If there is one man in the world whom no event can move or surprise, who
is always on his guard against deceptive appearances, and is capable
of admitting everything and explaining everything, it certainly is a
Parisian commissary of police.
While the judge, from his lofty place, applies the code to the facts
submitted to him, the commissary of police observes and watches all
the odious circumstances that the law cannot reach. He is perforce the
confidant of disgraceful details, domestic crimes, and tolerated vices.
If, when he entered upon his office, he had any illusions, before the
end of a year they were all dissipated.
If he does not absolutely despise the human race, it is because often,
side by side with abominations indulged in with impunity, he discovers
sublime generosities which remain unrewarded.
He sees impudent scoundrels filching public respect; and he consoles
himself by thinking of the modest, obscure heroes whom he has also
encountered.
So often have his previsions been deceived, that he has reached a state
of complete scepticism. He believes in nothing, neither in evil nor in
absolute good; not more in virtue than in vice.
His experience has forced him to come to the sad conclusion that not
men, but events, are worth considering.
The commissary sent for by M. Fauvel soon made his appearance.
It was with a calm air, if not one of perfect indifference, that he
entered the office.
He was followed by a short man dressed in a full suit of black, which
was slightly relieved by a crumpled collar.
The banker, scarcely bowing to him, said:
“Doubtless, monsieur, you have been apprised of the painful circumstance
which compels me to have recourse to your assistance?”
“It is about a robbery, I believe.”
“Yes; an infamous and mysterious robbery committed in this office,
from the safe you see open there, of which my cashier” (he pointed to
Prosper) “alone possesses the key and the word.”
This declaration seemed to arouse the unfortunate cashier from his dull
stupor.
“Excuse me, monsieur,” he said to the commissary in a low tone. “My
chief also has the word and the key.”
“Of course, that is understood.”
The commissary at once drew his own conclusions.
Evidently these two men accused each other.
From their own statements, one or the other was guilty.
One was the head of an important bank: the other was a simple cashier.
One was the chief: the other was the clerk.
But the commissary of police was too well skilled in concealing his
impressions to betray his thoughts by any outward sign. Not a muscle of
his face moved.
But he became more grave, and alternately watched the cashier and M.
Fauvel, as if trying to draw some profitable conclusion from their
behavior.
Prosper was very pale and dejected. He had dropped into a seat, and his
arms hung inert on either side of the chair.
The banker, on the contrary, remained standing with flashing eyes and
crimson face, expressing himself with extraordinary violence.
“And the importance of the theft is immense,” continued M. Fauvel; “they
have taken a fortune, three hundred and fifty thousand francs. This
robbery might have had the most disastrous consequences. In times
like these, the want of this sum might compromise the credit of the
wealthiest banking-house in Paris.”
“I believe so, if notes fall due.”
“Well, monsieur, I had this very day a heavy payment to make.”
“Ah, really!”
There was no mistaking the commissary’s tone; a suspicion, the first,
had evidently entered his mind.
The banker understood it; he started, and said, quickly:
“I met the demand, but at the cost of a disagreeable sacrifice. I ought
to add further that, if my orders had been obeyed, the three hundred and
fifty thousand francs would not have been in.”
“How is that?”
“I never desire to have large sums of money in my house over-night. My
cashier had positive orders to wait always until the last moment before
drawing money from the Bank of France. I above all forbade him to leave
money in the safe over-night.”
“You hear this?” said the commissary to Prosper.
“Yes, monsieur,” replied the cashier, “M. Fauvel’s statement is quite
correct.”
After this explanation, the suspicions of the commissary, instead of
being strengthened, were dissipated.
“Well,” he said, “a robbery has been perpetrated, but by whom? Did the
robber enter from without?”
The banker hesitated a moment.
“I think not,” he said at last.
“And I am certain he did not,” said Prosper.
The commissary expected and was prepared for those answers; but it did
not suit his purpose to follow them up immediately.
“However,” said he, “we must make ourselves sure of it.” Turning toward
his companion:
“M. Fanferlot,” he said, “go and see if you cannot discover some traces
that may have escaped the attention of these gentlemen.”
M. Fanferlot, nicknamed the Squirrel, was indebted to his prodigious
agility for this title, of which he was not a little proud. Slim and
insignificant in appearance he might, in spite of his iron muscles, be
taken for a bailiff’s under clerk, as he walked along buttoned up to the
chin in his thin black overcoat. He had one of those faces that impress
us disagreeably--an odiously turned-up nose, thin lips, and little,
restless black eyes.
Fanferlot, who had been on the police force for five years, burned to
distinguish himself, to make for himself a name. He was ambitious. Alas!
he was unsuccessful, lacking opportunity--or genius.
