Forge-Master, Hotel du Louvre.
To be handed to M. Raoul de Lagors.
(In great haste.)
“Oh, ho!” said Fanferlot, accompanying his exclamation with a little
whistle, as was his habit when he thought he had made a grand discovery.
“Oh, ho!”
“Do you intend to open it?” questioned Mme. Alexandre.
“A little bit,” said Fanferlot, as he dexterously opened the envelope.
Mme. Alexandre leaned over her husband’s shoulder, and they both read
the following letter:
“MONSIEUR RAOUL--Prosper is in prison, accused of a robbery which he
never committed. I wrote to you three days ago.”
“What!” interrupted Fanferlot, “this silly girl wrote, and I never saw
the letter?”
“But, little man, she must have posted it herself, the day she went to
the Palais de Justice.”
“Very likely,” said Fanferlot propitiated. He continued reading:
“I wrote to you three days ago, and have no reply. Who will help Prosper
if his best friends desert him? If you don’t answer this letter, I shall
consider myself released from a certain promise, and without scruple
will tell Prosper of the conversation I overheard between you and M. de
Clameran. But I can count on you, can I not? I shall expect you at the
Archangel day after to-morrow, between twelve and four.
“NINA GYPSY”
The letter read, Fanferlot at once proceeded to copy it.
“Well!” said Mme. Alexandre, “what do you think?”
Fanferlot was delicately resealing the letter when the door of the hotel
office was abruptly opened, and the boy twice whispered, “Pst! Pst!”
Fanferlot rapidly disappeared into a dark closet. He had barely time to
close the door before Mme. Gypsy entered the room.
The poor girl was sadly changed. She was pale and hollow-cheeked, and
her eyes were red with weeping.
On seeing her, Mme. Alexandre could not conceal her surprise.
“Why, my child, you are not going out?”
“I am obliged to do so, madame; and I come to ask you to tell anyone
that may call during my absence to wait until I return.”
“But where in the world are you going at this hour, sick as you are?”
For a moment Mme. Gypsy hesitated.
“Oh,” she said, “you are so kind that I am tempted to confide in you;
read this note which a messenger just now brought to me.”
“What!” cried Mme. Alexandre perfectly aghast: “a messenger enter my
house, and go up to your room!”
“Is there anything surprising in that?”
“Oh, oh, no! nothing surprising.”
And in a tone loud enough to be heard in the closet she read the note:
“A friend of Prosper who can neither receive you, nor present himself
at your house, is very anxious to speak to you. Be in the stage-office
opposite the Saint Jacques tower, to-night at nine precisely, and the
writer will approach, and tell you what he has to say.
“I have appointed this public place for the rendezvous so as to relieve
your mind of all fear.”
“And you are going to this rendezvous?”
“Certainly, madame.”
“But it is imprudent, foolish; it is a snare to entrap you.”
“It makes no difference,” interrupted Gypsy. “I am so unfortunate
already that I have nothing more to dread. Any change would be a
relief.”
And, without waiting to hear any more, she went out. The door had
scarcely closed upon Mme. Gypsy, before Fanferlot bounced out of the
closet.
The mild detective was white with rage, and swore violently.
“What is the meaning of this?” he cried. “Am I to stand by and have
people walking over the Archangel, as if it were a public street?”
Mme. Alexandre stood trembling, and dared not speak.
“Was ever such impudence heard of before!” he continued. “A messenger
comes into my house, and goes upstairs without being seen by anybody!
I will look into this. And the idea of you, Mme. Alexandre, you, a
sensible woman, being idiotic enough to persuade that little viper not
to keep the appointment!”
“But, my dear--”
“Had you not sense enough to know that I would follow her, and discover
what she is attempting to conceal? Come, make haste, and help me, so
that she won’t recognize me.”
In a few minutes Fanferlot was completely disguised by a thick beard, a
wig, and one of those long linen blouses worn by dishonest workmen, who
go about seeking labor, and, at the same time, hoping they may not find
any.
“Have you your handcuffs?” asked the solicitous Mme. Alexandre.
“Yes, yes: make haste and put that letter to M. de Clameran in the
post-office, and--and keep good watch.”
