CHAPTER XI.
M. BERNARDET was triumphant. He went home to dinner in a jubilant mood.His three little girls, dressed alike, clasped him round the neck, allat the same time, while Mme. Bernardet, always fresh, smiling and gay,held up her face with its soft, round, rosy cheeks to him.
"My little ones," said the officer, "I believe that I have done well,and that my chief will advance me or give me some acknowledgment. I willbuy you some bracelets, my dears, if that happens. But it is not theidea of filthy lucre which has urged me on, and I believe that I havecertainly made a great stride in judiciary instruction, all owing to mykodak. It would be too long an explanation and, perhaps, a perfectlyuseless one. Let us go to dinner. I am as hungry as a wolf."
He ate, truly, with a good appetite, scarcely stopped to tell how theassassin was under lock and key. The man had been measured and hadbecome a number in the collection, always increasing, of accused personsin the catalogue continued each day for the Museum of Crime.
"Ah! He is not happy," said Bernardet between two spoonfuls of soup."Not happy, not happy at all! Not happy, and astonished--protesting,moreover, his innocence, as they all do. It is customary."
"But," sweetly asked good little Mme. Bernardet, "what if he isinnocent?" And the three little girls, raising their heads, looked attheir father, as if to repeat their mother's question. The eldestmurmured: "Yes, what if mamma is right?"
Bernardet shrugged his shoulders.
"To hear them, if one listened to them, one would believe them allinnocent, and the crimes would have to commit themselves. If this one isinnocent I shall be astonished, as if I should see snow fall in Paris inJune; he will have to prove that he is innocent. These things provethemselves. Give me some more soup, Melanie."
As Mme. Bernardet turned a ladleful of hot soup into her husband's plateshe softly asked: "Are there no innocent ones condemned? Do you neverdeceive yourself?" Bernardet did not stop eating. "I cannot say--no oneis infallible, no one--the shrewdest deceive themselves; they aresometimes duped. But it is rare, very rare. As well to say that it doesnot happen--Lesurques, yes (and the three little girls opened wide theirlarge blue eyes as at a play), the Lesurques of the Courier de Lyon, whohas made you weep so many times at the theatre at Montmartre; one wouldlike to revise his trial to reinstate him, but no one has been able todo it. I have studied his trial--by my faith, I swear, I would condemnhim still--ah! what good soup!"
"But this one to-day?" asked Mme. Bernardet; "art thou certain? What ishis name?"
"Dantin--Jacques Dantin. Oh! He is a gentleman. A very fine man,elegant, indeed. Some Bohemian of the upper class, who evidently neededmoney, and who--Rovere had some valuables in his safe. The occasion madethe thief--and there it is."
"Papa," interrupted the eldest of the three little girls, "canst thoutake us to see the trial, when he shall be sworn?"
"That depends! It is not easy! I will try--I will ask. If thou wilt workhard--Oh, dame!" said Bernardet, "that will be a drama!"
"I will work hard."
At dessert, after he had taken his coffee, he allowed his three littlegirls to dip lumps of sugar into his saucer. He threw himself into hiseasy chair; he gave a sigh of satisfaction, like a man whose daily,wearisome tasks are behind him, and who is catching a moment's repose.
"Ah!" he said, opening a paper which his wife had placed on a table nearhim, together with a little glass of cordial sent to them by somecousins in Burgundy; "I am going to see what has happened and what thosegood journalists have invented about the affair in the Boulevard deClichy. It is true, it is a steeplechase between the reporters and us.Sometimes they win the race in the mornings. At other times, when theyknow nothing--ah! Then they invent, they embroider their histories!"
A petroleum lamp lighted the paper which Bernardet unfolded and began toread.
"Let us see what _Lutece_ says."
