“Have you discovered any trace?” said the banker, eagerly.
Fanferlot turned around with a vexed air. He reproached himself for not
having concealed his impressions.
“Oh!” said he, carelessly, “I have discovered nothing of importance.”
“But we should like to know,” said Prosper.
“I have merely convinced myself that this safe has been recently opened
or shut, I know not which, with great violence and haste.”
“Why so?” asked the commissary, becoming attentive.
“Look, monsieur, at this scratch near the lock.”
The commissary stooped down, and carefully examined the safe; he saw
a light scratch several inches long that had removed the outer coat of
varnish.
“I see the scratch,” said he, “but what does that prove?”
“Oh, nothing at all!” said Fanferlot. “I just now told you it was of no
importance.”
Fanferlot said this, but it was not his real opinion.
This scratch, undeniably fresh, had for him a signification that escaped
the others. He said to himself, “This confirms my suspicions. If the
cashier had stolen millions, there was no occasion for his being in
a hurry; whereas the banker, creeping down in the dead of night with
cat-like footsteps, for fear of awakening the boy in the ante-room,
in order to rifle his own money-safe, had every reason to tremble, to
hurry, to hastily withdraw the key, which, slipping along the lock,
scratched off the varnish.”
Resolved to unravel by himself the tangled thread of this mystery, the
detective determined to keep his conjectures to himself; for the same
reason he was silent as to the interview which he had overheard between
Madeleine and Prosper.
He hastened to withdraw attention from the scratch upon the lock.
“To conclude,” he said, addressing the commissary, “I am convinced that
no one outside of the bank could have obtained access to this room. The
safe, moreover, is intact. No suspicious pressure has been used on the
movable buttons. I can assert that the lock has not been tampered with
by burglar’s tools or false keys. Those who opened the safe knew the
word, and possessed the key.”
This formal affirmation of a man whom he knew to be skilful ended the
hesitation of the commissary.
“That being the case,” he replied, “I must request a few moments’
conversation with M. Fauvel.”
“I am at your service,” said the banker.
Prosper foresaw the result of this conversation. He quietly placed his
hat on the table, to show that he had no intention of attempting to
escape, and passed into the adjoining room.
Fanferlot also went out, but not before the commissary had made him a
sign, and received one in return.
This sign signified, “You are responsible for this man.”
The detective needed no admonition to make him keep a strict watch. His
suspicions were too vague, his desire for success was too ardent, for
him to lose sight of Prosper an instant.
Closely following the cashier, he seated himself in a dark corner of the
room, and, pretending to be sleepy, he fixed himself in a comfortable
position for taking a nap, gaped until his jaw-bone seemed about to be
dislocated, then closed his eyes, and kept perfectly quiet.
Prosper took a seat at the desk of an absent clerk. The others were
burning to know the result of the investigation; their eyes shone with
curiosity, but they dared not ask a question.
Unable to refrain himself any longer, little Cavaillon, Prosper’s
defender, ventured to say:
“Well, who stole the money?”
Prosper shrugged his shoulders.
“Nobody knows,” he replied.
Was this conscious innocence or hardened recklessness? The clerks
observed with bewildered surprise that Prosper had resumed his usual
manner, that sort of icy haughtiness that kept people at a distance, and
made him so unpopular in the bank.
Save the death-like pallor of his face, and the dark circles around
his swollen eyes, he bore no traces of the pitiable agitation he had
exhibited a short time before.
Never would a stranger entering the room have supposed that this young
man idly lounging in a chair, and toying with a pencil, was resting
under an accusation of robbery, and was about to be arrested.
He soon stopped playing with the pencil, and drew toward him a sheet of
paper upon which he hastily wrote a few lines.
“Ah, ha!” thought Fanferlot the Squirrel, whose hearing and sight were
wonderfully good in spite of his profound sleep, “eh! eh! he makes his
little confidential communication on paper, I see; now we will discover
something positive.”
