Not far from the Palais Royal, in the Rue St. Honore, is the sign of “La
Bonne Foi,” a small establishment, half cafe and half shop, extensively
patronized by the people of the neighborhood.
It was in the smoking-room of this modest cafe that Prosper, the day
after his release, awaited M. Verduret, who had promised to meet him at
four o’clock.
The clock struck four; M. Verduret, who was punctuality itself,
appeared. He was more red-faced and self-satisfied, if possible, than
the day before.
As soon as the servant had left the room to obey his orders, he said to
Prosper:
“Well, are our commissions executed?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Have you seen the costumer?”
“I gave him your letter, and everything you ordered will be sent to the
Archangel to-morrow.”
“Very good; you have not lost time, neither have I. I have good news for
you.”
The “Bonne Foi” is almost deserted at four o’clock. The hour for coffee
is passed, and the hour for absinthe has not yet come. M. Verduret and
Prosper could talk at their ease without fear of being overheard by
gossiping neighbors.
M. Verduret drew forth his memorandum-book, the precious diary which,
like the enchanted book in the fairy-tale, had an answer for every
question.
“While awaiting our emissaries whom I appointed to meet here, let us
devote a little time to M. de Lagors.”
At this name Prosper did not protest, as he had done the night previous.
Like those imperceptible insects which, having once penetrated the root
of a tree, devour it in a single night, suspicion, when it invades our
mind, soon develops itself, and destroys our firmest beliefs.
The visit of Lagors, and Gypsy’s torn letter, had filled Prosper with
suspicions which had grown stronger and more settled as time passed.
“Do you know, my dear friend,” said M. Verduret, “what part of France
this devoted friend of yours comes from?”
“He was born at St. Remy, which is also Mme. Fauvel’s native town.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Oh, perfectly so, monsieur! He has not only often told me so, but I
have heard him tell M. Fauvel; and he would talk to Mme. Fauvel by the
hour about his mother, who was cousin to Mme. Fauvel, and dearly beloved
by her.”
“Then you think there is no possible mistake or falsehood about this
part of his story?”
“None in the least, monsieur.”
“Well, things are assuming a queer look.”
And he began to whistle between his teeth; which, with M. Verduret, was
a sign of intense inward satisfaction.
“What seems so, monsieur?” inquired Prosper.
“What has just happened; what I have been tracing. Parbleu!” he
exclaimed, imitating the manner of a showman at a fair, “here is
a lovely town, called St. Remy, six thousand inhabitants; charming
boulevards on the site of the old fortifications; handsome hotel;
numerous fountains; large charcoal market, silk factories, famous
hospital, and so on.”
Prosper was on thorns.
“Please be so good, monsieur, as to explain what you----”
“It also contains,” continued M. Verduret, “a Roman triumphal arch,
which is of unparalleled beauty, and a Greek mausoleum; but no Lagors.
St. Remy is the native town of Nostradamus, but not of your friend.”
“Yet I have proofs.”
“Naturally. But proofs can be fabricated; relatives can be improvised.
Your evidence is open to suspicion. My proofs are undeniable, perfectly
authenticated. While you were pining in prison, I was preparing my
batteries and collecting munition to open fire. I wrote to St. Remy, and
received answers to my questions.”
“Will you let me know what they were?”
“Have patience,” said M. Verduret as he turned over the leaves of
his memoranda. “Ah, here is number one. Bow respectfully to it, ‘tis
official.”
He then read:
“‘LAGORS.--Very old family, originally from Maillane, settled at St.
Remy about a century ago.’”
“I told you so,” cried Prosper.
“Pray allow me to finish,” said M. Verduret.
“‘The last of the Lagors (Jules-Rene-Henri) bearing without warrant
the title of count, married in 1829 Mlle. Rosalie-Clarisse Fontanet,
of Tarascon; died December 1848, leaving no male heir, but left two
daughters. The registers make no mention of any person in the district
bearing the name of Lagors.’
“Now what do you think of this information?” queried the fat man with a
triumphant smile.
