ARREST AND INTERROGATION.
The Hôtel Versailles and St. Cloud was one of the best hotels of Paris
at this time, a time long antecedent to the opening of such vast
caravansaries as the Louvre, the Continental, the Athenée, or the
Grand. It occupied four sides of a courtyard, to which access was had
by the usual gateway. The porter's lodge was in the latter, and this
functionary, in sabots and shirt-sleeves, was sweeping out the
entrance when the police arrived in a cab, which they ordered to wait
at the door.
"M. Gascoigne?" asked the agent.
"On the first floor, number forty-three," replied the porter, without
looking up. "Monsieur has but just returned," he went on. "Knock
gently, or you may disturb him in his first sleep."
"We shall disturb him in any case," said the police-officer, gruffly.
"Justice cannot wait."
"The police!" cried the porter, now recognising his visitors for the
first time. "What has happened, in Heaven's name?"
"Stand aside; we have no time to gossip," replied the agent, as he
passed on.
The occupant of No. 43 upon the first floor was pacing his room with
agitated steps--a young man with fair complexion and light curly hair;
but his blue eyes were clouded, and his fresh, youthful face was drawn
and haggard. His attire, too--English, like his aspect--was torn and
dishevelled, his voluminous neckcloth was disarranged, his waistcoat
had lost several buttons, and there were stains--dark purple
stains--upon sleeves and smallclothes.
"What has become of her?" he was saying as he strode up and down; "she
has not been here; she could not have come home when we parted at the
door of the Vaudeville--the bed has not been slept in. Can she have
gone? Is it possible that she has left me?"
He sank into a chair and hid his face in his hands.
"It was too horrible. To see him fall at my feet, struck down just
when I--Who is there?" he cried suddenly, in answer to a knock at
the door.
"Open, in the name of the law!"
"The police here already! What shall I do?"
"Open at once, or we shall force the door."
The young man slowly drew back the bolt and admitted the two
police-agents.
"M. Gascoigne? You will not answer to your name? That is equal--we
arrest you."
"On what charge?"
"It is not our place to explain. We act by authority: that is enough.
Will you go with us quietly, or must we use force?"
"Of what am I accused?"
"You will hear in good time. Isidore, where is your rope?"
His colleague produced the long thin cord that serves instead of
handcuffs in France.
"Must we tie you?"
"No, no! I am ready to submit, but under protest. You shall answer for
this outrage. I am an Englishman. I will appeal to our ambassador."
"With all my heart! We are not afraid. But enough said. Come."
The three--police-agents and their prisoner--went out together. On the
threshold of No. 43 the officer named Jules said--
"Your key, monsieur--the key of your room. I will take charge of it.
Monsieur the Judge will no doubt make a searching perquisition, and no
one must enter it till then."
The door was locked, M. Jules put the key in his pocket, and the party
went down to the cab, which was driven off rapidly to the depôt of the
Préfecture.
Here the usual formalities were gone through. Rupert Gascoigne, as the
Englishman was called, was interrogated, searched, deprived of money,
watch, penknife, and pencil-case; his description was noted down, and
then he was asked whether he would go into the common prison, or pay
for the accommodation of the _pistole_ or private "side."
For sixteen sous daily they gave him a room to himself, with a little
iron cot, a chair, and a table. Another franc or two got him his
breakfast and dinner, and he was allowed to enjoy them with such
appetite as he could command.
No one came near him till next morning, when he was roused from the
heavy sleep that had only come to him after dawn by a summons to
appear before the _Juge d'instruction_.
He was led by two policemen to a little room, barely furnished, with
one great bureau, or desk, in the centre, at which sat the judge, his
back to the window. On one side of him was a smaller desk for the
clerk, and exactly opposite a chair for the accused, so arranged that
the light beat full upon his face.
"Sit down," said the judge, abruptly.
He was a stern-looking man, dressed all in black, still young, with a
cold and impassive face, the extreme pallor of which was heightened by
his close-cut, coal-black hair, and his small, piercing, beady black
eyes.
"Your name and nationality?"
"Rupert Gascoigne. I am an Englishman, and as such I must at once
protest against the treatment I have received."
"You have been treated in accordance with the law--of France. You must
abide by it, since you choose to live here. I do not owe you this
explanation, but I give it to uphold the majesty of the law."
"I shall appeal to our ambassador."
The judge waved his hand, as though the threat did not affect him.
"I must ask you to keep silence. You are here to be interrogated; you
will only speak in reply to my questions."
There was a pause, during which judge and accused looked hard at each
other; the former seeking to read the other's inmost thoughts, the
latter meeting the gaze with resolute and unflinching eyes.
"What is your age?"
"Twenty-six."
"Are you married?"
