“Why,” he said to himself, “why might not the scamp whom we hold be the author of the other two attempts likewise? There is nothing improbable in that supposition. The man, once engaged, might easily have been put on board ‘The Conquest;’ and he might have left France saying to himself that it would be odd indeed, if during a long voyage, or in a land like this, he did not find a chance to earn his money without running much risk.”
The result of his meditations2 was, that the chief surgeon appeared, at nine o’clock, at the office of the state attorney. He placed the matter before him very fully3 and plainly; and, an hour afterwards, he crossed the yard on his way to the prison, accompanied by a magistrate4 and his clerk.
“How is the man the sailors brought here last night?” he asked the jailer.
“Badly, sir. He would not eat.”
“What did he say when he got here?”
“Nothing. He seemed to be stupefied.”
“You did not try to make him talk?”
“Why, yes, a little. He answered that he had done some mischief5; that he was in despair, and wished he were dead.”
The magistrate looked at the surgeon as if he meant to say, “Just as I expected from what you told me!” Then, turning again to the jailer, he said,—
“Show us to the prisoner’s cell.”
The murderer had been put into a small but tidy cell in the first story. When they entered, they found him seated on his bed, his heels on the bars, and his chin in the palm of his hands. As soon as he saw the surgeon, he jumped up, and with outstretched arms and rolling eyes, exclaimed,—
“The officer has died!”
“No,” replied the surgeon, “no! Calm yourself. The wound is a very bad one; but in a fortnight he will be up again.”
These words fell like a heavy blow upon the murderer. He turned pale; his lips quivered; and he trembled in all his limbs. Still he promptly6 mastered this weakness of the flesh; and falling on his knees, with folded hands, he murmured in the most dramatic manner,—
“Then I am not a murderer! O Great God, I thank thee!”
It was evidently a case of coarsest hypocrisy8; for his looks contradicted his words and his voice. The magistrate, however, seemed to be taken in.
“You show proper feelings,” he said. “Now get up and answer me. What is your name?”
“Evariste Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet.”
“What age?”
“Thirty-five years.”
“Where were you born?”
“At Bagnolet, near Paris. And on that account, my friend”—
“Never mind. Your profession?”
The man hesitated. The magistrate added,—
“In your own interest I advise you to tell the truth. The truth always comes out in the end; and your position would be a very serious one if you tried to lie. Answer, therefore, directly.”
“What brought you to Cochin China?”
“The desire to find work. I was tired of Paris. There was no work for engravers. I met a friend who told me the government wanted good workmen for the colonies.”
“What was your friend’s name?”
A slight blush passed over the man’s cheek’s, and he answered hastily,—
“I have forgotten his name.”
The magistrate seemed to redouble his attention, although he did not show it.
“That is very unfortunate for you,” he answered coldly. “Come, make an effort; try to remember.”
“I know I cannot; it is not worth the trouble.”
“Well; but no doubt you recollect10 the profession of the man who knew so well that government wanted men in Cochin China? What was it?”
“How do I know? Besides, what have I to do with my friend’s name and profession? I learned from him that they wanted workmen. I called at the navy department, they engaged me; and that is all.”
Standing12 quietly in one of the corners of the cell, the old chief surgeon lost not a word, not a gesture, of the murderer. And he could hardly refrain from rubbing his hands with delight as he noticed the marvellous skill of the magistrate in seizing upon all those little signs, which, when summed up at the end of an investigation13, form an overwhelming mass of evidence against the criminal. The magistrate, in the meantime, went on with the same impassive air,—
“Let us leave that question, then, since it seems to irritate you, and let us go on to your residence here. How have you supported yourself at Saigon?”
“By my work, forsooth! I have two arms; and I am not a good-for- nothing.”
“You have found employment, you say, as engraver on metal?”
“No.”
“But you said”—
“If you won’t let me have my say,” he broke out insolently16, “it isn’t worth while questioning me.”
The magistrate seemed not to notice it. He answered coldly,—
“Oh! talk as much as you want. I can wait.”
“Well, then, the day after we had landed, M. Farniol, the owner of the French restaurant, offered me a place as waiter. Of course I accepted, and stayed there a year. Now I wait at table at the Hotel de France, kept by M. Roy. You can send for my two masters; they will tell you whether there is any complaint against me.”
“They will certainly be examined. And where do you live?”
“At the Hotel de France, of course, where I am employed.”
The magistrate’s face looked more and more benevolent17. He asked next,—
“And that is a good place,—to be waiter at a restaurant or a hotel?”
“Why, yes—pretty good.”
“They pay well; eh?”
“That depends,—sometimes they do; at other times they don’t. When it is the season”—
“That is so everywhere. But let us be accurate. You have been now eighteen months in Saigon; no doubt you have laid up something?”