He suddenly remembered what Paul Rodier had said to him. "Read myjournal!" This woman in black, found in the province, did she reallyexist? Had the novelist written a romance in order to follow the exampleof his friend? He looked over the paper to see if Paul Rodier hadcollaborated, as his friend had. Bernardet skipped over the headlinesand glanced at the theatrical news. "Politics--they are all the same tome--Ministerial crisis--nothing new about that. That could as well bepublished in yesterday's paper as in to-day's! 'The Crime of theBoulevard de Clichy'--ah! Good! Very good! We shall see." And he beganto read. Had Paul Rodier invented all the information to which he hadtreated the public? What was certain was that the police officer frownedand now gave strict attention to what he was reading, as if weighing thereporter's words.
Rodier had republished the biography of the ex-Consul. M. Rovere hadbeen mixed, in South America, in violent dramas. He was a romanticperson, about whom more than one adventure in Buenos Ayres was known.The reporter had gained his information from an Argentine journal, the_Prensa_, established in Paris, and whose editor, in South America, hadvisited, intimately, the French Consul. The appearance of a woman inblack, those visits made on fixed dates, as on anniversaries, revealedan intimacy, a relationship perhaps, of the murdered man with thatunknown woman. The woman was young, elegant and did not live in Paris.Rodier had set himself to discover her retreat, her name; and perhaps,thanks to her, to unravel the mystery which still enveloped the murder.
"_Heuh!_ That is not very precise information," thought the policeofficer. But it at least awoke Bernardet's curiosity and intelligence.It solved no problem, but it put one. M. de Sartines's famous "_searchfor the woman_" came naturally to Paul Rodier's pen. And he finished thearticle with some details about Jacques Dantin, the intimate, the onlyfriend of Louis Pierre Rovere; and the reporter, when he had writtenthis, was still ignorant that Dantin was under arrest.
"To-morrow," said Bernardet to himself, "he will give us Dantin'sbiography. He tells me nothing new in his report. And yet"----He foldedup the paper and laid it on the table, and while sipping his cordial hethought of that mysterious visitor--the woman in black--and toldhimself that truly the trail must be there. He would see Moniche and hiswife again; he would question them; he would make a thorough search.
"But what for? We have the guilty man. It is a hundred to one that theassassin is behind bars. The woman might be an accomplice."
Then Bernardet, filled with passion for his profession, rather thanvanity--this artist in a police sense; this lover of art for art'ssake--rubbed his hands and silently applauded himself because he hadinsisted, and, as it were, compelled M. Ginory and the doctors to adopthis idea. He, the humble, unknown sub-officer, standing back and simplystriving to do his duty, had influenced distinguished persons aspowerful as magistrates and members of the Academy. They had obeyed hissuggestion. The little Bernardet felt that he had done a glorious deed.He had experienced a strong conviction, which would not be denied. Hehad proved that what had been considered only a chimera was a reality.He had accomplished a seeming impossibility. He had evoked the deadman's secret even from the tomb.
"And M. Ginory thinks that it will not help his candidature at theAcademy? He will wear the green robe, and he will owe it to me. Thereare others who owe me something, too."
With his faculty for believing in his dreams, of seeing his visionsappear, realized and living--a faculty which, in such a man, seemed likethe strange hallucination of a poet--Bernardet did not doubt for amoment the reality of this phantom which had appeared in the retina ofthe eye. It was nothing more, that eye removed by the surgeon's scalpel,than an avenging mirror. It accused, it overwhelmed! Jacques Dantin wasfound there in all the atrocity of his crime.
"When I think, when I think that they did not wish to try theexperiment. It is made now!" thought Bernardet.
M. Ginory had strongly recommended that all that part of the examinationshould not be made public. Absolute silence was necessary. If the presscould have obtained the slightest information, every detail of theexperiment would have become public property, and the account
would havebeen embellished and made as fantastic as possible. This would have beena deep mine for Edgar A. Poe, who would have worked that lode well andmade the Parisians shudder. How the ink would have been mixed withRovere's blood! It was well understood that if the suspected man wouldin the end confess his guilt, the result of the singular scientificallyincredible experiment should be made known. But until then absolutesilence. Every thing which had been said and done around the dissectingtable at the Morgue, or in the Examining Magistrate's room, wouldremain a secret.
But would Dantin confess?
