Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (ebook reader browser TXT) 📖
- Author: Emile Gaboriau
Book online «File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (ebook reader browser TXT) 📖». Author Emile Gaboriau
M. Verduret did not reply, but walked toward a young man dressed like a brewer, who had just entered the room.
He glanced at the note which this person handed to him, and hastened back to the table, and said, in an agitated tone:
“I think we have got them now!”
Throwing a five-franc piece on the table, and without saying a word to Cavaillon, he seized Prosper’s arm, and hurried from the room.
“What a fatality!” he said, as he hastened along the street: “we may miss them. We shall certainly reach the St. Lazare station too late for the St. Germain train.”
“For Heaven’s sake, where are you going?” asked Prosper.
“Never mind, we can talk after we start. Hurry!”
Reaching Palais Royal Place, M. Verduret stopped before one of the hacks belonging to the railway station, and examined the horses at a glance.
“How much for driving us to Vesinet?” he asked of the driver.
“I don’t know the road very well that way.”
The name of Vesinet was enough for Prosper.
“Well,” said the driver, “at this time of night, in such dreadful weather, it ought to be—twenty-five francs.”
“And how much more for driving very rapidly?”
“Bless my soul! Why, monsieur, I leave that to your generosity; but if you put it at thirty-five francs—”
“You shall have a hundred,” interrupted M. Verduret, “if you overtake a carriage which has half an hour’s start of us.”
“Tonnerre de Brest!” cried the delighted driver; “jump in quick: we are losing time!”
And, whipping up his lean horses, he galloped them down the Rue de Valois at lightning speed.
X
Leaving the little station of Vesinet, we come upon two roads. One, to the left, macadamized and kept in perfect repair, leads to the village, of which there are glimpses here and there through the trees. The other, newly laid out, and just covered with gravel, leads through the woods.
Along the latter, which before the lapse of five years will be a busy street, are built a few houses, hideous in design, and at some distance apart; rural summer retreats of city merchants, but unoccupied during the winter.
It was at the junction of these two roads that Prosper stopped the hack.
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 a hack similar to the one he occupied, about fifty yards ahead of him.
M. Verduret jumped out, and, handing the driver a bank-note, said:
“Here is what I promised you. Go to the first tavern you find on the right-hand side of the road as you enter the village. If we do not meet you there in an hour, you are at liberty to return to Paris.”
The driver was overwhelming in his thanks; but neither Prosper nor his friend heard them. They had already started up 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 dense woods.
The intense darkness was rendered more dreary by the occasional glimmer of the lamps at the distant station, which seemed about to be extinguished by every new 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 gate of an isolated house stood the hack which M. Verduret had followed. Reclining on his seat, wrapped in a thick cloak, was the driver, who, in spite of the pouring rain, was already asleep, evidently waiting for the person whom he had brought to this 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 his reins, yawned out:
“I am ready: come on!”
But when, by the light of the carriage-lamps, he saw two men in this lonely spot, he imagined that they wanted his purse, and perhaps his life.
“I am engaged!” he cried out, as he cracked his whip in the air; “I am waiting here for someone.”
“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, this promise of five francs, instead of reassuring the coachman, increased his alarm.
“I have already told you I am waiting for someone,” he said, “and, if you don’t go away and leave me alone, I will call for help.”
M. Verduret drew back quickly.
“Come away,” he whispered to Prosper, “the cur will do as he says; and, alarm once given, farewell to our projects. We must find some other entrance than by this gate.”
They then went along the wall surrounding the garden, in search of a place where it was possible to climb up.
This was difficult to discover, the wall being twelve feet high, and the night very dark. Fortunately, M. Verduret was very agile; and, having decided upon the spot to be scaled, he drew back a few feet, and making a sudden spring, seized one of the projecting stones above him, and, drawing himself up by aid of his hands and feet, soon found himself on top of 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 was built in the middle of an immense garden. It was narrow, two stories high, and with garrets.
Only one window, in the second story, was lighted.
“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 bed-chamber.”
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