Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (ebook reader browser TXT) 📖
- Author: Emile Gaboriau
Book online «File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (ebook reader browser TXT) 📖». Author Emile Gaboriau
Despite his smiling face, he was very uneasy. To prosecute the Bertomy case alone, it required a double play that might be discovered at any moment; to manage at once the cause of justice and his own ambition, he ran great risks, the least of which was the losing of his place.
“I have a great deal to do,” he said, to excuse himself, “and have not wasted any time.”
And he began to give a detailed account of his movements. He was embarrassed, for he spoke with all sorts of restrictions, picking out what was to be said, and avoiding what was to be left unsaid. Thus he gave the history of Cavaillon’s letter, which he handed to the judge; but he did not breathe a word of Madeleine. On the other hand, he gave biographical details, very minute indeed, of Prosper and Mme. Gypsy, which he had collected from various quarters during the day.
As he progressed the conviction of M. Patrigent was strengthened.
“This young man is evidently guilty,” he said. Fanferlot did not reply; his opinion was different, but he was delighted that the judge was on the wrong track, thinking that his own glory would thereby be the greater when he discovered the real culprit. True, this grand discovery was as far off as it had ever been; but Fanferlot was hopeful.
After hearing all he had to tell, the judge dismissed Fanferlot, telling him to return the next day.
“Above all,” he said, as Fanferlot left the room, “do not lose sight of the girl Gypsy; she must know where the money is, and can put us on the track.”
Fanferlot smiled cunningly.
“You may rest easy about that, monsieur; the lady is in good hands.”
Left to himself, although the evening was far advanced, M. Patrigent continued to busy himself with the case, and to arrange that the rest of the depositions should be made.
This case had actually taken possession of his mind; it was, at the same time, puzzling and attractive. It seemed to be surrounded by a cloud of mystery, and he determined to penetrate and dispel it.
The next morning he was in his office much earlier than usual. On this day he examined Mme. Gypsy, recalled Cavaillon, and sent again for M. Fauvel. For several days he displayed the same activity.
Of all the witnesses summoned, only two failed to appear.
One was the office-boy sent by Prosper to bring the money from the city bank; he was ill from a fall.
The other was M. Raoul de Lagors.
But their absence did not prevent the file of papers relating to Prosper’s case from daily increasing; and on the ensuing Monday, five days after the robbery, M. Patrigent thought he held in his hands enough moral proof to crush the accused.
V
While his whole past was the object of the most minute investigations, Prosper was in prison, in a secret cell.
The two first days had not appeared very long.
He had requested, and been granted, some sheets of paper, numbered, which he was obliged to account for; and he wrote, with a sort of rage, plans of defence and a narrative of justification.
The third day he began to be uneasy at not seeing anyone except the condemned prisoners who were employed to serve those confined in secret cells, and the jailer who brought him his food.
“Am I not to be examined again?” he would ask.
“Your turn is coming,” the jailer invariably answered.
Time passed; and the wretched man, tortured by the sufferings of solitary confinement which quickly breaks the spirit, sank into the depths of despair.
“Am I to stay here forever?” he moaned.
No, he was not forgotten; for on Monday morning, at one o’clock, an hour when the jailer never came, he heard the heavy bolt of his cell pushed back.
He ran toward the door.
But the sight of a gray-headed man standing on the sill rooted him to the spot.
“Father,” he gasped, “father!”
“Your father, yes!”
Prosper’s astonishment at seeing his father was instantly succeeded by a feeling of great joy.
A father is one friend upon whom we can always rely. In the hour of need, when all else fails, we remember this man upon whose knees we sat when children, and who soothed our sorrows; and although he can in no way assist us, his presence alone comforts and strengthens.
Without reflecting, Prosper, impelled by tender feeling, was about to throw himself on his father’s bosom.
M. Bertomy harshly repulsed him.
“Do not approach me!” he exclaimed.
He then advanced into the cell, and closed the door. The father and son were alone together, Prosper heart-broken, crushed; M. Bertomy angry, almost threatening.
Cast off by this last friend, by his father, the miserable young man seemed to be stupefied with pain and disappointment.
“You too!” he bitterly cried. “You, you believe me guilty? Oh, father!”
“Spare yourself this shameful comedy,” interrupted M. Bertomy: “I know all.”
“But I am innocent, father; I swear it by the sacred memory of my mother.”
“Unhappy wretch,” cried M. Bertomy, “do not blaspheme!”
He seemed overcome by tender thoughts of the past, and in a weak, broken voice, he added:
“Your mother is dead, Prosper, and little did I think that the day would come when I could thank God for having taken her from me. Your crime would have killed her, would have broken her heart!”
After a painful silence, Prosper said:
“You overwhelm me, father, and at the moment when I need all my courage; when I am the victim of an odious plot.”
“Victim!” cried M. Bertomy, “victim! Dare you utter your insinuations against the honorable man who has taken care of you, loaded you with benefits, and had insured you a brilliant future! It is enough for you to have robbed him; do not calumniate him.”
“For pity’s sake, father, let me speak!”
“I suppose you would deny your benefactor’s kindness. Yet you were at one time so sure of his affection, that you wrote me to hold myself in
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