosper supports Gipsy,
who is extravagant; he gambles, keeps fast horses, and gives sup-
pers. Sooner or later he will have a night of bad luck; the
losses at baccarat must be paid within twenty-four hours; he
will wish to pay, and he—has charge of the banker's safe."
Raoul protested against this insinuation.
"It is useless to tell me that he is honest. I dare say he is.
I was honest myself until I learned to gamble. A scamp would
have married Madeleine long ago, and sent us flying, bag and
baggage. You say she loves him? No one but a coward would
be defrauded of the woman he loved and who loved him. Ah,
if I had once felt Madeleine's hand tremble in mine, if her rosy
lips had once pressed a kiss upon my brow, the whole world
could not take her from me. Wo to him who dares stand in
my path! As it is, Prosper annoys me, and I intend to sup-
press him. With your aid I will so cover him with disgrace
and infamy that Madeleine will drive every thought of him
from her mind."
Louis's tone of rage and vengeance startled Raoul, and made
12—Vol. 3


1178
FILE NUMBER 113
him regard the affair in a worse light than ever. "You have
given me a shameful, dastardly role to play," he said after a
long pause.—"My honorable nephew has scruples, I suppose,"
sneered De Clameran.—"Not exactly scruples; yet I confess—"
"That you want to retreat? Rather too late to sing that tune,
my friend. You wish to enjoy every luxury, have your pockets
filled with gold, cut a fine figure in high society, and remain
virtuous. You should have been born with a golden spoon in
your mouth then. We must fish in muddy waters, and cleanse
ourselves afterward."
"I have never been rich enough to be honest," said Raoul
humbly; "but I must say it goes hard with me to torture two
defenseless, frightened woman, and ruin the character of a
poor devil who regards me as his best friend. It is a low
business!"
This resistance exasperated Louis to the last degree. "You
are the most absurd, ridiculous fool I ever met," he cried. "An
opportunity occurs for us to make an immense fortune. All we
have to do is to stretch out our hands and take it; when you
must needs prove refractory, like a whimpering baby. Nobody
but an ass would refuse to drink when he is thirsty because
he sees a little mud at the bottom of the bucket. I suppose you
prefer theft on a small scale. And where will your system lead
you? To the poor-house or the police-station. You prefer liv-
ing from hand to mouth, supported by Madame Fauvel, having
small sums doled out to you to pay your little gambling debts."
"I am neither ambitious nor cruel."—"And suppose Madame
Fauvel dies to-morrow; what will become of you? Will you
go cringing up to the widower, and implore him to continue
your allowance?"—"Enough said," cried Raoul, angrily inter-
rupting his uncle. "I never had any idea of retreating. I made
these objections to show you what infamous work you expect
of me, and, at the same time, prove to you that without my
assistance you can do nothing."
"I never pretended otherwise."—"Then, my noble uncle, we
might as well settle what my share is to be. Oh! it is not
worth while for you to indulge in idle protestations. What
will you give me in case of success? and what if we fail?"
"I told you before. I will give you twenty-five thousand
francs a year, and all you can secure between now and my
wedding-day."—"This arrangement suits me very well; but
where are your securities?" This question was discussed a


FILE NUMBER 113
1179
long time without being satisfactorily settled by the accom-
plices, who had every reason to distrust each other. "What
are you afraid of?" asked De Clameran.—"Everything," replied
Raoul. "Where am I to obtain justice if you deceive me? From
this pretty little poniard? No, thank you. I would be made to
pay as dear for your hide as for that of honest man."
Finally, after a long debate and much recrimination, the
matter was arranged, and they shook hands before separating.
Alas! Madame Fauvel and her niece soon felt the evil effects
of the understanding between the villains. Everything hap-
pened as Louis had arranged. Once more, when Madame Fau-
vel had begun to breathe freely, and to hope that her troubles
were over, Raoul's conduct suddenly changed; he became more
extravagant and dissipated than ever. Formerly, Madame
Fauvel would have said: "I wonder what he does with all the
money I give him?" Now, she saw where it went. Raoul was
reckless in his wickedness; he was intimate with actresses,
openly lavishing money and jewelry upon them; he drove
about with four horses, and bet heavily on every race. Never
had he been so exacting and exorbitant in his demands for
money; Madame Fauvel had the greatest difficulty in supplying
his wants. He no longer made excuses and apologies for
spending so much; instead of coaxingly entreating, he de-
manded money as a right, threatening to betray Madame Fau-
vel to her husband if she refused him. At this rate, all that
she and Madeleine possessed soon disappeared. In one month,
all their money had been squandered. Then they were com-
pelled to resort to the most shameful expedients in the house-
hold expenses. They economized in every possible way, mak-
ing purchases on credit, and making tradesmen wait; then they
changed figures in the bills, and even invented accounts of
things never bought. These imaginary costly whims increased
so rapidly that M. Fauvel one day said, with a smile: "You
are becoming very coquettish, my dears." Poor women! For
months they had bought nothing, but had lived upon the re-
mains of their former splendor, having all their old dresses
altered to keep up appearances in society. More clear-sighted
than her aunt, Madeleine saw plainly that the day would soon
come when everything would be discovered. Although she
knew that the sacrifices of the present would avail nothing in
the future, she was silent. A high-minded delicacy made her
conceal her apprehensions beneath an assumed calmness. The


1180
FILE NUMBER 113
fact of her sacrificing herself made her refrain from uttering
anything like a complaint or censure. "As soon as Raoul sees
we have nothing more to give," she would say to her aunt, "he
will come to his senses, and stop all this extravagance." The
day came, however, when Madame Fauvel and Madeleine found
it impossible to give another franc. The previous evening there
had been a dinner-party, and they, with difficulty, scraped to-
gether enough money to defray the expenses. Raoul appeared,
and said that he was in the greatest need of money, being
forced to pay a debt of two thousand francs at once. In vain
they implored him to wait a few days, until they could, with
propriety, ask M. Fauvel for money.
"But I have no way of getting it for you," said Madame
Fauvel, desperately; "you have taken everything from me. I
have nothing left but my diamonds: do you want them? If
they can be of use, take them."
Hardened as the young villain was, he blushed at these
words. He felt pity for this unfortunate woman, who had al-
ways been so kind and indulgent to him—who had so often
lavished upon him her maternal caresses. He felt for the noble
girl, who was the innocent victim of a vile plot. But he was
bound by his promise; he knew that a powerful hand would
save these women at the brink of the precipice. More than
this, he saw an immense fortune at the end of his road of
crime, and quieted his conscience by saying that he would re-
deem his present cruelty by honest kindness in the future.
Stifling his better impulses, he said harshly to Madame Fauvel:
"Give me the jewels; I will take them to the pawnbroker's."
She handed him a box containing a set of diamonds. It was
a present from her husband the day he became worth a million.
And so pressing was the\want of these women who were sur-
rounded by princely luxury, with their ten servants, beautiful
horses, and jewels which were the admiration of Paris, that
they implored him to bring them some of the money which he
would procure on the diamonds. He promised, and kept his
word. But they had revealed a new source—a mine to be
worked; he took advantage of it. One by one all Madame
Fauvel's jewels followed the way of the diamonds; and, when
hers was all gone, those belonging to Madeleine were given
up. Madame Fauvel had no defense against the scoundrels
who were torturing her, save prayers and tears; these availed
her little. Sometimes, though, she betrayed such heart-broken


FILE NUMBER 113
1181
suffering when Raoul begged her for money which she had no
means of obtaining that he would hurry away disgusted at his
own brutal conduct, and say to De Clameran: "You must end
this dirty business; I can not stand it any longer. Let us steal
with both hands as much as you like; but as to killing by agony
and fright these two poor miserable women, whom I am really
fond of, I am not going to do it."
De Clameran showed no surprise at these remonstrances. "It
is not pleasant, I know," he replied; "but necessity knows no
law. Have a little more perseverance and patience; we have
almost got to the end."
The end was nearer than De Clameran supposed. Toward
the latter part of November, Madame Fauvel saw that it
was impossible to postpone the catastrophe any longer, and as
a last effort determined to apply to the marquis for assistance.
She had not seen him since his return from Oloron, except
once, when he came to announce his accession to wealth. At
that time, persuaded that he was Raoul's evil genius, she had
received him very coldly, and did not invite him to repeat his
visit. She hesitated before speaking to her niece of the step
she intended taking, because she feared violent opposition.
To her great surprise Madeleine warmly approved of it.
Trouble had made her keen-sighted and suspicious. Reflect-
ing on the past events, comparing and weighing every act and
speech of Raoul, she was now convinced that he was De Cla-
meran's tool. She thought that Raoul was too shrewd to be
acting in this shameful way, ruinously to his own interests, if
there were not some secret motive at the bottom of it all. She
saw that this persecution was more feigned than real. So
thoroughly was she convinced of this that, had it only con-
cerned herself alone, she would have firmly resisted the oppres-
sion, confident that the threatened exposure would never take
place. Recalling, with a shudder, certain looks of De Cla-
meran, she guessed the truth, that the object of all this under-
hand work was to force her to become his wife. Determined
on making the sacrifice, in spite of her repugnance toward the
man, she wished to have the deed done at once; anything was
preferable to the intolerable existence which Raoul made her
lead. She felt that her courage might fail if she waited and
suffered much longer.
"The sooner you see M. de Clameran the better for us,
aunt," she said, after talking the project over.


1182
FILE NUMBER 113
The next day Madame Fauvel called on the marquis at the
Hotel du Louvre, having sent him a note announcing her in-
tended visit. He received her with cold, studied politeness, like
a man who had been misunderstood and had been unjustly
wounded. After listening to her report of Raoul's scandalous
behavior, he became very indignant, and swore that he would
soon make him repent of his heartlessness. But, when Madame
Fauvel told him that Raoul applied to her because he would
take nothing from his uncle, De Clameran seemed confounded.
"The worthless rascal!" he exclaimed, "the idea of his au-
dacity. Why, during the last four months, I have given him
more than twenty thousand francs, which I would not have
done except to prevent him from applying to you, as he con-
stantly threatened to do." Seeing an expression of doubt upon
Madame Fauvel's face, Louis arose and took from a desk some
receipts signed by Raoul, which he showed her. The total
amount was twenty-three thousand five hundred francs. Ma-
dame Fauvel was shocked and amazed.
"He has obtained about forty thousand francs from me," she
faintly said, "so that altogether he has spent at least sixty
thousand francs in four months."—"I can't imagine what he
does with it," said De Clameran. "unless he spends it on
actresses."—"Good heavens! what can those creatures do with
all the money lavished on them?"—"That is a thing one never
knows."
He appeared to pity Madame Fauvel sincerely; he promised
that he would at once see Raoul, and make him alter his be-
havior. Finally, after many protestations of friendship, he
wound up by placing his fortune at her disposal. Although
Madame Fauvel refused his offer, she appreciated the kindness
of it, and on returning home said to Madeleine: "Perhaps we
have mistaken his character; he may be a good man after all."
Madeleine sadly shook her head. She had anticipated just
what happened. De Clameran's magnanimity and generosity
confirmed her presentiments.
Raoul called on his uncle, and found him radiant. "Every-
thing is going on swimmingly, my smart nephew," said the
marquis; "your receipts act like a charm. Ah, you are a
partner worth having. I congratulate you upon your success.
Forty thousand francs in four months!"
"Yes," said Raoul carelessly. "I got about that much from
her and the pawnbrokers."—"Hang it! Then you must have


FILE NUMBER 113
1183
a nice little sum laid by; for the young lady, I presume, is a
myth."—"That is my business, uncle. Remember our agree-
ment. I can tell you this much: Madatne Fauvel and Made-
leine have turned everything they can into money; they have
nothing left, and I have had enough of my role."
"Your role is ended. I forbid you to hereafter ask for a
single centime."—"What are you about to do? What has
happened?"—"The mine is loaded, nephew, and I am only
awaiting an opportunity to set fire to it."
Louis de Clameran relied upon making his rival, Prosper
Bertomy, furnish him with this ardently desired opportunity.
He loved Madeleine too passionately to feel aught save the bit-
terest hate toward the man whom she had freely chosen, and
who still possessed her heart. De Clameran knew that he could
marry her at once if he chose; but in what way? By holding
a sword of terror over her head, and forcing her to be his. He
became frenzied at the idea of possessing her person, while
her heart and soul would always be with Prosper. Thus he
swore that, before marrying, he would so cover Prosper with
shame and ignominy that no honest person would speak to him.
He had at first thought of killing him, but he preferred to dis-
grace him. He imagined that there would be no difficulty in
ruining the unfortunate young man. He soon found himself
mistaken. Though Prosper led a life of reckless dissipation,
he preserved order in his disorder. If in a state of miserable
entanglement, and obliged to resort to all sorts of makeshifts
to escape his creditors, his caution prevented the world from
knowing it. Vainly did Raoul, with his pockets full of gold,
tempt him to play high; every effort to hasten his ruin failed.
When he played he did not seem to care whether he lost or
won; nothing aroused him from his cold indifference. His mis-
tress, Nina Gipsy, was extravagant, but her devotion to Prosper
restrained her from going beyond certain limits. Raoul's great
intimacy with Prosper enabled him to fully understand the state
of his mind; that he was trying to drown his disappointment in
excitement, but had not given up all hope.
"You need not hope to beguile Prosper into committing any
serious piece of folly," said Raoul to his uncle; "his head is
as cool as an usurer's. What object he has in view I know not.
Perhaps when he has spent his last coin he will blow his brains
out; he certainly never will descend to any dishonorable act;
he will never have recourse to the money in the banker's safe."


1184
FILE NUMBER 113
"We must urge him on," replied De Clameran; "lead him
into more extravagances; make Gipsy call on him for costly
finery, lend him plenty of money." Raoul shook his head, as
if convinced that his efforts would be in vain. "You don't
know Prosper, uncle; we can't galvanize a dead man. Made-
leine killed him the day she discarded him. He takes no inter-
est in anything on the face of the earth."—"We can wait."
They did wait; and, to the great surprise of Madame Fauvel,
Raoul once more became an affectionate and dutiful son, as he
had been during De Clameran's absence. From reckless ex-
travagance he changed to great economy. Under pretext of
saving money, he remained at Vesinet, although it was very
uncomfortable and disagreeable there in the winter. He wished,
he said, to expiate his sins in solitude. The truth was that, by
remaining in the country, he insured his liberty, and escaped
his mother's visits. It was about this time that Madame Fauvel,
charmed with the improvement in Raoul, asked her husband
to give him some employment in the bank. M. Fauvel was de-
lighted to please his wife, and at once offered Raoul the place
of corresponding clerk, with a salary of five hundred francs a
month. The appointment pleased Raoul; but, in obedience to
De Clameran's command, he refused it, saying he had no taste
for banking. This refusal so provoked the banker that he
rather bitterly reproached Raoul, and told him not to expect
him to do anything to assist him in future. Raoul seized this
pretext for ostensibly ceasing his visits. When he wanted to
see his mother, he would come in the afternoon or evening,
when he knew that M. Fauvel would be from home; and he
only came often enough to keep himself informed of what was
going on in the household. This sudden lull after so many
storms appeared ominous to Madeleine. She was more cer-
tain than ever that the plot was now ripe, and would suddenly
burst upon them, without warning. She did not impart her pre-
sentiment to her aunt, but prepared herself for the worst.
"What can they be doing?" Madame Fauvel would say;
"can they have decided not to persecute us any more?"—"Yes,
what can they be doing?" Madeleine would murmur.
Louis and Raoul gave no signs of life, because, like expert
hunters, they were silently hiding, and watching for a favor-
able opportunity of pouncing upon their victims. Never losing
sight of Prosper for a day, Raoul had exhausted every effort of
his fertile mind to compromise his honor—to ensnare him into


FILE NUMBER 113
1185
some inextricable entanglement. But, as he had foreseen, the
cashier's indifference offered little hope of success. De Cla-
meran began to grow impatient at this delay, and had fully
determined to bring matters to a crisis himself, when one night,
about three o'clock, he was aroused by Raoul. He knew that
some event of great importance must have happened to make
his nephew come to him at that hour of the night.
"What is the matter?" he anxiously inquired.—"Perhaps
nothing; perhaps everything. I have just left Prosper."—
"Well?"—"I had him, Madame Gipsy, and three other friends
to dine with me. After dinner, I made up a game of bacca-
rat, but Prosper took no interest in it, although he was quite
tipsy."
"You must be drunk yourself, to come here waking me up
in the middle of the night to hear this idle gabble," said Louis,
angrily.—"Now, wait until you hear the rest."—"Zounds! speak
then!"—"After the game was over, we went to supper; Pros-
per became quite intoxicated, and betrayed the word with which
he closes the money safe."
At these words, De Clameran uttered a cry of triumph.
"What was the word ?"—"His mistress's name."—"Gipsy! Yes,
that would be five letters." Louis was so excited that he
jumped out of bed, slipped on his dressing-gown, and began
to stride up and down the room. "Now we have got him!" he
said, with vindictive satisfaction. "There's no chance of es-
cape for him now! Ah! the virtuous cashier won't touch the
money confided to him; so we must touch it for him. His dis-
grace will be just as great no matter who opens the safe. We
have the word; you know where the key is kept."—"Yes; when
M. Fauvel goes out he always leaves the key in a drawer of
his secretary in his bedroom."
"Very good. You will go and get this key from Madame
Fauvel. If she does not give it up willingly, use force; then,
having got the key, you will open the safe, and take out every
franc it contains. Ah! Master Bertomy, you shall pay dear
for being loved by the woman I love!"
For five minutes De Clameran indulged in such a tirade of
abuse against Prosper, mingled with rhapsodies of love for
Madeleine, that Raoul thought him almost out of his mind, and
tried to calm him. "Before crying victory," he said, "you had
better consider the drawbacks and difficulties. Prosper might
change the word to-morrow."—"Yes, he might; but it is not


1186
FILE NUMBER 113
probable he will. He will forget what he said while drunk;
besides, we will be quiet."
"That is not all. M. Fauvel has given orders that no large
sum shall be kept in the safe overnight; before closing time,
everything is sent to the Bank of France."—"A large sum will
be kept there the night I choose."—"You think so?"
"I think this: I have a hundred thousand crowns deposited
with M. Fauvel; and if I desire the money to be paid over to
me early some morning, directly the bank is opened, of course
the money will be kept in the safe the previous night."—"A
splendid idea!" cried Raoul, admiringly.
It was a good idea; and the plotters spent several hours in
studying its strong and weak points. Raoul feared that he
would never be able to overcome Madame Fauvel's resistance;
and, even if she yielded the key, would she not go directly and
confess everything to her husband, rather than sacrifice an in-
nocent man? But Louis felt no uneasiness on this score. "One
sacrifice necessitates another," he said; "she has made too
many to draw back at the last one. She sacrificed her adopted
daughter; therefore she will sacrifice a young man, who is,
after all, a comparative stranger to her."
"But Madeleine will never believe any harm of Prosper;
therefore—"
"You talk like an idiot, my verdant nephew!"
Before the conversation had ended, the plan seemed feasible.
The scoundrels made all their arrangements, and fixed the day for
committing the crime. They selected the evening of the 27th of
February, because Raoul knew that M. Fauvel would be dining
out, and Madeleine was invited to a party on that evening.
Unless something unforeseen should occur, Raoul knew that
he would find Madame Fauvel alone at half-past eight o'clock.
"I will ask M. Fauvel this very day," said De Clameran,
"to have my money ready far Tuesday."—"That is a very short
notice, uncle," objected Raoul. "You know there are certain
forms to be gone through, and he can claim a longer time
wherein to pay it over."
"That is true, but our banker is proud of always being pre-
pared to pay any amount of money, no matter how large; and
if I say I am pressed, and would like to be accommodated
on Tuesday, he will make a point of having it ready for me.
Then you must ask Prosper, as a personal favor to you, to
have the money on hand at the opening of the bank."


FILE NUMBER 113
1187
Raoul once more examined the situation, to discover if there
was not the grain of sand which so often becomes a mountain
at the last moment. "Prosper and Gipsy are to be with me at
Vesinet this evening," he said; "but I can not ask him any-
thing until I know the banker's answer. As soon as you have
arranged matters with him, send me word by Manuel."
"I can't send Manuel, for an excellent reason—he has left
me; but I can send another messenger." What Louis said was
true; Manuel was gone. He had insisted on keeping Gaston's
old servant in his service, because he thought it imprudent to
leave him at Oloron, where his gossiping might cause trouble.
He soon became annoyed by Manuel's loyalty, and determined
to rid himself of him; so he just gave him the idea of ending
his days in peace in his own country. The evening before
Manuel had started for Arenys-de-Mar, a little port of Cata-
lonia, his native place; and Louis was seeking another servant.
After breakfasting together, Louis and Raoul separated. De
Clameran was so elated by the prospect of success that he lost
sight of the great crime intervening. Raoul was calm, but
resolute. The shameful deed he was about to commit would
give him riches, and release him from a shameful servitude.
His one thought was liberty, as Louis's was Madeleine. Every-
thing seemed to progress finely. The banker did not ask for
the delay he was entitled to, but promised to pay the money
on the day named. Prosper said he would have it ready early
in the morning. The certainty of success made Louis almost
wild with joy. He counted the hours and the minutes.
"When this affair is ended," he said to Raoul, "I will reform,
and be a model of virtue. No one will dare hint that I have
ever indulged in any sins—great or small."
But Raoul became more and more sad as the time approached.
Reflection gradually showed him the blackness of the contem-
plated crime. Raoul was bold and determined in the pursuit
of his own gratifications and wickedness; he could smile in the
face of his best friend, while cheating him of his last napoleon
at cards; and he could sleep well after stabbing his enemy to
the heart; but he was young. He was young in sin. Vice
had not yet penetrated to his marrow-bones—corruption had not
yet crowded into his soul enough to uproot and destroy every
generous sentiment. It had not been so very long since he had
cherished a few holy beliefs. The good intentions of his boy-
hood were not quite obliterated from his sometime reproachful


1188
FILE NUMBER 113
memory. Possessing the daring courage natural to youth, he
despised the cowardly part forced upon him; this dark plot—
this slow agony of two helpless women, filled him with horror
and disgust. Disgusted by Louis's cool villainy, he longed for
some great peril to be braved, so as to excuse himself in his
own eyes. But no; he well knew that he ran no risk, not even
that of being arrested and sent to prison. For he was certain
that, if M. Fauvel discovered everything, he would do his ut-
most to hush up every fact connected with the disgraceful
story. Although he was careful not to breathe it to De Cla-
meran, he felt a sincere affection for Madame Fauvel, and was
touched by the indulgent fondness which she so unchangingly
lavished upon him. He had been happy at Vesinet, while his
accomplice, or rather his master, was at Oloron. He would
have been glad to lead an honest life, and could not see the
sense of committing a crime when there was no necessity for
it. He hated De Clameran, who abused his power for the sake
of gratifying a selfish passion; and he longed for an opportunity
of thwarting his plots, if it could be done without also ruining
himself. His resolution, which had been so firm in the begin-
ning, was growing weaker and weaker as the hours rolled on;
as the crisis approached, his horror of the deed increased. And
yet Louis never left him, but continually painted for him a
dazzling future, position, wealth, and freedom. He prepared,
and forced his accomplice to rehearse, the scene which was to
be enacted at Madame Fauvel's, with as much coolness and
precision as if it were to be performed at a public theatre.
Louis said that no piece could be well acted unless the actor
was interested, and imbued with the spirit of his role. But the
more urgently Louis pressed upon him the advantages to be
derived from success—the oftener he sounded in his ears the
magic words "five hundred thousand francs," the more loudly
did Raoul's conscience cry out against the sinful deed. On
Monday evening, about six o'clock, Raoul felt so depressed and
miserable that he asked himself whether, even if he wished it,
he would be able to obey.
"Are you afraid?" asked De Clameran, who had anxiously
watched these inward struggles.—"Yes," replied Raoul; "yes;
I have not your ferocious will, and I am afraid!"
"What, you, my pupil, my friend! It is not possible. Come,
a little energy, one more stroke of our oars and we are in port.
You are only nervous; come to dinner, and a bottle of Bur-


FILE NUMBER 113
1189
gundy will soon set you right." They were walking along
the boulevards. De Clameran insisted upon their entering a
restaurant and having dinner in a private room. Vainly did he
strive, however, to chase the gloom from his companion's pale
face. Raoul sat listening, with a sullen frown, to his friend's
jest about "swallowing the bitter pill gracefully." Urged by
Louis, he drank two bottles of wine, in hopes that intoxication
would inspire him with courage to do the deed. But the drunk-
enness he sought came not; the wine proved false; at the bot-
tom of the last bottle he found nothing but anger and disgust.
The clock struck eight.
"The time has come," said Louis firmly. Raoul turned livid;
his teeth chattered, and his limbs trembled so that he was un-
able to stand on his feet. "Oh, I can not do it!" he cried in
an agony of terror and rage. De Clameran's eyes flashed angrily
at the prospect of all his plans being ruined at the last mo-
ment. But he dared not give way to his anger, for fear of
exasperating Raoul, whom he knew to be anxious for an ex-
cuse to quarrel; so he violently pulled the bell-rope. A waiter
appeared. "A bottle of port," he said, "and a bottle of rum."
When the waiter returned with the bottles, Louis filled a
large glass with the two liquors mixed, and handed it to Raoul.
"Drink this!" he said. Raoul emptied the glass at a draft, and
a faint color returned to his pale cheek. He arose, and strik-
ing the table with his fist, cried fiercely: "Come along!" But
before he had walked thirty yards, the fictitious energy inspired
by drink deserted him. He clung to De Clameran's arm, and
was almost dragged along, trembling like a criminal on his way
to the scaffold.
"If I can once get him in the house," thought Louis, who
had studied Raoul and understood him; "once inside, his role
will sustain him and carry him through, and all will be well.
The cowardly baby! I would like to wring his neck!" As they
walked along he said: "Now don't forget our arrangements,
and be careful how you enter the house; everything depends
upon that. Have you the pistol in your pocket?"—"Yes, yes!
Let me alone!" It was well that De Clameran accompanied
Raoul; for, when he got in sight of the door his courage gave
way, and he longed to retreat. "A poor, helpless woman!" he
groaned, "and an honest man who pressed my hand in friend-
ship yesterday, to be cowardly ruined, betrayed by me! Ah, it
is too base, too cowardly!"—"Come," said De Clameran in a


1190
FILE NUMBER 113
tone of contempt, "I thought you had more nerve. When a
fellow has no more pluck than that he should remain honest!"
Raoul overcame his weakness, and, silencing the clamors of his
conscience, hurried to the house and pulled the bell. "Is Ma-
dame Fauvel at home?" he inquired of the servant who opened
the door.
"Madame is alone in the little drawing-room," was the reply.
And Raoul went upstairs.

