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

but my corner is a good stand, and I am busy doing errands nearly all day. I suppose I make from eight to ten francs.”

“Very well; I will give you ten francs a day if you will walk about the streets, and look for the porter who brought this letter. Every evening, at eight o’clock, come to the Archangel, on the Quai Saint Michel, give me a report of your search, and receive your pay. Ask for M. Verduret. If you find the man I will give you fifty francs. Do you accept?”

“I rather think I will, monsieur.”

“Then don’t lose a minute. Start off!”

Although ignorant of M. Verduret’s plans, Prosper began to comprehend the sense of his investigations. His fate depended upon their success, and yet he almost forgot this fact in his admiration of this singular man; for his energy, his bantering coolness when he wished to discover anything, the surety of his deductions, the fertility of his expedients, and the rapidity of his movements, were astonishing.

“Monsieur,” said Prosper when the porter had left the room, “do you still think you see a woman’s hand in this affair?”

“More than ever; and a pious woman too, and a woman who has two prayerbooks, since she could cut up one to write to you.”

“And you hope to find the mutilated book?”

“I do, thanks to the opportunity I have of making an immediate search; which I will set about at once.”

Saying this, he sat down, and rapidly scratched off a few lines on a slip of paper, which he folded up, and put in his vest-pocket.

“Are you ready to go to M. Fauvel’s? Yes? Come on, then; we have certainly earned our breakfast today.”

VIII

When Raoul de Lagors spoke of M. Fauvel’s extraordinary dejection, he had not exaggerated.

Since the fatal day when, upon his denunciation, his cashier had been arrested, the banker, this active, energetic man of business, had been a prey to the most gloomy melancholy, and absolutely refused to take any interest in his affairs, seldom entering the banking-house.

He, who had always been so domestic, never came near his family except at meals, when he would swallow a few mouthfuls, and hastily leave the room.

Shut up in his study, he would deny himself to visitors. His anxious countenance, his indifference to everybody and everything, his constant reveries and fits of abstraction, betrayed the preoccupation of some fixed idea, or the tyrannical empire of some hidden sorrow.

The day of Prosper’s release, about three o’clock, M. Fauvel was, as usual, seated in his study, with his elbows resting on the table, and his face buried in his hands, when his office-boy rushed in, and with a frightened look said:

“Monsieur, the former cashier, M. Bertomy, is here with one of his relatives; he says he must see you on business.”

The banker at these words started up as if he had been shot.

“Prosper!” he cried in a voice choked by anger, “what! does he dare⁠—”

Then remembering that he ought to control himself before his servant, he waited a few moments, and then said, in a tone of forced calmness:

“Ask them to walk in.”

If M. Verduret had counted upon witnessing a strange and affecting sight, he was not disappointed.

Nothing could be more terrible than the attitude of these two men as they stood confronting each other. The banker’s face was almost purple with suppressed anger, and he looked as if about to be struck by apoplexy. Prosper was as pale and motionless as a corpse.

Silent and immovable, they stood glaring at each other with mortal hatred.

M. Verduret curiously watched these two enemies, with the indifference and coolness of a philosopher, who, in the most violent outbursts of human passion, merely sees subjects for meditation and study.

Finally, the silence becoming more and more threatening, he decided to break it by speaking to the banker:

“I suppose you know, monsieur, that my young relative has just been released from prison.”

“Yes,” replied M. Fauvel, making an effort to control himself, “yes, for want of sufficient proof.”

“Exactly so, monsieur, and this want of proof, as stated in the decision of ‘Not proven,’ ruins the prospects of my relative, and compels him to leave here at once for America.”

M. Fauvel’s features relaxed as if he had been relieved of some fearful agony.

“Ah, he is going away,” he said, “he is going abroad.”

There was no mistaking the resentful, almost insulting intonation of the words, “going away!”

M. Verduret took no notice of M. Fauvel’s manner.

“It appears to me,” he continued, in an easy tone, “that Prosper’s determination is a wise one. I merely wished him, before leaving Paris, to come and pay his respects to his former chief.”

The banker smiled bitterly.

“M. Bertomy might have spared us both this painful meeting. I have nothing to say to him, and of course he can have nothing to tell me.”

This was a formal dismissal; and M. Verduret, understanding it thus, bowed to M. Fauvel, and left the room, accompanied by Prosper, who had not opened his lips.

They had reached the street before Prosper recovered the use of his tongue.

“I hope you are satisfied, monsieur,” he said, in a gloomy tone; “you exacted this painful step, and I could only acquiesce. Have I gained anything by adding this humiliation to the others which I have suffered?”

“You have not, but I have,” replied M. Verduret. “I could find no way of gaining access to M. Fauvel, save through you; and now I have found out what I wanted to know. I am convinced that M. Fauvel had nothing to do with the robbery.”

“Oh, monsieur!” objected Prosper, “innocence can be feigned.”

“Certainly, but not to this extent. And this is not all. I wished to find out if M. Fauvel would be accessible to certain suspicions. I am now confident that he is.”

Prosper and his companion had stopped to talk more at their ease, near the corner of the Rue Lafitte, in the middle of a large space which had lately been cleared by pulling down an old house.

M. Verduret seemed to be anxious, and was constantly looking around as if he expected someone.

He soon