File No. 113
Emile Gaboriau




I

In the Paris evening papers of Tuesday, February 28, 1866, under the
head of _Local Items_, the following announcement appeared:


"A daring robbery, committed against one of our most eminent bankers,
M. Andre Fauvel, caused great excitement this morning throughout the
neighborhood of Rue de Provence.

"The thieves, who were as skilful as they were bold, succeeded in
making an entrance to the bank, in forcing the lock of a safe that has
heretofore been considered impregnable, and in possessing themselves
of the enormous sum of three hundred and fifty thousand francs in
bank-notes.

"The police, immediately informed of the robbery, displayed their
accustomed zeal, and their efforts have been crowned with success.
Already, it is said, P. B., a clerk in the bank, has been arrested,
and there is every reason to hope that his accomplices will be speedily
overtaken by the hand of justice."


For four days this robbery was the town talk of Paris.

Then public attention was absorbed by later and equally interesting
events: an acrobat broke his leg at the circus; an actress made her
debut at a small theatre: and the _item_ of the 28th was soon forgotten.

But for once the newspapers were--perhaps intentionally--wrong, or at
least inaccurate in their information.

The sum of three hundred and fifty thousand francs certainly had been
stolen from M. Andre Fauvel's bank, but not in the manner described.

A clerk had also been arrested on suspicion, but no decisive proof had
been found against him. This robbery of unusual importance remained, if
not inexplicable, at least unexplained.

The following are the facts as they were related with scrupulous
exactness at the preliminary examination.




II

The banking-house of Andre Fauvel, No. 87 Rue de Provence, is an
important establishment, and, owing to its large force of clerks,
presents very much the appearance of a government department.

On the ground-floor are the offices, with windows opening on the street,
fortified by strong iron bars sufficiently large and close together to
discourage all burglarious attempts.

A large glass door opens into a spacious vestibule where three or four
office-boys are always in waiting.

On the right are the rooms to which the public is admitted, and from
which a narrow passage leads to the principal cash-room.

The offices of the corresponding clerk, book-keeper, and general
accounts are on the left.

At the farther end is a small court on which open seven or eight little
wicket doors. These are kept closed, except on certain days when notes
are due; and then they are indispensable.

M. Fauvel's private office is on the first floor over the offices, and
leads into his elegant private apartments.

This private office communicates directly with the bank by means of
a narrow staircase, which opens into the room occupied by the head
cashier.

This room, which in the bank goes by the name of the "cash-office," is
proof against all attacks, no matter how skilfully planned; indeed, it
could almost withstand a regular siege, sheeted as it is like a monitor.

The doors, and the partition where the wicket door is cut, are covered
with thick sheets of iron; and a heavy grating protects the fireplace.

Fastened in the wall by enormous iron clamps is a safe, a formidable
and fantastic piece of furniture, calculated to fill with envy the poor
devil who easily carries his fortune in a pocket-book.

This safe, which is considered the masterpiece of the firm of Becquet,
is six feet in height and four and a half in width, made entirely of
wrought iron, with triple sides, and divided into isolated compartments
in case of fire.

The safe is opened by an odd little key, which is, however, the least
important part of the mechanism. Five movable steel buttons, upon which
are engraved all the letters of the alphabet, constitute the real power
of this ingenious safe.

Before inserting the key into the lock, the letters on the buttons must
be in the exact position in which they were placed when the safe was
locked.

In M. Fauvel's bank, as everywhere, the safe was always closed with a
word that was changed from time to time.

This word was known only to the head of the bank and the cashier, each
of whom had also a key to the safe.

In a fortress like this, a person could deposit more diamonds than the
Duke of Brunswick's, and sleep well assured of their safety.

But one danger seemed to threaten, that of forgetting the secret word
which was the "Open sesame" of the safe.

On the morning of the 28th of February, the bank-clerks were all busy
at their various desks, about half-past nine o'clock, when a middle-aged
man of dark complexion and military air, clad in deep mourning, appeared
in the office adjoining the "safe," and announced to the five or six
employees present his desire to see the cashier.

He was told that the cashier had not yet come, and his attention was
called to a placard in the entry, which stated that the "cash-room" was
opened at ten o'clock.

This reply seemed to disconcert and annoy the new-comer.

"I expected," he said, in a tone of cool impertinence, "to find someone
here ready to attend to my business. I explained the matter to M. Fauvel
yesterday. I am Count Louis de Clameran, an iron-manufacturer at Oloron,
and have come to draw three hundred thousand francs deposited in this
bank by my late brother, whose heir I am. It is surprising that no
direction was given about it."

Neither the title of the noble manufacturer, nor his explanations,
appeared to have the slightest effect upon the clerks.

"The cashier has not yet arrived," they repeated, "and we can do nothing
for you."

"Then conduct me to M. Fauvel."

There was a moment's hesitation; then a clerk named Cavaillon, who was
writing near a window, said:

"The chief is always out at this hour."

"Then I will call again," replied M. de Clameran.

And he walked out, as he had entered, without saying "Good-morning," or
even touching his hat.

"Not very polite, that customer," said little Cavaillon, "but he will
soon be settled, for here comes Prosper."

Prosper Bertomy, head cashier of Fauvel's banking-house, was a tall,
handsome man, of about thirty, with fair hair and large dark-blue eyes,
fastidiously neat, and dressed in the height of fashion.

He would have been very prepossessing but for a cold, reserved
English-like manner, and a certain air of self-sufficiency which spoiled
his naturally bright, open countenance.

"Ah, here you are!" cried Cavaillon, "someone has just been asking for
you."

"Who? An iron-manufacturer, was it not?"

"Exactly."

"Well, he will come back again. Knowing that I would get here late this
morning, I made all my arrangements yesterday."

Prosper had unlocked his office-door, and, as he finished speaking,
entered, and closed it behind him.

"Good!" exclaimed one of the clerks, "there is a man who never lets
anything disturb him. The chief has quarrelled with him twenty times for
always coming too late, and his remonstrances have no more effect upon
him than a breath of wind."

"And very right, too; he knows he can get anything he wants out of the
chief."

"Besides, how could he come any sooner? a man who sits up all night, and
leads a fast life, doesn't feel like going to work early in the morning.
Did you notice how very pale he looked when he came in?"

"He must have been playing heavily again. Couturier says he lost fifteen
thousand francs at a sitting last week."

"His work is none the worse done for all that," interrupted Cavaillon.
"If you were in his place--"

He stopped short. The cash-room door suddenly opened, and the cashier
appeared before them with tottering step, and a wild, haggard look on
his ashy face.

"Robbed!" he gasped out: "I have been robbed!"

Prosper's horrified expression, his hollow voice and trembling limbs,
betrayed such fearful suffering that the clerks jumped up from their
desks, and ran toward him. He almost dropped into their arms; he was
sick and faint, and fell into a chair.

His companions surrounded him, and begged him to explain himself.

"Robbed?" they said; "where, how, by whom?"

Gradually, Prosper recovered himself.

"All the money I had in the safe," he said, "has been stolen."

"All?"

"Yes, all; three packages, each containing one hundred notes of a
thousand francs, and one package of fifty thousand. The four packages
were wrapped in a sheet of paper, and tied together."

With the rapidity of lightning, the news of the robbery spread
throughout the banking-house, and the room was soon filled with curious
listeners.

"Tell us, Prosper," said young Cavaillon, "did you find the safe broken
open?"

"No; it is just as I left it."

"Well then, how, why----"

"Yesterday I put three hundred and fifty thousand francs in the safe;
and this morning they are gone."

All were silent except one old clerk, who did not seem to share the
general consternation.

"Don't distress yourself, M. Bertomy," he said: "perhaps the chief
disposed of the money."

The unhappy cashier started up with a look of relief; he eagerly caught
at the idea.

"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?"

"The truth. When an honorable man yields, in an hour of weakness, to
temptation, his first step toward atonement is confession. Say to me,
Yes, I have been tempted, dazzled: the sight of these piles of gold
turned my brain. I am young: I have passions."

"I?" murmured Prosper. "I?"

"Poor boy," said the banker, sadly; "do you think I am ignorant of the
life you have been leading since you left my roof a year ago? Can you
not understand that all your fellow-clerks are jealous of you? that they
do not forgive you for earning twelve thousand francs a year? Never have
you committed a piece of folly without my being immediately informed of
it by an anonymous letter. I could tell the exact number of nights
you have spent at the gaming-table, and the amount of money you have
squandered. Oh, envy has good eyes and a quick ear! I have great
contempt for these cowardly denunciations, but was forced not only to
heed them, but to make inquiries myself. It is only right that I should
know what sort of a life is led by the man to whom I intrust my fortune
and my honor."

Prosper seemed about to protest against this last speech.

"Yes, my honor," insisted M. Fauvel, in a voice that a sense of
humiliation rendered still more vibrating: "yes, my credit might have
been compromised to-day by this M. de Clameran. Do you know how much
I shall lose by paying him this money? And suppose I had not had the
securities which I have sacrificed? you did not know I possessed them."

The banker paused, as if hoping for a confession, which, however, did
not come.

"Come, Prosper, have courage, be frank. I will go upstairs. You will
look again in the safe: I am sure that in your agitation you did not
search thoroughly. This evening I will return; and I am confident that,
during the day, you will have found, if not the three hundred and fifty
thousand francs, at least the greater portion of it; and to-morrow
neither you nor I will remember anything about this false alarm."

M. Fauvel had risen, and was about to leave the room, when Prosper
arose, and seized him by the arm.

"Your generosity is useless, monsieur," he said, bitterly; "having
taken nothing, I can restore nothing. I have searched carefully; the
bank-notes have been stolen."

"But by whom, poor fool? By whom?"

"By all that is sacred, I swear that it was not by me."

The banker's face turned crimson. "Miserable wretch!" cried he, "do you
mean to say that I took the money?"

Prosper bowed his head, and did not answer.

"Ah! it is thus, then," said M. Fauvel, unable to contain himself any
longer. "And you dare--. Then, between you and me, M. Prosper Bertomy,
justice shall decide. God is my witness that I have done all I could to
save you. You will have yourself to thank for what follows. I have sent
for the commissary of police: he must be waiting in my study. Shall I
call him down?"

Prosper, with the fearful resignation of a man who abandons himself,
replied, in a stifled voice:

"Do as you will."

The banker was near the door, which he opened, and, after giving the
cashier a last searching look, said to an office-boy:

"Anselme, ask the commissary of police to step down."




III

If there is one man in the world whom no event can move or surprise, who
is always on his guard against deceptive appearances, and is capable
of admitting everything and explaining everything, it certainly is a
Parisian commissary of police.

While the judge, from his lofty place, applies the code to the facts
submitted to him, the commissary of police observes and watches all
the odious circumstances that the law cannot reach. He is perforce the
confidant of disgraceful details, domestic crimes, and tolerated vices.

If, when he entered upon his office, he had any illusions, before the
end of a year they were all dissipated.

If he does not absolutely despise the human race, it is because often,
side by side with abominations indulged in with impunity, he discovers
sublime generosities which remain unrewarded.

