Without taking leave of the banker, he quietly left the room, and,
jumping into his cab, ordered the driver to return to Paris, and drive
to the Hotel du Louvre as rapidly as possible.
His mind was filled with anxiety about Clameran. He knew that Raoul
would give him no more trouble; the young rogue was probably taking his
passage for some foreign land at that very moment. But Clameran should
not escape unpunished; and how this punishment could be brought about
without compromising Mme. Fauvel, was the problem to be solved.
M. Verduret thought over the various cases similar to this, but not one
of his former expedients could be applied to the present circumstances.
He could not deliver the villain over to justice without involving Mme.
Fauvel.
After long thought, he decided that an accusation of poisoning must come
from Oloron. He would go there and work upon “public opinion,” so that,
to satisfy the townspeople, the authorities would order a post-mortem
examination of Gaston. But this mode of proceeding required time; and
Clameran would certainly escape before another day passed over his head.
He was too experienced a knave to remain on slippery ground, now that
his eyes were open to the danger which menaced him. It was almost dark
when the carriage stopped in front of the Hotel du Louvre; M. Verduret
noticed a crowd of people collected together in groups, eagerly
discussing some exciting event which seemed to have just taken
place. Although the policeman attempted to disperse the crowd by
authoritatively ordering them to “Move on! Move on!” they would merely
separate in one spot to join a more clamorous group a few yards off.
“What has happened?” demanded M. Verduret of a lounger near by.
“The strangest thing you ever heard of,” replied the man; “yes, I saw
him with my own eyes. He first appeared at that seventh-story window; he
was only half-dressed. Some men tried to seize him; but, bast! with the
agility of a squirrel, he jumped out upon the roof, shrieking, ‘Murder!
murder!’ The recklessness of his conduct led me to suppose--”
The gossip stopped short in his narrative, very much surprised and
vexed; his questioner had vanished.
“If it should be Clameran!” thought M. Verduret; “if terror has deranged
that brain, so capable of working out great crimes! Fate must have
interposed----”
While thus talking to himself, he elbowed his way through the crowded
court-yard of the hotel.
At the foot of the staircase he found M. Fanferlot and three
peculiar-looking individuals standing together, as if waiting for
someone.
“Well,” cried M. Verduret, “what is the matter?”
With laudable emulation, the four men rushed forward to report to their
superior officer.
“Patron,” they all began at once.
“Silence!” said the fat man with an oath; “one at a time. Quick! what is
the matter?”
“The matter is this, patron,” said Fanferlot dejectedly. “I am doomed
to ill luck. You see how it is; this is the only chance I ever had of
working out a beautiful case, and, paf! my criminal must go and fizzle!
A regular case of bankruptcy!”
“Then it is Clameran who--”
“Of course it is. When the rascal saw me this morning, he scampered off
like a hare. You should have seen him run; I thought he would never stop
this side of Ivry: but not at all. On reaching the Boulevard des Ecoles,
a sudden idea seemed to strike him, and he made a bee-line for his
hotel; I suppose, to get his pile of money. Directly he gets here, what
does he see? these three friends of mine. The sight of these gentlemen
had the effect of a sunstroke upon him; he went raving mad on the spot.
The idea of serving me such a low trick at the very moment I was sure of
success!”
“Where is he now?”
“At the prefecture, I suppose. Some policemen handcuffed him, and drove
off with him in a cab.”
“Come with me.”
M. Verduret and Fanferlot found Clameran in one of the private cells
reserved for dangerous prisoners.
He had on a strait-jacket, and was struggling violently against three
men, who were striving to hold him, while a physician tried to force him
to swallow a potion.
“Help!” he shrieked; “help, for God’s sake! Do you not see my brother
coming after me? Look! he wants to poison me!”
M. Verduret took the physician aside, and questioned him about the
maniac.
“The wretched man is in a hopeless state,” replied the doctor; “this
species of insanity is incurable. He thinks someone is trying to poison
him, and nothing will persuade him to eat or drink anything; and, as
it is impossible to force anything down his throat, he will die of
starvation, after having suffered all the tortures of poison.”
M. Verduret, with a shudder, turned to leave the prefecture, saying to
Fanferlot:
“Mme. Fauvel is saved, and by the interposition of God, who has himself
punished Clameran!”
“That don’t help me in the least,” grumbled Fanferlot. “The idea of all
my trouble and labor ending in this flat, quiet way! I seem to be born
for ill-luck!”
“Don’t take your blighted hopes of glory so much to heart,” replied
M. Verduret. “It is a melancholy fact for you that _File No. 113_ will
never leave the record-office; but you must bear your disappointment
gracefully and heroically. I will console you by sending you as bearer
of despatches to a friend of mine, and what you have lost in fame will
be gained in gold.”