THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя
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the Boulevard des Dames. When he arrived there and asked for Charles Blétry, it seemed to him that he was eyed in a strange manner. The workmen told him to address himself to M. Date, who was in his office. Surprised at this reception, Marius decided to do so, and found the manufacturer engaged in conversation with three gentlemen, who stopped talking directly he showed himself.
“Can you tell me, sir,” inquired the young man, “if M. Charles Blétry is at the factory?”
Daste exchanged a rapid glance with one of the persons present, a stout, pale, and severe-looking man.
“M. Charles Blétry will return presently,” he replied. “Please wait for him. Are you a friend of his?”
“Yes,” replied Marius, simply. “He resides in the same house as I do. I have known him for about three years.”
There was a pause. The young man, thinking he was in the way, added, with a bow, and walking towards the door:
“I am much obliged to you. I will wait for him outside.”
Then the stout gentleman leant forward and said a few words to the manufacturer in a low voice. M. Daste signed to Marius to stay.
“Have the goodness to wait here,” he exclaimed. “Your presence may be useful to us. You must know something of M. Blétry’s mode of living, and can no doubt give us some information about him.”
Marius, greatly astonished, and not understanding, hesitated.
“Excuse me,” resumed M. Daste with great politeness, “I see that my words surprise you.” And indicating the stout man, he went on: “That gentleman is the police commissary of the district, and I have sent for him to arrest Charles Blétry who has robbed us of sixty thousand francs in two years.”
On hearing Charles accused of theft, Marius understood everything. He accounted for the young fellow’s lavish expenditure, and shuddered at the thought that he had been on the point of accepting his offers of service. He would never have believed that his neighbour could have been guilty of a mean action. He knew very well that there existed at Marseille, as in all great centres of industry, clerks who robbed their employers in order to satisfy their vices and their love of luxury; he had often heard of clerks earning a hundred or a hundred and fifty francs a month, and who managed to lose immense sums in gambling in the clubs, to throw gold to loose women, and to idle away their time in restaurants and cafés. But Charles seemed so pious, so modest, so honest, he had played the hypocrite so artfully, that Marius had been taken in by these appearances of probity, and he even now entertained doubts despite M. Daste’s formal accusation.
He seated himself and awaited the development of the drama. As a matter of fact he could not very well have done otherwise. During half-an-hour a mournful silence reigned in the office. The manufacturer was writing, whilst the police commissary and the two officers, mute and looking half asleep, gazed vaguely before them with terrible patience. Such a sight was calculated to make Marius honest had he been disposed to be otherwise. A step was heard outside, and the door slowly opened.
“Here’s our man,” said M. Daste, rising from his seat.
Charles Blétry entered quite unsuspiciously, without even noticing the persons who were there.
“You wish to see me, sir?” he asked, in that drawling voice peculiar to clerks when addressing their employers.
As M. Daste was looking him straight in the face, he turned round and beheld the police commissary, whom he knew by sight. He became ghastly pale, understanding that he was lost, and his whole body trembled. He had just walked into the meshes of the law with his eyes shut. Seeing that his frightened looks were accusing him, he tried to pull himself together and to recover a little coolness and audacity.
“Yes, I wish to see you!” M. Daste exclaimed, violently. “And you know why, don’t you? Ah! scoundrel, you’ll never rob me again!”
“I don’t know what you mean,” stammered Blétry. “I’ve never robbed you. What is it you accuse me of?”
The police commissary had seated himself at the manufacturer’s desk, ready to draw up his report, whilst the two officers were guarding the door.
“Kindly tell me, sir,” said the police commissary to M. Daste, “how you discovered that M. Blétry had been guilty of embezzling your money.”
Then M. Daste told the story of the crime. He noticed that occasionally his collector was an extremely long time in getting in certain monies. But as he had unlimited confidence in the young man, he attributed these delays to the dilatoriness of his customers. The first embezzlement must have occurred quite eighteen months back. Anyhow, the day before, one of his customers being on the verge of bankruptcy, he had gone personally to demand payment of an account amounting to five thousand francs, and had thereupon learnt that Blétry had collected it some weeks previously. Much alarmed, he had hurried back to the factory, and, by going through the cashier’s books, had convinced himself that about sixty thousand francs were missing.
The police commissary then proceeded to question Blétry. The latter, taken unawares and unable to deny the facts, concocted a ridiculous story.
“One day,” he said, “I lost my pocketbook containing forty thousand francs. I had not the courage to tell M. Daste of this great misfortune, so I embezzled some money to gamble on the stock exchange, hoping to win and so reimburse the firm.”
The police commissary asked him for particulars, confused him by his questions, and forced him to contradict himself. Blétry then tried another falsehood.
“You are right,” he resumed, “I did not lose the pocketbook. I prefer to tell you everything. The truth is I was robbed myself. I gave shelter to a young man who was hard-up. One night he went off with my collector’s bag, and it contained a considerable sum of money.”
“Come, don’t make your crime worse by lying,” said the commissary, with that terrifying patience of police officials. “You know very well that we can’t believe you. It’s no use inventing such rigmaroles.” He then turned to Marius and continued: “I asked M. Daste to detain you, sir, thinking you might be useful to us in our inquiry. The accused is, you said, your neighbour. Do you know anything about his mode of life. Will you not beseech him with us to tell the truth?”
Marius felt dreadfully embarrassed. He pitied Blétry, who was reeling like a drunken man and looking at him imploringly. The man was not a hardened scoundrel; no doubt he had given way to temptation, to a weak mind and heart. But Marius’s conscience would not be stilled, and commanded him to say what he knew. He did not reply to the police commissary directly, but preferred to address himself to Blétry.
“Listen, Charles,” he said, “I do not know whether you are guilty. I have always found you good and quiet. I am aware that you support your mother and that you are beloved by all who know you. If you have been guilty of wrong, admit your folly: you will cause less suffering to those who love and esteem you by frankly owning your guilt and showing sincere repentance.”
Marius spoke in a gentle and convincing voice. Blétry, whom the curt words of the police commissary had left dumb and inwardly irritated, gave way before his friend’s kindness. He thought of his mother, he thought of the esteem and the friendships he was about to lose, and his emotion nearly choked him. He burst into sobs, weeping hot tears in his closed hands; and for some minutes no sound was heard but the heartrending cry of his despair. It was a complete avowal. The spectators of the scene remained silent.
“Well! yes,” Blétry exclaimed at last, amidst his tears. “I have robbed, I’m a scoundrel — I didn’t know what I was about — I commenced by taking a few hundred francs, then I required a thousand, two thousand, five thousand, ten thousand francs at a time — It seemed as if someone was behind me, urging me on — And my needs, my appetites were ever increasing.”
“But what did you do with all that money?” asked the police commissary.
“I don’t know — I gave it away, lost it at play, devoured it somehow — You don’t know