He sees impudent scoundrels filching public respect; and he consoles
himself by thinking of the modest, obscure heroes whom he has also
encountered.

So often have his previsions been deceived, that he has reached a state
of complete scepticism. He believes in nothing, neither in evil nor in
absolute good; not more in virtue than in vice.

His experience has forced him to come to the sad conclusion that not
men, but events, are worth considering.

The commissary sent for by M. Fauvel soon made his appearance.

It was with a calm air, if not one of perfect indifference, that he
entered the office.

He was followed by a short man dressed in a full suit of black, which
was slightly relieved by a crumpled collar.

The banker, scarcely bowing to him, said:

"Doubtless, monsieur, you have been apprised of the painful circumstance
which compels me to have recourse to your assistance?"

"It is about a robbery, I believe."

"Yes; an infamous and mysterious robbery committed in this office,
from the safe you see open there, of which my cashier" (he pointed to
Prosper) "alone possesses the key and the word."

This declaration seemed to arouse the unfortunate cashier from his dull
stupor.

"Excuse me, monsieur," he said to the commissary in a low tone. "My
chief also has the word and the key."

"Of course, that is understood."

The commissary at once drew his own conclusions.

Evidently these two men accused each other.

From their own statements, one or the other was guilty.

One was the head of an important bank: the other was a simple cashier.

One was the chief: the other was the clerk.

But the commissary of police was too well skilled in concealing his
impressions to betray his thoughts by any outward sign. Not a muscle of
his face moved.

But he became more grave, and alternately watched the cashier and M.
Fauvel, as if trying to draw some profitable conclusion from their
behavior.

Prosper was very pale and dejected. He had dropped into a seat, and his
arms hung inert on either side of the chair.

The banker, on the contrary, remained standing with flashing eyes and
crimson face, expressing himself with extraordinary violence.

"And the importance of the theft is immense," continued M. Fauvel; "they
have taken a fortune, three hundred and fifty thousand francs. This
robbery might have had the most disastrous consequences. In times
like these, the want of this sum might compromise the credit of the
wealthiest banking-house in Paris."

"I believe so, if notes fall due."

"Well, monsieur, I had this very day a heavy payment to make."

"Ah, really!"

There was no mistaking the commissary's tone; a suspicion, the first,
had evidently entered his mind.

The banker understood it; he started, and said, quickly:

"I met the demand, but at the cost of a disagreeable sacrifice. I ought
to add further that, if my orders had been obeyed, the three hundred and
fifty thousand francs would not have been in."

"How is that?"

"I never desire to have large sums of money in my house over-night. My
cashier had positive orders to wait always until the last moment before
drawing money from the Bank of France. I above all forbade him to leave
money in the safe over-night."

"You hear this?" said the commissary to Prosper.

"Yes, monsieur," replied the cashier, "M. Fauvel's statement is quite
correct."

After this explanation, the suspicions of the commissary, instead of
being strengthened, were dissipated.

"Well," he said, "a robbery has been perpetrated, but by whom? Did the
robber enter from without?"

The banker hesitated a moment.

"I think not," he said at last.

"And I am certain he did not," said Prosper.

The commissary expected and was prepared for those answers; but it did
not suit his purpose to follow them up immediately.

"However," said he, "we must make ourselves sure of it." Turning toward
his companion:

"M. Fanferlot," he said, "go and see if you cannot discover some traces
that may have escaped the attention of these gentlemen."

M. Fanferlot, nicknamed the Squirrel, was indebted to his prodigious
agility for this title, of which he was not a little proud. Slim and
insignificant in appearance he might, in spite of his iron muscles, be
taken for a bailiff's under-clerk, as he walked along buttoned up to the
chin in his thin black overcoat. He had one of those faces that impress
us disagreeably--an odiously turned-up nose, thin lips, and little,
restless black eyes.

Fanferlot, who had been on the police force for five years, burned to
distinguish himself, to make for himself a name. He was ambitious. Alas!
he was unsuccessful, lacking opportunity--or genius.

Already, before the commissary spoke to him, he had ferreted everywhere;
studied the doors, sounded the partitions, examined the wicket, and
stirred up the ashes in the fireplace.

"I cannot imagine," said he, "how a stranger could have effected an
entrance here."

He walked around the office.

"Is this door closed at night?" he inquired.

"It is always locked."

"And who keeps the key?"

"The office-boy, to whom I always give it in charge before leaving the
bank," said Prosper.

"This boy," said M. Fauvel, "sleeps in the outer room on a
sofa-bedstead, which he unfolds at night, and folds up in the morning."

"Is he here now?" inquired the commissary.

"Yes, monsieur," answered the banker.

He opened the door and called:

"Anselme!"

This boy was the favorite servant of M. Fauvel, and had lived with him
for ten years. He knew that he would not be suspected; but the idea of
being connected in any way with a robbery is terrible, and he entered
the room trembling like a leaf.

"Did you sleep in the next room last night?" asked the commissary.

"Yes, monsieur, as usual."

"At what hour did you go to bed?"

"About half-past ten; I had spent the evening at a cafe near by, with
monsieur's valet."

"Did you hear no noise during the night?"

"Not a sound; and still I sleep so lightly, that, if monsieur comes down
to the cash-room when I am asleep, I am instantly awakened by the sound
of his footsteps."

"Monsieur Fauvel often comes to the cash-room at night, does he?"

"No, monsieur; very seldom."

"Did he come last night?"

"No, monsieur, I am very certain he did not; for I was kept awake nearly
all night by the strong coffee I had drunk with the valet."

"That will do; you can retire," said the commissary.

When Anselme had left the room, Fanferlot resumed his search. He opened
the door of the private staircase.

"Where do these stairs lead to?" he asked.

"To my private office," replied M. Fauvel.

"Is not that the room whither I was conducted when I first came?"
inquired the commissary.

"The same."

"I would like to see it," said Fanferlot, "and examine the entrances to
it."

"Nothing is more easy," said M. Fauvel, eagerly; "follow me, gentlemen,
and you come too, Prosper."

M. Fauvel's private office consisted of two rooms; the waiting-room,
sumptuously furnished and beautifully decorated, and the study where he
transacted business. The furniture in this room was composed of a large
office-desk, several leather-covered chairs, and, on either side of the
fireplace, a secretary and a book-shelf.

These two rooms had only three doors; one opened on the private
stairway, another into the banker's bedroom, and the third into the main
vestibule. It was through this last door that the banker's clients and
visitors were admitted.

M. Fanferlot examined the study at a glance. He seemed puzzled, like
a man who had flattered himself with the hope of discovering some
indication, and had found nothing.

"Let us see the adjoining room," he said.

He passed into the waiting-room, followed by the banker and the
commissary of police.

Prosper remained alone in the study.

Despite the disordered state of his mind, he could not but perceive that
his situation was momentarily becoming more serious.

He had demanded and accepted the contest with his chief; the struggle
had commenced; and now it no longer depended upon his own will to arrest
the consequences of his action.

They were about to engage in a bitter conflict, utilizing all weapons,
until one of the two should succumb, the loss of honor being the cost of
defeat.

In the eyes of justice, who would be the innocent man?

Alas! the unfortunate cashier saw only too clearly that the chances
were terribly unequal, and was overwhelmed with the sense of his own
inferiority.

Never had he thought that his chief would carry out his threats; for,
in a contest of this nature, M. Fauvel would have as much to risk as his
cashier, and more to lose.

He was sitting near the fireplace, absorbed in the most gloomy
forebodings, when the banker's chamber-door suddenly opened, and a
beautiful girl appeared on the threshold.

She was tall and slender; a loose morning gown, confined at the waist
by a simple black ribbon, betrayed to advantage the graceful elegance of
her figure. Her black eyes were large and soft; her complexion had
the creamy pallor of a white camellia; and her beautiful dark hair,
carelessly held together by a tortoise-shell comb, fell in a profusion
of soft curls upon her exquisite neck. She was Madeleine, M. Fauvel's
niece, of whom he had spoken not long before.

Seeing Prosper in the study, where probably she expected to find her
uncle alone, she could not refrain from an exclamation of surprise.

"Ah!"

Prosper started up as if he had received an electric shock. His eyes,
a moment before so dull and heavy, now sparkled with joy as if he had
caught a glimpse of a messenger of hope.

"Madeleine," he gasped, "Madeleine!"

The young girl was blushing crimson. She seemed about to hastily
retreat, and stepped back; but, Prosper having advanced toward her, she
was overcome by a sentiment stronger than her will, and extended her
hand, which he seized and pressed with much agitation.

They stood thus face to face, but with averted looks, as if they dared
not let their eyes meet for fear of betraying their feelings; having
much to say, and not knowing how to begin, they stood silent.

Finally Madeleine murmured, in a scarcely audible voice:

"You, Prosper--you!"

These words broke the spell. The cashier dropped the white hand which he
held, and answered bitterly:

"Yes, this is Prosper, the companion of your childhood, suspected,
accused of the most disgraceful theft; Prosper, whom your uncle has
just delivered up to justice, and who, before the day is over, will be
arrested, and thrown into prison."

Madeleine, with a terrified gesture, cried in a tone of anguish:

"Good heavens! Prosper, what are you saying?"

"What, mademoiselle! do you not know what has happened? Have not your
aunt and cousins told you?"

"They have told me nothing. I have scarcely seen my cousins this
morning; and my aunt is so ill that I felt uneasy, and came to tell
uncle. But for Heaven's sake speak: tell me the cause of your distress."

Prosper hesitated. Perhaps it occurred to him to open his heart to
Madeleine, of revealing to her his most secret thoughts. A remembrance
of the past chilled his confidence. He sadly shook his head, and
replied:

"Thanks, mademoiselle, for this proof of interest, the last, doubtless,
that I shall ever receive from you; but allow me, by being silent, to
spare you distress, and myself the mortification of blushing before
you."

Madeleine interrupted him imperiously:

"I insist upon knowing."

"Alas, mademoiselle!" answered Prosper, "you will only too soon learn my
misfortune and disgrace; then, yes, then you will applaud yourself for
what you have done."

She became more urgent; instead of commanding, she entreated; but
Prosper was inflexible.

"Your uncle is in the adjoining room, mademoiselle, with the commissary
of police and a detective. They will soon return. I entreat you to
retire that they may not find you here."

As he spoke he gently pushed her through the door, and closed it upon
her.

It was time, for the next moment the commissary and Monsieur Fauvel
entered. They had visited the main entrance and waiting-room, and had
heard nothing of what had passed in the study.

But Fanferlot had heard for them.

This excellent bloodhound had not lost sight of the cashier. He said to
himself, "Now that my young gentleman believes himself to be alone,
his face will betray him. I shall detect a smile or a wink that will
enlighten me."

Leaving M. Fauvel and the commissary to pursue their investigations, he
posted himself to watch. He saw the door open, and Madeleine appear upon
the threshold; he lost not a single word or gesture of the rapid scene
which had passed.

It mattered little that every word of this scene was an enigma. M.
Fanferlot was skilful enough to complete the sentences he did not
understand.

