Such are the facts that, with an almost incredible talent for
investigation, had been collected and prepared by the stout man with the
jovial face who had taken Prosper under his protection, M. Verduret.
Reaching Paris at nine o’clock in the evening, not by the Lyons road
as he had said, but by the Orleans train, M. Verduret hurried up to the
Archangel, where he found the cashier impatiently expecting him.
“You are about to hear some rich developments,” he said to Prosper, “and
see how far back into the past one has to seek for the primary cause of
a crime. All things are linked together and dependent upon each other in
this world of ours. If Gaston de Clameran had not entered a little
cafe at Tarascon to play a game of billiards twenty years ago, your
money-safe would not have been robbed three weeks ago.
“Valentine de la Verberie is punished in 1866 for the murder committed
for her sake in 1840. Nothing is neglected or forgotten, when stern
Retribution asserts her sway. Listen.”
And he forthwith related all that he had discovered, referring, as he
went along, to a voluminous manuscript which he had prepared, with many
notes and authenticated proofs attached.
During the last week M. Verduret had not had twenty-four hours’ rest,
but he bore no traces of fatigue. His iron muscles braved any amount of
labor, and his elastic nature was too well tempered to give way beneath
such pressure.
While any other man would have sunk exhausted in a chair, he stood up
and described, with the enthusiasm and captivating animation peculiar
to him, the minutest details and intricacies of the plot that he had
devoted his whole energy to unravelling; personating every character he
brought upon the scene to take part in the strange drama, so that his
listener was bewildered and dazzled by his brilliant acting.
As Prosper listened to this narrative of events happening twenty years
back, the secret conversations as minutely related as if overheard the
moment they took place, it sounded more like a romance than a statement
of plain facts.
All these ingenious explanations might be logical, but what foundation
did they possess? Might they not be the dreams of an excited
imagination?
M. Verduret did not finish his report until four o’clock in the morning;
then he cried, with an accent of triumph:
“And now they are on their guard, and sharp, wary rascals too: but they
won’t escape me; I have cornered them beautifully. Before a week is
over, Prosper, you will be publicly exonerated, and will come out of
this scrape with flying colors. I have promised your father you shall.”
“Impossible!” said Prosper in a dazed way, “it cannot be!”
“What?”
“All this you have just told me.”
M. Verduret opened wide his eyes, as if he could not understand anyone
having the audacity to doubt the accuracy of _his_ report.
“Impossible, indeed!” he cried. “What! have you not sense enough to see
the plain truth written all over every fact, and attested by the best
authority? Your thick-headedness exasperates me to the last degree.”
“But how can such rascalities take place in Paris, in our very midst,
without----”
“Parbleu!” interrupted the fat man, “you are young, my friend! Are you
innocent enough to suppose that crimes, forty times worse than this,
don’t occur every day? You think the horrors of the police-court are
the only ones. Pooh! You only read in the _Gazette des Tribunaux_ of the
cruel melodramas of life, where the actors are as cowardly as the knife,
and as treacherous as the poison they use. It is at the family fireside,
often under shelter of the law itself, that the real tragedies of
life are acted; in modern crimes the traitors wear gloves, and cloak
themselves with public position; the victims die, smiling to the last,
without revealing the torture they have endured to the end. Why, what
I have just related to you is an everyday occurrence; and you profess
astonishment.”
“I can’t help wondering how you discovered all this tissue of crime.”
“Ah, that is the point!” said the fat man with a self-satisfied smile.
“When I undertake a task, I devote my whole attention to it. Now, make
a note of this: When a man of ordinary intelligence concentrates his
thoughts and energies upon the attainment of an object, he is certain to
obtain ultimate success. Besides that, I have my own method of working
up a case.”
“Still I don’t see what grounds you had to go upon.”
“To be sure, one needs some light to guide one in a dark affair like
this. But the fire in Clameran’s eye at the mention of Gaston’s name
ignited my lantern. From that moment I walked straight to the solution
of the mystery, as I would walk to a beacon-light on a dark night.”
The eager, questioning look of Prosper showed that he would like to know
the secret of his protector’s wonderful penetration, and at the same
time be more thoroughly convinced that what he had heard was all
true--that his innocence would be more clearly proved.