'pvE CLAMERAN'S injunction to Raoul was: "Be very cau-
U tious how you enter the room; your appearance must tell
everything, and thus avoid impossible explanations."
The recommendation was useless. The instant that Raoul
entered the room, the sight of his pale, haggard face and wild
eyes made Madame Fauvel exclaim: "Raoul! What misfor-
tune has happened to you?"
The sound of her tender, affectionate voice acted like an
electric shock upon the young bandit. He shook like a leaf.
But at the same time his mind seemed to change. Louis was
not mistaken in his estimate of his companion's character.
Raoul was on the stage, his part was to be played; his assur-
ance returned to him; his cheating, lying nature assumed the
ascendant. "This misfortune is the last I shall ever suffer,
mother!" Madame Fauvel rushed toward him, and, seizing his
hand, gazed searchingly into his eyes, as if to read his very
soul. "What is the matter? Raoul, my dear son, do tell me
what troubles you."
He gently pushed her from him. "The matter is, my mother,"
he said, in a voice of heart-broken despair, "that I am un-
worthy of you, unworthy of my noble father!" She shook her
head as though to protest. "Alas!" he said, "I know and judge
myself. No one can reproach me for my infamous conduct
more bitterly than does my own conscience. I am not natu-
rally wicked, but only a miserable fool. At times I am
like an insane man, and am not responsible for my actions.


FILE NUMBER 113
1191
Ah, my dear mother, I would not be what I am if you had
watched over my childhood. But brought up among strangers,
with no guide but my own evil passions, nothing to restrain
me, no one to advise me, no one to love me, owning nothing,
not even my stolen name, I am cursed with vanity and un-
bounded ambition. Poor, with no one to assist me but you, I
have the tastes and vices of a millionaire's son. Alas! when I
found you, the evil was done. Your affection, your maternal
love, the only true happiness of my life, could not save me.
I, who had suffered so much, endured so many privations, even
the pangs of hunger, became spoiled by this new life of luxury
and pleasure which you opened before me. I rushed headlong
into extravagance, as a drunkard long deprived of drink seizes
and drains to the dregs the first bottle in his reach."
Madame Fauvel listened, silent and terrified, to these words
of despair and remorse, which Raoul uttered with remarkable
vehemence. She dared not interrupt him, but felt certain some
dreadful piece of news was coming. Raoul continued in a sad,
hopeless tone: "Yes; I have been a weak fool. Happiness was
within my reach, and I had not the sense to stretch forth my
hand and grasp it. I rejected a delicious reality to eagerly
pursue a vain fantom. I, who ought to have spent my life at
your feet, and daily striven to express my gratitude for your
lavish kindness, have made you unhappy, destroyed your peace
of mind, and, instead of being a blessing, I have been a curse
ever since the first fatal day you welcomed me to your kind
heart. Ah, unfeeling brute that I was, to squander upon crea-
tures whom I despised a fortune, of which each gold piece
must have cost you a tear! Too late, too late! I find that
with you was happiness."
He stopped, as if overcome by the consciousness of his evil
deeds, and seemed about to burst into tears. "It is never too
late to repent, my son," murmured Madame Fauvel in com-
forting tones.—"Ah, if I only could!" cried Raoul; "but no, it
is too late! Besides, can I tell how long my good resolutions
will last? This is not the first time that I have condemned my-
self pitilessly. Stinging remorse for each new fault made me
swear to lead a better life, to sin no more. What was the
result of these periodical repentances? At the first temptation
I forgot my remorse and good resolutions. I am weak and
mean-spirited, and you are not firm enough to govern my vacil-
lating nature. While my intentions are good, my actions are


1194
FILE NUMBER 113
and find money in it, it will be a miracle, showing that Heaven
has pitied my misfortunes."
"And if you are not successful, will you promise me to wait
until to-morrow?"
"I swear it by my father's memory."—"Then take the key,
and follow me."
Pale and trembling, Raoul and Madame Fauvel passed through
the banker's study and down the narrow staircase leading to
the offices and cashier's room below. Raoul walked in front,
holding the light and the key of the safe. Madame Fauvel was
convinced that it would be utterly impossible to open the safe,
as the key was useless without the secret word, and of course
Raoul could not know what that was. The only anxiety she
felt was, how Raoul would bear the disappointment, how she
could calm his despair. She thought that she would gain time
by letting Raoul make the attempt; and then, when he found
he could not open the safe, he would keep his promise and wait
until the next day. "When he sees there is no chance of suc-
cess," she thought, "he will wait as he promised; and then to-
morrow—to-morrow—"
What she would do on the morrow she knew not, she did
not even ask herself. Raoul was about to kill himself; his
mother prayed to God to grant her one night; as if in this short
space of time some unexpected relief would come to end her
misery. They reached Prosper's office, and Raoul placed the
lamp on a high stool so that it lighted the whole room. He
had then recovered all his coolness, or rather that mechanical
precision of movement, almost independent of will, which men
accustomed to peril always find ready in time of need. Rapidly,
with the dexterity of experience, he slipped the buttons on the
five letters composing the name of G-i-p-s-y. His features during
this short operation, expressed the most intense anxiety. He
was fearful that the awful energy he had shown might after all
be of no use; perhaps the safe would remain closed, perhaps the
money would not be there. Prosper might have changed the
word, or neglected to have the money in the safe. Madame
Fauvel saw these visible apprehensions with alarm. She read
in his eyes that wild hope of a man who, passionately desiring
an object, ends by persuading himself that his own will suffices
to overcome all obstacles. Having often been present when
Prosper was preparing to leave his office, Raoul had fifty times
seen him move the buttons, and lock the safe, just before the


FILE NUMBER 113
1195
bank closed. Indeed, having a practical turn of mind, and an
eye to the future, he had even turned the key in the lock on
more than one occasion. He inserted the key softly, and turned
it round once, pushed it farther in, and turned it a second time;
then thrust it right in with a jerk, and turned it again. His
heart beat so loudly that Madame Fauvel could hear its throbs.
The word had not been changed; the safe opened. Raoul and
his mother simultaneously uttered a cry—she of terror, he of
triumph.
"Shut it again!" exclaimed Madame Fauvel, frightened at the
incomprehensible result of Raoul's attempt; "leave it alone,
come away." And, half frenzied, she clung to his arm, and
pulled him away so abruptly, that the key was dragged from the
lock, and, slipping along the glossy varnish of the safe-door,
made a deep, long scratch. But at a glance the young man had
perceived four rolls of bank-notes on an upper shelf. He
snatched them up with his left hand, and slipped them inside his
vest. Exhausted by the effort she had made, Madame Fauvel
dropped his arm, and, almost fainting with emotion, leaned
against the back of a chair. "Have mercy, Raoul!" she moaned.
"I implore you to put back that money, and I solemnly swear
I will give you twice as much to-morrow. Oh, my son, have
pity upon your unhappy mother!" He paid no attention to
these words of entreaty, but carefully examined the scratch
on the safe. This trace of the robbery was very visible, and
alarmed him. "At least, you will not take all," said Madame
Fauvel; "just keep enough to save yourself, and put back the
rest."
"What good would that do? What I take will be missed just
the same."
"Oh, no! not at all. I can account to Andre; I will tell him
I had a pressing need for some money, and opened the safe
to get it." In the mean time, Raoul had carefully closed the
safe. "Come, mother, let us go back to the sitting-room. A ser-
vant might go there to look for you, and be astonished at our
absence." Raoul's cruel indifference and cold calculations at
such a moment filled Madame Fauvel with indignation. She
thought that she had still some influence over her son—that her
prayers and tears would have some effect upon his hard heart.
"Let them be astonished," she cried; "let them come here and
find us. Then there will be an end to all this. Andre will
drive me from his house like a worthless creature, but I will


1196
FILE NUMBER 113
not sacrifice the innocent. Prosper will be accused of this to-
morrow. De Clameran has taken from him the woman he
loved, and now you would deprive him of his honor! I will
not allow it."
She spoke so loudly and angrily that Raoul was alarmed. He
knew that one of the office men passed the night in a room
close by, and although it was still early in the evening, he
might already be in bed and listening to them. "Come upstairs,"
he said, seizing Madame Fauvel's arm. But she clung to a
table, and refused to move a step. "I have been cowardly
enough to sacrifice Madeleine," she said, "but I will not ruin
Prosper." Raoul had an argument in reserve, which he knew
would make Madame Fauvel submit to his will. "Now, really,"
he said with a cynical laugh, "do you pretend that you do not
know Prosper and I arranged this little affair together, and
that he is waiting to share the booty?"
"It is impossible!"
"What! Do you suppose, then, that chance alone told me
the word and placed the money in the safe?"
"Prosper is honest."
"Of course he is, and so am I too. The only thing is, that
we both need money."
"You lie."
"No, dear mother. Madeleine dismissed Prosper, and the
poor fellow has to console himself for her cruelty; and this
sort of consolation is expensive." He took up the lamp, and
gently but firmly led Madame Fauvel toward the staircase. She
mechanically suffered him to do so, more bewildered by what
she had just heard than she was at the opening of the safe
door. "What!" she gasped, "can Prosper be a thief?" She
began to think herself the victim of a terrible nightmare, and
that, when she awoke, her mind would be relieved of this in-
tolerable torture. She helplessly clung to Raoul's arm as he
assisted her up the little narrow staircase.
"You must put the key back in the secretary," said Raoul
as soon as they were in the bedroom again. But she did not
seem to hear him; so he went and put it in the place from which
he had seen her take it. He then led, or rather carried, Madame
Fauvel into the little sitting-room, and placed her in an easy-
chair. The set, expressionless look of the wretched woman's
eyes, and her dazed manner, frightened Raoul, who thought
that she was going out of her mind. "Come, cheer up, my


FILE NUMBER 113
1197
dear mother," he said in coaxing tones, as he rubbed her icy
cold hands; "you have just saved my life, and have at the
same time rendered an immense service to Prosper. Don't be
alarmed; everything will come out right in the end. Prosper
will be accused—perhaps arrested; he expects that, and is pre-
pared for it; he will deny his culpability; and, as there is no
proof against him, he will soon be set at liberty."
But these falsehoods were wasted on Madame Fauvel, who
was incapable of understanding anything said to her. "Raoul,"
she moaned, "Raoul, my son, you have killed me." Her gentle
voice, kind even in its despairing accents, touched the very
bottom of Raoul's perverted heart, and once more his soul was
so wrung by remorse that he felt inclined to put back the stolen
money. The thought of De Clameran restrained him. Finding
that Madame Fauvel still sat motionless and deathlike in her
chair, and fearing that M. Fauvel or Madeleine might enter at
any moment, and demand an explanation, he hastily pressed a
kiss upon his mother's brow, and hurried from the house. At
the restaurant, in the room where they had dined, De Clameran,
tortured by anxiety, awaited his accomplice. He wondered if,
at the last moment, when he was not near to sustain him, Raoul
would prove a coward and retreat. The merest accident, too,
is sufficient to upset the most skilful combinations. When Raoul
returned, he jumped to his feet, ghastly pale, and with difficulty
gasped out: "Well?"
"It is done, uncle, thanks to you; and I am now the greatest
villain on the face of the earth." He unbuttoned his vest, and
pulling out the four bundles of bank-notes, angrily dashed them
upon the table, adding, in a tone of hate and contempt: "Now
I hope you are satisfied. This is the price of the happiness,
honor, and perhaps the life, of three persons." De Clameran
paid no attention to these angry words. With feverish eager-
ness he seized the notes, and held them in his hand, as if to
convince himself of the reality of success. "Now Madeleine is
mine," he cried excitedly. Raoul said nothing. This exhibition
of joy, after the scene in which he had just been an actor, dis-
gusted and humiliated him. Louis misinterpreted his silence,
and asked, gaily: "Did you have much difficulty?"—"I forbid
you ever to allude to this evening's work," cried Raoul fiercely.
"Do you hear me? I wish to forget it." De Clameran shrugged
his shoulders at this outburst of anger, and said, in a bantering
tone: "Just as you please, my handsome nephew; forget it if


1198
FILE NUMBER 113
you like. I rather think, though, you will not refuse to accept
these three hundred and fifty thousand francs as a slight me-
mento. Take them—they are yours."
This generosity seemed neither to surprise nor satisfy Raoul.
"According to our agreement," he said sullenly, "I was to have
much more than this."
"Of course; this is only on account."
"And when am I to have the rest, if you please?"
"The day I marry Madeleine, and not before, my boy. You
are too valuable an assistant to lose at present; and you know
that, though I don't mistrust you, I am not altogether sure of
your sincere affection for me." Raoul reflected that to com-
mit a crime, and not profit by it, would be the height of ab-
surdity. He had returned with the intention of breaking off all
connection with De Clameran; but he now determined that he
would not abandon his accomplice until there was nothing more
to get out of him. "Very well," he said, "I accept this on
account; but remember, I will never do another piece of work
like this of to-night."
De Clameran burst into a loud laugh, and replied: "That is
sensible; now that you are rich, you can afford to be honest.
Set your conscience at rest, for I promise you I will require
nothing more of you save a few trifling services. You can
retire behind the scenes now, while I appear upon the stage."
FOR more than an hour after Raoul's departure, Madame
Fauvel remained in a state of torpor bordering upon un-
consciousness. Gradually, however, she recovered her senses
sufficiently to comprehend the horrors of her present situation;
and, with the faculty of thought, that of suffering returned.
The dreadful scene in which she had taken part was still before
her affrighted vision; all the attending circumstances, unno-
ticed at the time, now struck her forcibly. She saw that she
had been the dupe of a shameful conspiracy; that Raoul had
tortured her with cold-blooded cruelty, had taken advantage of


FILE NUMBER 113 1199
her tenderness, and played with her sufferings. But had Pros-
per anything to do with the robbery? This Madame Fauvel
had no way of finding out. Ah, Raoul knew how the blow
would strike when he accused his friend. He knew that she
would end by believing in the cashier's complicity. Knowing
that Madeleine's lover was leading a life of extravagance and
dissipation, she thought it very likely he had, from sheer des-
peration, resorted to this bold step to pay his debts; her blind
affection, moreover, made her anxious to attribute the first idea
of crime to any one, rather than to her son. She had heard that
Prosper was supporting one of those worthless creatures whose
extravagance impoverishes men, and whose evil influence per-
verts their natures. When a young man is thus degraded, will
he stop at any sin or crime? , Alas! Madame Fauvel knew,
from her own sad experience, to what depths even one fault
can lead. Although she believed Prosper guilty, she did not
blame him, but considered herself responsible for his sins. Was
she not the cause that he no longer frequented the home he
had begun to look upon as his own? Had she not destroyed
his hopes of happiness, and driven him to a life of dissipation,
wherein perhaps he sought forgetfulness? She was undecided
whether to confide in Madeleine, or bury the secret in her own
breast. Fatally inspired, she decided to keep silent.
When the young girl returned home at eleven o'clock, Ma-
dame Fauvel not only was silent as to what had occurred, but
even succeeded in so concealing all traces of her agitation, that
she escaped any questions from her niece. Her calmness never
left her when M. Fauvel and Lucien returned, although she
was in terror lest her husband should go down to the cashier's
room to examine the books. It was not his habit to open the
safe at night, but he sometimes did so. As fate would have it,
the banker, as soon as he entered the room, began to speak
of Prosper, saying how distressing it was that so interesting
a young man should be thus throwing himself away, and won-
dering what could have happened to make him suddenly cease
his visits at the house, and resort to bad company. If M. Fauvel
had looked at the faces of his wife and niece while he harshly
blamed the cashier, he would have been puzzled at their strange
expression. All night long Madame Fauvel suffered the most
intolerable agony. "In six hours," she would say to herself, "in
three hours, in one hour, all will be discovered; and then what
will happen?"


1200
FILE NUMBER 113
When daybreak came she heard the servants moving about
the house. Then the offices were opened, and the noise made
by the arriving clerks reached her. She attempted to get up,
but felt so ill and weak that she sank back upon her pillow;
and lying there, trembling like a leaf, bathed in cold perspira-
tion, she awaited the discovery of the robbery. She was lean-
ing over the side of the bed, straining her ear to catch the
least sound, when Madeleine, who had shortly left her, rushed
back into the room. The poor girl's white face and wild eyes
told Madame Fauvel that the crime was discovered.
"Do you know what has happened, aunt?" cried Madeleine
in a shrill, horrified tone. "Prosper is accused of robbery, and
the commissary of police has come to take him to prison!" A
groan was Madame Fauvel's only answer. "Raoul or the mar-
quis is at the bottom of this," continued Madeleine excitedly.
"How can they be concerned in it?"
"I can't tell yet; but I only know that Prosper is innocent.
I have just seen him, spoken to him. He would never have
looked me in the face had he been guilty." Madame Fauvel
opened her lips to confess all: fear kept her silent. "What can
these wretches want?' asked Madeleine; "what new sacrifice do
they demand? Dishonor Prosper! They had far better have
killed him—I would have said nothing."
M. Fauvel's entrance into the room interrupted Madeleine.
The banker was so enraged that he could scarcely speak. "The
worthless scoundrel!" he cried; "to think of his daring to accuse
me! to insinuate that I robbed my own safe! And that Mar-
quis de Clameran, who seems to doubt my integrity." Then,
without noticing the effect of his words upon the two women,
he proceeded to relate all that had occurred. "I was afraid of
something of this sort last night," he said in conclusion; "this
is the result of leading such a life as his has been lately."
Throughout the day Madeleine's devotion to her aunt was
severely tried. The generous girl saw disgrace heaped upon
the man she loved. She had perfect faith in his innocence; she
felt sure she knew who had laid the trap to ruin him, and yet
she did not say a word in his defense. Fearing that Madeleine
would suspect her of complicity in the theft if she remained
in bed and betrayed so much agitation, Madame Fauvel rose and
dressed for breakfast. It was a dreary meal. No one tasted a
morsel. The servants moved about on tiptoe, as silently as if a
death had occurred in the family. About two o'clock a servant


FILE NUMBER 113
1201
came to M. Fauvel's study, and said that the Marquis de Cla-
meran desired to see him. "What!" cried the banker, "does he
dare—" Then, after a moment's reflection, he added: "Ask him
to walk up."
The very name of De Clameran sufficed to arouse all M.
Fauvel's slumbering wrath. The victim of a robbery, finding
his safe empty at the moment that he was called upon to make
a heavy payment, he had been constrained to curb his anger
and resentment; but now he determined to have his revenge
• upon his insolent visitor. But the marquis declined to come
upstairs. The messenger returned with the answer that the
gentleman had a particular reason for seeing M. Fauvel in the
office below, where the clerks were. "What does this fresh
impertinence mean?" cried the banker, as he angrily jumped
up and hastened downstairs.
M. de Clameran was standing in the middle of the office
adjoining the cashier's room; M. Fauvel walked up to him,
and roughly said: "What do you want now, sir? You have
been paid your money, and I have your receipt." To the sur-
prise of all the clerks, and the banker himself, the marquis
seemed not in the least offended at this rude greeting, but
answered in a deferential though not at all humble manner:
"You are hard upon me, sir, but I deserve it, and that is why
I am here. A gentleman always acknowledges when he is
in the wrong; in this instance I am the offender; and I flatter
myself that my past will permit me to say so without being
accused of cowardice or lack of self-respect. If I desire to see
you here instead of in your study, it was because, having been
rude to you in the presence of your clerks, I wished them to
be witnesses of my apology for the same."
De Clameran's speech was so different from his usual over-
bearing, haughty conduct, that the surprised banker could
only stammer: "I must say that I was hurt by your doubts,
your insinuations—"
"This morning," continued the marquis, "I was irritated, and
thoughtlessly gave way to my temper. Although I am gray-
headed, my disposition is as excitable as that of a fiery young
man of twenty. My words, believe me, did not represent my
real thoughts, and I regret them deeply." M. Fauvel being
himself a kind-hearted though quick-tempered man, could un-
derstand De Clameran's feelings; and, knowing that his own
high reputation for scrupulous honesty could not be affected
13—Vol. 3


1202
FILE NUMBER 113
by any hasty language, he at once calmed down before so
frank an apology. Holding out his hand to De Clameran, he
said: "Let us forget what happened, sir." They conversed
in a friendly manner for some minutes; and De Clameran, after
explaining why he had such pressing need of the money at
that particular hour of the morning, turned to leave, saying
that he would do himself the honor of calling upon Madame
Fauvel. "That is, if a visit just now would not be considered
intrusive," he said with a shade of hesitation. "Perhaps after
the trouble of this morning, she does not wish to be disturbed."
"Oh, no!" said the banker; "I think a visit would cheer her
Hp. I am obliged to go out on account of this unfortunate
affair."
Madame Fauvel was in the same room where Raoul had
threatened to kill himself the night before; she looked very ill
as she lay on a sofa, with Madeleine seated beside her. When
M. de Clameran was announced, they both started up as if a
fantom had appeared before them. Although Louis had been
gay and smiling when he parted from M. Fauvel downstairs,
he now wore a melancholy aspect, as he gravely bowed, and
refused to seat himself in the chair which Madame Fauvel
motioned him to take. "You will excuse me, ladies," he began,
"for intruding upon your affliction; but I have a duty to fulfill."
The two women were silent; they seemed to be waiting for
him to explain. He therefore added in an undertone: "I
know all."
By an imploring gesture, Madame Fauvel tried to stop him.
She saw that he was about to reveal her secret to Madeleine.
But Louis would not see this gesture; he turned his whole
attention to Madeleine, who haughtily said: "Explain yourself,
sir."
"Only an hour ago," he replied, "I discovered that Raoul
last night forced from his mother the key of the safe, and stole
three hundred and fifty thousand francs."
Madeleine crimsoned with shame and indignation; she leaned
over the sofa, and seizing her aunt by the wrists shook her
violently. "Is it true?" she asked in a hollow voice; "is it
true?"
"Alas! alas!" groaned Madame Fauvel, utterly crushed.
"You have allowed Prosper to be accused," cried the young
girl; "you have suffered him to be arrested and disgraced for
life."—"Forgive me," murmured her aunt. "Raoul was about


1204
FILE NUMBER 113
thanks, sir, thanks!" she cried, gratefully clasping De Cla-
meran's hand in hers; "you are goodness itself!"
Louis's eyes lit up with pleasure. But he rejoiced too soon.
'A minute's reflection brought back all of Madeleine's distrust.
She thought this generosity unnatural in a man whom she con-
sidered incapable of a noble sentiment, and at once concluded
that it must conceal some snare beneath. "What are we to
do with this money?" she demanded.—"Restore it to M. Fauvel,
mademoiselle."
"We restore it, sir, and how? Restoring the money is de-
nouncing Raoul, and ruining my aunt. Take back your money,
sir." De Clameran was too shrewd to insist; he took up the
money and seemed about to leave. 4'I comprehend your
refusal, mademoiselle, and must find another way of ac-
complishing my wish. But, before retiring, let me say that
your injustice pains me deeply. After the promise you made
to me, I had reason to hope for a kinder welcome."
"I will keep my promise, sir, but not until you have furnished
security."
"Security! What security? Pray explain yourself."
"Something to protect my aunt against Raoul after my—
marriage. What is my dowry to a man who squanders a
hundred thousand francs in four months? We are making a
bargain; I give you my hand in exchange for my aunt's life
and honor, and of course you must give me some security for
the performance of your promise."
"Oh! I will give you ample securities," exclaimed De Cla-
meran, "such as will quiet all your suspicious doubts of my
good faith. Alas! you will not believe in my devotion; what
shall I do to convince you of its sincerity? Shall I try to save
M. Bertomy?"—"Thanks for the offer, sir," replied Madeleine
disdainfully; "if Prosper is guilty, let him be punished by the
law; if he is innocent, God will protect him."
Madeleine and her aunt rose from their seats to signify that
the interview was over. De Clameran bowed, and left the
room. "What pride! What determination! The idea of her
demanding security of me!" he said to himself as he slowly
walked away. "But the proud girl shall be humbled yet.
She is so beautiful! and, if I did not so madly love her—well!
so much the worse for Raoul!"
Never had De Clameran been so incensed. Madeleine's quiet
determination and forethought, which he had not anticipated,


