File No. 113

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 left him dead on the spot.

As it was, he soon, by his skilfully plied blows (for he had become a proficient in fencing and boxing in England), made his enemies take to their heels.

He quietly continued his walk home, fully determined to be hereafter well armed when he went out at night.

He never for an instant suspected his accomplice of having instigated the assault.

But two days afterward, while sitting in a cafe, a burly, vulgar-looking man, a stranger to him, interrupted him several times while talking, and, after making several rough speeches as if trying to provoke a quarrel, finally threw a card in his face, saying its owner was ready to grant him satisfaction when and where he pleased.

Raoul rushed toward the man to chastise him on the spot; but his friends held him back, telling him that it would be much more gentlemanly to run a sword through his vulgar hide, than have a scuffle in a public place.

“Very well, then: you will hear from me to-morrow,” he said scornfully to his assailant. “Wait at your hotel until I send two friends to arrange the matter with you.”

As soon as the stranger had left, Raoul recovered from his excitement, and began to wonder what could have been the motive for this evidently premeditated insult.

Picking up the card of the bully, he read:

W. H. B. JACOBSON. Formerly Garibaldian volunteer, Ex-officer of the army of the South. (Italy, America.)

30, Rue Leonie.

Raoul had seen enough of the world to know that these heroes who cover their visiting-cards with titles have very little glory elsewhere than in their own conceit.

Still the insult had been offered in the presence of others; and, no matter who the offender was, it must be noticed. Early the next morning Raoul sent two of his friends to make arrangements for a duel. He gave them M. Jacobson’s address, and told them to report at the Hotel du Louvre, where he would wait for them.

Having dismissed his friends, Raoul went to find out something about M. Jacobson; and, being an expert at the business of unravelling plots and snares, he determined to discover who was at the bottom of this duel into which he had been decoyed.

The information obtained was not very promising.

M. Jacobson, who lived in a very suspicious-looking little hotel whose inmates were chiefly women of light character, was described to him as an eccentric gentleman, whose mode of life was a problem difficult to solve. No one knew his means of support.

He reigned despotically in the hotel, went out a great deal, never came in until midnight, and seemed to have no capital to live upon, save his military titles, and a talent for carrying out whatever was undertaken for his own benefit.

“That being his character,” thought Raoul, “I cannot see what object he can have in picking a quarrel with me. What good will it do him to run a sword through my body? Not the slightest; and, moreover, his pugnacious conduct is apt to draw the attention of the police, who, from what I hear, are the last people this warrior would like to have after him. Therefore he must have some reason for pursuing me; and I must find out what it is.”

The result of his meditations was, that Raoul, upon his return to the Hotel du Louvre, did not mention a word of his adventure to Clameran, whom he found already up.

At half-past eight his seconds arrived.

M. Jacobson had selected the sword, and would fight that very hour, in the woods of Vincennes.

“Well, come along,” cried Raoul gayly. “I accept the gentleman’s conditions.”

They found the Garibaldian waiting; and after an interchange of a few thrusts Raoul was slightly wounded in the right shoulder.

The “Ex-superior officer of the South” wished to continue the combat; but Raoul’s seconds—brave young men—declared that honor was satisfied, and that they had no intention of subjecting their friend’s life to unnecessary hazards.

The ex-officer was forced to admit that this was but fair, and unwillingly retired from the field. Raoul went home delighted at having escaped with nothing more serious than a little loss of blood, and resolved to keep clear of all so-called Garibaldians in the future.

In fact, a night’s reflection had convinced him that Clameran was the instigator of the two attempts to kill him. Mme. Fauvel having told him what conditions Madeleine placed on her consent to marriage, Raoul instantly saw how necessary his removal would be, now that he was an impediment in the way of Clameran’s success. He recalled a thousand little remarks and events of the last few days, and, on skilfully questioning the marquis, had his suspicions changed into certainty.

This conviction that the man whom he had so materially assisted in his criminal plans was so basely ungrateful as to turn against him, and hire assassins to murder him in cold blood, inspired in Raoul a resolution to take speedy vengeance upon his treacherous accomplice, and at the same time insure his own safety.

This treason seemed monstrous to Raoul. He was as yet not sufficiently experienced in ruffianism to know that one villain always sacrifices another to advance his own projects; he was credulous enough to believe in the adage, “there’s honor among thieves.”

His rage was naturally mingled with fright, well knowing that his life hung by a thread, when it was threatened by a daring scoundrel like Clameran.

