At the same hour that Mme. Nina Gypsy was seeking refuge at the Archangel, so highly recommended by Fanferlot the Squirrel, Prosper Bertomy was being entered on the jailer’s book at the police office.
Since the moment when he had resumed his habitual composure, he had not faltered.
Vainly did the people around him watch for a suspicious expression, or any 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 on his brow, betrayed the intense agony he was suffering.
At the police office, where he had to wait two hours while the commissary went to receive orders from higher authorities, he entered into conversation with the two bailiffs who had charge of him.
At twelve o’clock he said he was hungry, and sent to a restaurant near by for his breakfast, which he ate with a good appetite; he also drank nearly a bottle of wine.
While he was thus occupied, several clerks from the prefecture, who have to transact business daily with the commissary of police, curiously watched him. They all formed the same opinion, and admiringly said to each other:
“Well, he is made of strong material, he is!”
“Yes, my dandy looks too lamb-like to be left to his own devices. He ought to have a strong escort.”
When he was told that a coach was waiting for him at the door, he at once got up; but, before going out, he requested permission to light a cigar, which was granted.
A flower-girl stood just by the door, with her stand filled with all varieties of flowers. He stopped and bought a bunch of violets. The girl, 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 went along Rue Montmartre, Prosper kept his head out of the window, at the same time smilingly complaining at being imprisoned on such a lovely day, when everything outside was so sunny and pleasant.
“It is singular,” he said, “I never felt so great a desire to take a walk.”
One of the bailiffs, a large, jovial, red-faced man, received this remark with a hearty burst of laughter, and said:
“I understand.”
To the court clerk, while he was going through the formalities of the commitment, Prosper replied with haughty brevity to the indispensable questions asked him.
But when he was ordered to empty his pockets on the table, and they began to search him, his eyes flashed with indignation, and a single tear dropped upon his flushed cheek. In an instant he had recovered his stony calmness, and stood up motionless, with his arms raised in the air so that the rough creatures about him could more conveniently ransack him from head to foot, to assure themselves that he had no suspicious object hid under his clothes.
The search would have, perhaps, been carried to the most ignominious lengths, but for the intervention of a middle-aged man of rather distinguished 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 Prosper brought in by the bailiffs; he stepped forward, and seemed about to speak to him, then suddenly changed his mind, and sat down again.
In spite of his own troubles, Prosper could not help seeing that this man kept his eyes fastened upon him. Did he know him? Vainly did he try to recollect having met him before.
This man, treated with all the deference due to a chief, was no less a personage than M. Lecoq, a celebrated member of the detective corps.
When the men who were searching Prosper were about to take off his boots, saying that a knife might be concealed in them. M. Lecoq waved them aside with an air of authority, and said:
“You have done enough.”
He was obeyed. All the formalities being ended, the unfortunate cashier was taken to a narrow cell; the heavily barred door was swung to and locked upon him; he breathed freely; at last he was alone.
Yes, he believed himself to be alone. He was ignorant that a prison is made of glass, that the accused is like a miserable insect under the microscope of an entomologist. He knew not that the walls have stretched ears and watchful eyes.
He was so sure of being alone that he at once gave vent to his suppressed feelings, and, dropping his mask of impassibility, burst into a flood of tears. His long-restrained anger now flashed out like a smouldering fire.
In a paroxysm of rage he uttered imprecations and curses. He dashed himself 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 fiery temperament.
One day, when he was about twenty-four years of age, he had become suddenly fired by ambition. While all of his desires were repressed, imprisoned in his low estate, like an athlete in a strait-jacket, seeing around him all these rich people with whom money assumed the place of the wand in the fairy-tale, he envied their lot.
He studied the beginnings of these financial princes, and found that at the starting-point they possessed far less than himself.
How, then, had they succeeded? By force of energy, industry, and assurance.
He determined to imitate and excel them.
From this day, with a force of will much less rare than we think, he imposed silence upon his instincts. He reformed not his morals, but his manners; and so strictly did he conform to the rules of decorum, that he was regarded as a model of propriety by those who knew him, and had faith in his character; and his capabilities and ambition inspired the prophecy 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 or innocent, a man once suspected is as ineffaceably branded as the shoulder of a galley-slave.
Therefore what was the use of struggling? What benefit was a triumph which could not wash out the stain?
