Chapter 3

“Here is the key of your safe, monsieur. I hope for my sake that you will some day be convinced of my innocence; and I hope for your sake that the conviction will not come too late.”

Then, as everyone was silent, he resumed:

“Before leaving I hand over to you the books, papers, and accounts necessary for my successor. I must at the same time inform you that, without speaking of the stolen three hundred and fifty thousand francs, I leave a deficit in cash.”

“A deficit!” This ominous word from the lips of a cashier fell like a bombshell upon the ears of Prosper’s hearers.

His declaration was interpreted in divers ways.

“A deficit!” thought the commissary: “how, after this, can his guilt be doubted? Before stealing this whole contents of the safe, he has kept his hand in by occasional small thefts.”

“A deficit!” said the detective to himself, “now, no doubt, the very innocence of this poor devil gives his conduct an appearance of great depravity; were he guilty, he would have replaced the first money by a portion of the second.”

The grave importance of Prosper’s statement was considerably diminished by the explanation he proceeded to make.

“There is a deficit of three thousand five hundred francs on my cash account, which has been disposed of in the following manner: two thousand taken by myself in advance on my salary; fifteen hundred advanced to several of my fellow-clerks. This is the last day of the month; to-morrow the salaries will be paid, consequently--”

The commissary interrupted him:

“Were you authorized to draw money whenever you wished to advance the clerks’ pay?”

“No; but I knew that M. Fauvel would not have refused me permission to oblige my friends in the bank. What I did is done everywhere; I have simply followed my predecessor’s example.”

The banker made a sign of assent.

“As regards that spent by myself,” continued the cashier, “I had a sort of right to it, all of my savings being deposited in this bank; about fifteen thousand francs.”

“That is true,” said M. Fauvel; “M. Bertomy has at least that amount on deposit.”

This last question settled, the commissary’s errand was over, and his report might now be made. He announced his intention of leaving, and ordered to cashier to prepare to follow him.

Usually, this moment when stern reality stares us in the face, when our individuality is lost and we feel that we are being deprived of our liberty, this moment is terrible.

At this fatal command, “Follow me,” which brings before our eyes the yawning prison gates, the most hardened sinner feels his courage fail, and abjectly begs for mercy.

But Prosper lost none of that studied phlegm which the commissary of police secretly pronounced consummate impudence.

Slowly, with as much careless ease as if going to breakfast with a friend, he smoothed his hair, drew on his overcoat and gloves, and said, politely:

“I am ready to accompany you, monsieur.”

The commissary folded up his pocket-book, and bowed to M. Fauvel, saying to Prosper:

“Come!”

They left the room, and with a distressed face, and eyes filled with tears that he could not restrain, the banker stood watching their retreating forms.

“Good Heaven!” he exclaimed: “gladly would I give twice that sum to regain my old confidence in poor Prosper, and be able to keep him with me!”

The quick-eared Fanferlot overheard these words, and prompted to suspicion, and ever disposed to impute to others the deep astuteness peculiar to himself, was convinced they had been uttered for his benefit.

He had remained behind the others under pretext of looking for an imaginary umbrella, and, as he reluctantly departed, said he would call in again to see if it had been found.

It was Fanferlot’s task to escort Prosper to prison; but, as they were about starting, he asked the commissary to leave him at liberty to pursue another course, a request which his superior granted.

Fanferlot had resolved to obtain possession of Prosper’s note, which he knew to be in Cavaillon’s pocket.

To obtain this written proof, which must be an important one, appeared the easiest thing in the world. He had simply to arrest Cavaillon, frighten him, demand the letter, and, if necessary, take it by force.

But to what would this disturbance lead? To nothing unless it were an incomplete and doubtful result.

Fanferlot was convinced that the note was intended, not for the young clerk, but for a third person.

If exasperated, Cavaillon might refuse to divulge who this person was, who after all might not bear the name “Gypsy” given by the cashier. And, even if he did answer his questions, would he not lie?

After a mature reflection, Fanferlot decided that it would be superfluous to ask for a secret when it could be surprised. To quietly follow Cavaillon, and keep close watch on him until he caught him in the very act of handing over the letter, was but play for the detective.

