“Indeed!” he cried, “and the thought of the pure, innocent girl whom you
loved did not prevent your entering upon a path of sin. You loved her:
how dared you, then, without blushing, approach her presence after
associating with the shameless creatures with whom you were so
intimate?”
“For Heaven’s sake, let me explain by what fatality Madeleine--”
“Enough, monsieur, enough. I told you that I know everything. I saw M.
Fauvel yesterday; this morning I saw the judge, and ‘tis to his kindness
that I am indebted for this interview. Do you know what mortification
I suffered before being allowed to see you? I was searched and made to
empty all of my pockets, on suspicion of bringing you arms!”
Prosper ceased to justify himself, but in a helpless, hopeless way,
dropped down upon a seat.
“I have seen your apartments, and at once recognized the proofs of your
crime. I saw silk curtains hanging before every window and door, and
the walls covered with pictures. In my father’s house the walls were
whitewashed; and there was but one arm-chair in the whole house, and
that was my mother’s. Our luxury was our honesty. You are the first
member of our family who has possessed Aubusson carpets; though, to be
sure, you are the first thief of our blood.”
At this last insult Prosper’s face flushed crimson, but he remained
silent and immovable.
“But luxury is necessary now,” continued M. Bertomy, becoming more
excited and angry as he went on, “luxury must be had at any price. You
must have the insolent opulence and display of an upstart, without being
an upstart. You must support worthless women who wear satin slippers
lined with swan’s-down, like those I saw in your rooms, and keep
servants in livery--and you steal! And bankers no longer trust their
safe-keys with anybody; and every day honest families are disgraced by
the discovery of some new piece of villainy.”
M. Bertomy suddenly stopped. He saw that his son was not in a condition
to hear any more reproaches.
“But I will say no more,” he said. “I came here not to reproach, but
to, if possible, save the honor of our name, to prevent it from being
published in the papers bearing the names of thieves and murderers.
Stand up and listen to me!”
At the imperious tone of his father, Prosper arose. So many successive
blows had reduced him to a state of torpor.
“First of all,” began M. Bertomy, “how much have you remaining of the
stolen three hundred and fifty thousand francs?”
“Once more, father,” replied the unfortunate man in a tone of hopeless
resignation, “once more I swear I am innocent.”
“So I supposed you would say. Then our family will have to repair the
injury you have done M. Fauvel.”
“What do you mean?”
“The day he heard of your crime, your brother-in-law brought me your
sister’s dowry, seventy thousand francs. I succeeded in collecting a
hundred and forty thousand francs more. This makes two hundred and ten
thousand francs which I have brought with me to give to M. Fauvel.”
This threat aroused Prosper from his torpor.
“You shall do nothing of the kind!” he cried with unrestrained
indignation.
“I will do so before the sun goes down this day. M. Fauvel will grant me
time to pay the rest. My pension is fifteen hundred francs. I can live
upon five hundred, and am strong enough to go to work again; and your
brother-in-law--”
M. Bertomy stopped short, frightened at the expression of his son’s
face. His features were contracted with such furious rage that he was
scarcely recognizable, and his eyes glared like a maniac’s.
“You dare not disgrace me thus!” he cried; “you have no right to do it.
You are free to disbelieve me yourself, but you have no right for taking
a step that would be a confession of guilt, and ruin me forever. Who
and what convinces you of my guilt? When cold justice hesitates, you,
my father, hesitate not, but, more pitiless than the law, condemn me
unheard!”
“I only do my duty.”
“Which means that I stand on the edge of a precipice, and you push me
over. Do you call that your duty? What! between strangers who accuse me,
and myself who swear that I am innocent, you do not hesitate? Why? Is
it because I am your son? Our honor is at stake, it is true; but that is
only the more reason why you should sustain me, and assist me to defend
myself.”
Prosper’s earnest, truthful manner was enough to unsettle the firmest
convictions, and make doubt penetrate the most stubborn mind.
“Yet,” said M. Bertomy in a hesitating tone, “everything seems to accuse
you.”
“Ah, father, you do not know that I was suddenly banished from
Madeleine’s presence; that I was compelled to avoid her. I became
desperate, and tried to forget my sorrow in dissipation. I sought
oblivion, and found shame and disgust. Oh, Madeleine, Madeleine!”
He was overcome with emotion; but in a few minutes he started up with
renewed violence in his voice and manner.
