Chapter 31
“It may be that there is discord among my enemies,” he said to himself, “and that they do no longer agree, now that, in their view, the moment approaches when they are to divide the proceeds of their crimes. Or did they never agree, and am I the victim of a double plot? Or is the whole merely a comedy for the purpose of deceiving me, and keeping me here, until the murderer has done his work?”
He was not allowed to torture his mind long with efforts to seek the solution of this riddle. The old doctor came back with the lawyer, and for more than half an hour he had to answer an avalanche of questions. But the investigation had been carried on with such rare sagacity, that Daniel could furnish the prosecution only a single new fact,--the surrender of his entire fortune into the hands of M. de Brevan.
And even this fact must needs, on account of its extreme improbability, remain untold in an investigation which was based upon logic alone. Daniel very naturally, somewhat ashamed of his imprudence, tried to excuse himself; and, when he had concluded his explanations, the lawyer said,--
“Now, one more question: would you recognize the man who attempted to drown you in the Dong-Nai in a boat which he had offered to you, and which he upset evidently on purpose?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah! that is a pity. That man was Crochard, I am sure; but he will deny it; and the prosecution will have nothing but probabilities to oppose to his denial, unless I can find the place where he changed his clothes.”
“Excuse me, there is a way to ascertain his identity.”
“How?”
“The voice of the wretch is so deeply engraven on my mind, that even at this moment, while I am speaking to you, I think I can hear it in my ear; and I would recognize it among a thousand.”
The lawyer made no reply, weighing, no doubt, in his mind the chances of a confrontation. Then he made up his mind, and said,--
“It is worth trying.”
And handing his clerk, who had been a silent witness of this scene, an order to have the accused brought to the hospital, he said,--
“Take this to the jail, and let them make haste.”
It was a month now since Crochard had been arrested; and his imprisonment, so far from discouraging him, had raised his spirits. At first, his arrest and the examination had frightened him; but, as the days went by, he recovered his insolence.
“They are evidently looking for evidence,” he said; “but, as they cannot find any, they will have to let me go.”
He looked, therefore, as self-assured as ever when he came into Daniel’s room, and exclaimed, while still in the door, with an air of intolerable arrogance,--
“Well? I ask for justice; I am tired of jail. If I am guilty, let them cut my throat; if I am innocent”--
But Daniel did not let him finish.
“That is the man!” he exclaimed; “I am ready to swear to it, that is the man!”
Great as was the impudence of Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, he was astonished, and looked with rapid, restless eyes at the chief surgeon, at the magistrate, and last at Lefloch, who stood immovable at the foot of the bed of his lieutenant. He had too much experience of legal forms not to know that he had given way to absurd illusions,--and that his position was far more dangerous than he had imagined. But what was their purpose? what had they found out? and what did they know positively? The effort he made to guess all this gave to his face an atrocious expression.
“Did you hear that, Crochard?” asked the lawyer.
But the accused had recovered his self-control by a great effort; and he replied,--
“I am not deaf.” And there was in his voice the unmistakable accent of the former vagabond of Paris. “I hear perfectly well; only I don’t understand.”
The magistrate, finding that, where he was seated, he could not very well observe Crochard, had quietly gotten up, and was now standing near the mantle-piece, against which he rested.
“On the contrary,” he said severely, “you understand but too well Lieut. Champcey says you are the man who tried to drown him in the Dong-Nai. He recognizes you.”
“That’s impossible!” exclaimed the accused. “That’s impossible; for”--
But the rest of the phrase remained in his throat. A sudden reflection had shown him the trap in which he had been caught,--a trap quite familiar to examining lawyers, and terrible by its very simplicity. But for that reflection, he would have gone on thus,--
“That’s impossible; for the night was too dark to distinguish a man’s features.”
And that would have been equivalent to a confession; and he would have had nothing to answer the magistrate, if the latter had asked at once,--
“How do you know that the darkness was so great on the banks of the Dong-Nai? It seems you were there, eh?”
Quite pallid with fright, the accused simply said,--
“The officer must be mistaken.”
