25 chapters
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25 chapters
I
I
In the Paris evening papers of Tuesday, February 28, 1866, under the head of Local Items , the following announcement appeared: “A daring robbery, committed against one of our most eminent bankers, M. Andre Fauvel, caused great excitement this morning throughout the neighborhood of Rue de Provence. “The thieves, who were as skilful as they were bold, succeeded in making an entrance to the bank, in forcing the lock of a safe that has heretofore been considered impregnable, and in possessing thems
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II
II
The banking-house of Andre Fauvel, No. 87 Rue de Provence, is an important establishment, and, owing to its large force of clerks, presents very much the appearance of a government department. On the ground-floor are the offices, with windows opening on the street, fortified by strong iron bars sufficiently large and close together to discourage all burglarious attempts. A large glass door opens into a spacious vestibule where three or four office-boys are always in waiting. On the right are the
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III
III
If there is one man in the world whom no event can move or surprise, who is always on his guard against deceptive appearances, and is capable of admitting everything and explaining everything, it certainly is a Parisian commissary of police. While the judge, from his lofty place, applies the code to the facts submitted to him, the commissary of police observes and watches all the odious circumstances that the law cannot reach. He is perforce the confidant of disgraceful details, domestic crimes,
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IV
IV
At the same hour that Mme. Nina Gypsy was seeking refuge at the Archangel, so highly recommended by Fanferlot the Squirrel, Prosper Bertomy was being entered on the jailer’s book at the police office. Since the moment when he had resumed his habitual composure, he had not faltered. Vainly did the people around him watch for a suspicious expression, or any sign of giving way under the danger of his situation. His face was like marble. One would have supposed him insensible to the horrors of his c
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V
V
While his whole past was the object of the most minute investigations, Prosper was in prison, in a secret cell. The two first days had not appeared very long. He had requested, and been granted, some sheets of paper, numbered, which he was obliged to account for; and he wrote, with a sort of rage, plans of defence and a narrative of justification. The third day he began to be uneasy at not seeing anyone except the condemned prisoners who were employed to serve those confined in secret cells, and
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VI
VI
The Archangel Hotel, Mme. Gypsy’s asylum, was the most elegant building on the Quai St. Michel. A person who pays her fortnight’s board in advance is treated with consideration at this hotel. Mme. Alexandre, who had been a handsome woman, was now stout, laced till she could scarcely breathe, always over-dressed, and fond of wearing a number of flashy gold chains around her fat neck. She had bright eyes and white teeth; but, alas, a red nose. Of all her weaknesses, and Heaven knows she had indulg
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VII
VII
Prosper had been languishing in his private cell for nine days, when on Thursday morning the jailer came to inform him of the judge’s decision. He was conducted before the officer who had searched him when he was arrested; and the contents of his pocket, his watch, penknife, and several little pieces of jewelry, were restored to him; then he was told to sign a large sheet of paper, which he did. He was next led across a dark passage, and almost pushed through a door, which was abruptly shut upon
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VIII
VIII
When Raoul de Lagors spoke of M. Fauvel’s extraordinary dejection, he had not exaggerated. Since the fatal day when, upon his denunciation, his cashier had been arrested, the banker, this active, energetic man of business, had been a prey to the most gloomy melancholy, and absolutely refused to take any interest in his affairs, seldom entering the banking-house. He, who had always been so domestic, never came near his family except at meals, when he would swallow a few mouthfuls, and hastily lea
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IX
IX
Not far from the Palais Royal, in the Rue St. Honore, is the sign of “La Bonne Foi,” a small establishment, half cafe and half shop, extensively patronized by the people of the neighborhood. It was in the smoking-room of this modest cafe that Prosper, the day after his release, awaited M. Verduret, who had promised to meet him at four o’clock. The clock struck four; M. Verduret, who was punctuality itself, appeared. He was more red-faced and self-satisfied, if possible, than the day before. As s
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X
X
Leaving the little station of Vesinet, 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 other, newly laid out, and just covered with gravel, leads through the woods. Along the latter, which before the lapse of five years will be a busy street, are built a few houses, hideous in design, and at some distance apart; rural summer retreats of city merchants, but unoccupied during t
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XI
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
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THE DRAMA
THE DRAMA
About two leagues from Tarascon, on the left bank of the Rhone, not far from the wonderful gardens of M. Audibert, stood the chateau of Clameran, a weather-stained, neglected, but massive structure. Here lived, in 1841, the old Marquis de Clameran and his two sons, Gaston and Louis. The marquis was an eccentric old man. He belonged to the race of nobles, now almost extinct, whose watches stopped in 1789, and who kept time with the past century. More attached to his illusions than to his life, th
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XIII
XIII
Valentine knew, that fatal evening, that Gaston would have to walk to Tarascon, to cross the bridge over the Rhone which connected Tarascon with Beaucaire, and did not expect to see him until eleven o’clock, the hour which they had fixed upon the previous evening. But, happening to look up at the windows of Clameran, she saw lights hurrying to and fro in an unusual manner, even in rooms that she knew to be unoccupied. A presentiment of impending misfortune chilled her blood, and stopped the beat
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XIV
XIV