“Now confess,” cried M. Verduret, “you would give anything in the world
to find out how I discovered the truth?”
“I certainly would, for it is the darkest of mysteries, marvellous!”
M. Verduret enjoyed Prosper’s bewilderment. To be sure, he was neither
a good judge nor a distinguished amateur; but he was an astonished
admirer, and sincere admiration is always flattering, no matter whence
it comes.
“Well,” he replied, “I will explain my system. There is nothing
marvellous about it as you will soon see. We worked together to find the
solution of the problem, so you know my reasons for suspecting Clameran
as the prime mover in the robbery. As soon as I had acquired this
certainty, my task was easy. You want to know what I did? I placed
trustworthy people to watch the parties in whom I was most interested.
Joseph Dubois took charge of Clameran, and Nina Gypsy never lost sight
of Mme. Fauvel and her niece.”
“I cannot comprehend how Nina ever consented to this service.”
“That is my secret,” replied M. Verduret. “Having the assistance of good
eyes and quick ears on the spot, I went to Beaucaire to inquire into the
past, so as to link it with what I knew of the present. The next day I
was at Clameran; and the first step I took was to find the son of St.
Jean, the old valet. An honest man he was, too; open and simple as
nature herself; and he made a good bargain in selling me his madder.”
“Madder?” said Prosper with a puzzled look; “what did you----”
“Of course I wanted to buy his madder. Of course I did not appear to
him as I do to you now. I was a countryman wanting to buy madder; he
had madder for sale; so we began to bargain about the price. The debate
lasted almost all day, during which time we drank a dozen bottles of
wine. About supper-time, St. Jean was as drunk as a bunghole, and I had
purchased nine hundred francs’ worth of madder which your father will
sell to-morrow.”
Prosper’s astonished countenance made M. Verduret laugh heartily.
“I risked nine hundred francs,” he continued, “but thread by thread I
gathered the whole history of the Clamerans, Gaston’s love-affair, his
flight, and the stumbling of the horse ridden by Louis. I found also
that about a year ago Louis returned, sold the chateau to a man named
Fougeroux, whose wife, Mihonne, had a secret interview with Louis the
day of the purchase. I went to see Mihonne. Poor woman! her rascally
husband has pounded all the sense out of her; she is almost idiotic. I
told her I came from the Clameran family, and she at once related to me
everything she knew.”
The apparent simplicity of this mode of investigation confounded
Prosper. He wondered it had not occurred to him before.
“From that time,” continued M. Verduret, “the skein began to
disentangle; I held the principal thread. I now set about finding out
what had become of Gaston. Lafourcade, who is a friend of your father,
informed me that he had bought a foundery, and settled in Oloron, where
he soon after suddenly died. Thirty-six hours later I was at Oloron.”
“You are certainly indefatigable!” said Prosper.
“No, but I always strike while the iron is hot. At Oloron I met Manuel,
who had gone there to make a little visit before returning to Spain.
From him I obtained a complete history of Gaston’s life, and all the
particulars of his death. Manuel also told me of Louis’s visit; and the
inn-keeper described a young workman who was there at the same time,
whom I at once recognized as Raoul.”
“But how did you know of all the conversations between the villains?”
said Prosper. “You seem to be aware of their secret thoughts.”
“You evidently think I have been drawing upon my imagination. You will
soon see to the contrary,” said Verduret good-humoredly. “While I was
at work down there, my aids did not sit with their hands tied together.
Mutually distrustful, Clameran and Raoul preserved all the letters
received from each other. Joseph Dubois copied them, or the important
portions of them, and forwarded them to me. Nina spent her time
listening at all doors under her supervision, and sent me a faithful
report. Finally, I have at the Fauvels another means of investigation
which I will reveal to you later.”
“I understand it all now,” murmured Prosper.
“And what have you been doing during my absence, my young friend?” asked
M. Verduret; “have you heard any news?”
At this question Prosper turned crimson. But he knew that it would never
do to keep silent about his imprudent step.
“Alas!” he stammered, “I read in a newspaper that Clameran was about to
marry Madeleine; and I acted like a fool.”