The man looked troubled and amazed, as if he had suddenly found out that the apparent benevolence18 of the magistrate had led him upon slippery and dangerous ground. He said evasively,—
“If I have put anything aside, it is not worth mentioning.”
“On the contrary, let us mention it. How much about have you saved?”
“I don’t know,” he said sharply.
The magistrate made a gesture of surprise which was admirable. He added,—
“What! You don’t know how much you have laid up? That is too improbable! When people save money, one cent after another, to provide for their old age, they know pretty well”—
“Well, then, take it for granted that I have saved nothing.”
“As you like it. Only it is my duty to show you the effect of your declaration. You tell me you have not laid up any money, don’t you? Now, what would you say, if, upon search being made, the police should find a certain sum of money on your person or elsewhere?”
“They won’t find any.”
“So much the better for you; for, after what you said, it would be a terrible charge.”
“Let them search.”
“They are doing it now, and not only in your room, but also elsewhere. They will soon know if you have invested any money, or if you have deposited it with any of your acquaintances.”
“I may have brought some money with me from home.”
“No; for you have told me that you could no longer live in Paris, finding no work.”
Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, made such a sudden and violent start, that the surgeon thought he was going to attack the magistrate. He felt he had been caught in a net the meshes21 of which were drawing tighter and tighter around him; and these apparently22 inoffensive questions assumed suddenly a terrible meaning.
“Just answer me in one word,” said the magistrate. “Did you bring any money from France, or did you not?”
The man rose, and his lips opened to utter a curse; but he checked himself, sat down again, and, laughing ferociously23, he said,—
“Ah! you would like to ‘squeeze’ me, and make me cut my own throat. But luckily, I can see through you; and I refuse to answer.”
“You mean you want to consider. Have a care! You need not consider in order to tell the truth.”
And, as the man remained obstinately24 silent, the magistrate began again after a pause, saying,—
“You know what you are accused of? They suspect that you fired at Lieut. Champcey with intent to kill.”
“That is an abominable25 lie!”
“So you say. How did you hear that the officers of ‘The Conquest’ had arranged a large hunting-party?”
“I had heard them speak of it at table d’hote.”
“And you left your service in order to attend this hunt, some twelve miles from Saigon? That is certainly singular.”
“Not at all; for I am very fond of hunting. And then I thought, if I could bring back a large quantity of game, I would probably be able to sell it very well.”
Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, was stung by the point of this ironical27 question, as if he had received a sharp cut. But, as he said nothing, the magistrate continued,—
“Explain to us how the thing happened.”
On this ground the murderer knew he was at home, having had ample time to get ready; and with an accuracy which did great honor to his memory, or to his veracity28, he repeated what he had told the surgeon on the spot, and at the time of the catastrophe29. He only added, that he had concealed30 himself, because he had seen at once to what terrible charges he would be exposed by his awkwardness. And as he continued his account, warming up with its plausibility31, he recovered the impudence32, or rather the insolence33, which seemed to be the prominent feature of his character.
“Do you know the officer whom you have wounded?” asked the magistrate when he had finished.
“Of course, I do, as I have made the voyage with him. He is Lieut. Champcey.”
“Have you any complaint against him?”
“None at all.”
Then he added in a tone of bitterness and resentment,—
“What relations do you think could there be between a poor devil like myself and a great personage like him? Would he have condescended34 even to look at me? Would I have dared to speak to him? If I know him, it is only because I have seen him, from afar off, walk the quarter-deck with the other officers, a cigar in his mouth, after a good meal, while we in the forecastle had our salt fish, and broke our teeth with worm-eaten hard-tack.”
“So you had no reason to hate him?”
“None; as little as anybody else.”
Seated upon a wretched little footstool, his paper on his knees, an inkhorn in his hand, the clerk was rapidly taking down the questions and the answers. The magistrate made him a sign that it was ended, and then said, turning to the murderer,—
“That is enough for to-day. I am bound to tell you, that, having so far only kept you as a matter of precaution, I shall issue now an order for your arrest.”
“You mean I am to be put in jail?”
“Yes, until the court shall decide whether you are guilty of murder, or of involuntary homicide.”
Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, seemed to have foreseen this conclusion: at least he coolly shrugged36 his shoulders, and said in a hoarse37 voice,—
“In that case I shall have my linen38 changed pretty often here; for, if I had been wicked enough to plot an assassination39, I should not have been fool enough to say so.”
And, turning to the clerk, he said,—
“Read the deposition41 to the accused.”
A moment afterwards, when this formality had been fulfilled, the magistrate and the old doctor left the room. The former looked extremely grave, and said,—
“You were right, doctor; that man is a murderer. The so-called friend, whose name he would not tell us, is no other person than the rascal42 whose tool he is. And I mean to get that person’s name out of him, if M. Champcey recovers, and will give me the slightest hint. Therefore, doctor, nurse your patient.”