Cold and white as a marble statue, Valentine stood on the bank of the river, watching the frail bark which was carrying her lover away. It flew along the Rhone like a bird in a tempest, and after a few seconds appeared like a black speck in the midst of the heavy fog which floated over the water, then was lost to view. Now that Gaston was gone, Valentine had no motive for concealing her despair; she wrung her hands and sobbed as if her heart would break. All her forced calmness, her bravery and
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XV
XV
Louis de Clameran, the second son of the marquis, was one of those self-controlled men who, beneath a cool, careless manner, conceal a fiery temperament, and ungovernable passions. All sorts of extravagant ideas had begun to ferment in his disordered brain, long before the occurrence which decided the destiny of the Clameran family. Apparently occupied in the pursuit of pleasure, this precocious hypocrite longed for a larger field in which to indulge his evil inclinations, secretly cursing the s
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XVI
XVI
During the twenty years of her married life, Valentine had experienced but one real sorrow; and this was one which, in the course of nature, must happen sooner or later. In 1859 her mother caught a violent cold during one of her frequent journeys to Paris, and, in spite of every attention which money could procure, she became worse, and died. The countess preserved her faculties to the last, and with her dying breath said to her daughter: “Ah, well! was I not wise in prevailing upon you to bury
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XVII
XVII
It was not without the most painful suffering and self-condemnation that Mme. Fauvel submitted to the will of the pitiless Marquis of Clameran. She had used every argument and entreaty to soften him; but he merely looked upon her with a triumphant, sneering smile, when she knelt at his feet, implored him to be merciful and spare her the shame and remorse of committing another crime. Spare her this torture, and she would grant anything else he wished, give Raoul all she possessed while alive, and
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XVIII
XVIII
After leaving Valentine de la Verberie, Gaston underwent great peril and difficulty in effecting his escape. But for the experienced and faithful Menoul, he never would have succeeded in embarking. Having left his mother’s jewels with Valentine, his sole fortune consisted of not quite a thousand francs; and with this paltry sum in his pocket, the murderer of two men, a fugitive from justice, and with no prospect of earning a livelihood, he took passage for Valparaiso. But Menoul was a bold and e
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XIX
XIX
Faithful to the programme laid down by his accomplice, while Louis watched at Oloron, Raoul remained in Paris with the purpose of recovering the confidence and affection of Mme. Fauvel, and of lulling any suspicions which might arise in her breast. The task was difficult, but not impossible. Mme. Fauvel had been distressed by Raoul’s wild extravagance, but had never ceased to love him. Whatever faults he had committed, whatever future follies he might indulge in, he would always remain her best-
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Clameran’s last injunction to Raoul was:
Clameran’s last injunction to Raoul was:
“Be very cautious when you enter the room; your appearance must tell everything, so you can avoid preliminary explanations.” The recommendation was useless. The instant that Raoul went into the little salon, the sight of his pale, haggard face and wild eyes caused Mme. Fauvel to spring up with clasped hands, and cry out: “Raoul! What has happened? Speak, my son!” The sound of her tender, affectionate voice acted like an electric shock upon the young bandit. He shook like a leaf. But at the same
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XXI
XXI
For more than an hour after Raoul’s departure, Mme. Fauvel remained in a state of stupor bordering upon unconsciousness. Gradually, however, she recovered her senses sufficiently to comprehend the horrors of her present situation; and, with the faculty of thought, that of suffering returned. The dreadful scene in which she had taken part was still before her affrighted vision; all the attending circumstances, unnoticed at the time, now struck her forcibly. She saw that she had been the dupe of a
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THE CATASTROPHE
THE CATASTROPHE
Such are the facts that, with an almost incredible talent for investigation, had been collected and prepared by the stout man with the jovial face who had taken Prosper under his protection, M. Verduret. Reaching Paris at nine o’clock in the evening, not by the Lyons road as he had said, but by the Orleans train, M. Verduret hurried up to the Archangel, where he found the cashier impatiently expecting him. “You are about to hear some rich developments,” he said to Prosper, “and see how far back
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XXIII
XXIII
As M. Verduret had anticipated, Prosper’s letter had a terrible effect upon M. Fauvel. It was toward nine o’clock in the morning, and M. Fauvel had just entered his study when his mail was brought in. After opening a dozen business letters, his eyes fell on the fatal missive sent by Prosper. Something about the writing struck him as peculiar. It was evidently a disguised hand, and although, owing to the fact of his being a millionnaire, he was in the habit of receiving anonymous communications,
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XXIV
XXIV
The moment that the Marquis of Clameran perceived that Raoul de Lagors was the only obstacle between him and Madeleine, he swore that the obstacle should soon be removed. That very day he took steps for the accomplishment of his purpose. As Raoul was walking out to Vesinet about midnight, he was stopped at a lonely spot, by three men, who asked him what o’clock it was; while looking at his watch, the ruffians fell upon him suddenly, and but for Raoul’s wonderful strength and agility, would have
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XXV
XXV
Four days had passed since the events just narrated, when one morning M. Lecoq—the official Lecoq, who resembled the dignified head of a bureau—was walking up and down his private office, at each turn nervously looking at the clock, which slowly ticked on the mantel, as if it had no intention of striking any sooner than usual, to gratify the man so anxiously watching its placid face. At last, however, the clock did strike; and just then the faithful Janouille opened the door, and ushered in Mme.
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