Prosper looked amazed.
“But why did M. Fauvel treat Raoul as his nephew?”
“Ah, you mean as his wife’s nephew! Let us examine note number two: it
is not official, but it throws a valuable light upon the twenty thousand
livres income of your friend.”
“‘_Jules-Rene-Henri_ de Lagors, last of his name, died at St. Remy on
the 29th of December, 1848, in a state of great poverty. He at one time
was possessed of a moderate fortune, but invested it in a silk-worm
nursery, and lost it all.
“‘He had no son, but left two daughters, one of whom is a teacher at
Aix, and the other married a retail merchant at Orgon. His widow, who
lives at Montagnette, is supported entirely by one of her relatives, the
wife of a rich banker in Paris. No person of the name of Lagors lives in
the district of Arles.’
“That is all,” said M. Verduret; “don’t you think it enough?”
“Really, monsieur, I don’t know whether I am awake or dreaming.”
“You will be awake after a while. Now I wish to remark one thing. Some
people may assert that the widow Lagors had a child born after her
husband’s death. This objection has been destroyed by the age of your
friend. Raoul is twenty-four, and M. de Lagors has not been dead twenty
years.”
“But,” said Prosper thoughtfully, “who can Raoul be?”
“I don’t know. The fact is, I am more perplexed to find out who he is,
than to know whom he is not. There is one man who could give us all the
information we seek, but he will take good care to keep his mouth shut.”
“You mean M. de Clameran?”
“Him, and no one else.”
“I have always felt the most inexplicable aversion toward him. Ah, if we
could only get his account in addition to what you already have!”
“I have been furnished with a few notes concerning the Clameran family
by your father, who knew them well; they are brief, but I expect more.”
“What did my father tell you?”
“Nothing favorable, you may be sure. I will read you the synopsis of
this information:
“‘Louis de Clameran was born at the Chateau de Clameran, near Tarascon.
He had an elder brother named Gaston, who, in consequence of an affray
in which he had the misfortune to kill one man and badly wound another,
was compelled to fly the country in 1842. Gaston was an honest, noble
youth, universally beloved. Louis, on the contrary, was a wicked,
despicable fellow, detested by all who knew him.
“‘Upon the death of his father, Louis came to Paris, and in less than
two years had squandered not only his own patrimony, but also the share
of his exiled brother.
“‘Ruined and harassed by debt, Louis entered the army, but behaved so
disgracefully that he was dismissed.
“‘After leaving the army we lose sight of him; all we can discover is,
that he went to England, and thence to a German gambling resort, where
he became notorious for his scandalous conduct.
“‘In 1865 we find him again at Paris. He was in great poverty, and his
associates were among the most depraved classes.
“‘But he suddenly heard of the return of his brother Gaston to Paris.
Gaston had made a fortune in Mexico; but being still a young man,
and accustomed to a very active life, he purchased, near Orloron, an
iron-mill, intending to spend the remainder of his life in working at
it. Six months ago he died in the arms of his brother Louis. His death
provided our De Clameran an immense fortune, and the title of marquis.’”
“Then,” said Prosper, “from all this I judge that M. de Clameran was
very poor when I met him for the first time at M. Fauvel’s?”
“Evidently.”
“And about that time Lagors arrived from the country?”
“Precisely.”
“And about a month after his appearance Madeleine suddenly banished me?”
“Well,” exclaimed M. Verduret, “I am glad you are beginning to
understand the state of affairs.”
He was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger.
The new-comer was a dandified-looking coachman, with elegant black
whiskers, shining boots with fancy tops; buff breeches, and a yellow
waistcoat with red and black stripes.
After cautiously looking around the room, he walked straight up to the
table where M. Verduret sat.
“What is the news, Master Joseph Dubois?” said the stout man eagerly.
“Ah, patron, don’t speak of it!” answered the servant: “things are
getting warm.”
Prosper concentrated all his attention upon this superb domestic. He
thought he recognized his face. He had certainly somewhere seen that
retreating forehead and those little restless black eyes, but where and
when he could not remember.
