Books: Conscience, v2
H >>
Hector Malot >> Conscience, v2
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 | 5 |
6
"A few minutes after five."
"Can you not say exactly?"
"About a quarter past five, a few minutes more or less."
"And you did not go out again?"
"No."
"Did any one call at your mother's after you arrived there?"
"No one. My sister came in at seven o'clock, as usual, when she returned
from her lesson."
"Before you went up to your rooms did you speak with any of the other
lodgers?"
"No."
There was a pause, and Florentin felt the judge's eyes fixed on him with
an aggravating persistency. It seemed as if this look, which enveloped
him from head to foot, wished to penetrate his inmost thoughts.
"Another thing," said the judge. "You did not lose a trousers' button
while you were with Caffie?"
Florentin expected this question, and for some time he had considered
what answer he should make to it. To deny was impossible. It would be
easy to convict him of a fib, for the fact of the question being asked
was sufficient to say there was proof that the button was his. He must,
then, confess the truth, grave as it might be.
"Yes," he said, "and this is how--"
He related in detail the story of the bundle of papers placed on the
highest shelf of the cases, his slipping on the ladder, and the loss of
the button, which he did not discover until he was in the street.
The judge opened a drawer and took from it a small box, from which he
took a button that he handed to Florentin.
"Is that it?" he asked.
Florentin looked at it.
"It is difficult for me to answer," he said, finally; "one button
resembles another."
"Not always."
"In that case, it would be necessary for me to have observed the form of
the one I lost, and I gave no attention to it. It seems to me that no
one knows exactly how, or of what, the buttons are made that they wear."
The judge examined him anew.
"But are not the trousers that you wear to-day the same from which this
button was torn?"
"It is the pair I wore the day I called on Monsieur Caffie."
"Then it is quite easy to compare the button that I show you with those
on your trousers, and your answer becomes easy."
It was impossible to escape this verification.
"Unbutton your vest," said the judge, "and make your comparison with
care--with all the care that you think wise. The question has some
importance."
Florentin felt it only too much, the importance of this question, but as
it was set before him, he could not but answer frankly.
He unbuttoned his waistcoat, and compared the button with his.
"I believe that it is really the button that I lost," he said.
Although he endeavored not to betray his anguish, he felt that his voice
trembled, and that it had a hoarse sound. Then he wished to explain this
emotion.
"This is a truly terrible position for me," he said.
The judge did not reply.
"But because I lost a button at Monsieur Caffie's, it does not follow
that it was torn off in a struggle."
"You have your theory, and you will make the most of it, but this is not
the place. I have only one more question to ask: By what button have you
replaced the one you lost?"
"By the first one I came across."
"Who sewed it on?"
"I did."
"Are you in the habit of sewing on your buttons yourself?"
Although the judge did not press this question by his tone, nor by the
form in which he made it, Florentin saw the strength of the accusation
that his reply would make against him.
"Sometimes," he said.
"And yet, on returning home, you found your mother, you told me. Was
there any reason why she could not sew this button on for you?"
"I did not ask her to do it."
"But when she saw you sewing it, did she not take the needle from your
hands?"
"She did not see me."
"Why?"
"She was occupied preparing our dinner."
"That is sufficient."
"I was in the entry of our apartment, where I have slept since my return;
my mother was in the kitchen."
"Is there no communication between the kitchen and the entry?"
"The door was closed."
A flood of words rushed to his lips, to protest against the conclusions
which seemed to follow these answers, but he kept them back. He saw
himself caught in a net, and all his efforts to free himself only bound
him more strongly.
As he was asked no more questions it seemed to him best to say nothing,
and he was silent a long time, of the duration of which he was only
vaguely conscious.
The judge talked in a low tone, the recorder wrote rapidly, and he heard
only a monotonous murmur that interrupted the scratching of a pen on the
paper.
"Your testimony will now be read to you," the judge said.
He wished to give all his attention to this reading, but he soon lost the
thread of it. The impression it made upon him, however, was that it
faithfully reproduced all that he had said, and he signed it.
"Now," said the judge, "my duty obliges me, in presence of the charges
which emanate from your testimony, to deliver against you a 'manda
depot'."
Florentin received this blow without flinching.
