The magistrate who was now approaching the Chalusse mansion in the
concierge’s company, exemplified in a remarkable manner all the ideas
that are awakened in one’s mind by the grand yet simple title of
“Justice of the Peace.” He was the very person you would like to think
of as the family magistrate; as the promoter of friendly feeling; as the
guardian of the rights of the absent, the young, and the weak; as the
just arbiter in unfortunate differences between those who are closely
related; a sage of wide experience and boundless benevolence; a judge
whose paternal justice dispenses with all pomp and display, and who
is allowed by French statutes to hold his court by his own fireside,
providing the doors stand open. He was considerably over fifty,
tall, and very thin, with bent shoulders. His clothes were rather
old-fashioned in cut, but by no means ridiculous. The expression of his
face was gentleness itself; but it would not have done to presume upon
this gentleness, for his glance was keen and piercing--like the glance
of all who are expert in diving into consciences, and discovering the
secrets hidden there. Moreover, like all men who are accustomed to
deliberate in public, his features were expressionless. He could see and
hear everything, suspect and understand everything, without letting a
muscle of his face move. And yet the habitues of his audience-chamber,
and his clerks, pretended that they could always detect the nature of
his impressions. A ring which he wore upon one of his fingers served
as a barometer for those who knew him. If a difficult case, or one that
embarrassed his conscience, presented itself, his eyes fixed themselves
obstinately upon this ring. If he were satisfied that everything was
right, he looked up again, and began playing with the ring, slipping it
up and down between the first and second joint of his finger; but if he
were displeased, he abruptly turned the bezel inside.
In appearance, he was sufficiently imposing to intimidate even M.
Casimir. The proud valet bowed low as the magistrate approached, and
with his heart in his mouth, and in an obsequious voice he said: “It was
I who took the liberty of sending for you, monsieur.”
“Ah!” said the magistrate, who already knew as much about the Hotel
de Chalusse, and the events of the past twelve hours, as M. Casimir
himself; for on his way to the house, he had turned Bourigeau inside out
like a glove, by means of a dozen gentle questions.
“If monsieur wishes I will explain,” resumed M. Casimir.
“Nothing! It is quite unnecessary. Usher us in.”
This “us” astonished the valet; but before they reached the house it
was explained to him. He discovered a man of flourishing and even jovial
mien who was walking along in the magistrate’s shadow carrying a large
black portfolio under his arm. This was evidently the clerk. He seemed
to be as pleased with his employment as he was with himself; and as
he followed M. Casimir, he examined the adornments of the mansion, the
mosaics in the vestibule, the statuary and the frescoed walls with an
appraiser’s eye. Perhaps he was calculating how many years’ salary it
would require to pay for the decorating of this one staircase.
On the threshold of the death room the magistrate paused. There had been
some change during M. Casimir’s absence. The doctor had left. The bed
had been rearranged, and several candles were burning on a table covered
with a white cloth. Madame Leon had gone to her own room, accompanied by
two servants, to fetch a vessel of holy water and a branch of withered
palm. She was now engaged in repeating the prayers for the dead, pausing
from time to time to dip the palm branch in the holy water, and sprinkle
the bed. Both windows had been opened in spite of the cold. On the
marble hearth stood a chafing-dish full of embers from which rose spiral
rings of smoke, filling the room with a pungent odor as a servant poured
some vinegar and sugar on to the coals.
As the magistrate appeared, every one rose up. Then, after bestowing
prolonged scrutiny upon the room and its occupants, he respectfully
removed his hat, and walked in. “Why are so many people here?” he
inquired.
“I suggested that they should remain,” replied M. Casimir, “because--”
“You are--suspicious,” interrupted the magistrate.
His clerk had already drawn a pen and some paper from his portfolio, and
was engaged in reading the decision, rendered by the magistrate at the
request of one Bourigeau, and in virtue of which, seals were about to
be affixed to the deceased nobleman’s personal effects. Since the
magistrate had entered the room, his eyes had not once wandered from
Mademoiselle Marguerite, who was standing near the fireplace, looking
pale but composed. At last he approached her, and in a tone of deep
sympathy: “Are you Mademoiselle Marguerite?” he asked.
She raised her clear eyes, rendered more beautiful than ever, by the
tears that trembled on her lashes, and in a faltering voice, replied:
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Are you a relative? Are you connected in any way with the Count de
Chalusse? Have you any right to his property?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Excuse me, mademoiselle, but these questions are indispensable. Who
intrusted you to the care of M. de Chalusse, and by what right? Was it
your father or your mother?”
“I have neither father nor mother, monsieur. I am alone in the
world--utterly alone.”
The magistrate glanced keenly round the room. “Ah! I understand,” said
he, at last; “advantage has been taken of your isolation to treat you
with disrespect, to insult you, perhaps.”