FILE NUMBER 113
1205
had upset his well-laid plan. He was disconcerted and at a
loss how to proceed. He knew that it would be useless
to attempt deceiving a girl of Madeleine's character a second
time; he saw that though she had not penetrated his motives,
she was on the defensive, and prepared for any new surprise.
Moreover, she would prevent Madame Fauvel from being
frightened and forced into submission any longer. At the very
moment when Louis thought he had won easily, he met with
an adversary. The whole thing would have to be gone over
again. Although Madeleine had resigned herself to sacrifice,
it was evident that she had no idea of doing so blindly, and
would not hazard her aunt's and her own happiness upon the
uncertainty of eventual promises. How could he furnish the
securities she demanded? What measures could he take to
prevent Raoul from importuning his mother in the future.
Once De Clameran married, and Raoul become rich, there
would be no further reason for disquieting Madame Fauvel.
But how prove this to Madeleine? The knowledge of all the
circumstances of this shameful and criminal intrigue would
have reassured her upon this point; but then it would never
do to inform her of these details, especially before the marriage.
What securities then could he give? But De Clameran was
not one of those hesitating men who take weeks to con-
sider a difficulty. When he could not untie a knot, he would
cut it. Raoul was a stumbling-block to his wishes, and he swore
to rid himself of his troublesome accomplice somehow or other.
It was not, however, an easy matter to dispose of so cunning a
knave as Raoul. But this consideration could not stop De
Clameran. The more certain he was of Madeleine's contempt
and dislike, the more determined he was to marry her. But
he had sense enough to see that he might ruin his prospects by
undue haste, and that the safest course would be to await the
result of the accusation against Prosper before moving further
in the matter.
He waited in anxious expectation of a summons from Ma-
dame Fauvel. But he was again mistaken. On calmly thinking
over the two accomplices' last acts, Madeleine came to the con-
clusion that they would remain quiet for a while; she knew
resistance could have no worse results than would cowardly
submission, and therefore assumed the entire responsibility of
managing the affair so as to keep at bay both Raoul and De
Clameran. She knew that Madame Fauvel would be anxious


1206
FILE NUMBER 113
to accept any terms of peace, but determined to use all her in-
fluence to prevent her doing this, and to force upon her the
necessity of maintaining a firmer and more dignified attitude.
This accounted for the silence of the two women, who were
quietly waiting for their adversaries to renew hostilities. They
even succeeded in concealing their anxiety beneath assumed
indifference; never asking any questions about the robbery, or
those who were in any way connected with it. M. Fauvel
brought them an account of Prosper's examination, the many
charges brought against him, his obstinate denial of having
stolen the money; and finally, how, after great perplexity
and close study of the case by the investigating magistrate, the
cashier had been discharged for want of sufficient proof against
him. Since De Clameran's offer to replace the money, Madame
Fauvel had not doubted Prosper's guilt. She said nothing, but
inwardly accused him of having seduced her son from the path
of virtue, and enticed him into crime. Madeleine, on the con-
trary, had perfect faith in Prosper's innocence. She was so
sure of it that, learning that he was about to be set at liberty,
she ventured to ask her uncle, under pretext of some charitable
object, to give her ten thousand francs, which she sent to the
unfortunate victim of circumstantial evidence who, from all
that she had heard, was probably in great need of assistance.
In the letter—cut from her prayer-book to. avoid detection by
writing—accompanying the money, she advised Prosper to leave
France, because she knew that it would be impossible for a man
of his proud nature to remain on the scene of his disgrace. Be-
sides, Madeleine, at that time, feeling that she would be
obliged sooner or later to marry De Clameran, was anxious
to have the man she loved far, far away from her. And yet,
on the day that this anonymous present was sent, in opposition
to the wfshes of Madame Fauvel, the two poor women were
fearfully entangled in pecuniary difficulties. The tradesmen,
whose money had been squandered by Raoul, refused to give
credit any longer, and insisted upon their bills being paid at
once; saying they could not understand how a man of M.
Fauvel's wealth and position could keep them waiting for such
insignificant amounts. One was owed two thousand, another
one thousand, and a third only five hundred francs. The
butcher, the grocer, and the wine-merchant would call to-
gether, and Madame Fauvel had the greatest difficulty in pre-
vailing upon them to accept something on account. Some of


FILE NUMBER 113
1207
them threatened to apply to the banker. Madame Fauvel's indebt-
edness amounted to almost fifteen thousand francs. Madeleine
and her aunt had declined all invitations during the winter, to
avoid spending money on dress. But at last they were obliged
to appear in public. M. Fauvel's most intimate friends, the
Messrs. Jandidier, were about to give a splendid ball, and, as
fate would have it, a fancy ball, which would require the pur-
chasing of costumes. Where was the money to come from?
They had been owing a large bill to their dressmaker for over
a year. Would she consent to furnish them with any more
dresses on credit? Madeleine's new maid, Palmyre Chocareille,
extricated them from this difficulty. This girl, who seemed
to have suffered all the minor ills of life—which, after all, were
the hardest to bear—seemed to have divined her mistress's anx-
iety. At any rate, she voluntarily informed Madeleine that a
friend of hers, a first-class dressmaker, had just set up for
herself, and would be glad to furnish materials and make the
dresses on credit, for the sake of obtaining the patronage of
Madame Fauvel and her niece, which would at once bring iier
plenty of fashionable customers. But this was not all. Neither
of them could go to "the ball without jewelry; and every jewel
they owned had been taken by Raoul and pawned, and he had
the tickets. After thinking the matter over, Madeleine de-
cided to ask Raoul to devote some of the stolen money to
redeeming the jewels he had forced from his mother. She in-
formed her aunt of her plan, saying: "Make an appointment
with Raoul: he will not dare to refuse you; and I will go in
your stead." And, two days after, the courageous girl took
a cab, and, regardless of the inclement weather, went to Vesinet.
She had no idea, then, that M. Verduret and Prosper were fol-
lowing close behind her, and that they witnessed her interview
from the top of a ladder. Her bold step, however, was fruit-
less. Raoul swore than he had shared with Prosper; that his
own half was spent, and that he was quite without money. He
even refused to give up the pawn-tickets; and Madeleine had
to insist most energetically before she could induce him to give
up four or five trifling articles that were absolutely indispen-
sable. De Clameran had ordered him to refuse, because he
hoped that in their distress they would apply to him for help.
Raoul had obeyed, but only after a violent altercation witnessed
by De Clameran's new valet, Joseph Dubois. The accomplices
were at that time on very bad terms together. The marquis


1208
FILE NUMBER 113
was seeking a safe means of getting rid of Raoul; and the
young scamp had a sort of presentiment of his uncle's friendly
intentions. Nothing but the certainty of impending danger
could reconcile them; and this was revealed to them at the
Jandidier ball. Who was the mysterious mountebank that had
"indulged in such transparent allusions to Madame Fauvel's pri-
vate troubles, and then said with threatening significance to
Louis: "I was your brother Gaston's friend!"
Who he was, where he came from, they could not imagine;
but they clearly saw that he was a dangerous enemy, and forth-
with attempted to assassinate him upon his leaving the ball.
Having followed him and then having lost him, they became
alarmed. "We can not be too guarded in our conduct," whis-
pered De Clameran; "we shall know only too soon who he is."
Once more Raoul tried to induce him to give up his project of
marrying Madeleine. "Never!" he exclaimed: "I will marry
her or perish!"
They thought that, now they were warned, the danger of
their being caught was lessened. But they did not know the
sort of man who was on their track.

OUCH are the facts that, with an almost incredible talent for
^ investigation, had been collected and prepared by M. Ver-
duret, the stout man with the jovial face who had taken Prosper
under his protection. Reaching Paris at nine o'clock at night,
not by the Lyons train as he had announced, but by the Orleans
one, M. Verduret had hastened to the Hotel of the Grand Arch-
angel, where he had found the cashier impatiently expecting
him.
"You are about to hear something extraordinary," he had
said to Prosper, "and you will see how far back one has to
seek into the past for the primary causes of a crime. All
things are linked together and dependent upon each other in
this world of ours. If Gaston de Clameran had not entered
a little cafe at Tarascon to play a game of billiards twenty


FILE NUMBER 113
1209
years ago, your safe would not have been robbed three weeks
back. Valentine de la Verberie is punished in 1866 for the
murders committed for her sake in 1840. Nothing is ever lost
or forgotten. Listen."
And he forthwith related all that he had discovered, referring
as he went along to his notes and the voluminous manuscript
which he had prepared. During the entire week, M. Verduret
had not perhaps taken in all twenty-four hours' rest, but he
bore no great traces of fatigue. His iron muscles braved any
amount of labor, and his elastic nature was too well tem-
pered to give way beneath such pressure. While any other
man would have sunk exhausted in a chair, he stood up and
described, with the enthusiasm and captivating animation pecul-
iar to him, the minutest details and intricacies of the plot that
he had devoted his whole energy to unraveling; personating,
so to say, every character he brought upon the scene, so that his
listener was bewildered and dazzled by his brilliant acting. As
Prosper listened to this narrative of events happening twenty
years back, the secret conversations as minutely related as if
overheard the moment they took place, it sounded to him more
like a romance than a plain statement of facts. All these in-
genious explanations might be logical, but what foundation
did they possess? Might they not be the dream of an excited
imagination?
M. Verduret did not finish his report until four o'clock in
the morning; then he exclaimed triumphantly: "And now they
are on their guard; they are wary rascals too; but I can laugh
at their efforts, for I have them safe. Before a week is over,
Prosper, your innocence will be recognized by every one. I
promised your father this."—"Is it possible?" murmured Pros-
per in a dazed way; "is it possible?"
"What?" m
"All this you have just told me." M. Verduret bounded like
a man little accustomed to have the accuracy of his informa-
tion doubted. "Is it possible, indeed?" he cried; "but it is
truth itself, truth founded on fact and exposed in all its
impressiveness!"
"But how can such rascalities take place in Paris, in the
very midst of us, without—"
"Ah!" interrupted the stout man, "you are young, my friend!
Crimes worse than this happen, and you know nothing of them.
You think the horrors of the assize court are the only ones.


1210
FILE NUMBER 113
Pooh! You only read in the 'Gazette des Tribunaux' of the
bloody melodramas of life, where the actors, low-born villains,
are as cowardly as the knife, or as stupid as the poison they
use. It is at the family fireside, often under shelter of the law
itself, that the real tragedies of life are acted; in these days
traitors wear gloves, scoundrels cloak themselves in public
esteem, and their victims die broken-hearted, but smiling to the
last. What I have just related to you is almost an every-day
occurrence; and yet you profess astonishment."
"I can't help wondering how you discovered all this tissue
of crime."
"Ah, that is the point!" said M. Verduret, with a self-
satisfied smile. "When I undertake a task, I devote my whole
attention to it. Now make a note of this: When a man of
ordinary intelligence concentrates his thoughts and energies
upon the attainment of an object, he is almost always certain
to ultimately obtain success. Besides that, I have my own
means of working up a case."
"Still I don't see what grounds you had to go upon."
"To be sure, one needs some light to guide one in a dark
affair like this. But the fire in De Clameran's eye at the
mention of Gaston's name ignited my lantern. From that mo-
ment I walked straight to the solution of the mystery, as to a
beacon." Prosper's eager, questioning looks showed that he
would like to know the secret of his protector's wonderful
penetration, and at the same time be more thoroughly con-
vinced that what he had heard was all true—that his innocence
would be clearly proved.
"Now confess," cried M. Verduret, "you would give some-
thing to know how I discovered the truth."
"I certainly would, for to me it seems marvelous!"
M. Verduret enjoyed Prosper's bewilderment. To be sure,
he was neither a good judge nor a distinguished amateur; but
sincere admiration is always flattering, no matter whence it
comes.
"Well," he replied, "I will explain my system. There is
nothing marvelous about it, as you will soon see. We worked
together to find the solution of the problem, so you know my
reason for suspecting De Clameran as the prime mover in the
robbery. As soon as I had arrived at this conclusion my task
was easy. You want to know what I did? I placed trust-
worthy people to watch the parties in whom I was most inter-


FILE NUMBER 113
1211
ested. Joseph Dubois took charge of De Clameran, and Nina
Gipsy never lost sight of Madame Fauvel and her niece."
"I know, and I can not comprehend how Nina ever con-
sented to this service."—"That is my secret," replied M. Ver-
duret. "Having the assistance of good eyes and quick ears on
the spot, I went to Beaucaire to inquire into the past, so as to
link it with what I was sure to learn of the present. The next
day I was at Clameran; and the first step I took was to find
the son of Jean, the old valet. An honest fellow he is, too;
open and simple as nature herself; and he at once guessed .
that I wanted to purchase some madder."—"Madder?" said
Prosper with a puzzled look.—"Of course I wanted to buy his
madder. He had madder for sale, that was evident; so we
began to bargain about the price. The debate lasted almost all
day, during which time we drank a dozen bottles of wine.
About supper-time, Jean, the younger, was as drunk as a bar-
rel, and I had purchased nine hundred francs' worth of madder
which your father will sell for me." Prosper looked so aston-
ished that M. Verduret laughed heartily. "I risked nine hun-
dred francs," he continued, "but thread by thread I gathered the
whole history of the De Clamerans, Gaston's love affair, his
flight, and the stumbling of the horse ridden by Louis. I found
also that about a year ago Louis returned and sold the chateau
to a man named Fougeroux, whose wife, Mihonne, had a
secret interview with Louis the day of the purchase. I went
to see Mihonne. Poor woman! her rascally husband has
pounded nearly all the sense out of her; she is almost idiotic.
I convinced her that I came from some De Clameran or other,
and she at once related to me everything she knew." The
apparent simplicity of this mode of investigation confounded
Prosper. "From that time," continued M. Verduret, "the skein
began to disentangle; I held the principal thread. I now set
about finding out what had become of Gaston. Lafourcade,
who is a friend of your father, informed me that he had
bought an iron foundry at Oloron, had settled there, and died
soon after."
"You are certainly indefatigable!" said Prosper.
"No, but I always strike when the iron is hot. At Oloron
I met Manuel, who had gone there to make a little visit before
returning to Spain. From him I obtained a complete history
of Gaston's life, and all the particulars of his death. Manuel
also told me of Louis's visit; and an innkeeper described a


1212
FILE NUMBER 113
young workman who was there at the same time, whom I at
once recognized as Raoul."—"But how did you know of all
the conversations between the villains?" asked Prosper.
"You evidently think I have been drawing upon my imagi-
nation. You will soon think the contrary. While I was at
work at Oloron, my assistants here did not sit with their hands
in their pockets. Mutually distrustful, De Clameran and Raoul
preserved all the letters they received from each other. Joseph
Dubois copied most of them, and had the more important ones
photographed, and forwarded the copies to me. Nina spent
her time listening at all the doors, and sent me a faithful report
of everything she heard. Finally, I have at the Fauvels' an-
other means of investigation, which I will reveal to you later."
—"I understand it now," murmured Prosper.
"And what have you been doing during my absence, my
young friend?" asked M. Verduret. At this question Prosper
turned crimson. But he knew that it would never do to keep
silent about his imprudent step. "Alas!" he stammered, "I
read in a newspaper that De Clameran was about to marry
Madeleine; and I acted like a fool."—"What did you do?" in-
quired M. Verduret anxiously.—"I sent M. Fauvel an anony-
mous letter, in which I insinuated that his wife was in love
with Raoul—"
M. Verduret here brought his clenched fist down upon the
little table near which he sat, and broke it. "Wretched man!"
he cried, "you have probably ruined everything." A great
change came over him. His usually jovial face assumed a
menacing expression. He rose from his seat, and strode up
and down the room, oblivious of the lodgers on the floor below.
"But you must be a baby," added he to the dismayed Prosper,
"an idiot, or, worse than that, a fool."
"Sir!"
"Here you are drowning; a brave man springs into the
water after you, and just as he is on the point of saving you,
you cling to his feet to prevent him swimming! What did I
tell you to do?"
"To keep quiet, and not go out."
"Well!"
The consciousness of having dene a foolish thing made Pros-
per as frightened as a schoolboy, accused by his teacher of
playing truant. "It was night, sir," he said, "and, having a
violent headache, I took a walk along the quays. I thought


FILE NUMBER 113
1213
there would be no harm in my entering a cafe; I took up a
paper and read the dreadful announcement."
"Was it not settled that you should have perfect confidence
in me?"
"You were not here, sir; this announcement had quite upset
me; you were far away, and might have been surprised by an
unexpected—"
"Nothing is unexpected except to a fool!" declared M. Ver-
duret peremptorily. "To write an anonymous letter! Do you
know to what you expose me? You are the cause of my per-
haps breaking a sacred promise made to one of the few persons
whom I highly esteem among my fellow beings. I shall be
looked upon as a cheat, a dastard, I, who—" He stopped
abruptly, as if afraid of saying too much, and it was only
after some minutes that, having become calm again, he re-
sumed: "It is no use crying over what is done. We must try
and get out of the mess somehow. When and where did you
post this letter?"
"Last night, in the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. It hardly
reached the bottom of the box before I regretted having writ-
ten it."
"Your regrets should have come sooner. What time was it?"
"About ten o'clock."
"Then your sweet little letter must have reached M. Fauvel
this morning with his other correspondence; probably he was
alone in his study when he opened and read it."
"It is not probable, it is certain."
"Can you recall the exact words of your letter? Stop and
think, for it is very important that I should know."—"Oh, it
is unnecessary for me to reflect. I remember the letter as if
I had just written it." And he repeated almost verbatim what
he had written.
M. Verduret listened most attentively with a perplexed frown
upon his face. "That is a formidable anonymous letter," he
murmured, "to come from a person who does not deal in such
things. It insinuates everything without specifying a single
thing; it is vague, jeering, and treacherous. 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 stout man, repeating the
words after Prosper. "The question, 'Is it also he who stole
Madame Fauvel's diamonds?' is simply horrible I What could


1214
FILE NUMBER 113
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 in front of Prosper.
"M. Fauvel is quick-tempered,- is he not?"
"He has a very violent temper."
"Then the mischief is perhaps not irreparable."
"What! do you suppose—?"—"I think that an impulsive man
is afraid of himself, and seldom carries out his first intentions.
That is our only chance. If, upon the receipt of your bomb-
shell, M. Fauvel, unable to restrain himself, rushed into his
wife's room, exclaiming: 'Where are your diamonds?' our plans
are done for. I know Madame Fauvel, she will confess all."
"Why would this be so disastrous?"
"Because the moment Madame 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."
"Any one whom I know?"
"Yes, my friend, and very well too. I should certainly be
vexed to the last degree if these two rascals escape without my
being thoroughly informed about them."
"It seems to me that you know sufficient."
M. Verduret shrugged his shoulders, and asked: "Did you
not perceive any gaps in my narrative?"
"Not one."
"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 decisive proof
have we? None. I skilfully questioned Dr. C . He has
not the shadow of a suspicion; and Dr. C is no quack; he is
a learned and observing man of high standing. What poisons
produce the effects described? I know of none; and yet I have
studied all sorts of poisons, from the digitalis used by La Pom-
meraye to Madame Sauvresy's aconite."
"The death took place so opportunely—"
"That anybody would suspect 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 in-
formation on that point necessary?"


FILE NUMBER 113
1215
"Indispensable, my friend; but we will soon know something.
I have sent one of my men—excuse me, I mean one of my
friends—who is very expert, M. Palot; and he writes that he
is on the track. I am interested in the history of this senti-
mental, skeptical young rascal. I have an idea that, had he not
known De Clameran, he might have been a brave, honest sort
of youth. 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 righted, after having been so openly dishonored. More
than that, he now understood Madeleine, her strange conduct
at the dressmaker's was explained, and he 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 aston-
ished 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 friend's motives for acting thus? In a word,
what price did he expect for this sacrifice of' time and labor?
His anxiety was so great on this point that he suddenly ex-
claimed: "You have no longer the right, sir, to preserve your
incognito with me. When you have saved the honor and life
of a man, you should at least let him know whom he has to
thank."
"Oh!" said M. Verduret smilingly; "you are not out of the
mess yet. You are not married either; so you must, for a few
days longer, have patience and faith." The clock struck six.
"Good heavens!" he added. "Can it be six o'clock? I did
hope to have a good night's rest, but this is no time for sleep-
ing." He went to the landing, and leaning over the balusters,
called: "Madame Alexandre! I say, Madame Alexandre!"
The hostess of the Grand Archangel, the portly wife of Fan-
ferlot, "the squirrel," had evidently not been to bed. This fact
struck Prosper. She appeared, obsequious, smiling, and eager
to please. "What do you require, gentlemen?" she inquired.—
"You can send me your—Joseph Dubois, and also Palmyre, as
soon as possible. Have them sent for at once, and let me
know when they arrive. I will take a little rest in the mean
time."
As soon as Madame Alexandre left the room, the stout man


1216
FILE NUMBER 113
unceremoniously threw himself on the bed. "You have no ob-
jection, I suppose," he said to Prosper. In five minutes he was
fast asleep; and Prosper, more perplexed than ever, seated him-
self in an easy-chair and wondered who this strange man could
be. About nine o'clock some one tapped timidly on the
door. Slight as the noise was, it aroused M. Verduret, who
sprang up and called out: "Who is there?" But Prosper had
already opened the door. Joseph Dubois, the Marquis de Cla-
meran's valet, entered. M. Verduret's assistant was breathless
from running; and his little eyes were more restless than ever.
"Well, master, 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 puppet with a broken
string."—"What! you allow yourself to be disconcerted like
that?"
"Bless me! I think I had cause for alarm when I could
not find you anywhere. Yesterday afternoon I sent you three
telegrams, to the addresses you gave me, at Lyons, Beaucaire,
and Oloron, and received no answer. I was almost going crazy
when your message reached me just now."
"Things are getting warm, then."—"Warm! They are burn-
ing! The place is too hot to hold me any longer."
While speaking, M. Verduret occupied himself in repairing
his toilet, which had become disarranged during his sleep.
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
lad, and quickly, if you please; no long phrases."—"It is just
this, sir. I don't know what your plans are, or what means
you have of carrying them out; but you must wind up this affair
and strike your final blow very quickly."
"That is your opinion, Master Joseph!"
"Yes, master, because if you wait any longer, good-by to our
covey; you will only find an empty cage, and the birds flown.
Yon smile? Yes, I know you are clever, and can accomplish
anything; but they are cunning blades, and as slippery as eels.
They know, too, that they are watched."—"The devil they do!"
cried M. "Verduret. "Some one must have blundered."—"OK!
nobody Has done anything wrong," replied Joseph*. "You know
that they suspected something long ago. They gave you a
proof of it the night of the fancy-dress ball; I mean that ugly
cut on your arm. Ever since they have always slept with one


FILE NUMBER 113
1217
eye open. They were feeling easier, however, when all of a
sudden, yesterday, they began to smell a rat!"
"Was that why you sent me those telegrams?"
"Of course. Now listen: yesterday morning when my mas-
ter 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 great deal of trouble. Meanwhile, I pre-
tended to be making up the fire, so as to remain in the room
to watch him. That man has a Yankee's eye! At the first
glance he saw, or rather divined, that his papers had been med-
dled with; he turned as white as a sheet, and swore an oath,
such an oath!"—"Never mind the oath; go on."
"Well, how he discovered his letters had been touched I can't
imagine. You know how careful I am. I had put everything
back in its place just as I found it. To make sure he was not
mistaken, the marquis picks up each paper, one at a time, turns
it over, and smells it. I was just longing to offer him a micro-
scope, when all of a sudden he sprang up, and, kicking his
chair to the other end of the room, flew at me in a fury. 'Some-
body 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 dead, cut into
mince-meat; and I even said to myself, 'Fanfer—excuse me—
Dubois, my friend, you are done for.'"
M. Verduret was buried in thought, and paid no attention to
the worthy Joseph's analysis of his personal sensations. "What
happened next?" he asked after a few minutes.—"Why, I was
needlessly frightened after all. The rascal did not 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 can
not be; Monsieur le Marquis is mistaken. Who would dare
touch his papers?' Bah! Instead of listening to me, he flour-
ished an open letter, saying: '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! 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 we had a scene; such a scene! He ended by seizing
me by the coat collar, and shaking me like a plum tree, to
make me tell him who I am, who I know, and where I came


1218
FILE NUMBER 113
from. As if I know, myself! I was obliged to account for
every minute of my time since I had been in his service. He
was born to be an investigating magistrate. Then he sent for
the hotel waiter, who attends to his rooms, and questioned him
closely, but in English, so that I could not understand. After
a while he cooled down, and, when the waiter was gone, pre-
sented me with twenty francs, saying: 'I am sorry I was so
hasty with you; you are too stupid to have been guilty of the
offense.'"
"He said that, did he?"—"He used those very words to my
face, master."
"And you think he meant what he said?"—"Certainly I do."
The stout man smiled, and whistled in a way that showed
that he had a different opinion. "If you think that," he said,
"De Clameran was right. You are not up to much." It was
easy to see that Joseph Dubois was anxious to give his grounds
for his opinion, but dared not. "I suppose I am stupid, if you
think so," he replied humbly. "Well, after he had done blus-
tering about the letters, the marquis dressed and went out. He
would not take his carriage, but hired a cab at the hotel door.
I thought he would perhaps disappear forever; but I was mis-
taken. About five o'clock he returned as gay as a lark. During
his absence, I telegraphed to you."
"What! did you not follow him?"
"No; but one of our friends did, and this friend gave me
a report of the dandy's movements. First he went to a broker's,
then to a bank and a discount office. It is evident he is a man
of capital. I expect he intends to go on a little trip some-
where."—"Is that all he did?"—"That is all; yes. But I must
tell you that the rascals tried to get Mademoiselle Palmyre
shut up, 'administratively,' you understand. Fortunately, you
had anticipated something of the kind, and given orders so as
to prevent it. But for you she would now be in prison." Joseph
left off speaking, and looked up at the ceiling by way of trying
to remember whether he had not something more to say. Find-
ing nothing, he added: "That is all. I rather think M. Patri-
gent will rub his hands with delight when I take him my report.
He has no idea of the facts collected to swell the size of his
File Number 113."
There was a long silence. Joseph was right in supposing
that the crisis had come. M. Verduret was arranging his plan
of battle while waiting for the report of Nina—now Palmyre—


FILE NUMBER 113
1219
upon which depended his point of attack. Joseph Dubois was
restless and uneasy. "What am I to do now, master?" he asked.
"Return to the hotel; probably your master has noticed your
absence; but he will say nothing about it, so continue—" Here
an exclamation from Prosper, who was standing near the win-
dow, interrupted M. Verduret. "What is the matter?" he in-
quired.—"De Clameran is there!" replied Prosper.
M. Verduret and Joseph ran to the window. "Where is he?"
they asked.—"There, at the corner of the bridge, behind the
orange-woman's stall."
Prosper was right. It was the noble Marquis de Clameran,
who, hid behind the stall, was watching for his servant to come
out of the Grand Archangel. At first the quick-sighted Ver-
duret had some doubts whether it was the marquis, who, being
skilled in these hazardous expeditions, managed to conceal him-
self almost entirely. But a moment came when, elbowed by the
pressing crowd, he was obliged to get off the pavement in full
view of the window.
"Now you see I was right!" cried the cashier.
"Well," murmured Joseph, convinced, "I am amazed!"
M. Verduret seemed not in the least surprised, but quietly
said: "The hunter is now being hunted. Well, Joseph, my boy,
do you still think that your noble master was duped by your
pretended injured innocence?"—"You stated the contrary, sir,"
replied Joseph in a humble tone; "and a statement from you is
more convincing than all the proofs in the world."
"This pretended outburst of rage was premeditated on the
part of your noble master. Knowing that he is being tracked,
he naturally wishes to discover who his adversaries are. You
can imagine how uncomfortable he must be while in this un-
certainty. Perhaps he thinks his pursuers are some of his old
accomplices, who, being hungry, want a piece of his cake. He
will remain there until you go out; then he will come in to
inquire who you are."
"But I can leave without his seeing me."—"Yes, I know.
You will climb the little wall separating the hotel from the
wine-merchant's yard, and keep along the stationer's area, until
you reach the Rue de la Huchette." Poor Joseph looked as if he
had just received a bucket of ice-water upon his head. "Ex-
actly the way I was going," he gasped out. "I heard that you
knew all the houses in Paris, and it certainly must be so."
The stout man made no reply to Joseph's admiring remarks.


