CHAPTER XVI. THE SMILES OF FORTUNE
No one knew so little about play as Saniel. He knew that people played at Monaco, and that was all. He bought his ticket for Monaco, and left the train at that place.
On leaving the station he looked all about him, to see what kind of a place it was. Seeing nothing that looked like a gambling-house as he understood it, that is, like the Casino de Royal, the only establishment of the kind that he had ever seen, he asked a passer-by:
“Where is the gambling-house?”
“There is none at Monaco.”
“I thought there was.”
“There is one at Monte Carlo.”
“Is it far?”
“Over yonder.”
With his hand the man indicated, on the slope of the mountain, a green spot where, in the midst of the foliage, were seen roofs and facades of imposing buildings.
Saniel thanked him and followed his directions, while the man, calling another, related the question that had been addressed to him, and both laughed, shrugging their shoulders. Could any one be so stupid as these Parisians! Another one who was going to be plucked, and who came from Paris expressly for that! Was he not funny, with his big legs and arms?
Without troubling himself about the laughter that he heard behind him, Saniel continued his way. In spite of his night on the train, he felt no fatigue; on the contrary, his mind and body were active. The journey had calmed the agitation of his nerves, and it was with perfect tranquillity he looked back upon all that had passed before his departure. In the state of satisfaction that was his now, he had nothing more to fear from stupidity or acts of folly; and, since he had recovered his will, all would go well. No more backward glances, and fewer still before. The present only should absorb him.
The present, at this moment, was play. What did they play? He knew roulette, but he knew not if the game was roulette. He would do as others did. If he were ridiculed, it was of little importance; and in reality he should desire to be ridiculed. People remember with pleasure those at whom they have laughed, and he had come here to find some one who would remember him.
When he entered the salon where the playing was going on, he observed that a religious silence reigned there. Round a large table covered with a carpet of green cloth, which was divided by lines and figures, some men were seated on high chairs, making them appear like officers; others, on lower chairs, or simply standing about the table, pushed or picked up the louis and bank bills on the green cloth, and a strong voice repeated, in a monotonous tone:
“Messieurs, faites votre jeu! Le jeu est fait! Rien ne va plus!”
Then a little ivory ball was thrown into a cylinder, where it rolled with a metallic noise. Although he had never seen roulette, it required no effort to divine that this was the game.
And, before putting several louis on the table, he looked about him to see how it was played. But after the tenth time he understood as little as at first. With the rakes the croupiers collected the stakes of certain players; with these same rakes they doubled, separated, or even paid, in proportions of which he took no account, certain others, and that was all.
But it mattered little. Having seen how the money was placed on the table, that was sufficient.
He had five louis in his hand when the croupier said:
“Messieurs, faites votre jeu.”
He placed them on the number thirty-two, or, at least, he believed that he placed them on this number.
“Rien ne va plus!” The ball rolled in the cylinder.
“Thirty-one!” cried the croupier, adding some other words that Saniel did not understand. So little did he understand roulette that he thought he had lost. He had placed his stake on the thirty-two, and it was the thirty-one that had appeared; the bank had won. He was surprised to see the croupier push a heap of gold toward him, which amounted to nearly a hundred louis, and accompany this movement with a glance which, without any doubt, meant to say:
“For you, sir.”
What should he do? Since he had lost, he could not take this, money that was given to him by mistake.
In placing his stake on the table, he had leaned over the shoulder of a gentleman whose hair and beard were of a most extraordinary black, who, without playing, pricked a card with a pin. This gentleman turned toward him, and with an amiable smile, and in a most gracious tone said:
“It is yours, sir.”
Decidedly, he was mistaken in thinking he had lost; and he must take this heap of louis, which he did, but neglecting to take, also, his first stake.
The game continued.
“Thirty-two,” called the croupier.
Saniel perceived that his five louis had remained on the thirty-two; he believed that he had won, since this number was called, and his ignorance was such that he did not know that in roulette a number is paid thirty-six times the stake: the croupier would, therefore, push toward him one hundred and eighty Louis.
But, to his great surprise, he pushed him no more money than at first. This was incomprehensible. When he lost, money was paid to him, and when he won, he was paid only half his due.
His face betrayed his astonishment so plainly that he saw a mocking smile in the eyes of the black-haired man, who had again turned toward him.
As he played merely for the sake of playing, and not to win or lose, he pocketed all that was pushed toward him and his stake.
“Since you are not going to play any more,” said the amiable gentleman, leaving his chair, “will you permit me to say a word to you?”
Saniel bowed, and together they left the table. When they were far enough away to converse without disturbing the players, the gentleman bowed ceremoniously:
“Permit me to present myself-Prince Mazzazoli.”
