File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (novels in english .TXT) 📖

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 vacillating nature. While my intentions are good, my actions are villainous. The disproportion between my extravagant desires, and the means of gratifying them, is too great for me to endure any longer. Who knows to what fearful lengths my unfortunate disposition may lead me? However, I will take my fate in my own hands!” he finally said with a reckless laugh.

“Oh, Raoul, my dear son,” cried Mme. Fauvel in an agony of terror, “explain these dreadful words; am I not your mother? Tell me what distresses you; I am ready to hear the worst.”

He appeared to hesitate, as if afraid to crush his mother’s heart by the terrible blow he was about to inflict. Then in a voice of gloomy despair he replied:

“I am ruined.”

“Ruined?”

“Yes, ruined; and I have nothing more to expect or hope for. I am dishonored, and all through my own fault; no one is to be blamed but myself.”

“Raoul!”

“It is the sad truth, my poor mother; but fear nothing: I shall not trail in the dust the name which you bestowed upon me. I will at least have the courage not to survive my dishonor. Come, mother, don’t pity me, or distress yourself; I am one of those miserable beings fated to find no peace save in the arms of death. I came into the world with misfortune stamped upon my brow. Was not my birth a shame and disgrace to you? Did not the memory of my existence haunt you day and night, filling your soul with remorse? And now, when I am restored to you after many years’ separation, do I not prove to be a bitter curse instead of a blessing?”

“Ungrateful boy! Have I ever reproached you?”

“Never! Your poor Raoul will die with your beloved name on his lips; his last words a prayer to Heaven to heap blessings upon your head, and reward your long-suffering devotion.”

“Die? You die, my son!”

“It must be, my dear mother; honor compels it. I am condemned by judges from whose decision no appeal can be taken—my conscience and my will.”

An hour ago, Mme. Fauvel would have sworn that Raoul had made her suffer all the torments that a woman could endure; but now she felt that all her former troubles were nothing compared with her present agony.

“My God! Raoul, what have you been doing?”

“Money was intrusted to me: I gambled and lost it.”

“Was it a large sum?”

“No; but more than I can replace. My poor mother, have I not taken everything from you? Did you not give me your last jewel?”

“But M. de Clameran is rich. He placed his fortune at my disposal. I will order the carriage, and go to him.”

“But M. de Clameran is absent, and will not return to Paris until next week; and if I do not have the money this evening, I am lost. Alas! I have thought deeply, and, although it is hard to die so young, still fate wills it so.”

He pulled a pistol from his pocket, and, with a forced smile, said:

“This will settle everything.”

Mme. Fauvel was too excited and frightened to reflect upon the horror of Raoul’s behavior, and that these wild threats were a last resort for obtaining money. Forgetful of the past, careless of the future, her every thought concentrated upon the present, she comprehended but one fact: that her son was about to commit suicide, and that she was powerless to prevent the fearful deed.

“Oh, wait a little while my son!” she cried. “Andre will soon return home, and I will ask him to give me— How much did you lose?”

“Thirty thousand francs.”

“You shall have them to-morrow.”

“But I must have the money to-night.”

Mme. Fauvel wrung her hands in despair.

“Oh! why did you not come to me sooner, my son? Why did you not have confidence enough in me to come at once for help? This evening! There is no one in the house to open the money-safe; if it were not for that—if you had only come before Andre went out—”

“The safe!” cried Raoul, with sudden joy, as if this magic word had thrown a ray of light upon his dark despair; “do you know where the key is kept?”

“Yes: it is in the next room.”

“Well!” he exclaimed, with a bold look that caused Mme. Fauvel to lower her eyes, and keep silent.

“Give me the key, mother,” he said in a tone of entreaty.

“Oh, Raoul, Raoul!”

“It is my life I am asking of you.”

These words decided her; she snatched up a candle, rushed into her chamber, opened the secretary, and took out M. Fauvel’s key.

But, when about to hand it to Raoul, she seemed to suddenly see the enormity of what she was doing.

“Oh, Raoul! my son,” she murmured, “I cannot! Do not ask me to commit such a dreadful deed!”

He said nothing, but sadly turned to leave the room; then coming back to his mother said:

“Ah, well; it makes but little difference in the end! At least, you will give me one last kiss, before we part forever, my darling mother!”