He had twice miraculously escaped; a third attempt would more than likely prove fatal.

Knowing his accomplice’s nature, Raoul saw himself surrounded by snares; he saw death before him in every form; he was equally afraid of going out, and of remaining at home. He only ventured with the most suspicious caution into the most public places; he feared poison more than the assassin’s knife, and imagined that every dish placed before him tasted of strychnine.

As this life of torture was intolerable, he determined to anticipate a struggle which he felt must terminate in the death of either Clameran or himself; and, if he were doomed to die, to be first revenged. If he went down, Clameran should go too; better kill the devil than be killed by him.

In his days of poverty, Raoul had often risked his life to obtain a few guineas, and would not have hesitated to make short work of a person like Clameran.

But with money prudence had come. He wished to enjoy his four hundred thousand francs without being compromised by committing a murder which might be discovered; he therefore began to devise some other means of getting rid of his dreaded accomplice. Meanwhile, he devoted his thoughts to some discreet way of thwarting Clameran’s marriage with Madeleine. He was sure that he would thus strike him to the heart, and this was at least a satisfaction.

Raoul was persuaded that, by openly siding with Madeleine and her aims, he could save them from Clameran’s clutches. Having fully resolved upon this course, he wrote a note to Mme. Fauvel asking for an interview.

The poor woman hastened to Vesinet convinced that some new misfortune was in store for her.

Her alarm was groundless. She found Raoul more tender and affectionate than he had ever been. He saw the necessity of reassuring her, and winning his old place in her forgiving heart, before making his disclosures.

He succeeded. The poor lady had a smiling and happy air as she sat in an arm-chair, with Raoul kneeling beside her.

“I have distressed you too long, my dear mother,” he said in his softest tones, “but I repent sincerely: now listen to my—”

He had not time to say more; the door was violently thrown open, and Raoul, springing to his feet, was confronted by M. Fauvel.

The banker had a revolver in his hand, and was deadly pale.

It was evident that he was making superhuman efforts to remain calm, like a judge whose duty it is to justly punish crime.

“Ah,” he said with a horrible laugh, “you look surprised. You did not expect me? You thought that my imbecile credulity insured your safety.”

Raoul had the courage to place himself before Mme. Fauvel, and to stand prepared to receive the expected bullet.

“I assure you, uncle,” he began.

“Enough!” interrupted the banker with an angry gesture, “let me hear no more infamous falsehoods! End this acting, of which I am no longer the dupe.”

“I swear to you—”

“Spare yourself the trouble of denying anything. I know all. I know who pawned my wife’s diamonds. I know who committed the robbery for which an innocent man was arrested and imprisoned.”

Mme. Fauvel, white with terror, fell upon her knees.

At last it had come—the dreadful day had come. Vainly had she added falsehood to falsehood; vainly had she sacrificed herself and others: all was discovered.

She saw that all was lost, and wringing her hands she tearfully moaned:

“Pardon, Andre! I beg you, forgive me!”

At these heart-broken tones, the banker shook like a leaf. This voice brought before him the twenty years of happiness which he had owed to this woman, who had always been the mistress of his heart, whose slightest wish had been his law, and who, by a smile or a frown, could make him the happiest or the most miserable of men. Alas! those days were over now.

Could this wretched woman crouching at his feet be his beloved Valentine, the pure, innocent girl whom he had found secluded in the chateau of La Verberie, who had never loved any other than himself? Could this be the cherished wife whom he had worshipped for so many years?

The memory of his lost happiness was too much for the stricken man. He forgot the present in the past, and was almost melted to forgiveness.

“Unhappy woman,” he murmured, “unhappy woman! What have I done that you should thus betray me? Ah, my only fault was loving you too deeply, and letting you see it. One wearies of everything in this world, even happiness. Did pure domestic joys pall upon you, and weary you, driving you to seek the excitement of a sinful passion? Were you so tired of the atmosphere of respect and affection which surrounded you, that you must needs risk your honor and mine by braving public opinion? Oh, into what an abyss you have fallen, Valentine! and, oh, my God! if you were wearied by my constant devotion, had the thought of your children no power to restrain your evil passions; could you not remain untarnished for their sake?”

M. Fauvel spoke slowly, with painful effort, as if each word choked him.

Raoul, who listened with attention, saw that if the banker knew some things, he certainly did not know all.

He saw that erroneous information had misled the unhappy man, and that he was still a victim of false appearances.