Saniel replied by giving his name and position.
“Well, doctor,” the prince said with a strong Italian accent, “you will pardon me, I hope, for making the simple observation that my age authorizes: you play like a child.”
“Like an ignoramus,” Saniel replied, without being angry. For, however unusual this observation might be, he had already decided that it might be a good thing in the future to call upon the testimony of a prince.
“I am sure you are still asking yourself why you received eighteen times the sum of your stake at the first play, and why you did not receive thirty-six times the sum at the second.”
“That is true.”
“Well, I will tell you.” And he proceeded to explain.
Saniel did not wait for the conclusion to learn the fact that this very-much-dyed Italian prince was a liar.
“I do not intend to play again,” he said.
“With your luck that would be more than a fault.”
“I wanted a certain sum; I have won it, and that satisfies me.”
“You will not be so foolish as to refuse the hand that Fortune holds out?”
“Are you sure she holds it out to me?” Saniel asked, finding that it was the prince.
“Do not doubt it. I will show you—”
“Thank you; but I never break a resolution.”
In another moment Saniel would have turned his back on the man, but he was a witness whom it would be well to treat with caution.
“I have nothing more to do here,” he said, politely. “Permit me to retire, after having thanked you for your offer, whose kindness I appreciate.”
“Well,” cried the prince, “since you will not risk your fate, let me do it for you. This money may be a fetich. Take off five louis, only five louis, and confide them to me. I will play them according to my combinations, which are certain, and this evening I will give you your part of the proceeds. Where are you staying? I live at the Villa des Palmes.”
“Nowhere; I have just arrived.”
“Then let us meet here this evening at ten o’clock, in this room, and we will liquidate our association.”
His first impulse was to refuse. Of what use to give alms to this old monkey? But, after all, it did not cost much to pay his witness five louis, and he gave them to him.
“A thousand thanks! This evening, at ten o’clock.”
As Saniel left the room he found himself face to face with his old comrade Duphot, who was accompanied by a woman, the same whom he had cured.
“What! you here?” both the lover and his mistress exclaimed.
Saniel related why he was at Monaco, and what he had done since his arrival.
“With my money! Ah! She is very well,” Duphot cried.
“And you will play no more?” the woman asked.
“I have all I want.”
“Then you will play for me.”
He wished to decline, but they drew him to the roulette table, and each put a louis in his hand.
“Play.”
“How?”
“As inspiration counsels you. You have the luck.”
But his luck had died. The two louis were lost.
They gave him two others, which won eight.
“You see, dear friend.”
He went on, with varying luck, winning and losing.
At the end of a quarter of an hour they permitted him to go.
“And what are you going to do now?” Duphot asked.
“To send what I owe to my creditors by telegraph.”
“Do you know where the telegraph is?”
“No.”
“I will go with you.”
This was a second witness that Saniel was too wise to shake off.
When he had sent his telegram to Jardine, he had nothing more to do at Monte Carlo, and as he could not leave before eleven o’clock in the evening, he was idle, not knowing how to employ his time. So he bought a Nice newspaper and seated himself in the garden, under a gaslight, facing the dark and tranquil sea. Perhaps he could find in it some telegraph despatch which would tell him what had occurred in the Rue Sainte-Anne since his departure.
At the end of the paper, under “Latest News,” he read:
“The crime of the Rue Sainte-Anne seems to take a new turn; the investigations made with more care have led to the discovery of a trousers’ button, to which is attached a piece of cloth. It shows, therefore, that before the crime there was a struggle between the victim and the assassin. As this button has certain letters and marks, it is a valuable clew for the police.”
This proof of a struggle between the victim and the assassin made Saniel smile. Who could tell how long this button had been there?
Suddenly he left his seat, and entering a copse he examined his clothing. Was it he who had lost it?
But soon he was ashamed of this unconscious movement. The button which the police were so proud to discover, did not belong to him. This new track on which they were about to enter did not lead to him.
CHAPTER XVII. PHILLIS’S FEARS
On Tuesday, a little before five o’clock, as she had promised, Phillis rang at Saniel’s door, and he left his laboratory where he was at work, to let her in.
She threw herself on his neck.
“Well?” she asked, in a trembling voice.
He told her how he had played and won, without stating the exact sum; also the propositions of the Prince Mazzazoli, the meeting with Duphot, and the telegram to Jardine.
“Oh! What happiness!” she said, pressing him in her arms. “You are free!”
“No more creditors! I am my own master. You see it was a good inspiration. Justice willed it.”
Then interrupting him:
“Apropos of justice, you did not speak of Caffie the morning of your departure.”
“I was so preoccupied I had no time to think of Caffie.”
