Thus proceeding from one point to another, and by the unaided power of his sagacity, coupled with indefatigable activity, the magistrate had succeeded in establishing Crochard’s guilt, and the existence of accomplices who had instigated the crime. No one could doubt that he was proud of it, and that his self-esteem had increased, although he tried hard to preserve his stiff and impassive appearance. He had even affected a certain dislike to the idea of reading Henrietta’s letter, until he should have proved that he could afford to do without such assistance.
But, now that he had proved this so amply, he very quickly asked for the letter, and read it. Like the chief surgeon, he, also, was struck and amazed by the wickedness of M. de Brevan.
“But here is exactly what we want,” he exclaimed,—“an irrefragable proof of complicity. He would never have dared to abuse Miss Ville- Handry’s confidence in so infamous a manner, if he had not been persuaded, in fact been quite sure, that Lieut. Champcey would never return to France.”
Then, after a few minutes’ reflection, he added,—
“And yet I feel that there is something underneath still, which we do not see. Why had they determined upon M. Champcey’s death even before he sailed? What direct and pressing interest could M. de Brevan have in wishing him dead at that time? Something must have happened between the two which we do not know.”
“What?”
“Ah! that is what I cannot conceive. But remember what I say, doctor: the future reserves some fearful mysteries yet to be revealed to us hereafter.”
The two men had been so entirely preoccupied with their thoughts, that they were unconscious of the flight of time; and they were not a little astonished, therefore, when they now noticed that the day was gone, and night was approaching. The lawyer rose, and asked, returning Henrietta’s letter to the doctor,—
“Is this the only one M. Champcey has received?”
“No; but it is the only one he has opened.”
“Would you object to handing me the others?”
The excellent doctor hesitated.
“I will hand them to you,” he said at last, “if you will assure me that the interests of justice require it. But why not wait”—
He did not dare say, “Why not wait for M. Champcey’s death?” but the lawyer understood him.
“I will wait,” he said.
While thus talking, they had reached the door. They shook hands; and the chief surgeon, his heart fall of darkest presentiments, slowly made his way to the hospital.
A great surprise awaited him there. Daniel, whom he had left in a desperate condition, almost dying,—Daniel slept profoundly, sweetly. His pale face had recovered its usual expression; and his respiration was free and regular.
“It is almost indescribable,” said the old doctor, whose experience was utterly at fault. “I am an ass; and our science is a bubble.”
Turning to Lefloch, who had respectfully risen at his entrance, he asked,—
“Since when has your master been sleeping in this way?”
“For an hour, commandant.”
“How did he fall asleep?”
“Quite naturally, commandant. After you left, the lieutenant was for some time pretty wild yet; but soon he quieted down, and finally he asked for something to drink. I gave him a cup of your tea; he took it, and then asked me to help him turn over towards the wall. I did so, and I saw him remain so, his arm bent, and his head in his hand, like a man who is thinking profoundly. But about a quarter of an hour later, all of a sudden, I thought I heard him gasp. I came up softly on tiptoe, and looked. I was mistaken; the lieutenant was not gasping, he was crying like a baby; and what I had heard were sobs. Ah, commandant! I felt as if somebody had kicked me in the stomach. Because, you see, I know him; and I know, that, before a man such as he is goes to crying like a little child, he must have suffered more than death itself. Holy God! If I knew where I could catch them, these rascals who give him all this trouble”—
His fists rose instinctively, and most undoubtedly something bright started from his eyes which looked prodigiously like a tear rolling slowly down one of the deep furrows in his cheek.
“Now,” he continued in a half-stifled voice, “I saw why the lieutenant had wished to turn his face to the wall, and I went back without making a noise. A moment after that, he began talking aloud. But he was right in his senses now, I tell you.”
“What did he say?”
“Ah! he said something like, ‘Henrietta, Henrietta!’ Always that good friend of his, for whom he was forever calling when he had the fever. And then he said, ‘I am killing her, I! I am the cause of her death. Fool, stupid, idiot that I am! He has sworn to kill me and Henrietta, the wretch! He swore it no doubt, the very day on which I, fool as I was, confided Henrietta and my whole fortune to him.’”
“Did he say that?”
“The very words, commandant, but better, a great deal better.”
The old surgeon seemed to be amazed.
“That cunning lawyer had judged rightly,” he said. “He suspected there was something else; and here it is.”
“You say, commandant?” asked the good sailor.
“Nothing of interest to you. Go on.”
“Well, after that—but there is nothing more to tell, except that I heard nothing more. The lieutenant remained in the same position till I came to light the lamp; then he ordered me to make him tack ship, and to let down the screen over the lamp. I did so. He gave out two or three big sighs, and then goodnight, and nothing more. He was asleep as you see him now.”
“And how did his eyes look when he fell asleep?”
“Quite calm and bright.”
The doctor looked like a man to whom something has happened which is utterly inexplicable to him, and said in a low voice,—
“He will pull through, I am sure now. I said there could not be another miracle; and here it is!”
Then turning to Lefloch, he asked,—
“You know where I am staying?”
“Yes, commandant.”
“If your officer wakes up in the night, you will send for me at once.”
“Yes, commandant.”
But Daniel did not wake up; and he had hardly opened his eyes on the next morning, about eight o’clock, when the chief surgeon entered his room. At the first glance at his patient, he exclaimed,—
“I am sure our imprudence yesterday will have no bad effects!”
Daniel said nothing; but, after the old surgeon had carefully examined him, he began,—
“Now, doctor, one question, a single one: in how many days will I be able to get up and take ship?”
“Ah! my dear lieutenant, there is time enough to talk about that.”
“No, doctor, no! I must have an answer. Fix a time, and I shall have the fortitude to wait; but uncertainty will kill me. Yes, I shall manage to wait, although I suffer like”—
The surgeon was evidently deeply touched.
“I know what you suffer, my poor Champcey,” he said; “I read that letter which came much nearer killing you than Crochard’s ball. I think in a month you will be able to sail.”
“A month!” said Daniel in a tone as if he had said an age. And after a pause he added,—
“That is not all, doctor: I want to ask you for the letters which I could not read yesterday.”
