File No. 113 by Émile Gaboriau (summer beach reads .txt) 📕

having robbed M. Fauvel of three hundred and fifty thousand francs.”

During the last twenty-four hours the wretched young man had had time to familiarize himself with the terrible idea of this accusation; and yet, uttered as it was in this formal, brief tone, it seemed to strike him with a horror which rendered him incapable of opening his lips.

“What have you to answer?” asked the judge.

“That I am innocent, monsieur; I swear that I am innocent!”

“I hope you are,” said M. Patrigent, “and you may count upon me to assist you to the extent of my ability in proving your innocence. You must have defence, some facts to state; have you not?”

“Ah, monsieur, what can I say, when I cannot understand this dreadful business myself? I can only refer you to my past life.”

The judge interrupted him:

“Let us be specific; the robbery was committed under circumstances that prevent suspicion from falling upon anyone but M. Fauvel and yourself. Do you suspect anyone else?”

“No, monsieur.”

“You declare yourself to be innocent, therefore the guilty party must be M. Fauvel.”

Prosper remained silent.

“Have you,” persisted the judge, “any cause for believing that M. Fauvel robbed himself?”

The prisoner preserved a rigid silence.

“I see, monsieur,” said the judge, “that you need time for reflection. Listen to the reading of your examination, and after signing it you will return to prison.”

The unhappy man was overcome. The last ray of hope was gone. He heard nothing of what Sigault read, and he signed the paper without looking at it.

He tottered as he left the judge’s office, so that the keeper was forced to support him.

“I fear your case looks dark, monsieur,” said the man, “but don’t be disheartened; keep up your courage.”

Courage! Prosper had not a spark of it when he returned to his cell; but his heart was filled with anger and resentment.

He had determined that he would defend himself before the judge, that he would prove his innocence; and he had not had time to do so. He reproached himself bitterly for having trusted to the judge’s benevolent face.

“What a farce,” he angrily exclaimed, “to call that an examination!”

It was not really an examination, but a mere formality.

In summoning Prosper, M. Patrigent obeyed Article 93 of the Criminal Code, which says, “Every suspected person under arrest must be examined within twenty-four hours.”

But it is not in twenty-four hours, especially in a case like this, with no evidence or material proof, that a judge can collect the materials for an examination.

To triumph over the obstinate defence of a prisoner who shuts himself up in absolute denial as if in a fortress, valid proofs are needed. These weapons M. Patrigent was busily preparing. If Prosper had remained a little longer in the gallery, he would have seen the same bailiff who had called him come out to the judge’s office, and cry out:

“Number three.”

The witness, who was awaiting his turn, and answered the call for number three, was M. Fauvel.

The banker was no longer the same man. Yesterday he was kind and affable in his manner: now, as he entered the judge’s room, he seemed irritated. Reflection, which usually brings calmness and a desire to pardon, brought him anger and a thirst for vengeance.

The inevitable questions which commence every examination had scarcely been addressed to him before his impetuous temper gained the mastery, and he burst forth in invectives against Prosper.

M. Patrigent was obliged to impose silence upon him, reminding him of what was due to himself, no matter what wrongs he had suffered at the hands of his clerk.

Although he had very slightly examined Prosper, the judge was now scrupulously attentive and particular in having every question answered. Prosper’s examination had been a mere formality, the stating and proving a fact. Now it related to collecting the attendant circumstances and the most trifling particulars, so as to group them together, and reach a just conclusion.

“Let us proceed in order,” said the judge, “and pray confine yourself to answering my questions. Did you ever suspect your cashier of being dishonest?”

“Certainly not. Yet there were reasons which should have made me hesitate to trust him with my funds.”

“What reasons?”

“M. Bertomy played cards. I have known of his spending whole nights at the gaming table, and losing immense sums of money. He was intimate with an unprincipled set. Once he was mixed up with one of my clients, M. de Clameran, in a scandalous gambling affair which took place at the house of some disreputable woman, and wound up by being tried before the police court.”

For some minutes the banker continued to revile Prosper.

“You must confess, monsieur,” interrupted the judge, “that you were very imprudent, if not culpable, to have intrusted your safe to such a man.”

“Ah, monsieur, Prosper was not always thus. Until the past year he was a model of goodness. He lived in my house as one of my family; he spent all of his evenings with us, and was the bosom friend of my eldest son Lucien. One day, he suddenly left us, and never came to the house again. Yet I had every reason to believe him attached to my niece Madeleine.”

M. Patrigent had a peculiar manner of contracting his brows when he thought he had discovered some new proof. He now did this, and said:

“Might not this admiration for the young lady have been the cause of M. Bertomy’s estrangement?”

“How so?” said the banker with surprise. “I was willing to bestow Madeleine upon him, and, to be frank, was astonished that he did not ask for her hand. My niece would be a good match for any man, and he should have considered himself fortunate to obtain her. She is beautiful, and her dowry will be half a million.”

“Then you can see no motive for your cashier’s conduct?”

“It is impossible for me to account for it. I have, however, always supposed that Prosper was led astray by a young man whom he met at my house about this time, M. Raoul de Lagors.”

“Ah! and who is this young man?”

“A relative of my wife; a very attractive, intelligent young