File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (classic literature books TXT) 📕

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.”

M. Patrigent looked vexed, and said:

“What would you say if I told you what had become of the three hundred and fifty thousand francs?”

Prosper shook his head sadly.

“If it were known, monsieur, I would not be here, but at liberty.”

This device had often been used by the judge, and generally succeeded; but, with a man so thoroughly master of himself, there was small chance of success. It had been used at a venture, and failed.

“Then you persist in accusing M. Fauvel?”

“Him, or someone else.”

“Excuse me: no one else, since he alone knew the word. Had he any interest in robbing himself?”

“I can think of none.”

“Well, now I will tell you what interest you had in robbing him.”

M. Patrigent spoke as a man who was convinced of the facts he was about to state; but his assurance was all assumed.

He had relied upon crushing, at a blow, a despairing wretched man, and was nonplussed by seeing him appear as determined upon resistance.

“Will you be good enough to tell me,” he said, in a vexed tone, “how much you have spent during the last year?”

Prosper did not find it necessary to stop to reflect and calculate.

“Yes, monsieur,” he answered, unhesitatingly: “circumstances made it necessary for me to preserve the greatest order in my wild career; I spent about fifty thousand francs.”

“Where did you obtain them?”

“In the first place, twelve thousand francs were left to me by my mother. I received from M. Fauvel fourteen thousand francs, as my salary, and share of the profits. By speculating in stocks, I gained eight thousand francs. The rest I borrowed, and intend repaying out of the fifteen thousand francs which I have deposited in M. Fauvel’s bank.”

The account was clear, exact, and could be easily proved; it must