As yet he only had a suspicion; but a mere suspicion is better than
nothing; it is a point to start from. So prompt was he in building a
plan upon the slightest incident that he thought he saw in the past of
these people, who were utter strangers to him, glimpses of a domestic
drama.

If the commissary of police is a sceptic, the detective has faith; he
believes in evil.

"I understand the case now," said he to himself. "This man loves the
young lady, who is really very pretty; and, as he is quite handsome,
I suppose his love is reciprocated. This love-affair vexes the banker,
who, not knowing how to get rid of the importunate lover by fair means,
has to resort to foul, and plans this imaginary robbery, which is very
ingenious."

Thus to M. Fanferlot's mind, the banker had simply robbed himself, and
the innocent cashier was the victim of an odious machination.

But this conviction was, at present, of little service to Prosper.

Fanferlot, the ambitious, who had determined to obtain renown in his
profession, decided to keep his conjectures to himself.

"I will let the others go their way, and I'll go mine," he said.
"When, by dint of close watching and patient investigation I shall have
collected proof sufficient to insure certain conviction, I will unmask
the scoundrel."

He was radiant. He had at last found the crime, so long looked for,
which would make him celebrated. Nothing was wanting, neither the odious
circumstances, nor the mystery, nor even the romantic and sentimental
element represented by Prosper and Madeleine.

Success seemed difficult, almost impossible; but Fanferlot, the
Squirrel, had great confidence in his own genius for investigation.

Meanwhile, the search upstairs completed, M. Fauvel and the commissary
returned to the room where Prosper was waiting for them.

The commissary, who had seemed so calm when he first came, now looked
grave and perplexed. The moment for taking a decisive part had come, yet
it was evident that he hesitated.

"You see, gentlemen," he began, "our search has only confirmed our first
suspicion."

M. Fauvel and Prosper bowed assentingly.

"And what do you think, M. Fanferlot?" continued the commissary.

Fanferlot did not answer.

Occupied in studying the safe-lock, he manifested signs of a lively
surprise. Evidently he had just made an important discovery.

M. Fauvel, Prosper, and the commissary rose, and surrounded him.

"Have you discovered any trace?" said the banker, eagerly.

Fanferlot turned around with a vexed air. He reproached himself for not
having concealed his impressions.

"Oh!" said he, carelessly, "I have discovered nothing of importance."

"But we should like to know," said Prosper.

"I have merely convinced myself that this safe has been recently opened
or shut, I know not which, with great violence and haste."

"Why so?" asked the commissary, becoming attentive.

"Look, monsieur, at this scratch near the lock."

The commissary stooped down, and carefully examined the safe; he saw
a light scratch several inches long that had removed the outer coat of
varnish.

"I see the scratch," said he, "but what does that prove?"

"Oh, nothing at all!" said Fanferlot. "I just now told you it was of no
importance."

Fanferlot said this, but it was not his real opinion.

This scratch, undeniably fresh, had for him a signification that escaped
the others. He said to himself, "This confirms my suspicions. If the
cashier had stolen millions, there was no occasion for his being in
a hurry; whereas the banker, creeping down in the dead of night with
cat-like footsteps, for fear of awakening the boy in the ante-room,
in order to rifle his own money-safe, had every reason to tremble, to
hurry, to hastily withdraw the key, which, slipping along the lock,
scratched off the varnish."

Resolved to unravel by himself the tangled thread of this mystery, the
detective determined to keep his conjectures to himself; for the same
reason he was silent as to the interview which he had overheard between
Madeleine and Prosper.

He hastened to withdraw attention from the scratch upon the lock.

"To conclude," he said, addressing the commissary, "I am convinced that
no one outside of the bank could have obtained access to this room. The
safe, moreover, is intact. No suspicious pressure has been used on the
movable buttons. I can assert that the lock has not been tampered with
by burglar's tools or false keys. Those who opened the safe knew the
word, and possessed the key."

This formal affirmation of a man whom he knew to be skilful ended the
hesitation of the commissary.

"That being the case," he replied, "I must request a few moments'
conversation with M. Fauvel."

"I am at your service," said the banker.

Prosper foresaw the result of this conversation. He quietly placed his
hat on the table, to show that he had no intention of attempting to
escape, and passed into the adjoining room.

Fanferlot also went out, but not before the commissary had made him a
sign, and received one in return.

This sign signified, "You are responsible for this man."

The detective needed no admonition to make him keep a strict watch. His
suspicions were too vague, his desire for success was too ardent, for
him to lose sight of Prosper an instant.

Closely following the cashier, he seated himself in a dark corner of the
room, and, pretending to be sleepy, he fixed himself in a comfortable
position for taking a nap, gaped until his jaw-bone seemed about to be
dislocated, then closed his eyes, and kept perfectly quiet.

Prosper took a seat at the desk of an absent clerk. The others were
burning to know the result of the investigation; their eyes shone with
curiosity, but they dared not ask a question.

Unable to refrain himself any longer, little Cavaillon, Prosper's
defender, ventured to say:

"Well, who stole the money?"

Prosper shrugged his shoulders.

"Nobody knows," he replied.

Was this conscious innocence or hardened recklessness? The clerks
observed with bewildered surprise that Prosper had resumed his usual
manner, that sort of icy haughtiness that kept people at a distance, and
made him so unpopular in the bank.

Save the death-like pallor of his face, and the dark circles around
his swollen eyes, he bore no traces of the pitiable agitation he had
exhibited a short time before.

Never would a stranger entering the room have supposed that this young
man idly lounging in a chair, and toying with a pencil, was resting
under an accusation of robbery, and was about to be arrested.

He soon stopped playing with the pencil, and drew toward him a sheet of
paper upon which he hastily wrote a few lines.

"Ah, ha!" thought Fanferlot the Squirrel, whose hearing and sight were
wonderfully good in spite of his profound sleep, "eh! eh! he makes his
little confidential communication on paper, I see; now we will discover
something positive."

His note written, Prosper folded it carefully into the smallest possible
size, and after furtively glancing toward the detective, who remained
motionless in his corner, threw it across the desk to little Cavaillon
with this one word:

"Gypsy!"

All this was so quickly and skilfully done that Fanferlot was
confounded, and began to feel a little uneasy.

"The devil take him!" said he to himself; "for a suffering innocent this
young dandy has more pluck and nerve than many of my oldest customers.
This, however, shows the result of education!"

Yes: innocent or guilty, Prosper must have been endowed with great
self-control and power of dissimulation to affect this presence of mind
at a time when his honor, his future happiness, all that he held dear in
life, were at stake. And he was only thirty years old.

Either from natural deference, or from the hope of gaining some ray of
light by a private conversation, the commissary determined to speak to
the banker before acting decisively.

"There is not a shadow of doubt, monsieur," he said, as soon as they
were alone, "this young man has robbed you. It would be a gross neglect
of duty if I did not secure his person. The law will decide whether he
shall be released, or sent to prison."

The declaration seemed to distress the banker.

He sank into a chair, and murmured:

"Poor Prosper!"

Seeing the astonished look of his listener, he added:

"Until to-day, monsieur, I have always had the most implicit faith in
his honesty, and would have unhesitatingly confided my fortune to his
keeping. Almost on my knees have I besought and implored him to confess
that in a moment of desperation he had taken the money, promising him
pardon and forgetfulness; but I could not move him. I have loved
him; and even now, in spite of the trouble and humiliation that he is
bringing upon me, I cannot bring myself to feel harshly toward him."

The commissary looked as if he did not understand.

"What do you mean by humiliation, monsieur?"

"What!" said M. Fauvel, excitedly; "is not justice the same for all?
Because I am the head of a bank, and he only a clerk, does it follow
that my word is more to be relied upon than his? Why could I not have
robbed myself? Such things have been done. They will ask me for facts;
and I shall be compelled to expose the exact situation of my house,
explain my affairs, disclose the secret and method of my operations."

"It is true, monsieur, that you will be called upon for some
explanation; but your well-known integrity--"

"Alas! He was honest, too. His integrity has never been doubted.
Who would have been suspected this morning if I had not been able to
instantly produce a hundred thousand crowns? Who would be suspected if I
could not prove that my assets exceed my liabilities by more than three
millions?"

To a strictly honorable man, the thought, the possibility of suspicion
tarnishing his fair name, is cruel suffering. The banker suffered, and
the commissary of police saw it, and felt for him.

"Be calm, monsieur," said he; "before the end of a week justice
will have collected sufficient proof to establish the guilt of this
unfortunate man, whom we may now recall."

Prosper entered with Fanferlot, whom they had much trouble to awaken,
and with the most stolid indifference listened to the announcement of
his arrest.

In response, he calmly said:

"I swear that I am innocent."

M. Fauvel, much more disturbed and excited than his cashier, made a last
attempt.

"It is not too late yet, poor boy," he said: "for Heaven's sake
reflect----"

Prosper did not appear to hear him. He drew from his pocket a small key,
which he laid on the table, and said:

"Here is the key of your safe, monsieur. I hope for my sake that you
will some day be convinced of my innocence; and I hope for your sake
that the conviction will not come too late."

Then, as everyone was silent, he resumed:

"Before leaving I hand over to you the books, papers, and accounts
necessary for my successor. I must at the same time inform you that,
without speaking of the stolen three hundred and fifty thousand francs,
I leave a deficit in cash."

"A deficit!" This ominous word from the lips of a cashier fell like a
bombshell upon the ears of Prosper's hearers.

His declaration was interpreted in divers ways.

"A deficit!" thought the commissary: "how, after this, can his guilt be
doubted? Before stealing this whole contents of the safe, he has kept
his hand in by occasional small thefts."

"A deficit!" said the detective to himself, "now, no doubt, the very
innocence of this poor devil gives his conduct an appearance of great
depravity; were he guilty, he would have replaced the first money by a
portion of the second."

The grave importance of Prosper's statement was considerably diminished
by the explanation he proceeded to make.

"There is a deficit of three thousand five hundred francs on my cash
account, which has been disposed of in the following manner: two
thousand taken by myself in advance on my salary; fifteen hundred
advanced to several of my fellow-clerks. This is the last day of the
month; to-morrow the salaries will be paid, consequently--"

The commissary interrupted him:

"Were you authorized to draw money whenever you wished to advance the
clerks' pay?"

"No; but I knew that M. Fauvel would not have refused me permission to
oblige my friends in the bank. What I did is done everywhere; I have
simply followed my predecessor's example."

The banker made a sign of assent.

"As regards that spent by myself," continued the cashier, "I had a sort
of right to it, all of my savings being deposited in this bank; about
fifteen thousand francs."

"That is true," said M. Fauvel; "M. Bertomy has at least that amount on
deposit."

This last question settled, the commissary's errand was over, and his
report might now be made. He announced his intention of leaving, and
ordered to cashier to prepare to follow him.

Usually, this moment when stern reality stares us in the face, when
our individuality is lost and we feel that we are being deprived of our
liberty, this moment is terrible.