This method of proceeding, moreover, was much more in keeping with the character of Fanferlot, who, being naturally soft and stealthy, deemed it due to his profession to avoid all disturbance or anything resembling evidence.

Fanferlot’s plan was settled when he reached the vestibule.

He began talking with an office-boy, and, after a few apparently idle questions, had discovered that the Fauvel bank had no outlet on the Rue de la Victoire, and that consequently all the clerks were obliged to pass in and out through the main entrance on the Rue de Provence.

From this moment the task he had undertaken no longer presented a shadow of difficulty. He rapidly crossed the street, and took up his position under a gateway.

His post of observation was admirably chosen; not only could he see everyone who entered and came out of the bank, but also commanded a view of all the windows, and by standing on tiptoe could look through the grating, and see Cavaillon bending over his desk.

Fanferlot waited a long time, but did not wax impatient, for he had often had to remain on watch entire days and nights at a time, with much less important objects in view than the present one. Besides, his mind was busily occupied in estimating the value of his discoveries, weighing his chances, and, like Perrette with her pot of milk, building the foundation of his fortune upon present success.

Finally, about one o’clock, he saw Cavaillon rise from his desk, change his coat, and take down his hat.

“Very good!” he exclaimed, “my man is coming out; I must keep my eyes open.”

The next moment Cavaillon appeared at the door of the bank; but before stepping on the pavement he looked up and down the street in an undecided manner.

“Can he suspect anything?” thought Fanferlot.

No, the young clerk suspected nothing; only having a commission to execute, and fearing his absence would be observed, he was debating with himself which would be the shortest road for him to take.

He soon decided, entered the Faubourg Montmartre, and walked up the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette so rapidly, utterly regardless of the grumbling passers-by whom he elbowed out of his way, that Fanferlot found it difficult to keep him in sight.

Reaching the Rue Chaptal, Cavaillon suddenly stopped, and entered the house numbered 39.

He had scarcely taken three steps in the narrow corridor when he felt a touch on his shoulder, and turning abruptly, found himself face to face with Fanferlot.

He recognized him at once, and turning very pale he shrank back, and looked around for means of escape.

But the detective, anticipating the attempt, barred the passage-way. Cavaillon saw that he was fairly caught.

“What do you want with me?” he asked in a voice tremulous with fright.

Fanferlot was distinguished among his confreres for his exquisite suavity and unequalled urbanity. Even with his prisoners he was the perfection of courtesy, and never was known to handcuff a man without first obsequiously apologizing for being compelled to do so.

“You will be kind enough, my dear monsieur,” he said, “to excuse the great liberty I take; but I really am under the necessity of asking you for a little information.”

“Information! From me, monsieur?”

“From you, my dear monsieur; from M. Eugene Cavaillon.”

“But I do not know you.”

“Ah, yes; you remember seeing me this morning. It is only about a trifling matter, and you will overwhelm me with obligations if you will do me the honor to accept my arm, and step outside for a moment.”

What could Cavaillon do? He took Fanferlot’s arm, and went out with him.

The Rue Chaptal is not one of those noisy thoroughfares where foot-passengers are in perpetual danger of being run over by numberless vehicles dashing to and fro; there were but two or three shops, and from the corner of Rue Fontaine occupied by an apothecary, to the entrance of the Rue Leonie, extended a high, gloomy wall, broken here and there by a small window which lighted the carpenters’ shops behind.

It was one of those streets where you could talk at your ease, without having to step from the sidewalk every moment. So Fanferlot and Cavaillon were in no danger of being disturbed by passers-by.

“What I wished to say is, my dear monsieur,” began the detective, “that M. Prosper Bertomy threw you a note this morning.”

Cavaillon vaguely foresaw that he was to be questioned about this note, and instantly put himself on his guard.

“You are mistaken,” he said, blushing to his ears.

“Excuse me, monsieur, for presuming to contradict you, but I am quite certain of what I say.”

“I assure you that Prosper never gave me anything.”

“Pray, monsieur, do not persist in a denial; you will compel me to prove that four clerks saw him throw you a note written in pencil and closely folded.”

