Le dossier no. 113. English

  VIII

  When Raoul de Lagors spoke of M. Fauvel's extraordinary dejection, hehad not exaggerated.

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

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

  Shut up in his study, he would deny himself to visitors. His anxiouscountenance, his indifference to everybody and everything, his constantreveries and fits of abstraction, betrayed the preoccupation of somefixed idea, or the tyrannical empire of some hidden sorrow.

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

  "Monsieur, the former cashier, M. Bertomy, is here with one of hisrelatives; 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, hewaited 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 affectingsight, he was not disappointed.

  Nothing could be more terrible than the attitude of these two men asthey stood confronting each other. The banker's face was almost purplewith suppressed anger, and he looked as if about to be struck byapoplexy. Prosper was as pale and motionless as a corpse.

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

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

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

  "I suppose you know, monsieur, that my young relative has just beenreleased from prison."

  "Yes," replied M. Fauvel, making an effort to control himself, "yes, forwant of sufficient proof."

  "Exactly so, monsieur, and this want of proof, as stated in the decisionof 'Not proven,' ruins the prospects of my relative, and compels him toleave here at once for America."

  M. Fauvel's features relaxed as if he had been relieved of some fearfulagony.

  "Ah, he is going away," he said, "he is going abroad."

  There was no mistaking the resentful, almost insulting intonation of thewords, "going away!"

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

  "It appears to me," he continued, in an easy tone, "that Prosper'sdetermination 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 havenothing 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 hadnot opened his lips.

  They had reached the street before Prosper recovered the use of histongue.

  "I hope you are satisfied, monsieur," he said, in a gloomy tone; "youexacted this painful step, and I could only acquiesce. Have I gainedanything by adding this humiliation to the others which I havesuffered?"

  "You have not, but I have," replied M. Verduret. "I could find no way ofgaining access to M. Fauvel, save through you; and now I have found outwhat I wanted to know. I am convinced that M. Fauvel had nothing to dowith the robbery."

  "Oh, monsieur!" objected Prosper, "innocence can be feigned."

  "Certainly, but not to this extent. And this is not all. I wished tofind out if M. Fauvel would be accessible to certain suspicions. I amnow confident that he is."

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

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

  He soon uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.

  At the other end of the vacant space, he saw Cavaillon, who wasbareheaded 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 atProsper's house.

  "Here, send him this, and then return at once to your desk; you might bemissed. It was very imprudent in you to come out without your hat."

  Cavaillon ran off as quickly as he had come. Prosper was stupefied.

  "What!" he exclaimed. "You know Cavaillon?"

  "So it seems," answered M. Verduret with a smile, "but we have no timeto talk; come on, hurry!"

  "Where are we gong now?"

  "You will soon know; walk fast!"

  And he set the example by striding rapidly toward the Rue Lafayette. Asthey went along he continued talking more to himself than to Prosper.

  "Ah," said he, "it is not by putting both feet in one shoe, that onewins a race. The track once found, we should never rest an instant.When the savage discovers the footprints of an enemy, he follows itpersistently, knowing that falling rain or a gust of wind may effacethe footprints at any moment. It is the same with us: the most triflingincident may destroy the traces we are following up."

  M. Verduret suddenly stopped before a door bearing the number 81.

  "We are going in here," he said to Prosper; "come."

  They went up the steps, and stopped on the second floor, before a doorover which was a large sign, "Fashionable Dressmaker."

  A handsome bell-rope hung on the wall, but M. Verduret did not touch it.He tapped with the ends of his fingers in a peculiar way, and the doorinstantly opened as if someone had been watching for his signal on theother side.

  The door was opened by a neatly dressed woman of about forty. Shequietly ushered M. Verduret and Prosper into a neat dining-room withseveral doors opening into it.

  This woman bowed humbly to M. Verduret, as if he were some superiorbeing.

  He scarcely noticed her salutation, but questioned her with a look. Hislook said:

  "Well?"

  She bowed affirmatively:

  "Yes."

  "In there?" asked M. Verduret in a low tone, pointing to one of thedoors.

  "No," said the woman in the same tone, "over there, in the littleparlor."

  M. Verduret opened the door pointed out, and pushed Prosper into thelittle parlor, whispering, as he did so:

  "Go in, and keep your presence of mind."

  But his injunction was useless. The instant he cast his eyes aroundthe room into which he had so unceremoniously been pushed without anywarning, Prosper exclaimed, in a startled voice:

  "Madeleine!"

  It was indeed M. Fauvel's niece, looking more beautiful than ever. Herswas that calm, dignified beauty which imposes admiration and respect.