His note written, Prosper folded it carefully into the smallest possible
size, and after furtively glancing toward the detective, who remained
motionless in his corner, threw it across the desk to little Cavaillon
with this one word:
“Gypsy!”
All this was so quickly and skilfully done that Fanferlot was
confounded, and began to feel a little uneasy.
“The devil take him!” said he to himself; “for a suffering innocent this
young dandy has more pluck and nerve than many of my oldest customers.
This, however, shows the result of education!”
Yes: innocent or guilty, Prosper must have been endowed with great
self-control and power of dissimulation to affect this presence of mind
at a time when his honor, his future happiness, all that he held dear in
life, were at stake. And he was only thirty years old.
Either from natural deference, or from the hope of gaining some ray of
light by a private conversation, the commissary determined to speak to
the banker before acting decisively.
“There is not a shadow of doubt, monsieur,” he said, as soon as they
were alone, “this young man has robbed you. It would be a gross neglect
of duty if I did not secure his person. The law will decide whether he
shall be released, or sent to prison.”
The declaration seemed to distress the banker.
He sank into a chair, and murmured:
“Poor Prosper!”
Seeing the astonished look of his listener, he added:
“Until to-day, monsieur, I have always had the most implicit faith in
his honesty, and would have unhesitatingly confided my fortune to his
keeping. Almost on my knees have I besought and implored him to confess
that in a moment of desperation he had taken the money, promising him
pardon and forgetfulness; but I could not move him. I have loved
him; and even now, in spite of the trouble and humiliation that he is
bringing upon me, I cannot bring myself to feel harshly toward him.”
The commissary looked as if he did not understand.
“What do you mean by humiliation, monsieur?”
“What!” said M. Fauvel, excitedly; “is not justice the same for all?
Because I am the head of a bank, and he only a clerk, does it follow
that my word is more to be relied upon than his? Why could I not have
robbed myself? Such things have been done. They will ask me for facts;
and I shall be compelled to expose the exact situation of my house,
explain my affairs, disclose the secret and method of my operations.”
“It is true, monsieur, that you will be called upon for some
explanation; but your well-known integrity--”
“Alas! He was honest, too. His integrity has never been doubted.
Who would have been suspected this morning if I had not been able to
instantly produce a hundred thousand crowns? Who would be suspected if I
could not prove that my assets exceed my liabilities by more than three
millions?”
To a strictly honorable man, the thought, the possibility of suspicion
tarnishing his fair name, is cruel suffering. The banker suffered, and
the commissary of police saw it, and felt for him.
“Be calm, monsieur,” said he; “before the end of a week justice
will have collected sufficient proof to establish the guilt of this
unfortunate man, whom we may now recall.”
Prosper entered with Fanferlot, whom they had much trouble to awaken,
and with the most stolid indifference listened to the announcement of
his arrest.
In response, he calmly said:
“I swear that I am innocent.”
M. Fauvel, much more disturbed and excited than his cashier, made a last
attempt.
“It is not too late yet, poor boy,” he said: “for Heaven’s sake
reflect----”
Prosper did not appear to hear him. He drew from his pocket a small key,
which he laid on the table, and said:
“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.
As for Fanferlot, he congratulated himself upon his success. No one but
a woman could have drawn him so excellent a portrait; in a moment of
excitement she had given him the most valuable information; he now
knew the nature of the man with whom he had to deal, which in an
investigation like that he was pursuing is the principal point.
“You know that M. Bertomy gambles,” he ventured to say, “and gambling is
apt to lead a man--”
Mme. Gypsy shrugged her shoulders, and interrupted him:
“Yes, he plays,” she said, “but he is not a gambler. I have seen him
lose and gain large sums without betraying the slightest agitation. He
plays as he drinks, as he sups, as he falls in love--without passion,
without enthusiasm, without pleasure. Sometimes he frightens me; he
seems to drag about a body without a soul. Ah, I am not happy! Never
have I been able to overcome his indifference, and indifference so
great, so reckless, that I often think it must be despair; nothing will
convince me that he has not some terrible secret, some great misfortune
weighing upon his mind, and making life a burden.”
