I put down in haste and with an agitated pen the terrible events of
which I have been the plaything for the last few days. This time it
is all up with the Territorial and with my ambitious dreams. Disputed
bills, men in possession, visits of the police, all our books in the
hands of the courts, the governor fled, Bois l’Hery, the director, in
prison, another--Monpavon--disappeared. My brain reels in the midst of
these catastrophes. And if I had obeyed the warnings of reason, I should
have been quietly six months ago at Montbars cultivating my vineyard,
with no other care than that of seeing the clusters grow round and
golden in the good Burgundian sun, and to gather from the leaves, after
the dew, the little gray snails, so excellent when they are fried.
I should have built for myself with my savings, at the end of the
vineyard, on the height--I can see the place at this moment--a tower in
rough stone, like M. Chalmette’s, so convenient for an afternoon nap,
while the quails are chirping round the place. But always misled by
deceiving illusions, I wished to enrich myself, speculate, meddle in
finance, chain my fortune to the car of the conquerors of the day; and
now here I am back again in the saddest pages of my history, clerk in
a bankrupt establishment, my duty to answer a horde of creditors, of
shareholders drunk with fury, who load my white hairs with the worst
outrages, and would like to make me responsible for the ruin of the
Nabob and the flight of the governor; as if I myself was not as cruelly
struck by the loss of my four years of arrears, and my seven thousand
francs which I had confided to that scoundrel of Paganetti de
Porto-Vecchio.
But it is my fate to empty the cup of humiliation and degradation to the
dregs. Have I not been made to appear before a Juge d’Instruction--I,
Passajon, former apparitor of the faculty, with thirty years of faithful
service, and the ribbon of Officer of the Academy? Oh! when I saw
myself going up that staircase of the Palace of Justice, so big, so
conspicuous, without a rail to hold by, I felt my head turning and my
legs sinking under me. I was forced to reflect there, crossing these
halls, black with lawyers and judges, studded with great green doors
behind which one heard the imposing noise of the hearings; and up
higher, in the corridor of the Juges d’Instruction, during my hour’s
waiting on a bench, where the prison vermin crawled on my legs, while I
listened to a lot of thieves, pickpockets, and loose women talking and
laughing with the gendarmes, and the butts of the rifles echo in the
passages, and the dull roll of prison vans. I understood then the danger
of “combinations,” and that it was not always good to ridicule M. Gogo.
What reassured me, however, was that never having taken any part in the
deliberations of the Territorial, I had no share in their dealings and
intrigues. But explain this to me: Once in the judge’s office, before
that man in a velvet cap looking at me across his table with his little
eyes like hooks, I felt so pierced through, searched, turned over to
the very depth of my being, that, in spite of my innocence, I wanted to
confess. Confess what? I don’t know. But that is the effect which the
law had. This devil of a man spent five minutes looking at me without
speaking, all the while turning over a book filled with writing not
unknown to me, and suddenly he said, in a mocking and severe tone:
“Well, M. Passajon, how long is it since the affair of the drayman?”
The memory of a certain little misdeed, in which I had taken part in my
days of distress, was already so distant that I did not understand at
once; but some words of the judge showed me how completely he knew the
history of our bank. This terrible man knew everything, down to the
least details, the most secret things. Who could have informed him so
thoroughly?
It was all very short, very dry, and, when I wished to enlighten justice
with some wise observations, a certain insolent fashion of saying,
“Don’t make phrases,” so much the more wounding at my age and with my
reputation of a good talker; also we were not alone in his office. A
clerk seated near me was writing down my deposition, and behind I heard
the noise of great leaves turning. The judge asked me all sorts of
questions about the Nabob--the time when he had made his payments, the
place where we kept our books; and all at once, addressing himself to
the person whom I could not see: “Show us the cash-book, _M. l’Expert_.”
A little man in a white tie brought the great register to the table. It
was M. Joyeuse, the former cashier of Hemerlingue & Sons. But I had not
time to offer him my respects.
“Who has done that?” asked the judge, opening the book where a page was
torn out. “Don’t lie, now.”
I did not lie; I knew nothing of it, never having had to do with the
books. However, I thought it my duty to mention M. de Gery, the Nabob’s
secretary, who often came at night into the office and shut himself up
for hours casting balances. Then little Father Joyeuse turned red with
anger.
“That is an absurdity, M. le Juge d’Instruction. M. de Gery is the
young man of whom I have spoken to you. He came to the Territorial as a
superintendent, and thought too much of this poor M. Jansoulet to
remove the receipts for his payments; that is the proof of his blind but
thorough honesty. Besides, M. de Gery, who has been detained in Tunis,
is on his way back, and will furnish before long all the explanation
necessary.”