IV
At the same hour that Mme. Nina Gypsy was seeking refuge at theArchangel, so highly recommended by Fanferlot the Squirrel, ProsperBertomy was being entered on the jailer's book at the police office.
Since the moment when he had resumed his habitual composure, he had notfaltered.
Vainly did the people around him watch for a suspicious expression, orany sign of giving way under the danger of his situation.
His face was like marble.
One would have supposed him insensible to the horrors of his condition,had not his heavy breathing, and the beads of perspiration standing onhis brow, betrayed the intense agony he was suffering.
At the police office, where he had to wait two hours while thecommissary went to receive orders from higher authorities, he enteredinto conversation with the two bailiffs who had charge of him.
At twelve o'clock he said he was hungry, and sent to a restaurant nearby for his breakfast, which he ate with a good appetite; he also dranknearly a bottle of wine.
While he was thus occupied, several clerks from the prefecture, whohave to transact business daily with the commissary of police, curiouslywatched him. They all formed the same opinion, and admiringly said toeach other:
"Well, he is made of strong material, he is!"
"Yes, my dandy looks too lamb-like to be left to his own devices. Heought to have a strong escort."
When he was told that a coach was waiting for him at the door, he atonce got up; but, before going out, he requested permission to light acigar, which was granted.
A flower-girl stood just by the door, with her stand filled with allvarieties of flowers. He stopped and bought a bunch of violets. Thegirl, seeing that he was arrested, said, by way of thanks:
"Good luck to you, my poor gentleman!"
He appeared touched by this mark of interest, and replied:
"Thanks, my good woman, but 'tis a long time since I have had any."
It was magnificent weather, a bright spring morning. As the coach wentalong Rue Montmartre, Prosper kept his head out of the window, at thesame time smilingly complaining at being imprisoned on such a lovelyday, when everything outside was so sunny and pleasant.
"It is singular," he said, "I never felt so great a desire to take awalk."
One of the bailiffs, a large, jovial, red-faced man, received thisremark with a hearty burst of laughter, and said:
"I understand."
To the court clerk, while he was going through the formalities of thecommitment, Prosper replied with haughty brevity to the indispensablequestions asked him.
But when he was ordered to empty his pockets on the table, and theybegan to search him, his eyes flashed with indignation, and a singletear dropped upon his flushed cheek. In an instant he had recovered hisstony calmness, and stood up motionless, with his arms raised in the airso that the rough creatures about him could more conveniently ransackhim from head to foot, to assure themselves that he had no suspiciousobject hid under his clothes.
The search would have, perhaps, been carried to the most ignominiouslengths, but for the intervention of a middle-aged man of ratherdistinguished appearance, who wore a white cravat and gold spectacles,and was sitting quite at home by the fire.
He started with surprise, and seemed much agitated, when he saw Prosperbrought in by the bailiffs; he stepped forward, and seemed about tospeak to him, then suddenly changed his mind, and sat down again.
In spite of his own troubles, Prosper could not help seeing that thisman kept his eyes fastened upon him. Did he know him? Vainly did he tryto recollect having met him before.
This man, treated with all the deference due to a chief, was no less apersonage than M. Lecoq, a celebrated member of the detective corps.
When the men who were searching Prosper were about to take off hisboots, saying that a knife might be concealed in them. M. Lecoq wavedthem aside with an air of authority, and said:
"You have done enough."
He was obeyed. All the formalities being ended, the unfortunate cashierwas taken to a narrow cell; the heavily barred door was swung to andlocked upon him; he breathed freely; at last he was alone.
Yes, he believed himself to be alone. He was ignorant that a prison ismade of glass, that the accused is like a miserable insect under themicroscope of an entomologist. He knew not that the walls have stretchedears and watchful eyes.
He was so sure of being alone that he at once gave vent to hissuppressed feelings, and, dropping his mask of impassibility, burstinto a flood of tears. His long-restrained anger now flashed out like asmouldering fire.
In a paroxysm of rage he uttered imprecations and curses. He dashedhimself against the prison-walls like a wild beast in a cage.
Prosper Bertomy was not the man he appeared to be.
This haughty, correct gentleman had ardent passions and a fierytemperament.