“Is it not curious, the coincidence of his death with the condemnation that we pronounced against him? Does it not prove exactly the justice of things?”
“If you choose.”
“As the money you won at Monaco proves to you that what is just will happen. Caffie is punished for all his rascalities and crimes, and you are rewarded for your sufferings.”
“Would it not have been just if Caffie had been punished sooner, and if I had suffered less?”
She remained silent.
“You see,” he said smiling, “that your philosophy is weak.”
“It is not of my philosophy that I am thinking, but of Caffie and ourselves.”
“And how can Caffie be associated with you or yours?”
“He is, or rather he may be, if this justice in which I believe in spite of your joking permits him to be.”
“You are talking in enigmas.”
“What have you heard about Caffie since you went away?”
“Nothing, or almost nothing.”
“You know it is thought that the crime was committed by a butcher.”
“The commissioner picked up the knife before me, and it is certainly a butcher’s knife. And more than that, the stroke that cut Caffie’s throat was given by a hand accustomed to butchery. I have indicated this in my report.”
“Since then, more careful investigations have discovered a trousers’ button—”
“Which might have been torn off in a struggle between Caffie and his assassin, I read in a newspaper. But as for me, I do not believe in this struggle. Caffie’s position in his chair, where he was assaulted and where he died, indicates that the old scamp was surprised. Otherwise, if he had not been, if he had struggled, he could have cried out, and, without doubt, he would have been heard.”
“If you knew how happy I am to hear you say that!” she cried.
“Happy! What difference can it make to you?” and he looked at her in surprise. “Of what importance is it to you whether Caffie was killed with or without a struggle? You condemned him; he is dead. That should satisfy you.”
“I was very wrong to pronounce this condemnation, which I did without attaching any importance to it.”
“Do you think that hastened its execution?”
“I am not so foolish as that, but I should be better pleased if I had not condemned him.”
“Do you regret it?”
“I regret that he is dead.”
“Decidedly, the enigma continues; but you know I do not understand it, and, if you wish, we will stop there. We have something better to do than to talk of Caffie.”
“On the contrary, let me talk to you of him, because we want your advice.”
Again he looked at her, trying to read her face and to divine why she insisted on speaking of Caffie, when he had just expressed a wish not to speak of him. What was there beneath this insistence?
“I will listen,” he said; “and, since you wish to ask my advice on the subject, you must tell me immediately what you mean.”
“You are right; and I should have told you before, but embarrassment and shame restrained me. And I reproach myself, for with you I should feel neither embarrassment nor reproach.”
“Assuredly.”
“But before everything else, I must tell you—you must know—that my brother Florentin is a good and honest boy; you must believe it, you must be convinced of it.”
“I am, since you tell me so. Besides, he produced the best impression on me during the short time I saw him the other day at your house.”
“Would not one see immediately that he has a good nature?”
“Certainly.”
“Frank and upright; weak, it is true, and a little effeminate also, that is, lacking energy, letting himself be carried away by goodness and tenderness. This weakness made him commit a fault before his departure for America. I have kept it from you until this moment, but you must know it now. Loving a woman who controlled him and made him do what she wished, he let himself be persuaded to-take a sum of forty-five francs that she demanded, that she insisted on having that evening, hoping to be able to replace it three days later, without his employer discovering it.”
“His employer was Caffie?”
“No; it was three months after he left Caffie, and he was with another man of business of whom I have never spoken to you, and now you understand why. The money he expected failed him; his fault was discovered, and his employer lodged a complaint against him.”
“We made him withdraw his complaint, never mind how, and Florentin went to America to seek his fortune. And since you have seen him, you admit that he might be capable of the fault that he committed, without being capable-of becoming an assassin.”
He was about to reply, but she closed his lips with a quick gesture.
“You will see why I speak of this, and you will understand why I do not drop the subject of Caffie, and of this button, on which the police count to find the criminal. This button belonged to Florentin.”
“To your brother?”
“Yes, to Florentin, who, the day of the crime, had been to see Caffie.”
“That is true; the concierge told the commissioner of police that he called about three o’clock.”
Phillis gave a cry of despair.
“They know he was there? Then it is more serious than we imagined or believed.”
“In answering a question as to whom Caffie had received that day, the concierge named your brother. But as this visit took place between three and half-past, and the crime was certainly committed between five and half-past, no one can accuse your brother of being the assassin, since he left before Caffie lighted his lamp. As this lamp could not light itself, it proves that he could not have butchered a man who was living an hour after the concierge saw your brother and talked with him.”
“What you say is a great relief; if you could know how alarmed we have been!”
“You were too hasty to alarm yourself.”
