Books: Conscience, v2
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Hector Malot >> Conscience, v2
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"You told him the situation?" Florentin exclaimed.
In any other circumstances she would have replied frankly, explaining
that she had perfect confidence in Saniel; but when she saw her brother's
agitation, she could not exasperate him by this avowal, above all,
because she could not at the same time give her reasons for her faith in
him. She must reassure him before everything.
"No," she said, "but I spoke of Caffie to Doctor Saniel without his being
surprised. As he made the first deposition, was it not natural that my
curiosity should wish to learn a little more than the newspapers tell?"
"Never mind, the act must appear strange."
"I think not. But, anyhow, the interest that we have to learn all made
me overlook this; and I think, when I have told you the doctor's opinion,
you will not regret my visit."
"And this opinion?" Madame Cormier asked.
"His opinion is, that there was no struggle between Caffie and the
assassin, whereas the position of Caffie in the chair where he was
attacked proves that he was surprised. Therefore, if there was no
struggle, there was no button torn off, and all the scaffolding of the
police falls to the ground."
Madame Cormier breathed a profound sigh of deliverance.
"You see," she said to her son.
"And the doctor's opinion is not the opinion of the first-comer, it is
not even that of an ordinary physician. It is that of the physician who
has certified to the death, and who, more than any one, has power, has
authority, to say how it was given--by surprise, without struggle,
without a button being pulled off."
"It is not Doctor Saniel who directs the search of the police, or who
inspires it," replied Florentin. "His opinion does not produce a
criminal, while the button can--at least for those who believe in the
struggle; and between the two the police will not hesitate.
Already the newspapers laugh at them for not having discovered the
assassin, who has rejoined all the others they have let escape. They
must follow the track they have started on, and this track--"
He lowered his voice:
"It will lead them here."
"To do that they must pass by the Avenue de Clichy, and that seems
unlikely."
"It is the possible that torments me, and not the unlikely, and you
cannot but recognize that what I fear is possible. I was at Caffies the
day of the crime. I lost there a button torn off by violence. This
button picked up by the police proves, according to them, the criminality
of the one who lost it. They will find that I am the one--"
"They will not find you."
"Let us admit that they do find me. How should I defend myself?"
"By proving that you were not in the Rue Sainte-Anne between five and six
o'clock, since you were here."
"And what witnesses will prove this alibi? I have only one--mamma.
What is the testimony of a mother worth in favor of her son in such
circumstances?"
"You will have that of the doctor, affirming that there was no struggle,
and consequently no button torn off."
"Affirming, but carrying no proof to support his theory; the opinion of
one doctor, which the opinion of another doctor may refute and destroy.
And then, to prove that there was no struggle; Doctor Saniel will say
that Caffie was surprised. Who could surprise Caffie? To open Caffies
door when the clerk was away, it was necessary to ring first, and then to
knock three times in a peculiar way. No stranger could know that, and
who could know it better than I?"
Step by step Phillis defended the ground against her brother; but little
by little the confidence which at first sustained her weakened. With
Saniel she was brave. Between her brother and mother, in this room that
had witnessed their fears, not daring to speak loud, she was downcast,
and let herself be overcome by their anxieties.
"Truly," she said, "it seems as if we were guilty and not innocent."
"And while we are tormenting ourselves, the criminal, probably, in
perfect safety laughs at the police investigations; he had not thought of
this button; chance throws it in his way. Luck is for him, and against
us--once more."
This was the plaint that was often on Florentin's lips. Although he had
never been a gambler--and for sufficient reason--in his eyes everything
was decided by luck. There are those who are born under a lucky star,
others under an unlucky one. There are those who, in the battle of life,
receive knocks without being discouraged, because they expect something
the next day, as there are those who become discouraged because they
expect nothing, and know by experience that tomorrow will be for them
what today is, what yesterday was. And Florentin was one of these.
"Why did I not stay in America?" he said.
"Because you were too unhappy, my poor boy!" Madame Cormier said, whose
maternal heart was moved by this cry.
"Am I happier here, or shall I be to-morrow? What does this to-morrow,
full of uncertainty and dangers, hold for us?"