When the jailer brought him his supper, he found him lying on his pallet, with his face buried in the pillow, weeping bitterly.
Ah, he was not hungry now! Now that he was alone, he fed upon his own bitter thoughts. He sank from a state of frenzy into one of stupefying despair, and vainly did he endeavor to clear his confused mind, and account for the dark cloud gathering about him; no loop-hole for escape did he discover.
The night was long and terrible, and for the first time he had nothing to count the hours by, as they slowly dragged on, but the measured tread of the patrol who came to relieve the sentinels. He was wretched.
At dawn he dropped into a sleep, a heavy, oppressive sleep, which was more wearisome than refreshing; from which he was startled by the rough voice of the jailer.
“Come, monsieur,” he said, “it is time for you to appear before the judge of instruction.”
He jumped up at once, and, without stopping to repair his disordered toilet, said:
“Come on, quick!”
The constable remarked, as they walked along:
“You are very fortunate in having your case brought before an honest man.”
He was right.
Endowed with remarkable penetration, firm, unbiased, equally free from false pity and excessive severity, M. Patrigent possessed in an eminent degree all the qualities necessary for the delicate and difficult office of judge of instruction.
Perhaps he was wanting in the feverish activity which is sometimes necessary for coming to a quick and just decision; but he possessed unwearying patience, which nothing could discourage. He would cheerfully devote years to the examination of a case; he was even now engaged on a case 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 they brought the endless lawsuits, half-finished inquests, and tangled cases.
This was the man before whom they were taking Prosper; and they were taking him by a difficult road.
He was escorted along a corridor, through a room full of policemen, down a narrow flight of steps, across a kind of cellar, and then up a steep staircase 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 could not refrain from shuddering.
It was only too true, that on the other side of this door was a man upon whose decision his freedom depended.
Summoning all his courage, he turned the door-knob, and was about to enter when the constable stopped him.
“Don’t be in such haste,” he said; “you must sit down here, and wait till 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 judges of instruction.
Stretching the whole length of the wall is a wooden bench blackened by constant use. This bench has for the last ten years been daily occupied by all the murderers, thieves, and suspicious characters of the Department of the Seine.
Sooner or later, fatally, as filth rushes to a sewer, does crime reach this gallery, this dreadful gallery with one door opening on the galleys, the other on the scaffold. This place was vulgarly and pithily denominated by a certain magistrate as the great public wash-house of all the dirty linen in Paris.
When Prosper reached the gallery it was full of people. The bench was almost 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 groups of 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 would see 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 a name or number.
This stifling atmosphere, and the sight of so much misery, made the cashier ill and faint; he was feeling as if another five minutes’ stay among these wretched creatures would make him deathly sick, when a little old man dressed in black, wearing the insignia of his office, a steel chain, cried out:
“Prosper Bertomy!”
The unhappy man arose, and, without knowing how, found himself in the office of the judge of instruction.
For a moment he was blinded. He had come out of a dark room; and the one in 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 ordinary appearance, small and dingy.
The wall was covered with cheap dark green paper, and on the floor was a hideous 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 his face remained in the shade, while that of the prisoner or witness whom he questioned was in a glare of light.
At the right, before a little table, sat a clerk writing, the indispensable auxiliary of the judge.
But Prosper observed none of these details: his whole attention was concentrated upon the arbiter of his fate, and as he closely examined his face he was convinced that the jailer was right in calling him an honorable man.
M. Patrigent’s homely face, with its irregular outline and short red whiskers, lit up by a pair of bright, intelligent eyes, and a kindly expression, 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 he had expected to be treated with harsh contempt. He looked upon it as a good 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 be hopeful, saying to himself that never would a man so unprejudiced have the 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 I lived 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 of the 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 encourage and console him; there are also moments when he would be thankful to be without a single tie, and bitterly regrets that he is not alone in the world.
M. Patrigent observed the prisoner’s emotion, when he spoke of his parents.
“What is your father’s calling?” he continued.
“He was formerly superintendent of the bridges and canals; then he was employed on the Southern Canal, with my brother-in-law; now he has retired from business.”
There was a moment’s silence. The judge had turned his chair around, so that, although his head was apparently averted, he had a good view of the workings of Prosper’s face.