To recommend Daniel to the surgeon was at least superfluous43. If the old original was inexorable, as they said on board ship, for those lazy ones who pretended to be sick for the purpose of shirking work, he was all tenderness for his real patients; and his tenderness grew with the seriousness of their danger. He would not have hesitated a moment between an admiral who was slightly unwell, and the youngest midshipman of the fleet who was dangerously wounded. The admiral might have waited a long time before he would have left the midshipman,—an originality44 far less frequent than we imagine.
It would have been enough, therefore, for Daniel to be so dangerously wounded. But there was something else besides. Like all who had ever sailed with Daniel, the surgeon, also, had conceived a lively interest in him, and was filled with admiration45 for his character. Besides that, he knew that his patient alone could solve this great mystery, which puzzled him exceedingly.
Unfortunately, Daniel’s condition was one of those which defy all professional skill, and where all hope depends upon time, nature, and constitution. To try to question him would have been absurd; for he had so far continued delirious46. At times he thought he was on board his sloop47 in the swamps of the Kamboja; but most frequently he imagined himself fighting against enemies bent48 upon his ruin. The names of Sarah Brandon, Mrs. Brian, and Thomas Elgin, were constantly on his lips, mixed up with imprecations and fearful threats.
For twenty days he remained so; and for twenty days and twenty nights his “man,” Baptist Lefloch, who had caught the murderer, was by his bedside, watching his slightest movement, and ever bending over him tenderly. Not one of those noble daughters of divine wisdom, whom we meet in every part of the globe, wherever there is a sick man to nurse, could have been more patient, more attentive49, or more ingenious, than this common sailor. He had put off his shoes, so as to walk more softly; and he came and went on tiptoe, his face full of care and anxiety, preparing draughts50, and handling with his huge bony hands, with laughable, but almost touching51 precautions, the small phials out of which he had to give a spoonful to his patient at stated times.
“I’ll have you appointed head nurse of the navy, Lefloch,” said the old surgeon.
But he shook his head and answered,—
“I would not like the place, commandant. Only, you see, when we were down there on the Kamboja, and Baptist Lefloch was writhing52 like a worm in the grip of the cholera53, and when he was already quite blue and cold, Lieut. Champcey did not send for one of those lazy Annamites to rub him, he came himself, and rubbed him till he brought back the heat and life itself. Now, you see, I want to do some little for him.”
“You would be a great scamp if you did not.”
The surgeon hardly left the wounded man himself. He visited him four or five times a day, once at least every night, and almost every day remained for hours sitting by his bedside, examining the patient, and experiencing, according to the symptoms, the most violent changes from hope to fear, and back again. It was thus he learned a part, at least, of Daniel’s history,—that he was to marry a daughter of Count Ville- Handry, who himself had married an adventuress; and that they had separated him from his betrothed54 by a forged letter. The doctor’s conjectures55 were thus confirmed: such cowardly forgers would not hesitate to hire an assassin.
But the worthy56 surgeon was too deeply impressed with the dignity of his profession to divulge57 secrets which he had heard by the bedside of a patient. And when the magistrate, devoured58 by impatience, came to him every three or four days, he always answered,—
“I have nothing new to tell you. It will take weeks yet before you can examine my patient. I am sorry for it, for the sake of Evariste Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, who must be tired of prison; but he must wait.”
In the meantime, Daniel’s long delirium59 had been succeeded by a period of stupor60. Order seemed gradually to return to his mind. He recognized the persons around him, and even stammered61 a few sensible words. But he was so excessively weak, that he remained nearly all the time plunged62 in a kind of torpor63 which looked very much like death itself. When he was aroused for a time, he always asked in an almost inaudible voice,—
“Are there no letters for me from France?”
Invariably, Lefloch replied, according to orders received from the doctor,—
“None, lieutenant64.”
But he told a falsehood. Since Daniel was confined to his bed, three vessels65 had arrived from France, two French and one English; and among the despatches there were eight or ten letters for Lieut. Champcey. But the old surgeon said to himself, not without good reason,—
“Certainly it is almost a case of conscience to leave this unfortunate man in such uncertainty67: but this uncertainty is free from danger, at least; while any excitement would kill him as surely and as promptly as I could blow out a candle.”
A fortnight passed; and Daniel recovered some little strength; at last he entered upon a kind of convalescence—if a poor man who could not turn over in bed unaided can be called a convalescent. But, with his returned consciousness, his sufferings also reappeared; and, as he gradually ascertained69 how long he had been confined, his anxiety assumed an alarming character.