He determined to convince him of the mistake under which he was laboring, and said:

“Monsieur, I hope you will listen.”

But the sound of Raoul’s voice was sufficient to break the charm.

“Silence!” cried the banker with an angry oath, “silence!”

For some moments nothing was heard but the sobs of Mme. Fauvel.

“I came here,” continued the banker, “with the intention of killing you both. But I cannot kill a woman, and I will not kill an unarmed man.”

Raoul once more tried to speak.

“Let me finish!” interrupted M. Fauvel. “Your life is in my hands; the law excuses the vengeance of an injured husband; but I refuse to take advantage of it. I see on your mantel a revolver similar to mine; take it, and defend yourself.”

“Never!”

“Defend yourself!” cried the banker raising his arm, “if you do not—”

Feeling the barrel of M. Fauvel’s revolver touch his breast, Raoul in self-defence seized his own pistol, and prepared to fire.

“Stand in that corner of the room, and I will stand in this,” continued the banker; “and when the clock strikes, which will be in a few seconds, we will both fire.”

They took the places designated, and stood perfectly still.

But the horror of the scene was too much for Mme. Fauvel to witness any longer without interposing. She understood but one thing: her son and her husband were about to kill each other before her very eyes. Fright and horror gave her strength to start up and rush between the two men.

“For God’s sake, have mercy, Andre!” she cried, wringing her hands with anguish, “let me tell you everything; don’t kill—”

This burst of maternal love, M. Fauvel thought the pleadings of a criminal woman defending her lover.

He roughly seized his wife by the arm, and thrust her aside, saying with indignant scorn:

“Get out of the way!”

But she would not be repulsed; rushing up to Raoul, she threw her arms around him, and said to her husband:

“Kill me, and me alone; for I am the guilty one.”

At these words M. Fauvel glared at the guilty pair, and, deliberately taking aim, fired.

Neither Raoul nor Mme. Fauvel moved. The banker fired a second time; then a third.

He cocked the pistol for a fourth shot, when a man rushed into the room, snatched the pistol from the banker’s hand, and, throwing him on the sofa, ran toward Mme. Fauvel.

This man was M. Verduret, who had been warned by Cavaillon, but did not know that Mme. Gypsy had extracted the balls from M. Fauvel’s revolver.

“Thank Heaven!” he cried, “she is unhurt.”

“How dare you interfere?” cried the banker, who by this time had joined the group. “I have the right to avenge my honor when it has been degraded; the villain shall die!”

M. Verduret seized the banker’s wrists in a vice-like grasp, and whispered in his ear:

“Thank God you are saved from committing a terrible crime; the anonymous letter deceived you.”

In violent situations like this, all the untoward, strange attending circumstances appear perfectly natural to the participators, whose passions have already carried them beyond the limits of social propriety.

Thus M. Fauvel never once thought of asking this stranger who he was and where he came from.

He heard and understood but one fact: the anonymous letter had lied.

“But my wife confesses she is guilty,” he stammered.

“So she is,” replied M. Verduret, “but not of the crime you imagine. Do you know who that man is, that you attempted to kill?”

“Her lover!”

“No: her son!”

The words of this stranger, showing his intimate knowledge of the private affairs of all present, seemed to confound and frighten Raoul more than M. Fauvel’s threats had done. Yet he had sufficient presence of mind to say:

“It is the truth!”

The banker looked wildly from Raoul to M. Verduret; then, fastening his haggard eyes on his wife, exclaimed:

“It is false! you are all conspiring to deceive me! Proofs!”

“You shall have proofs,” replied M. Verduret, “but first listen.”

And rapidly, with his wonderful talent for exposition, he related the principal points of the plot he had discovered.

The true state of the case was terribly distressing to M. Fauvel, but nothing compared with what he had suspected.

His throbbing, yearning heart told him that he still loved his wife. Why should he punish a fault committed so many years ago, and atoned for by twenty years of devotion and suffering?

For some moments after M. Verduret had finished his explanation, M. Fauvel remained silent.

So many strange events had happened, rapidly following each other in succession, and culminating in the shocking scene which had just taken place, that M. Fauvel seemed to be too bewildered to think clearly.

If his heart counselled pardon and forgetfulness, wounded pride and self-respect demanded vengeance.

