As it was a part that he played, Florentin said to himself that he would
play it to the best of his ability in entering the skin of the person he
wished to be, and this part was that of a witness.
He had been Caffie’s clerk; the justice would interrogate him about his
old employer, and nothing would be more natural. It was that only, and
nothing but that, which he could admit; consequently, he should interest
himself in the police investigations, and have the curiosity to learn
how they stood.
“Have you advanced far in the Caffie affair?” he asked the agent as they
walked along.
“I do not know,” the agent answered, who thought it prudent to be
reserved. “I know nothing more than the newspapers tell.”
On leaving his mother’s house, Florentin observed on the other side
of the street a man who appeared to be stationed there; at the end of
several minutes, on turning a corner, he saw that this man followed them
at a certain distance. Then it was not a simple appearance before the
judge, for such precautions are not taken with a witness.
When they reached the Place Clichy, the agent asked him if he would take
a carriage, but he declined. What good was it? It was a useless expense.
Then he saw the agent raise his hat, as if bowing to some one, but this
bow was certainly not made to any one; and immediately, the man who had
followed them approached. The raising of the hat was a signal. As from
the deserted quarters of the Batignolles they entered the crowd, they
feared he might try to escape. The character of the arrest became
accentuated.
After the presentiments and fears that had tormented him during the
last few days this did not astonish him, but since they took these
precautions with him, all was not yet decided. He must, then, defend
himself to the utmost. Distracted before the danger came, he felt less
weak now that he was in it.
On arriving at the Palais de justice he was introduced immediately
into the judge’s office. But he did not attend to him at once; he was
questioning a woman, and Florentin examined him by stealth. He saw a man
of elegant and easy figure, still young, with nothing solemn or imposing
about him, having more the air of a boulevardier or of a sportsman than
of a magistrate.
While continuing his questioning, he also examined Florentin, but with
a rapid glance, without persistence, carelessly, and simply because his
eyes fell upon him. Before a table a clerk was writing, and near the
door two policemen waited, with the weary, empty faces of men whose
minds are elsewhere.
Soon the judge turned his head toward them.
“You may take away the accused.”
Then, immediately addressing Florentin, he asked him his name, his
Christian names, and his residence.
“You have been the clerk of the agent of affairs, Caffie. Why did you
leave him?”
“Because my work was too heavy.”
“You are afraid of work?”
“No, when it is not too hard; it was at his office, and left me no time
to work for myself. I was obliged to reach his office at eight o’clock
in the morning, breakfast there, and did not leave until seven to dine
with my mother at the Batignolles. I had an hour and a half for that;
at half-past eight I had to return, and stay until ten or half-past. In
accepting this position I believed that I should be able to finish my
education, interrupted by the death of my father, and to study law and
become something better than a miserable clerk of a business man. It was
impossible with Monsieur Caffie, so I left him, and this was the only
reason why we separated.”
“Where have you been since?”
This was a delicate question, and one that Florentin dreaded, for it
might raise prejudices that nothing would destroy. However, he must
reply, for what he would not tell himself others would reveal; an
investigation on this point was too easy.
“With another business man, Monsieur Savoureux, Rue de la Victoire,
where I was not obliged to work in the evening. I stayed there about
three months, and then went to America.”
“Why?”
“Because, when I began to study seriously, I found that my studies
had been neglected too long to make it possible for me to take them
up again. I had forgotten nearly all I had learned. I should, without
doubt, fail in my examination, and I should only begin the law too late.
I left France for America, where I hoped to find a good situation.”
“How long since your return?”
“Three weeks.”
“And you went to see Caffie?”
“Yes.”
“What for?”
“To ask him for a recommendation to replace the one he gave me, which I
had lost.”
“It was the day of the crime?”
“Yes.”
“At what time?”
“I reached his house about a quarter to three, and I left about
half-past three.”
“Did he give you the certificate for which you asked?”
“Yes; here it is.”
And, taking it from his pocket, he presented it to the judge. It was
a paper saying that, during the time that M. Florentin Cormier was his
clerk, Caffie was entirely satisfied with him; with his work, as with
his accuracy and probity.
“And you did not return to him during the evening?” the judge asked.
“Why should I return? I had obtained what I desired.”
“Well, did you or did you not return?”
“I did not return to him.”
“Do you remember what you did on leaving Caffie’s house?”
If Florentin had indulged in the smallest illusion about his appearance
before the judge, the manner of conducting the interview would have
destroyed it. It was not a witness who was being questioned, it was a
culprit. He had not to enlighten the justice, he had to defend himself.