“I think not,” replied the magistrate.
Turning to Daniel, he asked him,--
“Do you persist in your declaration, lieutenant?”
“More than ever, sir; I declare upon honor that I recognize the man’s voice. When he offered me a boat, he spoke a kind of almost unintelligible jargon, a mixture of English and Spanish words; but he did not think of changing his intonation and his accent.”
Affecting an assurance which he was far from really feeling, Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, shrugged his shoulders carelessly, and said,--
“Do I know any English? Do I know any Spanish?”
“No, very likely not; but like all Frenchmen who live in this colony, and like all the marines, you no doubt know a certain number of words of these two languages.”
To the great surprise of the doctor and of Daniel, the prisoner did not deny it; it looked as if he felt that he was on dangerous ground.
“Never mind!” he exclaimed in the most arrogant manner. “It is anyhow pretty hard to accuse an honest man of a crime, because his voice resembles the voice of a rascal.”
The magistrate gently shook his head. He said,--
“Do you pretend being an honest man?”
“What! I pretend? Let them send for my employers.”
“That is not necessary. I know your antecedents, from the first petty theft that procured you four months’ imprisonment, to the aggravated robbery for which you were sent to the penitentiary, when you were in the army.”
Profound stupor lengthened all of Crochard’s features; but he was not the man to give up a game in which his head was at stake, without fighting for it.
“Well, there you are mistaken,” he said very coolly. “I have been condemned to ten years, that is true, when I was a soldier; but it was for having struck an officer who had punished me unjustly.”
“You lie. A former soldier of your regiment, who is now in garrison here in Saigon, will prove it.”
For the first time the accused seemed to be really troubled. He saw all of a sudden his past rising before him, which until now he had thought unknown or forgotten; and he knew full well the weight which antecedents like his would have in the scales of justice. So he changed his tactics; and, assuming an abject humility, he said,--
“One may have committed a fault, and still be incapable of murdering a man.”
“That is not your case.”
“Oh! how can you say such a thing?--I who would not harm a fly. Unlucky gun! Must I needs have such a mishap?”
The magistrate had for some time been looking at the accused with an air of the most profound disgust. He interrupted him rudely now, and said,--
“Look here, my man! Spare us those useless denials. Justice knows everything it wants to know. That shot was the third attempt you made to murder a man.”
Crochard drew back. He looked livid. But he had still the strength to say in a half-strangled voice,--
“That is false!”
But the magistrate had too great an abundance of evidence to allow the examination to continue. He said simply,--
“Who, then, threw, during the voyage, an enormous block at M. Champcey’s head? Come, don’t deny it. The emigrant who was near you, who saw you, and who promised he would not report you at that time, has spoken. Do you want to see him?”
Once more Crochard opened his lips to protest his innocence; but he could not utter a sound. He was crushed, annihilated; he trembled in all his limbs; and his teeth rattled in his mouth. In less than no time, his features had sunk in, as it were, till he looked like a man at the foot of the scaffold. It may be, that, feeling he was irretrievably lost, he had had a vision of the fatal instrument.
“Believe me,” continued the lawyer, “do not insist upon the impossible; you had better tell the truth.”
For another minute yet, the miserable man hesitated. Then, seeing no other chance of safety, except the mercy of the judges, he fell heavily on his knees, and stammered out,--
“I am a wretched man.”
At the same instant a cry of astonishment burst from the doctor, from Daniel, and the worthy Lefloch. But the man of law was not surprised. He knew in advance that the first victory would be easily won, and that the real difficulty would be to induce the prisoner to confess the name of his principal. Without giving him, therefore time to recover, he said,--
“Now, what reasons had you for persecuting M. Champcey in this way?”
The accused rose again; and, making an effort, he said slowly,--
“I hated him. Once during the voyage he had threatened to have me put in irons.”
“The man lies!” said Daniel.
“Do you hear?” asked the lawyer. “So you will not tell the truth? Well, I will tell it for you. They had hired you to kill Lieut. Champcey, and you wanted to earn your money. You got a certain sum of money in advance; and you were to receive a larger sum after his death.”
