Other People's Money by Emile Gaboriau (ebook smartphone txt) 📕

She hesitated for a moment, evidently trying to tax her memory; then,

“Nothing,” she replied, “that he had not already said before the Fortins; that he wanted to see you on important business, and was sorry not to find you in.  What surprised me, though, is, that he was speaking as if he knew me, and knew that I was a friend of yours.”  Then, striking her forehead,

“Perhaps you are right,” she went on.  “Perhaps that man was indeed your father.  Wait a minute.  Yes, he seemed quite excited, and at every moment he looked around towards the door.  He said it would be impossible for him to return, but that he would write to you, and that probably he would require your assistance and your services.”

“You see,” exclaimed Maxence, almost crazy with subdued excitement, “it was my father.  He is going to write; to return, perhaps; and, under the circumstances, to apply to a commissary of police would be sheer folly, almost treason.”

She shook her head.

“So much the more reason,” she uttered, “why you should follow my advice.  Have you ever had occasion to repent doing so?”

“No, but you may be mistaken.”

“I am not mistaken.”

She expressed herself in a tone of such absolute certainty, that Maxence, in the disorder of his mind, was at a loss to know what to imagine, what to believe.

“You must have some reason to urge me thus,” he said.

“I have.”

“Why not tell it to me then?”

“Because I should have no proofs to furnish you of my assertions.  Because I should have to go into details which you would not understand.  Because, above all, I am following one of those inexplicable presentiments which never deceive.”

It was evident that she was not willing to unveil her whole mind; and yet Maxence felt himself terribly staggered.

“Think of my agony,” he said, “if I were to cause my father’s arrest.”

“Would my own be less?  Can any misfortune strike you without reaching me?  Let us reason a little.  What were you saying a moment since?  That certainly your father is not as guilty as people think; at any rate, that he is not alone guilty; that he has been but the instrument of rascals more skillful and more powerful than himself; and that he has had but a small share of the twelve millions?”

“Such is my absolute conviction.”

“And that you would like to deliver up to justice the villains who have benefitted by your father’s crime, and who think themselves sure of impunity?”

Tears of anger fell from Maxence’s eyes.

“Do you wish to take away all my courage?” he murmured.

“No; but I wish to demonstrate to you the necessity of the step which I advise you to take.  The end justifies the means; and we have not the choice of means.  Come, ‘tis to an honest man and a tried friend that I shall take you.  Fear nothing.  If he remembers that he is commissary of police, it will be to serve us, not to injure you.  You hesitate?  Perhaps at this moment he already knows more than we do ourselves.”

Maxence took a sudden resolution.

“Very well,” he said:  “let us go.”

In less than five minutes they were off; and, as they went out, they had to disturb Mme. Fortin, who stood at the door, gossiping with two or three of the neighboring shop-keepers.

As soon as Maxence and Mlle. Lucienne were out of hearing,

“You see that young man,” said the honorable proprietress of the Hotel des Folies to her interlocutors.  “Well, he is the son of that famous cashier who has just run off with twelve millions, after ruining a thousand families.  It don’t seem to trouble him, either; for there he is, going out to spend a pleasant day with his mistress, and to treat her to a fine dinner with the old man’s money.”

Meantime, Maxence and Lucienne reached the commissary’s house.  He was at home; they walked in.  And, as soon as they appeared,

“I expected you,” he said.

He was a man already past middle age, but active and vigorous still.  With his white cravat and long frock-coat, he looked like a notary.  Benign was the expression of his countenance; but the lustre of his little gray eyes, and the mobility of his nostrils, showed that it should not be trusted too far.

“Yes, I expected you,” he repeated, addressing himself as much to Maxence as to Mlle. Lucienne.  “It is the Mutual Credit matter which brings you here?”

Maxence stepped forward,

“I am Vincent Favoral’s son, sir,” he replied.  “I have still my mother and a sister.  Our situation is horrible.  Mlle. Lucienne suggested that you might be willing to give me some advice; and here we are.”

The commissary rang, and, on the bell being answered,

“I am at home for no one,” he said.

And then turning to Maxence,

“Mlle. Lucienne did well to bring you,” he said; “for it may be, that, whilst rendering her an important service, I may also render you one.  But I have no time to lose.  Sit down, and tell me all about it.”  With the most scrupulous exactness Maxence told the history of his family, and the events of the past twenty-four hours.

Not once did the commissary interrupt him; but, when he had done,

“Tell me your father’s interview with M. de Thaller all over again,” he requested, “and, especially, do not omit any thing that you have heard or seen, not a word, not a gesture, not a look.”

And, Maxence having complied,

“Now,” said the commissary, “repeat every thing your father said at the moment of going.”

He did so.  The commissary took a few notes, and then,

“What were,” he inquired, “the relations of your family with the Thaller family?”

“There were none.”

“What!  Neither Mme. nor Mlle. de Thaller ever visited you?”

“Never.”

“Do you know the Marquis de Tregars?”

Maxence stared in surprise.

“Tregars!” he repeated.  “It’s the first time that I hear that name.”

The usual clients of the commissary would have hesitated to recognize him, so completely had he set aside his professional stiffness, so much had his freezing reserve given way to the most encouraging kindness.