The next day after M. Ginory had put him under arrest Bernardet had goneto the Palais for news. He wished to consult his chief about the "Womanin Black," to ask him what he thought of the article which had beenpublished in the paper by Paul Rodier. M. Leriche attached no greatimportance to it.
"A reporter's information. Very vague. There is always a woman,_parbleu!_ in the life of every man. But did this one know Dantin? Sheseems to me simply an old, abandoned friend, and who came occasionallyto ask aid of the old boy"----
"The woman noticed by Moniche is young," said Bernardet.
"Abandoned friends are often young," M. Leriche replied, visiblyenchanted with his observation.
As for Dantin, he still maintained his obstinate silence. He persistedin finding iniquitous an arrest for which there was no motive, and hekept the haughty, almost provoking attitude of those whom the Chiefcalled the greatest culprits.
"Murderers in redingotes believe that they have sprung from Jupiter'sthigh, and will not admit that any one should be arrested except thosewho wear smocks and peaked hats. They believe in an aristocracy and itsprivileges, and threaten to have us removed--you know that very well,Bernardet. Then, as time passes, they become, in a measure, calm andmeek as little lambs; then they whimper and confess. Dantin will do asall the others have done. For the moment he howls about his innocence,and will threaten us, you will see, with a summons from the Chamber.That is of no importance."
The Chief then gave the officer some instructions. He need not troublehimself any more, just now, about the Dantin affair, but attend toanother matter of less importance--a trivial affair. After the murderand his experiences at the Morgue this matter seemed a low one toBernardet. But each duty has its antithesis. The police officer put intothis petty affair of a theft the same zeal, the same sharp attentionwith which he had investigated the crime of the Boulevard de Clichy. Itwas his profession.
Bernardet started out on his quest. It was near the Halles (markets)that he had to work this time. The suspected man was probably one of therascals who prowl about day and night, living on adventures, and withoutany home; sleeping under the bridges, or in one of the hovels on theoutskirts of the Rue de Venise, where vice, distress and crimeflourished. Bernardet first questioned the owner of the stolen property,obtained all the information which he could about the suspected man,and, with his keen scent for a criminal aroused, he glanced ateverything--men, things, objects that would have escaped a lesspractised eye. He was walking slowly along toward the Permanence,looking keenly at the passers-by, the articles in the shops, the variousmovements in the streets, to see if he could get a hint upon which towork.
It was his habit to thus make use of his walks. In a promenade he hadmore than once met a client, past or future. The boys fled before hispiercing eyes; before this fat, jolly little man with the mocking smilewhich showed under his red mustache. This fright which he inspired madehim laugh inwardly. He knew that he was respected, that he was feared.Among all these passers-by who jostled him, without knowing that he waswatching them, he was a power, an unknown but sovereign power. He walkedalong with short, quick steps and watchful eyes, very much preoccupiedwith this affair, thinking of the worthless person for whom he wasseeking, but he stopped occasionally to look at the wares spread out insome bric-a-brac shop or in some book store window. This also was hishabit and his method. He ran his eye over the illustrated papers lyingin a row in front; over the Socialistic placards, the song books. Hekept himself _au courant_ with everything which was thought, seen,proclaimed and sung.
"When one governs," thought Bernardet, "one ought to have the habit ofgoing afoot in the street. One can learn nothing from the depths of acoupe, driven by a coachman wearing a tri-colored cockade." He was goingto the Prefecture, the Permanence, when in the Rue des Bons-Enfants hewas instinctively attracted to a shop window where rusty old arms,tattered uniforms, worn shakos, garments without value, smoky pictures,yellowed engravings and chance ornaments, rare old copies of books, oldromances, ancient books, with eaten bindings, a mass of dissimilarobjects--lost keys, belt buckles, abolished medals, battered sous--weremixed together in an oblong space as in a sort of trough. On either sideof this shop window hung some soiled uniforms, a Zouave's vest, anAcademician's old habit, lugubrious with its embroideries of green, asoiled costume which had been worn by some Pierrot at the Carnival. Itwas, in all its sad irony, the vulgar "hand-me-down that!" which makesone think of that other Morgue where the clothing has been rejected bythe living or abandoned by the dead.
