File No. 113 by Émile Gaboriau (summer beach reads .txt) 📕

I will explain why I give you this trouble, instead of calling at your house.

Raoul.

“I have them now!” cried M. Fauvel trembling with satisfaction at the near prospect of vengeance.

Eager to lose no time, he opened a drawer, took out a revolver, and examined the hammer to see if it worked easily.

He imagined himself alone, but a vigilant eye was watching his movements. Gypsy, immediately upon her return from the Archangel, stationed herself at the keyhole of the study-door, and saw all that occurred.

M. Fauvel laid the pistol on the mantelpiece, and nervously resealed the letter, which he then took to the box where the letters were usually left, not wishing anyone to know that Raoul’s letter had passed through his hands.

He was only absent two minutes, but, inspired by the imminence of the danger, Gypsy darted into the study, and rapidly extracted the balls from the revolver.

“Thank Heaven!” she murmured: “this peril is averted, and M. Verduret will now perhaps have time to prevent a murder. I must send Cavaillon to tell him.”

She hurried into the bank, and sent the clerk with a message, telling him to leave it with Mme. Alexandre, if M. Verduret had left the hotel.

An hour later, Mme. Fauvel ordered her carriage, and went out.

M. Fauvel jumped into a hackney-coach, and followed her.

“God grant that M. Verduret may reach there in time!” cried Nina to herself, “otherwise Mme. Fauvel and Raoul are lost.”

The moment that the Marquis of Clameran perceived that Raoul de Lagors was the only obstacle between him and Madeleine, he swore that the obstacle should soon be removed.

That very day he took steps for the accomplishment of his purpose. As Raoul was walking out to Vésinet about midnight, he was stopped at a lonely spot, by three men, who asked him what o’clock it was; while looking at his watch, the ruffians fell upon him suddenly, and but for Raoul’s wonderful strength and agility, would have left him dead on the spot.

As it was, he soon, by his skilfully plied blows (for he had become a proficient in fencing and boxing in England), made his enemies take to their heels.

He quietly continued his walk home, fully determined to be hereafter well armed when he went out at night.

He never for an instant suspected his accomplice of having instigated the assault.

But two days afterward, while sitting in a café, a burly, vulgar-looking man, a stranger to him, interrupted him several times while talking, and, after making several rough speeches as if trying to provoke a quarrel, finally threw a card in his face, saying its owner was ready to grant him satisfaction when and where he pleased.

Raoul rushed toward the man to chastise him on the spot; but his friends held him back, telling him that it would be much more gentlemanly to run a sword through his vulgar hide, than have a scuffle in a public place.

“Very well, then: you will hear from me tomorrow,” he said scornfully to his assailant. “Wait at your hotel until I send two friends to arrange the matter with you.”

As soon as the stranger had left, Raoul recovered from his excitement, and began to wonder what could have been the motive for this evidently premeditated insult.

Picking up the card of the bully, he read:

W. H. B. Jacobson.

Formerly Garibaldian volunteer

Ex-officer of the army of the South.

(Italy, America.)

30, Rue Léonie.

Raoul had seen enough of the world to know that these heroes who cover their visiting-cards with titles have very little glory elsewhere than in their own conceit.

Still the insult had been offered in the presence of others; and, no matter who the offender was, it must be noticed. Early the next morning Raoul sent two of his friends to make arrangements for a duel. He gave them M. Jacobson’s address, and told them to report at the Hotel du Louvre, where he would wait for them.

Having dismissed his friends, Raoul went to find out something about M. Jacobson; and, being an expert at the business of unravelling plots and snares, he determined to discover who was at the bottom of this duel into which he had been decoyed.

The information obtained was not very promising.

M. Jacobson, who lived in a very suspicious-looking little hotel whose inmates were chiefly women of light character, was described to him as an eccentric gentleman, whose mode of life was a problem difficult to solve. No one knew his means of support.

He reigned despotically in the hotel, went out a great deal, never came in until midnight, and seemed to have no capital to live upon, save his military titles, and a talent for carrying out whatever was undertaken for his own benefit.

“That being his character,” thought Raoul, “I cannot see what object he can have in picking a quarrel with me. What good will it do him to run a sword through my body? Not the slightest; and, moreover, his pugnacious conduct is apt to draw the attention of the police, who, from what I hear, are the last people this warrior would like to have after him. Therefore he must have some reason for pursuing me; and I must find out what it is.”

The result of his meditations was, that Raoul, upon his return to the Hotel du Louvre, did not mention a word of his adventure to Clameran, whom he found already up.

At half-past eight his seconds arrived.

M. Jacobson had selected the sword, and would fight that very hour, in the woods of Vincennes.

“Well, come along,” cried Raoul gayly. “I accept the gentleman’s conditions.”

They found the Garibaldian waiting; and after an interchange of a few thrusts Raoul was slightly wounded in the right shoulder.

The “Ex-superior officer of the South” wished to continue the combat; but Raoul’s seconds⁠—brave young men⁠—declared that honor was satisfied, and that they had no intention of subjecting their friend’s life to unnecessary hazards.

The ex-officer was forced to admit that this was but fair, and unwillingly retired from the field. Raoul went home delighted at having escaped with nothing more serious