“Everything is against me!” he exclaimed, “but no matter. I will justify
myself or perish in the attempt. Human justice is liable to error;
although innocent, I may be convicted: so be it. I will undergo my
penalty; but people are not kept galley-slaves forever.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, father, that I am now another man. My life, henceforth, has an
object, vengeance! I am the victim of a vile plot. As long as I have a
drop of blood in my veins, I will seek its author. And I will certainly
find him; and then bitterly shall he expiate all of my cruel suffering.
The blow came from the house of Fauvel, and I will live to prove it.”
“Take care: your anger makes you say things that you will repent
hereafter.”
“Yes, I see, you are going to descant upon the probity of M. Andre
Fauvel. You will tell me that all the virtues have taken refuge in the
bosom of this patriarchal family. What do you know about it? Would this
be the first instance in which the most shameful secrets are concealed
beneath the fairest appearances? Why did Madeleine suddenly forbid me to
think of her? Why has she exiled me, when she suffers as much from our
separation as I myself, when she still loves me? For she does love me. I
am sure of it. I have proofs of it.”
The jailer came to say that the time allotted to M. Bertomy had expired,
and that he must leave the cell.
A thousand conflicting emotions seemed to rend the old man’s heart.
Suppose Prosper were telling the truth: how great would be his remorse,
if he had added to his already great weight of sorrow and trouble! And
who could prove that he was not sincere?
The voice of this son, of whom he had always been so proud, had aroused
all his paternal affection, so violently repressed. Ah, were he guilty,
and guilty of a worse crime, still he was his son, his only son!
His countenance lost its severity, and his eyes filled with tears.
He had resolved to leave, as he had entered, stern and angry: he had
not the cruel courage. His heart was breaking. He opened his arms, and
pressed Prosper to his heart.
“Oh, my son!” he murmured. “God grant you have spoken the truth!”
Prosper was triumphant: he had almost convinced his father of his
innocence. But he had not time to rejoice over this victory.
The cell-door again opened, and the jailer’s gruff voice once more
called out:
“It is time for you to appear before the court.”
He instantly obeyed the order.
But his step was no longer unsteady, as a few days previous: a complete
change had taken place within him. He walked with a firm step, head
erect, and the fire of resolution in his eye.
He knew the way now, and he walked a little ahead of the constable who
escorted him.
As he was passing through the room full of policemen, he met the man
with gold spectacles, who had watched him so intently the day he was
searched.
“Courage, M. Prosper Bertomy,” he said: “if you are innocent, there are
those who will help you.”
Prosper started with surprise, and was about to reply, when the man
disappeared.
“Who is that gentleman?” he asked of the policeman.
“Is it possible that you don’t know him?” replied the policeman with
surprise. “Why, it is M. Lecoq, of the police service.”
“You say his name is Lecoq?”
“You might as well say ‘monsieur,’” said the offended policeman; “it
would not burn your mouth. M. Lecoq is a man who knows everything that
he wants to know, without its ever being told to him. If you had had
him, instead of that smooth-tongued imbecile Fanferlot, your case would
have been settled long ago. Nobody is allowed to waste time when he has
command. But he seems to be a friend of yours.”
“I never saw him until the first day I came here.”
“You can’t swear to that, because no one can boast of knowing the
real face of M. Lecoq. It is one thing to-day, and another to-morrow;
sometimes he is a dark man, sometimes a fair one, sometimes quite young,
and then an octogenarian: why, not seldom he even deceives me. I begin
to talk to a stranger, paf! the first thing I know, it is M. Lecoq!
Anybody on the face of the earth might be he. If I were told that you
were he, I should say, ‘It is very likely.’ Ah! he can convert himself
into any shape and form he chooses. He is a wonderful man!”
The constable would have continued forever his praises of M. Lecoq, had
not the sight of the judge’s door put an end to them.
This time, Prosper was not kept waiting on the wooden bench: the judge,
on the contrary, was waiting for him.
M. Patrigent, who was a profound observer of human nature, had contrived
the interview between M. Bertomy and his son.
He was sure that between the father, a man of such stubborn honor, and
the son, accused of theft, an affecting scene would take place, and this
scene would completely unman Prosper, and make him confess.
He determined to send for him as soon as the interview was over, while
all his nerves were vibrating with terrible emotions: he would tell the
truth, to relieve his troubled, despairing mind.
His surprise was great to see the cashier’s bearing; resolute without
obstinacy, firm and assured without defiance.
“Well,” he said, “have you reflected?”
“Not being guilty, monsieur, I had nothing to reflect upon.”
“Ah, I see the prison has not been a good counsellor; you forget that
sincerity and repentance are the first things necessary to obtain the
indulgence of the law.”
“I crave no indulgence, monsieur.”