“Well,” he said, abruptly, “you are accused of having robbed M. Fauvel of three hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
During the last twenty-four hours the wretched young man had had time to familiarize himself with the terrible idea of this accusation; and yet, uttered as it was in this formal, brief tone, it seemed to strike him with 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 to assist you to the extent of my ability in proving your innocence. You must have defence, some facts to state; have you not?”
“Ah, monsieur, what can I say, when I cannot understand this dreadful business myself? I can only refer you to my past life.”
The judge interrupted him:
“Let us be specific; the robbery was committed under circumstances that prevent 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 be M. Fauvel.”
Prosper remained silent.
“Have you,” persisted the judge, “any cause for believing that M. Fauvel robbed 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 will return to prison.”
The unhappy man was overcome. The last ray of hope was gone. He heard nothing of what Sigault read, and he signed the paper without looking at it.
He tottered as he left the judge’s office, so that the keeper was forced to support him.
“I fear your case looks dark, monsieur,” said the man, “but don’t be disheartened; keep up your courage.”
Courage! Prosper had not a spark of it when he returned to his cell; but his heart was filled with anger and resentment.
He had determined that he would defend himself before the judge, that he would prove his innocence; and he had not had time to do so. He reproached himself bitterly for having trusted to the judge’s benevolent face.
“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 Criminal Code, which says, “Every suspected person under arrest must be examined within twenty-four hours.”
But it is not in twenty-four hours, especially in a case like this, with no evidence or material proof, that a judge can collect the materials for an examination.
To triumph over the obstinate defence of a prisoner who shuts himself up in absolute denial as if in a fortress, valid proofs are needed. These weapons M. Patrigent was busily preparing. If Prosper had remained a little longer in the gallery, he would have seen the same bailiff who had 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 number three, was M. Fauvel.
The banker was no longer the same man. Yesterday he was kind and affable in 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 scarcely been 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 of what was due to himself, no matter what wrongs he had suffered at the hands of his clerk.
Although he had very slightly examined Prosper, the judge was now scrupulously attentive and particular in having every question answered. Prosper’s examination had been a mere formality, the stating and proving a fact. Now it related to collecting the attendant circumstances and the most trifling particulars, so as to group them together, and reach a just conclusion.
“Let us proceed in order,” said the judge, “and pray confine yourself to answering my questions. Did you ever suspect your cashier of being dishonest?”
“Certainly not. Yet there were reasons which should have made me hesitate to trust him with my funds.”
“What reasons?”
“M. Bertomy played cards. I have known of his spending whole nights at the gaming table, and losing immense sums of money. He was intimate with an unprincipled set. Once he was mixed up with one of my clients, M. de Clameran, in a scandalous gambling affair which took place at the house of some disreputable woman, and wound up by being tried before the police court.”
For some minutes the banker continued to revile Prosper.
“You must confess, monsieur,” interrupted the judge, “that you were very imprudent, if not culpable, to have intrusted your safe to such a man.”
“Ah, monsieur, Prosper was not always thus. Until the past year he was a model of goodness. He lived in my house as one of my family; he spent all of his evenings with us, and was the bosom friend of my eldest son Lucien. 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 he thought 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 bestow Madeleine upon him, and, to be frank, was astonished that he did not ask for her hand. My niece would be a good match for any man, and he should have considered himself fortunate to obtain her. She is beautiful, and her 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, always supposed that Prosper was led astray by a young man whom he met at my house 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 on his memorandum.
“Now,” he said, “we are coming to the point. You are sure that the theft was 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 at home, 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 to tell you that, to a safe like mine, the key is of no importance. In the first place, one is obliged to know the word upon which the five movable buttons turn. With the word one can open it without the key; but without the word--”
“And you never told this word to anyone?”
“To no one, monsieur, and sometimes I would have been puzzled to know myself with what word the safe had been closed. Prosper would change it when he chose, and, if he had not informed me of the change, would have to 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 peculiarity struck 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 the robbery?”
“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 suppose that a small sum had been left there over-night; I stated this fact to the commissary in M. Bertomy’s presence, and he acknowledged it to be the case.”
“Perfectly correct, monsieur: the commissary’s report proves it.” M. Patrigent was for a time silent. To him everything depended upon this one fact, that the banker was unaware of the three hundred and fifty thousand francs being in the safe, and Prosper had disobeyed orders by placing them there over-night; hence the conclusion was very easily drawn.
