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

is always based on something. But we must not stay here forever; and, as Raoul has fastened the gate, we shall have to climb back again.”

“But there is the ladder.”

“Let it stay where it is; as we cannot efface our footprints, he will think thieves have been trying to get into the house.”

They scaled the wall, and had not walked fifty steps when they heard the noise of a gate being unlocked. The stood aside and waited; a man soon passed on his way to the station.

“That is Raoul,” said M. Verduret, “and Joseph will report to us that he has gone to tell Clameran what has just taken place. If they are only kind enough to speak French!”

He walked along quietly for some time, trying to connect the broken chain of his deductions.

“How in the deuce,” he abruptly asked, “did this Lagors, who is devoted to gay society, come to choose a lonely country house to live in?”

“I suppose it was because M. Fauvel’s villa is only fifteen minutes’ ride from here, on the Seine.”

“That accounts for his staying here in the summer; but in winter?”

“Oh, in winter he has a room at the Hotel du Louvre, and all the year round keeps an apartment in Paris.”

This did not enlighten M. Verduret much; he hurried his pace.

“I hope our driver has not gone. We cannot take the train which is about to start, because Raoul would see us at the station.”

Although it was more than an hour since M. Verduret and Prosper left the hack at the branch road, they found it waiting for them in front of the tavern.

The driver could not resist the desire to change his five-franc piece; he had ordered dinner, and, finding his wine very good, was calling for more, when he looked up and saw his employers.

“Well, you are in a strange state!” he exclaimed.

Prosper replied that they had gone to see a friend, and, losing their way, had fallen into a pit; as if there were pits in Vésinet forest.

“Ah, that is the way you got covered with mud, is it?” exclaimed the driver, who, though apparently contented with this explanation, strongly suspected that his two customers had been engaged in some nefarious transaction.

This opinion seemed to be entertained by everyone present, for they looked at Prosper’s muddy clothes and then at each other in a knowing way.

But M. Verduret stopped all comment by saying:

“Come on.”

“All right, monsieur: get in while I settle my bill; I will be there in a minute.”

The drive back was silent and seemed interminably long. Prosper at first tried to draw his strange companion into conversation, but, as he received nothing but monosyllables in reply, held his peace for the rest of the journey. He was again beginning to feel irritated at the absolute empire exercised over him by this man.

Physical discomfort was added to his other troubles. He was stiff and numb; every bone in him ached with the cold.

Although mental endurance may be unlimited, bodily strength must in the end give way. A violent effort is always followed by reaction.

Lying back in a corner of the carriage, with his feet upon the front seat, M. Verduret seemed to be enjoying a nap; yet he was never more wide awake.

He was in a perplexed state of mind. This expedition, which, he had been confident, would resolve all his doubts, had only added mystery to mystery. His chain of evidence, which he thought so strongly linked, was completely broken.

For him the facts remained the same, but circumstances had changed. He could not imagine what common motive, what moral or material complicity, what influences, could have existed to make the four actors in his drama, Mme. Fauvel, Madeleine, Raoul, and Clameran, seem to have the same object in view.

He was seeking in his fertile mind, that encyclopaedia of craft and subtlety, for some combination which would throw light on the problem before him.

The midnight bells were ringing when they reached the Archangel, and for the first time M. Verduret remembered that he had not dined.

Fortunately Mme. Alexandre was still up, and in the twinkling of an eye had improvised a tempting supper. It was more than attention, more than respect, that she showed her guest. Prosper observed that she gazed admiringly at M. Verduret all the while he was eating his supper.

“You will not see me tomorrow,” said M. Verduret to Prosper, when he had risen to leave the room; “but I will be here about this time tomorrow night. Perhaps I shall discover what I am seeking at MM. Jandidier’s ball.”

Prosper was dumb with astonishment. What! would M. Verduret think of appearing at a ball given by the wealthiest and most fashionable bankers in Paris? This accounted for his sending to the costumer.

“Then you are invited to this ball?”

The expressive eyes of M. Verduret danced with amusement.

“Not yet,” he said, “but I shall be.”

Oh, the inconsistency of the human mind! Prosper was tormented by the most serious preoccupations. He looked sadly around his chamber, and, as he thought of M. Verduret’s projected pleasure at the ball, exclaimed:

“Ah, how fortunate he is! Tomorrow he will have the privilege of seeing Madeleine.”

XI

The Rue St. Lazare was adorned by the palatial residences of the Jandidier brothers, two celebrated financiers, who, if deprived of the prestige of immense wealth, would still be looked up to as remarkable men. Why cannot the same be said of all men?

These two mansions, which were thought marvels at the time they were built, were entirely distinct from each other, but so planned that they could be turned into one immense house when so desired.

When MM. Jandidier gave parties, they always had the movable partitions taken away, and thus obtained the most superb salon in Paris.

Princely magnificence, lavish hospitality, and an elegant, graceful manner of receiving their guests, made these entertainments eagerly sought after by the fashionable circles of the capital.

On Saturday, the Rue St. Lazare was blocked up by a file of carriages, whose fair occupants were impatiently awaiting their turn to drive up to the door,