“Too hasty? But when Florentin read the account to us and came to the button, he exclaimed, ‘This button is mine!’ and we experienced a shock that made us lose our heads. We saw the police falling on us, questioning Florentin, reproaching him with the past, which would be retailed in all the newspapers, and you must understand how we felt.”
“But cannot your brother explain how he lost this button at Caffie’s?”
“Certainly, and in the most natural way. He went to see Caffie, to ask him for a letter of recommendation, saying that he had been his clerk for several years. Caffie gave it to him, and then, in the course of conversation, Caffie spoke of a bundle of papers that he could not find. Florentin had had charge of these papers, and had placed them on a high shelf in the closet. As Caffie could not find them, and wanted them, Florentin brought a small ladder, and, mounting it, found them. He was about to descend the ladder, when he made a misstep, and in trying to save himself, one of the buttons of his trousers was pulled off.”
“And he did not pick it up?”
“He did not even notice it at first. But later, in the street, seeing one leg of his trousers longer than the other, he thought of the ladder, and found that he had lost a button. He would not return to Caffie’s to look for it, of course.”
“Of course.”
“How could he foresee that Caffie would be assassinated? That the crime would be so skilfully planned and executed that the criminal would escape? That two days later the police would find a button on which they would build a story that would make him the criminal? Florentin had not thought of all that.”
“That is understood.”
“The same evening he replaced the button by another, and it was only on reading the newspaper that he felt there might be something serious in this apparently insignificant fact. And we shared his alarm.”
“Have you spoken to any one of this button?”
“Certainly not; we know too much. I tell you of it because I tell you everything; and if we are menaced, we have no help to expect, except from you. Florentin is a good boy, but he is weak and foolish. Mamma is like him in more than one respect, and as for me, although I am more resistant, I confess that, in the face of the law and the police, I should easily lose my head, like children who begin to scream when they are left in the dark. Is not the law, when you know nothing of it, a night of trouble, full of horrors, and peopled with phantoms?”
“I do not believe there is the danger that you imagined in the first moment of alarm.”
“It was natural.”
“Very natural, I admit, but reflection must show how little foundation there is for it. The button has not the name of the tailor who furnished it?”
“No, but it has the initials and the mark of the manufacturer; an A and a P, with a crown and a cock.”
“Well! Among two or three thousand tailors in Paris, how is it possible for the police to find those who use these buttons? And when the tailors are found, how could they designate the owner of this button, this one exactly, and not another? It is looking for a needle in a bundle of hay. Where did your brother have these trousers made? Did he bring them from America?”
“The poor boy brought nothing from America but wretchedly shabby clothes, and we had to clothe him from head to foot. We were obliged to economize, and a little tailor in the Avenue de Clichy, called Valerius, made this suit.”
“It seems to me scarcely probable that the police will find this little tailor. But if they do, would he recognize the button as coming from his stock? And, if they get as far as your brother, they must prove that there was a struggle; that the button was torn off in this struggle; that your brother was in the Rue Sainte-Anne between five and six o’clock; in which case, without doubt, he will find it easy to prove where he was at that moment.”
“He was with us—with mamma.”
“You see, then, you need not feel alarmed.”
CHAPTER XVIII. A GRAVE DISCUSSION
Phillis hurried to return to the Rue des Moines, to share with her mother and brother the confidence that Saniel caused her to feel.
She pulled the bell with a trembling hand, for the time was past when in this quiet house, where all the lodgers knew each other, the key was left in the door, and one had only to knock before entering. Since the newspapers had spoken of the button, all was changed; the feeling of liberty and security had disappeared; the door was always closed, and when the bell rang they looked at each other in fear and with trembling.
When Florentin opened the door, the table was set for dinner.
“I was afraid something had happened to you,” Madame Cormier said.
“I was detained.”
She took off her hat and cloak hastily.
“You have learned nothing?” the mother asked, bringing in the soup.
“No.”
“They spoke to you of nothing?” Florentin continued in a low voice.
“They spoke to me of nothing else; or I heard only that when I was not addressed directly.”
“What was said?”
“No one believes that the investigations of the police bear on the button.”
“You see, Florentin,” Madame Cormier interrupted, smiling at her son.
But he shook his head.
“However, the opinion of all has a value,” Phillis cried.
“Speak lower,” Florentin said.
“It is thought that it is impossible for the police to find, among the two or three thousand tailors in Paris, all those who use the buttons marked A. P. And if they did find them, they could not designate all their customers to whom they have furnished these buttons. It is really looking for a needle in a bundle of hay.”
“When one takes plenty of time, one finds a needle in a bundle of hay,” Florentin said.
“You ask me what I heard, and I tell you. But I do not depend entirely on that. As I passed near the Rue Louis-le-Grand, I went to Doctor Saniel’s; it being his office hour I hoped to find him.”
“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.