The Greatest Works of Émile Gaboriau. Emile Gaboriau
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