“And that is a good place,--to be waiter at a restaurant or a hotel?”
“Why, yes--pretty good.”
“They pay well; eh?”
“That depends,--sometimes they do; at other times they don’t. When it is
the season”--
“That is so everywhere. But let us be accurate. You have been now
eighteen months in Saigon; no doubt you have laid up something?”
The man looked troubled and amazed, as if he had suddenly found out that
the apparent benevolence of the magistrate had led him upon slippery and
dangerous ground. He said evasively,--
“If I have put anything aside, it is not worth mentioning.”
“On the contrary, let us mention it. How much about have you saved?”
Bagnolet’s looks, and the tremor of his lips, showed the rage that was
devouring him.
“I don’t know,” he said sharply.
The magistrate made a gesture of surprise which was admirable. He
added,--
“What! You don’t know how much you have laid up? That is too improbable!
When people save money, one cent after another, to provide for their old
age, they know pretty well”--
“Well, then, take it for granted that I have saved nothing.”
“As you like it. Only it is my duty to show you the effect of your
declaration. You tell me you have not laid up any money, don’t you? Now,
what would you say, if, upon search being made, the police should find a
certain sum of money on your person or elsewhere?”
“They won’t find any.”
“So much the better for you; for, after what you said, it would be a
terrible charge.”
“Let them search.”
“They are doing it now, and not only in your room, but also elsewhere.
They will soon know if you have invested any money, or if you have
deposited it with any of your acquaintances.”
“I may have brought some money with me from home.”
“No; for you have told me that you could no longer live in Paris,
finding no work.”
Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, made such a sudden and violent start, that
the surgeon thought he was going to attack the magistrate. He felt he
had been caught in a net the meshes of which were drawing tighter and
tighter around him; and these apparently inoffensive questions assumed
suddenly a terrible meaning.
“Just answer me in one word,” said the magistrate. “Did you bring any
money from France, or did you not?”
The man rose, and his lips opened to utter a curse; but he checked
himself, sat down again, and, laughing ferociously, he said,--
“Ah! you would like to ‘squeeze’ me, and make me cut my own throat. But
luckily, I can see through you; and I refuse to answer.”
“You mean you want to consider. Have a care! You need not consider in
order to tell the truth.”
And, as the man remained obstinately silent, the magistrate began again
after a pause, saying,--
“You know what you are accused of? They suspect that you fired at Lieut.
Champcey with intent to kill.”
“That is an abominable lie!”
“So you say. How did you hear that the officers of ‘The Conquest’ had
arranged a large hunting-party?”
“I had heard them speak of it at _table d’hote_.”
“And you left your service in order to attend this hunt, some twelve
miles from Saigon? That is certainly singular.”
“Not at all; for I am very fond of hunting. And then I thought, if I
could bring back a large quantity of game, I would probably be able to
sell it very well.”
“And you would have added the profit to your other savings, wouldn’t
you?”
Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, was stung by the point of this ironical
question, as if he had received a sharp cut. But, as he said nothing,
the magistrate continued,--
“Explain to us how the thing happened.”
On this ground the murderer knew he was at home, having had ample time
to get ready; and with an accuracy which did great honor to his memory,
or to his veracity, he repeated what he had told the surgeon on the
spot, and at the time of the catastrophe. He only added, that he had
concealed himself, because he had seen at once to what terrible charges
he would be exposed by his awkwardness. And as he continued his account,
warming up with its plausibility, he recovered the impudence, or
rather the insolence, which seemed to be the prominent feature of his
character.
“Do you know the officer whom you have wounded?” asked the magistrate
when he had finished.
“Of course, I do, as I have made the voyage with him. He is Lieut.
Champcey.”
“Have you any complaint against him?”
“None at all.”