“What did you do?” inquired Verduret anxiously.
“I wrote an anonymous letter to M. Fauvel, informing him that his wife
was in love with Raoul--”
M. Verduret here brought his clinched fist down upon the little table
near by, with such violence that the thin plank was shivered. His
cheerful face in an instant clouded over.
“What folly!” he exclaimed, “how could you go and ruin everything?”
He arose from his seat, and strode up and down the room, oblivious of
the lodgers below, whose windows shook with every angry stamp of his
foot.
“What made you act so like a child, an idiot, a fool?” he said
indignantly to Prosper.
“Monsieur!”
“Here you are, drowning; an honest man springs into the water to save
you, and just as he approaches the shore you entangle his feet to
prevent him from swimming! What was my last order to you when I left
here?”
“To keep quiet, and not go out of the hotel.”
“Well.”
The consciousness of having done a foolish thing made Prosper appear
like a frightened school-boy, accused by his teacher of playing truant.
“It was night, monsieur,” he hesitatingly said, “and, having a violent
headache, I took a walk along the quay thinking there was no risk in
my entering a cafe; there I picked up a paper, and read the dreadful
announcement.”
“Did you not promise to trust everything to me?”
“You were absent, monsieur; and you yourself might have been surprised
by an unexpected--”
“Only fools are ever surprised into committing a piece of folly,” cried
M. Verduret impatiently. “To write an anonymous letter! Do you know to
what you expose me? Breaking a sacred promise made to one of the few
persons whom I highly esteem among my fellow-beings. I shall be looked
upon as a liar, a cheat--I who--”
He abruptly stopped, as if afraid to trust himself to speak further;
after calming down a little, he turned to Prosper, and said:
“The best thing we can do is to try and repair the harm you have done.
When and where did you post this idiotic letter?”
“Yesterday evening, at the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. It hardly reached
the bottom of the box before I regretted having written it.”
“You had better have regretted it before dropping it in. What time was
it?”
“About ten o’clock.”
“Then your sweet little letter must have reached M. Fauvel with his
early mail; probably he was alone in his study when he read it.”
“I know he was: he never goes down to the bank until he has opened his
letters.”
“Can you recall the exact terms of your letter? Stop and think, for it
is very important that I should know.”
“Oh, it is unnecessary for me to reflect. I remember the letter as if I
had just written it.”
And almost verbatim he repeated what he had written.
After attentively listening, M. Verduret sat with a perplexed frown
upon his face, as if trying to discover some means of repairing the harm
done.
“That is an awkward letter,” he finally said, “to come from a person
who does not deal in such things. It leaves everything to be understood
without specifying anything; it is vague, jeering, insidious. Repeat it
to me.”
Prosper obeyed, and his second version did not vary from the first in a
single word.
“Nothing could be more alarming than that allusion to the cashier,” said
the fat man, repeating the words after Prosper. “The question, ‘Was it
also he who stole Mme. Fauvel’s diamonds?’ is simply fearful. What could
be more exasperating than the sarcastic advice, ‘In your place, I would
not have any public scandal, but would watch my wife?’ The effect of
your letter must have been terrible,” he added thoughtfully as he stood
with folded arms looking at poor Prosper. “M. Fauvel is quick-tempered,
is he not?”
“He has a violent temper, when aroused.”
“Then the mischief is not irreparable.”
“What! do you suppose--”
“I think that an impulsive man is afraid of himself, and seldom carries
out his first angry intentions. That is our chance of salvation. If,
upon the receipt of your bomb-shell, M. Fauvel, unable to restrain
himself, rushed into his wife’s room, and cried, ‘Where are your
diamonds?’ Mme. Fauvel will confess all; and then good-by to our hopes.”
“Why would this be disastrous?”
“Because, the moment Mme. Fauvel opens her lips to her husband, our
birds will take flight.”
Prosper had never thought of this eventuality.
“Then, again,” continued M. Verduret, “it would deeply distress another
person.”
“Anyone whom I know?”
“Yes, my friend, and very well too. I should certainly be chagrined to
the last degree, if these two rascals escape, without having obtained
complete satisfaction from them.”
“It seems to me that you know how to take care of yourself, and can do
anything you please.”