The Greatest Works of Émile Gaboriau. Emile Gaboriau
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