  Standing in the middle of the room, near a table covered with silks andsatins, she was arranging a skirt of red velvet embroidered in gold;probably the dress she was to wear as maid of honor to Catherine deMedicis.

  At sight of Prosper, all the blood rushed to her face, and her beautifuleyes half closed, as if she were about to faint; she clung to the tableto prevent herself from falling.

  Prosper well knew that Madeleine was not one of those cold-
hearted womenwhom nothing could disturb, and who feel sensations, but never a truesentiment.

  Of a tender, dreamy nature, she betrayed in the minute details of herlife the most exquisite delicacy. But she was also proud, and incapableof in any way violating her conscience. When duty spoke, she obeyed.

  She recovered from her momentary weakness, and the soft expression ofher eyes changed to one of haughty resentment. In an offended tone shesaid:

  "What has emboldened you, monsieur, to be watching my movements? Whogave you permission to follow me, to enter this house?"

  Prosper was certainly innocent. He would have given worlds to explainwhat had just happened, but he was powerless, and could only remainsilent.

  "You promised me upon your honor, monsieur," continued Madeleine, "thatyou would never again seek my presence. Is this the way you keep yourword?"

  "I did promise, mademoiselle, but----"

  He stopped.

  "Oh, speak!"

  "So many things have happened since that terrible day, that I think I amexcusable in forgetting, for one hour, an oath torn from me in a momentof blind weakness. It is to chance, at least to another will than myown, that I am indebted for the happiness of once more finding myselfnear you. Alas! the instant I saw you my heart bounded with joy. I didnot think, no I could not think, that you would prove more pitiless thanstrangers have been, that you would cast me off when I am so miserableand heart-broken."

  Had not Prosper been so agitated he could have read in the eyes ofMadeleine--those beautiful eyes which had so long been the arbiters ofhis destiny--the signs of a great inward struggle.

  It was, however, in a firm voice that she replied:

  "You know me well enough, Prosper, to be sure than no blow can strikeyou without reaching me at the same time. You suffer, I suffer with you:I pity you as a sister would pity a beloved brother."

  "A sister!" said Prosper, bitterly. "Yes, that was the word you used theday you banished me from your presence. A sister! Then why during threeyears did you delude me with vain hopes? Was I a brother to you the daywe went to Notre Dame de Fourvieres, that day when, at the foot of thealtar, we swore to love each other for ever and ever, and you fastenedaround my neck a holy relic and said, 'Wear this always for my sake,never part from it, and it will bring you good fortune'?"

  Madeleine attempted to interrupt him by a supplicating gesture: he wouldnot heed it, but continued with increased bitterness:

  "One month after that happy day--a year ago--you gave me back mypromise, told me to consider myself free from any engagement, and neverto come near you again. If I could have discovered in what way I hadoffended you--But no, you refused to explain. You drove me away, and toobey you I told everyone that I had left you of my own accord. You toldme that an invincible obstacle had arisen between us, and I believedyou, fool that I was! The obstacle was your own heart, Madeleine. Ihave always worn the medal; but it has not brought me happiness or goodfortune."

  As white and motionless as a statue, Madeleine stood with bowed headbefore this storm of passionate reproach.

  "I told you to forget me," she murmured.

  "Forget!" exclaimed Prosper, excitedly, "forget! Can I forget! Is it inmy power to stop, by an effort of will, the circulation of my blood? Ah,you have never loved! To forget, as to stop the beatings of the heart,there is but one means--death!"

  This word, uttered with the fixed determination of a desperate, recklessman, caused Madeleine to shudder.

  "Miserable man!" she exclaimed.

  "Yes, miserable man, and a thousand times more miserable than you canimagine! You can never understand the tortures I have suffered, when fora year I would awake every morning, and say to myself, 'It is all over,she has ceased to love me!' This great sorrow stared me in the faceday and night in spite of all my efforts to dispel it. And you speak offorgetfulness! I sought it at the bottom of poisoned cups, but found itnot. I tried to extinguish this memory of the past, that tears my heartto shreds like a devouring flame; in vain. When the body succumbed, thepitiless heart kept watch. With this corroding torture making life aburden, do you wonder that I should seek rest which can only be obtainedby suicide?"

  "I forbid you to utter that word."

  "You forget, Madeleine, that you have no right to forbid me, unless youlove me. Love would make you all powerful, and me obedient."

  With an imperious gesture Madeleine interrupted him as if she wished tospeak, and perhaps to explain all, to exculpate herself.

  But a sudden thought stopped her; she clasped her hands despairingly,and cried:

  "My God! this suffering is beyond endurance!"

  Prosper seemed to misconstrue her words.

