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

ever accused of, and yet my disgrace was made as public as possible.”

“Don’t you understand,” replied the fat man, “that I wish to separate the cause of Raoul from that of the marquis? But, sh! look!”

Clameran had left his place near the orange-woman’s stand, and approached the bridge, where he seemed to be trying to make out some unexpected object.

“Ah!” said M. Verduret; “he has just discovered our man.”

Clameran’s uneasiness was quite apparent; he walked forward a few steps, as if intending to cross the bridge; then, suddenly turning around, rapidly walked in the direction of the Rue St. Jacques.

“He is caught!” cried M. Verduret with delight.

At that moment the door opened, and Mme. Nina Gypsy, alias Palmyre Chocareille, entered.

Poor Nina! Each day spent in the service of Madeleine 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 Gypsy, 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 interest, Nina would throw her arms around his neck, and say how much she loved him. To his surprise, Nina scarcely spoke to him. Although his every thought had been devoted to Madeleine since he discovered the reasons for her cruelty, he was hurt by Nina’s cold manner.

The girl stood looking at M. Verduret with a mixture 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 said encouragingly, “what news do you bring me?”

“Something is going on at the house, monsieur, and I have been trying to get here to tell you; at last, Mlle. Madeleine made an excuse for sending me out.”

“You must thank Mlle. Madeleine for her confidence in me. I suppose she carried out the plan we decided upon?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“She receives the Marquis of 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 young man, not comprehending the intricate moves of M. Verduret, felt as if he were being tossed about from pillar to post, and made the tool and laughingstock of everybody.

“What!” he cried; “this worthless Marquis of Clameran, an assassin and a thief, allowed to visit at M. Fauvel’s, and pay his addresses to Madeleine? Where are the promises, monsieur, which you have made? Have you merely been amusing yourself by raising my hopes, to dash them⁠—”

“Enough!” interrupted M. Verduret harshly; “you are too green to understand anything, my friend. If you are incapable of helping yourself, at least have sense enough to refrain from importuning those who are working for you. Do you not think you have already done sufficient mischief?”

Having administered this rebuke, he turned to Gypsy, and said in softer tones:

“Go on, my child: what have you discovered?”

“Nothing positive, monsieur; 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 cannot get any information from Mme. Fauvel; she refuses to answer any hints, and 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, monsieur. 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 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 Mme. Gypsy. He was radiant.

“Hein!” he said to Prosper, forgetting his bad humor of a few minutes before; “Hein! 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.”

“Not a doubt of it!” cried the fat 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 Mme. Gypsy’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 fear, and thinks he has discovered, is worse than the true state of affairs.”

“That accounts for the order which M. Cavaillon overheard him give to his servant-man, 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 them to him; saying that, if this order was disobeyed, he should be instantly discharged.”

“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