Meanwhile, Master Joseph had taken a seat at a table adjoining the
one occupied by M. Verduret and Prosper; and, having called for some
absinthe, was preparing it by holding the water aloft and slowly
dropping it in the glass.
“Speak!” said M. Verduret.
“In the first place, patron, I must say that the position of valet and
coachman to M. de Clameran is not a bed of roses.”
“Go on: come to the point. You can complain to-morrow.”
“Very good. Yesterday my master walked out at two o’clock. I, of course,
followed him. Do you know where he went? The thing was as good as a
farce. He went to the Archangel to keep the appointment made by ‘Nina
Gypsy.’”
“Well, make haste. They told him she was gone. Then?”
“Then? Ah! he was not at all pleased, I can tell you. He hurried back to
the hotel where the other, M. de Lagors, awaited him. And, upon my soul,
I have never heard so much swearing in my life! M. Raoul asked him
what had happened to put him in such a bad humor. ‘Nothing,’ replied my
master, ‘except that little devil has run off, and no one knows where
she is; she has slipped through our fingers.’ Then they both appeared
to be vexed and uneasy. Lagors asked if she knew anything serious. ‘She
knows nothing but what I told you,’ replied Clameran; ‘but this nothing,
falling in the ear of a man with any suspicions, will be more than
enough to work on.’”
M. Verduret smiled like a man who had his reasons for appreciating at
their just value De Clameran’s fears.
“Well, your master is not without sense, after all; don’t you think he
showed it by saying that?”
“Yes, patron. Then Lagors exclaimed, ‘If it is as serious as that,
we must get rid of this little serpent!’ But my master shrugged his
shoulders, and laughing loudly said, ‘You talk like an idiot; when one
is annoyed by a woman of this sort, one must take measures to get rid of
her administratively.’ This idea seemed to amuse them both very much.”
“I can understand their being entertained by it,” said M. Verduret; “it
is an excellent idea; but the misfortune is, it is too late to carry it
out. The nothing which made Clameran uneasy has already fallen into a
knowing ear.”
With breathless curiosity, Prosper listened to this report, every word
of which seemed to throw light upon past events. Now, he thought, he
understood the fragment of Gypsy’s letter. He saw that this Raoul, in
whom he had confided so deeply, was nothing more than a scoundrel. A
thousand little circumstances, unnoticed at the time, now recurred to
his mind, and made him wonder how he could have been so blind so long.
Master Joseph Dubois continued his report:
“Yesterday, after dinner, my master decked himself out like a
bridegroom. I shaved him, curled his hair, and perfumed him with special
care, after which I drove him to the Rue de Provence to call on Mme.
Fauvel.”
“What!” exclaimed Prosper, “after the insulting language he used the day
of the robbery, did he dare to visit the house?”
“Yes, monsieur, he not only dared this, but he also stayed there until
midnight, to my great discomfort; for I got as wet as a rat, waiting for
him.”
“How did he look when he came out?” asked M. Verduret.
“Well, he certainly looked less pleased then when he went in. After
putting away my carriage, and rubbing down my horses, I went to see if
he wanted anything; I found the door locked, and he swore at me like a
trooper, through the key-hole.”
And, to assist the digestion of this insult, Master Joseph here gulped
down a glass of absinthe.
“Is that all?” questioned M. Verduret.
“All that occurred yesterday, patron; but this morning my master rose
late, still in a horrible bad humor. At noon Raoul arrived, also in
a rage. They at once began to dispute, and such a row! why, the most
abandoned housebreakers and pickpockets would have blushed to hear such
Billingsgate. At one time my master seized the other by the throat and
shook him like a reed. But Raoul was too quick for him; he saved himself
from strangulation by drawing out a sharp-pointed knife, the sight of
which made my master drop him in a hurry, I can tell you.”
“But what did they say?”
“Ah, there is the rub, patron,” said Joseph in a piteous tone; “the
scamps spoke English, so I could not understand them. But I am sure they
were disputing about money.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I learned at the Exposition that the word ‘argent’ means money
in every language in Europe; and this word they constantly used in their
conversation.”