"Why do you insist that it has only dangers?" Phillis asked, in a
conciliating and caressing tone.
"You always expect the good."
"At least I hope for it, and do not admit deliberately that it is
impossible. I do not say that life is always rose-colored, but neither
is it always black. I believe it is like the seasons. After winter,
which is vile, I confess, come the spring, summer, and autumn."
"Well, if I had the money necessary for the voyage, I would go and pass
the end of the winter in a country where it would be less disagreeable
than here, and, above all, less dangerous for my constitution."
"You do not say that seriously, I hope?" cried Madame Cormier.
"On the contrary, very seriously."
"We are hardly reunited, and you think of a separation," she said, sadly.
"It is not of a separation that Florentin thinks," cried Phillis, "but of
a flight."
"And why not?"
"Because only the guilty fly."
"It is exactly the contrary. The intelligent criminals stay, and, as
generally they are resolute men, they know beforehand that they are able
to face the danger; while the innocent, timid like myself, or the
unlucky, lose their heads and fly, because they know beforehand, also,
that if a danger threatens them, it will crush them. That is why I would
return to America if I could pay my passage; at least I should feel easy
there."
There was a moment of silence, during which each one seemed to have no
thought but to finish dinner.
"Granting that this project is not likely," Florentin said, "I have
another idea."
"Why do you have ideas?" Phillis asked.
"I wish you were in my place; we should see if you would not have them."
"I assure you that I am in your place, and that your trouble is mine,
only it does not betray itself in the same manner. But what is your
idea?"
"It is to find Valerius and tell him all."
"And who will answer to us for Valerius's discretion?" asked Madame
Cormier. "Would it not be the greatest imprudence that you could commit?
One cannot play with a secret of this importance."
"Valerius is an honest man."
"It is because he cannot work when political, or rather patriotic,
affairs go wrong, that you say this."
"And why not? With a poor man who lives in a small way by his work, are
not this care and pride in his country marks of an honorable heart?"
"I grant the honorable heart, but it is another reason for being prudent
with him," Phillis said. "Precisely because he may be what you think,
reserve is necessary. You tell him what is passed. If he accepts it and
your innocence, it is well; he will not betray your secret voluntarily
nor by stupidity. But he will not accept it; he will look beyond. He
will suppose that you wish to deceive him, and he will suspect you. In
that case, would he not go and tell all to the police commissioner of our
quarter? As for me, I think it is a danger that it would be foolish to
risk."
"And, according to you, what is to be done?"
"Nothing; that is, wait, since there are a thousand chances against one
for our uneasiness, and we exaggerate those that may never be realized."
"Well, let us wait," he said. "Moreover, I like that; at the least, I
have no responsibilities. What can happen will happen."
CHAPTER XIX
THE KNOCK AT THE DOOR
In order to put the button found at Caffies on the track of the assassin,
it required that it should have come from a Parisian tailor, or, at
least, a French one, and that the trousers had not been sold by a ready-
made clothing-house, where the names of customers are not kept.
The task of the police was therefore difficult, as weak, also, were the
chances of success. As Saniel had said, it was like looking for a needle
in a bundle of hay, to go to each tailor in Paris.
But this was not their way of proceeding. In place of trying to find
those who used these buttons, they looked for those who made them or sold
them, and suddenly, without going farther than the directory, they found
this manufacturer: "A. Pelinotte, manufacturer of metal buttons for
trousers; trademark, A.P., crown and cock; Faubourg du Temple."
At first this manufacturer was not disposed to answer questions of the
agent who went to see him; but when he began to understand that he might
reap some advantage from the affair, like the good merchant that he was,
young and active, he put his books and clerks at his disposition. His
boast was, in effect, that his buttons, thanks to a brass bonnet around
which the thread was rolled instead of passing through the holes, never
cut the thread and could not be broken. When they came off it was with a
piece of the cloth. What better justification of his pretensions, what
better advertisement than his button torn off with a piece of the
trousers of the assassin? The affair would go before the assizes, and in
all the newspapers there would be mention of the "A. P. buttons."
He was asked for his customers' names, and after a few days the search
began, guided by a list so exact that useless steps were spared.