And without waiting for his wife’s reply, who cried out, “Good luck!”
Fanferlot darted into the street.
Mme. Gypsy had ten minutes’ start of him; but he ran up the street he
knew she must have taken, and overtook her near the Change Bridge.
She was walking with the uncertain gait of a person who, impatient to
be at a rendezvous, has started too soon, and is obliged to occupy
the intervening time; she would walk very rapidly, then retrace her
footsteps, and proceed slowly.
On Chatelet Place she strolled up and down several times, read the
theatre-bills, and finally took a seat on a bench. One minute before a
quarter of nine, she entered the stage-office, and sat down.
A moment after, Fanferlot entered; but, as he feared that Mme. Gypsy
might recognize him in spite of his heavy beard, he took a seat at the
opposite end of the room, in a dark corner.
“Singular place for a conversation,” he thought, as he watched the
young woman. “Who in the world could have made this appointment in a
stage-office? Judging from her evident curiosity and uneasiness, I could
swear she has not the faintest idea for whom she is waiting.”
Meanwhile, the office was gradually filling with people. Every minute
a man would shriek out the destination of an omnibus which had just
arrived, and the bewildered passengers would rush in to get tickets, and
inquire when the omnibus would leave.
As each new-comer entered, Gypsy would tremble, and Fanferlot would say,
“This is he!”
Finally, as the Hotel-de-Ville clock was striking nine, a man entered,
and, without going to the ticket-window, walked directly up to Gypsy,
bowed, and took a seat beside her.
He was a medium-sized man, rather stout, with a crimson face, and
fiery-red whiskers. His dress was that of a well-to-do merchant, and
there was nothing in his manner or appearance to excite attention.
Fanferlot watched him eagerly.
“Well, my friend,” he said to himself, “in future I shall recognize you,
no matter where we meet; and this very evening I will find out who you
are.”
Despite his intent listening, he could not hear a word spoken by the
stranger or Gypsy. All he could do was to judge by their pantomime and
countenances, what the subject of their conversation might be.
When the stout man bowed and spoke to her, the girl looked so surprised
that it was evident she had never seen him before. When he sat down by
her, and said a few words, she jumped up with a frightened look, as
if seeking to escape. A single word and look made her resume her seat.
Then, as the stout man went on talking, Gypsy’s attitude betrayed great
apprehension. She positively refused to do something; then suddenly she
seemed to consent, when he stated a good reason for her so doing. At
one moment she appeared ready to weep, and the next her pretty face was
illumined by a bright smile. Finally, she shook hands with him, as if
she was confirming a promise.
“What can all that mean?” said Fanferlot to himself, as he sat in his
dark corner, biting his nails. “What an idiot I am to have stationed
myself so far off!”
He was thinking how he could manage to approach nearer without arousing
their suspicions, when the fat man arose, offered his arm to Mme. Gypsy,
who accepted it without hesitation, and together they walked toward the
door.
They were so engrossed with each other, that Fanferlot thought he could,
without risk, follow them; and it was well he did; for the crowd was
dense outside, and he would soon have lost them.
Reaching the door, he saw the stout man and Gypsy cross the pavement,
approach a hackney-coach, and enter it.
“Very good,” muttered Fanferlot, “I’ve got them now. There is no use of
hurrying any more.”
While the coachman was gathering up his reins, Fanferlot prepared
his legs; and, when the coach started, he followed in a brisk trot,
determined upon following it to the end of the earth.
The cab went up the Boulevard Sebastopol. It went pretty fast; but it
was not for nothing that Fanferlot had won the name of “Squirrel.” With
his elbows glued to his sides, and holding his breath, he ran on.
By the time he had reached the Boulevard St. Denis, he began to get
breathless, and stiff from a pain in his side. The cabman abruptly
turned into the Rue Faubourg St. Martin.
But Fanferlot, who, at eight years of age, had been familiar with every
street in Paris, was not to be baffled: he was a man of resources. He
seized the springs of the coach, raised himself up by the strength of
his wrists, and hung on behind, with his legs resting on the axle-tree
of the back wheels. He was not quite comfortable, but then, he no longer
ran the risk of being distanced.