M. Verduret sat with knit brows, talking in an undertone to himself; and
Prosper, who was watching him, wondered if he was trying to understand
and construct the dispute by mere force of reflection.
“When they had done fighting,” continued Joseph, “the rascals began to
talk in French again; but they only spoke of a fancy ball which is to
be given by some banker. When Raoul was leaving, my master said, ‘Since
this thing is inevitable, and it must take place to-day, you had better
remain at home, at Vesinet, this evening.’ Raoul replied, ‘Of course.’”
Night was approaching, and the smoking-room was gradually filling
with men who called for absinthe or bitters, and youths who perched
themselves up on high stools, and smoked their pipes.
“It is time to go,” said M. Verduret; “your master will want you,
Joseph; besides, here is someone come for me. I will see you to-morrow.”
The new-comer was no other than Cavaillon, more troubled and frightened
than ever. He looked uneasily around the room, as if he expected the
whole police force to appear, and carry him off to prison.
He did not sit down at M. Verduret’s table, but stealthily gave his hand
to Prosper, and, after assuring himself that no one was observing them,
handed M. Verduret a package, saying:
“She found this in a cupboard.”
It was a handsomely bound prayer-book. M. Verduret rapidly turned over
the leaves, and soon found the pages from which the words pasted on
Prosper’s letter had been cut.
“I had moral proofs,” he said, handing the book to Prosper, “but here is
material proof sufficient in itself to save you.”
When Prosper looked at the book he turned pale as a ghost. He recognized
this prayer-book instantly. He had given it to Madeleine in exchange for
the medal.
He opened it, and on the fly-leaf Madeleine had written, “Souvenir of
Notre Dame de Fourvieres, 17 January, 1866.”
“This book belongs to Madeleine,” he cried.
M. Verduret did not reply, but walked toward a young man dressed like a
brewer, who had just entered the room.
He glanced at the note which this person handed to him, and hastened
back to the table, and said, in an agitated tone:
“I think we have got them now!”
Throwing a five-franc piece on the table, and without saying a word to
Cavaillon, he seized Prosper’s arm, and hurried from the room.
“What a fatality!” he said, as he hastened along the street: “we may
miss them. We shall certainly reach the St. Lazare station too late for
the St. Germain train.”
“For Heaven’s sake, where are you going?” asked Prosper.
“Never mind, we can talk after we start. Hurry!”
Reaching Palais Royal Place, M. Verduret stopped before one of the hacks
belonging to the railway station, and examined the horses at a glance.
“How much for driving us to Vesinet?” he asked of the driver.
“I don’t know the road very well that way.”
The name of Vesinet was enough for Prosper.
“Well,” said the driver, “at this time of night, in such dreadful
weather, it ought to be--twenty-five francs.”
“And how much more for driving very rapidly?”
“Bless my soul! Why, monsieur, I leave that to your generosity; but if
you put it at thirty-five francs--”
“You shall have a hundred,” interrupted M. Verduret, “if you overtake a
carriage which has half an hour’s start of us.”
“Tonnerre de Brest!” cried the delighted driver; “jump in quick: we are
losing time!”
And, whipping up his lean horses, he galloped them down the Rue de
Valois at lightning speed.
X
Leaving the little station of Vesinet, we come upon two roads. One, to
the left, macadamized and kept in perfect repair, leads to the village,
of which there are glimpses here and there through the trees. The other,
newly laid out, and just covered with gravel, leads through the woods.
Along the latter, which before the lapse of five years will be a busy
street, are built a few houses, hideous in design, and at some distance
apart; rural summer retreats of city merchants, but unoccupied during
the winter.
It was at the junction of these two roads that Prosper stopped the hack.
The driver had gained his hundred francs. The horses were completely
worn out, but they had accomplished all that was expected of them; M.
Verduret could distinguish the lamps of a hack similar to the one he
occupied, about fifty yards ahead of him.