“We will begin now, Sigault; pay attention.”
“What is your name?” he then asked, looking at Prosper.
“Auguste Prosper Bertomy.”
“How old are you?”
“I shall be thirty the 5th of next May.”
“What is your profession?”
“I am--that is, I was--cashier in M. Andre Fauvel’s bank.”
The judge stopped to consult a little memorandum lying on his desk.
Prosper, who followed attentively his every movement, began to be
hopeful, saying to himself that never would a man so unprejudiced have
the cruelty to send him to prison again.
After finding what he looked for, M. Patrigent resumed the examination.
“Where do you live?”
“At No. 39, Rue Chaptal, for the last four years. Before that time I
lived at No. 7, Boulevard des Batignolles.”
“Where were you born?”
“At Beaucaire in the Department of the Gard.”
“Are your parents living?”
“My mother died two years ago; my father is still living.”
“Does he live in Paris?”
“No, monsieur: he lives at Beaucaire with my sister, who married one of
the engineers of the Southern Canal.”
It was in broken tones that Prosper answered these last questions.
There are moments in the life of a man when home memories encourage
and console him; there are also moments when he would be thankful to be
without a single tie, and bitterly regrets that he is not alone in the
world.
M. Patrigent observed the prisoner’s emotion, when he spoke of his
parents.
“What is your father’s calling?” he continued.
“He was formerly superintendent of the bridges and canals; then he
was employed on the Southern Canal, with my brother-in-law; now he has
retired from business.”
There was a moment’s silence. The judge had turned his chair around, so
that, although his head was apparently averted, he had a good view of
the workings of Prosper’s face.
“Well,” he said, abruptly, “you are accused of having robbed M. Fauvel
of three hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
During the last twenty-four hours the wretched young man had had time to
familiarize himself with the terrible idea of this accusation; and yet,
uttered as it was in this formal, brief tone, it seemed to strike him
with a horror which rendered him incapable of opening his lips.
“What have you to answer?” asked the judge.
“That I am innocent, monsieur; I swear that I am innocent!”
“I hope you are,” said M. Patrigent, “and you may count upon me to
assist you to the extent of my ability in proving your innocence. You
must have defence, some facts to state; have you not?”
“Ah, monsieur, what can I say, when I cannot understand this dreadful
business myself? I can only refer you to my past life.”
The judge interrupted him:
“Let us be specific; the robbery was committed under circumstances that
prevent suspicion from falling upon anyone but M. Fauvel and yourself.
Do you suspect anyone else?”
“No, monsieur.”
“You declare yourself to be innocent, therefore the guilty party must be
M. Fauvel.”
Prosper remained silent.
“Have you,” persisted the judge, “any cause for believing that M. Fauvel
robbed himself?”
The prisoner preserved a rigid silence.
“I see, monsieur,” said the judge, “that you need time for reflection.
Listen to the reading of your examination, and after signing it you will
return to prison.”
The unhappy man was overcome. The last ray of hope was gone. He heard
nothing of what Sigault read, and he signed the paper without looking at
it.
He tottered as he left the judge’s office, so that the keeper was forced
to support him.
“I fear your case looks dark, monsieur,” said the man, “but don’t be
disheartened; keep up your courage.”
Courage! Prosper had not a spark of it when he returned to his cell; but
his heart was filled with anger and resentment.
He had determined that he would defend himself before the judge, that
he would prove his innocence; and he had not had time to do so. He
reproached himself bitterly for having trusted to the judge’s benevolent
face.
“What a farce,” he angrily exclaimed, “to call that an examination!”
It was not really an examination, but a mere formality.
In summoning Prosper, M. Patrigent obeyed Article 93 of the Criminal
Code, which says, “Every suspected person under arrest must be examined
within twenty-four hours.”
But it is not in twenty-four hours, especially in a case like this, with
no evidence or material proof, that a judge can collect the materials
for an examination.
To triumph over the obstinate defence of a prisoner who shuts himself up
in absolute denial as if in a fortress, valid proofs are needed. These
weapons M. Patrigent was busily preparing. If Prosper had remained a
little longer in the gallery, he would have seen the same bailiff who
had called him come out to the judge’s office, and cry out:
“Number three.”
