This proposal seemed to stir up all of Prosper’s anger.

“Never!” he exclaimed with excitement, “no, never will I voluntarily set eyes on that wretch!”

This resistance did not surprise M. Verduret.

“I can understand your feelings toward him,” said he, “but at the same time I hope you will change your mind.  For the same reason that I wished to see M. de Lagors, do I wish to see M. Fauvel; it is necessary, you understand.  Are you so very weak that you cannot put a constraint upon yourself for five minutes?  I shall introduce myself as one of your relatives, and you need not open your lips.”

“If it is positively necessary,” said Prosper, “if—­”

“It is necessary; so come on.  You must have confidence, put on a brave face.  Hurry and fix yourself up a little; it is getting late, and I am hungry.  We will breakfast on our way there.”

Prosper had hardly passed into his bedroom when the bell rang again.  M. Verduret opened the door.  It was the porter, who handed him a thick letter, and said: 

“This letter was left this morning for M. Bertomy; I was so flustered when he came that I forgot to hand it to him.  It is a very odd-looking letter; is it not, monsieur?”

It was indeed a most peculiar missive.  The address was not written, but formed of printed letters, carefully cut from a book, and pasted on the envelope.

“Oh, ho! what is this?” cried M. Verduret; then turning toward the porter he cried, “Wait.”

He went into the next room, and closed the door behind him; there he found Prosper, anxious to know what was going on.

“Here is a letter for you,” said M. Verduret.

He at once tore open the envelope.

Some bank-notes dropped out; he counted them; there were ten.

Prosper’s face turned purple.

“What does this mean?” he asked.

“We will read the letter and find out,” replied M. Verduret.

The letter, like the address, was composed of printed words cut out and pasted on a sheet of paper.

It was short but explicit: 

“My dear Prosper—­A friend, who knows the horror of your situation, sends you this succor.  There is one heart, be assured, that shares your sufferings.  Go away; leave France; you are young; the future is before you.  Go, and may this money bring you happiness!”

As M. Verduret read the note, Prosper’s rage increased.  He was angry and perplexed, for he could not explain the rapidly succeeding events which were so calculated to mystify his already confused brain.

“Everybody wishes me to go away,” he cried; “then there must be a conspiracy against me.”

M. Verduret smiled with satisfaction.

“At last you begin to open your eyes, you begin to understand.  Yes, there are people who hate you because of the wrong they have done you; there are people to whom your presence in Paris is a constant danger, and who will not feel safe till they are rid of you.”