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I started after you, and have only reached the preliminaries of my search. I am certain of but one thing, and that is, that a scratch was on the safe-door. That scratch is my starting-point." As he spoke, M. Lecoq took from his desk and unrolled an immense sheet of drawing-paper. On this paper was photographed the door of M. Fauvel's safe. The impression of every detail was perfect.
Fauvel's cheeks, as she listened to the musical tones of Raoul's voice. This voice was so like Gaston's, that she seemed once more to be listening to the lover of her almost forgotten youth. She was living over again those stolen meetings, those long hours of bliss, when Gaston was at her side, as they sat and watched the river rippling beneath the trees.
The term "fellow" seemed to offend Prosper. "M. de Lagors, monsieur," he said, haughtily, "is M. Fauvel's nephew; he is a wealthy young man, handsome, intelligent, cultivated, and the best friend I have." "Hum!" said M. Verduret, "I shall be delighted to make the acquaintance of one adorned by so many charming qualities.
"No, I do not," said Prosper after thinking a moment. "Well, I will tell you: 'Nina, you are unjust in reproaching me with not thinking constantly of you; for at this very moment your dear name guards M. Fauvel's safe." The truth suddenly burst upon Prosper like a thunderclap. He wrung his hands despairingly, and cried: "Yes, oh, yes! I remember now." "Then you can easily understand the rest.
She spoke so loud and angrily that Raoul was alarmed. He knew that the errand-boy slept in a room close by, and might be in bed listening to her, although it was early in the evening. "Come upstairs!" he said, seizing Mme. Fauvel's arm. But she clung to a table and refused to move a step. "I have been cowardly enough to sacrifice Madeleine," she said, "but I will not ruin Prosper."
Saying this, he sat down, and rapidly scratched off a few lines on a slip of paper, which he folded up, and put in his vest-pocket. "Are you ready to go to M. Fauvel's? Yes? Come on, then; we have certainly earned our breakfast to-day." When Raoul de Lagors spoke of M. Fauvel's extraordinary dejection, he had not exaggerated.
He saw M. Fauvel's memorandum-book lying on the table. "Watch!" he said to Raoul. Seizing the note-book, he hurriedly turned over the leaves, and, in an undertone, read: "Gaston, Marquis of Clameran, Oloron, Lower Pyrenees." "Well, does finding out his address assist us?" inquired Raoul, eagerly. "It may save us: that is all. Let us return to the drawing-room; our absence might be observed.
But they had revealed a new source, a mine to be worked; he took advantage of it. One by one, all Mme. Fauvel's jewels followed the way of the diamonds; and, when hers were all gone, those of Madeleine were given up.
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