Cavaillon saw the folly of further contradicting a man so well informed; so he changed his tactics, and said:

“It is true Prosper gave me a note this morning; but it was intended for me alone, and after reading it I tore it up, and threw the pieces in the fire.”

This might be the truth. Fanferlot feared so; but how could he assure himself of the fact? He remembered that the most palpable tricks often succeed the best, and trusting to his star, he said at hazard:

“Permit me to observe that this statement is not correct; the note was intrusted to you to give to Gypsy.”

A despairing gesture from Cavaillon apprised the detective that he was not mistaken; he breathed again.

“I swear to you, monsieur,” began the young man.

“Do not swear, monsieur,” interrupted Fanferlot; “all the oaths in the world would be useless. You not only preserved the note, but you came to this house for the purpose of giving it to Gypsy, and it is in your pocket now.”

“No, monsieur, no!”

Fanferlot paid no attention to this denial, but continued in his gentlest tone:

“And I am sure you will be kind enough to give it to me; believe me, nothing but the most absolute necessity--”

“Never!” exclaimed Cavaillon; and, believing the moment favorable, he suddenly attempted to jerk his arm from under Fanferlot’s, and escape.

But his efforts were vain; the detective’s strength was equal to his suavity.

“Don’t hurt yourself, young man,” he said, “but take my advice, and quietly give up the letter.”

“I have not got it.”

“Very well; see, you reduce me to painful extremities. If you persist in being so obstinate, I shall call two policemen, who will take you by each arm, and escort you to the commissary of police; and, once there, I shall be under the painful necessity of searching your pockets, whether you will or not.”

Cavaillon was devoted to Prosper, and willing to make any sacrifice in his behalf; but he clearly saw that it was worse than useless to struggle any longer, as he would have no time to destroy the note. To deliver it under force was no betrayal; but he cursed his powerlessness, and almost wept with rage.

“I am in your power,” he said, and then suddenly drew from his pocket-book the unlucky note, and gave it to the detective.

Fanferlot trembled with pleasure as he unfolded the paper; yet, faithful to his habits of fastidious politeness, before reading it, he bowed to Cavaillon, and said:

“You will permit me, will you not, monsieur?” Then he read as follows:

“DEAR NINA--If you love me, follow my instructions instantly, without a moment’s hesitation, without asking any questions. On the receipt of this note, take everything you have in the house, absolutely everything, and establish yourself in furnished rooms at the other end of Paris. Do not appear in public, but conceal yourself as much as possible. My life may depend on your obedience.

“I am accused of an immense robbery, and am about to be arrested. Take with you five hundred francs which you will find in the secretary.

“Leave your address with Cavaillon, who will explain what I have not time to tell. Be hopeful, whatever happens. Good-by. PROSPER.”

Had Cavaillon been less bewildered, he would have seen blank disappointment depicted on the detective’s face after the perusal of the note.

Fanferlot had cherished the hope that he was about to possess a very important document, which would clearly prove the guilt or innocence of Prosper; whereas he had only seized a love-letter written by a man who was evidently more anxious about the welfare of the woman he loved than about his own.

Vainly did he puzzle over the letter, hoping to discover some hidden meaning; twist the words as he would, they proved nothing for or against the writer.

The two words “absolutely everything” were underscored, it is true; but they could be interpreted in so many ways.

The detective, however, determined not to drop the matter here.

“This Mme. Nina Gypsy is doubtless a friend of M. Prosper Bertomy?”

“She is his particular friend.”

“Ah, I understand; and she lives here at No. 39?”

“You know it well enough, as you saw me go in there.”

“I suspected it to be the house, monsieur; now tell me whether the apartments she occupies are rented in her name.”

“No. Prosper rents them.”

“Exactly; and on which floor, if you please?”

“On the first.”

During this colloquy, Fanferlot had folded up the note, and slipped it into his pocket.

“A thousand thanks, monsieur, for the information; and, in return, I will relieve you of the trouble of executing your commission.”

“Monsieur!”

“Yes: with your permission, I will myself take this note to Mme. Nina Gypsy.”

Cavaillon began to remonstrate; but Fanferlot cut him short by saying:

“I will also venture to give you a piece of advice. Return quietly to your business, and have nothing more to do with this affair.”

