“That was very stingy on his part,” he said, “why did he not offer the
whole? Offers cost nothing; although I have no doubt that this sweet
youth would cheerfully give ten thousand francs to put the ocean between
you and him.”
“Monsieur! what reason?”
“Who knows? Perhaps for the same reason that he had not set foot in his
uncle’s house for a month.”
“But that is the truth, monsieur, I am sure of it.”
“Naturally,” said M. Verduret with a provoking smile. “But,” he
continued with a serious air, “we have devoted enough time to this
Adonis. Now, be good enough to change your dress, and we will go and
call on M. Fauvel.”
This proposal seemed to stir up all of Prosper’s anger.
“Never!” he exclaimed with excitement, “no, never will I voluntarily set
eyes on that wretch!”
This resistance did not surprise M. Verduret.
“I can understand your feelings toward him,” said he, “but at the same
time I hope you will change your mind. For the same reason that I wished
to see M. de Lagors, do I wish to see M. Fauvel; it is necessary, you
understand. Are you so very weak that you cannot put a constraint upon
yourself for five minutes? I shall introduce myself as one of your
relatives, and you need not open your lips.”
“If it is positively necessary,” said Prosper, “if--”
“It is necessary; so come on. You must have confidence, put on a brave
face. Hurry and fix yourself up a little; it is getting late, and I am
hungry. We will breakfast on our way there.”
Prosper had hardly passed into his bedroom when the bell rang again.
M. Verduret opened the door. It was the porter, who handed him a thick
letter, and said:
“This letter was left this morning for M. Bertomy; I was so flustered
when he came that I forgot to hand it to him. It is a very odd-looking
letter; is it not, monsieur?”
It was indeed a most peculiar missive. The address was not written, but
formed of printed letters, carefully cut from a book, and pasted on the
envelope.
“Oh, ho! what is this?” cried M. Verduret; then turning toward the
porter he cried, “Wait.”
He went into the next room, and closed the door behind him; there he
found Prosper, anxious to know what was going on.
“Here is a letter for you,” said M. Verduret.
He at once tore open the envelope.
Some bank-notes dropped out; he counted them; there were ten.
Prosper’s face turned purple.
“What does this mean?” he asked.
“We will read the letter and find out,” replied M. Verduret.
The letter, like the address, was composed of printed words cut out and
pasted on a sheet of paper.
It was short but explicit:
“MY DEAR PROSPER--A friend, who knows the horror of your situation,
sends you this succor. There is one heart, be assured, that shares your
sufferings. Go away; leave France; you are young; the future is before
you. Go, and may this money bring you happiness!”
As M. Verduret read the note, Prosper’s rage increased. He was angry and
perplexed, for he could not explain the rapidly succeeding events which
were so calculated to mystify his already confused brain.
“Everybody wishes me to go away,” he cried; “then there must be a
conspiracy against me.”