“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.”
“But who are these people, monsieur? Tell me, who dares send this money?”