“Perfectly,” he said. “It is not so long ago. On leaving the Rue
Sainte-Anne, as I had nothing to do, I went down to the quays, and
looked at the old books from the Pont Royale to the Institute; but at
this moment a heavy shower came on, and I returned to the Batignolles,
where I remained with my mother.”
“What time was it when you reached your mother’s house?”
“A few minutes after five.”
“Can you not say exactly?”
“About a quarter past five, a few minutes more or less.”
“And you did not go out again?”
“No.”
“Did any one call at your mother’s after you arrived there?”
“No one. My sister came in at seven o’clock, as usual, when she returned
from her lesson.”
“Before you went up to your rooms did you speak with any of the other
lodgers?”
“No.”
There was a pause, and Florentin felt the judge’s eyes fixed on him with
an aggravating persistency. It seemed as if this look, which enveloped
him from head to foot, wished to penetrate his inmost thoughts.
“Another thing,” said the judge. “You did not lose a trousers’ button
while you were with Caffie?”
Florentin expected this question, and for some time he had considered
what answer he should make to it. To deny was impossible. It would be
easy to convict him of a fib, for the fact of the question being asked
was sufficient to say there was proof that the button was his. He must,
then, confess the truth, grave as it might be.
“Yes,” he said, “and this is how--”
He related in detail the story of the bundle of papers placed on the
highest shelf of the cases, his slipping on the ladder, and the loss of
the button, which he did not discover until he was in the street.
The judge opened a drawer and took from it a small box, from which he
took a button that he handed to Florentin.
“Is that it?” he asked.
Florentin looked at it.
“It is difficult for me to answer,” he said, finally; “one button
resembles another.”
“Not always.”
“In that case, it would be necessary for me to have observed the form
of the one I lost, and I gave no attention to it. It seems to me that no
one knows exactly how, or of what, the buttons are made that they wear.”
The judge examined him anew.
“But are not the trousers that you wear to-day the same from which this
button was torn?”
“It is the pair I wore the day I called on Monsieur Caffie.”
“Then it is quite easy to compare the button that I show you with those
on your trousers, and your answer becomes easy.”
It was impossible to escape this verification.
“Unbutton your vest,” said the judge, “and make your comparison with
care--with all the care that you think wise. The question has some
importance.”
Florentin felt it only too much, the importance of this question, but as
it was set before him, he could not but answer frankly.
He unbuttoned his waistcoat, and compared the button with his.
“I believe that it is really the button that I lost,” he said.
Although he endeavored not to betray his anguish, he felt that his voice
trembled, and that it had a hoarse sound. Then he wished to explain this
emotion.
“This is a truly terrible position for me,” he said.
The judge did not reply.
“But because I lost a button at Monsieur Caffie’s, it does not follow
that it was torn off in a struggle.”
“You have your theory, and you will make the most of it, but this is not
the place. I have only one more question to ask: By what button have you
replaced the one you lost?”
“By the first one I came across.”
“Who sewed it on?”
“I did.”
“Are you in the habit of sewing on your buttons yourself?”
Although the judge did not press this question by his tone, nor by the
form in which he made it, Florentin saw the strength of the accusation
that his reply would make against him.
“Sometimes,” he said.
“And yet, on returning home, you found your mother, you told me. Was
there any reason why she could not sew this button on for you?”
“I did not ask her to do it.”
“But when she saw you sewing it, did she not take the needle from your
hands?”
“She did not see me.”
“Why?”
“She was occupied preparing our dinner.”
“That is sufficient.”
“I was in the entry of our apartment, where I have slept since my
return; my mother was in the kitchen.”
“Is there no communication between the kitchen and the entry?”
“The door was closed.”
A flood of words rushed to his lips, to protest against the conclusions
which seemed to follow these answers, but he kept them back. He saw
himself caught in a net, and all his efforts to free himself only bound
him more strongly.
As he was asked no more questions it seemed to him best to say nothing,
and he was silent a long time, of the duration of which he was only
vaguely conscious.
The judge talked in a low tone, the recorder wrote rapidly, and he heard
only a monotonous murmur that interrupted the scratching of a pen on the
paper.
“Your testimony will now be read to you,” the judge said.
He wished to give all his attention to this reading, but he soon lost
the thread of it. The impression it made upon him, however, was that it
faithfully reproduced all that he had said, and he signed it.
“Now,” said the judge, “my duty obliges me, in presence of the charges
which emanate from your testimony, to deliver against you a ‘manda
depot’.”
Florentin received this blow without flinching.
“I know,” he said, “that all the protestations I might make would have
no effect at this moment; I therefore spare you them. But I have a favor
to ask of you; it is to permit me to write to my mother and sister the
news of my arrest--they love me tenderly. Oh, you shall read my letter!”
“You may, sir.”