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

At the other end of the vacant space, he saw Cavaillon, who was bareheaded and running.

He was so excited that he did not even stop to shake hands with Prosper, but darted up to M. Verduret, and said:

“They have gone, monsieur!”

“How long since?”

“They went about a quarter of an hour ago.”

“The deuce they did! Then we have not an instant to lose.”

He handed Cavaillon the note he had written some hours before at Prosper’s house.

“Here, send him this, and then return at once to your desk; you might be missed. It was very imprudent in you to come out without your hat.”

Cavaillon ran off as quickly as he had come. Prosper was stupefied.

“What!” he exclaimed. “You know Cavaillon?”

“So it seems,” answered M. Verduret with a smile, “but we have no time to talk; come on, hurry!”

“Where are we gong now?”

“You will soon know; walk fast!”

And he set the example by striding rapidly toward the Rue Lafayette. As they went along he continued talking more to himself than to Prosper.

“Ah,” said he, “it is not by putting both feet in one shoe, that one wins a race. The track once found, we should never rest an instant. When the savage discovers the footprints of an enemy, he follows it persistently, knowing that falling rain or a gust of wind may efface the footprints at any moment. It is the same with us: the most trifling incident may destroy the traces we are following up.”

M. Verduret suddenly stopped before a door bearing the number 81.

“We are going in here,” he said to Prosper; “come.”

They went up the steps, and stopped on the second floor, before a door over which was a large sign, “Fashionable Dressmaker.”

A handsome bell-rope hung on the wall, but M. Verduret did not touch it. He tapped with the ends of his fingers in a peculiar way, and the door instantly opened as if someone had been watching for his signal on the other side.

The door was opened by a neatly dressed woman of about forty. She quietly ushered M. Verduret and Prosper into a neat dining-room with several doors opening into it.

This woman bowed humbly to M. Verduret, as if he were some superior being.

He scarcely noticed her salutation, but questioned her with a look. His look said:

“Well?”

She bowed affirmatively:

“Yes.”

“In there?” asked M. Verduret in a low tone, pointing to one of the doors.

“No,” said the woman in the same tone, “over there, in the little parlor.”

M. Verduret opened the door pointed out, and pushed Prosper into the little parlor, whispering, as he did so:

“Go in, and keep your presence of mind.”

But his injunction was useless. The instant he cast his eyes around the room into which he had so unceremoniously been pushed without any warning, Prosper exclaimed, in a startled voice:

“Madeleine!”

It was indeed M. Fauvel’s niece, looking more beautiful than ever. Hers was that calm, dignified beauty which imposes admiration and respect.

Standing in the middle of the room, near a table covered with silks and satins, she was arranging a skirt of red velvet embroidered in gold; probably the dress she was to wear as maid of honor to Catherine de Médicis.

At sight of Prosper, all the blood rushed to her face, and her beautiful eyes half closed, as if she were about to faint; she clung to the table to prevent herself from falling.

Prosper well knew that Madeleine was not one of those cold-hearted women whom nothing could disturb, and who feel sensations, but never a true sentiment.

Of a tender, dreamy nature, she betrayed in the minute details of her life the most exquisite delicacy. But she was also proud, and incapable of in any way violating her conscience. When duty spoke, she obeyed.

She recovered from her momentary weakness, and the soft expression of her eyes changed to one of haughty resentment. In an offended tone she said:

“What has emboldened you, monsieur, to be watching my movements? Who gave you permission to follow me, to enter this house?”

Prosper was certainly innocent. He would have given worlds to explain what had just happened, but he was powerless, and could only remain silent.

“You promised me upon your honor, monsieur,” continued Madeleine, “that you would never again seek my presence. Is this the way you keep your word?”

“I did promise, mademoiselle, but⁠—”

He stopped.

“Oh, speak!”

“So many things have happened since that terrible day, that I think I am excusable in forgetting, for one hour, an oath torn from me in a moment of blind weakness. It is to chance, at least to another will than my own, that I am indebted for the happiness of once more finding myself near you. Alas! the instant I saw you my heart bounded with joy. I did not think, no I could not think, that you would prove more pitiless than strangers have been, that you would cast me off when I am so miserable and heartbroken.”

Had not Prosper been so agitated he could have read in the eyes of Madeleine⁠—those beautiful eyes which had so long been the arbiters of his destiny⁠—the signs of a great inward struggle.

It was, however, in a firm voice that she replied:

“You know me well enough, Prosper, to be sure than no blow can strike you without reaching me at the same time. You suffer, I suffer with you: I pity you as a sister would pity a beloved brother.”

“A sister!” said Prosper, bitterly. “Yes, that was the word you used the day you banished me from your presence. A sister! Then why during three years did you delude me with vain hopes? Was I a brother to you the day we went to Notre Dame de Fourvières, that day when, at the foot of the altar, we swore to love each other forever and ever, and you fastened around my neck a holy relic and said, ‘Wear this always for my sake, never part from it, and it will bring you good fortune’?”

Madeleine attempted to interrupt him by a supplicating gesture: he would not heed it, but continued with increased bitterness:

“One