“What? You would—But that would be too great an imprudence.”
“No, doctor, don’t trouble yourself. The blow has fallen. If I did not lose my mind yesterday, that shows that my reason can stand the most terrible trial. I have, God be thanked, all my energy. I know I must live, if I want to save Henrietta,—to avenge her, if I should come too late. That thought, you may rest assured, will keep me alive.”
The surgeon hesitated no longer: the next moment Daniel opened the other two letters from Henrietta. One, very long, was only a repetition of the first he had read. The other consisted only of a few lines:—
“M. de Brevan has just left me. When the man told me mockingly that I need not count upon your return, and cast an atrocious look at me, I understood. Daniel, that man wants your life; and he has hired assassins. For my sake, if not for your own, I beseech you be careful. Take care, be watchful; think that you are the only friend, the sole hope here below, of your Henrietta.”
Now it was truly seen that Daniel had not presumed too much on his strength and his courage. Not a muscle in his face changed; his eye remained straight and clear; and he said in an accent of coldest, bitterest irony,—
“Look at this, doctor. Here is the explanation of the strange ill luck that has pursued me ever since I left France.”
At a glance the doctor read Henrietta’s warning, which came, alas! so much too late.
“You ought to remember this, also, that M. de Brevan could not foresee that the assassin he had hired would be caught.”
This was an unexpected revelation; and Daniel was all attention.
“What?” he said. “The man who fired at me has been arrested?”
Lefloch was unable to restrain himself at this juncture, and replied,—
“I should say so, lieutenant, and by my hand, before his gun had cooled off.”
The doctor did not wait for the questions which he read in the eyes of his patient. He said at once,—
“It is as Lefloch says, my dear lieutenant; and, if you have not been told anything about it, it was because the slightest excitement would become fatal. Yesterday’s experience has only proved that too clearly. Yes, the assassin is in jail.”
“And his account is made up,” growled the sailor.
But Daniel shrugged his shoulders, and said,—
“I do not want him punished, any more than the ball which hit me. That wretched creature is a mere tool. But, doctor, you know who are the real guilty ones.”
“And justice shall be done, I swear!” broke in the old surgeon, who looked upon the cause of his patient with as much interest as if it were his own. “Our lucky star has sent us a lawyer who is no trifler, and who, if I am not very much mistaken, would like very much to leave Saigon with a loud blast of trumpets.”
He remained buried in thought for a while, watching his patient out of the corner of his eye, and then said suddenly,—
“Now I think of it, why could you not see the lawyer? He is all anxiety to examine you. Consider, lieutenant, do you feel strong enough to see him?”
“Let him come,” cried Daniel, “let him come! Pray, doctor, go for him at once!”
“I shall do my best, my dear Champcey. I will go at once, and leave you to finish your correspondence.”
He left the room with these words; and Daniel turned to the letters, which were still lying on his bed. There were seven of them,—four from the Countess Sarah, and three from Maxime. But what could they tell him now? What did he care for the falsehoods and the calumnies they contained? He ran over them, however.
Faithful to her system, Sarah wrote volumes; and from line to line, in some way or other, her real or feigned love for Daniel broke forth more freely, and no longer was veiled and hidden under timid reserve and long-winded paraphrases. She gave herself up, whether her prudence had forsaken her, or whether she felt quite sure that her letters could never reach Count Ville-Handry. It sounded like an intense, irresistible passion, escaping from the control of the owner, and breaking forth terribly, like a long smouldering fire. Of Henrietta she said but little,—enough, however, to terrify Daniel, if he had not known the truth.
“That unfortunate, wayward girl,” she wrote, “has just caused her aged father such cruel and unexpected grief, that he was on the brink of the grave. Weary of the control which her indiscretions rendered indispensable, she has fled, we know not with whom; and all our efforts to find her have so far been unsuccessful.”
On the other hand, M. de Brevan wrote, “Deaf to my counsel and prayers even, Miss Ville-Handry has carried out the project of leaving her paternal home. Suspected of having favored her escape, I have been called out by Sir Thorn, and had to fight a duel with him. A paper which I enclose will give you the details of our meeting, and tell you that I was lucky enough to wound that gentleman of little honor, but of great skill with the pistol.
“Alas! my poor, excellent Daniel, why should I be compelled by the duties of friendship to confess to you that it was not for the purpose of remaining faithful to you, that Miss Henrietta was so anxious to be free? Do not desire to return, my poor friend! You would suffer too much in finding her whom you have loved so dearly unworthy of an honest man, unworthy of you. Believe me, I did all I could to prevent her irregularities, which now have become public. I only drew her hatred upon me, and I should not be surprised if she did all she could to make us all cut our throats.”
This impudence was bold enough to confound anybody’s mind, and to make one doubt one’s own good sense. Still he found the newspaper, which had been sent to him with the letter, and in it the account of the duel between M. de Brevan and M. Thomas Elgin. What did that signify? He once more read over, more attentively than at first, the letters of Maxime and the Countess Sarah; and, by comparing them with each other, he thought he noticed in them some traces of a beginning disagreement.
“It may be that there is discord among my enemies,” he said to himself, “and that they do no longer agree, now that, in their view, the moment approaches when they are to divide the proceeds of their crimes. Or did they never agree, and am I the victim of a double plot? Or is the whole merely a comedy for the purpose of deceiving me, and keeping me here, until the murderer has done his work?”
He was not allowed to torture his mind long with efforts to seek the solution of this riddle. The old doctor came back with the lawyer, and for more than half an hour he had to answer an avalanche of questions. But the investigation had been carried on with such rare sagacity, that Daniel could furnish the prosecution only a single new fact,—the surrender of his entire fortune into the hands of M. de Brevan.
And even this fact must needs, on account of its extreme improbability, remain untold in an investigation which was based upon logic alone. Daniel very naturally, somewhat ashamed of his imprudence, tried to excuse himself; and, when he had concluded his explanations, the lawyer said,—
“Now, one more question: would you recognize the man who attempted to drown you in the Dong-Nai in a boat which he had offered to you, and which he upset evidently on purpose?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah! that is a pity. That man was Crochard, I am sure; but he will deny it; and the prosecution will have nothing but probabilities to oppose to his denial, unless I can find the place where he changed his clothes.”