  "Your pity comes too late," he said. "There is no happiness in store forone like myself, who has had a glimpse of divine felicity, had thecup of bliss held to his lips, and then dashed to the ground. Thereis nothing left to attach me to life. You have destroyed my holiestbeliefs; I came forth from prison disgraced by my enemies; what is tobecome of me? Vainly do I question the future; for me there is no hopeof happiness. I look around me to see nothing but abandonment, ignominy,and despair!"

  "Prosper, my brother, my friend, if you only knew----"

  "I know but one thing, Madeleine, and that is, that you no longer loveme, and that I love you more madly than ever. Oh, Madeleine, God onlyknows how I love you!"

  He was silent. He hoped for an answer. None came.

  But suddenly the silence was broken by a stifled sob.

  It was Madeleine's maid, who, seated in a corner, was weeping bitterly.

  Madeleine had forgotten her presence.

  Prosper had been so surprised at finding Madeleine when he enteredthe room, that he kept his eyes fastened upon her face, and never oncelooked about him to see if anyone else were present.

  He turned in surprise and looked at the weeping woman.

  He was not mistaken: this neatly dressed waiting-maid was Nina Gypsy.

  Prosper was so startled that he became perfectly dumb. He stood therewith ashy lips, and a chilly sensation creeping through his veins.

  The horror of the situation terrified him. He was there, between the twowomen who had ruled his fate; between Madeleine, the proud heiresswho spurned his love, and Nina Gypsy, the poor girl whose devotion tohimself he had so disdainfully rejected.

  And she had heard all; poor Gypsy had witnessed the passionate avowalof her lover, had heard him swear that he could never love any woman butMadeleine, that if his love were not reciprocated he would kill himself,as he had nothing else to live for.

  Prosper could judge of her sufferings by his own. For she was woundednot only in the present, but in the past. What must be her humiliationand danger on hearing the miserable part which Prosper, in hisdisappointed love, had imposed upon her?

  He was astonished that Gypsy--violence itself--remained silentlyweeping, instead of rising and bitterly denouncing him.

  Meanwhile Madeleine had succeeded in recovering her usual calmness.

  Slowly and almost unconsciously she had put on her bonnet and shawl,which were lying on the sofa.

  Then she approached Prosper, and said:

  "Why did you come here? We both have need of all the courage we cancommand. You are unhappy, Prosper; I am more than unhappy, I am mostwretched. You have a right to complain: I have not the right to shed atear. While my heart is slowly breaking, I must wear a smiling face. Youcan seek consolation in the bosom of a friend: I can have no confidantbut God."

  Prosper tried to murmur a reply, but his pale lips refused toarticulate; he was stifling.

  "I wish to tell you," continued Madeleine, "that I have forgottennothing. But oh! let not this knowledge give you any hope; the futureis blank for us, but if you love me you will live. You will not, I know,add to my already heavy burden of sorrow, the agony of mourning yourdeath. For my sake, live; live the life of a good man, and perhaps theday will come when I can justify myself in your eyes. And now, oh, mybrother, oh, my only friend, adieu! a
dieu!"

  She pressed a kiss upon his brow, and rushed from the room, followed byNina Gypsy.

  Prosper was alone. He seemed to be awaking from a troubled dream. Hetried to think over what had just happened, and asked himself if he werelosing his mind, or whether he had really spoken to Madeleine and seenGypsy?

  He was obliged to attribute all this to the mysterious power of thestrange man whom he had seen for the first time that very morning.

  How did he gain this wonderful power of controlling events to suit hisown purposes?

  He seemed to have anticipated everything, to know everything. He wasacquainted with Cavaillon, he knew all Madeleine's movements; he hadmade even Gypsy become humble and submissive.

  Thinking all this, Prosper had reached such a degree of exasperation,that when M. Verduret entered the little parlor, he strode toward himwhite with rage, and in a harsh, threatening voice, said to him:

  "Who are you?"

  The stout man did not show any surprise at this burst of anger, butquietly answered:

  "A friend of your father's; did you not know it?"

  "That is no answer, monsieur; I have been surprised into beinginfluenced by a stranger, and now--"

  "Do you want my biography, what I have been, what I am, and what I maybe? What difference does it make to you? I told you that I would saveyou; the main point is that I am saving you."

  "Still I have the right to ask by what means you are saving me."

  "What good will it do you to know what my plans are?"

  "In order to decide whether I will accept or reject them?"

  "But suppose I guarantee success?"

  "That is not sufficient, monsieur. I do not choose to be any longerdeprived of my own free will, to be exposed without warning to trialslike those I have undergone to-day. A man of my age must know what he isdoing."

  "A man of your age, Prosper, when he is blind, takes a guide, and doesnot undertake to point out the way to his leader."

