File No. 113 Émile Gaboriau (the best books of all time TXT) 📖

proceeded to relate all that had occurred downstairs.

“I was afraid this extravagance would lead to something terrible,” he said in conclusion; “you know I told you last night that Prosper was growing worse in his conduct, and that he would get into trouble.”

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 could not say a word in his defence.

Fearing that Madeleine would suspect her of complicity in the theft, if she remained in bed and betrayed so much agitation, Mme. Fauvel arose and dressed for breakfast.

It was a dreary meal. No one tasted a morsel. The servants moved about on their tiptoes, as silently as if a death had occurred in the family.

About two o’clock, a servant came to M. Fauvel’s study, and said that the Marquis de Clameran 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 Clameran had sufficed to arouse all the slumbering wrath of M. Fauvel. 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 conceal 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 room adjoining the cash-room; M. Fauvel walked up to him, and said bluntly:

“What do you want now, monsieur? You have been paid your money, and I have your receipt.”

To the surprise 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 but not at all humble manner:

“You are hard upon me, monsieur; 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. I insisted upon seeing you here instead of in your study, because, having been rude to you in the presence of your clerks, I wished them to hear me apologize for my behavior of this morning.”

Clameran’s speech was so different from his usual overbearing, haughty conduct, that surprise almost stupefied the banker, and he could only answer:

“I must say that I was hurt by your doubts, insinuations, suspicions of my honor⁠—”

“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 years; and I hope you will forget words uttered in a moment of excitement, and now deeply regretted.”

M. Fauvel, being a kindhearted though quick-tempered man, could appreciate Clameran’s feelings; and, knowing that his own high reputation for scrupulous honesty could not be affected by any hasty or abusive language uttered by a creditor, at once calmed down before so frank an apology; and, holding out his hand to Clameran, said:

“Let us forget what happened, monsieur.”

They conversed in a friendly manner for some minutes; and, after Clameran had explained 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 Mme. Fauvel during the day.

“That is, if a visit from me 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; “come, by all means; I think a visit from you would cheer her mind. I shall be from home all day, trying to trace this unfortunate affair.”

Mme. Fauvel was in the same room where Raoul had threatened to kill himself the night previous; she looked very pale and ill as she lay on a sofa. Madeleine was bathing her forehead.

When M. de Clameran was announced, they both started up as if a phantom 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 Mme. Fauvel motioned him to take.

“You will excuse me, ladies, for intruding at this time of your affliction; but I have a duty to fulfil.”

The two women were silent; they seemed to be waiting for him to explain. He added in an undertone:

“I know all.”

By an imploring gesture, Mme. 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, monsieur.”

“Only one hour ago,” he replied, “I discovered that Raoul last night forced from his mother the key of the money-safe, and stole three hundred and fifty thousand francs.”

Madeleine crimsoned with shame and indignation; she leaned over the sofa, and seizing her aunt’s wrist shook it violently, and in a hollow voice cried:

“It is false, is it not, aunt? speak!”

“Alas! alas!” groaned Mme. Fauvel. “What have I done?”

“You have allowed Prosper to be accused,” cried Madeleine; “you have suffered him to be arrested, and disgraced for life.”

“Forgive me,” sighed Mme. Fauvel. “He was about to kill himself; I was so frightened! Then you know⁠—Prosper was to share the money: he gave Raoul the secret word⁠—”

“Good Heavens! Aunt, how could you believe such a falsehood as that?”

Clameran interrupted them.

“Unfortunately, what your aunt says of M. Bertomy is the truth,” he said in a sad tone.

“Your proofs, monsieur;