File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (10 ebook reader TXT) 📕

“Yes!” he exclaimed, “you are right: the chief must have taken it.”

But, after thinking a few minutes, he said in a tone of deep discouragement:

“No, that is impossible. During the five years that I have had charge of the safe, M. Fauvel has never opened it except in my presence. Several times he has needed money, and has either waited until I came, or sent for me, rather than touch it in my absence.”

“Well,” said Cavaillon, “before despairing, let us ascertain.”

But a messenger had already informed M. Fauvel of the disaster.

As Cavaillon was about to go in quest of him, he entered the room.

M. Andre Fauvel appeared to be a man of fifty, inclined to corpulency, of medium height, with iron-gray hair; and, like all hard workers, he had a slight stoop.

Never did he by a single action belie the kindly expression of his face.

He had a frank air, a lively, intelligent eye, and large, red lips.

Born in the neighborhood of Aix, he betrayed, when animated, a slight Provencal accent that gave a peculiar flavor to his genial humor.

The news of the robbery had extremely agitated him, for his usually florid face was now quite pale.

“What is this I hear? what has happened?” he said to the clerks, who respectfully stood aside when he entered the room.

The sound of M. Fauvel’s voice inspired the cashier with the factitious energy of a great crisis. The dreaded and decisive moment had come; he arose, and advanced toward his chief.

“Monsieur,” he began, “having, as you know, a payment to make this morning, I yesterday drew from the Bank of France three hundred and fifty thousand francs.”

“Why yesterday, monsieur?” interrupted the banker. “I think I have a hundred times ordered you to wait until the day of the payment.”

“I know it, monsieur, and I did wrong to disobey you. But the evil is done. Yesterday evening I locked the money up: it has disappeared, and yet the safe has not been broken open.”

“You must be mad!” exclaimed M. Fauvel: “you are dreaming!”

These few words destroyed all hope; but the very horror of the situation gave Prosper, not the coolness of a matured resolution, but that sort of stupid, stolid indifference which often results from unexpected catastrophes.

It was with apparent calmness that he replied:

“I am not mad; neither, unfortunately, am I dreaming: I am simply telling the truth.”

This tranquillity at such a moment appeared to exasperate M. Fauvel. He seized Prosper by the arm, and shook him roughly.

“Speak!” he cried out. “Speak! who do you pretend to say opened the safe? Answer me!”

“I cannot say.”

“No one but you and I knew the secret word. No one but you and myself had keys.”

This was a formal accusation; at least, all the auditors present so understood it.

Yet Prosper’s strange calmness never left him for an instant. He quietly released himself from M. Fauvel’s grasp, and very slowly said:

“In other words, monsieur, I am the only person who could have taken this money.”

“Unhappy wretch!”

Prosper drew himself to his full height, and, looking M. Fauvel full in the face, added:

“Or you!”

The banker made a threatening gesture; and there is no knowing what would have happened if they had not been interrupted by loud and angry voices at the entry-door.

A man insisted upon entering in spite of the protestations of the errand-boys, and succeeded in forcing his way in. It was M. de Clameran.

The clerks stood looking on, bewildered and motionless. The silence was profound, solemn.

It was easy to see that some terrible question, a question of life or death, was being weighed by all these men.

The iron-founder did not appear to observe anything unusual. He advanced, and without lifting his hat said, in the same impertinent tone:

“It is after ten o’clock, gentlemen.”

No one answered; and M. de Clameran was about to continue, when, turning around, he for the first time saw the banker, and walking up to him said:

“Well, monsieur, I congratulate myself upon finding you in at last. I have been here once before this morning, and found the cash-room not opened, the cashier not arrived, and you absent.”

“You are mistaken, monsieur, I was in my office.”

“At any rate, I was told you were out; that gentleman over there assured me of the fact.”

And the iron-founder pointed out Cavaillon.

“However, that is of little importance,” he went on to say. “I return, and this time not only the cash-room is closed, but I am refused admittance to the banking-house, and find myself compelled to force my way in. Be so good as to tell me whether I can have my money.”

M. Fauvel’s flushed face turned pale with anger as he listened to this insolence; yet he controlled himself.

“I would be obliged to you monsieur, for a short delay.”

“I thought you told me—”

“Yes, yesterday. But this morning, this very instant, I find I have been robbed of three hundred and fifty thousand francs.”

M. de Clameran bowed ironically, and said:

“Shall I have to wait long?”

“Long enough for me to send to the bank.”

Then turning his back on the iron-founder, M. Fauvel said to his cashier:

“Write and send as quickly as possible to the bank an order for three hundred thousand francs. Let the messenger take a carriage.”

Prosper remained motionless.

“Do you hear me?” said the banker angrily.

The cashier trembled; he seemed as if trying to shake off a terrible nightmare.

“It is useless to send,” he said in a measured tone; “we owe this gentleman three hundred thousand francs, and we have less than one hundred thousand in the bank.”