  The half-bantering, half-commiserating tone of M. Verduret was notcalculated to calm Prosper's irritation.

  "That being the case, monsieur," he cried, "I will thank you for yourpast services, and decline them for the future, as I have no need ofthem. If I attempted to defend my honor and my life, it was becauseI hoped that Madeleine would be restored to me. I have been convincedto-day that all is at an end between us; I retire from the struggle, andcare not what becomes of me now."

  Prosper was so decided, that M. Verduret seemed alarmed.

  "You must be mad," he finally said.

  "No, unfortunately I am not. Madeleine has ceased to love me, and ofwhat importance is anything else?"

  His heart-broken tone aroused M. Verduret's sympathy, and he said, in akind, soothing tone:

  "Then you suspect nothing? You did not fathom the meaning of what shesaid?"

  "You were listening," cried Prosper fiercely.

  "I certainly was."

  "Monsieur!"

  "Yes. It was a presumptuous thing to do, perhaps; but the end justifiedthe means in this instance. I am glad I did listen, because it hasenabled me to say to you, Take courage, Prosper: Mlle. Madeleine lovesyou; she has never ceased to love you."

  Like a dying man who eagerly listens to deceitful promises of recovery,although he feels himself sinking into the grave, did Prosper feel hissad heart cheered by M. Verduret's assertion.

  "Oh," he murmured, suddenly calmed, "if only I could hope!"

  "Rely upon me, I am not mistaken. Ah, I could see the torture endured bythis generous girl, while she struggled between her love, and what shebelieved to be her duty. Were you not convinced of her love when shebade you farewell?"

  "She loves me, she is free, and yet she shuns me."

  "No, she is not free! In breaking off her engagement with you, shewas governed by some powerful, irrepressible event. She is sacrificingherself--for whom? We shall soon know; and the secret of herself-sacrifice will discover to us the secret of her plot against you."

  As M. Verduret spoke, Prosper felt all his resolutions of revolt slowlymelting away, and their place taken by confidence and hope.

  "If what you say were true!" he mournfully said.

  "Foolish young man! Why do you persist in obstinately shutting your eyesto the proof I place before you? Can you not see that Mlle. Madeleineknows who the thief is? Yes, you need not look so shocked; she knows thethief, but no human power can tear it from her. She sacrifices you, butthen she almost has the right, since she first sacrificed herself."

  Prosper was almost convinced; and it nearly broke his heart to leavethis little parlor where he had seen Madeleine.

  "Alas!" he said, pressing M. Verduret's hand, "you must think me aridiculous fool! but you don't know how I suffer."

  The man with the red whiskers sadly shook his head, and his voicesounded very unsteady as he replied, in a low tone:

  "What you suffer, I have suffered. Like you, I loved, not a pure, noblegirl, yet a girl fair to look upon. For three years I was at her feet,a slave to her every whim; when, one day she suddenly deserted me whoadored her, to throw herself in the arms of a man who despised her.Then, like you, I wished to die. Neither threats nor entreaties couldinduce her to return to me. Passion never reasons, and she loved myrival."

  "And did you know this rival?"

  "I knew him."

  "And you did not seek revenge?"

  "No," replied M. Verduret with a singular expression, "no: fate tookcharge of my vengeance."

  For a minute Prosper was silent; then he said:

  "I have finally decided, monsieur. My honor is a sacred trust for whichI must account to my family. I am ready to follow you to the end of theworld; dispose of me as you judge proper."

  That same day Prosper, faithful to his promise, sold his furniture, andwrote a letter to his friends announcing his intended departure to SanFrancisco.

  In the evening he and M. Verduret installed themselves in the"Archangel."

  Mme. Alexandre gave Prosper her prettiest room, but it was very uglycompared with the coquettish little parlor on the Rue Chaptal. His stateof mind did not permit him, however, to notice the difference betweenhis former and present quarters. He lay on an old sofa, meditating uponthe events of the day, and feeling a bitter satisfaction in his isolatedcondition.

  About eleven o'clock he thought he would raise the window, and let thecool air fan his burning brow; as he did so a piece of paper was blownfrom among the folds of the window-curtain, and lay at his feet on thefloor.

  Prosper mechanically picked it up, and looked at it.

  It was covered with writing, the handwriting of Nina Gypsy; he could notbe mistaken about that.

  It was the fragment of a torn letter; and, if the half sentences did notconvey any clear meaning, they were sufficient to lead the mind into allsorts of conjectures.

  The fragment read as follows:

  "of M. Raoul, I have been very im . . . plotted against him, of whomnever . . . warn Prosper, and then . . . best friend. he . . . hand ofMlle. Ma . . ."

  Prosper never closed his eyes during that night.