One day, when he was about twenty-four years of age, he had becomesuddenly fired by ambition. While all of his desires were repressed,imprisoned in his low estate, like an athlete in a strait-jacket, seeingaround him all these rich people with whom money assumed the place ofthe wand in the fairy-tale, he envied their lot.
He studied the beginnings of these financial princes, and found that atthe starting-point they possessed far less than himself.
How, then, had they succeeded? By force of energy, industry, andassurance.
He determined to imitate and excel them.
From this day, with a force of will much less rare than we think, heimposed silence upon his instincts. He reformed not his morals, but hismanners; and so strictly did he conform to the rules of decorum, thathe was regarded as a model of propriety by those who knew him, and hadfaith in his character; and his capabilities and ambition inspired theprophecy that he would be successful in attaining eminence and wealth.
And the end of all was this: imprisoned for robbery; that is, ruined!
For he did not attempt to deceive himself. He knew that, guilty orinnocent, a man once suspected is as ineffaceably branded as theshoulder of a galley-slave.
Therefore what was the use of struggling? What benefit was a triumphwhich could not wash out the stain?
When the jailer brought him his supper, he found him lying on hispallet, with his face buried in the pillow, weeping bitterly.
Ah, he was not hungry now! Now that he was alone, he fed upon his ownbitter thoughts. He sank from a state of frenzy into one of stupefyingdespair, and vainly did he endeavor to clear his confused mind, andaccount for the dark cloud gathering about him; no loop-hole for escapedid he discover.
The night was long and terrible, and for the first time he had nothingto count the hours by, as they slowly dragged on, but the measured treadof the patrol who came to relieve the sentinels. He was wretched.
At dawn he dropped into a sleep, a heavy, oppressive sleep, which wasmore wearisome than refreshing; from which he was startled by the roughvoice of the jailer.
"Come, monsieur," he said, "it is time for you to appear before thejudge of instruction."
He jumped up at once, and, without stopping to repair his disorderedtoilet, said:
"Come on, quick!"
The constable remarked, as they walked along:
"You are very fortunate in having your case brought before an honestman."
He was right.
Endowed with remarkable penetration, firm, unbiased, equally free fromfalse pity and excessive severity, M. Patrigent possessed in an eminentdegree all the qualities necessary for the delicate and difficult officeof judge of instruction.
Perhaps he was wanting in the feverish activity which is sometimesnecessary for coming to a quick and just decision; but he possessedunwearying patience, which nothing could discourage. He would cheerfullydevote years to the examination of a case; he was even now engaged on acase of Belgian bank-notes, of which he did not collect all the threads,and solve the mystery, until after four years' investigation.
Thus it was always to his office that th
ey brought the endless lawsuits,half-finished inquests, and tangled cases.
This was the man before whom they were taking Prosper; and they weretaking him by a difficult road.
He was escorted along a corridor, through a room full of policemen, downa narrow flight of steps, across a kind of cellar, and then up a steepstaircase which seemed to have no terminus.
Finally he reached a long narrow galley, upon which opened many doors,bearing different numbers.
The custodian of the unhappy cashier stopped before one of these doors,and said:
"Here we are; here your fate will be decided."
At this remark, uttered in a tone of deep commiseration, Prosper couldnot refrain from shuddering.
It was only too true, that on the other side of this door was a man uponwhose decision his freedom depended.
Summoning all his courage, he turned the door-knob, and was about toenter when the constable stopped him.
"Don't be in such haste," he said; "you must sit down here, and waittill your turn comes; then you will be called."
The wretched man obeyed, and his keeper took a seat beside him.
Nothing is more terrible and lugubrious than this gallery of the judgesof instruction.
Stretching the whole length of the wall is a wooden bench blackened byconstant use. This bench has for the last ten years been daily occupiedby all the murderers, thieves, and suspicious characters of theDepartment of the Seine.
Sooner or later, fatally, as filth rushes to a sewer, does crimereach this gallery, this dreadful gallery with one door opening on thegalleys, the other on the scaffold. This place was vulgarly and pithilydenominated by a certain magistrate as the great public wash-house ofall the dirty linen in Paris.