“Now,” he chuckled, behind his false beard, “you may drive as fast as
you please, M. Cabby.”
The man whipped up his horses, and drove furiously along the hilly
street of the Faubourg St. Martin.
Finally the cab stopped in front of a wine-store, and the driver jumped
down from his seat, and went in.
The detective also left his uncomfortable post, and crouching in
a doorway, waited for Gypsy and her companion to get out, with the
intention of following closely upon their heels.
Five minutes passed, and still there were no signs of them.
“What can they be doing all this time?” grumbled the detective.
With great precautions, he approached the cab, and peeped in.
Oh, cruel deception! it was empty!
Fanferlot felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice-water over him;
he remained rooted to the spot with his mouth stretched, the picture of
blank bewilderment.
He soon recovered his wits sufficiently to burst forth in a volley of
oaths, loud enough to rattle all the window-panes in the neighborhood.
“Tricked!” he said, “fooled! Ah! but won’t I make them pay for this!”
In a moment his quick mind had run over the gamut of possibilities,
probable and improbable.
“Evidently,” he muttered, “this fellow and Gypsy entered one door, and
got out of the other; the trick is simple enough. If they resorted
to it, ‘tis because they feared being watched. If they feared being
watched, they have uneasy consciences: therefore--”
He suddenly interrupted his monologue as the idea struck him that he had
better attempt to find out something from the driver.
Unfortunately, the driver was in a very surly mood, and not only refused
to answer, but shook his whip in so threatening a manner that Fanferlot
deemed it prudent to beat a retreat.
“Oh, Lord,” he muttered, “perhaps he and the driver are one and the
same!”
But what could he do now, at this time of night? He could not imagine.
He walked dejectedly back to the quay, and it was half-past eleven when
he reached his own door.
“Has the little fool returned?” he inquired of Mme. Alexandre, the
instant she opened the door for him.
“No; but here are two large bundles which have come for her.”
Fanferlot hastily opened the bundles.
They contained three calico dresses, some coarse shoes, and some linen
caps.
“Well,” said the detective in a vexed tone, “now she is going to
disguise herself. Upon my word, I am getting puzzled! What can she be up
to?”
When Fanferlot was sulkily walking down the Faubourg St. Martin, he
had fully made up his mind that he would not tell his wife of his
discomfiture.
But once at home, confronted with a new fact of a nature to negative all
his conjectures, his vanity disappeared. He confessed everything--his
hopes so nearly realized, his strange mischance, and his suspicions.
They talked the matter over, and finally decided that they would not
go to bed until Mme. Gypsy, from whom Mme. Alexandre was determined to
obtain an explanation of what had happened, returned. At one o’clock the
worthy couple were about giving over all hope of her re-appearance, when
they heard the bell ring.
Fanferlot instantly slipped into the closet, and Mme. Alexandre remained
in the office to received Gypsy.
“Here you are at last, my dear child!” she cried. “Oh, I have been so
uneasy, so afraid lest some misfortune had happened!”
“Thanks for your kind interest, madame. Has a bundle been sent here for
me?”
Poor Gypsy’s appearance had strikingly changed; she was very sad, but
not as before dejected. To her melancholy of the last few days, had
succeeded a firm and generous resolution, which was betrayed in her
sparkling eyes and resolute step.
“Yes, two bundles came for you; here they are. I suppose you saw M.
Bertomy’s friend?”
“Yes, madame; and his advice has so changed my plans, that, I regret to
say, I must leave you to-morrow.”
“Going away to-morrow! then something must have happened.”
“Oh! nothing that would interest you, madame.”
After lighting her candle at the gas-burner, Mme. Gypsy said
“Good-night” in a very significant way, and left the room.
“And what do you think of that, Mme. Alexandre?” questioned Fanferlot,
emerging from his hiding-place.
“It is incredible! This girl writes to M. de Clameran to meet her here,
and then does not wait for him.”
“She evidently mistrusts us; she knows who I am.”
“Then this friend of the cashier must have told her.”
“Nobody knows who told her. I shall end by believing that I am among
a gang of thieves. They think I am on their track, and are trying to
escape me. I should not be at all surprised if this little rogue has the
money herself, and intends to run off with it to-morrow.”