Bernardet was neither of a melancholy temperament nor a dreamer, and hedid not give much time to the tearful side of the question, but he waspossessed of a ravenous curiosity, and the sight, however frequent, ofthat shop window always attracted him. With, moreover, that sort ofmagnetism which the searchers, great or small, intuitively feel--acollector of knick-knacks, discoverers of unknown countries, book wormsbent over the volumes at four sous apiece, or chemists crouched over aretort--Bernardet had been suddenly attracted by a portrait exposed asan object rarer than the others, in the midst of this detritus ofabandoned luxury or of past military glory.
Yes, among the tobacco boxes, the belt buckles, the Turkish poniards,watches with broken cases, commonplace Japanese ornaments, a painting,oval in form, lay there--a sort of large medallion without a frame, andat first sight, by a singular attraction, it drew and held the attentionof the police officer.
"Ah!" said Bernardet out loud, "but this is singular."
He leaned forward until his nose touched the cold glass, and peeredfixedly at the picture. This painting, as large as one's hand, was theportrait of a man, and Bernardet fully believed at the first look herecognized the person whom the painter had reproduced.
As his shadow fell across the window Bernardet could not distinctly seethe painting, for it was not directly in the front line of articlesdisplayed, and he stepped to one side to see if he could get a betterview. Assuredly, there could be no doubt, the oval painting wascertainly the portrait of Jacques Dantin, now accused of a crime. Therewas the same high forehead, the pointed beard, of the same color; theblack redingote, tightly buttoned up and edged at the neck with thenarrow line of a white linen collar, giving, in resembling a doublet, tothis painting, the air of a trooper, of a swordsman, of a Guisard (apartisan of the Duke of Guise), of the time of Clouet.
Something of a connoisseur in painting, without doubt, in his quality ofamateur photographer, much accustomed to criticise a portrait if it wasnot a perfect likeness, Bernardet found in this picture a startlingresemblance to Jacques Dantin; it was the very man himself! He appearedthere, his thin face standing out from its greenish-black sombrebackground; the poise of the head displayed the same vigor as in theoriginal; the clear-cut features looked energetic, and the skin had thesame pallor which was characteristic of Dantin's complexion. This head,admirably painted, displayed an astonishing lifelike intensity. It hadbeen done by a master hand, no doubt of that. And although in thisportrait Jacques Dantin looked somewhat younger--for instance, the hairand pointed beard showed no silvery streaks in them--the resemblance wasso marvelous that Bernardet immediately exclaimed: "It is he!"
And most certainly it was Jacques Dantin himself. The more the officerexamined it, the more convinced he became that this was a portrait ofthe man whom he had accompanied to the cemetery and to prison. But howcould this picture have come into this bric-a-brac shop, and of whomcould the dealer have obtaine
d it? A reply to this would probably not bevery difficult to obtain, and the police officer pushed back the doorand found himself in the presence of a very large woman, with a pale,puffy face, which was surrounded by a lace cap. Her huge body wasenveloped in a knitted woollen shawl. She wore spectacles.
Bernardet, without stopping to salute her, pointed out the portrait andasked to see it. When he held it in his hands he found the resemblancestill more startling. It was certainly Jacques Dantin! The painting wassigned "P. B., Bordeaux, 1871." It was oval in shape; the frame wasgone; the edge was marked, scratched, marred, as if the frame had beenroughly torn from the picture.
"Have you had this portrait a long time?" he asked of the shop woman.
"I put it in the window to-day for the first time," the huge womananswered. "Oh, it is a choice bit. It was painted by a wicked one."
"Who brought it here?"
"Some one who wished to sell it. A passer-by. If it would interest youto know his name"----
"Yes, certainly, it would interest me to know it," Bernardet replied.
The shop woman looked at Bernardet defiantly and asked this question:
"Do you know the man whose portrait that is?"
"No. I do not know him. But this resembles one of my relatives. Itpleases me. How much is it?"
"A hundred francs," said the big woman.