“Excuse me, there is a way to ascertain his identity.”
“How?”
“The voice of the wretch is so deeply engraven on my mind, that even at this moment, while I am speaking to you, I think I can hear it in my ear; and I would recognize it among a thousand.”
The lawyer made no reply, weighing, no doubt, in his mind the chances of a confrontation. Then he made up his mind, and said,—
“It is worth trying.”
And handing his clerk, who had been a silent witness of this scene, an order to have the accused brought to the hospital, he said,—
“Take this to the jail, and let them make haste.”
It was a month now since Crochard had been arrested; and his imprisonment, so far from discouraging him, had raised his spirits. At first, his arrest and the examination had frightened him; but, as the days went by, he recovered his insolence.
“They are evidently looking for evidence,” he said; “but, as they cannot find any, they will have to let me go.”
He looked, therefore, as self-assured as ever when he came into Daniel’s room, and exclaimed, while still in the door, with an air of intolerable arrogance,—
“Well? I ask for justice; I am tired of jail. If I am guilty, let them cut my throat; if I am innocent”—
But Daniel did not let him finish.
“That is the man!” he exclaimed; “I am ready to swear to it, that is the man!”
Great as was the impudence of Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, he was astonished, and looked with rapid, restless eyes at the chief surgeon, at the magistrate, and last at Lefloch, who stood immovable at the foot of the bed of his lieutenant. He had too much experience of legal forms not to know that he had given way to absurd illusions,—and that his position was far more dangerous than he had imagined. But what was their purpose? what had they found out? and what did they know positively? The effort he made to guess all this gave to his face an atrocious expression.
“Did you hear that, Crochard?” asked the lawyer.
But the accused had recovered his self-control by a great effort; and he replied,—
“I am not deaf.” And there was in his voice the unmistakable accent of the former vagabond of Paris. “I hear perfectly well; only I don’t understand.”
The magistrate, finding that, where he was seated, he could not very well observe Crochard, had quietly gotten up, and was now standing near the mantle-piece, against which he rested.
“On the contrary,” he said severely, “you understand but too well Lieut. Champcey says you are the man who tried to drown him in the Dong-Nai. He recognizes you.”
“That’s impossible!” exclaimed the accused. “That’s impossible; for”—
But the rest of the phrase remained in his throat. A sudden reflection had shown him the trap in which he had been caught,—a trap quite familiar to examining lawyers, and terrible by its very simplicity. But for that reflection, he would have gone on thus,—
“That’s impossible; for the night was too dark to distinguish a man’s features.”
And that would have been equivalent to a confession; and he would have had nothing to answer the magistrate, if the latter had asked at once,—
“How do you know that the darkness was so great on the banks of the Dong-Nai? It seems you were there, eh?”
Quite pallid with fright, the accused simply said,—
“The officer must be mistaken.”
“I think not,” replied the magistrate.
Turning to Daniel, he asked him,—
“Do you persist in your declaration, lieutenant?”
“More than ever, sir; I declare upon honor that I recognize the man’s voice. When he offered me a boat, he spoke a kind of almost unintelligible jargon, a mixture of English and Spanish words; but he did not think of changing his intonation and his accent.”
Affecting an assurance which he was far from really feeling, Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, shrugged his shoulders carelessly, and said,—
“Do I know any English? Do I know any Spanish?”
“No, very likely not; but like all Frenchmen who live in this colony, and like all the marines, you no doubt know a certain number of words of these two languages.”
To the great surprise of the doctor and of Daniel, the prisoner did not deny it; it looked as if he felt that he was on dangerous ground.
“Never mind!” he exclaimed in the most arrogant manner. “It is anyhow pretty hard to accuse an honest man of a crime, because his voice resembles the voice of a rascal.”
The magistrate gently shook his head. He said,—
“Do you pretend being an honest man?”
“What! I pretend? Let them send for my employers.”
“That is not necessary. I know your antecedents, from the first petty theft that procured you four months’ imprisonment, to the aggravated robbery for which you were sent to the penitentiary, when you were in the army.”
Profound stupor lengthened all of Crochard’s features; but he was not the man to give up a game in which his head was at stake, without fighting for it.
“Well, there you are mistaken,” he said very coolly. “I have been condemned to ten years, that is true, when I was a soldier; but it was for having struck an officer who had punished me unjustly.”
“You lie. A former soldier of your regiment, who is now in garrison here in Saigon, will prove it.”
For the first time the accused seemed to be really troubled. He saw all of a sudden his past rising before him, which until now he had thought unknown or forgotten; and he knew full well the weight which antecedents like his would have in the scales of justice. So he changed his tactics; and, assuming an abject humility, he said,—
“One may have committed a fault, and still be incapable of murdering a man.”
“That is not your case.”
“Oh! how can you say such a thing?—I who would not harm a fly. Unlucky gun! Must I needs have such a mishap?”
The magistrate had for some time been looking at the accused with an air of the most profound disgust. He interrupted him rudely now, and said,—
“Look here, my man! Spare us those useless denials. Justice knows everything it wants to know. That shot was the third attempt you made to murder a man.”
Crochard drew back. He looked livid. But he had still the strength to say in a half-strangled voice,—
“That is false!”
But the magistrate had too great an abundance of evidence to allow the examination to continue. He said simply,—
“Who, then, threw, during the voyage, an enormous block at M. Champcey’s head? Come, don’t deny it. The emigrant who was near you, who saw you, and who promised he would not report you at that time, has spoken. Do you want to see him?”
Once more Crochard opened his lips to protest his innocence; but he could not utter a sound. He was crushed, annihilated; he trembled in all his limbs; and his teeth rattled in his mouth. In less than no time, his features had sunk in, as it were, till he looked like a man at the foot of the scaffold. It may be, that, feeling he was irretrievably lost, he had had a vision of the fatal instrument.
“Believe me,” continued the lawyer, “do not insist upon the impossible; you had better tell the truth.”
For another minute yet, the miserable man hesitated. Then, seeing no other chance of safety, except the mercy of the judges, he fell heavily on his knees, and stammered out,—
“I am a wretched man.”