"I know," he said, "that all the protestations I might make would have no
effect at this moment; I therefore spare you them. But I have a favor to
ask of you; it is to permit me to write to my mother and sister the news
of my arrest--they love me tenderly. Oh, you shall read my letter!"
"You may, sir."
CHAPTER XXI
"REGARDING THE CAFFIE AFFAIR"
After the departure of her son and the detective, Madame Cormier was
prostrated. Her son! Her Florentin! The poor child! And she was sunk
in despair.
Had they not suffered enough? Was this new proof necessary? Why had
their life been so unmercifully cruel? Why had not Dr. Saniel let her
die? At least she would not have seen this last catastrophe, this
disgrace; her son accused of assassination, in prison, at the assizes!
Heretofore when she had yielded to her feelings and bewailed their sad
lot, Phillis was at hand to cheer and caress her; but now she was alone
in her deserted apartment, no one to hear her, see her, nor scold. Why
should she not abandon herself to tears? She wept and trembled, but the
moment arrived when, after having reached the extreme of despair, which
showed her her son condemned as an assassin, and executed, she stopped
and asked herself if she had not gone too far.
He would return; certainly she might expect him. And she waited for him
without breakfasting; he would not like to sit down to the table all
alone, the poor child.
Besides, she was too profoundly overcome to eat. She arranged the fire
with care, so that the haricot of mutton would keep warm, for it was his
favorite dish.
Minutes and hours passed and he did not return. Her anguish came back; a
witness would not be retained so long by the judge. Had they arrested
him? Then what would become of him?
She fell into a state of tears and despair, and longed for Phillis.
Fortunately she would not be late to-day. Finally a quick, light step
was heard on the landing, and as soon as she could, Madame Cormier went
to open the door, and was stunned on seeing the agitated face of her
daughter. Evidently Phillis was surprised by the sudden opening of the
door.
"You know all, then?" Madame Cormier cried.
Phillis put her arms about her, and drew her into the dining-room, where
she made her sit down.
"Becalm," she said. "They will not keep him."
"You know some way?"
"We will find a way. I promise you that they will not keep him."
"You are sure?"
"I promise you."
"You give me life. But how did you know?"
"He wrote to me. The concierge gave me his letter, which had just come."
"What does he say?"
Madame Cormier took the letter that Phillis handed her, but the paper
shook so violently in her trembling hand that she could not read.
"Read it to me."
Phillis took it and read
"DEAR LITTLE SISTER: After listening to my story, the judge retains
me. Soften for mamma the pain of this blow. Make her understand
that they will soon acknowledge the falseness of this accusation;
and, on your part, try to make this falseness evident, while on
mine, I will work to prove my innocence.
"Embrace poor mamma for me, and find in your tenderness, strength,
and love, some consolation for her; mine will be to think that you
are near her, dear little beloved sister.
"FLORENTIN."
"And it is this honest boy that they accuse of assassination!" cried
Madame Cormier, beginning to weep.
It required several minutes for Phillis to quiet her a little.
"We must think of him, mamma; we must not give up."
"You are going to do something, are you not, my little Phillis?"
"I am going to find Doctor Saniel."
"He is a doctor, not a lawyer."
"It is exactly as a doctor that he can save Florentin. He knows that
Caffie was killed without a struggle between him and the assassin;
consequently without the wrenching off of a button. He will say it and
prove it to the judge, and Florentin's innocence is evident. I am going
to see him."
"I beg of you, do not leave me alone too long."
"I will come back immediately."
Phillis ran from the Batignolles to the Rue Louis-le-Grand. In answer to
her ring, Joseph, who had returned to his place in the anteroom, opened
the door, and as Saniel was alone, she went immediately to his office.
"What is the matter?" he asked, on seeing her agitation.
"My brother is arrested."
"Ah! The poor boy!"
What he had said to her on explaining that this arrest could not take
place was sincere; he believed it, and he more than believed it, he
wished it. When he decided to kill Caffie he had not thought that the
law would ever discover a criminal; it would be a crime that would remain
unpunished, as so many were, and no one would be disturbed. But now the
law had found and arrested one who was the brother of the woman he loved.
"How was he arrested?" he asked, as much for the sake of knowing as to
recover himself.
She told what she knew, and read Florentin's letter.
"He is a good boy, your brother," he said, as if talking to himself.
