File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (ebook reader browser TXT) 📖

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

Prosper was on thorns.

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

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

“Yet I have proofs.”

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

“Will you let me know what they were?”

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

He then read:

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

“I told you so,” cried Prosper.

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

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

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

Prosper looked amazed.

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

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

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

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

“That is all,” said M. Verduret; “don’t you think it enough?”

“Really, monsieur, I don’t know whether I am awake or dreaming.”

“You will be awake after a while. Now I wish to remark one thing. Some people may assert that the widow Lagors had a child born after her husband’s death. This objection has been destroyed by the age of your friend. Raoul is twenty-four, and M. de Lagors has not been dead twenty years.”

“But,” said Prosper thoughtfully, “who can Raoul be?”

“I don’t know. The fact is, I am more perplexed to find out who he is, than to know whom 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 his account in addition to what you already have!”

“I have been furnished with a few notes concerning the 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 this 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 one man and badly wound another, was compelled to fly the country in 1842. Gaston was an honest, noble youth, universally 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 in less than two years had squandered not only his own patrimony, but also the share of his exiled brother.

“‘Ruined and harassed by debt, Louis entered the army, but behaved so disgracefully that he was dismissed.

“‘After leaving the army we lose sight of him; all we can discover is, that he went to England, and thence to a German gambling resort, where he became notorious for his scandalous conduct.

“‘In 1865 we find him again at Paris. He was in great poverty, and his associates were among the most depraved classes.

“‘But he suddenly heard of the return of his brother Gaston to Paris. Gaston had made a fortune in Mexico; but being still a young man, and accustomed to a very active life, he purchased, near Orloron, an iron-mill, intending to spend the remainder of his life in working at it. Six months ago he died in the arms of his brother Louis. His death provided our De Clameran an immense fortune, and the title of marquis.’”

“Then,” said Prosper, “from all this I judge that M. de Clameran was very poor when I met him for the first time at M. Fauvel’s?”

“Evidently.”

“And about that time Lagors arrived from the country?”

“Precisely.”

“And about a month after his appearance Madeleine suddenly banished me?”

“Well,” exclaimed M. Verduret, “I am glad you are beginning to understand the state of affairs.”

He was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger.

The new-comer was a dandified-looking coachman, with elegant black whiskers, shining boots with fancy tops; buff breeches, and a yellow waistcoat with red and black stripes.

After cautiously looking around the room, he walked straight up to the table where M. Verduret sat.

“What is the news, Master Joseph Dubois?” said the stout man eagerly.

“Ah, patron, don’t speak of it!” answered the servant: “things are getting warm.”

Prosper concentrated all his attention upon this superb domestic. He thought he recognized his face. He had certainly somewhere seen that