M. de Clameran evidently expected this answer, for he muttered:

“Naturally.”

Although he pronounced this word, his voice, his manner, his face clearly said:

“This comedy is well acted; but nevertheless it is a comedy, and I don’t intend to be duped by it.”

Alas! After Prosper’s answer, and the iron-founder’s coarsely expressed opinion, the clerks knew not what to think.

The fact was, that Paris had just been startled by several financial crashes. The thirst for speculation caused the oldest and most reliable houses to totter. Men of the most unimpeachable honor had to sacrifice their pride, and go from door to door imploring aid.

Credit, that rare bird of security and peace, rested with none, but stood with upraised wings, ready to fly off at the first rumor of suspicion.

Therefore this idea of a comedy arranged beforehand between the banker and his cashier might readily occur to the minds of people who, if not suspicious, were at least aware of all the expedients resorted to by speculators in order to gain time, which with them often meant salvation.

M. Fauvel had had too much experience not to instantly divine the impression produced by Prosper’s answer; he read the most mortifying doubt on the faces around him.

“Oh! don’t be alarmed, monsieur,” said he to M. de Clameran, “this house has other resources. Be kind enough to await my return.”

He left the room, went up the narrow steps leading to his study, and in a few minutes returned, holding in his hand a letter and a bundle of securities.

“Here, quick, Couturier!” he said to one of his clerks, “take my carriage, which is waiting at the door, and go with monsieur to M. de Rothschild’s. Hand him this letter and these securities; in exchange, you will receive three hundred thousand francs, which you will hand to this gentleman.”

The iron-founder was visibly disappointed; he seemed desirous of apologizing for his impertinence.

“I assure you, monsieur, that I had no intention of giving offence. Our relations, for some years, have been such that I hope—”

“Enough, monsieur,” interrupted the banker, “I desire no apologies. In business, friendship counts for nothing. I owe you money: I am not ready to pay: you are pressing: you have a perfect right to demand what is your own. Follow my clerk: he will pay you your money.”

Then he turned to his clerks who stood curiously gazing on, and said:

“As for you, gentlemen, be kind enough to resume your desks.”

In an instant the room was cleared of everyone except the clerks who belonged there; and they sat at their desks with their noses almost touching the paper before them, as if too absorbed in their work to think of anything else.

Still excited by the events so rapidly succeeding each other, M. Andre Fauvel walked up and down the room with quick, nervous steps, occasionally uttering some low exclamation.

Prosper remained leaning against the door, with pale face and fixed eyes, looking as if he had lost the faculty of thinking.

Finally the banker, after a long silence, stopped short before Prosper; he had determined upon the line of conduct he would pursue.

“We must have an explanation,” he said. “Let us go into your office.”

The cashier mechanically obeyed without a word; and his chief followed him, taking the precaution to close the door after him.

The cash-room bore no evidences of a successful burglary. Everything was in perfect order; not even a paper was misplaced.

The safe was open, and on the top shelf lay several rouleaus of gold, overlooked or disdained by the thieves.

M. Fauvel, without troubling himself to examine anything, took a seat, and ordered his cashier to do the same. He had entirely recovered his equanimity, and his countenance wore its usual kind expression.

“Now that we are alone, Prosper,” he said, “have you nothing to tell me?”

The cashier started, as if surprised at the question. “Nothing, monsieur, that I have not already told you.”

“What, nothing? Do you persist in asserting a fable so absurd and ridiculous that no one can possibly believe it? It is folly! Confide in me: it is your only chance of salvation. I am your employer, it is true; but I am before and above all your friend, your best and truest friend. I cannot forget that in this very room, fifteen years ago, you were intrusted to me by your father; and ever since that day have I had cause to congratulate myself on possessing so faithful and efficient a clerk. Yes, it is fifteen years since you came to me. I was then just commencing the foundation of my fortune. You have seen it gradually grow, step by step, from almost nothing to its present height. As my wealth increased, I endeavored to better your condition; you, who, although so young, are the oldest of my clerks. At each inventory of my fortune, I increased your salary.”

Never had Prosper heard him express himself in so feeling and paternal a manner. Prosper was silent with astonishment.

“Answer,” pursued M. Fauvel: “have I not always been like a father to you? From the first day, my house has been open to you; you were treated as a member of my family; Madeleine and my sons looked upon you as a brother. But you grew weary of this peaceful life. One day, a year ago, you suddenly began to shun us; and since then–-”

The memories of the past thus evoked by the banker seemed too much for the unhappy cashier; he buried his face in his hands, and wept bitterly.

“A man can confide everything to his father without fear of being harshly judged,” resumed M. Fauvel. “A father not only pardons, he forgets. Do I not know the terrible temptations that beset a young man in a city like Paris? There are some inordinate desires before which the firmest principles must give way, and which so pervert our moral sense as to render us incapable of judging between right and wrong. Speak, Prosper, Speak!”

“What do you wish me to say?”