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 wellknown 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