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

brow, and rushed from the room, followed by Nina Gypsy.

Prosper was alone. He seemed to be awaking from a troubled dream. He tried to think over what had just happened, and asked himself if he were losing his mind, or whether he had really spoken to Madeleine and seen Gypsy?

He was obliged to attribute all this to the mysterious power of the strange man whom he had seen for the first time that very morning.

How did he gain this wonderful power of controlling events to suit his own purposes?

He seemed to have anticipated everything, to know everything. He was acquainted with Cavaillon, he knew all Madeleine’s movements; he had made even Gypsy become humble and submissive.

Thinking all this, Prosper had reached such a degree of exasperation, that when M. Verduret entered the little parlor, he strode toward him white with rage, and in a harsh, threatening voice, said to him:

“Who are you?”

The stout man did not show any surprise at this burst of anger, but quietly answered:

“A friend of your father’s; did you not know it?”

“That is no answer, monsieur; I have been surprised into being influenced by a stranger, and now⁠—”

“Do you want my biography, what I have been, what I am, and what I may be? What difference does it make to you? I told you that I would save you; the main point is that I am saving you.”

“Still I have the right to ask by what means you are saving me.”

“What good will it do you to know what my plans are?”

“In order to decide whether I will accept or reject them?”

“But suppose I guarantee success?”

“That is not sufficient, monsieur. I do not choose to be any longer deprived of my own free will, to be exposed without warning to trials like those I have undergone today. A man of my age must know what he is doing.”

“A man of your age, Prosper, when he is blind, takes a guide, and does not undertake to point out the way to his leader.”

The half-bantering, half-commiserating tone of M. Verduret was not calculated to calm Prosper’s irritation.

“That being the case, monsieur,” he cried, “I will thank you for your past services, and decline them for the future, as I have no need of them. If I attempted to defend my honor and my life, it was because I hoped that Madeleine would be restored to me. I have been convinced today that all is at an end between us; I retire from the struggle, and care not what becomes of me now.”

Prosper was so decided, that M. Verduret seemed alarmed.

“You must be mad,” he finally said.

“No, unfortunately I am not. Madeleine has ceased to love me, and of what importance is anything else?”

His heartbroken tone aroused M. Verduret’s sympathy, and he said, in a kind, soothing tone:

“Then you suspect nothing? You did not fathom the meaning of what she said?”

“You were listening,” cried Prosper fiercely.

“I certainly was.”

“Monsieur!”

“Yes. It was a presumptuous thing to do, perhaps; but the end justified the means in this instance. I am glad I did listen, because it has enabled me to say to you, Take courage, Prosper: Mlle. Madeleine loves you; she has never ceased to love you.”

Like a dying man who eagerly listens to deceitful promises of recovery, although he feels himself sinking into the grave, did Prosper feel his sad heart cheered by M. Verduret’s assertion.

“Oh,” he murmured, suddenly calmed, “if only I could hope!”

“Rely upon me, I am not mistaken. Ah, I could see the torture endured by this generous girl, while she struggled between her love, and what she believed to be her duty. Were you not convinced of her love when she bade you farewell?”

“She loves me, she is free, and yet she shuns me.”

“No, she is not free! In breaking off her engagement with you, she was governed by some powerful, irrepressible event. She is sacrificing herself⁠—for whom? We shall soon know; and the secret of her self-sacrifice will discover to us the secret of her plot against you.”

As M. Verduret spoke, Prosper felt all his resolutions of revolt slowly melting away, and their place taken by confidence and hope.

“If what you say were true!” he mournfully said.

“Foolish young man! Why do you persist in obstinately shutting your eyes to the proof I place before you? Can you not see that Mlle. Madeleine knows who the thief is? Yes, you need not look so shocked; she knows the thief, but no human power can tear it from her. She sacrifices you, but then she almost has the right, since she first sacrificed herself.”

Prosper was almost convinced; and it nearly broke his heart to leave this little parlor where he had seen Madeleine.

“Alas!” he said, pressing M. Verduret’s hand, “you must think me a ridiculous fool! but you don’t know how I suffer.”

The man with the red whiskers sadly shook his head, and his voice sounded very unsteady as he replied, in a low tone:

“What you suffer, I have suffered. Like you, I loved, not a pure, noble girl, yet a girl fair to look upon. For three years I was at her feet, a slave to her every whim; when, one day she suddenly deserted me who adored her, to throw herself in the arms of a man who despised her. Then, like you, I wished to die. Neither threats nor entreaties could induce her to return to me. Passion never reasons, and she loved my rival.”

“And did you know this rival?”

“I knew him.”

“And you did not seek revenge?”

“No,” replied M. Verduret with a singular expression, “no: fate took charge of my vengeance.”

For a minute Prosper was silent; then he said:

“I have finally decided, monsieur. My honor is a sacred trust for which I must account to my family. I am ready to follow you to the end of the world; dispose of me as you judge proper.”

That same day Prosper, faithful to his promise, sold his furniture, and wrote a letter to his friends announcing his intended departure to San Francisco.

In the evening he and M. Verduret