Bernardet suppressed at the same time a sudden start and a smile.
"A hundred francs! _Diable!_ how fast you go. It is worth sous ratherthan francs."
"That!" cried the woman, very indignant. "That? But look at thismaterial, this background. It is famous, I tell you--I took it to anexpert. At the public sale it might, perhaps, bring a thousand francs.My idea is that it is the picture of some renowned person. An actor or aformer Minister. In fact, some historic person."
"But one must take one's chance," Bernardet replied in a jeering tone."But one hundred francs is one hundred francs. Too much for me. Who soldyou the painting?"
The woman went around behind the counter and opened a drawer, from whichshe took a note book, in which she kept a daily record of her sales. Sheturned over the leaves.
"November 12, a small oval painting bought"--She readjusted herspectacles as if to better decipher the name.
"I did not write the name myself; the man wrote it himself." She spelledout:
"Charles--Charles Breton--Rue de la Condamine, 16"----
"Charles Breton," Bernardet repeated; "who is this Charles Breton? Iwould like to know if he painted this portrait, which seems like afamily portrait and has come to sell it"----
"You know," interrupted the woman, "that that often happens. It isbusiness. One buys or one sells all in good time."
"And this Breton; how old was he?"
"Oh, young. About thirty years old. Very good looking. Dark, with a fullbeard."
"Did anything about him especially strike you?"
"Nothing!" The woman shortly replied; she had become tired of thesequestions and looked at the little man with a troubled glance.
Bernardet readily understood; and assuming a paternal, a beaming air, hesaid with his sweet smile:
"I will not _fence_ any more; I will tell you the truth. I am a PoliceInspector, and I find that this portrait strangely resembles a man whomwe have under lock and key. You understand that it is very important Ishould know all that is to be ascertained about this picture."
"But I have told you all I know, Monsieur," said the shopkeeper."Charles Breton, Rue de la Condamine, 16; that is the name and address.I paid 20 francs for it. There is the receipt--read it, I beg. It is allright. We keep a good shop. Never have we, my late husband and I, beenmixed with anything unlawful. Sometimes the bric-a-brac is soiled, butour hands and consciences have always been clean. Ask any one along thestreet about the Widow Colard. I owe no one and every one esteemsme"----
The Widow Colard would have gone on indefinitely if Bernardet had notstopped her. She had, at first mention of the police, suddenly turnedpale, but now she was very red, and her anger displayed itself in atorrent of words. He stemmed the flood of verbs.
"I do not accuse you, Mme. Colard, and I have said only what I wished tosay. I passed by chance your shop; I saw in the window a portrait whichresembled some one I knew. I ask you the price and I question you aboutits advent into your shop. There is nothing there which concerns youpersonally. I do not suspect you of receiving stolen goods; I do notdoubt your good faith. I repeat my question. How much do you want forthis picture?"
"Twenty francs, if you please. That is what it cost me. I do not wish tohave it draw me into anything troublesome. Take it for nothing, if thatpleases you."
"Not at all! I intend to pay you. Of what are you thinking, Mme.Colard?"
The shopwoman had, like all people of a certain class, a horror of thepolice. The presence of a police inspector in her house seemed at once adishonor and a menace. She felt herself vaguely under suspicion, and shefelt an impulse to shout aloud her innocence.
Always smiling, the good man, with a gesture like that of a prelateblessing his people, endeavored to reassure her, to calm her. But hecould do nothing with her. She would not be appeased. In the long runthis was perhaps as well, for she unconsciously, without any intentionof aiding justice, put some clews into Bernardet's hands which finallyaided him in tracing the man.
Mme. Colard still rebelled. Did they think she was a spy, an informer?She had never--no, never--played such a part. She did not know the youngman. She had bought the picture as she bought any number of things.
"And what if they should cut off his head because he had confidence inentering my shop--I should never forgive myself, never!"
"It is not going to bring Charles Breton to the scaffold. Not at all,not at all. It is only to find out who he is, and of whom he obtainedthis portrait. Once more--did nothing in his face strike you?"
"Nothing!" Mme. Colard responded.