If Raoul, the baleful witness, the living proof of a far-off sin, were not in existence, M. Fauvel would not have hesitated. Gaston de Clameran was dead; he would have held out his arms to his wife, and said:

“Come to my heart! your sacrifices for my honor shall be your absolution; let the sad past be forgotten.”

But the sight of Raoul froze the words upon his lips.

“So this is your son,” he said to his wife—“this man, who has plundered you and robbed me!”

Mme. Fauvel was unable to utter a word in reply to these reproachful words.

“Oh!” said M. Verduret, “madame will tell you that this young man is the son of Gaston de Clameran; she has never doubted it. But the truth is—”

“What!”

“That, in order to swindle her, he has perpetrated a gross imposture.”

During the last few minutes Raoul had been quietly creeping toward the door, hoping to escape while no one was thinking of him.

But M. Verduret, who anticipated his intentions, was watching him out of the corner of one eye, and stopped him just as he was about leaving the room.

“Not so fast, my pretty youth,” he said, dragging him into the middle of the room; “it is not polite to leave us so unceremoniously. Let us have a little conversation before parting; a little explanation will be edifying!”

The jeering words and mocking manner of M. Verduret made Raoul turn deadly pale, and start back as if confronted by a phantom.

“The clown!” he gasped.

“The same, friend,” said the fat man. “Ah, now that you recognize me, I confess that the clown and myself are one and the same. Yes, I am the mountebank of the Jandidier ball; here is proof of it.”

And turning up his sleeve he showed a deep cut on his arm.

“I think that this recent wound will convince you of my identity,” he continued. “I imagine you know the villain that gave me this little decoration, that night I was walking along the Rue Bourdaloue. That being the case, you know, I have a slight claim upon you, and shall expect you to relate to us your little story.”

But Raoul was so terrified that he could not utter a word.

“Your modesty keeps you silent,” said M. Verduret. “Bravo! modesty becomes talent, and for one of your age you certainly have displayed a talent for knavery.”

M. Fauvel listened without understanding a word of what was said.

“Into what dark depths of shame have we fallen!” he groaned.

“Reassure yourself, monsieur,” replied M. Verduret with great respect. “After what I have been constrained to tell you, what remains to be said is a mere trifle. I will finish the story.

“On leaving Mihonne, who had given him a full account of the misfortunes of Mlle. Valentine de la Verberie, Clameran hastened to London.

“He had no difficulty in finding the farmer’s wife to whom the old countess had intrusted Gaston’s son.

“But here an unexpected disappointment greeted him.

“He learned that the child, whose name was registered on the parish books as Raoul-Valentin Wilson, had died of the croup when eighteen months old.”

“Did anyone state such a fact as that?” interrupted Raoul: “it is false.”

“It was not only stated, but proved, my pretty youth,” replied M. Verduret. “You don’t suppose I am a man to trust to verbal testimony; do you?”

He drew from his pocket several officially stamped documents, with red seals attached, and laid them on the table.

“These are declarations of the nurse, her husband, and four witnesses. Here is an extract from the register of births; this is a certificate of registry of his death; and all these are authenticated at the French Embassy. Now are you satisfied, young man?”

“What next?” inquired M. Fauvel.

“The next step was this,” replied M. Verduret. “Clameran, finding that the child was dead, supposed that he could, in spite of this disappointment, obtain money from Mme. Fauvel; he was mistaken. His first attempt failed. Having an inventive turn of mind, he determined that the child should come to life. Among his large circle of rascally acquaintances, he selected a young fellow to impersonate Raoul-Valentin Wilson; and the chosen one stands before you.”

Mme. Fauvel was in a pitiable state. And yet she began to feel a ray of hope; her acute anxiety had so long tortured her, that the truth was a relief; she would thank Heaven if this wicked man was proved to be no son of hers.

“Can this be possible?” she murmured, “can it be?”

“Impossible!” cried the banker: “an infamous plot like this could not be executed in our midst!”

“All this is false!” said Raoul boldly. “It is a lie!”

M. Verduret turned to Raoul, and, bowing with ironical respect, said:

“Monsieur desires proofs, does he? Monsieur shall certainly have convincing ones. I have just left a friend of mine, M. Palot, who brought me valuable information from London. Now, my young gentleman, I will tell you the little story he told me, and then you can give your opinion of it.

“In 1847 Lord Murray, a wealthy and generous nobleman, had a jockey named Spencer, of whom he was very fond. At the Epsom races, this jockey was thrown from his horse, and killed. Lord Murray grieved over the loss of his favorite, and, having no children of his own, declared his intention of adopting Spencer’s son, who was then but four years old.