At this fatal command, "Follow me," which brings before our eyes the
yawning prison gates, the most hardened sinner feels his courage fail,
and abjectly begs for mercy.

But Prosper lost none of that studied phlegm which the commissary of
police secretly pronounced consummate impudence.

Slowly, with as much careless ease as if going to breakfast with a
friend, he smoothed his hair, drew on his overcoat and gloves, and said,
politely:

"I am ready to accompany you, monsieur."

The commissary folded up his pocket-book, and bowed to M. Fauvel, saying
to Prosper:

"Come!"

They left the room, and with a distressed face, and eyes filled with
tears that he could not restrain, the banker stood watching their
retreating forms.

"Good Heaven!" he exclaimed: "gladly would I give twice that sum to
regain my old confidence in poor Prosper, and be able to keep him with
me!"

The quick-eared Fanferlot overheard these words, and prompted to
suspicion, and ever disposed to impute to others the deep astuteness
peculiar to himself, was convinced they had been uttered for his
benefit.

He had remained behind the others under pretext of looking for an
imaginary umbrella, and, as he reluctantly departed, said he would call
in again to see if it had been found.

It was Fanferlot's task to escort Prosper to prison; but, as they were
about starting, he asked the commissary to leave him at liberty to
pursue another course, a request which his superior granted.

Fanferlot had resolved to obtain possession of Prosper's note, which he
knew to be in Cavaillon's pocket.

To obtain this written proof, which must be an important one, appeared
the easiest thing in the world. He had simply to arrest Cavaillon,
frighten him, demand the letter, and, if necessary, take it by force.

But to what would this disturbance lead? To nothing unless it were an
incomplete and doubtful result.

Fanferlot was convinced that the note was intended, not for the young
clerk, but for a third person.

If exasperated, Cavaillon might refuse to divulge who this person was,
who after all might not bear the name "Gypsy" given by the cashier. And,
even if he did answer his questions, would he not lie?

After a mature reflection, Fanferlot decided that it would be
superfluous to ask for a secret when it could be surprised. To quietly
follow Cavaillon, and keep close watch on him until he caught him in the
very act of handing over the letter, was but play for the detective.

This method of proceeding, moreover, was much more in keeping with the
character of Fanferlot, who, being naturally soft and stealthy, deemed
it due to his profession to avoid all disturbance or anything resembling
evidence.

Fanferlot's plan was settled when he reached the vestibule.

He began talking with an office-boy, and, after a few apparently idle
questions, had discovered that the Fauvel bank had no outlet on the Rue
de la Victoire, and that consequently all the clerks were obliged to
pass in and out through the main entrance on the Rue de Provence.

From this moment the task he had undertaken no longer presented a shadow
of difficulty. He rapidly crossed the street, and took up his position
under a gateway.

His post of observation was admirably chosen; not only could he see
everyone who entered and came out of the bank, but also commanded a view
of all the windows, and by standing on tiptoe could look through the
grating, and see Cavaillon bending over his desk.

Fanferlot waited a long time, but did not wax impatient, for he had
often had to remain on watch entire days and nights at a time, with much
less important objects in view than the present one. Besides, his mind
was busily occupied in estimating the value of his discoveries, weighing
his chances, and, like Perrette with her pot of milk, building the
foundation of his fortune upon present success.

Finally, about one o'clock, he saw Cavaillon rise from his desk, change
his coat, and take down his hat.

"Very good!" he exclaimed, "my man is coming out; I must keep my eyes
open."

The next moment Cavaillon appeared at the door of the bank; but
before stepping on the pavement he looked up and down the street in an
undecided manner.

"Can he suspect anything?" thought Fanferlot.

No, the young clerk suspected nothing; only having a commission to
execute, and fearing his absence would be observed, he was debating with
himself which would be the shortest road for him to take.

He soon decided, entered the Faubourg Montmartre, and walked up the Rue
Notre Dame de Lorette so rapidly, utterly regardless of the grumbling
passers-by whom he elbowed out of his way, that Fanferlot found it
difficult to keep him in sight.

Reaching the Rue Chaptal, Cavaillon suddenly stopped, and entered the
house numbered 39.

He had scarcely taken three steps in the narrow corridor when he felt a
touch on his shoulder, and turning abruptly, found himself face to face
with Fanferlot.

He recognized him at once, and turning very pale he shrank back, and
looked around for means of escape.

But the detective, anticipating the attempt, barred the passageway.
Cavaillon saw that he was fairly caught.

"What do you want with me?" he asked in a voice tremulous with fright.

Fanferlot was distinguished among his confreres for his exquisite
suavity and unequalled urbanity. Even with his prisoners he was the
perfection of courtesy, and never was known to handcuff a man without
first obsequiously apologizing for being compelled to do so.

"You will be kind enough, my dear monsieur," he said, "to excuse the
great liberty I take; but I really am under the necessity of asking you
for a little information."

"Information! From me, monsieur?"

"From you, my dear monsieur; from M. Eugene Cavaillon."

"But I do not know you."

"Ah, yes; you remember seeing me this morning. It is only about a
trifling matter, and you will overwhelm me with obligations if you will
do me the honor to accept my arm, and step outside for a moment."

What could Cavaillon do? He took Fanferlot's arm, and went out with him.

The Rue Chaptal is not one of those noisy thoroughfares where
foot-passengers are in perpetual danger of being run over by numberless
vehicles dashing to and fro; there were but two or three shops, and from
the corner of Rue Fontaine occupied by an apothecary, to the entrance of
the Rue Leonie, extended a high, gloomy wall, broken here and there by a
small window which lighted the carpenters' shops behind.

It was one of those streets where you could talk at your ease, without
having to step from the sidewalk every moment. So Fanferlot and
Cavaillon were in no danger of being disturbed by passers-by.

"What I wished to say is, my dear monsieur," began the detective, "that
M. Prosper Bertomy threw you a note this morning."

Cavaillon vaguely foresaw that he was to be questioned about this note,
and instantly put himself on his guard.

"You are mistaken," he said, blushing to his ears.

"Excuse me, monsieur, for presuming to contradict you, but I am quite
certain of what I say."

"I assure you that Prosper never gave me anything."

"Pray, monsieur, do not persist in a denial; you will compel me to prove
that four clerks saw him throw you a note written in pencil and closely
folded."

Cavaillon saw the folly of further contradicting a man so well informed;
so he changed his tactics, and said:

"It is true Prosper gave me a note this morning; but it was intended for
me alone, and after reading it I tore it up, and threw the pieces in the
fire."

This might be the truth. Fanferlot feared so; but how could he assure
himself of the fact? He remembered that the most palpable tricks often
succeed the best, and trusting to his star, he said at hazard:

"Permit me to observe that this statement is not correct; the note was
intrusted to you to give to Gypsy."

A despairing gesture from Cavaillon apprised the detective that he was
not mistaken; he breathed again.

"I swear to you, monsieur," began the young man.

"Do not swear, monsieur," interrupted Fanferlot; "all the oaths in the
world would be useless. You not only preserved the note, but you came
to this house for the purpose of giving it to Gypsy, and it is in your
pocket now."

"No, monsieur, no!"

Fanferlot paid no attention to this denial, but continued in his
gentlest tone:

"And I am sure you will be kind enough to give it to me; believe me,
nothing but the most absolute necessity--"

"Never!" exclaimed Cavaillon; and, believing the moment favorable, he
suddenly attempted to jerk his arm from under Fanferlot's, and escape.

But his efforts were vain; the detective's strength was equal to his
suavity.

"Don't hurt yourself, young man," he said, "but take my advice, and
quietly give up the letter."

"I have not got it."

"Very well; see, you reduce me to painful extremities. If you persist
in being so obstinate, I shall call two policemen, who will take you by
each arm, and escort you to the commissary of police; and, once there, I
shall be under the painful necessity of searching your pockets, whether
you will or not."

Cavaillon was devoted to Prosper, and willing to make any sacrifice
in his behalf; but he clearly saw that it was worse than useless to
struggle any longer, as he would have no time to destroy the note. To
deliver it under force was no betrayal; but he cursed his powerlessness,
and almost wept with rage.

"I am in your power," he said, and then suddenly drew from his
pocket-book the unlucky note, and gave it to the detective.

Fanferlot trembled with pleasure as he unfolded the paper; yet, faithful
to his habits of fastidious politeness, before reading it, he bowed to
Cavaillon, and said:

"You will permit me, will you not, monsieur?" Then he read as follows:


"DEAR NINA--If you love me, follow my instructions instantly, without
a moment's hesitation, without asking any questions. On the receipt of
this note, take everything you have in the house, absolutely everything,
and establish yourself in furnished rooms at the other end of Paris. Do
not appear in public, but conceal yourself as much as possible. My life
may depend on your obedience.

"I am accused of an immense robbery, and am about to be arrested. Take
with you five hundred francs which you will find in the secretary.

"Leave your address with Cavaillon, who will explain what I have not
time to tell. Be hopeful, whatever happens. Good-by. PROSPER."


Had Cavaillon been less bewildered, he would have seen blank
disappointment depicted on the detective's face after the perusal of the
note.

Fanferlot had cherished the hope that he was about to possess a very
important document, which would clearly prove the guilt or innocence of
Prosper; whereas he had only seized a love-letter written by a man who
was evidently more anxious about the welfare of the woman he loved than
about his own.

Vainly did he puzzle over the letter, hoping to discover some hidden
meaning; twist the words as he would, they proved nothing for or against
the writer.

The two words "absolutely everything" were underscored, it is true; but
they could be interpreted in so many ways.

The detective, however, determined not to drop the matter here.

"This Mme. Nina Gypsy is doubtless a friend of M. Prosper Bertomy?"

"She is his particular friend."

"Ah, I understand; and she lives here at No. 39?"

"You know it well enough, as you saw me go in there."

"I suspected it to be the house, monsieur; now tell me whether the
apartments she occupies are rented in her name."

"No. Prosper rents them."

"Exactly; and on which floor, if you please?"

"On the first."

During this colloquy, Fanferlot had folded up the note, and slipped it
into his pocket.

"A thousand thanks, monsieur, for the information; and, in return, I
will relieve you of the trouble of executing your commission."

"Monsieur!"

"Yes: with your permission, I will myself take this note to Mme. Nina
Gypsy."

Cavaillon began to remonstrate; but Fanferlot cut him short by saying:

"I will also venture to give you a piece of advice. Return quietly to
your business, and have nothing more to do with this affair."

"But Prosper is a good friend of mine, and has saved me from ruin more
than once."

"Only the more reason for your keeping quiet. You cannot be of the
slightest assistance to him, and I can tell you that you may be of
great injury. As you are known to be his devoted friend, of course your
absence at this time will be remarked upon. Any steps that you take in
this matter will receive the worst interpretation."

"Prosper is innocent, I am sure."

Fanferlot was of the same opinion, but he had no idea of betraying his
private thoughts; and yet for the success of his investigations it was
necessary to impress the importance of prudence and discretion upon the
young man. He would have told him to keep silent concerning what had
passed between them, but he dared not.