Already, before the commissary spoke to him, he had ferreted everywhere;
studied the doors, sounded the partitions, examined the wicket, and
stirred up the ashes in the fireplace.
“I cannot imagine,” said he, “how a stranger could have effected an
entrance here.”
He walked around the office.
“Is this door closed at night?” he inquired.
“It is always locked.”
“And who keeps the key?”
“The office-boy, to whom I always give it in charge before leaving the
bank,” said Prosper.
“This boy,” said M. Fauvel, “sleeps in the outer room on a
sofa-bedstead, which he unfolds at night, and folds up in the morning.”
“Is he here now?” inquired the commissary.
“Yes, monsieur,” answered the banker.
He opened the door and called:
“Anselme!”
This boy was the favorite servant of M. Fauvel, and had lived with him
for ten years. He knew that he would not be suspected; but the idea of
being connected in any way with a robbery is terrible, and he entered
the room trembling like a leaf.
“Did you sleep in the next room last night?” asked the commissary.
“Yes, monsieur, as usual.”
“At what hour did you go to bed?”
“About half-past ten; I had spent the evening at a cafe near by, with
monsieur’s valet.”
“Did you hear no noise during the night?”
“Not a sound; and still I sleep so lightly, that, if monsieur comes down
to the cash-room when I am asleep, I am instantly awakened by the sound
of his footsteps.”
“Monsieur Fauvel often comes to the cash-room at night, does he?”
“No, monsieur; very seldom.”
“Did he come last night?”
“No, monsieur, I am very certain he did not; for I was kept awake nearly
all night by the strong coffee I had drunk with the valet.”
“That will do; you can retire,” said the commissary.
When Anselme had left the room, Fanferlot resumed his search. He opened
the door of the private staircase.
“Where do these stairs lead to?” he asked.
“To my private office,” replied M. Fauvel.
“Is not that the room whither I was conducted when I first came?”
inquired the commissary.
“The same.”
“I would like to see it,” said Fanferlot, “and examine the entrances to
it.”
“Nothing is more easy,” said M. Fauvel, eagerly; “follow me, gentlemen,
and you come too, Prosper.”
M. Fauvel’s private office consisted of two rooms; the waiting-room,
sumptuously furnished and beautifully decorated, and the study where he
transacted business. The furniture in this room was composed of a large
office-desk, several leather-covered chairs, and, on either side of the
fireplace, a secretary and a book-shelf.
These two rooms had only three doors; one opened on the private
stairway, another into the banker’s bedroom, and the third into the main
vestibule. It was through this last door that the banker’s clients and
visitors were admitted.
M. Fanferlot examined the study at a glance. He seemed puzzled, like
a man who had flattered himself with the hope of discovering some
indication, and had found nothing.
“Let us see the adjoining room,” he said.
He passed into the waiting-room, followed by the banker and the
commissary of police.
Prosper remained alone in the study.
Despite the disordered state of his mind, he could not but perceive that
his situation was momentarily becoming more serious.
He had demanded and accepted the contest with his chief; the struggle
had commenced; and now it no longer depended upon his own will to arrest
the consequences of his action.
They were about to engage in a bitter conflict, utilizing all weapons,
until one of the two should succumb, the loss of honor being the cost of
defeat.
In the eyes of justice, who would be the innocent man?
Alas! the unfortunate cashier saw only too clearly that the chances
were terribly unequal, and was overwhelmed with the sense of his own
inferiority.
Never had he thought that his chief would carry out his threats; for,
in a contest of this nature, M. Fauvel would have as much to risk as his
cashier, and more to lose.
He was sitting near the fireplace, absorbed in the most gloomy
forebodings, when the banker’s chamber-door suddenly opened, and a
beautiful girl appeared on the threshold.
She was tall and slender; a loose morning gown, confined at the waist
by a simple black ribbon, betrayed to advantage the graceful elegance of
her figure. Her black eyes were large and soft; her complexion had
the creamy pallor of a white camellia; and her beautiful dark hair,
carelessly held together by a tortoise-shell comb, fell in a profusion
of soft curls upon her exquisite neck. She was Madeleine, M. Fauvel’s
niece, of whom he had spoken not long before.
Seeing Prosper in the study, where probably she expected to find her
uncle alone, she could not refrain from an exclamation of surprise.
“Ah!”
Prosper started up as if he had received an electric shock. His eyes,
a moment before so dull and heavy, now sparkled with joy as if he had
caught a glimpse of a messenger of hope.
“Madeleine,” he gasped, “Madeleine!”