She reflected a moment.
"Ah! yes; perhaps. The shape of his hat. A felt hat with wide brim,something like those worn in South America or Kareros. You know, thekind they call sombrero. The only thing I said to myself was, 'This isprobably some returned traveler,' and if I had not seen at the bottom ofthe picture, Bordeaux, I should have thought that this might be theportrait of some Spaniard, some Peruvian."
Bernardet looked straight into Mme. Colard's spectacles and listenedintently, and he suddenly remembered what Moniche had said of the oddappearance of the man who had, like the woman in black, called on M.Rovere.
"Some accomplice!" thought Bernardet.
He again asked Mme. Colard the price of the picture.
"Anything you please," said the woman, still frightened. Bernardetsmiled.
"Come! come! What do you want for it? Fifty francs, eh? Fifty?"
"Away with your fifty francs! I place it at your disposal for nothing,if you need it."
Bernardet paid the sum he had named. He had always exactly, as if byprinciple, a fifty-franc note in his pocketbook. Very little money; afew white pieces, but always this note in reserve. One could never tellwhat might hinder him in his researches. He paid, then, this note,adding that in all probability Mme. Colard would soon be cited beforethe Examining Magistrate to tell him about this Charles Breton.
"I cannot say anything else, for I do not know anything else," said thehuge widow, whose breast heaved with emotion.
She wrapped up the picture in a piece of silk paper, then in a piece ofnewspaper, which chanced to be the very one in which Paul Rodier hadpublished his famous article on "The Crime of the Boulevard de Clichy."Bernardet left enchanted with his "find," and repeated over and over tohimself: "It is very precious! It is a tid-bit!"
Should he keep on toward the Prefecture to show this "find" to hisChief, or should he go at once to hunt up Charles Breton at the addresshe had given?
Bernardet hesitated a moment, then he said to himself that, in a caselike this, moments were precious; an hour lost was time wasted, and thatas the address which
Breton had given was not far away, he would gothere first. "Rue de la Condamine, 16," that was only a short walk tosuch a tramper as he was. He had good feet, a sharp eye and sturdy legs;he would soon be at the Batignolles. He had taken some famous tramps inhis time, notably one night when he had scoured Paris in pursuit of amalefactor. This, he admitted, had wearied him a little; but this walkfrom the Avenue des Bons-Enfants to the Rue de la Condamine was but aspurt. Would he find that a false name and a false address had beengiven? This was but the infancy of art. If, however, he found that thisCharles Breton really did live at that address and that he had given histrue name, it would probably be a very simple matter to obtain all theinformation he desired of Jacques Dantin.
"What do I risk? A short walk," thought Bernardet, "a littlefatigue--that can be charged up to Profit and Loss."
He hurried toward the street and number given. It was a large house,several stories high. The concierge was sweeping the stairs, having lefta card bearing this inscription tacked on the front door. "The porter ison the staircase." Bernardet hastened up the stairs, found the man andquestioned him. There was no Charles Breton in the house; there neverhad been. The man who sold the portrait had given a false name andaddress. Vainly did the police officer describe the individual who hadvisited Mme. Colard's shop. The man insisted that he had never seen anyone who in the least resembled this toreador in the big felt hat. It wasuseless to insist! Mme. Colard had been deceived. And now, how to find,in this immense city of Paris, this bird of passage, who had chanced toenter the bric-a-brac shop. The old adage of "the needle in thehaystack" came to Bernardet's mind and greatly irritated him. But, afterall, there had been others whom he looked for; there had been otherswhom he had found, and probably he might still be able to find anothertrail. He had a collaborator who seldom failed him--Chance! It wasdestiny which often aided him.
Bernardet took an omnibus in his haste to return to his Chief. He wasanxious to show his "find" to M. Leriche. When he reached the Prefecturehe was immediately received. He unwrapped the portrait and showed it toM. Leriche.
"But that is Dantin!" cried the Chief.
"Is it not?"
"Without doubt! Dantin when younger, but assuredly Dantin! And where didyou dig this up?"
