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

first place, you will sell this furniture, and disappear from the neighborhood.”

“Disappear!” cried Prosper, indignantly, “disappear! Why, monsieur? Do you not see that such a step would be a confession of guilt, would authorize the world to say that I am hiding so as to enjoy undisturbed the stolen fortune?”

“Well, what then?” said the man with the red whiskers; “did you not say just now the sacrifice of your life is made? The skilful swimmer thrown into the river by malefactors is careful not to rise to the surface immediately: on the contrary, he plunges beneath, and remains there as long as his breath holds out. He comes up again at a great distance, and lands out of sight; then, when he is supposed to be dead, lost forever to the sight of man, he rises up and has his vengeance. You have an enemy? Some petty imprudence will betray him. But, while he sees you standing by on the watch, he will be on his guard.”

It was with a sort of amazed submission that Prosper listened to this man, who, though a friend of his father, was an utter stranger to himself.

He submitted unconsciously to the ascendency of a nature so much more energetic and forcible than his own. In his helpless condition he was grateful for friendly assistance, and said:

“I will follow your advice, monsieur.”

“I was sure you would, my dear friend. Let us reflect upon the course you should pursue. And remember that you will need every cent of the proceeds of the sale. Have you any ready money? no, but you must have some. Knowing that you would need it at once, I brought an upholsterer here; and he will give twelve thousand francs for everything excepting the pictures.”

The cashier could not refrain from shrugging his shoulders, which M. Verduret observed.

“Well,” said he, “it is rather hard, I admit, but it is a necessity. Now listen: you are the invalid, and I am the doctor charged to cure you; if I cut to the quick, you will have to endure it. It is the only way to save you.”

“Cut away then, monsieur,” answered Prosper.

“Well, we will hurry, for time passes. You have a friend, M. de Lagors?”

“Raoul? Yes, monsieur, he is an intimate friend.”

“Now tell me, who is this fellow?”

The term “fellow” seemed to offend Prosper.

“M. de Lagors, monsieur,” he said, haughtily, “is M. Fauvel’s nephew; he is a wealthy young man, handsome, intelligent, cultivated, and the best friend I have.”

“Hum!” said M. Verduret, “I shall be delighted to make the acquaintance of one adorned by so many charming qualities. I must let you know that I wrote him a note in your name asking him to come here, and he sent word that he would be here directly.”

“What! do you suppose⁠—”

“Oh, I suppose nothing! Only I must see this young man. Also, I have arranged and will submit to you a little plan of conversation⁠—”

A ring at the front door interrupted M. Verduret.

“Sacrebleu! adieu to my plan; here he is! Where can I hide so as to hear and see?”

“There, in my bedroom; leave the door open and the curtain down.”

A second ring was heard.

“Now remember, Prosper,” said M. Verduret in a warning tone, “not one word to this man about your plans, or about me. Pretend to be discouraged, helpless, and undecided what to do.”

And he disappeared behind the curtain, as Prosper ran to open the door.

Prosper’s portrait of M. de Lagors had not been an exaggerated one. So handsome a face and manly a figure could belong only to a noble character.

Although Raoul said that he was twenty-four, he appeared to be not more than twenty. He had a superb figure, well knit and supple; a beautiful white brow, shaded by soft chestnut curly hair, soft blue eyes which beamed with frankness.

His first impulse was to throw himself into Prosper’s arms.

“My poor, dear friend!” he said, “my poor Prosper!”

But beneath these affectionate demonstrations there was a certain constraint, which, if it escaped the cashier, was noticed by M. Verduret.

“Your letter, my dear Prosper,” said Raoul, “made me almost ill, I was so frightened by it. I asked myself if you could have lost your mind. Then I left everything, to fly to your assistance; and here I am.”

Prosper did not seem to hear him; he was preoccupied about the letter which he had not written. What were its contents? Who was this stranger whose assistance he had accepted?

“You must not feel discouraged,” continued M. de Lagors: “you are young enough to commence life anew. Your friends are still left to you. I have come to say to you, Rely upon me; I am rich, half of my fortune is at your disposal.”

This generous offer, made at a moment like this with such frank simplicity, deeply touched Prosper.

“Thanks, Raoul,” he said with emotion, “thank you! But unfortunately all the money in the world would be of no use now.”

“Why so? What are you going to do? Do you propose to remain in Paris?”

“I know not, Raoul. I have made no plans yet. My mind is too confused for me to think.”

“I will tell you what to do,” replied Raoul quickly, “you must start afresh; until this mysterious robbery is explained you must keep away from Paris. It will never do for you to remain here.”

“And suppose it never should be explained?”

“Only the more reason for your remaining in oblivion. I have been talking about you to Clameran. ‘If I were in Prosper’s place,’ he said, ‘I would turn everything into money, and embark for America; there I would make a fortune, and return to crush with my millions those who have suspected me.’ ”

This advice offended Prosper’s pride, but he said nothing. He was thinking of what the stranger had said to him.

“I will think it over,” he finally forced himself to say. “I will see. I would like to know what M. Fauvel says.”

“My uncle? I suppose you know that I have declined the offer he made me to enter his banking-house, and we have