“Thus James Spencer was brought up in affluence, as heir to the immense wealth of the noble lord. He was a handsome, intelligent boy, and gave satisfaction to his protector until he was sixteen years of age; when he became intimate with a worthless set of people, and turned out badly.

“Lord Murray, who was very indulgent, pardoned many grave faults; but one fine morning he discovered that his adopted son had been imitating his signature upon some checks. He indignantly dismissed him from the house, and told him never to show his face again.

“James Spencer had been living in London about four years, managing to support himself by gambling and swindling, when he met Clameran, who offered him twenty-five thousand francs to play a part in a little comedy which he had arranged to suit the actors.”

“You are a detective!” interrupted Raoul.

The fat man smiled grimly.

“At present,” he replied, “I am merely a friend of Prosper Bertomy. It depends entirely upon your behavior which character I appear in while settling up this little affair.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Restore the three hundred and fifty thousand francs which you have stolen.”

The young rascal hesitated a moment, and then said:

“The money is in this room.”

“Very good. This frankness is creditable, and will benefit you. I know that the money is in this room, and also exactly where it is to be found. Be kind enough to look behind that cupboard, and you will find the three hundred and fifty thousand francs.”

Raoul saw that his game was lost. He tremblingly went to the cupboard, and pulled out several bundles of bank-notes, and an enormous package of pawn-broker’s tickets.

“Very well done,” said M. Verduret, as he carefully examined the money and papers: “this is the most sensible step you ever took.”

Raoul relied on this moment, when everybody’s attention would be absorbed by the money, to make his escape. He slid toward the door, gently opened it, slipped out, and locked it on the outside; the key being still in the lock.

“He has escaped!” cried M. Fauvel.

“Naturally,” replied M. Verduret, without even looking up: “I thought he would have sense enough to do that.”

“But is he to go unpunished?”

“My dear sir, would you have this affair become a public scandal? Do you wish your wife’s name to be brought into a case of this nature before the police-court?”

“Oh, monsieur!”

“Then the best thing you can do, is to let the rascal go scot free. Here are receipts for all the articles which he has pawned, so that we should consider ourselves fortunate. He has kept fifty thousand francs, but that is all the better for you. This sum will enable him to leave France, and we shall never see him again.”

Like everyone else, M. Fauvel yielded to the ascendancy of M. Verduret.

Gradually he had awakened to the true state of affairs; prospective happiness no longer seemed impossible, and he felt that he was indebted to the man before him for more than life. But for M. Verduret, where would have been his honor and domestic peace?

With earnest gratitude he seized M. Verduret’s hand as if to carry it to his lips, and said, in broken tones:

“Oh, monsieur! how can I ever find words to express how deeply I appreciate your kindness? How can I ever repay the great service you have rendered me?”

M. Verduret reflected a moment, and then said:

“If you feel under any significant obligations to me, monsieur, you have it in your power to return them. I have a favor to ask of you.”

“A favor? you ask of me? Speak, monsieur, you have but to name it. My fortune and life are at your disposal.”

“I will not hesitate, then, to explain myself. I am Prosper’s friend, and deeply interested in his future. You can exonerate him from this infamous charge of robbery; you can restore him to his honorable position. You can do more than this, monsieur. He loves Mlle. Madeleine.”

“Madeleine shall be his wife, monsieur,” interrupted the banker: “I give you my word of honor. And I will so publicly exonerate him, that not a shadow of suspicion will rest upon his name. I will place him in a position which will prevent slander from reproaching him with the painful remembrance of my fatal error.”

The fat man quietly took up his hat and cane, as if he had been paying an ordinary morning call, and turned to leave the room, after saying, “Good-morning.” But, seeing the weeping woman raise her clasped hands appealingly toward him, he said hesitatingly:

“Monsieur, excuse my intruding any advice; but Mme. Fauvel—”

“Andre!” murmured the wretched wife, “Andre!”

The banker hesitated a moment; then, following the impulse of his heart, ran to his wife, and, clasping her in his arms, said tenderly:

“No, I will not be foolish enough to struggle against my deep-rooted love. I do not pardon, Valentine: I forget; I forget all!”

M. Verduret had nothing more to do at Vesinet.

Without taking leave of the banker, he quietly left the room, and, jumping into his cab, ordered the driver to return to Paris, and drive to the Hotel du Louvre as rapidly as possible.