“That is not my opinion; but listen to me: you had better take my
advice, and consult M. Lecoq.”
Fanferlot meditated awhile, then exclaimed.
“Very well; I will see him, just for your satisfaction; because I
know that, if I have discovered nothing, neither has he. But, if
he undertakes to be domineering, it won’t do; for, if he shows his
insolence to me, _I_ will make him know his place!”
Notwithstanding this brave speech, the detective passed an uneasy night,
and at six o’clock the next morning he was up--it was necessary to rise
very early if he wished to catch M. Lecoq at home--and, refreshed by a
cup of strong coffee, he directed his steps toward the dwelling of the
celebrated detective.
Fanferlot the Squirrel certainly was not afraid of his patron, as he
called him; for he started out with his nose in the air, and his hat
cocked on one side.
But by the time he reached the Rue Montmartre, where M. Lecoq lived,
his courage had vanished; he pulled his hat over his eyes, and hung
his head, as if looking for relief among the paving-stones. He slowly
ascended the steps, pausing several times, and looking around as if he
would like to fly.
Finally he reached the third floor, and stood before a door decorated
with the arms of the famous detective--a cock, the symbol of
vigilance--and his heart failed him so that he had scarcely the courage
to ring the bell.
The door was opened by Janouille, M. Lecoq’s old servant, who had very
much the manner and appearance of a grenadier. She was as faithful to
her master as a watch-dog, and always stood ready to attack anyone who
did not treat him with the august respect which she considered his due.
“Well, M. Fanferlot,” she said, “you come in time for once in your life.
Your patron wants to see you.”
Upon this announcement, Fanferlot was seized with a violent desire to
retreat. By what chance could Lecoq want anything of him?
While he thus hesitated, Janouille seized him by the arm, and pulled him
in, saying:
“Do you want to take root there? Come along, your patron is waiting for
you.”
In the middle of a large room curiously furnished, half library and half
green-room, was seated at a desk the same person with gold spectacles,
who had said to Prosper at the police-office, “Have courage.”
This was M. Lecoq in his official character.
Upon Fanferlot’s entrance, as he advanced respectfully, bowing till
his backbone was a perfect curve, M. Lecoq laid down his pen, and said,
looking sharply at him:
“Ah, here you are, young man. Well, it seems that you haven’t made much
progress in the Bertomy case.”
“Why,” murmured Fanferlot, “you know--”
“I know that you have muddled everything until you can’t see your way
out; so that you are ready to give up.”
“But, M. Lecoq, it was not I----”
M. Lecoq arose, and walked up and down the room: suddenly he confronted
Fanferlot, and said, in a tone of scornful irony:
“What would you think, Master Squirrel, of a man who abuses the
confidence of those who employ him, who reveals just enough to lead the
prosecution on the wrong scent, who sacrifices to his own foolish vanity
the cause of justice and the liberty of an unfortunate man?”
Fanferlot started back with a frightened look.
“I should say,” he stammered, “I should say--”
“You would say this man ought to be punished, and dismissed from his
employment; and you are right. The less a profession is honored, the
more honorable should those be who belong to it. And yet you have been
false to yours. Ah! Master Fanferlot, we are ambitious, and we try to
make the police force serve our own views! We let Justice stray her way,
and we go ours. One must be a more cunning bloodhound than you are, my
friend, to be able to hunt without a huntsman. You are too self-reliant
by half.”
“But, patron, I swear--”
“Silence! Do you pretend to say that you did your duty, and told all
to the judge of instruction? Whilst others were informing against the
cashier, you undertook to inform against the banker. You watched his
movements: you became intimate with his valet.”
Was M. Lecoq really angry, or pretending to be? Fanferlot, who knew him
well, was puzzled to know whether all this indignation was real.
“If you were only skilful,” he continued, “but no: you wish to be
master, and you are not fit to be a journeyman.”
“You are right, patron,” said Fanferlot, piteously, for he saw that
it was useless for him to deny anything. “But how could I go about an
affair like this, where there was not even a trace or sign to start
from?”