The young girl was blushing crimson. She seemed about to hastily
retreat, and stepped back; but, Prosper having advanced toward her, she
was overcome by a sentiment stronger than her will, and extended her
hand, which he seized and pressed with much agitation.
They stood thus face to face, but with averted looks, as if they dared
not let their eyes meet for fear of betraying their feelings; having
much to say, and not knowing how to begin, they stood silent.
Finally Madeleine murmured, in a scarcely audible voice:
“You, Prosper--you!”
These words broke the spell. The cashier dropped the white hand which he
held, and answered bitterly:
“Yes, this is Prosper, the companion of your childhood, suspected,
accused of the most disgraceful theft; Prosper, whom your uncle has
just delivered up to justice, and who, before the day is over, will be
arrested, and thrown into prison.”
Madeleine, with a terrified gesture, cried in a tone of anguish:
“Good heavens! Prosper, what are you saying?”
“What, mademoiselle! do you not know what has happened? Have not your
aunt and cousins told you?”
“They have told me nothing. I have scarcely seen my cousins this
morning; and my aunt is so ill that I felt uneasy, and came to tell
uncle. But for Heaven’s sake speak: tell me the cause of your distress.”
Prosper hesitated. Perhaps it occurred to him to open his heart to
Madeleine, of revealing to her his most secret thoughts. A remembrance
of the past chilled his confidence. He sadly shook his head, and
replied:
“Thanks, mademoiselle, for this proof of interest, the last, doubtless,
that I shall ever receive from you; but allow me, by being silent, to
spare you distress, and myself the mortification of blushing before
you.”
Madeleine interrupted him imperiously:
“I insist upon knowing.”
“Alas, mademoiselle!” answered Prosper, “you will only too soon learn my
misfortune and disgrace; then, yes, then you will applaud yourself for
what you have done.”
She became more urgent; instead of commanding, she entreated; but
Prosper was inflexible.
“Your uncle is in the adjoining room, mademoiselle, with the commissary
of police and a detective. They will soon return. I entreat you to
retire that they may not find you here.”
As he spoke he gently pushed her through the door, and closed it upon
her.
It was time, for the next moment the commissary and Monsieur Fauvel
entered. They had visited the main entrance and waiting-room, and had
heard nothing of what had passed in the study.
But Fanferlot had heard for them.
This excellent bloodhound had not lost sight of the cashier. He said to
himself, “Now that my young gentleman believes himself to be alone,
his face will betray him. I shall detect a smile or a wink that will
enlighten me.”
Leaving M. Fauvel and the commissary to pursue their investigations, he
posted himself to watch. He saw the door open, and Madeleine appear upon
the threshold; he lost not a single word or gesture of the rapid scene
which had passed.
It mattered little that every word of this scene was an enigma. M.
Fanferlot was skilful enough to complete the sentences he did not
understand.
As yet he only had a suspicion; but a mere suspicion is better than
nothing; it is a point to start from. So prompt was he in building a
plan upon the slightest incident that he thought he saw in the past of
these people, who were utter strangers to him, glimpses of a domestic
drama.
If the commissary of police is a sceptic, the detective has faith; he
believes in evil.
“I understand the case now,” said he to himself. “This man loves the
young lady, who is really very pretty; and, as he is quite handsome,
I suppose his love is reciprocated. This love-affair vexes the banker,
who, not knowing how to get rid of the importunate lover by fair means,
has to resort to foul, and plans this imaginary robbery, which is very
ingenious.”
Thus to M. Fanferlot’s mind, the banker had simply robbed himself, and
the innocent cashier was the victim of an odious machination.
But this conviction was, at present, of little service to Prosper.
Fanferlot, the ambitious, who had determined to obtain renown in his
profession, decided to keep his conjectures to himself.
“I will let the others go their way, and I’ll go mine,” he said.
“When, by dint of close watching and patient investigation I shall have
collected proof sufficient to insure certain conviction, I will unmask
the scoundrel.”
He was radiant. He had at last found the crime, so long looked for,
which would make him celebrated. Nothing was wanting, neither the odious
circumstances, nor the mystery, nor even the romantic and sentimental
element represented by Prosper and Madeleine.
Success seemed difficult, almost impossible; but Fanferlot, the
Squirrel, had great confidence in his own genius for investigation.
Meanwhile, the search upstairs completed, M. Fauvel and the commissary
returned to the room where Prosper was waiting for them.
The commissary, who had seemed so calm when he first came, now looked
grave and perplexed. The moment for taking a decisive part had come, yet
it was evident that he hesitated.
“You see, gentlemen,” he began, “our search has only confirmed our first
suspicion.”