File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (classic literature books TXT) 📕

He was not mistaken: this neatly dressed waiting-maid was Nina Gypsy.

Prosper was so startled that he became perfectly dumb. He stood there with ashy lips, and a chilly sensation creeping through his veins.

The horror of the situation terrified him. He was there, between the two women who had ruled his fate; between Madeleine, the proud heiress who spurned his love, and Nina Gypsy, the poor girl whose devotion to himself he had so disdainfully rejected.

And she had heard all; poor Gypsy had witnessed the passionate avowal of her lover, had heard him swear that he could never love any woman but Madeleine, that if his love were not reciprocated he would kill himself, as he had nothing else to live for.

Prosper could judge of her sufferings by his own. For she was wounded not only in the present, but in the past. What must be her humiliation and danger on hearing the miserable part which Prosper, in his disappointed love, had imposed upon her?

He was astonished that Gypsy—violence itself—remained silently weeping, instead of rising and bitterly denouncing him.

Meanwhile Madeleine had succeeded in recovering her usual calmness.

Slowly and almost unconsciously she had put on her bonnet and shawl, which were lying on the sofa.

Then she approached Prosper, and said:

“Why did you come here? We both have need of all the courage we can command. You are unhappy, Prosper; I am more than unhappy, I am most wretched. You have a right to complain: I have not the right to shed a tear. While my heart is slowly breaking, I must wear a smiling face. You can seek consolation in the bosom of a friend: I can have no confidant but God.”

Prosper tried to murmur a reply, but his pale lips refused to articulate; he was stifling.

“I wish to tell you,” continued Madeleine, “that I have forgotten nothing. But oh! let not this knowledge give you any hope; the future is blank for us, but if you love me you will live. You will not, I know, add to my already heavy burden of sorrow, the agony of mourning your death. For my sake, live; live the life of a good man, and perhaps the day will come when I can justify myself in your eyes. And now, oh, my brother, oh, my only friend, adieu! adieu!”

She pressed a kiss upon his brow, and rushed from the room, followed by Nina Gypsy.

Prosper was alone. He seemed to be awaking from a troubled dream. He tried to think over what had just happened, and asked himself if he were losing his mind, or whether he had really spoken to Madeleine and seen Gypsy?

He was obliged to attribute all this to the mysterious power of the strange man whom he had seen for the first time that very morning.

How did he gain this wonderful power of controlling events to suit his own purposes?

He seemed to have anticipated everything, to know everything. He was acquainted with Cavaillon, he knew all Madeleine’s movements; he had made even Gypsy become humble and submissive.

Thinking all this, Prosper had reached such a degree of exasperation, that when M. Verduret entered the little parlor, he strode toward him white with rage, and in a harsh, threatening voice, said to him:

“Who are you?”

The stout man did not show any surprise at this burst of anger, but quietly answered:

“A friend of your father’s; did you not know it?”

“That is no answer, monsieur; I have been surprised into being influenced by a stranger, and now—”

“Do you want my biography, what I have been, what I am, and what I may be? What difference does it make to you? I told you that I would save you; the main point is that I am saving you.”

“Still I have the right to ask by what means you are saving me.”

“What good will it do you to know what my plans are?”

“In order to decide whether I will accept or reject them?”

“But suppose I guarantee success?”

“That is not sufficient, monsieur. I do not choose to be any longer deprived of my own free will, to be exposed without warning to trials like those I have undergone to-day. A man of my age must know what he is doing.”

“A man of your age, Prosper, when he is blind, takes a guide, and does not undertake to point out the way to his leader.”

The half-bantering, half-commiserating tone of M. Verduret was not calculated to calm Prosper’s irritation.

“That being the case, monsieur,” he cried, “I will thank you for your past services, and decline them for the future, as I have no need of them. If I attempted to defend my honor and my life, it was because I hoped that Madeleine would be restored to me. I have been convinced to-day that all is at an end between us; I retire from the struggle, and care not what becomes of me now.”

Prosper was so decided, that M. Verduret seemed alarmed.

“You must be mad,” he finally said.

“No, unfortunately I am not. Madeleine has ceased to love me, and of what importance is anything else?”

His heart-broken tone aroused M. Verduret’s sympathy, and he said, in a kind, soothing tone:

“Then you suspect nothing? You did not fathom the meaning of what she said?”

“You were listening,” cried Prosper fiercely.

“I certainly was.”

“Monsieur!”

“Yes. It was a presumptuous thing to do, perhaps; but the end justified the means in this instance. I am glad I did listen, because it has enabled me to say to you, Take courage, Prosper: Mlle. Madeleine loves you; she has never ceased to love you.”

Like a dying man who eagerly listens to deceitful promises of recovery, although he feels himself sinking into the grave, did Prosper feel his sad heart cheered by M. Verduret’s assertion.

“Oh,” he murmured, suddenly calmed, “if only I could hope!”

“Rely upon me, I am not mistaken. Ah, I could see the torture endured by this generous girl, while she struggled between her love, and what she believed to be her duty. Were you not convinced of her love when she bade you farewell?”

“She loves me, she is free, and yet she shuns me.”

“No, she is not free! In breaking off her engagement with you, she was governed by some powerful, irrepressible event. She is sacrificing herself—for whom? We shall soon know; and the secret of her