"Yes."
"But your wife has left you."
Gascoigne started in spite of himself.
"How do you know that?" he asked, nervously.
"It is for me to question. But I know it: that is enough. Your
occupation and position in life?"
"I am a gentleman, living on my means."
"It is false." An angry flush rose to Gascoigne's face as the judge
thus gave him the lie. "It is false--you are a professional gambler--a
Greek--a sharper, with no ostensible means!"
"Pardon me, monsieur; you are quite misinformed. I could prove to you--"
"It would be useless; the police have long known and watched you."
"Such espionage is below contempt," cried Gascoigne, indignantly.
"Silence! Do not dare to question the conduct of the authorities. It
is the visit of persons of your stamp to Paris that renders such
precautions necessary."
"If you believe all you hear from your low agents, with their lying,
scandalous reports--"
"Be careful, prisoner; your demeanour will get you into trouble. Our
information about you is accurate and trustworthy. Judge for
yourself."
Gascoigne looked incredulous.
"Listen; you arrived in Paris three months ago, accompanied by a young
demoiselle whom you had decoyed from her home."
"She was my wife."
"Yes; you married her after your arrival here. The official records of
the 21st arrondisement prove that--married her without her parents'
consent."
"That is not so. They approved."
"How could they? Your wife's father is French vice-consul at
Gibraltar. Her mother is dead. Neither was present at your marriage;
how, then, could they approve?"
Gascoigne did not answer.
"On your first arrival you were well provided with funds--the
proceeds, no doubt, of some nefarious scheme; a run of luck at the
tables; the plunder of some pigeon--"
"The price of my commission in the English Army."
"Bah! You never were in the English Army."
"I can prove it."
"I shall not believe you. Being in funds, I say, you lived riotously,
stayed at one of the best hotels, kept a landau and pair, dined at the
Trois Frères and the Rocher de Cancale, frequented the theatres;
madame wore the most expensive toilettes. But you presently ran short
of cash."
"It's not surprising. But I presume I was at liberty to do what I
liked with my own."
"Coming to the end of your resources," went on the judge, coldly
ignoring the sneer, "you tried the gaming-table again, with varying
success. You went constantly to the Hôtel Paradis--"
"On the contrary, occasionally, not often."
"You were there last night; it is useless to deny it. We have the
deposition of the proprietor, who is well known to the police--M.
Hippolyte Ledantec; you shall be confronted with him."
"Is he in custody?" asked Gascoigne, eagerly.
"I tell you it is not your place to question."
"He ought to be. It was he who committed the murder."
"You know there was a murder, then? Curious. When the body was
discovered by the porter there was no one present. How could you know
of the crime unless you had a hand in it?"
"I saw it committed. I tried my best to save the Baron, but Ledantec
stabbed him before I could interpose."
"An ingenious attempt to shift the guilt; but it will not serve. We
know better."
"I am prepared to swear it was Ledantec. Why should I attack the
Baron? I owed him no grudge."
"Why? I will tell you. For some time past, as I have reminded you,
your funds have been running low, fortune has been against you at the
tables, and you could not correct it at the Hôtel Paradis as you do
with less clever players--"
"You are taking an unfair advantage of your position, Monsieur le
Juge. Any one else who dared accuse me of cheating--"
"Bah! no heroics. You could not correct fortune, I say; yet money you
must have. The hotel-keeper was pressing for his long-unpaid account.
Madame, your smart wife, was dissatisfied; she made you scenes because
you refused her money; in return, you ill-used her."
"It is false! My wife has always received proper consideration at my
hands."
"You ill-used her, ill-treated her; we have it from herself."
"Do you know, then, where she is?" interrupted Gascoigne, with so
much eagerness that it was plain he had taken his wife's defection
greatly to heart. "Why has she left me? With whom? I have always
suspected that villain Ledantec; he is an arch scoundrel, a very
devil!"
"The reasons for your wife's disappearance are sufficiently explained
by this letter."
"To me?" said Gascoigne, stretching out his hand for it.
"To you, but impounded by us. It was found, in our search of your
apartments yesterday, placed in a prominent place upon your
dressing-table."
"Give it me--it is mine!"
"No! but you shall hear what it says. Listen:--
"'I could have borne with resignation the miserable part you have
imposed upon me. After luring me from my home with dazzling offers,
after promising me a life of luxury and splendid ease, you rudely,
cruelly dispelled the illusion, and made it plain to me that I had
shared the lot of a pauper. All this I could have borne--poverty,
however distasteful, but not the infamy, the degradation, of being the
partner and associate of your evil deeds. Sooner than fall so low I
prefer to leave you for ever. Do not seek for me. I have done with
you. All is at an end between us!'"