Chapter 9

“Well, what then?” said the man with the red whiskers; “did you not say just now the sacrifice of your life is made? The skilful swimmer thrown into the river by malefactors is careful not to rise to the surface immediately: on the contrary, he plunges beneath, and remains there as long as his breath holds out. He comes up again at a great distance, and lands out of sight; then, when he is supposed to be dead, lost forever to the sight of man, he rises up and has his vengeance. You have an enemy? Some petty imprudence will betray him. But, while he sees you standing by on the watch, he will be on his guard.”

It was with a sort of amazed submission that Prosper listened to this man, who, though a friend of his father, was an utter stranger to himself.

He submitted unconsciously to the ascendency of a nature so much more energetic and forcible than his own. In his helpless condition he was grateful for friendly assistance, and said:

“I will follow your advice, monsieur.”

“I was sure you would, my dear friend. Let us reflect upon the course you should pursue. And remember that you will need every cent of the proceeds of the sale. Have you any ready money? no, but you must have some. Knowing that you would need it at once, I brought an upholsterer here; and he will give twelve thousand francs for everything excepting the pictures.”

The cashier could not refrain from shrugging his shoulders, which M. Verduret observed.

“Well,” said he, “it is rather hard, I admit, but it is a necessity. Now listen: you are the invalid, and I am the doctor charged to cure you; if I cut to the quick, you will have to endure it. It is the only way to save you.”

“Cut away then, monsieur,” answered Prosper.

“Well, we will hurry, for time passes. You have a friend, M. de Lagors?”

“Raoul? Yes, monsieur, he is an intimate friend.”

“Now tell me, who is this fellow?”

The term “fellow” seemed to offend Prosper.

“M. de Lagors, monsieur,” he said, haughtily, “is M. Fauvel’s nephew; he is a wealthy young man, handsome, intelligent, cultivated, and the best friend I have.”

“Hum!” said M. Verduret, “I shall be delighted to make the acquaintance of one adorned by so many charming qualities. I must let you know that I wrote him a note in your name asking him to come here, and he sent word that he would be here directly.”

“What! do you suppose--”

“Oh, I suppose nothing! Only I must see this young man. Also, I have arranged and will submit to you a little plan of conversation--”

A ring at the front door interrupted M. Verduret.

“Sacrebleu! adieu to my plan; here he is! Where can I hide so as to hear and see?”

“There, in my bedroom; leave the door open and the curtain down.”

A second ring was heard.

“Now remember, Prosper,” said M. Verduret in a warning tone, “not one word to this man about your plans, or about me. Pretend to be discouraged, helpless, and undecided what to do.”

And he disappeared behind the curtain, as Prosper ran to open the door.

Prosper’s portrait of M. de Lagors had not been an exaggerated one. So handsome a face and manly a figure could belong only to a noble character.

Although Raoul said that he was twenty-four, he appeared to be not more than twenty. He had a superb figure, well knit and supple; a beautiful white brow, shaded by soft chestnut curly hair, soft blue eyes which beamed with frankness.

His first impulse was to throw himself into Prosper’s arms.

“My poor, dear friend!” he said, “my poor Prosper!”

But beneath these affectionate demonstrations there was a certain constraint, which, if it escaped the cashier, was noticed by M. Verduret.

“Your letter, my dear Prosper,” said Raoul, “made me almost ill, I was so frightened by it. I asked myself if you could have lost your mind. Then I left everything, to fly to your assistance; and here I am.”

Prosper did not seem to hear him; he was pre-occupied about the letter which he had not written. What were its contents? Who was this stranger whose assistance he had accepted?

“You must not feel discouraged,” continued M. de Lagors: “you are young enough to commence life anew. Your friends are still left to you. I have come to say to you, Rely upon me; I am rich, half of my fortune is at your disposal.”

This generous offer, made at a moment like this with such frank simplicity, deeply touched Prosper.

“Thanks, Raoul,” he said with emotion, “thank you! But unfortunately all the money in the world would be of no use now.”