At the same instant a cry of astonishment burst from the doctor, from Daniel, and the worthy Lefloch. But the man of law was not surprised. He knew in advance that the first victory would be easily won, and that the real difficulty would be to induce the prisoner to confess the name of his principal. Without giving him, therefore time to recover, he said,—
“Now, what reasons had you for persecuting M. Champcey in this way?”
The accused rose again; and, making an effort, he said slowly,—
“I hated him. Once during the voyage he had threatened to have me put in irons.”
“The man lies!” said Daniel.
“Do you hear?” asked the lawyer. “So you will not tell the truth? Well, I will tell it for you. They had hired you to kill Lieut. Champcey, and you wanted to earn your money. You got a certain sum of money in advance; and you were to receive a larger sum after his death.”
“I swear”—
“Don’t swear! The sum in your possession, which you cannot account for, is positive proof of what I say.”
“Alas! I possess nothing. You may inquire. You may order a search.”
Under the impassive mask of the lawyer, a certain degree of excitement could at this moment be easily discerned. The time had come to strike a decisive blow, and to judge of the value of his system of induction. Instead, therefore, of replying to the prisoner, he turned to the gendarmes who were present and said to them,—
“Take the prisoner into the next room. Strip him, and examine all his clothes carefully: see to it that there is nothing hid in the lining.”
The gendarmes advanced to seize the prisoner, when he suddenly jumped up, and said in a tone of ill-constrained rage,—
“No need for that! I have three one thousand-franc-notes sewn into the lining of my trousers.”
This time the pride of success got completely the better of the imperturbable coldness of the magistrate. He uttered a low cry of satisfaction, and could not refrain from casting a look of triumph at Daniel and the doctor, which said clearly,—
“Well? What did I tell you?”
It was for a second only; the next instant his features resumed their icy immobility; and, turning to the accused, he said in a tone of command,—
“Hand me the notes!”
Crochard did not stir; but his livid countenance betrayed the fierce suffering he endured. Certainly, at this moment, he did not play a part. To take from him his three thousand francs, the price of the meanest and most execrable crime; the three thousand francs for the sake of which he had risked the scaffold,—this was like tearing his entrails from him.
Like an enraged brute who sees that the enemy is all-powerful, he gathered all his strength, and, with a furious look, glanced around the room to see if he could escape anywhere, asking himself, perhaps, upon which of the men he ought to throw himself for the purpose.
“The notes!” repeated the inexorable lawyer. “Must I order force to be used?”
Convinced of the uselessness of resistance, and of the folly of any attempt at escape, the wretch hung his head.
“But I cannot undo the seams of my trousers with my nails,” he said. “Let them give me a knife or a pair of scissors.”
They were careful not to do so. But, at a sign given by the magistrate, one of the gendarmes approached, and, drawing a penknife from his pocket, ripped the seam at the place which the prisoner pointed out. A genuine convulsion of rage seized the assassin, when a little paper parcel appeared, folded up, and compressed to the smallest possible size. By a very curious phenomenon, which is, however, quite frequently observed in criminals, he was far more concerned about his money than about his life, which was in such imminent danger.
“That is my money!” he raged. “No one has a right to take it from me. It is infamous to ill use a man who has been unfortunate, and to rob him.”
The magistrate, no doubt quite accustomed to such scenes, did not even listen to Crochard, but carefully opened the packet. It contained three notes of a thousand francs each, wrapped up in a sheet of letter-paper, which was all greasy, and worn out in the folds. The bank-notes had nothing peculiar; but on the sheet of paper, traces could be made out of lines of writing; and at least two words were distinctly legible,—UniversityandStreet.
“What paper is this, Crochard?” asked the lawyer.
“I don’t know. I suppose I picked it up somewhere.”
“What? Are you going to lie again? What is the use? Here is evidently the address of some one who lives in University Street.”
Daniel was trembling on his bed.
“Ah, sir!” he exclaimed, “I used to live in University Street, Paris.”
A slight blush passed over the lawyer’s face, a sign of unequivocal satisfaction in him. He uttered half loud, as if replying to certain objections in his own mind,—
“Everything is becoming clear.”
And yet, to the great surprise of his listeners, he abandoned this point; and, returning to the prisoner, he asked him,—
“So you acknowledge having received money for the murder of Lieut. Champcey?”
“I never said so.”
“No; but the three thousand francs found concealed on your person say so very clearly. From whom did you receive this money?”
“From nobody. They are my savings.”
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders; and, looking very sternly at Crochard, he said,—
“I have before compelled you to make a certain confession. I mean to do so again and again. You will gain nothing, believe me, by struggling against justice; and you cannot save the wretches who tempted you to commit this crime. There is only one way left to you, if you wish for mercy; and that is frankness. Do not forget that!”
The assassin was, perhaps, better able to appreciate the importance of such advice than anybody else there present. Still he remained silent for more than a minute, shaken by a kind of nervous tremor, as if a terrible struggle was going on in his heart. He was heard to mutter,—
“I do not denounce anybody. A bargain is a bargain. I am not a tell- tale.”
Then, all of a sudden, making up his mind, and showing himself just the man the magistrate had expected to find, he said with a cynic laugh,—
“Upon my word, so much the worse for them! Since I am in the trap, let the others be caught as well! Besides, who would have gotten the big prize, if I had succeeded? Not I, most assuredly; and yet it was I who risked most. Well, then, the man who hired me to ‘do the lieutenant’s business’ is a certain Justin Chevassat.”
The most intense disappointment seized both Daniel and the surgeon. This was not the name they had been looking for with such deep anxiety.
“Don’t you deceive me, Crochard?” asked the lawyer, who alone had been able to conceal all he felt.
“You may take my head if I lie!”
Did he tell the truth? The lawyer thought he did; for, turning to Daniel, he asked,—
“Do you know anybody by the name of Chevassat, M. Champcey?”
“No. It is the first time in my life I hear that name.”
“Perhaps that Chevassat was only an agent,” suggested the doctor.
“Yes, that may be,” replied the lawyer; “although, in such matters, people generally do their own work.”