"What you say may be true," he said. "I hope it is, for the sake of M.
Bertomy, and on your own account too; for, if he is guilty, you will
certainly be very much annoyed, and perhaps suspected of complicity, as
you are well known to be intimate with him."

Cavaillon was overcome.

"Now you had best take my advice, monsieur, and return to your business,
and--. Good-morning, monsieur."

The poor fellow obeyed. Slowly and with swelling heart he returned
to the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette. He asked himself how he could serve
Prosper, warn Mme. Gypsy, and, above all, have his revenge upon this
odious detective, who had just made him suffer cruel humiliation.

He had no sooner turned the corner of the street, than Fanferlot entered
No. 39, gave his name to the porter as Prosper Bertomy, went upstairs,
and knocked at the first door he came to.

It was opened by a youthful footman, dressed in the most fanciful
livery.

"Is Mme. Gypsy at home?"

The groom hesitated; seeing this, Fanferlot showed his note, and said:

"M. Prosper told me to hand this note to madame, and wait for an
answer."

"Walk in, and I will let madame know you are here."

The name of Prosper produced its effect. Fanferlot was ushered into
a little room furnished in blue and gold silk damask. Heavy curtains
darkened the windows, and hung in front of the doors. The floor was
covered with a blue velvet carpet.

"Our cashier was certainly well lodged," murmured the detective.

But he had no time to purse his inventory. One of the door-curtains was
pushed aside, and Mme. Nina Gypsy stood before him.

Mme. Gypsy was quite young, small, and graceful, with a brown or rather
gold-colored quadroon complexion, with the hands and feet of a child.

Long curling silk lashes softened the piercing brilliancy of her large
black eyes; her lips were full, and her teeth were very white.

She had not yet made her toilet, but wore a velvet dressing-wrapper,
which did not conceal the lace ruffles beneath. But she had already been
under the hands of a hairdresser.

Her hair was curled and frizzed high on her forehead, and confined by
narrow bands of red velvet; her back hair was rolled in an immense coil,
and held by a beautiful gold comb.

She was ravishing. Her beauty was so startling that the dazzled
detective was speechless with admiration.

"Well," he said to himself, as he remembered the noble, severe beauty of
Madeleine, whom he had seen a few hours previous, "our young gentleman
certainly has good taste--very good taste--two perfect beauties!"

While he thus reflected, perfectly bewildered, and wondering how
he could begin the conversation, Mme. Gypsy eyed him with the most
disdainful surprise; she was waiting for this shabby little man in a
threadbare coat and greasy hat to explain his presence in her dainty
parlor.

She had many creditors, and was recalling them, and wondering which one
had dared send this man to wipe his dusty boots on her velvet carpets.

After scrutinizing him from head to foot with undisguised contempt, she
said, haughtily:

"What do you want?"

Anyone but Fanferlot would have been offended at her insolent manner;
but he only noticed it to gain some notion of the young woman's
disposition.

"She is bad-tempered," he thought, "and is uneducated."

While he was speculating upon her merits, Mme. Nina impatiently tapped
her little foot, and waited for an answer; finally she said:

"Why don't you speak? What do you want here?"

"I am charged, my dear madame," he answered in his softest tone, "by M.
Bertomy, to give you this note."

"From Prosper! You know him, then?"

"I have that honor, madame; indeed, I may be so bold as to claim him as
a friend."

"Monsieur! _You_ a friend of Prosper!" exclaimed Mme. Gypsy in a
scornful tone, as if her pride were wounded.

Fanferlot did not condescend to notice this offensive exclamation. He
was ambitious, and contempt failed to irritate him.

"I said a friend of his, madame, and there are few people who would have
the courage to claim friendship for him now."

Mme. Gypsy was struck by the words and manner of Fanferlot.

"I never could guess riddles," she said, tartly: "will you be kind
enough to explain what you mean?"

The detective slowly drew Prosper's note from his pocket, and, with a
bow, presented it to Mme. Gypsy.

"Read, madame," he said.

She certainly anticipated no misfortune; although her sight was
excellent, she stopped to fasten a tiny gold eyeglass on her nose, then
carelessly opened the note.

At a glance she read its contents.

She turned very red, then very pale; she trembled as if with a nervous
chill; her limbs seemed to give way, and she tottered so that Fanferlot,
thinking she was about to fall, extended his arms to catch her.

Useless precaution! Mme. Gypsy was one of those women whose inert
listlessness conceals indomitable energy; fragile-looking creatures
whose powers of endurance and resistance are unlimited; cat-like in
their soft grace and delicacy, especially cat-like in their nerves and
muscles of steel.

The dizziness caused by the shock she had received quickly passed off.
She tottered, but did not fall, and stood up looking stronger than
ever; seizing the wrist of the detective, she held it as if her delicate
little hand were a vice, and cried out:

"Explain yourself! what does all this mean? Do you know anything about
the contents of this note?"

Although Fanferlot betrayed courage in daily contending with the most
dangerous rascals, he was positively terrified by Mme. Gypsy.

"Alas!" he murmured.

"Prosper is to be arrested, accused of being a thief?"

"Yes, madame, he is accused of taking three hundred and fifty thousand
francs from the bank-safe."

"It is false, infamous, absurd!" she cried. She had dropped Fanferlot's
hand; and her fury, like that of a spoiled child, found vent in violent
actions. She tore her web-like handkerchief, and the magnificent lace on
her gown, to shreds.

"Prosper steal!" she cried; "what a stupid idea! Why should he steal? Is
he not rich?"

"M. Bertomy is not rich, madame; he has nothing but his salary."

The answer seemed to confound Mme. Gypsy.

"But," she insisted, "I have always seen him have plenty of money; not
rich--then----"

She dared not finish; but her eye met Fanferlot's, and they understood
each other.

Mme. Nina's look meant:

"He committed this robbery in order to gratify my extravagant whims."

Fanferlot's glance answered:

"Very likely, madame."

A few minutes' reflection convinced Nina that her first impression
was the correct one. Doubt fled after hovering for an instant over her
agitated mind.

"No!" she cried, "I regret to say that Prosper would never have stolen
one cent for me. One can understand a man robbing a bank to obtain means
of bestowing pleasure and luxury upon the woman he loves; but Prosper
does not love me, he never has loved me."

"Oh, fair lady!" protested the gallant and insinuating Fanferlot, "you
surely cannot mean what you say."

Her beautiful eyes filled with tears, as she sadly shook her head, and
said:

"I mean exactly what I say. It is only too true. He is ready to gratify
my every wish, you may say; what does that prove? Nothing. I am too
well convinced that he does not love me. I know what love is. Once I was
beloved by an affectionate, true-hearted man; and my own sufferings of
the last year make me know how miserable I must have made him by my cold
return. Alas! we must suffer ourselves before we can feel for others.
No, I am nothing to Prosper; he would not care if--"

"But then, madame, why--"

"Ah, yes," interrupted Nina, "why? you will be very wise if you can
answer me. For a year have I vainly sought an answer to this question,
so sad to me. I, a woman, cannot answer it; and I defy you to do so. You
cannot discover the thoughts of a man so thoroughly master of himself
that never is a single thought passing in his mind to be detected upon
his countenance. I have watched him as only a woman can watch the man
upon whom her fate depends, but it has always been in vain. He is kind
and indulgent; but he does not betray himself, never will he commit
himself. Ignorant people call him weak, yielding: I tell you that
fair-haired man is a rod of iron painted like a reed!"

Carried away by the violence of her feelings, Mme. Nina betrayed her
inmost thoughts. She was without distrust, never suspecting that the
stranger listening to her was other than a friend of Prosper.

As for Fanferlot, he congratulated himself upon his success. No one but
a woman could have drawn him so excellent a portrait; in a moment of
excitement she had given him the most valuable information; he now
knew the nature of the man with whom he had to deal, which in an
investigation like that he was pursuing is the principal point.

"You know that M. Bertomy gambles," he ventured to say, "and gambling is
apt to lead a man--"

Mme. Gypsy shrugged her shoulders, and interrupted him:

"Yes, he plays," she said, "but he is not a gambler. I have seen him
lose and gain large sums without betraying the slightest agitation. He
plays as he drinks, as he sups, as he falls in love--without passion,
without enthusiasm, without pleasure. Sometimes he frightens me; he
seems to drag about a body without a soul. Ah, I am not happy! Never
have I been able to overcome his indifference, and indifference so
great, so reckless, that I often think it must be despair; nothing will
convince me that he has not some terrible secret, some great misfortune
weighing upon his mind, and making life a burden."

"Then he has never spoken to you of his past?"

"Why should he tell me? Did you not hear me? I tell you he does not love
me!"

Mme. Nina was overcome by thoughts of the past, and tears silently
coursed down her cheeks.

But her despair was only momentary. She started up, and, her eyes
sparkling with generous resolution, she cried out:

"But I love him, and I will save him! I will see his chief, the
miserable wretch who dares to accuse him. I will haunt the judges, and
I will prove that he is innocent. Come, monsieur, let us start, and I
promise you that before sunset he shall be free, or I shall be in prison
with him."

Mme. Gypsy's project was certainly laudable, and prompted by the noblest
sentiments; but unfortunately it was impracticable.

Moreover, it would be going counter to the plans of the detective.

Although he had resolved to reserve to himself all the difficulties
as well as the benefits of this inquiry, Fanferlot saw clearly that
he could not conceal the existence of Mme. Nina from the judge of
instruction. She would necessarily be brought into the case, and sought
for. But he did not wish her to take any steps of her own accord. He
proposed to have her appear when and how he judged proper, so that he
might gain for himself the merit of having discovered her.

His first step was to endeavor to calm the young woman's excitement. He
thought it easy to prove to her that the least interference in favor of
Prosper would be a piece of folly.

"What will you gain by acting thus, my dear madame?" he asked. "Nothing.
I can assure you that you have not the least chance of success. Remember
that you will seriously compromise yourself. Who knows if you will not
be suspected as M. Bertomy's accomplice?"

But this alarming perspective, which had frightened Cavaillon into
foolishly giving up a letter which he might so easily have retained,
only stimulated Gypsy's enthusiasm. Man calculates, while woman follows
the inspirations of her heart. Our most devoted friend, if a man,
hesitates and draws back: if a woman, rushes undauntedly forward,
regardless of the danger.

"What matters the risk?" she exclaimed. "I don't believe any danger
exists; but, if it does, so much the better: it will be all the more to
my credit. I am sure Prosper is innocent; but, if he should be guilty, I
wish to share the punishment which awaits him."

Mme. Gypsy's persistence was becoming alarming. She hastily drew around
her a cashmere shawl, and, putting on her hat, declared that she was
ready to walk from one end of Paris to the other, in search of the
judge.

"Come, monsieur," she said with feverish impatience. "Are you not coming
with me?"

Fanferlot was perplexed. Happily he always had several strings to his
bow.

Personal considerations having no hold upon this impulsive nature, he
resolved to appeal to her interest in Prosper.

"I am at your command, fair lady," he said; "let us go if you desire
it; only permit me, while there is yet time, to say that we are very
probably going to do great injury to M. Bertomy."