“But Prosper is a good friend of mine, and has saved me from ruin more than once.”

“Only the more reason for your keeping quiet. You cannot be of the slightest assistance to him, and I can tell you that you may be of great injury. As you are known to be his devoted friend, of course your absence at this time will be remarked upon. Any steps that you take in this matter will receive the worst interpretation.”

“Prosper is innocent, I am sure.”

Fanferlot was of the same opinion, but he had no idea of betraying his private thoughts; and yet for the success of his investigations it was necessary to impress the importance of prudence and discretion upon the young man. He would have told him to keep silent concerning what had passed between them, but he dared not.

“What you say may be true,” he said. “I hope it is, for the sake of M. Bertomy, and on your own account too; for, if he is guilty, you will certainly be very much annoyed, and perhaps suspected of complicity, as you are well known to be intimate with him.”

Cavaillon was overcome.

“Now you had best take my advice, monsieur, and return to your business, and--. Good-morning, monsieur.”

The poor fellow obeyed. Slowly and with swelling heart he returned to the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette. He asked himself how he could serve Prosper, warn Mme. Gypsy, and, above all, have his revenge upon this odious detective, who had just made him suffer cruel humiliation.

He had no sooner turned the corner of the street, than Fanferlot entered No. 39, gave his name to the porter as Prosper Bertomy, went upstairs, and knocked at the first door he came to.

It was opened by a youthful footman, dressed in the most fanciful livery.

“Is Mme. Gypsy at home?”

The groom hesitated; seeing this, Fanferlot showed his note, and said:

“M. Prosper told me to hand this note to madame, and wait for an answer.”

“Walk in, and I will let madame know you are here.”

The name of Prosper produced its effect. Fanferlot was ushered into a little room furnished in blue and gold silk damask. Heavy curtains darkened the windows, and hung in front of the doors. The floor was covered with a blue velvet carpet.

“Our cashier was certainly well lodged,” murmured the detective.

But he had no time to purse his inventory. One of the door-curtains was pushed aside, and Mme. Nina Gypsy stood before him.

Mme. Gypsy was quite young, small, and graceful, with a brown or rather gold-colored quadroon complexion, with the hands and feet of a child.

Long curling silk lashes softened the piercing brilliancy of her large black eyes; her lips were full, and her teeth were very white.

She had not yet made her toilet, but wore a velvet dressing-wrapper, which did not conceal the lace ruffles beneath. But she had already been under the hands of a hairdresser.

Her hair was curled and frizzed high on her forehead, and confined by narrow bands of red velvet; her back hair was rolled in an immense coil, and held by a beautiful gold comb.

She was ravishing. Her beauty was so startling that the dazzled detective was speechless with admiration.

“Well,” he said to himself, as he remembered the noble, severe beauty of Madeleine, whom he had seen a few hours previous, “our young gentleman certainly has good taste--very good taste--two perfect beauties!”

While he thus reflected, perfectly bewildered, and wondering how he could begin the conversation, Mme. Gypsy eyed him with the most disdainful surprise; she was waiting for this shabby little man in a threadbare coat and greasy hat to explain his presence in her dainty parlor.

She had many creditors, and was recalling them, and wondering which one had dared send this man to wipe his dusty boots on her velvet carpets.

After scrutinizing him from head to foot with undisguised contempt, she said, haughtily:

“What do you want?”

Anyone but Fanferlot would have been offended at her insolent manner; but he only noticed it to gain some notion of the young woman’s disposition.

“She is bad-tempered,” he thought, “and is uneducated.”

While he was speculating upon her merits, Mme. Nina impatiently tapped her little foot, and waited for an answer; finally she said:

“Why don’t you speak? What do you want here?”

“I am charged, my dear madame,” he answered in his softest tone, “by M. Bertomy, to give you this note.”

“From Prosper! You know him, then?”

“I have that honor, madame; indeed, I may be so bold as to claim him as a friend.”

“Monsieur! _You_ a friend of Prosper!” exclaimed Mme. Gypsy in a scornful tone, as if her pride were wounded.

