LITMIR.BIZ

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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 returned to Paris, and was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment for assault and battery. Ah, she returned from Portugal with the name of Nina Gypsy.”

      “But I assure you, monsieur,” Prosper began.

      “Yes, I understand; this history is less romantic, doubtless, than the one related to you; but then it has the merit of being true. We lose sight of Palmyre Chocareille, called Gypsy, upon her release from prison, but we meet her again six months later, having made the acquaintance of a travelling agent named Caldas, who became infatuated with her beauty, and furnished her a house near the Bastille. She assumed his name for some time, then she deserted him to devote herself to you. Did you ever hear of this Caldas?”

      “Never, monsieur.”

      “This foolish man so deeply loved this creature that her desertion drove him almost insane from grief. He was a very resolute man, and publicly swore that he would kill his rival if he ever found him. The current report afterward was, that he committed suicide. He certainly sold the furniture of the House occupied by Chocareille, and suddenly disappeared. All the efforts made to discover him proved fruitless.”

      The judge stopped a moment as if to give Prosper time for reflection, and then slowly said:

      “And this is the woman whom you made your companion, the woman for whom you robbed the bank!”

      Once more M. Patrigent was on the wrong track, owing to Fanferlot’s incomplete information.

      He had hoped that Prosper would betray himself by uttering some passionate retort when thus wounded to the quick; but he remained impassible. Of all the judge said to him his mind dwelt upon only one word—Caldas, the name of the poor travelling agent who had killed himself.

      “At any rate,” insisted M. Patrigent, “you will confess that this girl has caused your ruin.”

      “I cannot confess that, monsieur, for it is not true.”

      “Yet she is the occasion of your extravagance. Listen.” The judge here drew a bill from the file of papers. “During December you paid her dressmaker, Van Klopen, for two walking dresses, nine hundred francs; one evening dress, seven hundred francs; one domino, trimmed with lace, four hundred francs.”

      “I spent this money cheerfully, but nevertheless I was not especially attached to her.”

      M. Patrigent shrugged his shoulders.

      “You cannot deny the evidence,” said he. “I suppose you will also say that it was not for this girl’s sake you ceased spending

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