“Then he has never spoken to you of his past?”
“Why should he tell me? Did you not hear me? I tell you he does not love
me!”
Mme. Nina was overcome by thoughts of the past, and tears silently
coursed down her cheeks.
But her despair was only momentary. She started up, and, her eyes
sparkling with generous resolution, she cried out:
“But I love him, and I will save him! I will see his chief, the
miserable wretch who dares to accuse him. I will haunt the judges, and
I will prove that he is innocent. Come, monsieur, let us start, and I
promise you that before sunset he shall be free, or I shall be in prison
with him.”
Mme. Gypsy’s project was certainly laudable, and prompted by the noblest
sentiments; but unfortunately it was impracticable.
Moreover, it would be going counter to the plans of the detective.
Although he had resolved to reserve to himself all the difficulties
as well as the benefits of this inquiry, Fanferlot saw clearly that
he could not conceal the existence of Mme. Nina from the judge of
instruction. She would necessarily be brought into the case, and sought
for. But he did not wish her to take any steps of her own accord. He
proposed to have her appear when and how he judged proper, so that he
might gain for himself the merit of having discovered her.
His first step was to endeavor to calm the young woman’s excitement. He
thought it easy to prove to her that the least interference in favor of
Prosper would be a piece of folly.
“What will you gain by acting thus, my dear madame?” he asked. “Nothing.
I can assure you that you have not the least chance of success. Remember
that you will seriously compromise yourself. Who knows if you will not
be suspected as M. Bertomy’s accomplice?”
But this alarming perspective, which had frightened Cavaillon into
foolishly giving up a letter which he might so easily have retained,
only stimulated Gypsy’s enthusiasm. Man calculates, while woman follows
the inspirations of her heart. Our most devoted friend, if a man,
hesitates and draws back: if a woman, rushes undauntedly forward,
regardless of the danger.
“What matters the risk?” she exclaimed. “I don’t believe any danger
exists; but, if it does, so much the better: it will be all the more to
my credit. I am sure Prosper is innocent; but, if he should be guilty, I
wish to share the punishment which awaits him.”
Mme. Gypsy’s persistence was becoming alarming. She hastily drew around
her a cashmere shawl, and, putting on her hat, declared that she was
ready to walk from one end of Paris to the other, in search of the
judge.
“Come, monsieur,” she said with feverish impatience. “Are you not coming
with me?”
Fanferlot was perplexed. Happily he always had several strings to his
bow.
Personal considerations having no hold upon this impulsive nature, he
resolved to appeal to her interest in Prosper.
“I am at your command, fair lady,” he said; “let us go if you desire
it; only permit me, while there is yet time, to say that we are very
probably going to do great injury to M. Bertomy.”
“In what way, if you please?”
“Because we are taking a step that he expressly forbade in his letter;
we are surprising him--giving him no warning.”
Nina scornfully tossed her head, and replied:
“There are some people who must be saved without warning, and against
their will. I know Prosper: he is just the man to let himself be
murdered without a struggle, without speaking a word--to give himself up
through sheer recklessness and despair.”
“Excuse me, madame,” interrupted the detective: “M. Bertomy has by
no means the appearance of a man who has given up in despair. On the
contrary, I think he has already laid his plan of defence. By showing
yourself, when he advised you to remain in concealment, you will be very
likely to make vain his most careful precautions.”
Mme. Gypsy was silently weighing the value of Fanferlot’s objections.
Finally she said:
“I cannot remain here inactive, without attempting to contribute in
some way to his safety. Can you not understand that this floor burns my
feet?”
Evidently, if she was not absolutely convinced, her resolution was
shaken. Fanferlot saw that he was gaining ground, and this certainty,
making him more at ease, gave weight to his eloquence.
“You have it in your power, madame,” he said, “to render a great service
to the man you love.”
“In what way, monsieur, in what way?”
“Obey him, my child,” said Fanferlot, in a paternal manner.