When Prosper reached the gallery it was full of people. The bench wasalmost entirely occupied. Beside him, so close as to touch his shoulder,sat a man with a sinister countenance, dressed in rags.
Before each door, which belonged to a judge of instruction, stood groupsof witnesses talking in an undertone.
Policemen were constantly coming and going with prisoners. Sometimes,above the noise of their heavy boots, tramping along the flagstones,could be heard a woman's stifled sobs, and looking around you wouldsee some poor mother or wife with her face buried in her handkerchief,weeping bitterly.
At short intervals a door would open and shut, and a bailiff call out aname or number.
This stifling atmosphere, and the sight of so much misery, made thecashier ill and faint; he was feeling as if another five minutes' stayamong these wretched creatures would make him deathly sick, when alittle old man dressed in black, wearing the insignia of his office, asteel chain, cried out:
"Prosper Bertomy!"
The unhappy man arose, and, without knowing how, found himself in theoffice of the judge of instruction.
For a moment he was blinded. He had come out of a dark room; and the onein which he now found himself had a window directly opposite the door,so that a flood of light fell suddenly upon him.
This office, like all those on the gallery, was of a very ordinaryappearance, small and dingy.
The wall was covered with cheap dark green paper, and on the floor was ahideous brown carpet, very much worn.
Opposite the door was a large desk, filled with bundles of law-papers,behind which was seated the judge, facing those who entered, so that hisface remained in the shade, while that of the prisoner or witness whomhe questioned was in a glare of light.
At the right, before a little table, sat a clerk writing, theindispensable auxiliary of the judge.
But Prosper observed none of these details: his whole attention wasconcentrated upon the arbiter of his fate, and as he closely examinedhis face he was convinced that the jailer was right in calling him anhonorable man.
M. Patrigent's homely face, with its irregular outline and short redwhiskers, lit up by a pair of bright, intelligent eyes, and a kindlyexpression, was calculated to impress one favorably at first sight.
"Take a seat," he said to Prosper.
This little attention was gratefully welcomed by the prisoner, for hehad expected to be treated with harsh contempt. He looked upon it as agood sign, and his mind felt a slight relief.
M. Patrigent turned toward the clerk, and said:
"We will begin now, Sigault; pay attention."
"What is your name?" he then asked, looking at Prosper.
"Auguste Prosper Bertomy."
"How old are you?"
"I shall be thirty the 5th of next May."
"What is your profession?"
"I am--that is, I was--cashier in M. Andre Fauvel's bank."
The judge stopped to consult a little memorandum lying on his desk.Prosper, who followed attentively his every movement, began to behopeful, saying to himself that never would a man so unprejudiced havethe cruelty to send him to prison again.
After finding what he looked for, M. Patrigent resumed the examination.
"Where do you live?"
"At No. 39, Rue Chaptal, for the last four years. Before that time Ilived at No. 7, Boulevard des Batignolles."
"Where were you born?"
"At Beaucaire in the Department of the Gard."
"Are your parents living?"
"My mother died two years ago; my father is still living."
"Does he live in Paris?"
"No, monsieur: he lives at Beaucaire with my sister, who married one ofthe engineers of the Southern Canal."
It was in broken tones that Prosper answered these last questions.There are moments in the life of a man when home memories encourageand console him; there are also moments when he would be thankful to bewithout a single tie, and bitterly regrets that he is not alone in theworld.
M. Patrigent observed the prisoner's emotion, when he spoke of hisparents.
"What is your father's calling?" he continued.
"He was formerly superintendent of the bridges and canals; then hewas employed on the Southern Canal, with my brother-in-law; now he hasretired from business."
There was a moment's silence. The judge had turned his chair around, sothat, although his head was apparently averted, he had a good view ofthe workings of Prosper's face.
"Well," he said, abruptly, "you are accused of having robbed M. Fauvelof three hundred and fifty thousand francs."
During the last twenty-four hours the wretched young man had had time tofamiliarize himself with the terrible idea of this accusation; and yet,uttered as it was in this formal, brief tone, it seemed to strike himwith a horror which rendered him incapable of opening his lips.
"What have you to answer?" asked the judge.
"That I am innocent, monsieur; I swear that I am innocent!"