"You will save him?"
"How can I?"
This cry escaped him without her understanding its weight; without her
divining the expression of anxious curiosity in his glance.
"To whom shall I address myself, if not to you? Are you not everything
to me? My support, my guide, my counsel, my God!"
She explained what she wished him to do. Once more an exclamation
escaped Saniel.
"You wish me to go to the judge--me?"
"Who, better than you, can explain how things happened?"
Saniel, who had recovered from his first feeling of surprise, did not
flinch. Evidently she spoke with entire honesty, suspecting nothing, and
it would be folly to look for more than she said.
"But I cannot present myself before a judge in such away," he said.
"It is he who sends for those he wants to see."
"Why can you not go to his court, since you know things which will throw
light upon it?"
"Is it truly easy to go before this court? In going before it, I make
myself the defender of your brother."
"That is exactly what I ask of you."
"And in presenting myself as his defender, I take away the weight of my
deposition, which would have more authority if it were that of a simple
witness."
"But when will you be asked for this deposition? Think of Florentin's
sufferings during this time, of mamma's, and of mine. He may lose his
head; he may kill himself. His spirit is not strong, nor is mamma's.
How will they bear all that the newspapers will publish?"
Saniel hesitated a moment.
"Well, I will go," he said. "Not this evening, it is too late, but
tomorrow."
"Oh, dear Victor!" she exclaimed, pressing him in her arms, "I knew that
you would save him. We will owe you his life, as we owe you mamma's, as
I owe you happiness. Am I not right to say you are my God?"
After she was gone he had a moment of repentance in which he regretted
this weakness; for it was a weakness, a stupid sentimentalism, unworthy
of a sensible man, who should not permit himself to be thus touched and
involved. Why should he go and invite danger when he could be quiet,
without any one giving him a thought? Was it not folly? The law wanted
a criminal. Public curiosity demanded one. Why take away the one that
they had? If he succeeded, would they not look for another? It was
imprudence, and, to use the true word, madness. Now that he was no
longer under the influence of Phillis's beautiful, tearful eyes, he would
not commit this imprudence. All the evening this idea strengthened, and
when he went to bed his resolution was taken. He would not go to the
judge.
But on awakening, he was surprised to find that this resolution of the
evening was not that of the morning, and that this dual personality,
which had already struck him, asserted itself anew. It was at night that
he resolved to kill Caffie, and he committed the deed in the evening. It
was in the morning that he had abandoned the idea, as it was in the
morning that he revoked the decision made the previous evening not to go
to the rescue of this poor boy. Of what then, was the will of man made,
undulating like the sea, and variable as the wind, that he had the folly
to believe his was firm?
At noon he went to the Palais de justice and sent in his card to the
judge, on which he wrote these words: "Regarding the Caffie affair."
He was received almost immediately, and briefly explained how, according
to his opinion, Caffie was killed quickly and suddenly by a firm and
skilful hand, that of a killer by profession.
"That is the conclusion of your report," the judge said.
"What I could not point out in my report, as I did not know of the
finding of the button and the opinion it has led to, is that there was no
struggle between the assassin and the victim, as is generally supposed."
And medically he demonstrated how this struggle was impossible.
The judge listened attentively, without a word, without interruption.
"Do you know this young man?" he asked.
"I have seen him only once; but I know his mother, who was my patient,
and it is at her instigation that I decided to make this explanation to
you."
"Without doubt, it has its value, but I must tell you that it tends in no
way to destroy our hypothesis."
"But if it has no foundation?"
"I must tell you that you are negative, doctor, and not suggestive. We
have a criminal and you have not. Do you see one?"
Saniel thought that the judge looked at him with a disagreeable
persistency.
"No," he said, sharply.
Then rising, he said, more calmly:
"That is not in my line."
He had nothing to do but to retire, which he did; and on passing through
the vestibule he said to himself that the magistrate was right. He
believed that he held a criminal. Why should he let him go?
As for him, he had done what he could.
CHAPTER XXII
NOUGAREDE'S BRIDE
Saniel passed the first proofs of his two 'concours' so brilliantly that
the results of either were not doubtful. In delivering his thesis for
the 'agregation', he commanded the admiration of his audience; by turns
aggressive, severe, ironical, eloquent, he reduced his adversary to such
an extremity that, overwhelmed, he was not able to reply. In his lecture
at the hospital, his eloquence and his clear demonstration convinced the
judges who were opposed to him that he was in the right.