Seeing that his examination was over, the banker thought that he would relieve his mind of what was weighing upon it.
“I believe myself above suspicion, monsieur,” he began, “and yet I can never rest easy until Bertomy’s guilt has been clearly proved. Calumny prefers attacking a successful man: I may be calumniated: three hundred and fifty thousand francs is a fortune capable of tempting even a rich man. I would be obliged if you would have the condition of my banking-house examined. This examination will prove that I could have no interest in robbing my own safe. The prosperous condition of my affairs--”
“That is sufficient, monsieur.”
M. Patrigent was well informed of the high standing of the banker, and knew 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 of his 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 is shrewd and firm, it will be difficult to convict him.”
“Perhaps it will,” said the judge, “but let us hear the other witnesses before 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’s questions he replied that he was very fond of Prosper, was once very intimate with him, and had always regarded him as a strictly honorable man, incapable of doing anything unbecoming a gentleman.
He declared that he could not imagine what fatal circumstances could have induced Prosper to commit a theft. He knew he played cards, but not to the extent that was reported. He had never known him to indulge in expenses beyond his means.
In regard to his cousin Madeleine, he replied:
“I always thought that Prosper was in love with Madeleine, and, until yesterday, I was certain he would marry her, knowing that my father would not oppose their marriage. I have always attributed the discontinuance of Prosper’s visits to a quarrel with my cousin, but supposed they would end by becoming reconciled.”
This information, more than that of M. Fauvel, threw light upon Prosper’s past life, but did not apparently reveal any evidence which could 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 a pitiable state of mind when he appeared before the judge.
Having, as a great secret, confided to a friend his adventure with the detective, and being jeered at for his cowardice in giving up the note, he felt great remorse, and passed the night in reproaching himself for having ruined Prosper.
He endeavored to repair, as well as he could, what he called his treason.
He did not exactly accuse M. Fauvel, but he courageously declared that he was the cashier’s friend, and that he was as sure of his innocence as he was of his own.
Unfortunately, besides his having no proofs to strengthen his assertions, these were deprived of any value by his violent professions of friendship for the accused.
After Cavaillon, six or eight clerks of the Fauvel bank successively defiled in the judge’s office; but their depositions were nearly all insignificant.
One of them, however, stated a fact which the judge carefully noted. He said he knew that Prosper had speculated on the Bourse through the medium of M. Raoul de Lagors, and had gained immense sums.
Five o’clock struck before the list of witnesses summoned for the day was exhausted. But the task of M. Patrigent was not yet finished. He rang 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 met a colleague on the gallery, he thought it his duty to treat him to a drink; and the bailiff had found it necessary to bring him from the little inn at the corner.
“How is it that you keep people waiting?” said the judge, when he entered bowing and scraping. Fanferlot bowed more profoundly still.
Despite his smiling face, he was very uneasy. To prosecute the Bertomy case alone, it required a double play that might be discovered at any moment; to manage at once the cause of justice and his own ambition, he ran 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 not wasted any time.”
And he began to give a detailed account of his movements. He was embarrassed, for he spoke with all sorts of restrictions, picking out what was to be said, and avoiding what was to be left unsaid. Thus he gave 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 gave biographical 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 was on the wrong track, thinking that his own glory would thereby be the greater when he discovered the real culprit. True, this grand discovery was as far off as it had ever been; but Fanferlot was hopeful.
After hearing all he had to tell, the judge dismissed Fanferlot, telling him to return the next day.
“Above all,” he said, as Fanferlot left the room, “do not lose sight of the girl Gypsy; she must know where the money is, and can put us on the track.”
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. Patrigent continued to busy himself with the case, and to arrange that the rest of the depositions should be made.
This case had actually taken possession of his mind; it was, at the same time, puzzling and attractive. It seemed to be surrounded by a cloud of mystery, and he determined to penetrate and dispel it.
The next morning he was in his office much earlier than usual. On this day 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 city bank; he was ill from a fall.
The other was M. Raoul de Lagors.
But their absence did not prevent the file of papers relating to Prosper’s case from daily increasing; and on the ensuing Monday, five days after the robbery, M. Patrigent thought he held in his hands enough moral proof to crush the accused.