“I swear”--
“Don’t swear! The sum in your possession, which you cannot account for, is positive proof of what I say.”
“Alas! I possess nothing. You may inquire. You may order a search.”
Under the impassive mask of the lawyer, a certain degree of excitement could at this moment be easily discerned. The time had come to strike a decisive blow, and to judge of the value of his system of induction. Instead, therefore, of replying to the prisoner, he turned to the gendarmes who were present and said to them,--
“Take the prisoner into the next room. Strip him, and examine all his clothes carefully: see to it that there is nothing hid in the lining.”
The gendarmes advanced to seize the prisoner, when he suddenly jumped up, and said in a tone of ill-constrained rage,--
“No need for that! I have three one thousand-franc-notes sewn into the lining of my trousers.”
This time the pride of success got completely the better of the imperturbable coldness of the magistrate. He uttered a low cry of satisfaction, and could not refrain from casting a look of triumph at Daniel and the doctor, which said clearly,--
“Well? What did I tell you?”
It was for a second only; the next instant his features resumed their icy immobility; and, turning to the accused, he said in a tone of command,--
“Hand me the notes!”
Crochard did not stir; but his livid countenance betrayed the fierce suffering he endured. Certainly, at this moment, he did not play a part. To take from him his three thousand francs, the price of the meanest and most execrable crime; the three thousand francs for the sake of which he had risked the scaffold,--this was like tearing his entrails from him.
Like an enraged brute who sees that the enemy is all-powerful, he gathered all his strength, and, with a furious look, glanced around the room to see if he could escape anywhere, asking himself, perhaps, upon which of the men he ought to throw himself for the purpose.
“The notes!” repeated the inexorable lawyer. “Must I order force to be used?”
Convinced of the uselessness of resistance, and of the folly of any attempt at escape, the wretch hung his head.
“But I cannot undo the seams of my trousers with my nails,” he said. “Let them give me a knife or a pair of scissors.”
They were careful not to do so. But, at a sign given by the magistrate, one of the gendarmes approached, and, drawing a penknife from his pocket, ripped the seam at the place which the prisoner pointed out. A genuine convulsion of rage seized the assassin, when a little paper parcel appeared, folded up, and compressed to the smallest possible size. By a very curious phenomenon, which is, however, quite frequently observed in criminals, he was far more concerned about his money than about his life, which was in such imminent danger.
“That is my money!” he raged. “No one has a right to take it from me. It is infamous to ill use a man who has been unfortunate, and to rob him.”
The magistrate, no doubt quite accustomed to such scenes, did not even listen to Crochard, but carefully opened the packet. It contained three notes of a thousand francs each, wrapped up in a sheet of letter-paper, which was all greasy, and worn out in the folds. The bank-notes had nothing peculiar; but on the sheet of paper, traces could be made out of lines of writing; and at least two words were distinctly legible,--_University_ and _Street_.
“What paper is this, Crochard?” asked the lawyer.
“I don’t know. I suppose I picked it up somewhere.”
“What? Are you going to lie again? What is the use? Here is evidently the address of some one who lives in University Street.”
Daniel was trembling on his bed.
“Ah, sir!” he exclaimed, “I used to live in University Street, Paris.”
A slight blush passed over the lawyer’s face, a sign of unequivocal satisfaction in him. He uttered half loud, as if replying to certain objections in his own mind,--
“Everything is becoming clear.”
And yet, to the great surprise of his listeners, he abandoned this point; and, returning to the prisoner, he asked him,--
“So you acknowledge having received money for the murder of Lieut. Champcey?”
“I never said so.”
“No; but the three thousand francs found concealed on your person say so very clearly. From whom did you receive this money?”
“From nobody. They are my savings.”
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders; and, looking very sternly at Crochard, he said,--
“I have before compelled you to make a certain confession. I mean to do so again and again. You will gain nothing, believe me, by struggling against justice; and you cannot save the wretches who tempted you to commit this crime. There is only one way left to you, if you wish for mercy; and that is frankness. Do not forget that!”
