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

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