"In what way, if you please?"

"Because we are taking a step that he expressly forbade in his letter;
we are surprising him--giving him no warning."

Nina scornfully tossed her head, and replied:

"There are some people who must be saved without warning, and against
their will. I know Prosper: he is just the man to let himself be
murdered without a struggle, without speaking a word--to give himself up
through sheer recklessness and despair."

"Excuse me, madame," interrupted the detective: "M. Bertomy has by
no means the appearance of a man who has given up in despair. On the
contrary, I think he has already laid his plan of defence. By showing
yourself, when he advised you to remain in concealment, you will be very
likely to make vain his most careful precautions."

Mme. Gypsy was silently weighing the value of Fanferlot's objections.
Finally she said:

"I cannot remain here inactive, without attempting to contribute in
some way to his safety. Can you not understand that this floor burns my
feet?"

Evidently, if she was not absolutely convinced, her resolution was
shaken. Fanferlot saw that he was gaining ground, and this certainty,
making him more at ease, gave weight to his eloquence.

"You have it in your power, madame," he said, "to render a great service
to the man you love."

"In what way, monsieur, in what way?"

"Obey him, my child," said Fanferlot, in a paternal manner.

Mme. Gypsy evidently expected very different advice.

"Obey," she murmured, "obey!"

"It is your duty," said Fanferlot with grave dignity, "it is your sacred
duty."

She still hesitated; and he took from the table Prosper's note, which
she had laid there, then continued:

"What! M. Bertomy at the most trying moment, when he is about to be
arrested, stops to point out your line of conduct; and you would render
vain this wise precaution! What does he say to you? Let us read over
this note, which is like the testament of his liberty. He says, 'If you
love me, I entreat you, obey.' And you hesitate to obey. Then you do not
love him. Can you not understand, unhappy child, that M. Bertomy has his
reasons, terrible, imperious reasons, for your remaining in obscurity
for the present?"

Fanferlot understood these reasons the moment he put his foot in the
sumptuous apartment of the Rue Chaptal; and, if he did not expose them
now, it was because he kept them as a good general keeps his reserve,
for the purpose of deciding the victory.

Mme. Gypsy was intelligent enough to divine these reasons.

"Reasons for my hiding! Prosper wishes, then, to keep everyone in
ignorance of our intimacy."

She remained thoughtful for a moment; then a ray of light seemed to
cross her mind, and she cried:

"Oh, I understand now! Fool that I was for not seeing it before! My
presence here, where I have been for a year, would be an overwhelming
charge against him. An inventory of my possessions would be taken--of my
dresses, my laces, my jewels--and my luxury would be brought against him
as a crime. He would be asked to tell where he obtained so much money to
lavish all these elegancies on me."

The detective bowed, and said:

"That is true, madame."

"Then I must fly, monsieur, at once. Who knows that the police are not
already warned, and may appear at any moment?"

"Oh," said Fanferlot with easy assurance, "you have plenty of time; the
police are not so very prompt."

"No matter!"

And, leaving the detective alone in the parlor, Mme. Nina hastily
ran into her bedroom, and calling her maid, her cook, and her little
footman, ordered them to empty her bureau and chests of their contents,
and assisted them to stuff her best clothing and jewels into her trunks.

Suddenly she rushed back to Fanferlot and said:

"Everything will be ready to start in a few minutes, but where am I to
go?"

"Did not M. Bertomy say, my dear lady, to the other end of Paris? To a
hotel, or furnished apartments."

"But I don't know where to find any."

Fanferlot seemed to be reflecting; but he had great difficulty in
concealing his delight at a sudden idea that flashed upon him; his
little black eyes fairly danced with joy.

"I know of a hotel," he said at last, "but it might not suit you. It is
not elegantly furnished like this room."

"Would I be comfortable there?"

"Upon my recommendation you would be treated like a queen, and, above
all, concealed."

"Where is it?"

"On the other side of the river, Quai Saint Michel, the Archangel, kept
by Mme. Alexandre."

Mme. Nina was never long making up her mind.

"Here are pen and paper; write your recommendation."

He rapidly wrote, and handed her the letter.

"With these three lines, madame, you can make Mme. Alexandre do anything
you wish."

"Very good. Now, how am I to let Cavaillon know my address? It was he
who should have brought me Prosper's letter."

"He was unable to come, madame," interrupted the detective, "but I will
give him your address."

Mme. Gypsy was about to send for a carriage, but Fanferlot said he was
in a hurry, and would send her one. He seemed to be in luck that day;
for a cab was passing the door, and he hailed it.

"Wait here," he said to the driver, after telling him that he was a
detective, "for a little brunette who is coming down with some trunks.
If she tells you to drive her to Quai Saint Michel, crack your whip; if
she gives you any other address, get down from your seat, and arrange
your harness. I will keep in sight."

He stepped across the street, and stood in the door of a wine-store.
He had not long to wait. In a few minutes the loud cracking of a whip
apprised him that Mme. Nina had started for the Archangel.

"Aha," said he, gayly, "I told _her_, at any rate."




IV

At the same hour that Mme. Nina Gypsy was seeking refuge at the
Archangel, so highly recommended by Fanferlot the Squirrel, Prosper
Bertomy was being entered on the jailer's book at the police office.

Since the moment when he had resumed his habitual composure, he had not
faltered.

Vainly did the people around him watch for a suspicious expression, or
any sign of giving way under the danger of his situation.

His face was like marble.

One would have supposed him insensible to the horrors of his condition,
had not his heavy breathing, and the beads of perspiration standing on
his brow, betrayed the intense agony he was suffering.

At the police office, where he had to wait two hours while the
commissary went to receive orders from higher authorities, he entered
into conversation with the two bailiffs who had charge of him.

At twelve o'clock he said he was hungry, and sent to a restaurant near
by for his breakfast, which he ate with a good appetite; he also drank
nearly a bottle of wine.

While he was thus occupied, several clerks from the prefecture, who
have to transact business daily with the commissary of police, curiously
watched him. They all formed the same opinion, and admiringly said to
each other:

"Well, he is made of strong material, he is!"

"Yes, my dandy looks too lamb-like to be left to his own devices. He
ought to have a strong escort."

When he was told that a coach was waiting for him at the door, he at
once got up; but, before going out, he requested permission to light a
cigar, which was granted.

A flower-girl stood just by the door, with her stand filled with all
varieties of flowers. He stopped and bought a bunch of violets. The
girl, seeing that he was arrested, said, by way of thanks:

"Good luck to you, my poor gentleman!"

He appeared touched by this mark of interest, and replied:

"Thanks, my good woman, but 'tis a long time since I have had any."

It was magnificent weather, a bright spring morning. As the coach went
along Rue Montmartre, Prosper kept his head out of the window, at the
same time smilingly complaining at being imprisoned on such a lovely
day, when everything outside was so sunny and pleasant.

"It is singular," he said, "I never felt so great a desire to take a
walk."

One of the bailiffs, a large, jovial, red-faced man, received this
remark with a hearty burst of laughter, and said:

"I understand."

To the court clerk, while he was going through the formalities of the
commitment, Prosper replied with haughty brevity to the indispensable
questions asked him.

But when he was ordered to empty his pockets on the table, and they
began to search him, his eyes flashed with indignation, and a single
tear dropped upon his flushed cheek. In an instant he had recovered his
stony calmness, and stood up motionless, with his arms raised in the air
so that the rough creatures about him could more conveniently ransack
him from head to foot, to assure themselves that he had no suspicious
object hid under his clothes.

The search would have, perhaps, been carried to the most ignominious
lengths, but for the intervention of a middle-aged man of rather
distinguished appearance, who wore a white cravat and gold spectacles,
and was sitting quite at home by the fire.

He started with surprise, and seemed much agitated, when he saw Prosper
brought in by the bailiffs; he stepped forward, and seemed about to
speak to him, then suddenly changed his mind, and sat down again.

In spite of his own troubles, Prosper could not help seeing that this
man kept his eyes fastened upon him. Did he know him? Vainly did he try
to recollect having met him before.

This man, treated with all the deference due to a chief, was no less a
personage than M. Lecoq, a celebrated member of the detective corps.

When the men who were searching Prosper were about to take off his
boots, saying that a knife might be concealed in them. M. Lecoq waved
them aside with an air of authority, and said:

"You have done enough."

He was obeyed. All the formalities being ended, the unfortunate cashier
was taken to a narrow cell; the heavily barred door was swung to and
locked upon him; he breathed freely; at last he was alone.

Yes, he believed himself to be alone. He was ignorant that a prison is
made of glass, that the accused is like a miserable insect under the
microscope of an entomologist. He knew not that the walls have stretched
ears and watchful eyes.

He was so sure of being alone that he at once gave vent to his
suppressed feelings, and, dropping his mask of impassibility, burst
into a flood of tears. His long-restrained anger now flashed out like a
smouldering fire.

In a paroxysm of rage he uttered imprecations and curses. He dashed
himself against the prison-walls like a wild beast in a cage.

Prosper Bertomy was not the man he appeared to be.

This haughty, correct gentleman had ardent passions and a fiery
temperament.

One day, when he was about twenty-four years of age, he had become
suddenly fired by ambition. While all of his desires were repressed,
imprisoned in his low estate, like an athlete in a strait-jacket, seeing
around him all these rich people with whom money assumed the place of
the wand in the fairy-tale, he envied their lot.

He studied the beginnings of these financial princes, and found that at
the starting-point they possessed far less than himself.

How, then, had they succeeded? By force of energy, industry, and
assurance.

He determined to imitate and excel them.

From this day, with a force of will much less rare than we think, he
imposed silence upon his instincts. He reformed not his morals, but his
manners; and so strictly did he conform to the rules of decorum, that
he was regarded as a model of propriety by those who knew him, and had
faith in his character; and his capabilities and ambition inspired the
prophecy that he would be successful in attaining eminence and wealth.

And the end of all was this: imprisoned for robbery; that is, ruined!

For he did not attempt to deceive himself. He knew that, guilty or
innocent, a man once suspected is as ineffaceably branded as the
shoulder of a galley-slave.

Therefore what was the use of struggling? What benefit was a triumph
which could not wash out the stain?

When the jailer brought him his supper, he found him lying on his
pallet, with his face buried in the pillow, weeping bitterly.

Ah, he was not hungry now! Now that he was alone, he fed upon his own
bitter thoughts. He sank from a state of frenzy into one of stupefying
despair, and vainly did he endeavor to clear his confused mind, and
account for the dark cloud gathering about him; no loop-hole for escape
did he discover.

The night was long and terrible, and for the first time he had nothing
to count the hours by, as they slowly dragged on, but the measured tread
of the patrol who came to relieve the sentinels. He was wretched.

At dawn he dropped into a sleep, a heavy, oppressive sleep, which was
more wearisome than refreshing; from which he was startled by the rough
voice of the jailer.

"Come, monsieur," he said, "it is time for you to appear before the
judge of instruction."