One morning a detective reached the Avenue de Clichy, and found the
tailor Valerius in his shop, reading a newspaper. For it was not only
when the country was in danger that Valerius had a passion for reading
papers, but every morning and evening.
Nothing that was published in the papers escaped him, and at the first
words of the agent he understood immediately about what he was to be
questioned.
"It is concerning the affair in the Rue Sainte-Anne that you wish this
information?" he said.
"Frankly, yes."
"Well, frankly also, I do not know if the secrets of the profession
permit me to answer you."
The agent, who was by no means stupid, immediately understood the man's
character, and instead of yielding to the desire to laugh, caused by this
reply honestly made by this good-natured man, whose long, black, bushy
beard and bald head accentuated his gravity, he yielded to the necessity
of the occasion.
"That is a question to discuss."
"Then let us discuss it. A customer, confiding in my honesty and
discretion, gives me an order to make a pair of trousers; he pays me as
he agreed, without beating me down, and on the day he promised. We are
loyal to each other. I give him a pair of good trousers, honestly made,
and he pays me with good money. We are even. Have I the right
afterward, by imprudent words, or otherwise, to furnish clews against
him? The case is a delicate one."
"Do you place the interest of the individual above that of society?"
"When it is a question of a professional secret, yes. Where should we be
if the lawyer, the notary, the doctor, the confessor, the tailor, could
accept compromises on this point of doctrine? It would be anarchy,
simply, and in the end it would be the interest of society that would
suffer."
The agent, who had no time to lose, began to be impatient.
"I will tell you," he said, "that the tailor, however important his
profession may be, is not placed exactly as the doctor or confessor.
Have you not a book in which you write your customers' orders?"
"Certainly."
"So that if you persevere in a theory, pushing it to an extreme, I need
only to go to the commissioner of your quarter, who, in virtue of the
power of the law conferred upon him, will seize your books."
"That would be by violence, and my responsibility would be at an end."
"And in these books the judge would see to whom you have furnished
trousers of this stuff. It would only remain then to discover in whose
interest you have wished to escape the investigations of the law."
Saying this, he took from his pocket a small box, and taking out a piece
of paper, he took from it a button to which adhered a piece of navy blue
stuff.
Valerius, who was not in the least moved by the threat of the
commissioner, for he was a man to brave martyrdom, looked at the box
curiously. When the agent displayed the button, a movement of great
surprise escaped him.
"You see," the agent exclaimed, "that you know this cloth!"
"Will you permit me to look at it?" Valerius asked.
"Willingly, but on condition that you do not touch it; it is precious."
Valerius took the box, and approaching the front of the shop, looked at
the button and the piece of cloth.
"It is a button marked 'A.P.,' as you see, and we know that you use these
buttons."
"I do not deny it; they are good buttons, and I give only good things to
my customers."
Returning the box to the agent, he took a large book and began to turn
over the leaves; pieces of cloth were pasted on the pages, and at the
side were several lines of large handwriting. Arriving at a page where
was a piece of blue cloth, he took the box and compared this piece with
that of the button, examining it by daylight.
"Sir," he said, "I am going to tell you some very serious things."
"I am listening."
"We hold the assassin of the Rue Sainte-Anne, and it is I who will give
you the means of discovering him."
"You have made trousers of this cloth?"
"I have made three pairs; but there is only one pair that can interest
you, that of the assassin. I have just told you that the secrets of the
profession prevented me from replying to your questions, but what I have
just seen frees my conscience. As I explained to you, when I make a pair
of good trousers for a customer who pays me in good money, I do not think
I have the right to reveal the affairs of my client to any one in the
world, even to the law."
"I understand," interrupted the agent, whose impatience increased.
"But this reserve on my part rests on reciprocity: to a good customer, a
good tailor. If the customer is not good the reciprocity ceases, or,
rather, it continues on another footing--that of war; if any one treats
me badly, I return the same. The trousers to which this stuff belongs"--
he showed the button--"I made for an individual whom I do not know, and
who presented himself to me as an Alsacian, which I believed so much more
easily, because he spoke with a strong foreign accent. These trousers--
I need not tell you how careful I was with them. I am a patriot, sir.