"I hope you are," said M. Patrigent, "and you may count upon me toassist you to the extent of my ability in proving your innocence. Youmust have defence, some facts to state; have you not?"
"Ah, monsieur, what can I say, when I cannot understand this dreadfulbusiness myself? I can only refer you to my past life."
The judge interrupted him:
"Let us be specific; the robbery was committed under circumstances thatprevent suspicion from falling upon anyone but M. Fauvel and yourself.Do you suspect anyone else?"
"No, monsieur."
"You declare yourself to be innocent, therefore the guilty party must beM. Fauvel."
Prosper remained silent.
"Have you," persisted the judge, "any cause for believing that M. Fauvelrobbed himself?"
The prisoner preserved a rigid silence.
"I see, monsieur," said the judge, "that you need time for reflection.Listen to the reading of your examination, and after signing it you willreturn to prison."
The unhappy man was overcome. The last ray of hope was gone. He heardnothing of what Sigault read, and he signed the paper without looking atit.
He tottered as he left the judge's office, so that the keeper was forcedto support him.
"I fear your case looks dark, monsieur," sa
id the man, "but don't bedisheartened; keep up your courage."
Courage! Prosper had not a spark of it when he returned to his cell; buthis heart was filled with anger and resentment.
He had determined that he would defend himself before the judge, thathe would prove his innocence; and he had not had time to do so. Hereproached himself bitterly for having trusted to the judge's benevolentface.
"What a farce," he angrily exclaimed, "to call that an examination!"
It was not really an examination, but a mere formality.
In summoning Prosper, M. Patrigent obeyed Article 93 of the CriminalCode, which says, "Every suspected person under arrest must be examinedwithin twenty-four hours."
But it is not in twenty-four hours, especially in a case like this, withno evidence or material proof, that a judge can collect the materialsfor an examination.
To triumph over the obstinate defence of a prisoner who shuts himself upin absolute denial as if in a fortress, valid proofs are needed. Theseweapons M. Patrigent was busily preparing. If Prosper had remained alittle longer in the gallery, he would have seen the same bailiff whohad called him come out to the judge's office, and cry out:
"Number three."
The witness, who was awaiting his turn, and answered the call for numberthree, was M. Fauvel.
The banker was no longer the same man. Yesterday he was kind and affablein his manner: now, as he entered the judge's room, he seemed irritated.Reflection, which usually brings calmness and a desire to pardon,brought him anger and a thirst for vengeance.
The inevitable questions which commence every examination had scarcelybeen addressed to him before his impetuous temper gained the mastery,and he burst forth in invectives against Prosper.
M. Patrigent was obliged to impose silence upon him, reminding him ofwhat was due to himself, no matter what wrongs he had suffered at thehands of his clerk.
Although he had very slightly examined Prosper, the judge was nowscrupulously attentive and particular in having every question answered.Prosper's examination had been a mere formality, the stating and provinga fact. Now it related to collecting the attendant circumstances andthe most trifling particulars, so as to group them together, and reach ajust conclusion.
"Let us proceed in order," said the judge, "and pray confine yourselfto answering my questions. Did you ever suspect your cashier of beingdishonest?"
"Certainly not. Yet there were reasons which should have made mehesitate to trust him with my funds."
"What reasons?"
"M. Bertomy played cards. I have known of his spending whole nights atthe gaming table, and losing immense sums of money. He was intimate withan unprincipled set. Once he was mixed up with one of my clients, M. deClameran, in a scandalous gambling affair which took place at the houseof some disreputable woman, and wound up by being tried before thepolice court."
For some minutes the banker continued to revile Prosper.
"You must confess, monsieur," interrupted the judge, "that you were veryimprudent, if not culpable, to have intrusted your safe to such a man."
"Ah, monsieur, Prosper was not always thus. Until the past year he wasa model of goodness. He lived in my house as one of my family; he spentall of his evenings with us, and was the bosom friend of my eldest sonLucien. One day, he suddenly left us, and never came to the house again.Yet I had every reason to believe him attached to my niece Madeleine."
M. Patrigent had a peculiar manner of contracting his brows when hethought he had discovered some new proof. He now did this, and said:
"Might not this admiration for the young lady have been the cause of M.Bertomy's estrangement?"