He jumped up at once, and, without stopping to repair his disordered
toilet, said:

"Come on, quick!"

The constable remarked, as they walked along:

"You are very fortunate in having your case brought before an honest
man."

He was right.

Endowed with remarkable penetration, firm, unbiased, equally free from
false pity and excessive severity, M. Patrigent possessed in an eminent
degree all the qualities necessary for the delicate and difficult office
of judge of instruction.

Perhaps he was wanting in the feverish activity which is sometimes
necessary for coming to a quick and just decision; but he possessed
unwearying patience, which nothing could discourage. He would cheerfully
devote years to the examination of a case; he was even now engaged on a
case of Belgian bank-notes, of which he did not collect all the threads,
and solve the mystery, until after four years' investigation.

Thus it was always to his office that they brought the endless lawsuits,
half-finished inquests, and tangled cases.

This was the man before whom they were taking Prosper; and they were
taking him by a difficult road.

He was escorted along a corridor, through a room full of policemen, down
a narrow flight of steps, across a kind of cellar, and then up a steep
staircase which seemed to have no terminus.

Finally he reached a long narrow galley, upon which opened many doors,
bearing different numbers.

The custodian of the unhappy cashier stopped before one of these doors,
and said:

"Here we are; here your fate will be decided."

At this remark, uttered in a tone of deep commiseration, Prosper could
not refrain from shuddering.

It was only too true, that on the other side of this door was a man upon
whose decision his freedom depended.

Summoning all his courage, he turned the door-knob, and was about to
enter when the constable stopped him.

"Don't be in such haste," he said; "you must sit down here, and wait
till your turn comes; then you will be called."

The wretched man obeyed, and his keeper took a seat beside him.

Nothing is more terrible and lugubrious than this gallery of the judges
of instruction.

Stretching the whole length of the wall is a wooden bench blackened by
constant use. This bench has for the last ten years been daily occupied
by all the murderers, thieves, and suspicious characters of the
Department of the Seine.

Sooner or later, fatally, as filth rushes to a sewer, does crime
reach this gallery, this dreadful gallery with one door opening on the
galleys, the other on the scaffold. This place was vulgarly and pithily
denominated by a certain magistrate as the great public wash-house of
all the dirty linen in Paris.

When Prosper reached the gallery it was full of people. The bench was
almost entirely occupied. Beside him, so close as to touch his shoulder,
sat a man with a sinister countenance, dressed in rags.

Before each door, which belonged to a judge of instruction, stood groups
of witnesses talking in an undertone.

Policemen were constantly coming and going with prisoners. Sometimes,
above the noise of their heavy boots, tramping along the flagstones,
could be heard a woman's stifled sobs, and looking around you would
see some poor mother or wife with her face buried in her handkerchief,
weeping bitterly.

At short intervals a door would open and shut, and a bailiff call out a
name or number.

This stifling atmosphere, and the sight of so much misery, made the
cashier ill and faint; he was feeling as if another five minutes' stay
among these wretched creatures would make him deathly sick, when a
little old man dressed in black, wearing the insignia of his office, a
steel chain, cried out:

"Prosper Bertomy!"

The unhappy man arose, and, without knowing how, found himself in the
office of the judge of instruction.

For a moment he was blinded. He had come out of a dark room; and the one
in which he now found himself had a window directly opposite the door,
so that a flood of light fell suddenly upon him.

This office, like all those on the gallery, was of a very ordinary
appearance, small and dingy.

The wall was covered with cheap dark green paper, and on the floor was a
hideous brown carpet, very much worn.

Opposite the door was a large desk, filled with bundles of law-papers,
behind which was seated the judge, facing those who entered, so that his
face remained in the shade, while that of the prisoner or witness whom
he questioned was in a glare of light.

At the right, before a little table, sat a clerk writing, the
indispensable auxiliary of the judge.

But Prosper observed none of these details: his whole attention was
concentrated upon the arbiter of his fate, and as he closely examined
his face he was convinced that the jailer was right in calling him an
honorable man.

M. Patrigent's homely face, with its irregular outline and short red
whiskers, lit up by a pair of bright, intelligent eyes, and a kindly
expression, was calculated to impress one favorably at first sight.

"Take a seat," he said to Prosper.

This little attention was gratefully welcomed by the prisoner, for he
had expected to be treated with harsh contempt. He looked upon it as a
good sign, and his mind felt a slight relief.

M. Patrigent turned toward the clerk, and said:

"We will begin now, Sigault; pay attention."

"What is your name?" he then asked, looking at Prosper.

"Auguste Prosper Bertomy."

"How old are you?"

"I shall be thirty the 5th of next May."

"What is your profession?"

"I am--that is, I was--cashier in M. Andre Fauvel's bank."

The judge stopped to consult a little memorandum lying on his desk.
Prosper, who followed attentively his every movement, began to be
hopeful, saying to himself that never would a man so unprejudiced have
the cruelty to send him to prison again.

After finding what he looked for, M. Patrigent resumed the examination.

"Where do you live?"

"At No. 39, Rue Chaptal, for the last four years. Before that time I
lived at No. 7, Boulevard des Batignolles."

"Where were you born?"

"At Beaucaire in the Department of the Gard."

"Are your parents living?"

"My mother died two years ago; my father is still living."

"Does he live in Paris?"

"No, monsieur: he lives at Beaucaire with my sister, who married one of
the engineers of the Southern Canal."

It was in broken tones that Prosper answered these last questions.
There are moments in the life of a man when home memories encourage
and console him; there are also moments when he would be thankful to be
without a single tie, and bitterly regrets that he is not alone in the
world.

M. Patrigent observed the prisoner's emotion, when he spoke of his
parents.

"What is your father's calling?" he continued.

"He was formerly superintendent of the bridges and canals; then he
was employed on the Southern Canal, with my brother-in-law; now he has
retired from business."

There was a moment's silence. The judge had turned his chair around, so
that, although his head was apparently averted, he had a good view of
the workings of Prosper's face.

"Well," he said, abruptly, "you are accused of 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 man,
somewhat wild, but rich enough to pay for his follies."

The judge wrote the name Lagors at the bottom of an already long list on
his memorandum.

"Now," he said, "we are coming to the point. You are sure that the theft
was not committed by anyone in your house?"

"Quite sure, monsieur."

"You always kept your key?"

"I generally carried it about on my person; and, whenever I left it at
home, I put it in the secretary drawer in my chamber."

"Where was it the evening of the robbery?"

"In my secretary."

"But then--"

"Excuse me for interrupting you," said M. Fauvel, "and to permit me to
tell you that, to a safe like mine, the key is of no importance. In the
first place, one is obliged to know the word upon which the five movable
buttons turn. With the word one can open it without the key; but without
the word--"

"And you never told this word to anyone?"

"To no one, monsieur, and sometimes I would have been puzzled to know
myself with what word the safe had been closed. Prosper would change it
when he chose, and, if he had not informed me of the change, would have
to come and open it for me."

"Had you forgotten it on the day of the theft?"

"No: the word had been changed the day before; and its peculiarity
struck me."

"What was it?"

"Gypsy, g, y, p, s, y," said the banker, spelling the name.

M. Patrigent wrote down this name.

"One more question, monsieur: were you at home the evening before the
robbery?"

"No; I dined and spent the evening with a friend; when I returned home,
about one o'clock, my wife had retired, and I went to bed immediately."

"And you were ignorant of the amount of money in the safe?"

"Absolutely. In conformity with my positive orders, I could only suppose
that a small sum had been left there over-night; I stated this fact to
the commissary in M. Bertomy's presence, and he acknowledged it to be
the case."

"Perfectly correct, monsieur: the commissary's report proves it." M.
Patrigent was for a time silent. To him everything depended upon this
one fact, that the banker was unaware of the three hundred and fifty
thousand francs being in the safe, and Prosper had disobeyed orders
by placing them there over-night; hence the conclusion was very easily
drawn.

Seeing that his examination was over, the banker thought that he would
relieve his mind of what was weighing upon it.

"I believe myself above suspicion, monsieur," he began, "and yet I can
never rest easy until Bertomy's guilt has been clearly proved. Calumny
prefers attacking a successful man: I may be calumniated: three hundred
and fifty thousand francs is a fortune capable of tempting even a
rich man. I would be obliged if you would have the condition of my
banking-house examined. This examination will prove that I could have
no interest in robbing my own safe. The prosperous condition of my
affairs--"

"That is sufficient, monsieur."

M. Patrigent was well informed of the high standing of the banker, and
knew almost as much of his affairs as did M. Fauvel himself.

He asked him to sign his testimony, and then escorted him to the door of
his office, a rare favor on his part.

When M. Fauvel had left the room, Sigault indulged in a remark.

"This seems to be a very cloudy case," he said; "if the cashier is
shrewd and firm, it will be difficult to convict him."

"Perhaps it will," said the judge, "but let us hear the other witnesses
before deciding."

The person who answered to the call for number four was Lucien, M.
Fauvel's eldest son.

He was a tall, handsome young man of twenty-two. To the judge's
questions he replied that he was very fond of Prosper, was once very
intimate with him, and had always regarded him as a strictly honorable
man, incapable of doing anything unbecoming a gentleman.

He declared that he could not imagine what fatal circumstances could
have induced Prosper to commit a theft. He knew he played cards, but not
to the extent that was reported. He had never known him to indulge in
expenses beyond his means.

In regard to his cousin Madeleine, he replied:

"I always thought that Prosper was in love with Madeleine, and, until
yesterday, I was certain he would marry her, knowing that my father
would not oppose their marriage. I have always attributed the
discontinuance of Prosper's visits to a quarrel with my cousin, but
supposed they would end by becoming reconciled."

This information, more than that of M. Fauvel, threw light upon
Prosper's past life, but did not apparently reveal any evidence which
could be used in the present state of affairs.

Lucien signed his deposition, and withdrew.

Cavaillon's turn for examination came next. The poor fellow was in a
pitiable state of mind when he appeared before the judge.

Having, as a great secret, confided to a friend his adventure with the
detective, and being jeered at for his cowardice in giving up the note,
he felt great remorse, and passed the night in reproaching himself for
having ruined Prosper.

He endeavored to repair, as well as he could, what he called his
treason.

He did not exactly accuse M. Fauvel, but he courageously declared that
he was the cashier's friend, and that he was as sure of his innocence as
he was of his own.

Unfortunately, besides his having no proofs to strengthen his
assertions, these were deprived of any value by his violent professions
of friendship for the accused.

After Cavaillon, six or eight clerks of the Fauvel bank successively
defiled in the judge's office; but their depositions were nearly all
insignificant.

One of them, however, stated a fact which the judge carefully noted.
He said he knew that Prosper had speculated on the Bourse through the
medium of M. Raoul de Lagors, and had gained immense sums.

Five o'clock struck before the list of witnesses summoned for the day
was exhausted. But the task of M. Patrigent was not yet finished. He
rang for his bailiff, who instantly appeared, and said to him:

"Go at once, and bring Fanferlot here."