His mind was filled with anxiety about Clameran. He knew that Raoul would give him no more trouble; the young rogue was probably taking his passage for some foreign land at that very moment. But Clameran should not escape unpunished; and how this punishment could be brought about without compromising Mme. Fauvel, was the problem to be solved.

M. Verduret thought over the various cases similar to this, but not one of his former expedients could be applied to the present circumstances. He could not deliver the villain over to justice without involving Mme. Fauvel.

After long thought, he decided that an accusation of poisoning must come from Oloron. He would go there and work upon “public opinion,” so that, to satisfy the townspeople, the authorities would order a post-mortem examination of Gaston. But this mode of proceeding required time; and Clameran would certainly escape before another day passed over his head. He was too experienced a knave to remain on slippery ground, now that his eyes were open to the danger which menaced him. It was almost dark when the carriage stopped in front of the Hotel du Louvre; M. Verduret noticed a crowd of people collected together in groups, eagerly discussing some exciting event which seemed to have just taken place. Although the policeman attempted to disperse the crowd by authoritatively ordering them to “Move on! Move on!” they would merely separate in one spot to join a more clamorous group a few yards off.

“What has happened?” demanded M. Verduret of a lounger near by.

“The strangest thing you ever heard of,” replied the man; “yes, I saw him with my own eyes. He first appeared at that seventh-story window; he was only half-dressed. Some men tried to seize him; but, bast! with the agility of a squirrel, he jumped out upon the roof, shrieking, ‘Murder! murder!’ The recklessness of his conduct led me to suppose—”

The gossip stopped short in his narrative, very much surprised and vexed; his questioner had vanished.

“If it should be Clameran!” thought M. Verduret; “if terror has deranged that brain, so capable of working out great crimes! Fate must have interposed——”

While thus talking to himself, he elbowed his way through the crowded court-yard of the hotel.

At the foot of the staircase he found M. Fanferlot and three peculiar-looking individuals standing together, as if waiting for someone.

“Well,” cried M. Verduret, “what is the matter?”

With laudable emulation, the four men rushed forward to report to their superior officer.

“Patron,” they all began at once.

“Silence!” said the fat man with an oath; “one at a time. Quick! what is the matter?”

“The matter is this, patron,” said Fanferlot dejectedly. “I am doomed to ill luck. You see how it is; this is the only chance I ever had of working out a beautiful case, and, paf! my criminal must go and fizzle! A regular case of bankruptcy!”

“Then it is Clameran who—”

“Of course it is. When the rascal saw me this morning, he scampered off like a hare. You should have seen him run; I thought he would never stop this side of Ivry: but not at all. On reaching the Boulevard des Ecoles, a sudden idea seemed to strike him, and he made a bee-line for his hotel; I suppose, to get his pile of money. Directly he gets here, what does he see? these three friends of mine. The sight of these gentlemen had the effect of a sunstroke upon him; he went raving mad on the spot. The idea of serving me such a low trick at the very moment I was sure of success!”

“Where is he now?”

“At the prefecture, I suppose. Some policemen handcuffed him, and drove off with him in a cab.”

“Come with me.”

M. Verduret and Fanferlot found Clameran in one of the private cells reserved for dangerous prisoners.

He had on a strait-jacket, and was struggling violently against three men, who were striving to hold him, while a physician tried to force him to swallow a potion.

“Help!” he shrieked; “help, for God’s sake! Do you not see my brother coming after me? Look! he wants to poison me!”

M. Verduret took the physician aside, and questioned him about the maniac.

“The wretched man is in a hopeless state,” replied the doctor; “this species of insanity is incurable. He thinks someone is trying to poison him, and nothing will persuade him to eat or drink anything; and, as it is impossible to force anything down his throat, he will die of starvation, after having suffered all the tortures of poison.”

M. Verduret, with a shudder, turned to leave the prefecture, saying to Fanferlot:

“Mme. Fauvel is saved, and by the interposition of God, who has himself punished Clameran!”

“That don’t help me in the least,” grumbled Fanferlot. “The idea of all my trouble and labor ending in this flat, quiet way! I seem to be born for ill-luck!”

“Don’t take your blighted hopes of glory so much to heart,” replied M. Verduret. “It is a melancholy fact for you that File No. 113 will never leave the record-office; but you must bear your disappointment gracefully and heroically. I will console you by sending you as bearer of despatches to a friend of mine, and what you have lost in fame will be gained in gold.”