“Why so? What are you going to do? Do you propose to remain in Paris?”

“I know not, Raoul. I have made no plans yet. My mind is too confused for me to think.”

“I will tell you what to do,” replied Raoul quickly, “you must start afresh; until this mysterious robbery is explained you must keep away from Paris. It will never do for you to remain here.”

“And suppose it never should be explained?”

“Only the more reason for your remaining in oblivion. I have been talking about you to Clameran. ‘If I were in Prosper’s place,’ he said, ‘I would turn everything into money, and embark for America; there I would make a fortune, and return to crush with my millions those who have suspected me.’”

This advice offended Prosper’s pride, but he said nothing. He was thinking of what the stranger had said to him.

“I will think it over,” he finally forced himself to say. “I will see. I would like to know what M. Fauvel says.”

“My uncle? I suppose you know that I have declined the offer he made me to enter his banking-house, and we have almost quarrelled. I have not set foot in his house for over a month; but I hear of him occasionally.”

“Through whom?”

“Through your friend Cavaillon. My uncle, they say, is more distressed by this affair than you are. He does not attend to his business, and wanders about as if he had lost every friend on earth.”

“And Mme. Fauvel, and”--Prosper hesitated--“and Mlle. Madeleine, how are they?”

“Oh,” said Raoul lightly, “my aunt is as pious as ever; she has mass said for the benefit of the sinner. As to my handsome, icy cousin, she cannot bring herself down to common matters, because she is entirely absorbed in preparing for the fancy ball to be given day after to-morrow by MM. Jandidier. She has discovered, so one of her friends told me, a wonderful dressmaker, a stranger who has suddenly appeared from no one knows where, who is making a costume of Catherine de Medici’s maid of honor; and it is to be a marvel of beauty.”

Excessive suffering brings with it a sort of dull insensibility and stupor; and Prosper thought that there was nothing left to be inflicted upon him, and had reached that state of impassibility from which he never expected to be aroused, when this last remark of M. de Lagors made him cry out with pain:

“Madeleine! Oh, Madeleine!”

M. de Lagors, pretending not to have heard him, rose from his chair, and said:

“I must leave you now, my dear Prosper; on Saturday I will see these ladies at the ball, and will bring you news of them. Now, do have courage, and remember that, whatever happens, you have a friend in me.”

Raoul shook Prosper’s hand, closed the door after him, and hurried up the street, leaving Prosper standing immovable and overcome by disappointment.

He was aroused from his gloomy revery by hearing the red-whiskered man say, in a bantering tone:

“So these are your friends.”

“Yes,” said Prosper with bitterness. “You heard him offer me half his fortune?”

M. Verduret shrugged his shoulders with an air of compassion.

“That was very stingy on his part,” he said, “why did he not offer the whole? Offers cost nothing; although I have no doubt that this sweet youth would cheerfully give ten thousand francs to put the ocean between you and him.”

“Monsieur! what reason?”

“Who knows? Perhaps for the same reason that he had not set foot in his uncle’s house for a month.”

“But that is the truth, monsieur, I am sure of it.”

“Naturally,” said M. Verduret with a provoking smile. “But,” he continued with a serious air, “we have devoted enough time to this Adonis. Now, be good enough to change your dress, and we will go and call on M. Fauvel.”

This proposal seemed to stir up all of Prosper’s anger.

“Never!” he exclaimed with excitement, “no, never will I voluntarily set eyes on that wretch!”

This resistance did not surprise M. Verduret.

“I can understand your feelings toward him,” said he, “but at the same time I hope you will change your mind. For the same reason that I wished to see M. de Lagors, do I wish to see M. Fauvel; it is necessary, you understand. Are you so very weak that you cannot put a constraint upon yourself for five minutes? I shall introduce myself as one of your relatives, and you need not open your lips.”

“If it is positively necessary,” said Prosper, “if--”

“It is necessary; so come on. You must have confidence, put on a brave face. Hurry and fix yourself up a little; it is getting late, and I am hungry. We will breakfast on our way there.”

