“I hated him. Once during the voyage he had threatened to have me put in
irons.”
“The man lies!” said Daniel.
“Do you hear?” asked the lawyer. “So you will not tell the truth? Well,
I will tell it for you. They had hired you to kill Lieut. Champcey,
and you wanted to earn your money. You got a certain sum of money in
advance; and you were to receive a larger sum after his death.”
“I swear”--
“Don’t swear! The sum in your possession, which you cannot account for,
is positive proof of what I say.”
“Alas! I possess nothing. You may inquire. You may order a search.”
Under the impassive mask of the lawyer, a certain degree of excitement
could at this moment be easily discerned. The time had come to strike
a decisive blow, and to judge of the value of his system of induction.
Instead, therefore, of replying to the prisoner, he turned to the
gendarmes who were present and said to them,--
“Take the prisoner into the next room. Strip him, and examine all his
clothes carefully: see to it that there is nothing hid in the lining.”
The gendarmes advanced to seize the prisoner, when he suddenly jumped
up, and said in a tone of ill-constrained rage,--
“No need for that! I have three one thousand-franc-notes sewn into the
lining of my trousers.”
This time the pride of success got completely the better of the
imperturbable coldness of the magistrate. He uttered a low cry of
satisfaction, and could not refrain from casting a look of triumph at
Daniel and the doctor, which said clearly,--
“Well? What did I tell you?”
It was for a second only; the next instant his features resumed their
icy immobility; and, turning to the accused, he said in a tone of
command,--
“Hand me the notes!”
Crochard did not stir; but his livid countenance betrayed the fierce
suffering he endured. Certainly, at this moment, he did not play a part.
To take from him his three thousand francs, the price of the meanest and
most execrable crime; the three thousand francs for the sake of which he
had risked the scaffold,--this was like tearing his entrails from him.
Like an enraged brute who sees that the enemy is all-powerful, he
gathered all his strength, and, with a furious look, glanced around the
room to see if he could escape anywhere, asking himself, perhaps, upon
which of the men he ought to throw himself for the purpose.
“The notes!” repeated the inexorable lawyer. “Must I order force to be
used?”
Convinced of the uselessness of resistance, and of the folly of any
attempt at escape, the wretch hung his head.
“But I cannot undo the seams of my trousers with my nails,” he said.
“Let them give me a knife or a pair of scissors.”
They were careful not to do so. But, at a sign given by the magistrate,
one of the gendarmes approached, and, drawing a penknife from his
pocket, ripped the seam at the place which the prisoner pointed out.
A genuine convulsion of rage seized the assassin, when a little paper
parcel appeared, folded up, and compressed to the smallest possible
size. By a very curious phenomenon, which is, however, quite frequently
observed in criminals, he was far more concerned about his money than
about his life, which was in such imminent danger.
“That is my money!” he raged. “No one has a right to take it from me. It
is infamous to ill use a man who has been unfortunate, and to rob him.”
The magistrate, no doubt quite accustomed to such scenes, did not even
listen to Crochard, but carefully opened the packet. It contained three
notes of a thousand francs each, wrapped up in a sheet of letter-paper,
which was all greasy, and worn out in the folds. The bank-notes had
nothing peculiar; but on the sheet of paper, traces could be made out
of lines of writing; and at least two words were distinctly
legible,--_University_ and _Street_.
“What paper is this, Crochard?” asked the lawyer.
“I don’t know. I suppose I picked it up somewhere.”
“What? Are you going to lie again? What is the use? Here is evidently
the address of some one who lives in University Street.”
Daniel was trembling on his bed.
“Ah, sir!” he exclaimed, “I used to live in University Street, Paris.”
A slight blush passed over the lawyer’s face, a sign of unequivocal
satisfaction in him. He uttered half loud, as if replying to certain
objections in his own mind,--
“Everything is becoming clear.”
And yet, to the great surprise of his listeners, he abandoned this
point; and, returning to the prisoner, he asked him,--
“So you acknowledge having received money for the murder of Lieut.
Champcey?”
“I never said so.”
“No; but the three thousand francs found concealed on your person say so
very clearly. From whom did you receive this money?”
“From nobody. They are my savings.”
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders; and, looking very sternly at
Crochard, he said,--
“I have before compelled you to make a certain confession. I mean to
do so again and again. You will gain nothing, believe me, by struggling
against justice; and you cannot save the wretches who tempted you to
commit this crime. There is only one way left to you, if you wish for
mercy; and that is frankness. Do not forget that!”
The assassin was, perhaps, better able to appreciate the importance of
such advice than anybody else there present. Still he remained silent
for more than a minute, shaken by a kind of nervous tremor, as if a
terrible struggle was going on in his heart. He was heard to mutter,--
“I do not denounce anybody. A bargain is a bargain. I am not a tell-
tale.”
Then, all of a sudden, making up his mind, and showing himself just the
man the magistrate had expected to find, he said with a cynic laugh,--
“Upon my word, so much the worse for them! Since I am in the trap, let
the others be caught as well! Besides, who would have gotten the big
prize, if I had succeeded? Not I, most assuredly; and yet it was I who
risked most. Well, then, the man who hired me to ‘do the lieutenant’s
business’ is a certain Justin Chevassat.”
The most intense disappointment seized both Daniel and the surgeon. This
was not the name they had been looking for with such deep anxiety.
“Don’t you deceive me, Crochard?” asked the lawyer, who alone had been
able to conceal all he felt.
“You may take my head if I lie!”
Did he tell the truth? The lawyer thought he did; for, turning to
Daniel, he asked,--
“Do you know anybody by the name of Chevassat, M. Champcey?”
“No. It is the first time in my life I hear that name.”
“Perhaps that Chevassat was only an agent,” suggested the doctor.
“Yes, that may be,” replied the lawyer; “although, in such matters,
people generally do their own work.”