The witness, who was awaiting his turn, and answered the call for number
three, was M. Fauvel.
The banker was no longer the same man. Yesterday he was kind and affable
in his manner: now, as he entered the judge’s room, he seemed irritated.
Reflection, which usually brings calmness and a desire to pardon,
brought him anger and a thirst for vengeance.
The inevitable questions which commence every examination had scarcely
been addressed to him before his impetuous temper gained the mastery,
and he burst forth in invectives against Prosper.
M. Patrigent was obliged to impose silence upon him, reminding him of
what was due to himself, no matter what wrongs he had suffered at the
hands of his clerk.
Although he had very slightly examined Prosper, the judge was now
scrupulously attentive and particular in having every question answered.
Prosper’s examination had been a mere formality, the stating and proving
a fact. Now it related to collecting the attendant circumstances and
the most trifling particulars, so as to group them together, and reach a
just conclusion.
“Let us proceed in order,” said the judge, “and pray confine yourself
to answering my questions. Did you ever suspect your cashier of being
dishonest?”
“Certainly not. Yet there were reasons which should have made me
hesitate to trust him with my funds.”
“What reasons?”
“M. Bertomy played cards. I have known of his spending whole nights at
the gaming table, and losing immense sums of money. He was intimate with
an unprincipled set. Once he was mixed up with one of my clients, M. de
Clameran, in a scandalous gambling affair which took place at the house
of some disreputable woman, and wound up by being tried before the
police court.”
For some minutes the banker continued to revile Prosper.
“You must confess, monsieur,” interrupted the judge, “that you were very
imprudent, if not culpable, to have intrusted your safe to such a man.”
“Ah, monsieur, Prosper was not always thus. Until the past year he was
a model of goodness. He lived in my house as one of my family; he spent
all of his evenings with us, and was the bosom friend of my eldest son
Lucien. One day, he suddenly left us, and never came to the house again.
Yet I had every reason to believe him attached to my niece Madeleine.”
M. Patrigent had a peculiar manner of contracting his brows when he
thought he had discovered some new proof. He now did this, and said:
“Might not this admiration for the young lady have been the cause of M.
Bertomy’s estrangement?”
“How so?” said the banker with surprise. “I was willing to bestow
Madeleine upon him, and, to be frank, was astonished that he did not ask
for her hand. My niece would be a good match for any man, and he should
have considered himself fortunate to obtain her. She is beautiful, and
her dowry will be half a million.”
“Then you can see no motive for your cashier’s conduct?”
“It is impossible for me to account for it. I have, however, always
supposed that Prosper was led astray by a young man whom he met at my
house about this time, M. Raoul de Lagors.”
“Ah! and who is this young man?”
“A relative of my wife; a very attractive, intelligent young man,
somewhat wild, but rich enough to pay for his follies.”
The judge wrote the name Lagors at the bottom of an already long list on
his memorandum.
“Now,” he said, “we are coming to the point. You are sure that the theft
was not committed by anyone in your house?”
“Quite sure, monsieur.”
“You always kept your key?”
“I generally carried it about on my person; and, whenever I left it at
home, I put it in the secretary drawer in my chamber.”
“Where was it the evening of the robbery?”
“In my secretary.”
“But then--”
“Excuse me for interrupting you,” said M. Fauvel, “and to permit me to
tell you that, to a safe like mine, the key is of no importance. In the
first place, one is obliged to know the word upon which the five movable
buttons turn. With the word one can open it without the key; but without
the word--”
“And you never told this word to anyone?”
“To no one, monsieur, and sometimes I would have been puzzled to know
myself with what word the safe had been closed. Prosper would change it
when he chose, and, if he had not informed me of the change, would have
to come and open it for me.”
“Had you forgotten it on the day of the theft?”
“No: the word had been changed the day before; and its peculiarity
struck me.”
“What was it?”
“Gypsy, g, y, p, s, y,” said the banker, spelling the name.