It was some time before the detective answered the summons. Having met
a colleague on the gallery, he thought it his duty to treat him to a
drink; and the bailiff had found it necessary to bring him from the
little inn at the corner.

"How is it that you keep people waiting?" said the judge, when he
entered bowing and scraping. Fanferlot bowed more profoundly still.

Despite his smiling face, he was very uneasy. To prosecute the Bertomy
case alone, it required a double play that might be discovered at any
moment; to manage at once the cause of justice and his own ambition, he
ran great risks, the least of which was the losing of his place.

"I have a great deal to do," he said, to excuse himself, "and have not
wasted any time."

And he began to give a detailed account of his movements. He was
embarrassed, for he spoke with all sorts of restrictions, picking out
what was to be said, and avoiding what was to be left unsaid. Thus he
gave the history of Cavaillon's letter, which he handed to the judge;
but he did not breathe a word of Madeleine. On the other hand, he gave
biographical details, very minute indeed, of Prosper and Mme. Gypsy,
which he had collected from various quarters during the day.

As he progressed the conviction of M. Patrigent was strengthened.

"This young man is evidently guilty," he said. Fanferlot did not reply;
his opinion was different, but he was delighted that the judge was
on the wrong track, thinking that his own glory would thereby be the
greater when he discovered the real culprit. True, this grand discovery
was as far off as it had ever been; but Fanferlot was hopeful.

After hearing all he had to tell, the judge dismissed Fanferlot, telling
him to return the next day.

"Above all," he said, as Fanferlot left the room, "do not lose sight of
the girl Gypsy; she must know where the money is, and can put us on the
track."

Fanferlot smiled cunningly.

"You may rest easy about that, monsieur; the lady is in good hands."

Left to himself, although the evening was far advanced, M. Patrigent
continued to busy himself with the case, and to arrange that the rest of
the depositions should be made.

This case had actually taken possession of his mind; it was, at the same
time, puzzling and attractive. It seemed to be surrounded by a cloud of
mystery, and he determined to penetrate and dispel it.

The next morning he was in his office much earlier than usual. On this
day he examined Mme. Gypsy, recalled Cavaillon, and sent again for M.
Fauvel. For several days he displayed the same activity.

Of all the witnesses summoned, only two failed to appear.

One was the office-boy sent by Prosper to bring the money from the city
bank; he was ill from a fall.

The other was M. Raoul de Lagors.

But their absence did not prevent the file of papers relating to
Prosper's case from daily increasing; and on the ensuing Monday, five
days after the robbery, M. Patrigent thought he held in his hands enough
moral proof to crush the accused.




V

While his whole past was the object of the most minute investigations,
Prosper was in prison, in a secret cell.

The two first days had not appeared very long.

He had requested, and been granted, some sheets of paper, numbered,
which he was obliged to account for; and he wrote, with a sort of rage,
plans of defence and a narrative of justification.

The third day he began to be uneasy at not seeing anyone except the
condemned prisoners who were employed to serve those confined in secret
cells, and the jailer who brought him his food.

"Am I not to be examined again?" he would ask.

"Your turn is coming," the jailer invariably answered.

Time passed; and the wretched man, tortured by the sufferings of
solitary confinement which quickly breaks the spirit, sank into the
depths of despair.

"Am I to stay here forever?" he moaned.

No, he was not forgotten; for on Monday morning, at one o'clock, an hour
when the jailer never came, he heard the heavy bolt of his cell pushed
back.

He ran toward the door.

But the sight of a gray-headed man standing on the sill rooted him to
the spot.

"Father," he gasped, "father!"

"Your father, yes!"

Prosper's astonishment at seeing his father was instantly succeeded by a
feeling of great joy.

A father is one friend upon whom we can always rely. In the hour of
need, when all else fails, we remember this man upon whose knees we sat
when children, and who soothed our sorrows; and although he can in no
way assist us, his presence alone comforts and strengthens.

Without reflecting, Prosper, impelled by tender feeling, was about to
throw himself on his father's bosom.

M. Bertomy harshly repulsed him.

"Do not approach me!" he exclaimed.

He then advanced into the cell, and closed the door. The father and son
were alone together, Prosper heart-broken, crushed; M. Bertomy angry,
almost threatening.

Cast off by this last friend, by his father, the miserable young man
seemed to be stupefied with pain and disappointment.

"You too!" he bitterly cried. "You, you believe me guilty? Oh, father!"

"Spare yourself this shameful comedy," interrupted M. Bertomy: "I know
all."

"But I am innocent, father; I swear it by the sacred memory of my
mother."

"Unhappy wretch," cried M. Bertomy, "do not blaspheme!"

He seemed overcome by tender thoughts of the past, and in a weak, broken
voice, he added:

"Your mother is dead, Prosper, and little did I think that the day would
come when I could thank God for having taken her from me. Your crime
would have killed her, would have broken her heart!"

After a painful silence, Prosper said:

"You overwhelm me, father, and at the moment when I need all my courage;
when I am the victim of an odious plot."

"Victim!" cried M. Bertomy, "victim! Dare you utter your insinuations
against the honorable man who has taken care of you, loaded you with
benefits, and had insured you a brilliant future! It is enough for you
to have robbed him; do not calumniate him."

"For pity's sake, father, let me speak!"

"I suppose you would deny your benefactor's kindness. Yet you were at
one time so sure of his affection, that you wrote me to hold myself in
readiness to come to Paris and ask M. Fauvel for the hand of his niece.
Was that a lie too?"

"No," said Prosper in a choked voice, "no."

"That was a year ago; you then loved Mlle. Madeleine; at least you wrote
to me that you--"

"Father, I love her now, more than ever; I have never ceased to love
her."

M. Bertomy made a gesture of contemptuous pity.

"Indeed!" he cried, "and the thought of the pure, innocent girl whom you
loved did not prevent your entering upon a path of sin. You loved her:
how dared you, then, without blushing, approach her presence after
associating with the shameless creatures with whom you were so
intimate?"

"For Heaven's sake, let me explain by what fatality Madeleine--"

"Enough, monsieur, enough. I told you that I know everything. I saw M.
Fauvel yesterday; this morning I saw the judge, and 'tis to his kindness
that I am indebted for this interview. Do you know what mortification
I suffered before being allowed to see you? I was searched and made to
empty all of my pockets, on suspicion of bringing you arms!"

Prosper ceased to justify himself, but in a helpless, hopeless way,
dropped down upon a seat.

"I have seen your apartments, and at once recognized the proofs of your
crime. I saw silk curtains hanging before every window and door, and
the walls covered with pictures. In my father's house the walls were
whitewashed; and there was but one arm-chair in the whole house, and
that was my mother's. Our luxury was our honesty. You are the first
member of our family who has possessed Aubusson carpets; though, to be
sure, you are the first thief of our blood."

At this last insult Prosper's face flushed crimson, but he remained
silent and immovable.

"But luxury is necessary now," continued M. Bertomy, becoming more
excited and angry as he went on, "luxury must be had at any price. You
must have the insolent opulence and display of an upstart, without being
an upstart. You must support worthless women who wear satin slippers
lined with swan's-down, like those I saw in your rooms, and keep
servants in livery--and you steal! And bankers no longer trust their
safe-keys with anybody; and every day honest families are disgraced by
the discovery of some new piece of villainy."

M. Bertomy suddenly stopped. He saw that his son was not in a condition
to hear any more reproaches.

"But I will say no more," he said. "I came here not to reproach, but
to, if possible, save the honor of our name, to prevent it from being
published in the papers bearing the names of thieves and murderers.
Stand up and listen to me!"

At the imperious tone of his father, Prosper arose. So many successive
blows had reduced him to a state of torpor.

"First of all," began M. Bertomy, "how much have you remaining of the
stolen three hundred and fifty thousand francs?"

"Once more, father," replied the unfortunate man in a tone of hopeless
resignation, "once more I swear I am innocent."

"So I supposed you would say. Then our family will have to repair the
injury you have done M. Fauvel."

"What do you mean?"

"The day he heard of your crime, your brother-in-law brought me your
sister's dowry, seventy thousand francs. I succeeded in collecting a
hundred and forty thousand francs more. This makes two hundred and ten
thousand francs which I have brought with me to give to M. Fauvel."

This threat aroused Prosper from his torpor.

"You shall do nothing of the kind!" he cried with unrestrained
indignation.

"I will do so before the sun goes down this day. M. Fauvel will grant me
time to pay the rest. My pension is fifteen hundred francs. I can live
upon five hundred, and am strong enough to go to work again; and your
brother-in-law--"

M. Bertomy stopped short, frightened at the expression of his son's
face. His features were contracted with such furious rage that he was
scarcely recognizable, and his eyes glared like a maniac's.

"You dare not disgrace me thus!" he cried; "you have no right to do it.
You are free to disbelieve me yourself, but you have no right for taking
a step that would be a confession of guilt, and ruin me forever. Who
and what convinces you of my guilt? When cold justice hesitates, you,
my father, hesitate not, but, more pitiless than the law, condemn me
unheard!"

"I only do my duty."

"Which means that I stand on the edge of a precipice, and you push me
over. Do you call that your duty? What! between strangers who accuse me,
and myself who swear that I am innocent, you do not hesitate? Why? Is
it because I am your son? Our honor is at stake, it is true; but that is
only the more reason why you should sustain me, and assist me to defend
myself."

Prosper's earnest, truthful manner was enough to unsettle the firmest
convictions, and make doubt penetrate the most stubborn mind.

"Yet," said M. Bertomy in a hesitating tone, "everything seems to accuse
you."

"Ah, father, you do not know that I was suddenly banished from
Madeleine's presence; that I was compelled to avoid her. I became
desperate, and tried to forget my sorrow in dissipation. I sought
oblivion, and found shame and disgust. Oh, Madeleine, Madeleine!"

He was overcome with emotion; but in a few minutes he started up with
renewed violence in his voice and manner.

"Everything is against me!" he exclaimed, "but no matter. I will justify
myself or perish in the attempt. Human justice is liable to error;
although innocent, I may be convicted: so be it. I will undergo my
penalty; but people are not kept galley-slaves forever."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, father, that I am now another man. My life, henceforth, has an
object, vengeance! I am the victim of a vile plot. As long as I have a
drop of blood in my veins, I will seek its author. And I will certainly
find him; and then bitterly shall he expiate all of my cruel suffering.
The blow came from the house of Fauvel, and I will live to prove it."

"Take care: your anger makes you say things that you will repent
hereafter."

"Yes, I see, you are going to descant upon the probity of M. Andre
Fauvel. You will tell me that all the virtues have taken refuge in the
bosom of this patriarchal family. What do you know about it? Would this
be the first instance in which the most shameful secrets are concealed
beneath the fairest appearances? Why did Madeleine suddenly forbid me to
think of her? Why has she exiled me, when she suffers as much from our
separation as I myself, when she still loves me? For she does love me. I
am sure of it. I have proofs of it."

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 be a
true one.

"Who lent you the money?"

"M. Raoul de Lagors."

This witness had left Paris the day of the robbery, and could not be
found; so, for the time being, M. Patrigent wa