Every head drooped, and M. Casimir bitterly regretted that he had not
remained below in the courtyard. Mademoiselle Marguerite looked at the
magistrate in astonishment, for she was amazed by his penetration. She
was ignorant of his conversation with Bourigeau on the road, and did not
know that through the concierge’s ridiculous statements and accusations,
the magistrate had succeeded in discovering at least a portion of the
truth.
“I shall have the honor of asking for a few moments’ conversation with
you presently, mademoiselle,” he said. “But first, one question. I am
told that the Count de Chalusse entertained a very lively affection for
you. Are you sure that he has not taken care to provide for your future?
Are you sure that he has not left a will?”
The girl shook her head. “He made one in my favor some time ago,” she
replied. “I saw it; he gave it to me to read; but it was destroyed a
fortnight after my arrival here, and in compliance with my request.”
Madame Leon had hitherto been dumb with fear, but, conquering
her weakness, she now decided to draw near and take part in the
conversation. “How can you say that, my dear young lady?” she exclaimed.
“You know that the count--God rest his soul!--was an extremely cautious
man. I am certain that there is a will somewhere.”
The magistrate’s eyes were fixed on his ring. “It would be well to look,
perhaps, before affixing the seals. You have a right to require this;
so, if you wish----”
But she made no reply.
“Oh, yes!” insisted Madame Leon; “pray look, monsieur.”
“But where should we be likely to find a will?”
“Certainly in this room--in this escritoire, or in one of the deceased
count’s cabinets.”
The magistrate had learnt the story of the key from Bourigeau, but all
the same he asked: “Where is the key to this escritoire?”
“Alas! monsieur,” replied Mademoiselle Marguerite, “I broke it last
night when M. de Chalusse was brought home unconscious. I hoped to avert
what has, nevertheless, happened. Besides, I knew that his escritoire
contained something over two millions in gold and bank-notes.”
Two millions--there! The occupants of the room stood aghast. Even
the clerk was so startled that he let a blot fall upon his paper. Two
millions! The magistrate was evidently reflecting. “Hum!” he murmured,
meditatively. Then, as if deciding on his course, he exclaimed:
“Let a locksmith be sent for.”
A servant went in search of one; and while they were waiting for his
return, the magistrate sat down beside his clerk and talked to him in a
low voice. At last the locksmith appeared, with his bag of tools
hanging over his shoulder, and set to work at once. He found his task
a difficult one. His pick-locks would not catch, and he was talking of
filing the bolt, when, by chance, he found the joint, and the door flew
open. But the escritoire was empty. There were only a few papers, and a
bottle about three-quarters full of a crimson liquid on the shelf. Had
M. de Chalusse rose and shook off his winding sheet, the consternation
would not have been greater. The same instinctive fear thrilled the
hearts of everybody present. An enormous fortune had disappeared. The
same suspicions would rest upon them all. And each servant already saw
himself arrested, imprisoned, and dragged before a law court.
However, anger speedily followed bewilderment, and a furious clamor
arose. “A robbery has been committed!” cried the servants, in concert.
“Mademoiselle had the key. It is wrong to suspect the innocent!”
Revolting as this exhibition was, it did not modify the magistrate’s
calmness. He had witnessed too many such scenes in the course of
his career, and, at least, a score of times he had been compelled to
interpose between children who had come to blows over their inheritance
before their father’s body was even cold. “Silence!” he commanded
sternly. And as the tumult did not cease, as the servants continued
to cry, “The thief must be found. We shall have no difficulty in
discovering the culprit,” the magistrate exclaimed, still more
imperiously: “Another word, and you all leave the room.”
They were silenced; but there was a mute eloquence about their looks and
gestures which it was impossible to misunderstand. Every eye was fixed
upon Mademoiselle Marguerite with an almost ferocious expression. She
knew it only too well; but, sublime in her energy, she stood, with her
head proudly erect, facing the storm, and disdaining to answer these
vile imputations. However she had a protector near by--the magistrate in
person. “If this treasure has been diverted from the inheritance,” said
he, “the thief will be discovered and punished. But I wish to have one
point explained--who said that Mademoiselle Marguerite had the key of
the escritoire?”
“I did,” replied a footman. “I was in the dining-room yesterday morning
when the count gave it to her.”
“For what purpose did he give it to her?”
“That she might obtain this vial--I recognized it at once. She brought
it down to him.”
“Did she return the key?”
“Yes; she gave it to him when she handed him the vial, and I saw him put
it in his pocket.”
The magistrate pointed to the bottle which was standing on the shelf.