And, continuing his examination, he asked the accused,—
“Who is this Justin Chevassat?”
“One of my friends.”
“A friend richer than yourself, I should think?”
“As to that—why, yes; since he has always plenty of money in his pockets, dresses in the last fashion, and drives his carriage.”
“What is he doing? What is his profession?”
“Ah! as to that, I know nothing about it. I never asked him, and he never told me. I once said to him, ‘Do you know you look like a prodigiously lucky fellow?’ And he replied, ‘Oh, not as much so as you think;’ but that is all.”
“Where does he live?”
“In Paris, Rue Louis, 39.”
“Do you write to him there? For I dare say you have written to him since you have been in Saigon.”
“I send my letters to M. X. O. X. 88.”
It became evident now, that, so far from endeavoring to save his accomplices, Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, would do all he could to aid justice in discovering them. He began to show the system which the wretch was about to adopt,—to throw all the responsibility and all the odium of the crime on the man who had hired him, and to appear the poor devil, succumbing to destitution when he was tempted and dazzled by such magnificent promises, that he had not the strength to resist. The lawyer continued,—
“Where and how did you make the acquaintance of this Justin Chevassat?”
“I made his acquaintance at the galleys.”
“Ah! that is becoming interesting. And do you know for what crime he had been condemned?”
“For forgery, I believe, and also for theft.”
“And what was he doing before he was condemned?”
“He was employed by a banker, or perhaps as cashier in some large establishment. At all events, he had money to handle; and it stuck to his fingers.”
“I am surprised, as you are so well informed with regard to this man’s antecedents, that you should know nothing of his present means of existence.”
“He has money, plenty of money; that is all I know.”
“Have you lost sight of him?”
“Why, yes. Chevassat was set free long before I was. I believe he was pardoned; and I had not met him for more than fifteen years.”
“How did you find him again?”
“Oh! by the merest chance, and a very bad chance for me; since, but for him, I would not be here.”
Never would a stranger who should have suddenly come into Daniel’s chamber, upon seeing Crochard’s attitude, have imagined that the wretch was accused of a capital crime, and was standing there before a magistrate, in presence of the man whom he had tried three times to assassinate.
Quite at home in the law, as far as it was studied at the galleys, he had instantly recognized that his situation was by no means so desperate as he had at first supposed; that, if the jury rendered a verdict of guilty of death, it would be against the instigator of the crime, and that he would probably get off with a few years’ penal servitude.
Hence he had made up his mind about his situation with that almost bestial indifference which characterizes people who are ready for everything, and prepared for everything. He had recovered from that stupor which the discovery of his crime had produced in him, and from the rage in which he had been thrown by the loss of his bank-notes. Now there appeared, under the odious personage of the murderer, the pretentious and ridiculous orator of the streets and prisons, who is accustomed to make himself heard, and displays his eloquence with great pride.
He assumed a studied position; and it was evident that he was preparing himself for his speech, although, afterwards, a good many words escaped him which are found in no dictionary, but belong to the jargon of the lowest classes, and serve to express the vilest sentiments.
“It was,” he began, “a Friday, an unlucky day,—a week, about, before ‘The Conquest’ sailed. It might have been two o’clock. I had eaten nothing; I had not a cent in my pockets and I was walking along the boulevards, loafing, and thinking how I could procure some money.
“I had crossed several streets, when a carriage stopped close to me; and I saw a very fine gentleman step out, a cigar in his mouth, a gold chain across his waistcoat, and a flower in his buttonhole. He entered a glove-shop.
“At once I said to myself, ‘Curious! I have seen that head somewhere.’
“Thereupon, I go to work, and remain fixed to the front of the shop, a little at the side, though, you know, at a place where, without being seen myself, I could very well watch my individual, who laughed and talked, showing his white teeth, while a pretty girl was trying on a pair of gloves. The more I looked at him, the more I thought, ‘Positively, Bagnolet, although that sweet soul don’t look as if he were a member of your society, you know him.’
“However, as I could not put a name to that figure, I was going on my way, when suddenly my memory came back to me, and I said, ‘Cretonne, it is an old comrade. I shall get my dinner.’
“After all, I was not positively sure; because why? Fifteen years make a difference in a man, especially when he does not particularly care to be recognized. But I had a little way of my own to make the thing sure.
“I waited, therefore, for my man; and, at the moment when he crossed the sidewalk to get into his carriage, I stepped up, and cried out, though not very loud, ‘Eh, Chevassat!’
“The scamp! They might have fired a cannon at his ear, and he would not have jumped as he did when I spoke to him. And white he was,—as white as his collar. But, nevertheless, he was not without his compass, the screw. He puts up his eyeglass, and looks at me up and down; and then he says in his finest manner, ‘What is it, my good fellow? Do you want to speak to me?’
“Thereupon, quite sure of my business now, I say, ‘Yes, to you, Justin Chevassat. Don’t you recall me? Evariste Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet; eh? Do you recollect now?’ However, the gentleman continued to hold his head high, and to look at me. At last he says, ‘Ifyou do not clear out, I will call a policeman.’ Well, the mustard got into my nose, and I began to cry, to annoy him, so as to collect a crowd,—
“‘What, what! Policemen, just call them, please do! They will take us before a magistrate. If I am mistaken, they won’t hang me; but, if I am not mistaken, they will laugh prodigiously. What have I to risk? Nothing at all; for I have nothing.’
“I must tell you, that, while I said all this, I looked at him fixedly with the air of a man who has nothing in his stomach, and who is bent upon putting something into it. He also looked at me fixedly; and, if his eyes had been pistols—but they were not. And, when he saw I was determined, the fine gentleman softened down.
“‘Make no noise,’ he whispered, looking with a frightened air at all the idlers who commenced to crowd around us. And pretending to laugh very merrily,—for the benefit of the spectators, you know,—he said, speaking very low and very rapidly,—
“‘In the costume that you have on, I cannot ask you to get into my carriage; that would only compromise us both uselessly. I shall send my coachman back, and walk home. You can follow quietly; and, when we get into a quiet street, we will take a cab, and talk.’