Prosper had hardly passed into his bedroom when the bell rang again. M. Verduret opened the door. It was the porter, who handed him a thick letter, and said:

“This letter was left this morning for M. Bertomy; I was so flustered when he came that I forgot to hand it to him. It is a very odd-looking letter; is it not, monsieur?”

It was indeed a most peculiar missive. The address was not written, but formed of printed letters, carefully cut from a book, and pasted on the envelope.

“Oh, ho! what is this?” cried M. Verduret; then turning toward the porter he cried, “Wait.”

He went into the next room, and closed the door behind him; there he found Prosper, anxious to know what was going on.

“Here is a letter for you,” said M. Verduret.

He at once tore open the envelope.

Some bank-notes dropped out; he counted them; there were ten.

Prosper’s face turned purple.

“What does this mean?” he asked.

“We will read the letter and find out,” replied M. Verduret.

The letter, like the address, was composed of printed words cut out and pasted on a sheet of paper.

It was short but explicit:

“MY DEAR PROSPER--A friend, who knows the horror of your situation, sends you this succor. There is one heart, be assured, that shares your sufferings. Go away; leave France; you are young; the future is before you. Go, and may this money bring you happiness!”

As M. Verduret read the note, Prosper’s rage increased. He was angry and perplexed, for he could not explain the rapidly succeeding events which were so calculated to mystify his already confused brain.

“Everybody wishes me to go away,” he cried; “then there must be a conspiracy against me.”

M. Verduret smiled with satisfaction.

“At last you begin to open your eyes, you begin to understand. Yes, there are people who hate you because of the wrong they have done you; there are people to whom your presence in Paris is a constant danger, and who will not feel safe till they are rid of you.”

“But who are these people, monsieur? Tell me, who dares send this money?”

“If I knew, my dear Prosper, my task would be at an end, for then I would know who committed the robbery. But we will continue our searches. I have finally procured evidence which will sooner or later become convincing proof. I have heretofore only made deductions more or less probable; I now possess knowledge which proves that I was not mistaken. I walked in darkness: now I have a light to guide me.”

As Prosper listened to M. Verduret’s reassuring words, he felt hope arising in his breast.

“Now,” said M. Verduret, “we must take advantage of this evidence, gained by the imprudence of our enemies, without delay. We will begin with the porter.”

He opened the door and called out:

“I say, my good man, step here a moment.”

The porter entered, looking very much surprised at the authority exercised over his lodger by this stranger.

“Who gave you this letter?” said M. Verduret.

“A messenger, who said he was paid for bringing it.”

“Do you know him?”

“I know him well; he is the errand-runner who keeps his cart at the corner of the Rue Pigalle.”

“Go and bring him here.”

After the porter had gone, M. Verduret drew from his pocket his diary, and compared a page of it with the notes which he had spread over the table.

“These notes were not sent by the thief,” he said, after an attentive examination of them.

“Do you think so, monsieur?”

“I am certain of it; that is, unless the thief is endowed with extraordinary penetration and forethought. One thing is certain: these ten thousand francs are not part of the three hundred and fifty thousand which were stolen from the safe.”

“Yet,” said Prosper, who could not account for this certainty on the part of his protector, “yet----”

“There is no doubt about it: I have the numbers of all the stolen notes.”

“What! When even I did not have them?”

“But the bank did, fortunately. When we undertake an affair we must anticipate everything, and forget nothing. It is a poor excuse for a man to say, ‘I did not think of it’ when he commits some oversight. I thought of the bank.”

If, in the beginning, Prosper had felt some repugnance about confiding in his father’s friend, the feeling had now disappeared.

He understood that alone, scarcely master of himself, governed only by the inspirations of inexperience, never would he have the patient perspicacity of this singular man.

