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

examined the money and papers: “this is the most sensible step you ever took.”

Raoul relied on this moment, when everybody’s attention would be absorbed by the money, to make his escape. He slid toward the door, gently opened it, slipped out, and locked it on the outside; the key being still in the lock.

“He has escaped!” cried M. Fauvel.

“Naturally,” replied M. Verduret, without even looking up: “I thought he would have sense enough to do that.”

“But is he to go unpunished?”

“My dear sir, would you have this affair become a public scandal? Do you wish your wife’s name to be brought into a case of this nature before the police-court?”

“Oh, monsieur!”

“Then the best thing you can do, is to let the rascal go scot free. Here are receipts for all the articles which he has pawned, so that we should consider ourselves fortunate. He has kept fifty thousand francs, but that is all the better for you. This sum will enable him to leave France, and we shall never see him again.”

Like everyone else, M. Fauvel yielded to the ascendancy of M. Verduret.

Gradually he had awakened to the true state of affairs; prospective happiness no longer seemed impossible, and he felt that he was indebted to the man before him for more than life. But for M. Verduret, where would have been his honor and domestic peace?

With earnest gratitude he seized M. Verduret’s hand as if to carry it to his lips, and said, in broken tones:

“Oh, monsieur! how can I ever find words to express how deeply I appreciate your kindness? How can I ever repay the great service you have rendered me?”

M. Verduret reflected a moment, and then said:

“If you feel under any significant obligations to me, monsieur, you have it in your power to return them. I have a favor to ask of you.”

“A favor? you ask of me? Speak, monsieur, you have but to name it. My fortune and life are at your disposal.”

“I will not hesitate, then, to explain myself. I am Prosper’s friend, and deeply interested in his future. You can exonerate him from this infamous charge of robbery; you can restore him to his honorable position. You can do more than this, monsieur. He loves Mlle. Madeleine.”

“Madeleine shall be his wife, monsieur,” interrupted the banker: “I give you my word of honor. And I will so publicly exonerate him, that not a shadow of suspicion will rest upon his name. I will place him in a position which will prevent slander from reproaching him with the painful remembrance of my fatal error.”

The fat man quietly took up his hat and cane, as if he had been paying an ordinary morning call, and turned to leave the room, after saying, “Good morning.” But, seeing the weeping woman raise her clasped hands appealingly toward him, he said hesitatingly:

“Monsieur, excuse my intruding any advice; but Mme. Fauvel⁠—”

“André!” murmured the wretched wife, “André!”

The banker hesitated a moment; then, following the impulse of his heart, ran to his wife, and, clasping her in his arms, said tenderly:

“No, I will not be foolish enough to struggle against my deep-rooted love. I do not pardon, Valentine: I forget; I forget all!”

M. Verduret had nothing more to do at Vésinet.

Without taking leave of the banker, he quietly left the room, and, jumping into his cab, ordered the driver to return to Paris, and drive to the Hotel du Louvre as rapidly as possible.

His mind was filled with anxiety about Clameran. He knew that Raoul would give him no more trouble; the young rogue was probably taking his passage for some foreign land at that very moment. But Clameran should not escape unpunished; and how this punishment could be brought about without compromising Mme. Fauvel, was the problem to be solved.

M. Verduret thought over the various cases similar to this, but not one of his former expedients could be applied to the present circumstances. He could not deliver the villain over to justice without involving Mme. Fauvel.

After long thought, he decided that an accusation of poisoning must come from Oloron. He would go there and work upon “public opinion,” so that, to satisfy the townspeople, the authorities would order a postmortem examination of Gaston. But this mode of proceeding required time; and Clameran would certainly escape before another day passed over his head. He was too experienced a knave to remain on slippery ground, now that his eyes were open to the danger which menaced him. It was almost dark when the carriage stopped in front of the Hotel du Louvre; M. Verduret noticed a crowd of people collected together in groups, eagerly discussing some exciting event which seemed to have just taken place. Although the policeman attempted to disperse the crowd by authoritatively ordering them to “Move on! Move on!” they would merely separate in one spot to join a more clamorous group a few yards off.

“What has happened?” demanded M. Verduret of a lounger near by.

“The strangest thing you ever heard of,” replied the man; “yes, I saw him with my own eyes. He first appeared at that seventh-story window; he was only half-dressed. Some men tried to seize him; but, bast! with the agility of a squirrel, he jumped out upon the roof, shrieking, ‘Murder! murder!’ The recklessness of his conduct led me to suppose⁠—”

The gossip stopped short in his narrative, very much surprised and vexed; his questioner had vanished.

“If it should be Clameran!” thought M. Verduret; “if terror has deranged that brain, so capable of working out great crimes! Fate must have interposed⁠—”

While thus talking to himself, he elbowed his way through the crowded courtyard of the hotel.

At the foot of the staircase he found M. Fanferlot and three peculiar-looking individuals standing together, as if waiting for someone.

“Well,” cried M. Verduret, “what is the matter?”

With laudable emulation, the four men rushed forward to report to their superior officer.

“Patron,” they all began at once.

“Silence!” said the fat man with an oath; “one at a time. Quick! what is the matter?”

“The matter is this, patron,” said Fanferlot dejectedly. “I am doomed to ill luck. You see