The assassin was, perhaps, better able to appreciate the importance of such advice than anybody else there present. Still he remained silent for more than a minute, shaken by a kind of nervous tremor, as if a terrible struggle was going on in his heart. He was heard to mutter,--
“I do not denounce anybody. A bargain is a bargain. I am not a tell- tale.”
Then, all of a sudden, making up his mind, and showing himself just the man the magistrate had expected to find, he said with a cynic laugh,--
“Upon my word, so much the worse for them! Since I am in the trap, let the others be caught as well! Besides, who would have gotten the big prize, if I had succeeded? Not I, most assuredly; and yet it was I who risked most. Well, then, the man who hired me to ‘do the lieutenant’s business’ is a certain Justin Chevassat.”
The most intense disappointment seized both Daniel and the surgeon. This was not the name they had been looking for with such deep anxiety.
“Don’t you deceive me, Crochard?” asked the lawyer, who alone had been able to conceal all he felt.
“You may take my head if I lie!”
Did he tell the truth? The lawyer thought he did; for, turning to Daniel, he asked,--
“Do you know anybody by the name of Chevassat, M. Champcey?”
“No. It is the first time in my life I hear that name.”
“Perhaps that Chevassat was only an agent,” suggested the doctor.
“Yes, that may be,” replied the lawyer; “although, in such matters, people generally do their own work.”
And, continuing his examination, he asked the accused,--
“Who is this Justin Chevassat?”
“One of my friends.”
“A friend richer than yourself, I should think?”
“As to that--why, yes; since he has always plenty of money in his pockets, dresses in the last fashion, and drives his carriage.”
“What is he doing? What is his profession?”
“Ah! as to that, I know nothing about it. I never asked him, and he never told me. I once said to him, ‘Do you know you look like a prodigiously lucky fellow?’ And he replied, ‘Oh, not as much so as you think;’ but that is all.”
“Where does he live?”
“In Paris, Rue Louis, 39.”
“Do you write to him there? For I dare say you have written to him since you have been in Saigon.”
“I send my letters to M. X. O. X. 88.”
It became evident now, that, so far from endeavoring to save his accomplices, Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, would do all he could to aid justice in discovering them. He began to show the system which the wretch was about to adopt,--to throw all the responsibility and all the odium of the crime on the man who had hired him, and to appear the poor devil, succumbing to destitution when he was tempted and dazzled by such magnificent promises, that he had not the strength to resist. The lawyer continued,--
“Where and how did you make the acquaintance of this Justin Chevassat?”
“I made his acquaintance at the galleys.”
“Ah! that is becoming interesting. And do you know for what crime he had been condemned?”
“For forgery, I believe, and also for theft.”
“And what was he doing before he was condemned?”
“He was employed by a banker, or perhaps as cashier in some large establishment. At all events, he had money to handle; and it stuck to his fingers.”
“I am surprised, as you are so well informed with regard to this man’s antecedents, that you should know nothing of his present means of existence.”
“He has money, plenty of money; that is all I know.”
“Have you lost sight of him?”
“Why, yes. Chevassat was set free long before I was. I believe he was pardoned; and I had not met him for more than fifteen years.”
“How did you find him again?”
“Oh! by the merest chance, and a very bad chance for me; since, but for him, I would not be here.”
XXVI.
Never would a stranger who should have suddenly come into Daniel’s chamber, upon seeing Crochard’s attitude, have imagined that the wretch was accused of a capital crime, and was standing there before a magistrate, in presence of the man whom he had tried three times to assassinate.
Quite at home in the law, as far as it was studied at the galleys, he had instantly recognized that his situation was by no means so desperate as he had at first supposed; that, if the jury rendered a verdict of guilty of death, it would be against the instigator of the crime, and that he would probably get off with a few years’ penal servitude.
Hence he had made up his mind about his situation with that almost bestial indifference which characterizes people who are ready for everything, and prepared for everything. He had recovered from that stupor which the discovery of his crime had produced in him, and from the rage in which he had been thrown by the loss of his bank-notes. Now there appeared, under the odious personage of the murderer, the pretentious and ridiculous orator of the streets and prisons, who is accustomed to make himself heard, and displays his eloquence with great pride.
