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

“why I should have selected for such a step the very moment when an irreparable calamity befalls you.  One word will explain all.  Being in a position to serve you, I wished to acquire the right of doing so.”

Fixing upon him a look in which the gloomiest despair could be read,

“Alas!” stammered the poor woman, “what can you do for me, sir?  My life is ended.  I have but one wish left,—that of knowing where my husband is hid.  It is not for me to judge him.  He has not given me the happiness which I had, perhaps, the right to expect; but he is my husband, he is unhappy:  my duty is to join him wherever he may be, and to share his sufferings.”

She was interrupted by the servant, who was calling her at the parlor-door, “Madame, madame!”

“What is the matter?” inquired Maxence.

“I must speak to madame at once.”

Making an effort to rise and walk, Mme. Favoral went out.  She was gone but a minute; and, when she returned, her agitation had further increased.  “It is the hand of Providence, perhaps,” she said.  The others were all looking at her anxiously.  She took a seat, and, addressing herself more especially to M. de Tregars,

“This is what happens,” she said in a feeble voice.  “M.  Favoral was in the habit of always changing his coat as soon as he came home.  As usual, he did so last evening.  When they came to arrest him, he forgot to change again, and went off with the coat he had on.  The other remained hanging in the room, where the girl took it just now to brush it, and put it away; and this portfolio, which my husband always carries with him, fell from its pocket.”

It was an old Russia leather portfolio, which had once been red, but which time and use had turned black.  It was full of papers.

“Perhaps, indeed,” exclaimed Maxence, “we may find some information there.”

He opened it, and had already taken out three-fourths of its contents without finding any thing of any consequence, when suddenly he uttered an exclamation.  He had just opened an anonymous note, evidently written in a disguised hand, and at one glance had read,

“I cannot understand your negligence.  You should get through that Van Klopen matter.  There is the danger.”

“What is that note?” inquired M. de Tregars.

Maxence handed it to him.

“See!” said he, “but you will not understand the immense interest it has for me.”

But having read it,

“You are mistaken,” said Marius.  “I understand perfectly; and I’ll prove it to you.”

The next moment, Maxence took out of the portfolio, and read aloud, the following bill, dated two days before.

“Sold to —— two leather trunks with safety locks at 220 francs each; say, francs 440.”

M. de Tregars started.

“At last,” he said, “here is doubtless one end of the thread which will guide us to the truth through this labyrinth of iniquities.”

And, tapping gently on Maxence’s shoulders,

“We must talk,” he said, “and at length.  To-morrow, before you go to M. de Thaller’s with his fifteen thousand francs, call and see me:  I shall expect you.  We are now engaged upon a common work; and something tells me, that, before long, we shall know what has become of the Mutual Credit’s millions.”

PART II. FISHING IN TROUBLED WATERS. I

“When I think,” said Coleridge, “that every morning, in Paris alone, thirty thousand fellows wake up, and rise with the fixed and settled idea of appropriating other people’s money, it is with renewed wonder that every night, when I go home, I find my purse still in my pocket.”

And yet it is not those who simply aim to steal your portemonnaie who are either the most dishonest or the most formidable.

To stand at the corner of some dark street, and rush upon the first man that comes along, demanding, “Your money or your life,” is but a poor business, devoid of all prestige, and long since given up to chivalrous natures.

A man must be something worse than a simpleton to still ply his trade on the high-roads, exposed to all sorts of annoyances on the part of the gendarmes, when manufacturing and financial enterprises offer such a magnificently fertile field to the activity of imaginative people.

And, in order to thoroughly understand the mode of proceeding in this particular field, it is sufficient to open from time to time a copy of “The Police Gazette,” and to read some trial, like that, for instance, of one Lefurteux, ex-president of the Company for the Drainage and Improvement of the Orne Swamps.

This took place less than a month ago in one of the police-courts.

The Judge to the Accused—Your profession?

M. Lefurteux—President of the company.

Question—Before that what were you doing?

Answer—I speculated at the bourse.

Q—You had no means?

A—I beg your pardon:  I was making money.

Q—And it was under such circumstances that you had the audacity to organize a company with a capital stock of three million of francs, divided in shares of five hundred francs?

A—Having discovered an idea, I did not suppose that I was forbidden to work it up.

Q—What do you call an idea?

A—The idea of draining swamps, and making them productive.

Q—What swamps?  Yours never had any existence, except in your prospectus.

A—I expected to buy them as soon as my capital was paid in.

Q—And in the mean time you promised ten per cent to your stockholders.

A—That’s the least that draining operations ever pay.

Q—You have advertised?

A—Of course.

Q—To what extent?

A—To the extent of about sixty thousand francs.

Q—Where did you get the money?

A—I commenced with ten thousand francs, which a friend of mine had lent me; then I used the funds as they came in.

Q—In other words, you made use of the money of your first dupes to