He agreed to pay for them on delivery. When they were delivered, the
young apprentice who took them had the weakness to not insist upon the
money. I went to him, but could obtain nothing; he would pay me the next
day, and so on. Finally he disappeared, leaving no address."
"And this customer?"
"I will give you his name without the slightest hesitation. Fritzner,
not an Alsacian as I believed, but a Prussian to a certainty, who surely
struck the blow; his disappearance the day after the crime is the proof
of it."
"You say that you were not able to procure his address?"
"But you, who have other means at your disposal, can find him. He is
twenty-seven or thirty years old, of middle height, blue eyes, a blond
beard, and a complete blue suit of this cloth."
The agent wrote this description in his note-book as the tailor gave it
to him.
"If he has not left Paris with these stolen thirty-five thousand francs,
we shall find him, and the thanks will be yours," he said.
"I am happy to be able to do anything for you."
The agent was going, but he thought better of it.
"You said that you had made three suits of this cloth?"
"Yes, but there is only this Fritzner who counts. The two others are
honest men, well known in the quarter, and they paid me honestly."
"Since they have no cause for alarm, you need have no scruples in naming
them. It is not in the name of justice that I ask their names, but for
myself. --They will look well in my report and will prove that I pushed
my investigations thoroughly."
"One is a merchant in the Rue Truffant, and is called Monsieur Blanchet;
the other is a young man just arrived from America, and his name is
Monsieur Florentin Cormier."
"You say Florentin Cormier?" the agent asked, who remembered this name
was that of one who had seen Caffie on the day of the crime. "Do you
know him?"
"Not exactly; it is the first time that I have made clothes for him. But
I know his mother and sister, who have lived in the Rue des Moines five
or six years at least; good, honest people, who work hard and have no
debts."
The next morning about ten o'clock, a short time after Phillis's
departure, Florentin, who was reading the newspaper in the dining-room,
while his mother prepared the breakfast, heard stealthy steps that
stopped on the landing before their door. His ear was too familiar with
the ordinary sounds in the house to be deceived; there was in these steps
a hesitation or a precaution which evidently betrayed a stranger, and
with the few connections they had, a stranger was surely an enemy--the
one whom he expected.
A ring of the doorbell, given by a firm hand, made him jump from his
chair. He did not hesitate; slowly, and with an air of indifference, he
opened the door.
He saw before him a man of about forty years, with a polite and shrewd
face, dressed in a short coat, and wearing a flat hat.
"Monsieur Florentin Cormier?"
"I am he."
And he asked him to come in.
"The judge desires to see you at his office."
Madame Cormier came from the kitchen in time to hear these few words, and
if Florentin had not motioned to her to be silent, she would have
betrayed herself. The words on her lips were:
"You came to arrest my son!" They would have escaped her, but she
crushed them back.
"And can you tell me for what affair the judge summons me?" Florentin
asked, steadying his voice.
"For the Caffie affair."
"And at what hour should I present myself before the judge?"
"Immediately."
"But my son has not breakfasted!" Madame Cormier exclaimed. "At least,
take something before going, my dear child."
"It is not worth while."
He made a sign to her that she should not insist. His throat was too
tight to swallow a piece of bread, and it was important that he should
not betray his emotion before this agent.
"I am ready," he said.
Going to his mother he embraced her, but lightly, without effusion, as if
he were only to be absent a short time.
"By-and-by."
She was distracted; but, understanding that she would compromise her son
if she yielded to her feelings, she controlled herself.
CHAPTER XX
A TIGHTENING CHAIN
As it was a part that he played, Florentin said to himself that he would
play it to the best of his ability in entering the skin of the person he
wished to be, and this part was that of a witness.
He had been Caffie's clerk; the justice would interrogate him about his
old employer, and nothing would be more natural. It was that only, and
nothing but that, which he could admit; consequently, he should interest
himself in the police investigations, and have the curiosity to learn how
they stood.
"Have you advanced far in the Caffie affair?" he asked the agent as they
walked along.
"I do not know," the agent answered, who thought it prudent to be
reserved. "I know nothing more than the newspapers tell."
