File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (ebook reader browser TXT) 📖

“Who lent you the money?”

“M. Raoul de Lagors.”

This witness had left Paris the day of the robbery, and could not be found; so, for the time being, M. Patrigent was compelled to rely upon Prosper’s word.

“Well,” he said, “I will not press this point; but tell me why, in spite of the formal order of M. Fauvel, you drew the money from the Bank of France the night before, instead of waiting till the morning of the payment?”

“Because M. de Clameran had informed me that it would be agreeable, necessary even, for him to have his money early in the morning. He will testify to that fact, if you summon him; and I knew that I should reach my office late.”

“Then M. de Clameran is a friend of yours?”

“By no means. I have always felt repelled by him; but he is the intimate friend of M. Lagors.”

While Sigault was writing down these answers, M. Patrigent was racking his brain to imagine what could have occurred between M. Bertomy and his son, to cause this transformation in Prosper.

“One more thing,” said the judge: “how did you spend the evening, the night before the crime?”

“When I left my office, at five o’clock, I took the St.-Germain train, and went to Vesinet, M. de Lagors’s country seat, to carry him fifteen hundred francs which he had asked for; and, finding him not at home, I left it with his servant.”

“Did he tell you that M. de Lagors was going away?”

“No, monsieur. I did not know that he had left Paris.”

“Where did you go when you left Vesinet?”

“I returned to Paris, and dined at a restaurant with a friend.”

“And then?”

Prosper hesitated.

“You are silent,” said M. Patrigent; “then I shall tell you how you employed your time. You returned to your rooms in the Rue Chaptal, dressed yourself, and attended a soiree given by one of those women who style themselves dramatic artistes, and who are a disgrace to the stage; who receive a hundred crowns a year, and yet keep their carriages, at Mlle. Wilson’s.”

“You are right, monsieur.”

“There is heavy playing at Wilson’s?”

“Sometimes.”

“You are in the habit of visiting places of this sort. Were you not connected in some way with a scandalous adventure which took place at the house of a woman named Crescenzi?”

“I was summoned to testify, having witnessed a theft.”

“Gambling generally leads to stealing. And did you not play baccarat at Wilson’s, and lose eighteen hundred francs?”

“Excuse me, monsieur, only eleven hundred.”

“Very well. In the morning you paid a note of a thousand francs.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Moreover, there remained in your desk five hundred francs, and you had four hundred in your purse when you were arrested. So that altogether, in twenty-four hours, four thousand five hundred francs—”

Prosper was not discountenanced, but stupefied.

Not being aware of the powerful means of investigation possessed by the law, he wondered how in so short a time the judge could have obtained such accurate information.

“Your statement is correct, monsieur,” he said finally.

“Where did all this money come from? The evening before you had so little that you were obliged to defer the payment of a small bill.”

“The day to which you allude, I sold through an agent some bonds I had, about three thousand francs; besides, I took from the safe two thousand francs in advance on my salary.”

The prisoner had given clear answers to all the questions put to him, and M. Patrigent thought he would attack him on a new point.

“You say you have no wish to conceal any of your actions; then why did you write this note to one of your companions?” Here he held up the mysterious note.

This time the blow struck. Prosper’s eyes dropped before the inquiring look of the judge.

“I thought,” he stammered, “I wished—”

“You wished to screen this woman?”

“Yes, monsieur; I did. I knew that a man in my condition, accused of a robbery, has every fault, every weakness he has ever indulged in, charged against him as a great crime.”

“Which means that you knew that the presence of a woman at your house would tell very much against you, and that justice would not excuse this scandalous defiance of public morality. A man who respects himself so little as to associate with a worthless woman, does not elevate her to his standard, but he descends to her base level.”

“Monsieur!”

“I suppose you know who the woman is, whom you permit to bear the honest name borne by your mother?”

“Mme. Gypsy was a governess when I first knew her. She was born at Oporto, and came to France with a Portuguese family.”

“Her name is not Gypsy; she has never been a governess, and she is not a Portuguese.”

Prosper began to protest against this statement; but M. Patrigent shrugged his shoulders, and began looking over a large file of papers on his desk.

“Ah, here it is,” he said, “listen: Palmyre Chocareille, born at Paris in 1840, daughter of James Chocareille, undertaker’s assistant, and of Caroline Piedlent, his wife.”

Prosper looked vexed and impatient; he did not know that the judge was reading him this report to convince him that nothing can escape the police.

“Palmyre Chocareille,” he continued, “at twelve years of age was apprenticed to a shoemaker, and remained with him until she was sixteen. Traces of her for one year are lost. At the age of seventeen she is hired as a servant by a grocer on the Rue St. Denis, named Dombas, and remains there three months. She lives out during this same year, 1857, at eight different places. In 1858 she entered the store of a fan-merchant in Choiseul Alley.”

As he read, the judge watched Prosper’s face to observe the effect of these revelations.

“Toward the close of 1858 she was employed as a servant by Madame Munes, and accompanied her to Lisbon. How long she remained in Lisbon, and what she did while she remained there, is not reported. But in 1861 she