He assumed a studied position; and it was evident that he was preparing himself for his speech, although, afterwards, a good many words escaped him which are found in no dictionary, but belong to the jargon of the lowest classes, and serve to express the vilest sentiments.
“It was,” he began, “a Friday, an unlucky day,--a week, about, before ‘The Conquest’ sailed. It might have been two o’clock. I had eaten nothing; I had not a cent in my pockets and I was walking along the boulevards, loafing, and thinking how I could procure some money.
“I had crossed several streets, when a carriage stopped close to me; and I saw a very fine gentleman step out, a cigar in his mouth, a gold chain across his waistcoat, and a flower in his buttonhole. He entered a glove-shop.
“At once I said to myself, ‘Curious! I have seen that head somewhere.’
“Thereupon, I go to work, and remain fixed to the front of the shop, a little at the side, though, you know, at a place where, without being seen myself, I could very well watch my individual, who laughed and talked, showing his white teeth, while a pretty girl was trying on a pair of gloves. The more I looked at him, the more I thought, ‘Positively, Bagnolet, although that sweet soul don’t look as if he were a member of your society, you know him.’
“However, as I could not put a name to that figure, I was going on my way, when suddenly my memory came back to me, and I said, ‘_Cretonne_, it is an old comrade. I shall get my dinner.’
“After all, I was not positively sure; because why? Fifteen years make a difference in a man, especially when he does not particularly care to be recognized. But I had a little way of my own to make the thing sure.
“I waited, therefore, for my man; and, at the moment when he crossed the sidewalk to get into his carriage, I stepped up, and cried out, though not very loud, ‘Eh, Chevassat!’
“The scamp! They might have fired a cannon at his ear, and he would not have jumped as he did when I spoke to him. And white he was,--as white as his collar. But, nevertheless, he was not without his compass, the screw. He puts up his eyeglass, and looks at me up and down; and then he says in his finest manner, ‘What is it, my good fellow? Do you want to speak to me?’
“Thereupon, quite sure of my business now, I say, ‘Yes, to you, Justin Chevassat. Don’t you recall me? Evariste Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet; eh? Do you recollect now?’ However, the gentleman continued to hold his head high, and to look at me. At last he says, ‘_If_ you do not clear out, I will call a policeman.’ Well, the mustard got into my nose, and I began to cry, to annoy him, so as to collect a crowd,--
“‘What, what! Policemen, just call them, please do! They will take us before a magistrate. If I am mistaken, they won’t hang me; but, if I am not mistaken, they will laugh prodigiously. What have I to risk? Nothing at all; for I have nothing.’
“I must tell you, that, while I said all this, I looked at him fixedly with the air of a man who has nothing in his stomach, and who is bent upon putting something into it. He also looked at me fixedly; and, if his eyes had been pistols--but they were not. And, when he saw I was determined, the fine gentleman softened down.
“‘Make no noise,’ he whispered, looking with a frightened air at all the idlers who commenced to crowd around us. And pretending to laugh very merrily,--for the benefit of the spectators, you know,--he said, speaking very low and very rapidly,--
“‘In the costume that you have on, I cannot ask you to get into my carriage; that would only compromise us both uselessly. I shall send my coachman back, and walk home. You can follow quietly; and, when we get into a quiet street, we will take a cab, and talk.’
“As I was sure I could catch him again, if he should try to escape, I approved the idea. ‘All right. I understand.’”
The magistrate suddenly interrupted the accused. He thought it of great importance that Crochard’s evidence should be written down, word for word; and he saw, that, for some little while, the clerk had been unable to follow.
“Rest a moment, Crochard,” he said.
And when the clerk had filled up what was wanting, and the magistrate had looked it over, he said to the prisoner,--
“Now you can go on, but speak more slowly.”
The wretch smiled, well pleased. This permission gave him more time to select his words, and this flattered his vanity; for even the lowest of these criminals have their weak point, in which their vanity is engaged.