The Greatest Works of Émile Gaboriau. Emile Gaboriau
am charged, my dear madame,” he answered in his softest tone, “by M. Bertomy, to give you this note.”
“From Prosper! You know him, then?”
“I have that honor, madame; indeed, I may be so bold as to claim him as a friend.”
“Monsieur! You a friend of Prosper!” exclaimed Mme. Gypsy in a scornful tone, as if her pride were wounded.
Fanferlot did not condescend to notice this offensive exclamation. He was ambitious, and contempt failed to irritate him.
“I said a friend of his, madame, and there are few people who would have the courage to claim friendship for him now.”
Mme. Gypsy was struck by the words and manner of Fanferlot.
“I never could guess riddles,” she said, tartly: “will you be kind enough to explain what you mean?”
The detective slowly drew Prosper’s note from his pocket, and, with a bow, presented it to Mme. Gypsy.
“Read, madame,” he said.
She certainly anticipated no misfortune; although her sight was excellent, she stopped to fasten a tiny gold eyeglass on her nose, then carelessly opened the note.
At a glance she read its contents.
She turned very red, then very pale; she trembled as if with a nervous chill; her limbs seemed to give way, and she tottered so that Fanferlot, thinking she was about to fall, extended his arms to catch her.
Useless precaution! Mme. Gypsy was one of those women whose inert listlessness conceals indomitable energy; fragile-looking creatures whose powers of endurance and resistance are unlimited; cat-like in their soft grace and delicacy, especially cat-like in their nerves and muscles of steel.
The dizziness caused by the shock she had received quickly passed off. She tottered, but did not fall, and stood up looking stronger than ever; seizing the wrist of the detective, she held it as if her delicate little hand were a vice, and cried out:
“Explain yourself! what does all this mean? Do you know anything about the contents of this note?”
Although Fanferlot betrayed courage in daily contending with the most dangerous rascals, he was positively terrified by Mme. Gypsy.
“Alas!” he murmured.
“Prosper is to be arrested, accused of being a thief?”
“Yes, madame, he is accused of taking three hundred and fifty thousand francs from the bank-safe.”
“It is false, infamous, absurd!” she cried. She had dropped Fanferlot’s hand; and her fury, like that of a spoiled child, found vent in violent actions. She tore her web-like handkerchief, and the magnificent lace on her gown, to shreds.
“Prosper steal!” she cried; “what a stupid idea! Why should he steal? Is he not rich?”
“M. Bertomy is not rich, madame; he has nothing but his salary.”
The answer seemed to confound Mme. Gypsy.
“But,” she insisted, “I have always seen him have plenty of money; not rich—then——”
She dared not finish; but her eye met Fanferlot’s, and they understood each other.
Mme. Nina’s look meant:
“He committed this robbery in order to gratify my extravagant whims.”
Fanferlot’s glance answered:
“Very likely, madame.”
A few minutes’ reflection convinced Nina that her first impression was the correct one. Doubt fled after hovering for an instant over her agitated mind.
“No!” she cried, “I regret to say that Prosper would never have stolen one cent for me. One can understand a man robbing a bank to obtain means of bestowing pleasure and luxury upon the woman he loves; but Prosper does not love me, he never has loved me.”
“Oh, fair lady!” protested the gallant and insinuating Fanferlot, “you surely cannot mean what you say.”
Her beautiful eyes filled with tears, as she sadly shook her head, and said:
“I mean exactly what I say. It is only too true. He is ready to gratify my every wish, you may say; what does that prove? Nothing. I am too well convinced that he does not love me. I know what love is. Once I was beloved by an affectionate, true-hearted man; and my own sufferings of the last year make me know how miserable I must have made him by my cold return. Alas! we must suffer ourselves before we can feel for others. No, I am nothing to Prosper; he would not care if—”
“But then, madame, why—”
“Ah, yes,” interrupted Nina, “why? you will be very wise if you can answer me. For a year have I vainly sought an answer to this question, so sad to me. I, a woman, cannot answer it; and I defy you to do so. You cannot discover the thoughts of a man so thoroughly master of himself that never is a single thought passing in his mind to be detected upon his countenance. I have watched him as only a woman can watch the man upon whom her fate depends, but it has always been in vain. He is kind and indulgent; but he does not betray himself, never will he commit himself. Ignorant people call him weak, yielding: I tell you that fair-haired man is a rod of iron painted like a reed!”
Carried away by the violence of her feelings, Mme. Nina betrayed her inmost thoughts. She was without distrust, never suspecting that the stranger listening to her was other than a friend of Prosper.
As for Fanferlot, he congratulated himself upon his success. No one but a woman could have drawn him so excellent a portrait; in a moment of excitement she had given him the most valuable information; he now knew the nature of the man with whom he had to deal, which in an investigation like that he was pursuing is the principal point.
“You know that M. Bertomy gambles,” he ventured to say, “and gambling is apt to lead a man—”
Mme. Gypsy shrugged her shoulders, and interrupted him:
“Yes, he plays,” she said, “but he is not a gambler. I have seen him lose and gain large sums without betraying the slightest agitation. He plays as he drinks, as he sups, as he falls in love—without passion, without enthusiasm, without pleasure. Sometimes he frightens me; he seems to drag about a body without a soul. Ah, I am not happy! Never have I been able to overcome his indifference, and indifference so great, so reckless, that I often think it must be despair; nothing will convince me that he has not some terrible secret, some great misfortune weighing upon his mind, and making life a burden.”
“Then he has never spoken to you of his past?”
“Why should he tell me? Did you not hear me? I tell you he does not love me!”
Mme. Nina was overcome by thoughts of the past, and tears silently coursed down her cheeks.
But her despair was only momentary. She started up, and, her eyes sparkling with generous resolution, she cried out:
“But I love him, and I will save him! I will see his chief, the miserable wretch who dares to accuse him. I will haunt the judges, and I will prove that he is innocent. Come, monsieur, let us start, and I promise you that before sunset he shall be free, or I shall be in prison with him.”
Mme. Gypsy’s project was certainly laudable, and prompted by the noblest sentiments; but unfortunately it was impracticable.
Moreover, it would be going counter to the plans of the detective.
Although he had resolved to reserve to himself all the difficulties as well as the benefits of this inquiry, Fanferlot saw clearly that he could not conceal the existence of Mme. Nina from the judge of instruction. She would necessarily be brought into the case, and sought for. But he did not wish her to take any steps of her own accord. He proposed to have her appear when and how he judged proper, so that he might gain for himself the merit of having discovered her.