1220
FILE NUMBER 113
He was wondering what advantage he could reap from De Cla-
meran's behavior. As to the cashier, he listened wonderingly,
watching these strangers, who without any apparent reason,
seemed determined to win the difficult game in which his honor,
his happiness, and his life, were at stake.
"I have another idea," said Joseph after deep thought.—"What
is it?"—"I can walk quietly out of the front door, and, with
my hands in my pockets, stroll slowly back to the Hotel du
Louvre."
"And then?"—"Well! then, De Clameran will come in and
question Madame Alexandre, whom you can instruct before-
hand; and she is smart enough to put any joker off the track."
"Bad plan!" pronounced M. Verduret decidedly; "a scamp
so compromised as De Clameran is not easily taken in; it will
be impossible to reassure him." His mind was made up; for
in a brief tone of authority, which admitted of no contradic-
tion, he added: "I have a better plan. Has De Clameran, since
he found out that his papers had been touched, seen De Lagors?"
"No, sir."
"Perhaps he has written to him?"—"I'll bet you my head he
has not. Having your orders to watch his correspondence, I
invented a little system which informs me every time he touches
a pen; during the last twenty-four hours the pens have not been
touched."
"De Clameran went out yesterday afternoon."—"But the man
who followed him says he wrote nothing on the way."—"Then
we have time yet!" cried Verduret. "Be quick! I give you
fifteen minutes to make yourself another head; you know the
sort; I will watch the rascal until you are ready."
The delighted Joseph disappeared in a twinkling, and Prosper
and M. Verduret remained at the window observing De Cla-
meran, who, according to the movements of the crowd, kept
disappearing and reappearing, but was evidently determined not
to quit his post until he had obtained the information he sought.
"Why do you devote yourself exclusively to the marquis?"
asked Prosper.—"Because, my friend," replied M. Verduret,
"because—that is my business, and not yours."
Joseph Dubois had been granted a quarter of an hour in
which to metamorphose himself; before ten minutes had elapsed
he reappeared. The dandified coachman with whiskers, red
vest, and foppish manners, was replaced by a sinister-looking
individual, whose very appearance was enough to scare any


FILE NUMBER 113
1221
rogue. His black cravat twisted round a paper collar, and
ornamented by an imitation diamond pin; his black frock coat
buttoned up to the chin; his greasy hat and shiny boots and
heavy cane—revealed the myrmidon of the Rue de Jerusalem as
plainly as the uniform denotes the soldier. Joseph Dubois had
vanished, and from his livery, phenix-like and triumphant, rose
the radiant Fanferlot, surnamed the Squirrel. When he en-
tered the room, Prosper uttered a cry of surprise, almost of
terror. He recognized the man who had assisted the commis-
sary of police in his investigation at the bank on the day of
the robbery.
M. Verduret examined his follower with a satisfied look, and
said: "Not bad! There is enough of the police-court air about
you to alarm even an honest man. You understand me per-
fectly." Fanferlot was transported with delight at this compli-
ment. "What must I do now, chief?" he inquired.—"Nothing
difficult for a smart man: but remember, upon the precision of
our movements depends the success of my plan. Before occupy-
ing myself with De Lagors, I wish to dispose of De Clameran.
Now that the rascals are separated, we must prevent their com-
ing together again."—"I understand," said Fanferlot, winking
his eye; "I am to create a diversion."
"Exactly. Go out by the Rue de la Huchette, and hasten
to the Pont St. Michel; loaf along the river-bank, and finally
place yourself on some of the steps of the quay, so that De
Clameran may perceive he is being watched. If he fails to
see you, do something to attract his attention."—"I know! I
will throw a stone in the water," said Fanferlot, rubbing his
hands with delight at his own brilliant idea.
"As soon as De Clameran has seen you," continued M. Ver-
duret, "he will be alarmed, and instantly decamp. You must
follow him, and he, knowing that the police are after him, will
do everything to escape you. You must keep both your eyes
open, for he is a cunning rascal."—"I was not born yester-
day."—"So much the better. You can convince him of that.
Well, knowing you are at his heels, he will not dare to return
to the Hotel du Louvre, for fear of finding some troublesome
visitors awaiting him. Now it is very important that he should
not return to the hotel."
"But suppose he does?" said Fanferlot.
M. Verduret thought for a minute, and then replied: "It is
not at all likely; but if he should, you must wait until he comes


1222
FILE NUMBER 113
out again, and continue to follow him. But he won't enter the
hotel; very likely he will take the train; but in that event don't
lose sight of him, no matter if you have to follow him to
Siberia. Have you money with you?"—"I will get some from
Madame Alexandre."
"Very good. Ah! one word more. If the rascal does take
the train, send me a line here. If he beats about the bush until
night-time, be on your guard, especially in lonely places; he is
capable of anything."—"If necessary, may I fire?"—/'Don't be
rash; but if'he attacks you, of course defend yourself. Come,
'tis time you were gone."
Dubois-Fanferlot went out. M. Verduret and Prosper re-
sumed their post of observation. "Why all this secrecy?"
inquired Prosper. "De Clameran is guilty of ten times worse
crimes than I was ever accused of, and yet my disgrace was
made as public as possible."
"Don't you understand," replied the stout man, "that I wish
to separate Raoul's cause from that of the marquis? But, hush!
Look!" De Clameran had left his place near the orange-
woman's stand and approached the parapet of the bridge, where
he seemed to be trying to make out some unexpected object.
"Ah!" murmured M. Verduret; "he has just discovered our
man." De Clameran's uneasiness was quite apparent; he walked
forward a few steps, as if intending to cross the bridge; then,
suddenly turning round, walked rapidly away in the direction
of the Rue St. Jacques. "He is caught!" cried M. Verduret
with delight.
At that moment the door opened, and Madame Nina Gipsy,
alias Palmyre Chocareille, entered. Poor Nina! Each day
since she entered Madeleine's service seemed to have aged her
a year. Tears had dimmed the brilliancy of her beautiful black
eyes; her rosy cheeks were pale and hollow, and her merry
smile was quite gone. Poor Gipsy, once so gay and spirited,
now crushed beneath the burden of her sorrows, was the picture
of misery. Prosper thought that, wild with joy at seeing him,
and proud of having so nobly devoted herself to his interests,
Nina would throw her arms around his neck and hold him in
a tight embrace. He was mistaken; and though entirely de-
voted to Madeleine since he knew the reason of her harshness
to him, his deception affected him deeply. Nina scarcely
seemed to know him. She saluted him timidly, almost like a
stranger. She stood looking at M. Verduret with a mixture


FILE NUMBER 113
1223
of fear and devotion, like a poor dog that has been cruelly
treated by its master.
He, however, was kind and gentle in his manner toward her.
"Well, my dear," he asked encouragingly, "what news do you
bring me?"
"Something is going on at the house, sir, and I have been
trying to get here to tell you; at last Mademoiselle Madeleine
made an excuse for sending me out."
"You must thank her for her confidence in me. I suppose
she carried out the plan we decided upon?"—Yes, sir."—"She
receives the Marquis de Clameran's visits?"—"Since the
marriage has been decided upon, he comes every day, and
mademoiselle receives him with kindness. He seems to be
delighted."
These answers filled Prosper with anger and alarm. The
poor fellow, not comprehending M. Verduret's intricate moves,
felt as if he were being tossed about from pillar to post, and
made the tool and laughing-stock of everybody. "What!" he
cried; "this worthless Marquis de Clameran, an assassin and
a thief, allowed to visit at M. Fauvel's and pay his addresses to
Madeleine? Where are the promises which you made me, sir?
Have you merely been amusing yourself by raising my hopes,
to dash them—"
"Enough!" interrupted M. Verduret harshly; "you are really
too good a young man to understand anything, my friend. If
you are incapable of helping yourself, at least have sense enough
to refrain from stupidly importuning those who are working
for you. Do you not think you have already done sufficient
mischief?" Having administered this rebuke, he turned to
Nina, and said in softer tones: "Go on, my child; what have
you discovered?"
"Nothing positive, sir; but enough to make me nervous, and
fearful of impending danger. I am not certain, but suspect
from appearances that some dreadful catastrophe is about to
happen. It may only be a presentiment. I can not get any
information from Madame Fauvel; she moves about like a
ghost, never opening her lips. She seems to be afraid of her
niece, and to be trying to conceal something from her."
"What about M. Fauvel?"—"I was just about to tell you,
sir. Some fearful misfortune has happened to him, you may
depend upon it. He wanders about as if he had lost his mind.
Something certainly occurred yesterday; his voice even is


1224
FILE NUMBER 113
changed. He is so harsh and irritable that mademoiselle and
M. Lucien were wondering what could be the matter with
him. He seems to be on the eve of giving way to a burst
of anger; and there is a wild, strange look about his eyes,
especially when he looks at madame. Yesterday evening, when
M. de Clameran was announced, he jumped up and hurried out
of the room, saying that he had some work to do in his
study."
A triumphant exclamation from M. Verduret interrupted Nina.
He was radiant. "Ah!" he said to Prosper, forgetting his bad
humor of a few minutes before; "ah! what did I tell you ?"—
"He has evidently—"—"Been afraid to give way to his first
impulse; of course he has. He is now seeking for proofs of
your assertions. He must have them by this time. Did the
ladies go out yesterday ?"—"Yes, a part of the day."—"What
became of M. Fauvel?"—"The ladies took me with them; we
left M. Fauvel at home."
"There is no longer a doubt now!" cried the stout man;
"he looked for proofs and found them too! Your letter told
him exactly where to go. Ah, Prosper, that unfortunate letter
gives more trouble than everything else together."
These words seemed to throw a sudden light on Nina's mind.
"I understand it now!" she exclaimed. "M. Fauvel knows
everything."—"That is, he thinks he knows everything; and
what he has been led to believe is worse than the true state of
affairs."
"That accounts for the order which M. Cavaillon overheard
him give to his valet, Evariste."—"What order?"—"He told
Evariste to bring every letter that came to the house, no matter
to whom addressed, into his study, and hand it to him; saying
that if this order was disobeyed he should be instantly dis-
charged."
"At what time was this order given?" asked M. Verduret.—
"Yesterday afternoon."
"That is what I was afraid of," cried M. Verduret. "He
has clearly made up his mind what course to pursue, and is
keeping quiet so as to make his vengeance more sure. The
question is, Have we still time to counteract his projects?
Have we time to convince him that the anonymous letter was
incorrect in some of its assertions?" He tried to hit upon some
plan for repairing the damage done by Prosper's foolish letter.
"Thank you for your information, my dear child," he said after


FILE NUMBER 113
1225
a long silence. "I will decide at once what steps to take, for it
will never do to sit quietly and let things go on in this way.
Return home without delay, and be careful of everything you
say and do; for M. Fauvel suspects you of being in the plot.
Send me word of anything that happens, no matter how insig-
nificant it may be."
Nina, thus dismissed, did not move, but asked timidly: "What
about Caldas, sir?" This was the third time during the last
fortnight that Prosper had heard this name, Caldas. The first
time, it had been whispered in his ear by a respectable-looking,
middle-aged man, who promised him his protection on one of
the days he was at the Prefecture. The second time, the in-
vestigating magistrate had mentioned it in connection with
Nina's history.
Prosper thought over all the men he had ever been connected
with, but could recall none named Caldas.
The impassible M. Verduret started and trembled at the
sound of this name, but quickly recovering himself, said: "I
promised to find him for you, and I will keep my promise.
Now you must go; good-by."
It was twelve o'clock, and M. Verduret suddenly remembered
that he was hungry. He called Madame Alexandre, and the
all-powerful hostess of the Grand Archangel soon placed a
tempting breakfast before Prosper and his protector. But the
dainty meal failed to smooth M. Verduret's perplexed brow.
To the eager questions and complimentary remarks of Madame
Alexandre, he merely answered: "Hush, hush! let me alone;
keep quiet."
For the first time since he had known the stout man, Prosper
saw him betray anxiety and hesitation. He remained silent as
long as he could, and then uneasily said: "I am afraid I have
embarrassed you very much, sir."
"Yes, you have dreadfully embarrassed me," replied M. Ver-
duret. "What on earth to do now I don't know! Shall I hasten
matters, or keep quiet and wait for the next move? And I am
bound by a sacred promise. Come, I must go and consult the
investigating magistrate. He can perhaps assist me. You had
better come too."
14—Vol 3


1226
FILE NUMBER 113

AS M. Verduret had anticipated, Prosper's anonymous letter
had a terrible effect upon M. Fauvel. It was morning.
M. Fauvel had just entered his study to attend to his corre-
spondence. After opening a dozen letters on business, his eyes
fell on the fatal missive. Something about the handwriting
struck him as peculiar. It was evidently disguised, and al-
though, owing to the fact of his being a millionaire, he was in
the habit of receiving anonymous communications, sometimes
abusive, but generally begging for money, this particular letter
filled him with a presentiment of evil. With absolute certainty
that he was about to read of some calamity, he broke the seal,
and unfolding the coarse writing-paper of the cafe, commenced
to read. What he read was a terrible blow to a man whose
life hitherto had been an unbroken chain of prosperity, who
could recall the past without one bitter regret, without remem-
bering any sorrow deep enough to bring forth a tear. What!
his wife deceive him! And among all men, to choose one vile
enough to rob her of her jewels, and force her to be his accom-
plice in the ruin of an innocent young man! For did not the
letter before him assert this to be the fact, and tell him how
to convince himself of its truth? M. Fauvel was as bewildered
as if he had been knocked on the head with a club. It was im-
possible for his scattered ideas to take in the enortpity of what
these dreadful words intimated. He seemed to be mentally and
physically paralyzed, as he sat there staring blankly at the let-
ter. But in a few minutes his reason returned.
"What infamous cowardice!" he cried; "it is abominable!"
And he angrily crumpled up the letter and threw it into the
empty fireplace, adding: "I will forget having read it. I will
not soil my mind by letting it dwell upon such turpitude!"
He said this, and he thought it; but, for all that, he could
not open the rest of his letters. That penetrating, clinging, all-
corroding worm, suspicion, had taken possession of "his soul;
and he leaned over his desk, with his face buried in his hands,
vainly endeavoring to recover his habitual calmness of mind.


FILE NUMBER 113
1227
"Supposing, though, that the letter stated the truth!" At the
thought, his dejection of the first few minutes gave way to the
most violent rage. "Ah!" he exclaimed in his wrath, "if I
only knew the scoundrel who dared to write this; if I only had
him here!" Thinking that the handwriting might throw some
light on the mystery, he picked the fatal letter out of the fire-
place. Carefully smoothing it out, he laid it on his desk, and
studied the upstrokes, the downstrokes, and the capitals of
every word. "It must be from one of my clerks," he thought,
"who is angry with me for having refused to raise his salary;
or for some other reason." Clinging to this idea, he thought
over all the young men in his bank; but not one could he be-
lieve capable of resorting to so base a vengeance. Then he
wondered where the letter had been posted, thinking this might
throw some light on the mystery. He looked at the envelope,
and read on the postmark, "Rue du Cardinal Lemoine." This
fact told him nothing. Once more he read the letter through,
spelling over each word, and analyzing every sentence it con-
tained. It is the custom to treat anonymous letters with silent
contempt, as the malicious lies of cowards who dare not say to
a man's face what they secretly commit to paper. Yet what
innumerable catastrophes can be traced to no other origin. One
throws the letters in the fire, but, although the paper is de-
stroyed by the flames, doubts remain, and, like a subtle poison,
penetrate the inmost recesses of the mind, weaken its holiest
beliefs, and destroy its faith. The wife suspected, no matter
how unjustly, is no longer the wife in whom her husband
trusted as he would trust himself. Unable to struggle any
longer against these conflicting doubts, M. Fauvel determined
to resolve them by showing the letter to his wife; but a shock-
ing thought, more torturing than a red-hot iron burning his
flesh, made him sink back in his chair in despair. "Suppose it
be true!" he muttered to himself; "suppose I have been miser-
ably duped! By confiding in my wife, I shall put her on her
guard, and lose all chance of discovering the truth."
Thus were realized all M. Verduret's presumptions. He had
said: "M. Fauvel does not yield to his first impulse; if he stops
to reflect, we have time to repair the harm done." And after
long and painful meditation, the banker had finally decided to
wait and watch his wife. It was a hard struggle for a man
of his frank, upright nature to play the part of a domestic spy
and jealous husband. Accustomed to give way to sudden bursts


1228
FILE NUMBER 113
of anger, but quickly mastering them, he would find it difficult
to preserve his self-restraint, to maintain silence until his proofs
were overwhelming. There was one simple means of ascer-
taining the truth. The letter stated that his wife's diamonds
had been pawned. If it lied in this instance, he would treat
it with the scorn it deserved. At this moment the servant an-
nounced that lunch was served, and M. Fauvel looked in the
glass before leaving his study, to see if his face betrayed the
emotion he felt. He was shocked at the sight of his haggard
features. "Shall I be able to control my feelings?" he asked
himself. At table he did his utmost to look unconcerned,
talked incessantly, related several stories, hoping thus to dis-
tract the attention of the others. But all the time he was
talking he was casting over in his mind various expedients for
getting his wife out of the house long enough for him to search
her room. At last he asked Madame Fauvel if she were going
out at all that day.
"Yes," she replied, "the weather is dreadful, but Madeleine
and I have some pressing matters to see after."—"At what time
do you think of starting?"—"Immediately after lunch."
He drew a long breath as if relieved of a great weight. In
a short time he would be able to learn the truth. His uncer-
tainty was so torturing that anything was preferable to it, even
the most dreadful reality. Lunch over, he lighted a cigar, but
did not remain in the dining-room to smoke, as was his habit.
He went into his study, pretending he had some pressing work
to attend to. He took the precaution to send Lucien out so as
to be quite alone. After the lapse of half an hour, he heard
the carriage drive away with his wife and niece. Hurrying
into Madame Fauvel's room, he opened her jewel drawer. Sev-
eral of the cases he knew she possessed were missing, those
that remained—there were ten or twelve of them—were empty.
The anonymous letter had told the truth. "Oh, it can not be!"
he gasped in broken tones. "It is not possible!" He wildly
pulled open other drawers in the hope of finding the jewels.
Perhaps his wife kept them elsewhere. She might have sent
some of them to be reset, and others to be mended. But he
found nothing! He then recollected the Jandidier ball, and
that he, full of pride, had said to his wife: "Why don't you
wear your diamonds?" She had smilingly replied: "Oh! what
is the use? Everybody knows them so well; I shall be more
noticed if I don't wear them; and besides, they wouldn't suit


FILE NUMBER 113
1229
my costume." Yes, she had made this answer without blushing,
without showing the slightest sign of agitation. What base
hypocrisy concealed beneath an innocent, confiding manner!
And she had been thus deceiving him for twenty years! But
suddenly a gleam of hope penetrated his confused mind—slight,
barely possible; still a straw to cling to: "Perhaps Valentine
has put her diamonds in Madeleine's room." Without stop-
ping to consider the indelicacy of what he was about to do, he
hurried into the young girl's room, and pulled open one drawer
after another. He did not find his wife's—not Madame Fau-
vel's diamonds—but he discovered seven or eight jewel cases
belonging to Madeleine, and all empty. Great heavens! Was
this gentle girl, whom he had treated as a daughter, an accom-
plice in this deed of shame? This last blow was too much for
the miserable man. He sank almost lifeless into a chair, and
wringing his hands, groaned over the wreck of his happiness.
Was this the happy future to which he had looked forward?
Was the fabric of his honor, well-being, and domestic bliss to be
dashed to the earth and forever lost in a day? Seemingly noth-
ing was changed in his existence; he was not materially injured;
the objects around him remained the same; and yet what a
commotion had taken place, a commotion more unheard of,
more surprising than the changing of night into day. What!
Valentine, the pure young girl whom he had so loved and mar-
ried in spite of her poverty; Valentine, the tender, loving wife,
who had become dearer and dearer to him as years rolled on;
could she have been deceiving him? She, the mother of his
sons! His sons? Bitter thought! Were they his sons? If she
could deceive him now when she was silver-haired, had she not
deceived him when she was young? Not only did he suffer in
the present, but the uncertainty of the past tortured his soul.
M. Fauvel did not long remain in this dejected state. Anger
and a thirst for vengeance gave him fresh strength, and he de-
termined to sell his past happiness dearly. He well knew that
the fact of the diamonds being missing was not sufficient
ground upon which to base an accusation. But he had plenty
of means of procuring other proofs, He began by calling his
valet, and ordering him to bring to him every letter that should
come to the house. He then telegraphed to a notary at St.
Remy for minute and authentic information about the De
Lagors family, and especially about RaouL Finally, following
the advice of the anonymous letter, he went to the Prefecture


1230
FILE NUMBER 113
of Police, hoping to obtain De Clameran's biography. But the
police, fortunately for many people, are as discreetly silent as
the grave. They guard their secrets as a miser his treasure.
Nothing but an order from the Public Prosecutor could reveal
the secrets of those terrible green boxes which are kept in an
apartment by themselves, guarded like a banker's strong-room.
M. Fauvel was politely asked what motives urged him to in-
quire into the past life of a French citizen; and, as he de-
clined to state his reasons, he was told he had better apply to
the above-mentioned functionary. This advice he could not
follow. He had sworn that the secret of his wrongs should be
confined to the three persons interested. He chose to avenge
his own injuries, to be alone the judge and executioner. He
returned home more enraged than ever; there he found a tele-
gram answering the one which he had sent to St. Remy. It
was as follows: "The De Lagors are very poor, and there has
never been any member of the family named Raoul. Madame
De Lagors has no son, only two daughters." This information
was the final blow. The banker thought, when he discovered
his wife's infamy, that she had sinned as deeply as woman
could sin; but he now saw that she had practised a deception
more shocking than the crime itself.
"Wretched creature!" he cried with anguish; "in order to
see her lover constantly, she dared present him to me under
the name of a nephew who never existed. She had the shame-
less courage to introduce him beneath my roof, and seat him at
my fireside, between myself and my sons; and I, confiding fool
that I was, welcomed the villain, and lent him money."
Nothing could equal the pain of wounded pride and morti-
fication which he suffered at the thought that Raoul and
Madame Fauvel had amused themselves with his good-natured
credulity. Nothing but death could wipe out an injury of this
nature. But the very bitterness of his resentment enabled
him to restrain himself until the time for punishment came.
With grim satisfaction he promised himself that his acting
would be as successful as theirs. That day he succeeded in
concealing his agitation, and kept up a flow of talk during
the whole time the dinner lasted. But at about nine o'clock,
when De Clameran called, he hastened from the house, for
fear that he would be unable to control his indignation, and
did not return home until late in the night. The next day he
reaped the fruit of his prudence. Among the letters which


FILE NUMBER 113
1231
his valet brought him at noon, was one bearing the postmark
of Vesinet. He carefully opened the envelope, and read:
"Dear Aunt—It is imperatively necessary for me to see you
to-day; so I expect you. I will explain why I am prevented
from calling at your house. Raoul."
"I have them now!" cried M. Fauvel, trembling with satis-
faction at the near prospect of vengeance. Eager to lose no
time, he opened a drawer, took out a revolver, and examined the
hammer to see if it worked easily. He certainly imagined him-
self alone, but a vigilant eye was watching his movements.
Nina immediately upon her return from the Grand Archangel,
stationed herself at the keyhole of the study door, and saw all
that occurred. M. Fauvel laid the weapon on the mantelpiece
and nervously resealed the letter, which he then took to the
place where the letters were usually left, not wishing his wife
to know that Raoul's letter had passed through his hands. He
was only absent a few minutes, but inspired by the imminence
of the danger, Nina darted into the study, and rapidly extracted
the cartridges from the revolver. "By this means," she mur-
mured, "the immediate peril is averted, and M. Verduret will
now perhaps have time to act. I must send Cavaillon to tell
him what is happening."
She hurried downstairs, and sent the clerk with a message,
telling him to leave it with Madame Alexandre, if M. Verduret
had left the hotel. An hour later, Madame Fauvel ordered her
carriage, and went out. M. Fauvel jumped into a hackney-
coach, and followed her. "God grant that M. Verduret may
be in time!" said Nina to herself, "otherwise Madame Fauvel
and Raoul are lost."