Mme. Gypsy evidently expected very different advice.
“Obey,” she murmured, “obey!”
“It is your duty,” said Fanferlot with grave dignity, “it is your sacred
duty.”
She still hesitated; and he took from the table Prosper’s note, which
she had laid there, then continued:
“What! M. Bertomy at the most trying moment, when he is about to be
arrested, stops to point out your line of conduct; and you would render
vain this wise precaution! What does he say to you? Let us read over
this note, which is like the testament of his liberty. He says, ‘If you
love me, I entreat you, obey.’ And you hesitate to obey. Then you do not
love him. Can you not understand, unhappy child, that M. Bertomy has his
reasons, terrible, imperious reasons, for your remaining in obscurity
for the present?”
Fanferlot understood these reasons the moment he put his foot in the
sumptuous apartment of the Rue Chaptal; and, if he did not expose them
now, it was because he kept them as a good general keeps his reserve,
for the purpose of deciding the victory.
Mme. Gypsy was intelligent enough to divine these reasons.
“Reasons for my hiding! Prosper wishes, then, to keep everyone in
ignorance of our intimacy.”
She remained thoughtful for a moment; then a ray of light seemed to
cross her mind, and she cried:
“Oh, I understand now! Fool that I was for not seeing it before! My
presence here, where I have been for a year, would be an overwhelming
charge against him. An inventory of my possessions would be taken--of my
dresses, my laces, my jewels--and my luxury would be brought against him
as a crime. He would be asked to tell where he obtained so much money to
lavish all these elegancies on me.”
The detective bowed, and said:
“That is true, madame.”
“Then I must fly, monsieur, at once. Who knows that the police are not
already warned, and may appear at any moment?”
“Oh,” said Fanferlot with easy assurance, “you have plenty of time; the
police are not so very prompt.”
“No matter!”
And, leaving the detective alone in the parlor, Mme. Nina hastily
ran into her bedroom, and calling her maid, her cook, and her little
footman, ordered them to empty her bureau and chests of their contents,
and assisted them to stuff her best clothing and jewels into her trunks.
Suddenly she rushed back to Fanferlot and said:
“Everything will be ready to start in a few minutes, but where am I to
go?”
“Did not M. Bertomy say, my dear lady, to the other end of Paris? To a
hotel, or furnished apartments.”
“But I don’t know where to find any.”
Fanferlot seemed to be reflecting; but he had great difficulty in
concealing his delight at a sudden idea that flashed upon him; his
little black eyes fairly danced with joy.
“I know of a hotel,” he said at last, “but it might not suit you. It is
not elegantly furnished like this room.”
“Would I be comfortable there?”
“Upon my recommendation you would be treated like a queen, and, above
all, concealed.”
“Where is it?”
“On the other side of the river, Quai Saint Michel, the Archangel, kept
by Mme. Alexandre.”
Mme. Nina was never long making up her mind.
“Here are pen and paper; write your recommendation.”
He rapidly wrote, and handed her the letter.
“With these three lines, madame, you can make Mme. Alexandre do anything
you wish.”
“Very good. Now, how am I to let Cavaillon know my address? It was he
who should have brought me Prosper’s letter.”
“He was unable to come, madame,” interrupted the detective, “but I will
give him your address.”
Mme. Gypsy was about to send for a carriage, but Fanferlot said he was
in a hurry, and would send her one. He seemed to be in luck that day;
for a cab was passing the door, and he hailed it.
“Wait here,” he said to the driver, after telling him that he was a
detective, “for a little brunette who is coming down with some trunks.
If she tells you to drive her to Quai Saint Michel, crack your whip; if
she gives you any other address, get down from your seat, and arrange
your harness. I will keep in sight.”
He stepped across the street, and stood in the door of a wine-store.
He had not long to wait. In a few minutes the loud cracking of a whip
apprised him that Mme. Nina had started for the Archangel.
“Aha,” said he, gayly, “I told _her_, at any rate.”