"How so?" said the banker with surprise. "I was willing to bestowMadeleine upon him, and, to be frank, was astonished that he did not askfor her hand. My niece would be a good match for any man, and he shouldhave considered himself fortunate to obtain her. She is beautiful, andher dowry will be half a million."
"Then you can see no motive for your cashier's conduct?"
"It is impossible for me to account for it. I have, however, alwayssupposed that Prosper was led astray by a young man whom he met at myhouse about this time, M. Raoul de Lagors."
"Ah! and who is this young man?"
"A relative of my wife; a very attractive, intelligent young man,somewhat wild, but rich enough to pay for his follies."
The judge wrote the name Lagors at the bottom of an already long list onhis memorandum.
"Now," he said, "we are coming to the point. You are sure that the theftwas not committed by anyone in your house?"
"Quite sure, monsieur."
"You always kept your key?"
"I generally carried it about on my person; and, whenever I left it athome, I put it in the secretary drawer in my chamber."
"Where was it the evening of the robbery?"
"In my secretary."
"But then--"
"Excuse me for interrupting you," said M. Fauvel, "and to permit me totell you that, to a safe like mine, the key is of no importance. In thefirst place, one is obliged to know the word upon which the five movablebuttons turn. With the word one can open it without the key; but withoutthe word--"
"And you never told this word to anyone?"
"To no one, monsieur, and sometimes I would have been puzzled to knowmyself with what word the safe had been closed. Prosper would change itwhen he chose, and, if he had not informed me of the change, would haveto come and open it for me."
"Had you forgotten it on the day of the theft?"
"No: the word had been changed the day before; and its peculiaritystruck me."
"What was it?"
"Gypsy, g, y, p, s, y," said the banker, spelling the name.
M. Patrigent wrote down this name.
"One more question, monsieur: were you at home the evening before therobbery?"
"No; I dined and spent the evening with a friend; when I returned home,about one o'clock, my wife had retired, and I went to bed immediately."
"And you were ignorant of the amount of money in the safe?"
"Absolutely. In conformity with my positive orders, I could only supposethat a small sum had been left there over-night; I stated this fact tothe commissary in M. Bertomy's presence, and he acknowledged it to bethe case."
"Perfectly correct, monsieur: the commissary's report proves it." M.Patrigent was for a time silent. To him everything depended upon thisone fact, that the banker was unaware of the three hundred and fiftythousand francs being in the safe, and Prosper had disobeyed ordersby placing them there over-night; hence the conclusion was very easilydrawn.
Seeing that his examination was over, the banker thought that he wouldrelieve his mind of what was weighing upon it.
"I believe myself above suspicion, monsieur," he began, "and yet I cannever rest easy until Bertomy's guilt has been clearly proved. Calumnyprefers attacking a successful man: I may be calumniated: three hundredand fifty thousand francs is a fortune capable of tempting even arich man. I would be obliged if you would have the condition of mybanking-house examined. This examination will prove that I could haveno interest in robbing my own safe. The prosperous condition of myaffairs--"
"That is sufficient, monsieur."
M. Patrigent was well informed of the high standing of the banker, andknew almost as much of his affairs as did M. Fauvel himself.
He asked him to sign his testimony, and then escorted him to the door ofhis office, a rare favor on his part.
When M. Fauvel had left the room, Sigault indulged in a remark.
"This seems to be a very cloudy case," he said; "if the cashier isshrewd and firm, it will be difficult to convict him."
"Perhaps it will," said the judge, "but let us hear the other witnessesbefore deciding."
The person who answered to the call for number four was Lucien, M.Fauvel's eldest son.
He was a tall, handsome young man of twenty-two. To the judge'squestions he replied that he was very fond of Prosper, was once veryintimate with hi
m, and had always regarded him as a strictly honorableman, incapable of doing anything unbecoming a gentleman.
He declared that he could not imagine what fatal circumstances couldhave induced Prosper to commit a theft. He knew he played cards, but notto the extent that was reported. He had never known him to indulge inexpenses beyond his means.
