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

M. Verduret, who anticipated his intentions, was watching him out of the corner of one eye, and stopped him just as he was about leaving the room.

“Not so fast, my pretty youth,” he said, dragging him into the middle of the room; “it is not polite to leave us so unceremoniously. Let us have a little conversation before parting; a little explanation will be edifying!”

The jeering words and mocking manner of M. Verduret made Raoul turn deadly pale, and start back as if confronted by a phantom.

“The clown!” he gasped.

“The same, friend,” said the fat man. “Ah, now that you recognize me, I confess that the clown and myself are one and the same. Yes, I am the mountebank of the Jandidier ball; here is proof of it.”

And turning up his sleeve he showed a deep cut on his arm.

“I think that this recent wound will convince you of my identity,” he continued. “I imagine you know the villain that gave me this little decoration, that night I was walking along the Rue Bourdaloue. That being the case, you know, I have a slight claim upon you, and shall expect you to relate to us your little story.”

But Raoul was so terrified that he could not utter a word.

“Your modesty keeps you silent,” said M. Verduret. “Bravo! modesty becomes talent, and for one of your age you certainly have displayed a talent for knavery.”

M. Fauvel listened without understanding a word of what was said.

“Into what dark depths of shame have we fallen!” he groaned.

“Reassure yourself, monsieur,” replied M. Verduret with great respect. “After what I have been constrained to tell you, what remains to be said is a mere trifle. I will finish the story.

“On leaving Mihonne, who had given him a full account of the misfortunes of Mlle. Valentine de la Verberie, Clameran hastened to London.

“He had no difficulty in finding the farmer’s wife to whom the old countess had intrusted Gaston’s son.

“But here an unexpected disappointment greeted him.

“He learned that the child, whose name was registered on the parish books as Raoul-Valentin Wilson, had died of the croup when eighteen months old.”

“Did anyone state such a fact as that?” interrupted Raoul: “it is false.”

“It was not only stated, but proved, my pretty youth,” replied M. Verduret. “You don’t suppose I am a man to trust to verbal testimony; do you?”

He drew from his pocket several officially stamped documents, with red seals attached, and laid them on the table.

“These are declarations of the nurse, her husband, and four witnesses. Here is an extract from the register of births; this is a certificate of registry of his death; and all these are authenticated at the French Embassy. Now are you satisfied, young man?”

“What next?” inquired M. Fauvel.

“The next step was this,” replied M. Verduret. “Clameran, finding that the child was dead, supposed that he could, in spite of this disappointment, obtain money from Mme. Fauvel; he was mistaken. His first attempt failed. Having an inventive turn of mind, he determined that the child should come to life. Among his large circle of rascally acquaintances, he selected a young fellow to impersonate Raoul-Valentin Wilson; and the chosen one stands before you.”

Mme. Fauvel was in a pitiable state. And yet she began to feel a ray of hope; her acute anxiety had so long tortured her, that the truth was a relief; she would thank Heaven if this wicked man was proved to be no son of hers.

“Can this be possible?” she murmured, “can it be?”

“Impossible!” cried the banker: “an infamous plot like this could not be executed in our midst!”

“All this is false!” said Raoul boldly. “It is a lie!”

M. Verduret turned to Raoul, and, bowing with ironical respect, said:

“Monsieur desires proofs, does he? Monsieur shall certainly have convincing ones. I have just left a friend of mine, M. Pâlot, who brought me valuable information from London. Now, my young gentleman, I will tell you the little story he told me, and then you can give your opinion of it.

“In 1847 Lord Murray, a wealthy and generous nobleman, had a jockey named Spencer, of whom he was very fond. At the Epsom races, this jockey was thrown from his horse, and killed. Lord Murray grieved over the loss of his favorite, and, having no children of his own, declared his intention of adopting Spencer’s son, who was then but four years old.

“Thus James Spencer was brought up in affluence, as heir to the immense wealth of the noble lord. He was a handsome, intelligent boy, and gave satisfaction to his protector until he was sixteen years of age; when he became intimate with a worthless set of people, and turned out badly.

“Lord Murray, who was very indulgent, pardoned many grave faults; but one fine morning he discovered that his adopted son had been imitating his signature upon some checks. He indignantly dismissed him from the house, and told him never to show his face again.

“James Spencer had been living in London about four years, managing to support himself by gambling and swindling, when he met Clameran, who offered him twenty-five thousand francs to play a part in a little comedy which he had arranged to suit the actors.”

“You are a detective!” interrupted Raoul.

The fat man smiled grimly.

“At present,” he replied, “I am merely a friend of Prosper Bertomy. It depends entirely upon your behavior which character I appear in while settling up this little affair.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Restore the three hundred and fifty thousand francs which you have stolen.”

The young rascal hesitated a moment, and then said:

“The money is in this room.”

“Very good. This frankness is creditable, and will benefit you. I know that the money is in this room, and also exactly where it is to be found. Be kind enough to look behind that cupboard, and you will find the three hundred and fifty thousand francs.”

Raoul saw that his game was lost. He tremblingly went to the cupboard, and pulled out several bundles of banknotes, and an enormous package of pawnbroker’s tickets.

“Very well done,” said M. Verduret, as he carefully