“Then the count himself must have put the vial back in its place,” said
he. “Further comment is unnecessary; for, if the money had then been
missing, he could not have failed to discover the fact.” No one had
any reply to make to this quiet defence, which was, at the same time,
a complete vindication. “And, besides,” continued the magistrate, “who
told you that this immense sum would be found here? Did you know it?
Which one of you knew it?” And as nobody still ventured any remark,
he added in an even more severe tone, and without seeming to notice
Mademoiselle Marguerite’s look of gratitude, “It is by no means a proof
of honesty to be so extremely suspicious. Would it not have been easier
to suppose that the deceased had placed the money somewhere else, and
that it will yet be found?”
The clerk had been even less disturbed than the magistrate. He also was
blase, having witnessed too many of those frightful and shameless dramas
which are enacted at a dead man’s bedside, to be surprised at anything.
If he had deigned to glance at the escritoire, it was only because
he was curious to see how small a space would suffice to contain two
millions; and then he had begun to calculate how many years he would
be obliged to remain a clerk before he could succeed in amassing such
a fabulous sum. However, hearing his superior express the intention
of continuing the search for the will, and the missing treasure, he
abruptly abandoned his calculation, and exclaimed, “Then, I suppose, I
can commence my report, monsieur?”
“Yes,” replied the magistrate, “write as follows:” And in a monotonous
voice he began to dictate the prescribed formula, an unnecessary
proceeding, for the clerk was quite as familiar with it as the
magistrate himself:--“On the 16th of October, 186-, at nine o’clock
in the morning, in compliance with the request of the servants of the
deceased Louis-Henri-Raymond de Durtal, Count de Chalusse, and in the
interest of his presumptive heirs, and all others connected with him,
and in accordance with the requirements of clauses 819 (Code Napoleon)
and 909 (Code of Procedure), we, justice of the peace, accompanied by
our clerk, visited the residence of the deceased aforesaid, in the
Rue de Courcelles, where, having entered a bedroom opening on to the
courtyard, and lighted by two windows looking toward the south, we found
the body of the deceased aforesaid, lying on his bed, and covered with a
sheet. In this room were----” He paused in his dictation, and addressing
the clerk, “Take down the names of all present,” said he. “That will
require some little time, and, meanwhile, I will continue my search.”
They had, in fact, only examined the shelf of the escritoire, and the
drawers were still to be inspected. In the first which he opened, the
magistrate found ample proofs of the accuracy of the information which
had been furnished him by Mademoiselle Marguerite. The drawer contained
a memorandum which established the fact that the Credit Foncier had lent
M. de Chalusse the sum of eight hundred and fifty thousand francs, which
had been remitted to him on the Saturday preceding his death. Beside
this document lay a second memorandum, signed by a stockbroker named
Pell, setting forth that the latter had sold for the count securities of
various descriptions to the amount of fourteen hundred and twenty-three
thousand francs, which sum had been paid to the count on the preceding
Tuesday, partly in bank-notes and partly in gold. It was thus evident
that M. de Chalusse had received a grand total of two million two
hundred and seventy-three thousand francs within the past six days.
In the drawer which was next opened, the magistrate only found a number
of deeds, bonds, leases, and mortgages; but they proved that public
rumor, far from exaggerating the figures of the count’s fortune,
had diminished it, and this made it difficult to explain why he had
contracted a loan. The third and last drawer contained twenty-eight
thousand francs, in packages of twenty-franc pieces. Finally, in a small
casket, the magistrate found a packet of letters, yellow with age and
bound together with a broad piece of blue velvet; as well as three or
four withered bouquets, and a woman’s glove, which had been worn by a
hand of marvellous smallness. These were evidently the relics of some
great passion of many years before; and the magistrate looked at them
for a moment with a sigh.
His own interest prevented him from noticing Mademoiselle Marguerite’s
agitation. She had almost fainted on perceiving these souvenirs of the
count’s past life so suddenly exhumed. However, the examination of
the escritoire being over, and the clerk having completed his task of
recording the names of all the servants, the magistrate said, in a loud
voice, “I shall now proceed to affix the seals; but, before doing so, I
shall take a portion of the money found in this desk, and set it apart
for the expenses of the household, in accordance with the law. Who will
take charge of this money?”
“Oh, not I!” exclaimed Madame Leon.
“I will take charge of it,” said M. Casimir.
“Then here are eight thousand francs, for which you will be held
accountable.”
M. Casimir being a prudent man, counted the money himself, and after
doing so, “Who will attend to the count’s obsequies?” he inquired.
“You, and without loss of time.”
Proud of his new importance, the valet hastily left the room, his
self-complacency increased by the thought that he was to breakfast with
M. Isidore Fortunat, and would afterward share a fat commission with
Victor Chupin.
