FILE NO. 113 (Unabridged). Emile Gaboriau
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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.
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