Bernardet related his conversation with Mme. Colard and his fruitlessvisit to the Rue de la Condamine.
"Oh, never mind," said M. Leriche. "This discovery is something. The manwho sold this picture and Dantin are accomplices. Bravo, Bernardet! Wemust let M. Ginory know."
The Examining Magistrate was, like the Chief and Bernardet, struck withthe resemblance of the portrait to Dantin. His first move would be toquestion the prisoner about the picture. He would go at once to Mazas.M. Leriche and Bernardet should accompany him. The presence of thepolice spy might be useful, even necessary.
The Magistrate and the Chief entered a fiacre, while Bernardet mountedbeside the driver. Bernardet said nothing, although the man tried toobtain some information from him. After one or two monosyllabic answers,the driver mockingly asked:
"Are you going to the Souriciere (trap) to tease some fat rat?"
M. Ginory and M. Leriche talked together of the _Walkyrie_, of Bayreuth;and the Chief asked, through politeness, for news about his candidatureto the Academy of Moral and Political Sciences.
"Do not let us talk of the Institute," the Magistrate replied. "It islike the beginning of a hunt; to sigh for the prize that bringsunhappiness."
The sombre pile, the Mazas, opened its doors to the three men. Theytraversed the long corridors, with the heavy air which pervaded them inspite of all efforts to the contrary, to a small room, sparselyfurnished (a table, a few chairs, a glass bookcase), which served as anoffice for the Examining Magistrates when they had to hold anyinterviews with the prisoners.
The guardian-in-chief walked along with M. Ginory, M. Leriche followedthem, and Bernardet respectfully brought up the rear.
"Bring in Jacques Dantin!" M. Ginory ordered. He seated himself at thetable. M. Leriche took a chair at one side, and Bernardet stood near thelittle bookcase, next the only window in the room.
Jacques Dantin soon appeared, led in by two guards in uniform. He wasvery pale, but still retained his haughty air and his defiant attitude.The Magistrate saluted him with a slight movement of the head, andDantin bowed, recognizing in Bernardet the man with whom he had walkedand conversed behind Rovere's funeral car.
"Be seated, Dantin," M. Ginory said, "and explain to me, I beg, all youknow about this portrait. You ought to recognize it."
He quickly held the picture before Dantin's eyes, wishing to scrutinizehis face to see what sudden emotion it would display. Seeing theportrait, Dantin shivered and said in a short tone: "It is a picturewhich I gave to Rovere."
"Ah!" said M. Ginory, "you recognize it then?"
"It is my portrait," Jacques Dantin declared. "It was made a long timeago. Rovere kept it in his salon. How did it come here?"
"Ah!" again said the Magistrate. "Explain that to me!"
M. Ginory seemed to wish to be a little ironical. But Dantin roughlysaid:
"M. le Juge, I have nothing to explain to you. I understand nothing, Iknow nothing. Or, rather, I know that in your error--an error which youwill bitterly regret some day or other, I am sure--you have arrested me,shut me up in Mazas; but that which I can assure you of is, that I havehad nothing, do you hear, nothing whatever to do with the murder of myfriend, and I protest with all my powers against your processes."
"I comprehend that!" M. Ginory coldly replied. "Oh! I understand all thedisagreeableness of being shut up within four walls. But then, it isvery simple! In order to go out, one has only to give to the one who hasa right to know the explanations which are asked. Do you still persistin your system? Do you still insist on keeping, I know not what secret,which you will not reveal to us?"
"I shall keep it, Monsieur, I have reflected," said Dantin. "Yes, I havereflected, and in the solitude to which you have forced me I haveexamined my conscience." He spoke with firmness, less violently than atthe Palais de Justice, and Bernardet's penetrating little eyes neverleft his face; neither did the Magistrate's, nor the Chief's.
"I am persuaded," Dantin continued, "that this miserable mistake cannotlast long, and you will recognize the truth. I shall go out, at leastfrom here, without having abused a confidence which one has placed inme and which I intend to preserve."
"Yes," said M. Ginory, "perfectly, I know your system. You will hold toit. It is well. Now, whose portrait is that?"
