Prosper had been languishing in his private cell for nine days, when on
Thursday morning the jailer came to inform him of the judge’s decision.
He was conducted before the officer who had searched him when he was
arrested; and the contents of his pocket, his watch, penknife, and
several little pieces of jewelry, were restored to him; then he was told
to sign a large sheet of paper, which he did.
He was next led across a dark passage, and almost pushed through a door,
which was abruptly shut upon him.
He found himself on the quay: he was alone; he was free.
Free! Justice had confessed her inability to convict him of the crime of
which he was accused.
Free! He could walk about, he could breathe the pure air; but every door
would be closed against him.
Only acquittal after due trial would restore him to his former position
among men.
A decision of “Not proven” had left him covered with suspicion.
The torments inflicted by public opinion are more fearful than those
suffered in a prison cell.
At the moment of his restoration to liberty, Prosper so cruelly suffered
from the horror of his situation, that he could not repress a cry of
rage and despair.
“I am innocent! God knows I am innocent!” he cried out. But of what use
was his anger?
Two strangers, who were passing, stopped to look at him, and said,
pityingly, “He is crazy.”
The Seine was at his feet. A thought of suicide crossed his mind.
“No,” he said, “no! I have not even the right to kill myself. No: I will
not die until I have vindicated my innocence!”
Often, day and night, had Prosper repeated these words, as he walked
his cell. With a heart filled with a bitter, determined thirst for
vengeance, which gives a man the force and patience to destroy or
wear out all obstacles in his way, he would say, “Oh! why am I not at
liberty? I am helpless, caged up; but let me once be free!”
Now he was free; and, for the first time, he saw the difficulties of the
task before him. For each crime, justice requires a criminal: he could
not establish his own innocence without producing the guilty man; how
find the thief so as to hand him over to the law?
Discouraged, but not despondent, he turned in the direction of his
apartments. He was beset by a thousand anxieties. What had taken place
during the nine days that he had been cut off from all intercourse with
his friends? No news of them had reached him. He had heard no more of
what was going on in the outside world, than if his secret cell had been
a grave.
He slowly walked along the streets, with his eyes cast down dreading to
meet some familiar face. He, who had always been so haughty, would now
be pointed at with the finger of scorn. He would be greeted with cold
looks and averted faces. Men would refuse to shake hands with him. He
would be shunned by honest people, who have no patience with a thief.
Still, if he could count on only one true friend! Yes: he was sure of
one. But what friend would believe him when his father, who should have
been the last to suspect him, had refused to believe him?
In the midst of his sufferings, when he felt almost overwhelmed by the
sense of his wretched, lonely condition, he thought of Gypsy.
He had never loved the poor girl: indeed, at times he almost hated her;
but now he felt a longing to see her. He wished to be with her, because
he knew that she loved him, and that nothing would make her believe him
guilty; because he knew that a woman remains true and firm in her faith,
and is always faithful in the hour of adversity, although she sometimes
fails in prosperity.
On entering the Rue Chaptal, Prosper saw his own door, but hesitated to
enter it.
He suffered from the timidity which an honest man always feels when he
knows he is viewed with suspicion.
He dreaded meeting anyone whom he knew; yet he could not remain in the
street. He entered.
When the porter saw him, he uttered an exclamation of glad surprise, and
said:
“Ah, here you are at last, monsieur. I told everyone you would come out
as white as snow; and, when I read in the papers that you were arrested
for robbery, I said, ‘My third-floor lodger a thief! Never would I
believe such a thing, never!’”
The congratulations of this ignorant man were sincere, and offered from
pure kindness of heart; but they impressed Prosper painfully, and he cut
them short by abruptly asking:
“Madame of course has left: can you tell me where she has gone?”
“Dear me, no, monsieur. The day of your arrest, she sent for a hack, got
into it with her trunks, and disappeared; and no one has seen or heard
of her since.”
This was another blow to the unhappy cashier.
“And where are my servants?”
“Gone, monsieur; your father paid and discharged them.”
“I suppose you have my keys?”
“No, monsieur; when your father left here this morning at eight o’clock,
he told me that a friend of his would take charge of your rooms until
you should return. Of course you know who he is--a stout gentleman with
red whiskers.”
Prosper was stupefied. What could be the meaning of one of his father’s
friends being in his rooms? He did not, however, betray any surprise,
but quietly said:
“Yes: I know who it is.”
He quickly ran up the stairs, and knocked at his door.
It was opened by his father’s friend.
He had been accurately described by the porter. A fat man, with a red
face, sensual lips, brilliant eyes, and of rather coarse manners, stood
bowing to Prosper, who had never seen him before.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, monsieur,” said he to Prosper.
He seemed to be perfectly at home. On the table lay a book, which he had
taken from the bookcase; and he appeared ready to do the honors of the
house.
“I must say, monsieur,” began Prosper.
“That you are surprised to find me here? So I suppose. Your father
intended introducing me to you; but he was compelled to return to
Beaucaire this morning; and let me add that he departed thoroughly
convinced, as I myself am, that you never took a cent from M. Fauvel.”
At this unexpected good news, Prosper’s face lit up with pleasure.
“Here is a letter from your father, which I hope will serve as an
introduction between us.”
Prosper opened the letter; and as he read his eyes grew brighter, and a
slight color returned to his pale face.
When he had finished, he held out his hand to the large gentleman, and
said:
“My father, monsieur, tells me you are his best friend; he advises me to
have absolute confidence in you, and follow your counsel.”
“Exactly. This morning your father said to me, ‘Verduret’--that is my
name--‘Verduret, my son is in great trouble, he must be helped out.’ I
replied, ‘I am ready,’ and here I am to help you. Now the ice is broken,
is it not? Then let us go to work at once. What do you intend to do?”
This question revived Prosper’s slumbering rage. His eyes flashed.
“What do I intend to do?” he said, angrily: “what should I do but seek
the villain who has ruined me?”
“So I supposed; but have you any hopes of success?”
“None; yet I shall succeed, because, when a man devotes his whole life
to the accomplishment of an object, he is certain to achieve it.”
“Well said, M. Prosper; and, to be frank, I fully expected that this
would be your purpose. I have therefore already begun to think and
act for you. I have a plan. In the first place, you will sell this
furniture, and disappear from the neighborhood.”
“Disappear!” cried Prosper, indignantly, “disappear! Why, monsieur?
Do you not see that such a step would be a confession of guilt, would
authorize the world to say that I am hiding so as to enjoy undisturbed
the stolen fortune?”
“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?”