Fanferlot did not condescend to notice this offensive exclamation. He was ambitious, and contempt failed to irritate him.

“I said a friend of his, madame, and there are few people who would have the courage to claim friendship for him now.”

Mme. Gypsy was struck by the words and manner of Fanferlot.

“I never could guess riddles,” she said, tartly: “will you be kind enough to explain what you mean?”

The detective slowly drew Prosper’s note from his pocket, and, with a bow, presented it to Mme. Gypsy.

“Read, madame,” he said.

She certainly anticipated no misfortune; although her sight was excellent, she stopped to fasten a tiny gold eyeglass on her nose, then carelessly opened the note.

At a glance she read its contents.

She turned very red, then very pale; she trembled as if with a nervous chill; her limbs seemed to give way, and she tottered so that Fanferlot, thinking she was about to fall, extended his arms to catch her.

Useless precaution! Mme. Gypsy was one of those women whose inert listlessness conceals indomitable energy; fragile-looking creatures whose powers of endurance and resistance are unlimited; cat-like in their soft grace and delicacy, especially cat-like in their nerves and muscles of steel.

The dizziness caused by the shock she had received quickly passed off. She tottered, but did not fall, and stood up looking stronger than ever; seizing the wrist of the detective, she held it as if her delicate little hand were a vice, and cried out:

“Explain yourself! what does all this mean? Do you know anything about the contents of this note?”

Although Fanferlot betrayed courage in daily contending with the most dangerous rascals, he was positively terrified by Mme. Gypsy.

“Alas!” he murmured.

“Prosper is to be arrested, accused of being a thief?”

“Yes, madame, he is accused of taking three hundred and fifty thousand francs from the bank-safe.”

“It is false, infamous, absurd!” she cried. She had dropped Fanferlot’s hand; and her fury, like that of a spoiled child, found vent in violent actions. She tore her web-like handkerchief, and the magnificent lace on her gown, to shreds.

“Prosper steal!” she cried; “what a stupid idea! Why should he steal? Is he not rich?”

“M. Bertomy is not rich, madame; he has nothing but his salary.”

The answer seemed to confound Mme. Gypsy.

“But,” she insisted, “I have always seen him have plenty of money; not rich--then----”

She dared not finish; but her eye met Fanferlot’s, and they understood each other.

Mme. Nina’s look meant:

“He committed this robbery in order to gratify my extravagant whims.”

Fanferlot’s glance answered:

“Very likely, madame.”

A few minutes’ reflection convinced Nina that her first impression was the correct one. Doubt fled after hovering for an instant over her agitated mind.

“No!” she cried, “I regret to say that Prosper would never have stolen one cent for me. One can understand a man robbing a bank to obtain means of bestowing pleasure and luxury upon the woman he loves; but Prosper does not love me, he never has loved me.”

“Oh, fair lady!” protested the gallant and insinuating Fanferlot, “you surely cannot mean what you say.”

Her beautiful eyes filled with tears, as she sadly shook her head, and said:

“I mean exactly what I say. It is only too true. He is ready to gratify my every wish, you may say; what does that prove? Nothing. I am too well convinced that he does not love me. I know what love is. Once I was beloved by an affectionate, true-hearted man; and my own sufferings of the last year make me know how miserable I must have made him by my cold return. Alas! we must suffer ourselves before we can feel for others. No, I am nothing to Prosper; he would not care if--”

“But then, madame, why--”

“Ah, yes,” interrupted Nina, “why? you will be very wise if you can answer me. For a year have I vainly sought an answer to this question, so sad to me. I, a woman, cannot answer it; and I defy you to do so. You cannot discover the thoughts of a man so thoroughly master of himself that never is a single thought passing in his mind to be detected upon his countenance. I have watched him as only a woman can watch the man upon whom her fate depends, but it has always been in vain. He is kind and indulgent; but he does not betray himself, never will he commit himself. Ignorant people call him weak, yielding: I tell you that fair-haired man is a rod of iron painted like a reed!”

Carried away by the violence of her feelings, Mme. Nina betrayed her inmost thoughts. She was without distrust, never suspecting that the stranger listening to her was other than a friend of Prosper.