LITMIR.BIZ

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in favor of Prosper would be a piece of folly.

      “What will you gain by acting thus, my dear madame?” he asked. “Nothing. I can assure you that you have not the least chance of success. Remember that you will seriously compromise yourself. Who knows if you will not be suspected as M. Bertomy’s accomplice?”

      But this alarming perspective, which had frightened Cavaillon into foolishly giving up a letter which he might so easily have retained, only stimulated Gypsy’s enthusiasm. Man calculates, while woman follows the inspirations of her heart. Our most devoted friend, if a man, hesitates and draws back: if a woman, rushes undauntedly forward, regardless of the danger.

      “What matters the risk?” she exclaimed. “I don’t believe any danger exists; but, if it does, so much the better: it will be all the more to my credit. I am sure Prosper is innocent; but, if he should be guilty, I wish to share the punishment which awaits him.”

      Mme. Gypsy’s persistence was becoming alarming. She hastily drew around her a cashmere shawl, and, putting on her hat, declared that she was ready to walk from one end of Paris to the other, in search of the judge.

      “Come, monsieur,” she said with feverish impatience. “Are you not coming with me?”

      Fanferlot was perplexed. Happily he always had several strings to his bow.

      Personal considerations having no hold upon this impulsive nature, he resolved to appeal to her interest in Prosper.

      “I am at your command, fair lady,” he said; “let us go if you desire it; only permit me, while there is yet time, to say that we are very probably going to do great injury to M. Bertomy.”

      “In what way, if you please?”

      “Because we are taking a step that he expressly forbade in his letter; we are surprising him—giving him no warning.”

      Nina scornfully tossed her head, and replied:

      “There are some people who must be saved without warning, and against their will. I know Prosper: he is just the man to let himself be murdered without a struggle, without speaking a word—to give himself up through sheer recklessness and despair.”

      “Excuse me, madame,” interrupted the detective: “M. Bertomy has by no means the appearance of a man who has given up in despair. On the contrary, I think he has already laid his plan of defence. By showing yourself, when he advised you to remain in concealment, you will be very likely to make vain his most careful precautions.”

      Mme. Gypsy was silently weighing the value of Fanferlot’s objections. Finally she said:

      “I cannot remain here inactive, without attempting to contribute in some way to his safety. Can you not understand that this floor burns my feet?”

      Evidently, if she was not absolutely convinced, her resolution was shaken. Fanferlot saw that he was gaining ground, and this certainty, making him more at ease, gave weight to his eloquence.

      “You have it in your power, madame,” he said, “to render a great service to the man you love.”

      “In what way, monsieur, in what way?”

      “Obey him, my child,” said Fanferlot, in a paternal manner.

      Mme. Gypsy evidently expected very different advice.

      “Obey,” she murmured, “obey!”

      “It is your duty,” said Fanferlot with grave dignity, “it is your sacred duty.”

      She still hesitated; and he took from the table Prosper’s note, which she had laid there, then continued:

      “What! M. Bertomy at the most trying moment, when he is about to be arrested, stops to point out your line of conduct; and you would render vain this wise precaution! What does he say to you? Let us read over this note, which is like the testament of his liberty. He says, ‘If you love me, I entreat you, obey.’ And you hesitate to obey. Then you do not love him. Can you not understand, unhappy child, that M. Bertomy has his reasons, terrible, imperious reasons, for your remaining in obscurity for the present?”

      Fanferlot understood these reasons the moment he put his foot in the sumptuous apartment of the Rue Chaptal; and, if he did not expose them now, it was because he kept them as a good general keeps his reserve, for the purpose of deciding the victory.

      Mme. Gypsy was intelligent enough to divine these reasons.

      “Reasons for my hiding! Prosper wishes, then, to keep everyone in ignorance of our intimacy.”

      She remained thoughtful for a moment; then a ray of light seemed to cross her mind, and she cried:

      “Oh, I understand now! Fool that I was for not seeing it before! My presence here, where I have been for a year, would be an overwhelming charge against him. An inventory of my possessions would be taken—of my dresses, my laces, my jewels—and my luxury would be brought against him as a crime. He would be asked to tell where he obtained so much money to lavish all these elegancies on me.”

      The detective bowed, and said:

      “That is true, madame.”

      “Then I must fly, monsieur, at once. Who knows that the police are not already warned, and may appear at any moment?”

      “Oh,” said Fanferlot with easy assurance, “you have plenty of time; the police are not so very prompt.”

      “No matter!”

      And, leaving the detective alone in the parlor, Mme. Nina hastily ran into her bedroom, and calling her maid, her cook, and her little footman, ordered them to empty her bureau and chests of their contents, and assisted them to stuff her best clothing and jewels into her trunks.

      Suddenly she rushed back to Fanferlot and said:

      “Everything will be ready to start in a few minutes, but where am I to go?”

      “Did not M. Bertomy say, my dear lady, to the other end of Paris? To a hotel, or furnished apartments.”

      “But I don’t know where to find any.”

      Fanferlot seemed to be reflecting; but he had great difficulty in concealing his delight at a sudden idea that flashed upon him; his little black eyes fairly danced with joy.

      “I know of a hotel,” he said at last, “but it might not suit you. It is not elegantly furnished like this room.”

      “Would I be comfortable there?”

      “Upon my recommendation you would be treated like a queen, and, above all, concealed.”

      “Where is it?”

      “On the other side of the river, Quai Saint Michel, the Archangel, kept by Mme. Alexandre.”

      Mme. Nina was never long making up her mind.

      “Here are pen and paper; write your recommendation.”

      He rapidly wrote, and handed her the letter.

      “With these three lines, madame, you can make Mme. Alexandre do anything you wish.”

      “Very good. Now, how am I to let Cavaillon know my address? It was he who should have brought me Prosper’s letter.”

      “He was unable to come, madame,” interrupted the detective, “but I will give him your address.”

      Mme. Gypsy was about to send for a carriage, but Fanferlot said he was in a hurry, and would send her one. He seemed to be in luck that day; for a cab was passing the door, and he hailed it.

      “Wait here,” he said to the driver, after telling him that he was a detective, “for a little brunette who is coming down with some trunks. If she tells you to drive her to Quai Saint Michel, crack your whip; if she gives you any other address, get down from your seat, and arrange your harness. I will keep in sight.”

      He stepped across the street, and stood in the door

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