However, the magistrate had already resumed his dictation: “And at this
moment we have affixed bands of white tape, sealed at either end with
red wax, bearing the impress of our seal as justice of the peace, to
wit: In the aforesaid chamber of the deceased: First, A band of tape,
covering the keyhole of the lock of the escritoire, which had been
previously opened by a locksmith summoned by us, and closed again by the
said locksmith----” And so the magistrate and his clerk went from
one piece of furniture to another, duly specifying in the report each
instance in which the seals were affixed.
From the count’s bedroom they passed into his study, followed by
Mademoiselle Marguerite, Madame Leon, and the servants. By noon every
article of furniture in which M. de Chalusse would have been likely
to deposit his valuables or a will, had been searched, and nothing,
absolutely nothing, had been found. The magistrate had pursued his
investigation with the feverish energy which the most self-possessed
of men are apt to display under such circumstances, especially when
influenced by the conviction that the object they are seeking is
somewhere within their reach, perhaps under their very hand. Indeed, he
was persuaded--he was sure--he would, in fact, have sworn that the Count
de Chalusse had taken all the precautions natural in childless men,
who have no near relatives to inherit their fortune, or who have placed
their interest and affections beyond their family circle. And when he
was obliged to abandon his search, his gesture indicated anger rather
than discouragement; for apparent evidence had not shaken his conviction
in the least. So he stood motionless, with his eyes riveted on his ring,
as if waiting some miraculous inspiration from it. “For the count’s
only fault, I am sure, was in being too cautious,” he muttered. “This is
frequently the case, and it would be quite in keeping with the character
of this man, judging from what I know of him.”
Madame Leon lifted her hands to heaven. “Ah, yes! such was, indeed, his
nature,” she remarked, approvingly. “Never, no never, have I seen such
a suspicious and distrustful person as he was. Not in reference to
money--no, indeed--for he left that lying about everywhere; but about
his papers. He locked them up with the greatest care, as if he feared
that some terrible secret might evaporate from them. It was a mania with
him. If he had a letter to write, he barricaded his door, as if he were
about to commit some horrible crime. More than once have I seen him----”
The words died away on her lips, and she remained motionless and
abashed, like a person who has just escaped some great peril. One
word more, and involuntarily, without even knowing it, she would
have confessed her besetting sin, which was listening at, and peering
through, the keyholes of the doors that were closed against her. Still,
she deluded herself with the belief that this slight indiscretion of her
overready tongue had escaped the magistrate’s notice.
He certainly did not seem to be conscious of it, for he was giving
his attention entirely to Mademoiselle Marguerite, who seemed to have
regained the cold reserve and melancholy resignation habitual to her.
“You see, mademoiselle,” he remarked, “that I have done all that is
in my power to do. We must now leave the search to chance, and to the
person who takes the inventory. Who knows what surprise may be in store
for us in this immense house, of which we have only explored three
rooms?”
She shook her head gently and replied: “I can never be sufficiently
grateful for your kindness, monsieur, and for the great service you
rendered me in crushing that infamous accusation. As regards the rest, I
have never expected anything--I do not expect anything now.”
She believed what she said, and her tone of voice proved this so
unmistakably that the magistrate was surprised and somewhat disturbed.
“Come, come, my young lady,” he said, with almost paternal kindness of
manner, “you ought not to despond. Still, you must have certain reasons
for speaking as you do; and as I am free for an hour, we are going to
have a plain talk, as if we were father and daughter.”
On hearing these words, the clerk rose with a cloud on his jovial
face. He impatiently jingled his bunch of keys; for as the seals are
successively affixed, each key is confided to the clerk, to remain in
his hands until the seals are removed.
“I understand,” said the magistrate. “Your stomach, which is more
exacting in its demands than mine, is not satisfied with a cup of
chocolate till dinner-time. So, go and get your lunch; on your return,
you will find me here. You may now conclude the report, and request
these parties to sign it.”
Urged on by hunger, the clerk hastily mumbled over the remainder of the
formula, called all the names that he had inserted in the report, and
each of the servants advanced in turn, signed his or her name, or made
a cross, and then retired. Madame Leon read in the judge’s face that she
also was expected to withdraw; and she was reluctantly leaving the room,
when Mademoiselle Marguerite detained her to ask: “Are you quite sure
that nothing has come for me to-day?”
“Nothing, mademoiselle; I went in person to inquire of the concierge.”
“Did you post my letter last night?”
“Oh! my dear young lady, can you doubt it?”
The young girl stifled a sigh, and then, with a gesture of dismissal,
she remarked, “M. de Fondege must be sent for.”
“The General?”
“Yes.”
“I will send for him at once,” replied the housekeeper; and thereupon
she left the room, closing the door behind her with a vicious slam.