'T'HE day that the Marquis de Clameran perceived that
* Raoul de Lagors was the only obstacle between him and
Madeleine, he swore that the obstacle should be removed. He
at once took steps for the accomplishment of his purpose. As


1232
FILE NUMBER 113
Raoul was walking home at Vesinet about midnight, he was
assailed at a lonely spot not far from the station by three men,
who, determined, so they said, to see the time by his watch,
fell upon him suddenly, and but for Raoul's wonderful strength
and agility, would have left him dead on the spot. As it was,
he soon, by his skilfully plied blows, for he was proficient in
fencing, and had learned boxing in England, made his enemies
take to their heels. He quietly continued his walk home, fully
determined in future to be well armed when he went out at
night. He never for an instant suspected his accomplice of
having instigated the assault. But two days afterward while
sitting in a cafe he frequented, a burly, vulgar-looking man, a
stranger to him, tried to draw him into a quarrel about nothing
and finally threw a card in his face, saying he was ready to
grant him satisfaction when and where he pleased. Raoul.
rushed toward the man to chastise him on the spot; but his
friends held him back.
"Very well, then," said he; "be at home to-morrow morning,
sir, and I will send two of my friends to you." As soon as the
stranger had left, Raoul recovered from his excitement and
began to wonder what could have been the motive for this
evidently premeditated insult. Picking up the card of the
bully, he read:
W. H. B. Jacobson.
Formerly Garibaldian volunteer.
Ex'-staff'-officer of the armies of the South.
(Italy, America).
30, Rue Leonie.
"Oh! oh!" thought Raoul, "this glorious soldier may very
possibly have won his laurels in a fencing school!"
Still the insult had been offered in the presence of others;
and, no matter who the offender was, it must be noticed. Raoul
requested two of his friends to call upon M. Jacobson early
the next morning, and make arrangements for the duel. It
was settled that they should render him.an account of their
mission at the Hotel du Louvre, where he arranged to sleep.
Everything being arranged, Raoul went out to find out some-
thing about M. Jacobson. He was an expert at the business,
but he had considerable trouble. The information he obtained
was not very promising. M. Jacobson, who lived in a very
suspicious-looking little hotel, frequented chiefly by women of


1234
FILE NUMBER 113
treagon seemed to him monstrous. He was as yet not suf-
ficiently experienced in ruffianism to know that one villain
always sacrifices another to advance his own projects; he was
credulous enough to believe in the old adage of "honor among
thieves." His rage was naturally mingled with fright, well
knowing that his life hung by a thread, when it was threatened
by a daring scoundrel like De Clameran. Knowing his accom-
plice's nature, Raoul saw himself surrounded by snares; he
saw death before him in every form; he was equally afraid of
going out, and of remaining at home. He only ventured with
the most suspicious caution into the most public places; he
feared poison as much as the assassin's knife, and imagined
that every dish placed before him tasted of strychnine. This
life of torture was intolerable, so with a desire for revenge as
much as with a view of securing his personal safety, he deter-
mined to anticipate a struggle which he felt must terminate
in the death of either De Clameran or himself. "Better kill
the devil," said he, "than be killed by him." In his days of
poverty, Raoul had often risked his liberty to obtain a few
* guineas, and would not have hesitated to make short work of
a person like De Clameran. But with money prudence had
come. He wished to enjoy his four hundred thousand francs
without being compromised by committing a murder which
might be discovered; he therefore began to devise some other
means of getting rid of his dreaded accomplice. In the mean
time, he thought it would be a good thing to thwart De Cla-
meran's marriage with Madeleine. He was sure that he would
thus strike him to the heart, and this was at least a satisfaction.
Raoul was persuaded that, by openly siding with Madeleine
and her aunt, he could save them from De Clameran's clutches.
Having fully resolved upon this course, he wrote a note to
Madame Fauvel asking for an interview. The poor woman
hastened to Vesinet convinced that some new misfortune was
in store for her. Her alarm was groundless. She found
Raoul more tender and affectionate than he had ever been. He
saw the necessity of reassuring her, and winning his old place
in her forgiving heart, before making his disclosures. He
succeeded. The poor lady had a smiling and happy look as
she sat in an armchair, with Raoul kneeling beside her.
"I have distressed you too long, my dear mother," he said
in his softest tones; "but I repent sincerely; now listen to me."
He had not time to say more; the door was violently thrown


FILE NUMBER 113
1235
open, and Raoul, springing to his feet, was confronted by M.
Fauvel. The banker had a revolver in his hand, and was
ghastly pale. It was evident that he was making superhuman
efforts to remain calm, like a judge whose duty it is to justly
punish crime.
"Ah," he exclaimed with a horrible laugh, "you look sur-
prised. You did not expect me? You thought that my im-
becile credulity assured you an eternal immunity!" Raoul had
the courage to place himself before Madame Fauvel, and to
stand prepared to receive the expected bullet. "I assure you,
uncle," he began. "Enough!" interrupted the banker with an
angry gesture, "let me hear no more infamous falsehoods!
End this odious comedy, of which I am no longer the dupe."
"I swear to you—"
"Spare yourself the trouble of denying anything. Do you
not see that I know all? I know who pawned my wife's dia-
monds. I know who committed the robbery for which an
innocent man was arrested and imprisoned!"
Madame Fauvel, white with terror, fell upon her knees. At
last it had come—the dreadful day had come. Vainly had she
added falsehood to falsehood; vainly had she sacrificed herself
and others; all was discovered. She saw that she was lost,
and wringing her hands, with her face bathed in tears, she
moaned: "Pardon, Andre! I beg you, forgive me!"
At these heart-broken tones, the banker shook like a leaf.
This voice brought before him the twenty years of happiness
which he had owed to this woman who had always been the
mistress of his heart, whose slightest wish had been his law,
and who, by a smile or a frown, could make him the happiest
or the most miserable of men. Could this wretched woman
crouching at his feet be his beloved Valentine, the pure, inno-
cent girl whom he had found secluded in the chateau of La
Verberie? Could this be the cherished wife whom he had
worshiped for so many years? In the memory of his lost
happiness never to return he seemed to forget the present, and
was almost melted to forgiveness. "Unhappy woman," he
murmured, "unhappy woman! What had I done that you
should thus deceive me? Ah, my only fault was loving you
too deeply, and letting you see it. One wearies of everything
in this world, even happiness. Did pure domestic joys pall
upon you and weary you, driving you to seek the excitement
of sinful passion? Were you so tired of the atmosphere of


1236
FILE NUMBER 113
respect and affection which surrounded you that you must
needs risk your honor and mine by braving public opinion?
Oh, into what an abyss you have fallen, Valentine! If you
.were wearied by my constant devotion, had the thought of
your children no power to restrain your evil passions?"
M. Fauvel spoke slowly, with painful effort, as if each word
choked him. Raoul, who listened with attention, saw that if
the banker knew some things, he certainly did not know all.
He saw that erroneous information had misled the unhappy
man, and that he was a victim of false appearances. He deter-
mined to convince him of the mistake under which he was
laboring. "Sir," he began, "will you consent to listen—"
But the sound of Raoul's voice was sufficient to break the
charm. "Silence!" cried the banker with an angry oath; "si-
lence!" For some moments nothing was heard but the sobs of
Madame Fauvel.
"I came here," continued the banker, "with the intention of
surprising and killing you both. I have surprised you, but—
my courage, yes, my courage fails me—I can not kill an un-
armed man." Raoul once more tried to speak. "Let me finish!"
interrupted M. Fauvel. "Your life is in my hands; the law
excuses the vengeance of an outraged husband, but I refuse to
take advantage of it. I see on your mantelpiece a revolver
similar to mine; take it, and defend yourself."
"Never!"—"Defend yourself!" cried the banker, raising his
weapon; "if you do not—"
Seeing the barrel of M. Fauvel's revolver close to his breast,
Raoul, in self-defense, seized his own and prepared to fire.
"Stand in that cojmer of the room, and I will stand in this,"
continued the banker; "and when the clock strikes, which will
be in a few seconds, we will both fire together."
They took the places designated, and stood perfectly still.
But the horror of the scene was too much for Madame Fauvel
to witness it any longer without interposing. She understood
but one thing: her son and her husband were about to kill each
other before her eyes. Fright and horror gave her strength to
rise and rush between the two men.
"For God's sake, have mercy, Andre!" she cried, turning to
her husband and wringing her hands with anguish; "let me tell
you everything; don't kill him."
M. Fauvel mistook this burst of maternal love for the plead-
ings of a guilty wife defending her lover. He roughly seized


FILE NUMBER 113
1237
his wife by the arm and thrust her aside: "Get out of the way!"
he cried. But she would not be repulsed; rushing up to Raoul,
she threw her arms around him, and said to her husband: "Kill
me, and me alone; for I alone am guilty."
At these words M. Fauvel's rage knew no bounds; he delib-
erately took aim at the guilty pair and fired. As neither Raoul
nor Madame Fauvel fell, the banker fired a second time; then
a third. He was preparing for a fourth shot when a man
rushed into the room, snatched the revolver from the banker's
hand, and, throwing him on the sofa, ran toward Madame Fau-
vel. This man was M. Verduret, who had been warned by
Cavaillon, but who did not know that Nina had withdrawn the
charges from M. Fauvel's weapon. "Thank Heaven!" he ex-
claimed, "she is unhurt."
But the banker had already regained his feet. "Leave me
alone," he cried, struggling to get free; "I will have vengeance!"
M. Verduret seized his wrists in a viselike grasp, and in a
solemn tone, so as to give more weight to his words, he said:
"Thank God you are saved from committing a terrible crime;
the anonymous letter deceived you."
M. Fauvel never once thought of asking this stranger who
he was and where he came from. He heard and understood
but one fact: the anonymous letter had lied. "But my wife
confesses her guilt," he stammered. "Yes," replied M. Ver-
duret, "but not of the crime you imagine. Do you know who
that man is that you wish to kill?"
"Her lover!"
"No: her son!"
The presence of this well-informed stranger seemed to con-
found Raoul and to frighten him more than M. Fauvel's threats
had done. Yet he had sufficient presence of mind to say: "It
is the truth!"
The banker looked wildly from Raoul to M. Verduret; then,
fastening his haggard eyes on his wife, exclaimed: "What you
tell me is not possible! Give me proofs!"—"You shall have
proofs," replied M. Verduret; "but first listen."
And rapidly he related the principal events of the drama he
had discovered. The true state of the case was terribly dis-
tressing to M. Fauvel, but nothing compared with what he had
suspected. His throbbing, yearning heart told him that he still
loved his wife. Why should he punish a fault committed so
very long ago, and atoned for by twenty years of devotion and


FILE NUMBER 113
1239
ing," said M. Verduret. "Bravo! modesty belongs to talent,
and for one of your age you certainly have displayed a talent
for knavery."
M. Fauvel listened without understanding a word of what
was said. "Into what abyss of shame have we fallen!" he
groaned.—"Reassure yourself, sir," replied M. Verduret in a
serious tone. "After what I have been constrained to tell you,
what remains to be said is a mere trifle. This is the end of
the story. On leaving Mihonne, who had given him a full
account of the misfortunes of Mademoiselle Valentine de la
* Verberie, De Clameran hastened to London. He had no diffi-
culty in finding the farmer's wife to whom the old comtesse
had intrusted Gaston's son. But here an unexpected disappoint-
ment greeted him. He learned that the child, who was regis-
tered on the parish books as Raoul Valentin Wilson, had died
of the croup when eighteen months old."
Raoul tried to protest. "Did any one dare say that?" he
commenced.
"It was not only stated, but proved, my pretty youth," replied
M. Verduret. "You don't suppose I am a man to trust to mere
gossip; do you?" He drew from his pocket several stamped
documents, and laid them on the table. "These are the declara-
tions of the nurse, her husband, and four witnesses. Here is
an extract from the registry of births; this is the certificate of
registry of death; and all these are authenticated at the French
Embassy. Now, are you satisfied, young man?"
"What next?" inquired M. Fauvel.—"De Clameran," replied
M. Verduret, "finding that the child was dead, supposed that
he could, in spite of this disappointment, obtain money from
Madame Fauvel; he was mistaken. His first attempt failed.
Having an inventive turn of mind, he determined that the child
should come to life again. Among his large circle of rascally
acquaintance, he selected the young fellow who stands before
you."
Madame Fauvel was in a pitiable state. And yet she began
to feel a ray of hope; her acute anxiety had so long tortured
her that the truth was a relief. "Can this be possible?" she
murmured, "can it be?"—"What!" cried the banker; "can an
infamous plot like this be planned in the present day?"
"All this is false!" said Raoul boldly.
M. Verduret turned to Raoul and, bowing with ironical re-
spect, said: "You desire proofs, sir, do you? You shall cer-


FILE NUMBER 113
1241
tion would be absorbed by the money, to make his escape. He
crept toward the door, gently opened it, slipped out, and locked
it, for the key was on the outside.
"He has escaped!" cried M. Fauvel.
"Of course," replied M. Verduret without even looking up:
"I thought he would have sense enough to do that."
"But is he to go unpunished?"
"My dear sir, would you have this affair become a public
scandal? Do you wish your wife's name to be brought into a
case of this nature at the police court?"
"Never!"
"Then the best thing you can do is to let the rascal go.
Here are receipts for all the articles which he has pawned, so
that we should consider ourselves fortunate. He has kept fifty
thousand francs, but that is all the better for you. That sum
will enable him to leave France, and we shall never see him
again."
Like every one else, M. Fauvel yielded to M. Verduret's
ascendency. Gradually he had awakened to the true state of
affairs; prospective happiness no longer seemed impossible, and
he felt that he was indebted to the man before him for more
than life. With earnest gratitude he seized M. Verduret's
hand as if to carry it to his lips, and said in broken tones:
"How can I ever find words to express how deeply I appreciate
your kindness? How can I ever repay the great service
you have rendered me?" M. Verduret reflected a moment, and
then replied: "If you consider yourself under any obligations
to me, sir, I have a favor to ask of you."
"A favor! Speak, sir, you have but to name it."
"I will not hesitate, then, to explain myself. I am Prosper's
friend. You can restore him to his former honorable position.
You can do so much for him, sir! he loves Mademoiselle Made-
leine—"
"Madeleine shall be his wife, sir," interrupted the banker;
"I give you my word. And I will so publicly exonerate him
that not a shadow of suspicion will ever rest upon his name."
The stout man quietly took up his hat and cane, as if he had
been paying an ordinary call. "You will excuse my importun-
ing you," said he, "but Madame Fauvel—"
"Andre!" murmured the wretched woman, "Andre!"
The banker hesitated a moment, then, following the impulse
of his heart, ran to his wife, and, clasping her in his arms, said


1242
FILE NUMBER 113
tenderly: "No, I will not be foolish enough to struggle against
my heart. I do not pardon, Valentine, I forget; I forget all!"
M. Verduret had nothing more to do at Vesinet. Without
taking leave of the banker, he unlocked the door, quietly left
the room, and, jumping into his cab, ordered the driver to
return to Paris and drive to the Hotel du Louvre. His mind
was filled with anxiety. He knew that Raoul would give him
no more trouble; the young rogue was probably far off by that
time. But De Clameran should not escape unpunished; and
how this punishment could be brought about without compro-
mising Madame Fauvel was the problem to be solved. M.
Verduret thought over various expedients, but not one could be
applied to the present circumstances. After long thought he
decided that an accusation of poisoning must be made at
Oloron. He would go there and work upon "public opinion,"
so that, to satisfy the townspeople, the authorities would order
a post-mortem examination of Gaston's body. But this mode
of proceeding required time; and De Clameran would cer-
tainly escape before long. He was bemoaning his inability to
come to a satisfactory decision, when the cab stopped in front
of the Hotel du Louvre. It was almost dark. A crowd of
people was collected round about the entrance, eagerly dis-
cussing some exciting event which seemed to have just taken
place.
"What has happened?" asked M. Verduret of one of the
crowd.—"The strangest thing you have ever heard of," replied
the man; "yes, I saw it with my own eyes. He first appeared
at that seventh-story window; he was only half-dressed. Some
men tried to seize him; but, bah! with the agility of a squirrel,
he jumped out upon the roof, shrieking: 'Murder! murder!'
The recklessness of his conduct led me to suppose—" The
gossip stopped short in his narrative, very much surprised and
vexed; his questioner had vanished.
"If it should be De Clameran!" thought M. Verduret; "if
terror has deranged that brain, so capable of working out great
crimes!"
While thus talking to himself, he elbowed his way into the
courtyard of the hotel. At the foot of the principal staircase
he found M. Fanferlot and three peculiar looking individuals
waiting together. "Well!" cried M. Verduret, "what is the
matter?" With laudable precision the four men stood at atten-
tion. "The chief!" said they.—"Come!" said the stout man


FILE NUMBER 113
1243
with an oath. "What has happened?"—"This is what has hap-
pened, sir," said Fanferlot dejectedly. "I am doomed to ill
luck. You see how it is; this is the only chance I ever had
of working out a beautiful case, and puff! my criminal goes
and sells me."
"Then it is De Clameran who—"
"Of course it is. When the rascal saw me this morning he
scampered off like a hare. You should have seen him run; I
thought he would never stop this side of Ivry: but not at all.
On reaching the Boulevard des Ecoles, a sudden idea seemed
to strike him, and he made a bee-line for his hotel; I suppose
to secure his pile of money. Directly he gets here, what does
he see? These three friends of mine. The sight of these
gentlemen had the effect of a sunstroke upon him; he went
raving mad on the spot.'
"Where is he now?"
"At the Prefecture, I suppose. Some policemen handcuffed
him and drove off with him in a cab."
"Come with me."
M. Verduret and Fanferlot found De Clameran in one of
the private cells reserved for dangerous prisoners. He had on
a strait-waistcoat and was struggling violently against three
men who were striving to hold him, while a physician tried
to force him to swallow a potion. "Help!" he shrieked, "help,
for God's sake! Do you not see my brother coming after me?
Look! he wants to poison me!" .M. Verduret took the physi-
cian aside, and asked him a few questions. "The wretched
man is in a hopeless state," replied the doctor; "this species of
insanity is incurable. He thinks some one is trying to poison
him, and nothing will persuade him to eat or drink anything;
he will die of starvation, after having suffered all the tortures
of poison."
M. Verduret shuddered as he left the Prefecture. "Madame
Fauvel is saved," he murmured, "since God has himself pun-
ished De Clameran!"
"That doesn't help me in the least," grumbled Fanferlot.
"The idea of all my trouble and labor ending in this way!"
"True," replied M. Verduret, "the File Number 113 will never
leave its portfolio. But console yourself; before the end of the
month I will give you a letter to a friend of mine, and what
you have lost in fame you will gain in gold."
■ I •! Si L*i >J !•! • •• •' •] 1*1 '*i


1244 FILE NUMBER 113

i~\ NE morning some days later, M. Lecoq—the official Lecoq,
who resembles the head of a department—was walking up
and down his private office, looking at the clock at every mo-
ment. At last, a bell rang, and the faithful Janouille ushered
in Madame Nina and Prosper Bertomy. "Ah," said M. Lecoq,
"you are punctual, my fond lovers; that is well."
"We are not lovers, sir," replied Madame Gipsy. "Only M.
Verduret's express orders have brought us together here to
meet him."—"Very well," said the celebrated detective; "then
be good enough to wait a few minutes: I will tell him you are
here."
During the quarter of an hour that Nina and Prosper re-
mained alone together, they did not exchange a word. Finally
a door opened, and M. Verduret appeared.
Nina and Prosper eagerly started toward him; but he checked
them by one of those looks which no one ever dared resist.
"You have come," he said severely, "to hear the secret of my
conduct. I have promised, and will keep my word, however
painful it may be to my feelings. Listen, then. My best friend
is a loyal, honest fellow, named Caldas. Eighteen months ago
this friend was the happiest of men. Infatuated by a woman,
he lived for her alone, and, fool that he was, imagined that as
she owed all to him, she loved him."
"Yes!" cried Nina, "yes, she loved him!"
"So be it. She loved him so much that one fine night she
went off with another man. In his first moments of despair,
Caldas wished to kill himself. Then he reflected that it would
be wiser to live, and avenge himself."
"But then—" faltered Prosper.
"Then Caldas avenged himself in his own way. He made
the woman who deceived him recognize his immense supe-
riority over his rival. Weak, timid, and without intelligence,
the latter was disgraced and falling into the abyss, when Cal-
das's powerful hand saved him. For you have understood,








THE LITTLE OLD MAN
OF BATIGNOLLES
IS—Vol. 3





THE LITTLE OLD MAN
OF BATIGNOLLES
A CHAPTER OF THE MEMOIRS OF A POLICE AGENT
J. B. CASIMIR GODEUIL
THREE or four months ago, a man of about forty, suitably
dressed in black, called at the editorial offices of the
"Petit Journal."
He brought a manuscript in a handwriting which would have
made the famous Brard, king of calligraphers, faint for joy.
"I shall call again," he told us, "in a fortnight, to find out
what you think of my work."
Nobody having curiosity enough to unknot the string, the
manuscript was religiously placed in the pile of "Works to be
lead."
Time passed.
I must add that a great many manuscripts are brought to the
"Petit Journal," and that the position of a reader here is not a
sinecure.
The gentleman, however, did not appear again, and had been
forgotten, when one morning one of our collaborators, who was
in charge of the readings, hurried to us excitedly.
"Upon my word!" he exclaimed, entering, "I just read some-
thing truly extraordinary."
"Well, what is it?"
"That gentleman's manuscript—you know, the one all dressed
in black—I was completely carried away with it."
And as we made fun of his enthusiasm, he whose profession
it is not to get enthusiastic, he threw the manuscript on the
table, saying:
"Read it then!"
There was enough of it to seriously puzzle us. One of us
took possession of the manuscript, and by the end of the week
it had made the round of the editorial office.
1249


1250 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
And the unanimous opinion was:
The "Petit Journal" must absolutely publish it.
But here one difficulty presented itself, which no one had
foreseen:
The author's name was not on the manuscript. There was
only a visiting card attached to it, reading: "J. B. Casimir
Godeuil."
What was to be done? Publish the work without knowing
its author? That would have been dangerous. A man must
accept responsibility for every line printed.
It was then decided to search for this too modest author, and
for the next few days the editors of the "Petit Journal" in-
quired and sent for information everywhere.
Nothing. Nobody knew J. B. Casimir Godeuil.
Then, out of desperation, were put up those enigmatic posters,
which for a week mystified all Paris, and, to some extent, the
suburbs.
"Who can that J. B. Casimir Godeuil be, who is thus adver-
tised for?" people asked themselves.
Some thought him a prodigal child, escaped from his home;
others a missing heir, but the most took him to be an absconding
cashier.
But our end was attained.
The paste on the posters had not yet dried, when M. J. B.
Casimir Godeuil himself appeared, and the "Petit Journal" was
arranging with him for the publishing of the tragedy entitled
"The Little Old Man of Batignolles," which is the first of the
series of his memoirs.*
This said, we shall let M. J. B. Casimir Godeuil speak. His
story is preceded by the following short preface, which we
thought it best to preserve, as it shows what he was and what
praiseworthy purpose he had in view in writing his recollections.
* Unfortunately J. B. Casimir Godeuil, who had promised to bring the continua-
tion of his manuscript, disappeared again completely, and all steps taken to find him
have remained unsuccessful. We have, nevertheless, decided to publish his odd
narration, which contains one of his most stirring tragedies.—Editor s Note.


INTRODUCTION
APRISONER had just been brought before the trial
judge, and, notwithstanding his denials, his evasions,
and an alibi which he claimed, was convicted of for-
gery and burglary.
Overwhelmed by the evidence of the charges I had gathered
against him, he confessed his crime, exclaiming:
"Oh! Had I known the power of the courts and the police,
and how impossible it is to escape them, I would have remained
an honest man."
It was on hearing this that the idea occurred to me to gather
together my recollections.
"The people must know!" I said to myself.
And in publishing to-day my memoirs, I hope, nay, I shall
even say I am convinced, that I am accomplishing a moral
work of the highest utility.
Is it not being useful to strip crime of its sinister romance
and expose it as it is: cowardly, ignoble, base, repulsive?
Is it not being useful to prove that there are no beings in the
world as wretched as the madmen who have declared war on
society?
That is what I claim to do.
I shall establish beyond a doubt that it is one's whole inter-
est—and I add, one's immediate, positive, mathematical, and
even discountable interest—to be honest.
I shall prove it as clear as day that with our social organiza-
tion, thanks to the railroads and to the electric telegraph,
escape is impossible.
Punishment may be delayed—but it always comes.
Without doubt there will be some unfortunate ones who will
reflect before giving themselves up to crime.
More than one whom the feeble murmuring of conscience
1251


1252
INTRODUCTION
could not hold back will be stopped by the salutary voice of
fear.
Must I now explain what these recollections are?
I shall attempt to describe the struggles, the successes, and
the defeats of a handful of devoted men charged with the main-
tenance of safety in Paris.
How many are there to keep in check all the evildoers in a
capital which, with its suburbs, numbers more than three
million inhabitants?
There are two hundred.
It is to them that I dedicate this book.
With this much said, I begin.


