FILE NO. 113 (Unabridged). Emile Gaboriau
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suspected it to be the house, monsieur; now tell me whether the apartments she occupies are rented in her name.”
“No. Prosper rents them.”
“Exactly; and on which floor, if you please?”
“On the first.”
During this colloquy, Fanferlot had folded up the note, and slipped it into his pocket.
“A thousand thanks, monsieur, for the information; and, in return, I will relieve you of the trouble of executing your commission.”
“Monsieur!”
“Yes: with your permission, I will myself take this note to Mme. Nina Gypsy.”
Cavaillon began to remonstrate; but Fanferlot cut him short by saying:
“I will also venture to give you a piece of advice. Return quietly to your business, and have nothing more to do with this affair.”
“But Prosper is a good friend of mine, and has saved me from ruin more than once.”
“Only the more reason for your keeping quiet. You cannot be of the slightest assistance to him, and I can tell you that you may be of great injury. As you are known to be his devoted friend, of course your absence at this time will be remarked upon. Any steps that you take in this matter will receive the worst interpretation.”
“Prosper is innocent, I am sure.”
Fanferlot was of the same opinion, but he had no idea of betraying his private thoughts; and yet for the success of his investigations it was necessary to impress the importance of prudence and discretion upon the young man. He would have told him to keep silent concerning what had passed between them, but he dared not.
“What you say may be true,” he said. “I hope it is, for the sake of M. Bertomy, and on your own account too; for, if he is guilty, you will certainly be very much annoyed, and perhaps suspected of complicity, as you are well known to be intimate with him.”
Cavaillon was overcome.
“Now you had best take my advice, monsieur, and return to your business, and—. Good-morning, monsieur.”
The poor fellow obeyed. Slowly and with swelling heart he returned to the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette. He asked himself how he could serve Prosper, warn Mme. Gypsy, and, above all, have his revenge upon this odious detective, who had just made him suffer cruel humiliation.
He had no sooner turned the corner of the street, than Fanferlot entered No. 39, gave his name to the porter as Prosper Bertomy, went upstairs, and knocked at the first door he came to.
It was opened by a youthful footman, dressed in the most fanciful livery.
“Is Mme. Gypsy at home?”
The groom hesitated; seeing this, Fanferlot showed his note, and said:
“M. Prosper told me to hand this note to madame, and wait for an answer.”
“Walk in, and I will let madame know you are here.”
The name of Prosper produced its effect. Fanferlot was ushered into a little room furnished in blue and gold silk damask. Heavy curtains darkened the windows, and hung in front of the doors. The floor was covered with a blue velvet carpet.
“Our cashier was certainly well lodged,” murmured the detective.
But he had no time to purse his inventory. One of the door-curtains was pushed aside, and Mme. Nina Gypsy stood before him.
Mme. Gypsy was quite young, small, and graceful, with a brown or rather gold-colored quadroon complexion, with the hands and feet of a child.
Long curling silk lashes softened the piercing brilliancy of her large black eyes; her lips were full, and her teeth were very white.
She had not yet made her toilet, but wore a velvet dressing-wrapper, which did not conceal the lace ruffles beneath. But she had already been under the hands of a hairdresser.
Her hair was curled and frizzed high on her forehead, and confined by narrow bands of red velvet; her back hair was rolled in an immense coil, and held by a beautiful gold comb.
She was ravishing. Her beauty was so startling that the dazzled detective was speechless with admiration.
“Well,” he said to himself, as he remembered the noble, severe beauty of Madeleine, whom he had seen a few hours previous, “our young gentleman certainly has good taste—very good taste—two perfect beauties!”
While he thus reflected, perfectly bewildered, and wondering how he could begin the conversation, Mme. Gypsy eyed him with the most disdainful surprise; she was waiting for this shabby little man in a threadbare coat and greasy hat to explain his presence in her dainty parlor.
She had many creditors, and was recalling them, and wondering which one had dared send this man to wipe his dusty boots on her velvet carpets.
After scrutinizing him from head to foot with undisguised contempt, she said, haughtily:
“What do you want?”
Anyone but Fanferlot would have been offended at her insolent manner; but he only noticed it to gain some notion of the young woman’s disposition.
“She is bad-tempered,” he thought, “and is uneducated.”
While he was speculating upon her merits, Mme. Nina impatiently tapped her little foot, and waited for an answer; finally she said:
“Why don’t you speak? What do you want here?”
“I 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!”