Chapter 5

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.

V

While his whole past was the object of the most minute investigations, Prosper was in prison, in a secret cell.

The two first days had not appeared very long.

He had requested, and been granted, some sheets of paper, numbered, which he was obliged to account for; and he wrote, with a sort of rage, plans of defence and a narrative of justification.

The third day he began to be uneasy at not seeing anyone except the condemned prisoners who were employed to serve those confined in secret cells, and the jailer who brought him his food.

“Am I not to be examined again?” he would ask.

“Your turn is coming,” the jailer invariably answered.

Time passed; and the wretched man, tortured by the sufferings of solitary confinement which quickly breaks the spirit, sank into the depths of despair.

“Am I to stay here forever?” he moaned.

No, he was not forgotten; for on Monday morning, at one o’clock, an hour when the jailer never came, he heard the heavy bolt of his cell pushed back.

He ran toward the door.

But the sight of a gray-headed man standing on the sill rooted him to the spot.

“Father,” he gasped, “father!”

“Your father, yes!”

Prosper’s astonishment at seeing his father was instantly succeeded by a feeling of great joy.

A father is one friend upon whom we can always rely. In the hour of need, when all else fails, we remember this man upon whose knees we sat when children, and who soothed our sorrows; and although he can in no way assist us, his presence alone comforts and strengthens.

Without reflecting, Prosper, impelled by tender feeling, was about to throw himself on his father’s bosom.

M. Bertomy harshly repulsed him.

“Do not approach me!” he exclaimed.

He then advanced into the cell, and closed the door. The father and son were alone together, Prosper heart-broken, crushed; M. Bertomy angry, almost threatening.

Cast off by this last friend, by his father, the miserable young man seemed to be stupefied with pain and disappointment.

“You too!” he bitterly cried. “You, you believe me guilty? Oh, father!”

“Spare yourself this shameful comedy,” interrupted M. Bertomy: “I know all.”

“But I am innocent, father; I swear it by the sacred memory of my mother.”

“Unhappy wretch,” cried M. Bertomy, “do not blaspheme!”

He seemed overcome by tender thoughts of the past, and in a weak, broken voice, he added:

“Your mother is dead, Prosper, and little did I think that the day would come when I could thank God for having taken her from me. Your crime would have killed her, would have broken her heart!”

After a painful silence, Prosper said:

“You overwhelm me, father, and at the moment when I need all my courage; when I am the victim of an odious plot.”

“Victim!” cried M. Bertomy, “victim! Dare you utter your insinuations against the honorable man who has taken care of you, loaded you with benefits, and had insured you a brilliant future! It is enough for you to have robbed him; do not calumniate him.”

“For pity’s sake, father, let me speak!”

“I suppose you would deny your benefactor’s kindness. Yet you were at one time so sure of his affection, that you wrote me to hold myself in readiness to come to Paris and ask M. Fauvel for the hand of his niece. Was that a lie too?”

“No,” said Prosper in a choked voice, “no.”

“That was a year ago; you then loved Mlle. Madeleine; at least you wrote to me that you--”

“Father, I love her now, more than ever; I have never ceased to love her.”

M. Bertomy made a gesture of contemptuous pity.

“Indeed!” he cried, “and the thought of the pure, innocent girl whom you loved did not prevent your entering upon a path of sin. You loved her: how dared you, then, without blushing, approach her presence after associating with the shameless creatures with whom you were so intimate?”

“For Heaven’s sake, let me explain by what fatality Madeleine--”

“Enough, monsieur, enough. I told you that I know everything. I saw M. Fauvel yesterday; this morning I saw the judge, and ‘tis to his kindness that I am indebted for this interview. Do you know what mortification I suffered before being allowed to see you? I was searched and made to empty all of my pockets, on suspicion of bringing you arms!”

Prosper ceased to justify himself, but in a helpless, hopeless way, dropped down upon a seat.

“I have seen your apartments, and at once recognized the proofs of your crime. I saw silk curtains hanging before every window and door, and the walls covered with pictures. In my father’s house the walls were whitewashed; and there was but one arm-chair in the whole house, and that was my mother’s. Our luxury was our honesty. You are the first member of our family who has possessed Aubusson carpets; though, to be sure, you are the first thief of our blood.”

At this last insult Prosper’s face flushed crimson, but he remained silent and immovable.

“But luxury is necessary now,” continued M. Bertomy, becoming more excited and angry as he went on, “luxury must be had at any price. You must have the insolent opulence and display of an upstart, without being an upstart. You must support worthless women who wear satin slippers lined with swan’s-down, like those I saw in your rooms, and keep servants in livery--and you steal! And bankers no longer trust their safe-keys with anybody; and every day honest families are disgraced by the discovery of some new piece of villainy.”

M. Bertomy suddenly stopped. He saw that his son was not in a condition to hear any more reproaches.

“But I will say no more,” he said. “I came here not to reproach, but to, if possible, save the honor of our name, to prevent it from being published in the papers bearing the names of thieves and murderers. Stand up and listen to me!”

At the imperious tone of his father, Prosper arose. So many successive blows had reduced him to a state of torpor.

“First of all,” began M. Bertomy, “how much have you remaining of the stolen three hundred and fifty thousand francs?”

“Once more, father,” replied the unfortunate man in a tone of hopeless resignation, “once more I swear I am innocent.”

“So I supposed you would say. Then our family will have to repair the injury you have done M. Fauvel.”

“What do you mean?”

“The day he heard of your crime, your brother-in-law brought me your sister’s dowry, seventy thousand francs. I succeeded in collecting a hundred and forty thousand francs more. This makes two hundred and ten thousand francs which I have brought with me to give to M. Fauvel.”

This threat aroused Prosper from his torpor.

“You shall do nothing of the kind!” he cried with unrestrained indignation.

“I will do so before the sun goes down this day. M. Fauvel will grant me time to pay the rest. My pension is fifteen hundred francs. I can live upon five hundred, and am strong enough to go to work again; and your brother-in-law--”

M. Bertomy stopped short, frightened at the expression of his son’s face. His features were contracted with such furious rage that he was scarcely recognizable, and his eyes glared like a maniac’s.

“You dare not disgrace me thus!” he cried; “you have no right to do it. You are free to disbelieve me yourself, but you have no right for taking a step that would be a confession of guilt, and ruin me forever. Who and what convinces you of my guilt? When cold justice hesitates, you, my father, hesitate not, but, more pitiless than the law, condemn me unheard!”

“I only do my duty.”

“Which means that I stand on the edge of a precipice, and you push me over. Do you call that your duty? What! between strangers who accuse me, and myself who swear that I am innocent, you do not hesitate? Why? Is it because I am your son? Our honor is at stake, it is true; but that is only the more reason why you should sustain me, and assist me to defend myself.”

Prosper’s earnest, truthful manner was enough to unsettle the firmest convictions, and make doubt penetrate the most stubborn mind.

“Yet,” said M. Bertomy in a hesitating tone, “everything seems to accuse you.”

“Ah, father, you do not know that I was suddenly banished from Madeleine’s presence; that I was compelled to avoid her. I became desperate, and tried to forget my sorrow in dissipation. I sought oblivion, and found shame and disgust. Oh, Madeleine, Madeleine!”

He was overcome with emotion; but in a few minutes he started up with renewed violence in his voice and manner.

“Everything is against me!” he exclaimed, “but no matter. I will justify myself or perish in the attempt. Human justice is liable to error; although innocent, I may be convicted: so be it. I will undergo my penalty; but people are not kept galley-slaves forever.”

“What do you mean?”