“What could you do with the key, Raoul?” interrupted Mme. Fauvel. “You do not know the secret word of the buttons.”

“No; but I can try to open it without moving the buttons.”

“You know that money is never kept in the safe over-night.”

“Nevertheless, I can make the attempt. If I open the safe, and find money in it, it will be a miracle, showing that Heaven has pitied my misfortune, and provided relief.”

“And if you are not successful, will you promise me to wait until to-morrow, to do nothing rash to-night?”

“I swear it, by my father’s memory.”

“Then take the key and follow me.”

Pale and trembling, Raoul and Mme. Fauvel passed through the banker’s study, and down the narrow staircase leading to the offices and cash-room below.

Raoul walked in front, holding the light, and the key of the safe.

Mme. 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 had no way of discovering what that was.

Even granting that some chance had revealed the secret to him, he would find but little in the safe, since everything was deposited in the Bank of France. Everyone knew that no large sum was ever kept in the safe after banking hours.

The only anxiety she felt was, how Raoul would bear the disappointment, and how she could calm his despair.

She thought that she would gain time by letting Raoul try the key; and then, when he could not open the safe, he would keep his promise, and wait until the next day. There was surely no harm in letting him try the lock, when he could not touch the money.

“When he sees there is no chance of success,” she thought, “he will listen to my entreaties; and to-morrow—to-morrow–-”

What she could do to-morrow she knew not, she did not even ask herself. But in extreme situations the least delay inspires hope, as if a short respite meant sure salvation.

The condemned man, at the last moment, begs for a reprieve of a day, an hour, a few seconds. Raoul was about to kill himself: his mother prayed to God to grant her one day, not even a day, one night; as if in this space of time some unexpected relief would come to end her misery.

They reached Prosper’s office, and Raoul placed the light on a high stool so that it lighted the whole room.

He then summoned up all his coolness, or rather that mechanical precision of movement, almost independent of will, of which men accustomed to peril avail themselves in time of need.

Rapidly, with the dexterity of experience, he slipped the buttons on the five letters composing the name of G, y, p, s, y.

His features, during this short operation, expressed the most intense anxiety. He was fearful that his nervous energy might give out; of not being able to open the safe; of not finding the money there when he opened it; of Prosper having changed the word; or perhaps having neglected to leave the money in the safe.

Mme. 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 leaving the bank. Indeed, having a practical turn of mind, and an eye to the future, he had even tried to lock the safe himself on several occasions, while waiting for Prosper.

He inserted the key softly, turned it around, pushed it farther in, and turned it a second time; then thrust it in suddenly, and turned it again. His heart beat so loudly that Mme. 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!” cried Mme. Fauvel, frightened at the incomprehensible result of Raoul’s attempt: “Come away! Don’t touch anything, for Heaven’s sake! Raoul!”

And, half frenzied, she clung to Raoul’s 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 scratch some inches long.

But at a glance Raoul discovered, on the upper shelf of the safe, three bundles of bank-notes. He snatched them up with his left hand, and slipped them inside his vest.

Exhausted by the effort she had just made, Mme. Fauvel dropped Raoul’s arm, and, almost fainting with emotion, clung to the back of a chair.

“Have mercy, Raoul!” she moaned. “I implore you to put back that money and I solemnly swear that 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. He was alarmed at this trace of the robbery, which it was impossible for him to cover up.

“At least you will not take all,” said Mme. Fauvel; “just keep enough to save yourself, and put back the rest.”

“What good would that do? The discovery will be made that the safe has been opened; so I might as well take all as a part.”

“Oh, no! not at all. I can account to Andre; I will tell him I had a pressing need for a certain sum, and opened the safe to get it.”

In the meantime Raoul had carefully closed the safe.

“Come, mother, let us go back to the sitting-room. A servant 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 Mme. Fauvel with indignation. She saw that she had no influence over her son, that her prayers and tears had no effect upon his hard heart.

“Let them be astonished,” she cried: “let them come here and find us! I will be relieved to put an end to this tissue of crime. Then Andre will know all, and drive me from his house. Let come what will, I shall not sacrifice another victim. Prosper will be accused of this theft to-morrow. Clameran defrauded him of