M. Folgat was already at work. He had confidence in his cause, a
firm conviction of the innocence of his client, a desire to solve the
mystery, a love of battle, and an intense thirst for success: all these
motives combined to stimulate the talents of the young advocate, and to
increase his activity.
And, above all this, there was a mysterious and indefinable sentiment
with which Dionysia had inspired him; for he had succumbed to her
charms, like everybody else. It was not love, for he who says love says
hope; and he knew perfectly well that altogether and forever Dionysia
belonged to Jacques. It was a sweet and all-powerful sentiment, which
made him wish to devote himself to her, and to count for something in
her life and in her happiness.
It was for her sake that he had sacrificed all his business, and
forgotten his clients, in order to stay at Sauveterre. It was for her
sake, above all, that he wished to save Jacques.
He had no sooner arrived at the station, and left the Marchioness de
Boiscoran in old Anthony’s care, than he jumped into a cab, and had
himself driven to his house. He had sent a telegram the day before; and
his servant was waiting for him. In less than no time he had changed his
clothes. Immediately he went back to his carriage, and went in search
of the man, who, he thought, was most likely to be able to fathom this
mystery.
This was a certain Goudar, who was connected with the police department
in some capacity or other, and at all events received an income large
enough to make him very comfortable. He was one of those agents for
every thing whom the police keep employed for specially delicate
operations, which require both tact and keen scent, an intrepidity
beyond all doubt, and imperturbable self-possession. M. Folgat had had
opportunities of knowing and appreciating him in the famous case of the
Mutual Discount Society.
He was instructed to track the cashier who had fled, having a deficit
of several millions. Goudar had caught him in Canada, after pursuing him
for three months all over America; but, on the day of his arrest, this
cashier had in his pocket-book and his trunk only some forty thousand
francs.
What had become of the millions?
When he was questioned, he said he had spent them. He had gambled in
stocks, he had become unfortunate, etc.
Everybody believed him except Goudar.
Stimulated by the promise of a magnificent reward, he began his campaign
once more; and, in less than six weeks, he had gotten hold of sixteen
hundred thousand francs which the cashier had deposited in London with a
woman of bad character.
The story is well known; but what is not known is the genius, the
fertility of resources, and the ingenuity of expedients, which Goudar
displayed in obtaining such a success. M. Folgat, however, was fully
aware of it; for he had been the counsel of the stockholders of the
Mutual Discount Society; and he had vowed, that, if ever the opportunity
should come, he would employ this marvellously able man.
Goudar, who was married, and had a child, lived out of the world on the
road to Versailles, not far from the fortifications. He occupied with
his family a small house which he owned,--a veritable philosopher’s
home, with a little garden in front, and a vast garden behind, in which
he raised vegetables and admirable fruit, and where he kept all kinds of
animals.
When M. Folgat stepped out of his carriage before this pleasant home,
a young woman of twenty-five or twenty-six, of surpassing beauty, young
and fresh, was playing in the front garden with a little girl of three
or four years, all milk and roses.
“M. Goudar, madam?” asked M. Folgat, raising his hat.
The young woman blushed slightly, and answered modestly, but without
embarrassment, and in a most pleasing voice,--
“My husband is in the garden; and you will find him, if you will walk
down this path around the house.”
The young man followed the direction, and soon saw his man at a
distance. His head covered with an old straw hat, without a coat, and
in slippers, with a huge blue apron such as gardeners wear, Goudar had
climbed up a ladder, and was busy dropping into a horsehair bag the
magnificent Chasselas grapes of his trellises. When he heard the sand
grate under the footsteps of the newcomer, he turned his head, and at
once said,--
“Why, M. Folgat? Good morning, sir!”
The young advocate was not a little surprised to see himself recognized
so instantaneously. He should certainly never have recognized the
detective. It was more than three years since they had seen each other;
and how often had they seen each other then? Twice, and not an hour each
time.
It is true that Goudar was one of those men whom nobody remembers. Of
middle height, he was neither stout nor thin, neither dark nor light
haired, neither young nor old. A clerk in a passport office would
certainly have written him down thus: Forehead, ordinary; nose,
ordinary; mouth, ordinary, eyes, neutral color; special marks, none.
It could not be said that he looked stupid; but neither did he
look intelligent. Every thing in him was ordinary, indifferent, and
undecided. Not one marked feature. He would necessarily pass unobserved,
and be forgotten as soon as he had passed.
“You find me busy securing my crops for the winter,” he said to M.
Folgat. “A pleasant job. However, I am at your service. Let me put these
three bunches into their three bags, and I’ll come down.”
This was the work of an instant; and, as soon as he had reached the
ground, he turned round, and asked,--
“Well, and what do you think of my garden?”
And at once he begged M. Folgat to visit his domain, and, with all
the enthusiasm of the land-owner, he praised the flavor of his duchess
pears, the bright colors of his dahlias, the new arrangements in his
poultry-yard, which was full of rabbit-houses, and the beauty of his
pond, with its ducks of all colors and all possible varieties.
In his heart, M. Folgat swore at this enthusiasm. What time he was
losing! But, when you expect a service from a man, you must, at least,
flatter his weak side. He did not spare praise, therefore. He even
pulled out his cigar-case, and, still with a view to win the great man’s
good graces, he offered it to him, saying,--
“Can I offer you one?”
“Thanks! I never smoke,” replied Goudar.