“As I was sure I could catch him again, if he should try to escape, I approved the idea. ‘All right. I understand.’”
The magistrate suddenly interrupted the accused. He thought it of great importance that Crochard’s evidence should be written down, word for word; and he saw, that, for some little while, the clerk had been unable to follow.
“Rest a moment, Crochard,” he said.
And when the clerk had filled up what was wanting, and the magistrate had looked it over, he said to the prisoner,—
“Now you can go on, but speak more slowly.”
The wretch smiled, well pleased. This permission gave him more time to select his words, and this flattered his vanity; for even the lowest of these criminals have their weak point, in which their vanity is engaged.
“Don’t let your soup get cold,” he continued. “Chevassat said a few words to his coachman, who whipped the horse, and there he was, promenading down the boulevard, turning his cane this way, puffing out big clouds of smoke, as if he had not the colic at the thought that his friend Bagnolet was following on his heels.
“I ought to say that he had lots of friends, very genteel friends, who wished him good-evening as they passed him. There were some even who stopped him, shook hands with him, and offered to treat him; but he left them all promptly, saying, ‘Excuse me, pray, I am in a hurry.’
“Why, yes, he was in a hurry; and I who was behind him, and saw and heard it all, I laughed in my sleeve most heartily.”
Whatever advantage there may be in not interrupting a great talker, who warms up as he talks, and consequently forgets himself, the magistrate became impatient.
“Spare us your impressions,” he said peremptorily.
This was not what Crochard expected. He looked hurt, and went on angrily,—
“In fine, my individual goes down the boulevard as far as the opera, turns to the right, crosses the open square, and goes down the first street to the left. Here a cab passes; he hails it; orders the driver to takeusto Vincennes. We get in; and his first care is to let down the curtains. Then he looks at me with a smile, holds out his hand, and says, ‘Well, old man! how are you?’
“At first, when I saw myself so well received, I was quite overcome. Then reflecting, I thought, ‘It is not natural for him to be so soft. He is getting ready for some trick. Keep your eyes open, Bagnolet.’
“‘Then you are not angry that I spoke to you; eh?’ He laughs, and says, ‘No.’
“Then I, ‘However, you hadn’t exactly a wedding-air when I spoke to you, and I thought you were looking for a way to get rid of me unceremoniously.’ But he said very seriously, ‘Look here, I am going to talk to you quite openly! For a moment I was surprised; but I was not annoyed. I have long foreseen something of the kind would happen; and I know that every time I go out I run the risk of meeting a former comrade. You are not the first who has recognized me, and I am prepared to save myself all annoyance. If I wanted to get rid of you, this very evening you would have lost all trace of me, thanks to a little contrivance I have arranged. Besides, as you are in Paris without leave, before twenty-four hours are over, you wouldbein jail.’ He told me all this so calmly, that I felt it was so, and that the scamp had some special trick.
“‘Then,’ I said, ‘you rather like meeting an old friend, eh?’
“He looked me straight in the face and replied, ‘Yes; and the proof of it is, that if you were not here, sitting at my side, and if I had known where to find you, I should have gone in search of you. I have something to do for you.’”
Henceforth Bagnolet had reason to be satisfied.
Although the magistrate preserved his impassive appearance, Daniel and the chief surgeon listened with breathless attention, feeling that the prisoner had come to the really important part of his confession, from which, no doubt, much light would be obtained. Lefloch himself listened with open mouth; and one could follow on his ingenuous countenance all the emotions produced by the recital of the criminal, who, but for him, would probably have escaped justice.
“Naturally,” continued Crochard, “when he talked of something to do, I opened my ears wide. ‘Why,’ I said, ‘I thought you had retired from business.’ And I really thought he had. ‘You are mistaken,’ he replied. ‘Since I left that place you know of, I have been living nicely. But I have not put anything aside; and if an accident should happen to me, which I have reason to fear, I would be destitute.’
“I should have liked very much to know more; but he would not tell me anything else concerning himself; and I had to give him my whole history since my release. Oh! that was soon done. I told him how nothing I had undertaken had ever succeeded; that, finally, I had been a waiter in a drinking-shop; that they had turned me out; and that for a month now I had been walking the streets, having not a cent, no clothes, no lodgings, and no bed but the quarries.
“‘Since that is so,’ he said, ‘you shall see what a comrade is.’ I ought to say that the cab had been going all the time we were talking, and that we were out in the suburbs now. My Chevassat raised the blind to look out; and, as soon as he saw a clothing store, he ordered the driver to stop there. The driver did so; and then Chevassat said to me, ‘Come, old man, we’ll begin by dressing you up decently.’ So we get out; and upon my word, he buys me a shirt, trousers, a coat, and everything else that was needful; he pays for a silk hat, and a pair of varnished boots. Farther down the street was a watchmaker. I declare he makes me a present of a gold watch, which I still have, and which they seized when they put me in jail. Finally, he has spent his five hundred francs, and gives me eighty francs to boot, to play the gentleman.
“You need not ask if I thanked him, when we got back into the cab. After such misery as I had endured, my morals came back with my clothes. I would have jumped into the fire for Chevassat. Alas! I would not have been so delighted, if I had known what I should have to pay for all this; for in the first place”—
“Oh, go on!” broke in the lawyer; “go on!”
Not without some disappointment, Crochard had to acknowledge that everything purely personal did not seem to excite the deepest interest. He made a face, full of spite, and then went on, speaking more rapidly,—
“All these purchases had taken some time; so that it was six o’clock, and almost dark, when we reached Vincennes. A little before we got into the town, Chevassat stopped the cab, paid the driver, sends him back, and, taking me by the arm, says, ‘You must be hungry: let us dine.’
“So we first absorb a glass of absinthe; then he carries me straight to the best restaurant, asks for a private room, and orders a dinner. Ah, but a dinner! Merely to hear it ordered from the bill of fare made my mouth water.
“We sit down; and I, fearing nothing, would not have changed places with the pope. And I talked, and I ate, and I drank; I drank, perhaps, most; for I had not had anything to drink for a long time; and, finally, I was rather excited. Chevassat seemed to have unbuttoned, and told me lots of funny things which set me a-laughing heartily. But when the coffee had been brought, with liquors in abundance, and cigars at ten cents apiece, my individual rises, and pushes the latch in the door; for there was a latch.
