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

this report, every word of which seemed to throw light upon past events. Now, he thought, he understood the fragment of Gypsy’s letter. He saw that this Raoul, in whom he had confided so deeply, was nothing more than a scoundrel. A thousand little circumstances, unnoticed at the time, now recurred to his mind, and made him wonder how he could have been so blind so long.

Master Joseph Dubois continued his report:

“Yesterday, after dinner, my master decked himself out like a bridegroom. I shaved him, curled his hair, and perfumed him with special care, after which I drove him to the Rue de Provence to call on Mme. Fauvel.”

“What!” exclaimed Prosper, “after the insulting language he used the day of the robbery, did he dare to visit the house?”

“Yes, monsieur, he not only dared this, but he also stayed there until midnight, to my great discomfort; for I got as wet as a rat, waiting for him.”

“How did he look when he came out?” asked M. Verduret.

“Well, he certainly looked less pleased then when he went in. After putting away my carriage, and rubbing down my horses, I went to see if he wanted anything; I found the door locked, and he swore at me like a trooper, through the keyhole.”

And, to assist the digestion of this insult, Master Joseph here gulped down a glass of absinthe.

“Is that all?” questioned M. Verduret.

“All that occurred yesterday, patron; but this morning my master rose late, still in a horrible bad humor. At noon Raoul arrived, also in a rage. They at once began to dispute, and such a row! why, the most abandoned housebreakers and pickpockets would have blushed to hear such Billingsgate. At one time my master seized the other by the throat and shook him like a reed. But Raoul was too quick for him; he saved himself from strangulation by drawing out a sharp-pointed knife, the sight of which made my master drop him in a hurry, I can tell you.”

“But what did they say?”

“Ah, there is the rub, patron,” said Joseph in a piteous tone; “the scamps spoke English, so I could not understand them. But I am sure they were disputing about money.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I learned at the Exposition that the word ‘argent’ means money in every language in Europe; and this word they constantly used in their conversation.”

M. Verduret sat with knit brows, talking in an undertone to himself; and Prosper, who was watching him, wondered if he was trying to understand and construct the dispute by mere force of reflection.

“When they had done fighting,” continued Joseph, “the rascals began to talk in French again; but they only spoke of a fancy ball which is to be given by some banker. When Raoul was leaving, my master said, ‘Since this thing is inevitable, and it must take place today, you had better remain at home, at Vésinet, this evening.’ Raoul replied, ‘Of course.’ ”

Night was approaching, and the smoking-room was gradually filling with men who called for absinthe or bitters, and youths who perched themselves up on high stools, and smoked their pipes.

“It is time to go,” said M. Verduret; “your master will want you, Joseph; besides, here is someone come for me. I will see you tomorrow.”

The newcomer was no other than Cavaillon, more troubled and frightened than ever. He looked uneasily around the room, as if he expected the whole police force to appear, and carry him off to prison.

He did not sit down at M. Verduret’s table, but stealthily gave his hand to Prosper, and, after assuring himself that no one was observing them, handed M. Verduret a package, saying:

“She found this in a cupboard.”

It was a handsomely bound prayerbook. M. Verduret rapidly turned over the leaves, and soon found the pages from which the words pasted on Prosper’s letter had been cut.

“I had moral proofs,” he said, handing the book to Prosper, “but here is material proof sufficient in itself to save you.”

When Prosper looked at the book he turned pale as a ghost. He recognized this prayerbook instantly. He had given it to Madeleine in exchange for the medal.

He opened it, and on the flyleaf Madeleine had written, “Souvenir of Notre Dame de Fourvières, 17 January, 1866.”

“This book belongs to Madeleine,” he cried.

M. Verduret did not reply, but walked toward a young man dressed like a brewer, who had just entered the room.

He glanced at the note which this person handed to him, and hastened back to the table, and said, in an agitated tone:

“I think we have got them now!”

Throwing a five-franc piece on the table, and without saying a word to Cavaillon, he seized Prosper’s arm, and hurried from the room.

“What a fatality!” he said, as he hastened along the street: “we may miss them. We shall certainly reach the St. Lazare station too late for the St. Germain train.”

“For Heaven’s sake, where are you going?” asked Prosper.

“Never mind, we can talk after we start. Hurry!”

Reaching Palais Royal Place, M. Verduret stopped before one of the hacks belonging to the railway station, and examined the horses at a glance.

“How much for driving us to Vésinet?” he asked of the driver.

“I don’t know the road very well that way.”

The name of Vésinet was enough for Prosper.

“Well,” said the driver, “at this time of night, in such dreadful weather, it ought to be⁠—twenty-five francs.”

“And how much more for driving very rapidly?”

“Bless my soul! Why, monsieur, I leave that to your generosity; but if you put it at thirty-five francs⁠—”

“You shall have a hundred,” interrupted M. Verduret, “if you overtake a carriage which has half an hour’s start of us.”

“Tonnerre de Brest!” cried the delighted driver; “jump in quick: we are losing time!”

And, whipping up his lean horses, he galloped them down the Rue de Valois at lightning speed.

X

Leaving the little station of Vésinet, we come upon two roads. One, to the left, macadamized and kept in perfect repair, leads to the village, of which there are glimpses here and there through the trees. The