THE LITTLE OLD MAN
OF BATIGNOLLES
WHEN I had finished my studies in order to become a
health officer, a happy time it was, I was twenty-three
years of age. I lived in the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince,
almost at the corner of the Rue Racine.
There I had for thirty francs a month, service included, a
furnished room, which to-day would certainly be worth a hun-
dred francs; it was so spacious that I could easily put my arms
in the sleeves of my overcoat without opening the window.
Since I left early in the morning to make the calls for my
hospital, and since I returned very late, because the Cafe Leroy
had irresistible attractions for me, I scarcely knew by sight the
tenants in my house, peaceable people all; some living on their
incomes, and some small merchants.
There was one, however, to whom, little by little, I became
attached.
He was a man of average size, insignificant, always
scrupulously shaved, who was pompously called "Monsieur
Mechinet."
The doorkeeper treated him with a most particular regard,
and never omitted quickly to lift his cap as he passed the lodge.
As M. Mechinet's apartment opened on my landing, directly
opposite the door of my room, we repeatedly met face to face.
On such occasions we saluted one another.
One evening he came to ask me for some matches; another
night I borrowed tobacco of him; one morning it happened
that we both left at the same time, and walked side by side for
a little stretch, talking.
Such were our first relations.
Without being curious or mistrusting—one is neither at the
age I was then—we like to know what to think about people
to whom we become attached.
t253


1254 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
Thus I naturally came to observe my neighbor's way of liv-
ing, and became interested in his actions and gestures.
He was married. Madame Caroline Mechinet, blonde and
fair, small, gay and plump, seemed to adore her husband.
But the husband's conduct was none too regular for that.
Frequently he decamped before daylight, and often the sun had
set before I heard him return to his domicile. At times he
disappeared for whole weeks.
That the pretty little Madame Mechinet should tolerate this
is what I could not understand.
Puzzled, I thought that our concierge, ordinarily as much a
babbler as a magpie, would give me some explanation.
Not so! Hardly had I pronounced Mechinet's name than,
without ceremony, he sent me about my business, telling me,
as he rolled his eyes, that he was not in the habit of "spying"
upon his tenants.
This reception doubled my curiosity to such an extent that,
banishing all shame, I began to watch my neighbor.
I discovered things.
Once I saw him coming home dressed in the latest fashion,
his buttonhole ornamented with five or six decorations; the
next day I noticed him on the stairway dressed in a sordid
blouse, on his head a cloth rag, which gave him a sinister air.
Nor was that all. One beautiful afternoon, as he was going
out, I saw his wife accompany him to the threshold of their
apartment and there kiss him passionately, saying:
"I beg you, Mechinet, be prudent; think of your little wife."
Be prudent! Why? For what purpose? What did that
mean? The wife must then be an accomplice.
It was not long before my astonishment was doubled.
One night, as I was sleeping soundly, some one knocked sud-
denly and rapidly at my door.
I arose and opened.
M. Mechinet entered, or rather rushed in, his clothing in dis-
order and torn, his necktie and the front of his shirt torn off,
bareheaded, his face covered with blood.
"What has happened?" I exclaimed, frightened.
"Not so loud," said he; "you might be heard. Perhaps it is
nothing, although I suffer devilishly. I said to myself that
you, being a medical student would doubtless know how to
help me."


1256 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES

T WAS certainly far from thinking that I was then venturing
on one of those apparently insignificant steps which, never-
theless, have a deciding influence on one's whole life.
For once, I thought to myself, I am holding the solution of
the enigma!
And full of a silly and childish satisfaction, I trotted, like
a lean cat, at the side of M. Mechinet.
I say "trotted," because I had all I could do not to be left
behind.
He rushed along, down the Rue Racine, running against the
passers-by, as if his fortune depended on his legs.
Luckily, on the Place de l'Odeon a cab came in our way.
M. Mechinet stopped it, and, opening the door, "Get in, Mon-
sieur Godeuil," said he to me.
I obeyed, and he seated himself at my side, after having
called to the coachman in a commanding voice: "39 Rue Le-
cluse, at Batignolles, and drive fast!"
The distance drew from the coachman a string of oaths.
Nevertheless he whipped up his broken-down horses and the
carriage rolled off.
"Oh! it is to Batignolles we are going?" I asked with a
courtier's smile.
But M. Mechinet did not answer me; I even doubt that he
heard me.
A complete change took place in him. He did not seem ex-
actly agitated, but his set lips and the contraction of his heavy,
brushwood-like eyebrows betrayed a keen preoccupation. His
look, lost in space, seemed to be studying there the meaning
of some insolvable problem.
He had pulled out his snuff-box and continually took from
it enormous pinches of snuff, which he kneaded between the
index and thumb, rolled into a ball, and raised it to his nose;
but he did not actually snuff.


THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1259
wound, and there, on the floor, he wrote in his blood his mur-
derer's name. Now look for yourself."
Then I perceived what at first I had not seen.
On the inlaid floor, in large, badly shaped, but legible letters,
was written in blood: Mon1s.
"Well?" asked M. Mechinet.
"That," answered the police commissary, "is the beginning
of the name of a nephew of the poor man; of a nephew for
whom he had an affection, and whose name is Monistrol."
"The devil!" exclaimed my neighbor.
"I can not suppose," continued the investigating magistrate,
"that the wretch would attempt denying. The five letters are
an overwhelming accusation. Moreover, who would profit by
this cowardly crime? He alone, as sole heir of this old man,
who, they say, leaves a large fortune. There is more. It was
last evening that the murder was committed. Well, last even-
ing none other but his nephew called on this poor old man.
The concierge saw him enter the house at about nine o'clock
and leave again a little before midnight."
"It is clear," said M. Mechinet approvingly; "it is very clear,
this Monistrol is nothing but an idiot." And, shrugging his
shoulders, asked.:
"But did he steal anything, break some piece of furniture,
anything to give us an idea as to the motive for the crime?"
"Up to now nothing seems to have been disturbed," answered
the commissary. "As you said, the wretch is not clever; as
soon as he finds himself discovered, he will confess."
Whereupon the police commissary and M. Mechinet with-
drew to the window, conversing in low tones, while the judge
gave some instructions to his clerk.

T HAD wanted to know exactly what my enigmatic neighbor
'"' was doing. Now I knew it. Now everything was ex-
plained. The looseness of his life, his absences, his late home-
comings, his sudden disappearances, his young wife's fears and


1260 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
complicity; the wound I had cured. But what did I care now
about that discovery?
I examined with curiosity everything around me.
From where I was standing, leaning against the door-frame,
my eye took in the entire apartment.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, evidenced a scene of murder.
On the contrary, everything betokened comfort, and at the same
time habits parsimonious and methodical.
Everything was in its place; there was not one wrong fold
in the curtains; the wood of the furniture was brilliantly pol-
ished, showing daily care.
It seemed evident that the conjectures of the examining mag-
istrate and of the police commissary were correct, and that the
poor old man had been murdered the evening before, when he
was about to go to bed.
In fact, the bed was open, and on the blanket lay a shirt and
a neckcloth.
On the table, at the head of the bed, I noticed a glass of
sugared water, a box of safety matches, and an evening paper,
the "Patrie."
On one corner of the mantelpiece a candlestick was shining
brightly, a nice big, solid copper candlestick. But the candle
which had illuminated the crime was burned out; the murderer
had escaped without extinguishing it, and it had burned down
to the end, blackening the alabaster save-all in which it was
placed.
I noticed all these details at a glance, without any effort,
without my will having anything to do with it. My eye had
become a photographic objective; the stage of the murder had
portrayed itself in my mind, as on a prepared plate, with such
precision that no circumstance was lacking, and with such depth
that to-day, even, I can sketch the apartment of the "little old
man of Batignolles" without omitting anything, not even a
cork, partly covered with green wax, which lay on the floor
under the chair of the judge's clerk.
It was an extraordinary faculty, which had been bestowed
upon me—my chief faculty, which as yet I had not had occasion
to exercise and which all at once revealed itself to me.
I was then too agitated to analyze my impressions. I had
but one obstinate, burning, irresistible desire: to get close to
the body, which was lying two yards from me.
At first I struggled against the temptation. But fatality had


THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1261
something to do with it. I approached. Had my presence been
remembered? I do not believe it.
At any rate, nobody paid any attention to me. M. Mechinet
and the police commissary were still talking near the window;
the clerk was reading his report in an undertone to the inves-
tigating magistrate.
Thus nothing prevented me from carrying out my intention.
And, besides, I must confess I was possessed with some kind
of a fever, which rendered me insensible to exterior circum-
stances and absolutely isolated me. So much so that I dared
to kneel close to the body, in order to see better.
Far from expecting any one to call out: "What are you
doing there?" I acted slowly and deliberately, like a man who,
having received a mission, executes it.
The unfortunate old man seemed to me to have been between
seventy and seventy-five years old. He was small and very thin,
but solid and built to pass the hundred-year mark. He still
had considerable hair, yellowish white and curly, on the nape
of the neck. His gray beard, strong and thick, looked as if
he had not been shaven for five or six days; it must have
grown after his death. This circumstance did not surprise me,
as I had often noticed it with our subjects in the amphi-
theatres.
What did surprise me was the expression of the face. It
was calm; I should even say, smiling. His lips were parted,
as for a friendly greeting. Death must have occurred then
with terrible suddenness to preserve such a kindly expression!
That was the first idea which came to my mind.
Yes, but how reconcile these two irreconcilable circum-
stances: a sudden death and those five letters—Mon1s—which
I saw in lines of blood on the floor? In order to write them,
what effort must it have cost a dying man! Only the hope of
revenge could have given him so much energy. And how great
must his rage have been to feel himself expiring before being
able to trace the entire name of his murderer! And yet the
face of the dead seemed to smile at one.
The poor old man had been struck in the throat, and the
weapon had gone right through the neck. The instrument must
have been a dagger, or perhaps one of those terrible Catalan
knives, as broad as the hand, which cut on both sides and are
as pointed as a needle.
Never in my life before had I been agitated by such strange


1262 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
sensations. My temples throbbed with extraordinary violence,
and my heart swelled as if it would break. What was I about
to discover?
Driven by a mysterious and irresistible force, which anni-
hilated my will-power, I took between my hands, for the pur-
pose of examining them, the stiff and icy hands of the body.
The right hand was clean; it was one of the fingers of the
left hand, the index, which was all blood-stained.
What! it was with the left hand that the old man had written?
Impossible!
Seized with a kind of dizziness, with haggard eyes, my hair
standing on end, paler than the dead lying at my feet, I rose
with a terrible cry:
"Great God!"
At this cry all the others jumped up, surprised, frightened.
"What is it?" they asked me all together. "What has hap-
pened?"
I tried to answer, but the emotion was strangling me. All
I could do was to show them the dead man's hands, stammering:
"There! There!"
Quick as lightning, M. Mechinet fell on his knees beside the
body. What I had seen he saw, and my impression was also
his, for, quickly rising, he said:
"It was not this poor old man who traced the letters there."
As the judge and the commissary looked at him with open
mouths, he explained to them the circumstance of the left
hand alone being blood-stained.
"And to think that I had not paid any attention to that,"
repeated the distressed commissary over and over again.
M. Mechinet was taking snuff furiously.
"So it is," he said, "the things that are not seen are those
that are near enough to put the eyes out. But no matter. Now
the situation is devilishly changed. Since it is not the old
man himself who wrote, it must be the person who killed
him."
"Evidently," approved the commissary.
"Now," continued my neighbor, "can any one imagine a mur-
derer stupid enough to denounce himself by writing his own
name beside the body of his victim? No; is it not so? Now,
conclude—"
The judge had become anxious.
"It is clear," he said, "appearances have deceived us. Moni-


1264 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
spector Goulard, my colleague Poltin, and myself—to arrest
Monistrol, dealer in imitation jewelry, living at 75 Rue Vivi-
enne, the said Monistrol being accused of the murder of his
uncle."
"Exactly so," approved the commissary in a low voice.
"Thereupon," continued the officer, "we took a cab and had
him drive us to the address given. We arrived and found M.
Monistrol in the back of his shop, about to sit down to dinner
with his wife, a woman of twenty-five or thirty years, and very
beautiful.
"Seeing the three of us stand like a string of onions, our
man got up. 'What do you want?' he asked us. Sergeant
Goulard drew from his pocket the warrant and answered: 'In
the name of the law, I arrest you!'"
Here M. Mechinet behaved as if he were on a gridiron.
"Could you not hurry up?" he said to the officer.
But the latter, as if he had not heard, continued in the same
calm tone:
"I have arrested many people during my life. Well! I never
saw any of them go to pieces like this one.
"'You are joking,' he said to us, 'or you are making a mis-
take.'
"'No, we are not mistaken!'
"'But, after all, what do you arrest me for?'
"Goulard shrugged his shoulders.
'"Don't act like a child,' he said, 'what about your uncle?
The body has been found, and we have overwhelming proofs
against you.'
"Oh! that rascal, what a disagreeable shock! He tottered
and finally dropped on a chair, sobbing and stammering I can
not tell what answer.
"Goulard, seeing him thus, shook him by the coat collar and
said:
"'Believe me, the shortest way is to confess everything.'
"The man looked at'us stupidly and murmured:
"'Well, yes, I confess everything.'"
"Well maneuvred, Goulard," said the commissary approvingly.
The officer looked triumphant.
"It was now a matter of cutting short our stay in the shop,"
he continued. "We had been instructed to avoid all commotion,
and some idlers were already crowding around. Goulard seized
the prisoner by the arm, shouting to him: 'Come on, let us


THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1265
start; they are waiting for us at headquarters.' Monistrol man-
aged to get on his shaking legs, and in the voice of a man
taking his courage in both hands, said: 'Let us go.'
"We were thinking that the worst was over; we did not count
on the wife.
"Up to that moment she had remained in an armchair, as in
a faint, without breathing a word, without seeming even to
understand what was going on.
"But when she saw that we were taking away her husband,
she sprang up like a lioness, and throwing herself in front of
the door, shouted: 'You shall not pass.'
"On my word of honor she was superb; but Goulard, who
had seen others before, said to her: 'Come, come, little woman,
don't let us get angry; your husband will be brought back.'
"However, far from giving way to us, she clung more firmly
to the door-frame, swearing that her husband was innocent;
declaring that if he was taken to prison she would follow him,
at times threatening us and crushing us with invectives, and
then again entreating in her sweetest voice.
"When she understood that nothing would prevent us from
doing our duty, she let go the door, and, throwing herself on
her husband's neck, groaned: 'Oh, dearest beloved, is it pos-
sible that you are accused of a crime? You—you! Please tell
them, these men, that you are innocent.'
"In truth, we were all affected, except the man, who pushed
his poor wife back so brutally that she fell in a heap in a
corner of the back shop.
"Fortunately that was the end.
"The woman had fainted; we took advantage of it to stow
the husband away in the cab that had brought us.
"To stow away is the right word, because he had become like
an inanimate thing; he could no longer stand up; he had to
be carried. To omit nothing, I should add that his dog, a kind
of black cur, wanted actually to jump into the carriage with
us, and that we had the greatest trouble to get rid of it.
"On the way, as by right, Goulard tried to entertain our
prisoner and to make him blab. But it was impossible to draw
one word from him. It was only when we arrived at police
headquarters that he seemed to come to his senses. When he
was duly installed in one of the 'close confinement' cells, he
threw himself headlong on the bed, repeating: 'What have I
done to you, my God! What have I done to you!'


1266 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
"At this moment Goulard approached him, and for the sec-
ond time asked: 'Well, do you confess your guilt?' Monistrol
motioned with his head: 'Yes, yes.' Then in a hoarse voice
said: 'I beg you, leave me alone.'
"That is what we did, taking care, however, to place a keeper
on watch at the window of the cell, in case the fellow should
attempt suicide.
"Goulard and Poltin remained down there, and I, here
I am."
"That is precise," grumbled the commissary; "it could not
be more precise."
That was also the judge's opinion, for he murmured:
"How can we, after all this, doubt Monistrol's guilt?"
As for me, though I was confounded, my convictions were
still firm. I was just about to open my mouth to venture an
objection, when M. Mechinet forestalled me.
"All that is well and good," exclaimed he. "Only if we
admit that Monistrol is the murderer, we are forced also to
admit that it was he who wrote his name there on the floor—
and—well, that's a hard nut."
"Bosh!" interrupted the commissary, "since the accused con-
fessed, what is the use of bothering about a circumstance which
will be explained at the trial?"
But my neighbor's remark had again roused perplexities in
the mind of the judge, and without committing himself, he
said:
"I am going to the Prefecture. I want to examine Monistrol
this very evening."
And after telling the commissary to be sure and fulfil all
formalities and to await the arrival of the physicians called
for the autopsy of the body, he left, followed by his clerk and
by the officer who had come to inform us of the successful
arrest.
"Provided these devils of doctors do not keep me waiting
too long," growled the commissary, who was thinking of his
dinner.
Neither M. Mechinet nor I answered him. We remained
standing, facing one another, evidently beset by the same
thought.
"After all," murmured my neighbor, "perhaps it was the old
man who wrote—"—"With the left hand, then?" Is that possi-
ble? Without considering that this poor fellow must have


THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1267
died instantly."—"Are you certain of it?"—"Judging by his
wound I would take an oath on it. Besides, the physicians will
come; they will tell you whether I am right or wrong."
With veritable frenzy M. Mechinet pretended to take snuff.
"Perhaps there is some mystery beneath this," said he; "that
remains to be seen."
"It is an examination to be gone over again."—"Be it so, let
us do it over; and to begin, let us examine the concierge."
Running to the staircase, M. Mechinet leaned over the
balustrade, calling: "Concierge! Hey! Concierge! Come
up, please."

XXTHILE waiting for the concierge to come up, M. Mechinet
* ™ proceeded with a rapid and able examination of the
scene of the crime.
It was principally the lock of the main door to the apartment
which attracted his attention; it was intact, and the key
turned without difficulty. This circumstance absolutely dis-
carded the thought that an evil-doer, a stranger, had entered
during the night by means of false keys.
For my part, I had involuntarily, or rather inspired by the
astonishing instinct which had revealed itself in me, picked
up the cork, partly covered with green wax, which I had
noticed on the floor.
It had been used, and on the side where the wax was
showed traces of the corkscrew; but on the other end could
be seen a kind of deepish notch, evidently produced by some
sharp and pointed instrument.
Suspecting the importance of my discovery, I communicated
it to M. Mechinet, and he could not avoid an exclamation of
joy.
"At last," he exclaimed, "at last we have a clue! This cork,
it's the murderer who dropped it here; he stuck in it the
brittle point of the weapon he used. The conclusion is, that
the instrument of the murder is a dagger with a fixed handle


1268 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
and not one of those knives which shut up. With this cork,
I am certain to reach the guilty one, no matter who he is!"
The police commissary was just finishing his task in the
room, M. Mechinet and I had remained in the parlor, when
we were interrupted by the noise of heavy breathing.
Almost immediately appeared the powerful woman I had
noticed holding forth in the hall in the midst of the tenants.
It was the concierge, if possible redder than at the time
of our arrival.
"In what way can I serve you, monsieur?" she asked of M.
Mechinet.
"Take a seat, madame," he answered.
"But, monsieur, I have people downstairs."
"They will wait for you. I tell you to sit down."
Nonpulsed by M. Mechinet's tone, she obeyed.
Then looking straight at her with his terrible, small, gray
eyes, he began:
"I need certain information, and I'm going to question you.
In your interest, I advise you to answer straightforwardly.
Now, first of all, what is the name of this poor fellow who
was murdered?"
"His name was Pigoreau, kind sir, but he was mostly known
by the name of Antenor, which he had formerly taken as more
suitable to his business."
"Did he live in this house a long time?"
"The last eight years."
"Where did he reside before?"
"Rue Richelieu, where he had his store; he had been a hair-
dresser, and it was in that business that he made his money."
"He was then considered rich?"
"I heard him say to his niece that he would not let his
throat be cut for a million."
As to this, it must have been known to the investigating
magistrate, as the papers of the poor old man had been included
in the inventory made.
"Now," M. Mechinet continued, "what kind of a man was
this M. Pigoreau, called Antenor?"
"Oh! the cream of men, my dear, kind sir," answered the
concierge. "It is true he was cantankerous, queer, as miserly
as possible, but he was not proud. And so funny with all that.
One could have spent whole nights listening to him, when he
was in the right mood. And the number of stories he knew!


1270 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
way. He claimed that she did not love her husband; that she
was too high and mighty for her position, and that finally she
would do something foolish. Madame Clara and her uncle
even had a falling out at the end of last year. She wanted the
good fellow to lend a hundred thousand francs to M. Monistrol,
to enable him to buy out a jeweler's stock at the Palais Royal.
But he refused, saying that after his death they could do with
his money whatever they wanted, but that until then, since
he had earned it, he intended to keep and enjoy it."
I thought that M. Mechinet would dwell on this circum-
stance, which seemed to me very important. But no, in vain
did I increase my signals; he continued:
"It remains now to be told by whom the crime was first
discovered."
"By me, my kind monsieur, by me," moaned the concierge.
"Oh! it is frightful! Just imagine, this morning, exactly at
twelve, I brought up to old Antenor his chocolate, as usual.
As I do the cleaning, I have a key to the apartment. I opened,
I entered, and what did I see? Oh! my God!"
And she began to scream loudly.
"This grief proves that you have a good heart, madame,"
gravely said M. Mechinet. "Only, as I am in a great hurry,
please try to overcome it. What did you think, seeing your
tenant murdered?"
"I said to any one who wanted to hear: 'It is his nephew,
the scoundrel, who has done it to inherit.'"
"What makes you so positive? Because after all to accuse
a man of so great a crime, is to drive him to the scaffold."
"But, monsieur, who else would it be? M. Monistrol came
to see his uncle last evening, and when he left it was nearly
midnight. Besides, he nearly always speaks to me, but never
said a word to me that night, neither when he came, nor when
he left. And from that moment up to the time I discovered
everything, I am sure nobody went up to M. Antenor's apart-
ment."
I admit this evidence confused me. I would not have thought
of continuing the examination. Fortunately, M. Mechinet's ex-
perience was great, and he was thoroughly master of the diffi-
cult art of drawing the whole truth from witnesses.
"Then, madame," he insisted, "you are certain that Monistrol
came yesterday evening?"
"I am certain."


THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1271
"Did you surely see him and recognize him?"
"Ah! wait. I did not look him in the face. He passed
quickly, trying to hide himself, like the scoundrel he is, and
the hallway is badly illuminated."
At this reply, of such incalculable importance, I jumped up
and, approaching the concierge, exclaimed:
"If it is so, how dare you affirm that you recognized M.
Monistrol?"
She looked me over from head to foot, and answered with an
ironical smile:
"If I did not see the master's face, I did see the dog's nose.
As I always pet him, he came into my lodge, and I was just
going to give him a bone from a leg of mutton when his mas-
ter whistled for him."
I looked at M. Mechinet, anxious to know what he thought
of this, but his face faithfully kept the secret of his impres-
sions.
He only added:
"Of what breed is M. Monistrol's dog?"
"It is a loulou, such as the drovers used formerly, all black,
with a white spot over the ear; they call him "Pluton."
M. Mechinet rose.
"You may retire," he said to the concierge; "I know all I
want."
And when she had left, he remarked:
"It seems to me impossible that the nephew is not the guilty
one."
During the time this long examination was taking place, the
physicians had come. When they finished the autopsy they
reached the following conclusion:
"M. Pigoreau's death had certainly been instantaneous." So
it was not he who had lined out the five letters, Mon1s, which
we saw on the floor near the body.
So I was not mistaken.
"But if it was not he," exclaimed M. Mechinet, "who was
it then? Monistrol—that is what nobody will ever succeed in
putting into my brain."
And the commissary, happy at being free to go to dinner at
last, made fun of M. Mechinet's perplexities—ridiculous per-
plexities, since Monistrol had confessed. But M. Mechinet
said:
"Perhaps I am really nothing but an idiot; the future will tell.
16—Vol. 3


1272 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
In the mean time, come, by dear Monsieur Godeuil, come with
me to Police Headquarters."