“Then he comes back, and sits down right in front of me, with his elbows on the table. ‘Now, old man,’ he says, ‘we have had enough laughing and talking. I am a good fellow, you know; but you understand that I am not treating you for the sake of your pretty face alone. I want a good stout fellow; and I thought you might be the man.’
“Upon my word, he told me that in such a peculiar way, that I felt as if somebody had kicked me in the stomach; and I began to be afraid of him. Still I concealed my fears, and said, ‘Well, let us see; go it! What’s the row?’
“At once he replies, ‘As I told you before, I have not laid up a cent. But if anything should happen to a certain person whom I think of, I should be rich; and you—why, you might be rich too, if you were willing to give him a little push with the elbow, so that the thing might happen to him a little sooner.’”
Earnestly bent upon the part which he had to play for the sake of carrying out his system of defence, the prisoner assumed more and more hypocritical repentance, an effort which gave to his wicked face a peculiarly repulsive expression.
The magistrate, however, though no doubt thoroughly disgusted with this absurd comedy, did not move a muscle of his face, nor make a gesture, anxious, as he was, not to break the thread of this important deposition.
“Ah, sir!” exclaimed Crochard, his hand upon his heart, “when I heard Chevassat talk that way, my heart turned within me, and I said, ‘Unfortunate man, what do you mean? I should commit a murder? Never! I’d rather die first!’ He laughed, and replied, ‘Don’t be a fool; who talks to you of murder? I spoke of an accident. Besides, you would not risk anything. The thing would happen to him abroad.’ I continued, however, to refuse, and I spoke even of going away; when Chevassat seized a big knife, and said, now that I had his secret, I was bound to go on. If not!—he looked at me with such a terrible air, that, upon my word, I was frightened, and sat down again.
“Then, all at once, he became as jolly again as before; and, whilst he kept pouring the brandy into my glass, he explained to me that I would be a fool to hesitate; that I could never in all my life find such a chance again of making a fortune; that I would most certainly succeed; and that then I would have an income, keep a carriage as he did, wear fine clothes, and have every day a dinner like the one we had just been enjoying together.
“I became more and more excited. This lot of gold which he held up before my mind’s eyes dazzled me; and the strong drink I had been taking incessantly got into my head. Then he flourished again the big knife before my face; and finally I did not know what I was saying or doing. I got up; and, striking the table with my fist, I cried out, ‘I am your man!’”
Although, probably, the whole scene never took place, except in the prisoner’s imagination, Daniel could not help trembling under his cover, at the thought of these two wretches arranging for his death, while they were there, half drunk, glass in hand, and their elbows resting on a table covered with wine-stains. Lefloch, on his part, stood grasping the bedstead so hard with his hand, that the wood cracked. Perhaps he dreamed he held in his grasp the neck of the man who was talking so coolly of murdering his lieutenant. The lawyer and the doctor thought of nothing but of watching the contortions of the accused. He had drawn a handkerchief from his pocket, and rubbed his eyes hard, as if he hoped thus to bring forth a few tears.
“Come, come!” said the magistrate. “No scene!”
Crochard sighed deeply, and then continued in a tearful tone,—
“They might cut me to pieces, and I would not be able to say what happened after that. I was dead drunk, and do not recollect a thing any more. From what Chevassat afterwards told me, I had to be carried to the carriage; and he took me to a hotel in the suburb, where he hired a lodging for me. When I woke the next day, a little before noon, my head was as heavy as lead; and I tried to recall what had happened at the restaurant, and if it was not perhaps merely the bad wine that had given me the nightmare.
“Unfortunately, it was no dream; and I soon found that out, when a waiter came up and brought me a letter. Chevassat wrote me to come to his house, and to breakfast with him for the purpose of talking business.
“Of course I went. I asked the concierge where M. Justin Chevassat lives in the house; and he directs me to go to the second floor, on the right hand. I go up, ring the bell; a servant opens the door; I enter, and find, in an elegant apartment, my brigand in a dressing-gown, stretched out on a sofa. On the way I had made up my mind to tell him positively that he need not count upon me; that the thing was a horror to me; and that I retracted all I had said. But, as soon as I began, he became perfectly furious, calling me a coward and a traitor, and telling me that I had no choice but to make my fortune, or to receive a blow with the big knife between my shoulders. At the same time he spread out before me a great heap of gold. Then, yes, then I was weak. I felt I was caught. Chevassat frightened me; the gold intoxicated me. I pledged my word; and the bargain was made.”
As he said this, Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, sighed deeply and noisily, like a man whose heart has been relieved of a grievous burden. He really felt prodigiously relieved. To have to confess everything on the spot, without a moment’s respite to combine a plan of apology, was a hard task. Now, the wretch had stood this delicate and dangerous trial pretty well, and thought he had managed cleverly enough to prepare for the day of his trial a number of extenuating circumstances. But the magistrate hardly gave him time to breathe.
“Not so fast,” he said: “we are not done yet. What were the conditions which you and Chevassat agreed upon?”
“Oh! very simple, sir. I, for my part, said yes to everything he proposed. He magnetized me, I tell you, that man! We agreed, therefore, that he would pay me four thousand francs in advance, and that, after the accident, he would give me six thousand certain, and a portion of the sum which he would secure.”
“Thus you undertook, for ten thousand francs, to murder a man?”
“I thought”—
“That sum is very far from those fabulous amounts by which you said you had been blinded and carried away.”
“Pardon me! There was that share in the great fortune.”
“Ah! You knew very well that Chevassat would never have paid you anything.”
Crochard’s hands twitched nervously. He cried out,—
“Chevassat cheat me!cochonnere! I would have—but no; he knows me; he would never have dared”—
The magistrate had caught the prisoner’s eye, and, fixing him sternly, he said good-naturedly,—
“Why did you tell me, then, that that man magnetized you, and frightened you out of your wits?”
The wretch had gone into the snare, and, instead of answering, hung his head, and tried to sob.