"It is mine!"
"By whom do you think it was possible that it could have been sold inthe bric-a-brac shop where it was found."
"I know nothing about it. Probably by the one who found it or stole itfrom M. Rovere's apartment, and who is probably, without the leastdoubt, his assassin."
"That seems very simple to you?"
"It seems very logical."
"Suppose that this should be the exact truth, that does not detract fromthe presumption which implicates you, and from Mme. Moniche'sdeposition, which charges you"----
"Yes, yes, I know. The open safe, the papers spread out, the tete-a-tetewith Rovere, when the concierge entered the room--that signifiesnothing!"
"For you, perhaps! For Justice it has a tragic signification. But let usreturn to the portrait. It was you, I suppose, who gave it to Rovere?"
"Yes, it was I," Dantin responded. "Rovere was an amateur in art,moreover, my intimate friend. I had no family, I had an old friend, acompanion of my youth, whom I thought would highly prize that painting.It is a fine one--it is by Paul Baudry."
"Ah!" said M. Ginory. "P. B. Those are Baudry's initials?"
"Certainly. After the war--when I had done my duty like others, I saythis without any intention of defending myself--Paul Baudry was atBordeaux. He was painting some portraits on panels, afterHolbein--Edmond About's among others. He made mine. It is this one whichI gave Rovere--the one you hold in your hands."
The Magistrate looked
at the small oval painting and M. Leriche put onhis eyeglasses to examine the quality of the painting. A Baudry!
"What are these scratches around the edge as if nails had been drawnacross the places?" M. Ginory asked. He held out the portrait to Dantin.
"I do not know. Probably where the frame was taken off."
"No, no! They are rough marks; I can see that. The picture has beenliterally torn from the frame. You ought to know how this panel wasframed."
"Very simply when I gave it to Rovere. A narrow gilt frame, nothingmore."
"Had Rovere changed the frame?"
"I do not know. I do not remember. When I was at his apartment the lastfew times I do not remember to have seen the Baudry. I have thought ofit, but I have no recollection of it."
"Then you cannot furnish any information about the man who sold thisportrait?"
"None whatever!"
"We might bring you face to face with that woman."
"So be it! She certainly would not recognize me."
"In any case, she will tell us about the man who brought the portrait toher."
"She might describe him to me accurately, and even paint him for me,"said Dantin quickly. "She can neither insinuate that I know him norprove to you that I am his accomplice. I do not know who he is nor fromwhere he comes. I was even ignorant of his existence myself a quarter ofan hour ago."
"I have only to remand you to your cell," said the Magistrate. "We willhunt for the other man."
Dantin, in his turn, said in an ironical tone: "And you will do well!"
M. Ginory made a sign. The guards led out their prisoner. Then, lookingat the Chief, while Bernardet still remained standing like a soldiernear the window, the Magistrate said:
"Until there are new developments, Dantin will say nothing. We must lookfor the man in the sombrero."
"Necessarily!" said M. Leriche.
"The needle! The needle! And the hay stack!" thought Bernardet.
The Chief, smiling, turned toward him. "That belongs to you, Bernardet."
"I know it well," said the little man, "but it is not easy. Oh! It isnot easy at all."
"Bah! you have unearthed more difficult things than that. Do it upbrown! There is only one clew--the hat"----
"They are not uncommon, those hats, Monsieur Leriche--they are not verybad hats. But yet it is a clew--if we live, we shall see."
He stood motionless between the bookcase and the window, like a soldiercarrying arms, while M. Ginory, shaking his head, said to the chief:"And this Dantin, what impression did he make on you?"
"He is a little crack-brained!" replied the Chief.
"Certainly! But guilty--you believe him guilty?"
"Without doubt!"
"Would you condemn him?" he quickly asked as he gazed searchingly at theChief. M. Leriche hesitated.
"Would you condemn him?" M. Ginory repeated, insistently.
The Chief still hesitated a moment, glanced toward the impassiveBernardet without being able to read his face, and he said:
"I do not know."
The Crime of the Boulevard Page 11