FN like manner, as in going to Batignolles, we took a cab
also to go to Police Headquarters.
M. Mechinet's preoccupation was great. His fingers con-
tinually traveled from the empty snuff-box to his nose, and I
heard him grumbling between his teeth:
"I shall assure myself of the truth of this! I must find out
the truth of this."
Then he took from his pocket the cork which I had given
him, and turned it over and over like a monkey picking a nut,
and murmured:
"This is evidence, however; there must be something gained
by this green wax."
Buried in my corner, I did not breathe. My position was
certainly one of the strangest, but I did not give it a thought.
Whatever intelligence I had was absorbed in this affair; in my
mind I went over its various and contradictory elements, and
exhausted myself in trying to penetrate the secret of the trag-
edy, a secret of which I had a presentiment.
When our carriage stopped, it was night—dark.
The Quai des Orfevres was deserted and quiet; not a sound,
not a passer-by. The stores in the neighborhood, few and far
between, were closed. All the life of the district had hidden
itself in the little restaurant which almost forms the corner of
the Rue de Jerusalem, behind the red curtains, on which were
outlined the shadows of the patrons.
"Will they let you see the accused?" I asked M. Mechinet.
"Certainly," he answered. "Am I not charged with the fol-
lowing up of this affair? Is it not necessary, in view of un-
foreseen requirements at the inquest, that I be allowed to ex-
amine the prisoner at any hour of the day or night?"
And with a quick step he entered under the arch, saying
to me:


1278 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
my rest and at the risk of my life, and should I blush for it?
That would be far too amusing. You will tell me that against
us of the police there exist a number of absurd prejudices
left behind by the past. What do I care? Yes, I know that
there are some sensitive gentlemen who look down on us.
But sacrebleau! How I should like to see their faces if to-
morrow my colleagues and I should go on a strike, leaving
the streets free to the army of rascals whom we hold in check."
Accustomed without doubt to explosions of this kind, Ma-
dame Mechinet did not say a word; she was right in doing so,
for my good neighbor, meeting with no contradiction, calmed
himself as if by magic.
"But enough of this," he said to his wife. "There is now
a matter of far greater importance. We have not had any
dinner yet; we are dying of hunger; have you anything to
give us for supper?"
What happened that night must have happened too often for
Madame Mechinet to be caught unprepared.
"In five minutes you gentlemen will be served," she an-
swered with the most amiable smile.
In fact, a moment afterward we sat down at table before a
fine cut of cold beef, served by Madame Mechinet, who did not
stop filling our glasses with excellent Macon wine.
And while my worthy neighbor was conscientiously plying
his fork I, looking at that peaceable home, which was his,
that pretty, attentive little wife, which was his, kept asking
myself whether I really saw before me one of those "savage"
police agents who have been the heroes of so many absurd
stories.
However, hunger soon satisfied, M. Mechinet started to tell
his wife about our expedition. And he did not tell her about
it lightly, but with the most minute details. She had taken a
seat beside him, and by the way she listened and looked under-
standingly, asking for explanations when she had not well
understood, one could recognize in her a plain "Egeria," accus-
tomed to be consulted, and having a deliberative vote.
When M. Mechinet had finished, she said to him:
"You have made a great mistake, an irreparable mistake."
"Where?"
"It is not to Police Headquarters you should have gone,
abandoning Batignolles."
"But Monistrol?"


THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1279
"Yes, you wanted to examine him. What advantage did you
get from that?"
"It was of use to me, my dear friend."
"For nothing. It was to the Rue Vivienne that you should
have hurried, to the wife. You would have surprised her in
a natural agitation caused by her husband's arrest, and if she is
his accomplice, as we must suppose, with a little skill you
would have made her confess."
At these words I jumped from my chair.
"What! madame," I exclaimed, "do you believe Monistrol
guilty?"
After a moment's hesitation, she answered:
"Yes."
Then she added very vivaciously:
"But I am sure, do you hear, absolutely sure, that the mur-
der was conceived by the woman. Of twenty crimes com-
mitted by men, fifteen have been conceived, planned and in-
spired by woman. Ask Mechinet. The concierge's deposition
ought to have enlightened you. Who is that Madame Moni-
strol? They told you a remarkably beautiful person, coquettish,
ambitious, affected with covetousness, and who was leading her
husband by the end of his nose. Now what was her position?
Wretched, tight, precarious. She suffered from it, and the
proof of it is that she asjced her uncle to loan her husband a
hundred thousand francs. He refused them to her, thus shat-
tering her hopes. Do you not think she had a deadly grudge
against him? And when she kept seeing him in good health and
sturdy as an oak, she must have said to herself fatally: 'He
will live a hundred years; by the time he leaves us his inheri-
tance we won't have any teeth left to munch it, and who knows
even whether he will not bury us!' Is it so very far from this
point to the conception of a crime? And the resolution once
taken in her mind, she must have prepared her husband a long
time before, she must have accustomed him to the thought of
murder, she must have put, so to say, the knife in his hand.
And he, one day, threatened with bankruptcy, crazed by his
wife's lamentations, delivered the blow."
"All that is logical," approved M. Mechinet, "very logical,
without a doubt, but what becomes of the circumstances brought
to light by us?"
"Then, madame," I said, "you believe Monistrol stupid enough
to denounce himself by writing down his name?"


1280 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
She slightly shrugged her shoulders and answered:
"Is that stupidity? As for me, I maintain that it is not. Is
not that point your strongest argument in favor of his inno-
cence?"
This reasoning was so specious that for a moment I remained
perplexed. Then recovering, I said, insisting:
"But he confesses his guilt, madame?"
"An excellent method of his for getting the authorities to
prove him innocent."
"Oh!"
"You yourself are proof of its efficacy, dear M. Godeuil."
"Eh! madame, the unfortunate does not even know how his
uncle was killed!"
"I beg your pardon; he seemed not to know it, which is not
the same thing."
The discussion was becoming animated, and would have
lasted much longer, had not M. Mechinet put an end to it.
"Come, come," he simply said to his wife, "you are too roman-
tic this evening."
And addressing me, he continued:
"As for you, I shall come and get you to-morrow, and we
shall go together to call on Madame Monistrol. And now, as
I am dying for sleep, good night."
He may have slept. As for me, I could not close my eyes.
A secret voice within me seemed to say that Monistrol was
innocent.
My imagination painted with painful liveliness the tortures
of that unfortunate man, alone in his prison cell.
But why had he confessed?
'fyfrHAT I then lacked—I have had occasion to realize it
hundreds of times since—was experience, business prac-
tise, and chiefly an exact knowledge of the means of action
and of police investigation.
I felt vaguely that this particular investigation had been


THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1281
conducted wrongly, or rather superficially, but I would have
been embarrassed to say why, and especially to say what should
have been done.
None the less I was passionately interested in Monistrol.
It seemed to me that his cause was also mine, and it was
only natural—my young vanity was at stake. Was it not one
of my own remarks that had raised the first doubts as to the
guilt of this unfortunate man?
I owed it to myself, I said, to prove his innocence.
Unfortunately the discussions of the evening troubled me to
such an extent that I did not know precisely on which fact
to build up my system.
And, as always happens when the mind is for too long a
time applied to the solution of a problem, my thoughts became
tangled, like a skein in the hands of a child; I could no longer
see clearly; it was chaos.
Buried in my armchair, I v/as torturing my brain, when, at
about nine o'clock in the morning, M. Mechinet, faithful to his
promise of the evening before, came for me.
"Come, let us go," he said, shaking me suddenly, for I had
not heard him enter. "Let us start!"
"I am with you," I said, getting up.
We descended hurriedly, and I noticed then that my worthy
neighbor was more carefully dressed than usual.
He had succeeded in giving himself that easy and well-to-do
appearance which more than anything else impresses the Paris-
ian shopkeeper.
His cheerfulness was that of a man sure of himself, march-
ing toward certain victory.
We were soon in the street, and while walking he asked
me:
"Well, what do you think of my wife? I pass for a clever
man at police headquarters, and yet I consult her—even Mo-
liere consulted his maid—and often I find it to my advantage.
She has one weakness: for her, unreasonable crimes do not ex-
ist, and her imagination endows all scoundrels with diabolical
plots. But as I have exactly the opposite fault, as I perhaps
am a little too much matter-of-fact, it rarely happens that from
our consultation the truth does not result somehow."
"What!" I exclaimed, "you think to have solved the mystery
of fhe Monistrol case!"
He stopped short, drew out his snuff-box, inhaled three or


1282 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
four of his imaginary pinches, and in a tone of quiet vanity,
answered:
"I have at least the means of solving it."
In the mean time we reached the upper end of the Rue
Vivienne, not far from Monistrol's business place.
"Now look out," said M. Mechinet to me. "Follow me, and
whatever happens do not be surprised."
He did well to warn me. Without the warning I would have
been surprised at seeing him suddenly enter the store of an
umbrella dealer.
Stiff and grave, like an Englishman, he made them show him
everything there was in the shop, found nothing suitable, and
finally inquired whether it was not possible for them to manu-
facture for him an umbrella according to a model which he
would furnish.
They answered that it would be the easiest thing in the
world, and he left, saying he would return the day following.
And most assuredly the half hour he spent in this store was
not wasted.
While examining the objects submitted to him, he had art-
fully drawn from the dealers all they knew about the Moni-
strol couple.
Upon the whole, it was not a difficult task, as the affair
of the "little old man of Batignolles" and the arrest of the
imitation jeweler had deeply stirred the district and were the
subject of all conversation.
"There, you see," he said to me, when we were outside, "how
exact information is obtained. As soon as the people know
with whom they are dealing, they pose, make long phrases,
and then good-by to strict truth."
This comedy was repeated by Mr. Mechinet in seven or eight
stores of the neighborhood.
In one of them, where the proprietors were disagreeable and
not much inclined to talk, he even made a purchase amounting
to twenty francs.
But after two hours of such practise, which amused me very
much, we had gaged public opinion. We knew exactly what
was thought of M. and Mme. Monistrol in the neighborhood,
where they had lived since their marriage, that is, for the
past four years.
As regards the husband, there was but one opinion—he
was the most gentle and best of men, obliging, honest, intelligent,


1284 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
midst of Paris bustle, he motioned to me to follow him under
a carriage entrance, exactly opposite Monistrol's store.
It was a modest shop, almost poor, compared with those
around it. The front needed badly a painter's brush. Above,
in letters which were formerly gilt, now smoky and blackened,
Monistrol's name was displayed. On the plate-glass windows
could be read: "Gold and Imitation."
Alas! it was principally imitation that was glistening in the
show window. On the rods were hanging many plated chains,
sets of jet jewelry, diadems studded with rhinestones, then
imitation coral necklaces and brooches and rings; and cuff
buttons set with imitation stones in all colors.
All in all, a poor display, it could never tempt gimlet thieves.
"Let us enter," I said to M. Mechinet.
He was less impatient than I, or knew better how to keep
back his impatience, for he stopped me by the arm, saying:
"One moment. I should like at least to catch a glimpse of
Madame Monistrol."
In vain did we continue to stand for more than twenty
minutes on our observation post; the shop remained empty,
Madame Monistrol did not appear.
"Come, Monsieur Godeuil, let us venture," exclaimed my
worthy neighbor at last, "we have been standing in one place
long enough."

TN order to reach Monistrol's store we had only to cross the
street.
At the noise of the door opening, a little servant girl, from
fifteen to sixteen years old, dirty and ill combed, came out of
the back shop.
"What can I serve the gentlemen with?" she asked.
"Madame Monistrol?"
"She is there, gentlemen; I am going to notify her, because
you see—"
M. Mechinet did not give her time to finish. With a move-


THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1285
ment, rather brutal, I must confess, he pushed her out of the
way and entered the back shop saying:
"All right, since she is there, I am going to speak to her."
As for me, I walked on the heels of my worthy neighbor,
convinced that we would not leave without knowing the solution
of the riddle.
That back shop was a miserable room, serving at the same
time as parlor, dining-room, and bedroom. Disorder reigned
supreme; moreover there was that incoherence we notice in
the house of the poor who endeavor to appear rich.
In the back there was a bed with blue damask curtains and
with pillows adorned with lace; in front of the mantelpiece
stood a table all covered with the remains of a more than modest
breakfast.
In a large armchair was seated, or rather lying, a very blond
young woman, who was holding in her hand a sheet of stamped
paper.
It was Madame Monistrol.
Surely in telling us of her beauty, all the neighbors had
come far below the reality. I was dazzled.
Only one circumstance displeased me. She was in full mourn-
ing, and wore a crape dress, slightly decollete, which fitted her
marvelously.
This showed too much presence of mind for so great a sor-
row. Her attire seemed to me to be the contrivance of an
actress dressing herself for the role she is to play.
As we entered, she stood up, like a frightened doe, and
with a voice which seemed to be broken by tears, she asked:
"What do you want, gentlemen?"
M. Mechinet had also observed what I had noticed.
"Madame," he answered roughly, "I was sent by the Court;
I am a police agent."
Hearing this, she fell back into her armchair with a moan
that would have touched a tiger.
Then, all at once, seized by some kind of enthusiasm, with
sparkling eyes and trembling lips, she exclaimed:
"So you have come to arrest me. God bless you. See! I am
ready, take me. Thus I shall rejoin that honest man, arrested
by you last evening. Whatever be his fate, I want to share it.
He is as innocent as I am. No matter! If he is to be the
victim of an error of human justice, it shall be for me a last
joy to die with him."


THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1287
"My God! that is fatality."
M. Mechinet did not wince.
"I am asking you, madame," he insisted, "where your hus-
band spent the evening of the day before yesterday?"
The young woman needed time to answer, because she sobbed
so that it seemed to choke her. Finally mastering herself, she
moaned:
"The day before yesterday my husband spent the evening out
of the house."
"Do you know where he was?"
"Oh! as to that, yes. One of our workmen, who lives in
Montrouge, had to deliver for us a set of false pearls, and did
not deliver it. We were taking the risk of being obliged to
keep the order on our account, which would have been a dis-
aster, as we are not rich. That is why, at dinner, my husband
told me: T am going to see that fellow.' And, in fact, toward
nine o'clock, he went out, and I even went with him as far as
the omnibus, where he got in in my presence, Rue Richelieu."
I was breathing more easily. This, perhaps, was an alibi
after all.
M. Mechinet had the same thought, and, more gently, he
resumed:
"If it is so, your workman will be able to affirm that he saws
M. Monistrol at his house at eleven o'clock."
"Alas! no."
"How? Why?"
"Because he had gone out. My husband did not see him."
"That is indeed fatal. But it may be that the concierge
noticed M. Monistrol."
"Our workman lives in a house where there is no concierge."
That may have been the truth; it was certainly a terrible
charge against the unfortunate prisoner.
"And at what time did your husband return?" continued
M. Mechinet.
"A little after midnight."
"Did you not find that he was absent a very long time?"
"Oh! yes. And I even reproved him for it. He told me as
an excuse that he had taken the longest way, that he had saun-
tered on the road, and that he had stopped in a cafe to drink
a glass of beer."
"How did he look when he came home?"
"It seemed to me that he was vexed; but that was natural."


1290 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF. BATIGNOLLES
After having given the young woman a few words of consola-
tion too common to compromise him in any way, he gave her
to understand that she would forestall many prejudices by allow-
ing a minute and strict search through her domicile.
This opening she seized with an eagerness which was not
feigned.
"Search, gentlemen!" she told us; "examine, search every-
where. It is a service which you will render me. And it will
not take long. We have in our name nothing but the back-
shop where we are, our maid's room on the sixth floor, and a
little cellar. Here are the keys for everything."
To my great surprise, M. Mechinet accepted; he seemed to
be starting on one of the most exact and painstaking inves-
tigations.
What was his object? It was not possible that he did not
have in view some secret aim, as his researches evidently had
to end in nothing.
As soon as he had apparently finished he said:
"There remains the cellar to be explored."
"I am going to take you down, monsieur," said Madame
Monistrol.
And immediately taking a burning candle, she made us cross
a yard into which a door led from the back-shop, and took us
across a very slippery stairway to a door which she opened,
saying:
"Here it is—enter, gentlemen."
I began to understand.
My worthy neighbor examined the cellar with a ready and
trained look. It was miserably kept, and more miserably fitted
out. In one corner was standing a small barrel of beer, and
immediately opposite, fastened on blocks, was a barrel of wine,
with a wooden tap to draw it. On the right side, on iron rods,
were lined up about fifty filled bottles. These bottles M. Mechi-
net did not lose sight of, and found occasion to move them one
by one.
And what I saw he noticed: not one of them was sealed with
green wax.
Thus the cork picked up by me, and which served to protect
the point of the murderer's weapon, did not come from the
Monistrols' cellar.
"Decidedly," M. Mechinet said, affecting some disappoint-
ment, "I do not find anything; we can go up again."


THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1291
We did so, but not in the same order in which we descended,
for in returning I was the first.
Thus it was I who opened the door of the back-shop. Imme-
diately the dog of the Monistrol couple sprang at me, barking
so furiously that I jumped back.
"The devil! Your dog is vicious," M. Mechinet said to the
young woman.
She had already called him off with a gesture of her hand.
"Certainly not, he is not vicious," she said, "but he is a
good watchdog. We are jewelers, exposed more than others
to thieves; we have trained him."
Involuntarily, as one always does after having been threat-
ened by a dog, I called him by his name, which I knew:
"Pluton! Pluton!"
But instead of coming near me, he retreated growling, show-
ing his sharp teeth.
"Oh, it is useless for you to call him," thoughtlessly said Ma-
dame Monistrol. "He will not obey you."
"Indeed! And why?"
"Ah! because he is faithful, as all of his breed; he knows
only his master and me."
This sentence apparently did not mean anything. For me it
was like a flash of light. And without reflecting I asked:
"Where then, madame, was that faithful dog the evening of
the crime?"
The effect produced on her by this direct question was such
that she almost dropped the candlestick she was still holding.
"I do not know," she stammered; "I do not remember."
"Perhaps he followed your husband."
"In fact, yes, it seems to me now I remember."
"He must then have been trained to follow carriages, since
you told us that you went with your husband as far as the
Omnibus."
She remained silent, and I was going to continue when M.
Mechinet interrupted me. Far from taking advantage of the
young woman's troubled condition, he seemed to assume the
task of reassuring her, and after having urged her to obey the
summons of the investigating judge, he led me out.
Then when we were outside he said:
"Are you losing your head?"
The reproach hurt me.
"Is it losing one's head," I said, "to find the solution of the


1292 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
problem? Now I have it, that solution. Monistrol's dog shall
guide us to the truth."
My hastiness made my worthy neighbor smile, and in a
fatherly tone he said to me:
"You are right, and I have well understood you. Only if
Madame Monistrol has penetrated into your suspicions, the dog
before this evening will be dead or will have disappeared."
T HAD committed an enormous imprudence, it was true.
*• Nevertheless, I had found the weak point; that point by
which the most solid system of defense may be broken down.
I, voluntary recruit, had seen clearly where the old stager
was losing himself, groping about. Any other would, perhaps,
have been jealous and would have had a grudge against me.
But not he.
He did not think of anything else but of profiting by my for-
tunate discovery; and, as he said, everything was easy enough
now, since the investigation rested on a positive point of
departure.
We entered a neighboring restaurant to deliberate while
lunching.
The problem, which an hour before seemed unsolvable, now
stood as follows:
It had been proved to us, as much as could be by evidence,
that Monistrol was innocent. Why had he confessed to being
guilty? We thought we could guess why, but that was not the
question of the moment. We were equally certain that Madame
Monistrol had not budged from her home the night of the
murder. But everything tended to show that she was morally
an accomplice to the crime; that she had known of it, even if
she did not advise and prepare it, and that, on the other hand,
she knew the murderer very well.
Who was he, that murderer?
A man whom Monistrol's dog obeyed as well as his master,
since he had him follow him when he went to the Batignolles.


THE'LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1293 -
Therefore, it was an intimate friend of the Monistrol house-
hold. He must have hated the husband, however, since he had
arranged everything with an infernal skill, so that the sus-
picion of the crime should fall on that unfortunate.
On the other hand, he must have been very dear to the
woman, since, knowing him, she did not give him up, and
without hesitation sacrificed to him her husband.
Well!
Oh! my God! The conclusion was all in a definite shape.
The murderer could only be- a miserable hypocrite, who had
taken advantage of the husband's affection and confidence to
take possession of the wife.
In short, Madame Monistrol, belieing her reputation, certainly
had a lover, and that lover necessarily was the culprit.
All filled by this certitude, I was torturing my mind fo think
of some infallible stratagem which would lead us to this wretch.
"And this," I said to M. Mechinet, "is how I think we ought
to operate. Madame Monistrol and the murderer must have
agreed that after the crime they would not see each other for
some time; this is the most elementary prudence. But you
may believe that it will not be long before impatience will
conquer the woman, and that she will want to see her accom-
plice. Now place near her an observer who will follow her
everywhere, and before twice forty-eight hours have passed the
affair will be settled."
Furiously fumbling after his empty snuff-box, M. Mechinet
remained a moment without answering, mumbling between his
teeth I know not what unintelligible words.
Then suddenly, leaning toward me, he said:
"That isn't it. You have the professional genius, that is
certain, but it is practise that you lack. Fortunately, I am
here. What! a phrase regarding the crime puts you on the
trail, and you do not follow it." 1
"How is that?"
"That faithful dog must be made use of."
"I do not quite catch on."
"Then know how to wait. Madame Monistrol will go but at
about two o'clock, in order to be at the court-house at three;
the little maid will be alone in the shop. You will see. I only
tell you that."
I insisted in vain; he did not want to say anything more,
taking revenge for his defeat by this innocent spite. Willing


1294 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
or unwilling, I had to follow him to the nearest cafe, where
he forced me to play dominoes.
Preoccupied as I was, I played badly, and he, without shame,
was taking advantage of it to beat me, when the clock struck
two.
"Up, men of the post," he said to me, letting go of his dice.
He paid, we went out, and a moment later we were again
on duty under the carriage entrance from which we had before
studied the front of the Monistrol store.
We had not been there ten minutes, when Madame Monistrol
appeared in the door of her shop, dressed in black, with a long
crape veil, like a widow.
"A pretty dress to go to an examination," mumbled M.
Mechinet.
She gave a few instructions to her little maid, and soon left.
My companion patiently waited for five long minutes, and
when he thought the young woman was already far away, he
said to me:
"It is time."
And for the second time we entered the jewelry store.
The little maid was there alone, sitting in the office, for
pastime nibbling some pieces of sugar stolen from her mistress.
As soon as we appeared she recognized us, and reddening
and somewhat frightened, she stood up. But without giving
her time to open her mouth, M. Mechinet asked:
"Where is Madame Monistrol?"
"Gone out, monsieur."
"You are deceiving me. She is there in the back shop."
"I swear to you, gentlemen, that she is not. Look in, please."
With the most disappointed looks, M. Mechinet was striking
his forehead, repeating:
"How disagreeable. My God! how distressed that poor Ma-
dame Monistrol will be." And as the little maid was looking
at him with her mouth wide open and with big, astonished
eyes, he continued:
"But, in fact, you, my pretty girl, you can perhaps take the
place of your mistress. I came back because I lost the address
of the gentleman on whom she asked me to call."
"What gentleman?"
"You know. Monsieur—well, I have forgotten his name now.
Monsieur—upon my word! you know, only him—that gentle-
man whom your devilish dog obeys so well."


THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1295
"Oh! M. Victor?"
"That's just it. What is that gentleman doing?"
"He is a jeweler's workman; he is a great friend of mon-
sieur; they were working together when monsieur was a
jeweler's workman, before becoming proprietor, and. that is
why he can do anything he wants with Pluton."
"Then you can tell me where this M. Victor resides?"
"Certainly. He lives in the Rue du Roi-Dore, No. 23."
She seemed so happy, the poor girl, to be so well informed;
but as for me, I suffered in hearing her so unwittingly de-
nounce her mistress.
M. Mechinet, more hardened, did not have any such scruples.
'And even after we had obtained our information, he ended
the scene with a sad joke.
As I opened the door for us to go out, he said to the young
girl:
"Thanks to you. You have just rendered a great Strvice to
Madame Monistrol, and she will be very pleased."

AS soon as I was on the sidewalk I had but one thought:
**' and that was to shake out our legs and to run to the Rue
du Roi-Dore and arrest this Victor, evidently the real culprit
.
One word from M. Mechinet fell on my enthusiasm like a
shower-bath.
"And the court," he said to me. "Without a warrant by the
investigating judge I can not do anything. It is to the court-
house that we must run."
"But we shall meet there Madame Monistrol, and if she sees
us she will have her accomplice warned."
"Be it so," answered M. Mechinet, with a badly disguised
bitterness. "Be it so, the culprit will escape and formality will
have been saved. However, I shall prevent that danger. Let
us walk, let us walk faster."
And, in fact, the hope of success gave him deer legs. Reach-
ing the court-house, he jumped, four steps at a time, up the
17-Vol. 3


1296 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
steep stairway leading to the floor on which were the judges
of investigation, and, addressing the chief bailiff, he inquired
whether the magistrate in charge of the case of the "little old
man of Batignolles" was in his room.
"He is there," answered the bailiff, "with a witness, a young
lady in black."
"It is she!" said my companion to me. Then to the bailiff:
"You know me," he continued. "Quick, give me something to
write on, a few words which you will take to the judge."
The bailiff went off with the note, dragging his boots along
the dusty floor, and was not long in returning with the an-
nouncement that the judge was awaiting us in No. 9.
In order to see M. Mechinet, the magistrate had left Madame
Monistrol in his office, under his clerk's guard, and had bor-
rowed the room of one of his colleagues.
"What has happened?" he asked in a tone which enabled me
to measure the abyss separating a judge from a poor detective.
Briefly and clearly M. Mechinet described the steps taken by
us, their results and our hopes.
Must we say it? The magistrate did not at all seem to share
our convictions.
"But since Monistrol confesses," he repeated with an obsti-
nacy which was exasperating to me.
However, after many explanations, he said:
"At any rate, I am going to sign a warrant."
The valuable paper once in his possession, M. Mechinet es-
caped so quickly that I nearly fell in precipitating myself after
him down the stairs. I do not know whether it took us a
quarter of an hour to reach the Rue du Roi-Dore. But once
there: "Attention," said M. Mechinet to me.
And it was with the most composed air that he entered in
the narrow passageway of the house bearing No. 23.
"M. Victor?" he asked of the concierge.
"On the fourth floor, the right-hand door in the hallway."
"Is he at home?"
"Yes."
M. Mechinet took a step toward the staircase, but seemed
to change his mind, and said to the concierge:
"I must make a present of a good bottle of wine to that
dear Victor. With which wine-merchant does he deal in this
neighborhood?"
"With the one opposite."


THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1297
We were there in a trice, and in the tone of a customer
M. Mechinet ordered:
"One bottle, please, and of good wine—of that with the green
seal."
Ah! upon my word! That thought would never have come
to me at that time. And yet it was very simple.
When the bottle was brought, my companion exhibited the
cork found at the home of M. Pigoreau, called Antenor, and
we easily identified the wax.
To our moral certainty was now added a material certainty,
and with a firm hand M. Mechinet knocked at Victor's door.
"Come in," cried a pleasant-sounding voice.
The key was in the door; we entered, and in a very neat
room I perceived a man of about thirty, slender, pale, and
blond, who was working in front of a bench.
Our presence did not seem to trouble him.
"What do you want?" he politely asked.
M. Mechinet advanced toward him, and, taking him by the
arm, said:
"In the name of the law, I arrest you."
The man became livid, but did not lower his eyes.
"Are you making fun of me?" he said with an insolent air.
"What have I done?"
M. Mechinet shrugged his shoulders.
"Do not act like a child," he answered; "your account is
settled. You were seen coming" out from old man Antenor's
home, and in my pocket I have a cork which you made use
of to prevent your dagger from losing its point."
It was like a blow of a fist in the neck of the wretch. Over-
whelmed, he dropped on his chair, stammering:
"I am innocent."
"You will tell that to the judge," said M. Mechinet good-
naturedly; "but I am afraid that he will not believe you. Your
accomplice, the Monistrol woman, has confessed everything."
As if moved by a spring, Victor jumped up.
"That is impossible!" he exclaimed. "She did not know any-
thing about it."
"Then you did the business all alone? Very well. There is
at least that much confessed."
Then addressing me in a tone of a man knowing what he is
talking about, M. Mechinet continued:
"Will you please look in the drawers, my dear Monsieur


1298 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
Godeuil; you will probably find there the dagger of this pretty
fellow, and certainly also the love-letters and the picture of his
sweetheart."
A flash of rage shone in the murderer's eyes, and he was
gnashing his teeth, but M. Mechinet's broad shoulders and iron
grip extinguished in him every desire for resistance.
I found in a drawer of the bureau all the articles my com-
panion had mentioned. And twenty minutes later, Victor, "duly
packed in," as the expression goes, in a cab, between M. Me-
chinet and myself, was driving toward Police Headquarters.
"What," I said to myself, astonished by the simplicity of the
thing, "that is all there is to the arrest of a murderer; of a
man destined for the scaffold!"
Later I had occasion to learn at my expense which of crim-
inals is the most terrible.
This one, as soon as he found himself in the police cell, see-
ing that he was lost, gave up and told us all the details of
his crime.
He knew for a long time, he said, the old man Pigoreau, and
was known by him. His object in killing him was principally
to cause the punishment of the crime to fall on Monistrol. That
is why he dressed himself up like Monistrol and had Pluton
follow him. The old man once murdered, he had had the ter-
rible courage to dip in the blood a finger of the body, to trace
these five letters, Mon1s, which almost caused an innocent man
to be lost.
"And that had been so nicely arranged," he said to us with
cynic bragging. "If I had succeeded, I would have killed two
birds with the same stone. I would have been rid of my friend
Monistrol, whom I hate and of whom I am jealous, and I would
have enriched the woman I love."
It was, in fact, simple and terrible.
"Unfortunately, my boy," M. Mechinet objected, "you lost
your head at the last moment. Well, one is never perfect. It
was the left hand of the body which you dipped in the blood."
With a jump, Victor stood up.
"What!" he exclaimed, "is that what betrayed me?"
"Exactly."
With a gesture of a misunderstood genius, the wretch raised
his arm toward heaven.
"That is for being an artist," he exclaimed.
And looking us over with an air of pity, he added:


THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1299
"Old man Pigoreau was left-handed!"
Thus it was due to a mistake made in the investigation that
the culprit was discovered so promptly.
The day following Monistrol was released.
And when the investigating judge reproached him for his
untrue confession, which had exposed the courts to a terrible
error, he could not obtain any other answer than:
"I love my wife, and wanted to sacrifice myself for her. I
thought she was guilty."
Was she guilty? I would have taken an oath on it. She was
arrested, but was acquitted by the same judgment which sen-
tenced Victor to forced labor for life.
M. and Mine. Monistrol to-day keep an ill-reputed wine-
shop on the Vincennes Road. Their uncle's inheritance has
long ago disappeared; they live in terrible misery.
THE END











1308
A DISAPPEARANCE

npWO hours after Monsieur Magloire had made his report,
* the police appeared at Jules Tarot's house to make a
strict search.
At the sight of the officers, the mother-of-pearl workman
and his wife became as pale as death, and had an attack of
nervous trembling, which could not escape Magloire's expe-
rienced eye. However, in spite of the most minute researches,
nothing whatever suspicious could be found, and the police were
just going to leave, when the officer caught the Tarot woman
in the act of anxiously looking at a cage, which hung near
the window.
This was like a flash of light. In no time Magloire had un-
hooked the cage and taken it apart. Between two boards at the
bottom he found twelve one-hundred-franc notes.
This discovery seemed to astound the workman. As to his
wife, she began to scream terribly, insisting that she and her
husband were innocent.
Arrested and taken to prison, they were examined the same
day by the investigating judge. Their answers were absolutely
identical.
They admitted that on Saturday evening their employer called
on them. He seemed to be feeling so ill that they asked him to
take something, which he had refused. He had come, he told
them, to see them about an important order, and to propose to
Tarot that he alone should take charge of it, engaging the nec-
essary workmen. Tarot and his wife answered that they could
not do it, owing to lack of money which would have to be
advanced.
Their employer then said to them: "Never mind that, I will
furnish you the money." And immediately he had laid on the
table twelve one-hundred-franc bills.
At eleven o'clock M. Jandidier asked his workman to go
with him; he had to go, he said, to the Saint-Antoine suburb.
As a matter of fact, Tarot had accompanied him as far as the


A DISAPPEARANCE
1309
Bastille Square, crossing the Constantine footbridge and walk-
ing along the canal.
The examining judge asked both the husband and the wife
this perfectly natural question:
"Why did you hide the money?"
Both gave the same answer.
On Monday morning, having heard of M. Jandidier's disap-
pearance, they were seized with fright. Tarot said to his wife:
"If it is known that the boss was here, that I crossed the
footbridge, and went along the bank of the canal with him, I'll
be compromised. If ever this money is found in our possession,
we are lost."
The woman then wanted to burn the bills, but Tarot would
not allow it, intending to return them later to the family.
This explanation was reasonable and plausible, if not proba-
ble, but it was nothing but an explanation. Tarot and his
wife remained under arrest.
WEEK later the investigating judge was in the greatest
perplexity. Three new examinations had not convinced
him.
As for Tarot and his wife, were they innocent? Had they
simply arranged with each other how to sustain a probable
fable?
The magistrate was in a quandary as to what to do, when
one morning a strange rumor reached him. The Jandidier firm
had just suspended payments. An officer, sent out to see about
it, brought back the most peculiar information.
M. Jandidier, who was believed to be quite rich, was ruined,
absolutely ruined, and for the past three years had maintained
his credit only by means of expedients. Not a thousand francs
were found at his place, and his bills due at the end of the
month amounted to sixty-seven thousand five hundred francs.
The stern merchant had been speculating in stocks; the vir-
tuous husband had had a mistress.
The judge in charge of the investigation had just been in-


1310
A DISAPPEARANCE
formed of these details, when Monsieur Magloire appeared,
pale, all out of breath.
"You know, monsieur!" he exclaimed when he was still on
the threshold.
"Everything."
"Tarot is innocent!"
"I believe so; however, that call—how can you explain that
Magloire sadly shook his head.
"I am nothing but an idiot," he said, "and Lecoq just proved
it to me. At the Turkish Cafe, M. Jandidier had been talking
of life insurance. There was the clue to the case. Jandidier's
life was insured for two hundred thousand francs, and in France
the companies do not pay in the case of a suicide; does your
honor understand?"
HANKS to M. Gustave Schmidt, who next month will
*' marry Mademoiselle Therese Jandidier, the firm of Jandi-
dier was not declared in bankruptcy.
Tarot and his wife, set free again, were assisted in estab-
lishing themselves by the same M. Gustave, and do not fear blue
Monday any longer.
But what had become of M. Jandidier? A reward of one
thousand francs will be paid to whosoever will bring news
of him.
call?!








THE ACCURSED HOUSE


THE ACCURSED HOUSE
THE Vicomte de B , an amiable and charming young
man, was peacefully enjoying an income of 30,000 livres
yearly, when, unfortunately for him, his uncle, a miser
of the worst species, died, leaving him all his wealth, amount-
ing to nearly two millions.
In running through the documents of succession, the Vicomte
de B learned that he was the proprietor of a house in the
Rue de la Victoire. He learned, also, that the unfurnished
building, bought in 1849 for 300,000 francs, now brought in,
clear of taxes, rentals amounting to 82,000 francs a year.
"Too much, too much, entirely," thought the generous
vicomte, "my uncle was too hard; to rent at this price is usury,
one can not deny it. When one bears a great name like mine,
one should not lend himself to such plundering. I will begin
to-morrow to lower my rents, and my tenants will bless me."
With this excellent purpose in view, the Vicomte de B
sent immediately for the concierge of the building, who pre-
sented himself as promptly, with back bent like a bow.
"Bernard, my friend," said the vicomte, "go at once from
me and notify all your tenants that I lower their rents by
one-third."
That unheard-of word "lower" fell like a brick on Bernard's
head. But he quickly recovered himself; he had heard badly;
he had not understood.
"Low—er the rents!" stammered he. "Monsieur le Vicomte
deigns to jest. Lower! Monsieur, of course means to raise
the rents."
"I was never more serious in my life, my friend," the vicomte
returned; "I said, and I repeat it, lower the rents."
This time the concierge was surprised to the point of bewil-
derment—so thrown off his balance that he forgot himself and
lost all restraint.
"Monsieur has not reflected," persisted he. "Monsieur will
1313 •


1314 THE ACCURSED HOUSE
regret this evening. Lower the tenants' rents! Never was
such a thing known, monsieur! If the lodgers should learn
of it, what would they think of monsieur? What would people
say in the neighborhood? Truly—"
"Monsieur Bernard, my friend," dryly interrupted the vicomte,
"I prefer, when I give an order, to be obeyed without reply.
You hear me—go!"
Staggering like a drunken man, Monsieur Bernard went out
from the house of his proprietor.
All his ideas were upset, overthrown, confounded. Was he,
or was he not, the plaything of a dream, a ridiculous night-
mare? Was he himself Pierre Bernard, or Bernard somebody
else?
"Lower his rents! lower his rents!" repeated he. "It is not
to be believed! If indeed the lodgers had complained! But
they have not complained; on the contrary, all are good payers.
Ah! if his uncle could only know this, he would rise from the
tomb! His nephew has gone mad, 'tis certain! Lower the
rents! They should have up this young man before a fam-
ily council; he will finish badly! Who knows—after this—
what he will do next? He lunched too well, perhaps, this
morning."
And the worthy Bernard was so pale with emotion when he
reentered his lodge, so pale and spent, that on seeing him
enter, his wife and daughter Amanda exclaimed as with one
voice:
"Goodness! what is it? What has happened to you now?"
"Nothing," responded he, with altered voice, "absolutely
nothing."
"You are deceiving me," insisted Madame Bernard, "you are
concealing something from me; do not spare me; speak, I am
strong—what did the new proprietor tell you? Does he think
of turning us off?"
"If it were only that! But just think, he told me with his
own lips, he told me to—ah! you will never believe me—"
"Oh, yes; only do go on."
"You will have it, then!— Well, then, he told me, he ordered
me to notify all the tenants that—he lowered their rents one-
third! Did you hear what I said?—lowered the rents of the
tenants—"
But neither Madame nor Mademoiselle Bernard heard him
out—they were twisting and doubling with convulsive laughter.


THE ACCURSED HOUSE 1815
"Lower!" repeated they; "ah! what a good joke, what a droll
man! Lower the tenants' rents."
But Bernard, losing his temper and insisting that he must
be taken seriously in his own lodge, his wife lost her temper
too, and a quarrel followed! Madame Bernard declaring that
Monsieur Bernard had, beyond a doubt, taken his fantastic
order from the bottom of a litre of wine in the restaurant at
the corner.
But for Mademoiselle Amanda the couple would undoubt-
edly have come to blows, and finally Madame Bernard, who
did not wish to be thought demented, threw a shawl over her
head and ran to the proprietor's house. Bernard had spoken
truly; with her own two ears, ornamented with big, gilded
hoops, she heard the incredible word. Only, as she was a wise
and prudent women, she demanded "a bit of writing" to put,
as she said, "her responsibility under cover."
She, too, returned thunderstruck, and all the evening in the
lodge, father, mother, and daughter deliberated.
Should they obey? or should they warn some relative of this
mad young man, whose common sense would oppose itself to
such insanity?"
They decided to obey.
Next morning, Bernard, buttoning himself into his best frock
coat, made the rounds of the three-and-twenty lodges to an-
nounce his great news.
Ten minutes afterward the house in the Rue de la Victoire
was in a state of commotion impossible to describe. People
who, for forty years had lived on the same floor, and never
honored each other with so much as a tip of the hat, now
clustered together and chatted eagerly.
"Do you know, monsieur?"
"It is very extraordinary."
"Simply unheard of!"
"The proprietor's lowered my rent!"
"One-third, is it not? Mine also."
"Astounding! It must be a mistake!"
And despite the affirmations of the Bernard family, despite
even the "bit of writing" "under cover," there were found
among the tenants doubting Thomases, who doubted still in the
face of everything.
Three of them actually wrote to the proprietor to tell him
what had passed, and to charitably warn him that his concierge
18—Vol. 3


1316 THE ACCURSED HOUSE
had wholly lost his mind. The proprietor responded to these
skeptics, confirming what Bernard had said. Doubt, there-
after, was out of the question.
Then began reflections and commentaries.
"Why had the proprietor lowered his rents?"
"Yes, why?"
"What motives," said they all, "actuate this strange man?
For certainly he must have grave reasons for a step like this!
An intelligent man, a man of good sense, would never deprive
himself of good fat revenues, well secured, for the simple pleas-
ure of depriving himself. One would not conduct himself thus
without being forced, constrained by powerful or terrible cir-
cumstances."
And each said to himself:
"There is something under all this!"
"But what?"
And from the first floor to the sixth they sought and con-
jectured and delved in their brains. Every lodger had the pre-
occupied air of a man that strives with all his wits to solve an
impossible cipher, and everywhere there began to be a vague
disquiet, as it happens when one finds himself in the presence
of a sinister mystery.
Some one went so far as to hazard:
"This man must have committed a great and still hidden
crime; remorse pushes him to philanthropy."
"It was not a pleasant idea, either, the thought of living thus
side by side with a rascal; no, by no means; he might be re-
pentant, and all that, but suppose he yielded to temptation once
more!"
"The house, perhaps, was badly built?" questioned another,
anxiously.
"Hum-m, so-so! no one could tell; but all knew one thing—
it was very, very old!"
"True! and it had been necessary to prop it when they dug
the drain last year in the month of March."
"Maybe it was the roof, then, and the house is top-heavy?"
suggested a tenant on the fifth floor.
"Or perhaps," said a lodger in the garret, "there is a press
for coining counterfeit money in the cellar; I have often heard
at night a sound like the dull, muffled thud of a coin-stamper."
The opinion of another was that Russian, maybe Prussian,
spies had gained a lodgment in the house, while the gentle-


THE ACCURSED HOUSE
1317
man of the first story was inclined to believe that the proprie-
tor purposed to set fire to his house and furniture with the sole
object of drawing great sums from the insurance companies.
Then began to happen, as they all declared, extraordinary
and even frightful things. On the sixth and mansard floors it
appeared that strange and absolutely inexplicable noises were
heard. Then the nurse of the old lady on the fourth story,
going one night to steal wine from the cellar, encountered the
ghost of the defunct proprietor—he even held in his hand a
receipt for rent—by which she knew him!
And the refrain from loft to cellar was:
"There is something under all this!"
From disquietude it had come to fright; from fright it quickly
passed to terror. So that the gentleman of the first floor, who
had valuables in his rooms, made up his mind to go, and sent
in notice by his clerk.
Bernard went to inform the proprietor, who responded:
"All right, let the fool go!"
But next day the chiropodist of the second floor, though he
had naught to fear for his valuables, imitated the gentleman
beneath him. Then the bachelors and the little households of
the fifth story quickly followed this example.
From that moment it was a general rout . By the end of the
week, everybody had given notice. Every one awaited some
frightful catastrophe. They slept no more. They organized
patrols. The terrified domestics swore that they too would
quit the accursed house and remained temporarily only on
tripled wages.
Bernard was no more than the ghost of himself; the fever
of fear had worn him to a shadow.
"No," repeated his wife mournfully at each fresh notification,
"no, it is not natural."
Meanwhile three-and-twenty "For Rent" placards swung
against the facade of the house, drawing an occasional appli-
cant for lodgings.
Bernard—never grumbling now—climbed the staircase and
ushered the visitor from apartment to apartment.
"You can have your choice," said he to the people that pre-
sented themselves, "the house is entirely vacant; all the tenants
have given notice as one man. They do not know why, exactly,
but things have happened, oh! yes, things! a mystery such as
was never before known—the proprietor has lowered his rents!"








LOVE, THE CONQUEROR
SHE certainly was pretty. The Saumur people never could
have taken it upon themselves to call her by any other
name than "the beautiful Aurelia." Whenever she crossed
the Rue Saint Jean to get to La Billange Place, people went to
their doors.
The vice-prefect found that she had "a queenly carriage," and
old Doctor Beclard admired—in Latin—her goddess-like gait.
She had seemingly endless black hair, fine but wavy; large,
deep set eyes, and with it all a skin so fine, so transparent, that
one could see the blood circulating beneath.
She was considered very bright; she belonged to the nobility
through her mother, who was a La Palissadiere, if you please.
And to finish, her father had declared before the entire literary
club that he would give her a dowry of two hundred and fifty
thousand francs, not including the trousseau.
II
W1th such" a wealth of advantages, she must have had, and,
in fact, had had, a great many offers of marriage. The aureole
of her wealth and beauty attracted suitors as a candle attracts
moths. It had been ascertained that in the year 1860 alone she
had refused eleven offers, of which two were unexpected, three
brilliant, and six most suitable.
At every new refusal, she would say, biting her pretty lips:
"Being young, rich, and beautiful, one has the right to be
hard to please.
She used and abused this right.
X33I


LOVE, THE CONQUEROR 1323
Y
He was, it is true, an unusual notary, a pearl of a ministerial
official. Besides having just bought the best notarial office in
town, he had a good presence and enjoyed the reputation of a
superior mind.
Not one of his colleagues could boast of turning a cleaner
shaved chin over a whiter necktie. He was grave, self-satis-
fied, headstrong regarding morals; and he invested at five per
cent.
His success did not surprise any one in town; he himself,
being conscious of his worth, was not at all astonished. How-
ever, he loved the beautiful Aurelia to distraction. They are
still talking in Saumur of the wedding presents which he per-
sonally went to Paris to get.
All this, however, did not prevent M. Dubocage from being
in a pitiable condition on the wedding day.
The dancing had ceased; the young bride had just dis-
appeared, led away by her mother and several old ladies;
hidden at the end of the passageway, the poor bridegroom
was waiting for the key to the nuptial paradise to be deliv-
ered to him.
He was cold, but at the same time in a beaded perspiration;
did not even longer try to control his wavering thoughts; he
was talking aloud to himself, like a madman.
"What a moment!" he was saying; "so much perfection
for me. Am I worthy of her? Ah! I would like to be
hundreds of miles from here — but no, she loves me, she
loves me."
He was tottering like a drunkard as he followed his wife's
mother, who had finally come to fetch him, and who, bursting
into tears, was making a long speech to him which he did
not hear.
VI
The beautiful Aurelia had positively imagined that she loved
the man who was to be her husband.


1S24 LOVE, THE CONQUEROR
The very next day after her wedding, she found out with
horror that she was mistaken.
She was still blushing for offended maidenly modesty, and
already her heart was colder than that of the widow marrying
for the third time. The reason for this was that she had lived
too much with her dreams, and that hope is a usurer, who
without pity ruins all who discount future joys. The earth
could not offer any more charms to her, who so many times
had rushed toward heaven on the radiant bow of chimeras. At
the rough breaking of reality, all her illusions were scattered
in one moment like the leaves of a tree at the first November
hurricane.
The uproar which follows a wedding was soon over, and
the newly married couple were alone in a charming house
bought by the enamored notary and situated near the Fouchard
Bridge.
It was then that the beautiful Aurelia really felt what she
called the horror of her position.
Blaming her husband for a fatal error of which she alone
was guilty, she judged him with the greatest severity. It
seemed to her that she never had met a man so pretentious,
and at the same time such a mere cipher, so absolutely ridicu-
lous. She could not explain to herself his influence in town.
She hated everything in him, even his best qualities.
He paid her the most delicate attentions, and still she was
angry with him for his gallantries. She was irritated at his
being continually near her, surrounding her with his anxious
solicitude, admiring her and telling her so, watching from
morning till evening for the pretext of a kiss.
She had hoped to soar up in the azure, and she was re-
duced to painfully drag the heavy plow of a marriage of con-
venience.
And there seemed to be no end, not even distant, for the ter-
rible torture.
By merely looking forward to the future, she felt herself
nauseated, as one who for a long time gazes upon the monot-
onous swaying of a calm sea.
But she was too proud to let any one guess what was passing
within her. Never a tear rose from her heart to her eyes, and
after having been called "the beautiful," she was now called
"the happy Aurelia."


1326 LOVE, THE CONQUEROR
from his soldiers and surrounded by a group of Arabs; he
was believed lost, but he succeeded in freeing himself by
cutting down with his sword and killing about a dozen of
the enemy.
She was listening with her whole soul, astonished, agitated,
delighted, inwardly as proud as if some of this valiant soldier's
glory reflected upon her. Was it not thus that she had wanted
him?
In the mean time the orchestra was rendering a prelude; he
advanced toward her (did he possibly guess her feeling?) and
asked her to waltz with him.
Without answering, she rose, pale, her teeth clenched, her
eyes wet; she took his arm and he drew her away. But at
the second round her emotion was so strong that she almost
fainted, and he had to assist her back to her seat.
M. Dubocage was informed of this, and anxiously hastened
to her.
"What ails you?" he said; "what ails you, dearest? You
are suffering. Come, let us go."
And in spite of her protesting, he led her away.
IX
The next day she arose late. They were in the month of
December; it was cold and snowing.
Lazily leaning back on a couch near the fire, she endeavored
to seize again some of the intoxicating emotions o'f the previous
evening.
Night had come.
Only the capricious flame of the fireplace was illuminating
the room.
She felt a sour, unwholesome enjoyment in relishing the bit-
terness of her disillusions. Thus the dreams had not deceived
her.
He truly existed—that extraordinary being, adorned with all
earthly perfectness.
Ah! Why had she not had more courage and patience?
Why was she no longer a young girl and free, to rush and


1328 LOVE, THE CONQUEROR
one by one all the letters of a terrible word. It made her
afraid.
That was because she had been saying to herself that, after
all, the dream is always superior to reality; because she had
understood that no idols are eternally worshiped, save the
idols of imagination, whose gilding does not remain on one's
fingers.
He could leave, that soldier of whom she had only a glimpse,
while she kept in her mind his radiant remembrance.-
But while vowing to herself to remain true to M. Dubocage,
the beautiful Aurelia decided to mold him according to her
whims, to shape him into whatever she would consider her
ideal. Certain of her absolute power, she said to herself that
he would be for her something like the poor models which the
painters cover with the richest draperies, and which fn turn
may be heroes, warriors, or kings.
It was about this time that, to the great astonishment of all
Saumur, the grave Dubocage had his whiskers cut off and let
his mustache grow.
He appeared at the club with great riding-boots, ornamented
with formidable spurs.
And to those who were surprised at his military appearance,
he answered:
"What can I do ?—these women!"
XI
If Aurelia had allowed him time for it, Dubocage would have
become a horseman, for he was learning to ride horseback. But
little by little the remembrance of the major was becoming dim
and less distinct.
Besides, a poet, almost famous, had arrived in town. His
hair was long and flat, and his beard somewhat in disorder.
Being invited to a few drawing-rooms, he deigned to recite in
a melancholy voice some sad verses, which made the women
cry.
Seeing the poet, Aurelia understood and loved poetry.


LOVE, THE CONQUEROR 1329
That was the reason why Dubocage's soft boots were ban-
ished to the garret, and why three weeks later he published in
the "Saumur Echo," under the most transparent nom de plume,
a sad story, which received well-deserved recognition.
XII
He was destined to many other changes.
Like those unfortunate comedians who under the name of
utilities are engaged to play all parts, he was the obligatory
hero of all novels in which it pleased the beautiful Aurelia
to live.
They were numerous and varied, these novels, and in order
to make them more realistic, she wrote them as fast as they
appeared in a large book which she kept hidden at the bottom
of her desk.
And while she was abandoning herself to all the dreams of
a delirious imagination, all Saumur was singing her praises
and recounting her virtues; the husbands cited her as a model
to their wives; the men envied the happy notary.
But happiness down here can not last long. One evening in
May the beautiful Aurelia was stricken with a sudden illness,
and twenty-four hours later she was dead, without having
regained consciousness.
XIII
Dubocage, maddened by grief in the first days of his loss
would perhaps not have been consoled even at this day had
he not, in looking once for something in the desk which had
been „Sed by Aureha accidentally found that famous manuscript
whh rage? "Memoirs." And as he read it, he screamed


1330 LOVE, THE CONQUEROR
XIV
However, in the cemetery beyond Nantilly, on the grave of
Madame Dubocage, may be read: "Casta Vixit." Fidelity
conquered!
And, in fact, it is true.
THE END