In regard to his cousin Madeleine, he replied:
"I always thought that Prosper was in love with Madeleine, and, untilyesterday, I was certain he would marry her, knowing that my fatherwould not oppose their marriage. I have always attributed thediscontinuance of Prosper's visits to a quarrel with my cousin, butsupposed they would end by becoming reconciled."
This information, more than that of M. Fauvel, threw light uponProsper's past life, but did not apparently reveal any evidence whichcould be used in the present state of affairs.
Lucien signed his deposition, and withdrew.
Cavaillon's turn for examination came next. The poor fellow was in apitiable state of mind when he appeared before the judge.
Having, as a great secret, confided to a friend his adventure with thedetective, and being jeered at for his cowardice in giving up the note,he felt great remorse, and passed the night in reproaching himself forhaving ruined Prosper.
He endeavored to repair, as well as he could, what he called histreason.
He did not exactly accuse M. Fauvel, but he courageously declared thathe was the cashier's friend, and that he was as sure of his innocence ashe was of his own.
Unfortunately, besides his having no proofs to strengthen hisassertions, these were deprived of any value by his violent professionsof friendship for the accused.
After Cavaillon, six or eight clerks of the Fauvel bank successivelydefiled in the judge's office; but their depositions were nearly allinsignificant.
One of them, however, stated a fact which the judge carefully noted.He said he knew that Prosper had speculated on the Bourse through themedium of M. Raoul de Lagors, and had gained immense sums.
Five o'clock struck before the list of witnesses summoned for the daywas exhausted. But the task of M. Patrigent was not yet finished. Herang for his bailiff, who instantly appeared, and said to him:
"Go at once, and bring Fanferlot here."
It was some time before the detective answered the summons. Having meta colleague on the gallery, he thought it his duty to treat him to adrink; and the bailiff had found it necessary to bring him from thelittle inn at the corner.
"How is it that you keep people waiting?" said the judge, when heentered bowing and scraping. Fanferlot bowed more profoundly still.
Despite his smiling face, he was very uneasy. To prosecute the Bertomycase alone, it required a double play that might be discovered at anymoment; to manage at once the cause of justice and his own ambition, heran great risks, the least of which was the losing of his place.
"I have a great deal to do," he said, to excuse himself, "and have notwasted any time."
And he began to give a detailed account of his movements. He wasembarrassed, for he spoke with all sorts of restrictions, picking outwhat was to be said, and avoiding what was to be left unsaid. Thus hegave the history of Cavaillon's letter, which he handed to the judge;but he did not breathe a word of Madeleine. On the other hand, he gavebiographical details, very minute indeed, of Prosper and Mme. Gypsy,which he had collected from various quarters during the day.
As he progressed the conviction of M. Patrigent was strengthened.
"This young man is evidently guilty," he said. Fanferlot did not reply;his opinion was different, but he was delighted that the judge wason the wrong track, thinking that his own glory would thereby be thegreater when he discovered the real culprit. True, this grand discoverywas as far off as it had ever been; but Fanferlot was hopeful.
After hearing all he had to tell, the judge dismissed Fanferlot, tellinghim to return the next day.
"Above all," he said, as Fanferlot left the room, "do not lose sight ofthe girl Gypsy; she must know where the money is, and can put us on thetrack."
Fanferlot smiled cunningly.
"You may rest easy about that, monsieur; the lady is in good hands."
Left to himself, although the evening was far advanced, M. Patrigentcontinued to busy himself with the case, and to arrange that the rest ofthe depositions should be made.
This case had actually taken possession of his mind; it was, at the sametime, puzzling and attractive. It seemed to be surrounded by a cloud ofmystery, and he determined to penetrate and dispel it.
The next morning he was in his office much earlier than usual. On thisday he examined Mme. Gypsy, recalled Cavaillon, and sent again for M.Fauvel. For several days he displayed the same activity.
Of all the witnesses summoned, only two failed to appear.
One was the office-boy sent by Prosper to bring the money from the citybank; he was ill from a fall.
The other was M. Raoul de Lagors.
But their absence did not prevent the file of papers relating toProsper's case from daily increasing; and on the ensuing Monday, fivedays after the robbery, M. Patrigent thought he held in his hands enoughmoral proof to crush the accused.
Le dossier no. 113. English Page 3