On leaving his mother's house, Florentin observed on the other side of
the street a man who appeared to be stationed there; at the end of
several minutes, on turning a corner, he saw that this man followed them
at a certain distance. Then it was not a simple appearance before the
judge, for such precautions are not taken with a witness.
When they reached the Place Clichy, the agent asked him if he would take
a carriage, but he declined. What good was it? It was a useless
expense.
Then he saw the agent raise his hat, as if bowing to some one, but this
bow was certainly not made to any one; and immediately, the man who had
followed them approached. The raising of the hat was a signal. As from
the deserted quarters of the Batignolles they entered the crowd, they
feared he might try to escape. The character of the arrest became
accentuated.
After the presentiments and fears that had tormented him during the last
few days this did not astonish him, but since they took these precautions
with him, all was not yet decided. He must, then, defend himself to the
utmost. Distracted before the danger came, he felt less weak now that he
was in it.
On arriving at the Palais de justice he was introduced immediately into
the judge's office. But he did not attend to him at once; he was
questioning a woman, and Florentin examined him by stealth. He saw a man
of elegant and easy figure, still young, with nothing solemn or imposing
about him, having more the air of a boulevardier or of a sportsman than
of a magistrate.
While continuing his questioning, he also examined Florentin, but with a
rapid glance, without persistence, carelessly, and simply because his
eyes fell upon him. Before a table a clerk was writing, and near the
door two policemen waited, with the weary, empty faces of men whose minds
are elsewhere.
Soon the judge turned his head toward them.
"You may take away the accused."
Then, immediately addressing Florentin, he asked him his name, his
Christian names, and his residence.
"You have been the clerk of the agent of affairs, Caffie. Why did you
leave him?"
"Because my work was too heavy."
"You are afraid of work?"
"No, when it is not too hard; it was at his office, and left me no time
to work for myself. I was obliged to reach his office at eight o'clock
in the morning, breakfast there, and did not leave until seven to dine
with my mother at the Batignolles. I had an hour and a half for that;
at half-past eight I had to return, and stay until ten or half-past.
In accepting this position I believed that I should be able to finish my
education, interrupted by the death of my father, and to study law and
become something better than a miserable clerk of a business man. It was
impossible with Monsieur Caffie, so I left him, and this was the only
reason why we separated."
"Where have you been since?"
This was a delicate question, and one that Florentin dreaded, for it
might raise prejudices that nothing would destroy. However, he must
reply, for what he would not tell himself others would reveal; an
investigation on this point was too easy.
"With another business man, Monsieur Savoureux, Rue de la Victoire, where
I was not obliged to work in the evening. I stayed there about three
months, and then went to America."
"Why?"
"Because, when I began to study seriously, I found that my studies had
been neglected too long to make it possible for me to take them up again.
I had forgotten nearly all I had learned. I should, without doubt, fail
in my examination, and I should only begin the law too late. I left
France for America, where I hoped to find a good situation."
"How long since your return?"
"Three weeks."
"And you went to see Caffie?"
"Yes."
"What for?"
"To ask him for a recommendation to replace the one he gave me, which I
had lost."
"It was the day of the crime?"
"Yes."
"At what time?"
"I reached his house about a quarter to three, and I left about half-past
three."
"Did he give you the certificate for which you asked?"
"Yes; here it is."
And, taking it from his pocket, he presented it to the judge. It was a
paper saying that, during the time that M. Florentin Cormier was his
clerk, Caffie was entirely satisfied with him; with his work, as with his
accuracy and probity.
"And you did not return to him during the evening?" the judge asked.
"Why should I return? I had obtained what I desired."
"Well, did you or did you not return?"
"I did not return to him."
"Do you remember what you did on leaving Caffie's house?"
If Florentin had indulged in the smallest illusion about his appearance
before the judge, the manner of conducting the interview would have
destroyed it. It was not a witness who was being questioned, it was a
culprit. He had not to enlighten the justice, he had to defend himself.
"Perfectly," he said. "It is not so long ago. On leaving the Rue
Sainte-Anne, as I had nothing to do, I went down to the quays, and looked
at the old books from the Pont Royale to the Institute; but at this
moment a heavy shower came on, and I returned to the Batignolles, where I
remained with my mother."
"What time was it when you reached your mother's house?"
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