Verduret continued talking to himself, as if he had absolutely forgotten Prosper’s presence:

“Then, as this package did not come from the thief, it can only come from the other person, who was near the safe at the time of the robbery, but could not prevent it, and now feels remorse. The probability of two persons assisting at the robbery, a probability suggested by the scratch, is now converted into undeniable certainty. _Ergo_, I was right.”

Prosper listening attentively tried hard to comprehend this monologue, which he dared not interrupt.

“Let us seek,” went on the fat man, “this second person, whose conscience pricks him, and yet who dares not reveal anything.”

He read the letter over several times, scanning the sentences, and weighing every word.

“Evidently this letter was composed by a woman,” he finally said. “Never would one man doing another man a service, and sending him money, use the word ‘succor.’ A man would have said, loan, money, or some other equivalent, but succor, never. No one but a woman, ignorant of masculine susceptibilities, would have naturally made use of this word to express the idea it represents. As to the sentence, ‘There is one heart,’ and so on, it could only have been written by a woman.”

“You are mistaken, monsieur,” said Prosper: “no woman is mixed up in this affair.”

M. Verduret paid no attention to this interruption, perhaps he did not hear it; perhaps he did not care to argue the matter.

“Now, let us see if we can discover whence the printed words were taken to compose this letter.”

He approached the window, and began to study the pasted words with all the scrupulous attention which an antiquarian would devote to an old, half-effaced manuscript.

“Small type,” he said, “very slender and clear; the paper is thin and glossy. Consequently, these words have not been cut from a newspaper, magazine, or even a novel. I have seen type like this, I recognize it at once; Didot often uses it, so does Mme. de Tours.”

He stopped with his mouth open, and eyes fixed, appealing laboriously to his memory.

Suddenly he struck his forehead exultantly.

“Now I have it!” he cried; “now I have it! Why did I not see it at once? These words have all been cut from a prayer-book. We will look, at least, and then we shall be certain.”

He moistened one of the words pasted on the paper with his tongue, and, when it was sufficiently softened, he detached it with a pin. On the other side of this word was printed a Latin word, _Deus_.

“Ah, ha,” he said with a little laugh of satisfaction. “I knew it. Father Taberet would be pleased to see this. But what has become of the mutilated prayer-book? Can it have been burned? No, because a heavy-bound book is not easily burned. It is thrown in some corner.”

M. Verduret was interrupted by the porter, who returned with the messenger from the Rue Pigalle.

“Ah, here you are,” he said encouragingly. Then he showed the envelope of the letter, and said:

“Do you remember bringing this letter here this morning?”

“Perfectly, monsieur. I took particular notice of the direction; we don’t often see anything like it.”

“Who told you to bring it? a gentleman, or a lady?”

“Neither, monsieur; it was a porter.”

This reply made the porter laugh very much, but not a muscle of M. Verduret’s face moved.

“A porter? Well, do you know this colleague of yours.”

“I never even saw him before.”

“How does he look?”

“He was neither tall nor short; he wore a green vest, and his medal.”

“Your description is so vague that it would suit every porter in the city; but did your colleague tell you who sent the letter?”

“No, monsieur. He only put ten sous in my hand, and said, ‘Here, carry this to No. 39, Rue Chaptal: a coachman on the boulevard handed it to me.’ Ten sous! I warrant you he made more than that by it.”

This answer seemed to disconcert M. Verduret. So many precautions taken in sending the letter disturbed him, and disarranged his plans.

“Do you think you would recognize the porter again?”

“Yes, monsieur, if I saw him.”

“How much do you gain a day as a porter?”

“I can’t tell exactly; 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 prayer-books, 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 to-day.”

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 uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.

At the other end of the vacant space, he saw Cavaillon, who was bareheaded and running.

He was so excited that he did not even stop to shake hands with Prosper, but darted up to M. Verduret, and said:

“They have gone, monsieur!”

“How long since?”

“They went about a quarter of an hour ago.”

“The deuce they did! Then we have not an instant to lose.”

He handed Cavaillon the note he had written some hours before at Prosper’s house.