“Repentance is all very well,” said the lawyer, who did not seem to be in the least touched; “but just now it would be better for you to explain how your trip to Cochin China was arranged. Come, collect yourself, and give us the details.”
“As to that,” he resumed his account, “you see Chevassat explained to me everything at breakfast; and the very same day he gave me the address which you found on the paper in which the bank-notes were wrapped up.”
“What did he give you M. Champcey’s address for?”
“So that I might know him personally.”
“Well, go on.”
“At first, when I heard he was a lieutenant in the navy, I said I must give it up, knowing as I did that with such men there is no trifling. But Chevassat scolded me so terribly, and called me such hard names, that I finally got mad, and promised everything.
“‘Besides,’ he said to me, ‘listen to my plan. The navy department wants mechanics to go to Saigon. They have not gotten their full number yet: so you go and offer yourself. They will accept you, and even pay your journey to Rochefort: a boat will carry you out to the roadstead on board the frigate “Conquest.” Do you know whom you will find on board? Our man, Lieut. Champcey. Well, now, I tell you! that if any accident should happen to him, either during the voyage, or at Saigon, that accident will pass unnoticed, as a letter passes through the post-office.’
“Yes, that’s what he told me, every word of it; and I think I hear him now. And I—I was so completely bewildered, that I had nothing to say in return. However, there was one thing which troubled me; and I thought, ‘Well, after all, they won’t accept me at the navy department, with my antecedents.’
“But, when I mentioned the difficulty to Chevassat, he laughed. Oh, but he laughed! it made me mad.
“‘You are surely more of a fool than I thought,’ he said. ‘Are your condemnations written on your face? No, I should say. Well, as you will exhibit your papers in excellent order, they will take you.’
“I opened my eyes wide, and said, ‘That’s all very pretty, what you say; but the mischief is, that, as I have not worked at my profession for more than fifteen years, I have no papers at all.’ He shrugs his shoulders, and says, ‘You shall have your papers.’ That worries me; and I reply, ‘If I have to steal somebody’s papers, and change my name, I won’t do it.’ But the brigand had his notions. ‘You shall keep your name,’ he said, touching me on the shoulder. ‘You shall always remain Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet; and you shall have your papers as engraver on metal as perfect as anybody can have them.’
“And, to be sure, the second day after that he gave me a set of papers, signatures, seals, all in perfect order.”
“The papers found in your room, you mean?” asked the lawyer.
“Exactly.”
“Where did Chevassat get them?”
“Get them? Why, he had made them himself. He can do anything he chooses with his pen, the scamp! If he takes it into his head to imitate your own handwriting, you would never suspect it.”
Daniel and the old surgeon exchanged glances. This was a strong and very important point in connection with the forged letter that had been sent to the navy department, and claimed to be signed by Daniel himself. The magistrate was as much struck by the fact as they were; but his features remained unchanged; and, pursuing his plan in spite of all the incidents of the examination, he asked,—
“These papers caused no suspicion?”
“None whatever. I had only to show them, and they accepted me. Besides, Chevassat said he would enlist some people in my behalf; perhaps I had been specially recommended.”
“And thus you sailed?”
“Yes. They gave me my ticket, some money for travelling expenses; and, five days after my meeting with Chevassat, I was on board ‘The Conquest.’ Lieut. Champcey was not there. Ah! I began to hope he would not go out on the expedition at all. Unfortunately, he arrived forty- eight hours afterwards, and we sailed at once.”
The marvellous coolness of the wretch showed clearly under his affected trouble; and, while it confounded Daniel and the old surgeon, it filled the faithful Lefloch with growing indignation. He spoke of this abominable plot, of this assassination which had been so carefully plotted, and of the price agreed upon, and partly paid in advance, as if the whole had been a fair commercial operation.
“Now, Crochard,” said the lawyer, “I cannot impress it too strongly on your mind, how important it is for your own interests that you should tell the truth. Remember, all your statements will be verified. Do you know whether Chevassat lives in Paris under an assumed name?”
“No, sir! I have always heard him called Chevassat by everybody.”
“What? By everybody?”
“Well, I mean his concierge, his servants.”
The magistrate seemed for a moment to consider how he should frame his next question; and then he asked, all of a sudden,—
“Suppose that the—accident, as you call it, had succeeded, you would have taken ship; you would have arrived in France; you reach Paris; how would you have found Chevassat to claim your six thousand francs?”
“I should have gone to his house, where I breakfasted with him; and, if he had left, the concierge would have told me where he lived now.”
“Then you really think you saw him at his own rooms? Consider. If you left him only for a couple of hours, between the time when you first met him and the visit you paid him afterwards, he might very well have improvised a new domicile for himself.”
“Ah! I did not lie, sir. When dinner was over, I had lost my consciousness, and I did not get wide awake again till noon on the next day. Chevassat had the whole night and next morning.”
Then, as a suspicion suddenly flashed through Crochard’s mind, he exclaimed,—
“Ah, the brigand! Why did he urge me never to write to him otherwise than ‘to be called for’?”
The magistrate had turned to his clerk.
“Go down,” he said, “and see if any of the merchants in town have a Paris Directory.”
The clerk went off like an arrow, and appeared promptly back again with the volume in question. The magistrate hastened to look up the address given by the prisoner, and found it entered thus: “Langlois, sumptuous apartments for families and single persons. Superior attendance.”
“I was almost sure of it,” he said to himself.
Then handing Daniel the paper on which the words “University” and “Street” could be deciphered, he asked,—
“Do you know that handwriting, M. Champcey?”
Too full of the lawyer’s shrewd surmises to express any surprise, Daniel looked at the words, and said coolly,—
“That is Maxime de Brevan’s handwriting.”
A rush of blood colored instantly the pale face of Crochard. He was furious at the idea of having been duped by his accomplice, by the instigator of the crime he had committed, and for which he would probably never have received the promised reward.
“Ah, the brigand!” he exclaimed. “And I, who was very near not denouncing him at all!”
A slight smile passed over the lawyer’s face. His end had been attained. He had foreseen this wrath on the part of the prisoner; he had prepared it carefully, and caused it to break out fully; for he knew it would bring him full light on the whole subject.