What could Caffie's death weigh, placed in the balance with these
results? So little that it counted for nothing, and would have held no
place in his thoughts if it had not been mixed in his mind with the
accusation that would send Florentin to the assizes.
Cleared of this fact, the death of the old man rarely crossed his mind.
He had other things in his head, truly, than this memory which brought
neither regret nor remorse; and it was not at this moment, when he
touched the end at which he aimed, that he would embarrass himself, or
sadden his triumph, with Caffie.
A little before the expiration of the two months, during which time the
poste restante retained the letters containing the thirty thousand
francs, he called for them, and readdressed and mailed them to other
post-offices.
What did he want of this money, which was, in reality, a nuisance? His
habits remained the same, except that he no longer struggled with his
creditors, and paid cash for everything. He had no desire to make any
change in his former mode of living; his ambition was otherwise and
higher than in the small satisfactions, very small for him, that money
gives.
Days passed without a thought of Caffie, except in connection with
Florentin. But Florentin, and above all, Phillis, reminded him that the
comfort he enjoyed he owed to Caffie's death, and he was troubled
accordingly.
He did not believe that the investigations of the law would reach him
now; everything conspired to confirm him in his scrutiny. That which he
arranged so laboriously had succeeded according to his wish, and the only
imprudence that he had committed, in a moment of aberration, seemed not
to have been observed; no one had noticed his presence in the cafe
opposite Caffie's house, and no one was astonished at his pertinacity in
remaining there at an hour so unusual.
But it was not enough that he was safe; he must prevent Florentin from
being unjustly condemned for a crime of which he was innocent. It was a
great deal that he should be imprisoned, that his sister should be in
despair, and his mother ill from chagrin; but if he should be sent to the
scaffold or to the galleys, it would be too much. In itself the death of
Caffie was a small thing; it became atrocious if it led to such an
ending.
He did not wish this to happen, and he would do everything not only to
prevent the condemnation, but to shorten the imprisonment.
It was this sentiment that he obeyed in going to see the judge; but the
manner in which he was received, showing him that the law was not
disposed to let its hypothesis be changed by a simple medical
demonstration, threw him into a state of uneasiness and perplexity.
Without doubt, any one else in his place would have let things take their
course, and since the law had a criminal with which it contented itself,
would have done nothing to release him. While it followed its hypothesis
to prove the criminality of the one it held, it would not look elsewhere;
when it had condemned him, all would be finished; the Caffie affair would
be buried, as Caffie himself was buried; silence and oblivion would give
him security. The crime punished, the conscience of the public
satisfied, it would ask for no more, not even to know if the debt was
paid by the one who really owed it; it was paid, and that was sufficient.
But he was not "any one else," and if he found the death of this old
scamp legitimate, it was on the condition that Florentin did not pay for
it, from whom he had not profited.
Florentin must be released as soon as possible, and it was his duty to
interest himself in his behalf--his imperative duty not only toward
Phillis, but toward himself.
He told Phillis that until Florentin came before the jury, he could do
nothing, or almost nothing. When the time came, he would assert his
authority, and speaking in the name of science, he would prove to the
jury that the story of the button was an invention of the police, who
were pushed to extremes, and would not bear examination; but until then
the poor boy remained at Mazas, and however assured one might be at this
moment of an acquittal, an immediate 'ordonnance de non-lieu' was of more
value, if it could be obtained.
For this the intervention and direction of a doctor were of little use;
it required that of an advocate.
Whom should he have? Phillis would have liked to apply to the most
illustrious, to him who, by his talent, authority, and success, would win
all his cases. But Saniel explained to her that workers of miracles were
probably as difficult to find at the bar as in the medical profession,
and that, if they did exist, they would expect a large fee. To tell the
truth, he would have willingly given the thirty thousand francs in the
'poste restante', or a large part of this sum, to give Florentin his
liberty; but it would be imprudent to take out the bills at this moment,
and he could not declare that he had thirty thousand francs, or even ten
thousand. He decided with Phillis to consult Brigard.
On a Wednesday he went to the parlor in the Rue Vaugirard, where he had
not been since his experiment with Glady. As usual, he was received
affectionately by Crozat, who scolded him for coming so rarely, and as
usual also, in order not to disturb the discussion that was going on, he
remained standing near the door.
This evening the theme of the discourse was a phrase of Chateaubriand's:
"The tiger kills and sleeps; man kills and is sleepless." On listening
to the discussion, Saniel said to himself that it was truly a pity not to
be able to reply to all this rhetoric by a simple fact of personal
experience. He had never slept so well, so tranquilly, as since Caffie's
death, which relieved him from all the cares that in these last months
had tormented and broken his sleep so much.
At the end, Brigard concluded the discussion on saying that nothing
better proved the power of the human conscience than this difference
between man and beast.
When they had all gone but Brigard, and Saniel was alone with him and
Crozat, he stated his desire.
"But is it the Caffie affair?"
"Exactly."
And he explained in detail the interest he felt in Florentin, the son of
one of his patients, and also the situation of this patient.
Brigard strongly recommended Nougarede, and described his recent
successes before a jury. Crozat concurred with Brigard, and advised
Saniel to see Nougarede the day after to-morrow.
"In the morning, because after the Palais, Nougarede will be at his
wedding, which, as you know, prevents him from coming here this evening."
"What! Nougarede married?" exclaimed Saniel, surprised that the
favorite disciple gave this lie to the doctrine and examples of his
master.
"My God, yes! We must not be too hard on him.
He submits to the fate of a special environment. Without our knowledge,
Nougarede, we may say it now, and ought to say it, was the happy lover of
a charming young person, the daughter of one of our most distinguished
actresses, who was brought up in a fashionable convent. You see the
situation. The result of this liaison was a child, a delicious little
boy. It seemed quite natural that they should live 'en union libre',
since they loved each other, and not weaken by legalities the strength
of those that attached them to this child. But the mother is an actress,
as I have told you, and wished her daughter to receive all the sacraments
that the law and the church can confer. She managed so well that poor
Nougarede yielded. He goes to the mayor, to the church; he legitimizes
the child, and he even accepts a dot of two hundred thousand francs. I
pity him, the unfortunate man! But I confess that I have the weakness to
not condemn him as he would deserve if he married in any other way."
Saniel was a little surprised at these points of resemblance with the
charming young person that Caffie had proposed to him. At the least, it
was curious; but if it were the same woman, he was not vexed to see that
Nougarede had been less difficult than himself.
CHAPTER XXIII
STUNNING NEWS
On going to see Nougarede, Saniel vaguely fancied the lawyer would tell
him that an acquittal was certain if Florentin passed to the assizes, and
even that an 'ordonnance de non-lieu' was probable. But his hope was not
realized.
"The adventure of the button for you or me would not have the same
gravity as for this boy; we have no antecedents on which presumptions
might be established, but he has. The forty-five francs which constitute
an embezzlement for a salaried man will be, certainly, a starting-point
for the accusation; one commences by a weakness and finishes by a crime.
Do you not hear the advocate-general? He will begin by presenting the
portrait of the honest, laborious, exact, scrupulous clerk, content with
a little, and getting satisfaction from his duties accomplished; then, in
opposition, he will pass to the clerk of to-day, as irregular in his work
as in his conduct, full of desires, in a hurry to enjoy, discontented
with everything and everybody, with others as with himself. And he will
go on to speak of the embezzlement of the forty-five francs as the
beginning of the crimes that led to the assassination. You may be sure
if the affair goes to the assizes that you will hear these words and
more, and I assure you that it will be difficult for us to destroy the
impression that he will produce on the jury. But I hope we shall
succeed."
He had to give up the idea of obtaining the 'ordonnance de non-lieu',
and to tell himself that the 'affaire' would come before the assizes;
but it does not follow that one is condemned for what one is accused of,
and Saniel persisted in believing that Florentin would not be.
Assuredly, the prison was hard for the poor boy, and the trial before the
jury, with all the ignominy that necessarily accompanies it, would be
harder yet. But, after all, it would all disappear in the joy of
acquittal; when that time came, there would be found, surely, some
ingenious idea, sympathy, effective support, to pay him for all that he
would have suffered. Certainly, things would come to pass thus, and the
acquittal would be carried with a high hand.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 | 5 |
6