“There must be letters for me,” he said to his man; “you keep them from me. I must have them.”
The doctor at last came to the conclusion that this excessive agitation70 was likely to become as dangerous as the excitement he dreaded71 so much; so he said one day,—
“Let us run the risk.”
It was a burning hot afternoon, and Daniel had now been an invalid72 for seven weeks. Lefloch raised him on his pillows, stowed him away, as he called it; and the surgeon handed him his letters.
Daniel uttered a cry of delight.
At the first glance he had recognized on three of the envelopes Henrietta’s handwriting. He kissed them, and said,—
“At last she writes!”
The shock was so violent, that the doctor was almost frightened.
“Be calm, my dear friend,” he said. “Be calm! Be a man, forsooth!”
But Daniel only smiled, and replied,—
“Never mind me, doctor; you know joy is never dangerous; and nothing but joy can come to me from her who writes to me. However, just see how calm I am!”
So calm, that he did not even take the time to see which was the oldest of his letters.
“Daniel, my dear Daniel, my only friend in this world, and my sole hope, how could you intrust me to such an infamous74 person? How could you hand over your poor Henrietta to such a wretch35? This Maxime de Brevan, this scoundrel, whom you considered your friend, if you knew”—
This was the long letter written by Henrietta the day after M. de Brevan had declared to her that he loved her, and that sooner or later, whether she chose or not, she should be his, giving her the choice between the horrors of starvation and the disgrace of becoming his wife.
As Daniel went on reading, a deadly pallor was spreading over his face, pale as it was already; his eyes grew unnaturally75 large; and big drops of perspiration76 trickled77 down his temples. A nervous trembling seized him, so violent, that it made his teeth rattle78; sobs79 rose from his chest; and a pinkish foam80 appeared on his discolored lips. At last he reached the concluding lines,—
“Now,” the young girl wrote, “since, probably, none of my letters have reached you, they must have been intercepted81. This one will reach you; for I am going to carry it to the post-office myself. For God’s sake, Daniel, return! Come back quick, if you wish to save, not your Henrietta’s honor, for I shall know how to die, but your Henrietta’s life!”
This man, who but just now had not been able to raise himself on his pillows; this unfortunate sufferer, who looked more like a skeleton than a human being; this wounded man, who had scarcely his breath left him,—threw back his blankets, and rushed to the middle of the room, crying, with a terrible voice,—
“My clothes, Lefloch, my clothes!”
The doctor had hastened forward to support him; but he pushed him aside with one arm, continuing,—
“By the holy name of God, Lefloch, make haste! Run to the harbor, wretch! there must be a steamer there. I buy it. Let it get up steam, instantly. In an hour I must be on my way.”
But this great effort had exhausted83 him. He tottered84; his eyes dosed; and he fainted away in the arms of his sailor, stammering,—
“That letter, doctor, that letter; read it, and you will see I must go.”
Raising his lieutenant, and holding him like a child in his arms, Lefloch carried him back to his bed; but, for more than ten minutes, the doctor and the faithful sailor were unable to tell whether they had not a corpse85 before their eyes, and were wasting all their attentions.
No! It was Lefloch who first noticed a slight tremor.
“He moves!” he cried out. “Look, commandant, he moves! He is alive! We’ll pull him through yet.”
They succeeded, in fact, to rekindle86 this life which had appeared so nearly extinct; but they did not bring back that able intellect. The cold and indifferent look with which Daniel stared at them, when he at last opened his eyes once more, told them that the tottering87 reason of the poor man had not been strong enough to resist this new shock. And still he must have retained some glimpses of the past; for his efforts to collect his thoughts were unmistakable. He passed his hands mechanically over his forehead, as if trying to remove the mist which enshrouded his mind. Then a convulsion shook him; and his lips overflowed88 with incoherent words, in which the recollection of the fearful reality, and the extravagant89 conceptions of delirium, were strangely mixed.
“I foresaw it,” said the chief surgeon. “I foresaw it but too fully.”
He had by this time exhausted all the resources of his skill and long experience; he had followed all the suggestions nature vouchsafed90; and he could do nothing more now, but wait. Picking up the fatal letter, he went into the embrasure of one of the windows to read it. Daniel had in his wanderings said enough to enable the doctor to understand the piercing cry of distress91 contained in the poor girl’s letter; and Lefloch, who watched him, saw a big tear running down his cheek, and in the next moment a flood of crimson overspread his face.
And like a man who no longer possesses himself, who must move somehow, he stuffed the letter in his pocket, and went out, swearing till the plaster seemed to fall from the ceiling.
Precisely93 at the same hour, the magistrate, who had been notified of the trial, came to ask for news. Seeing the old surgeon cross the hospital yard, he ran up and asked, as soon as he was within hearing,—
“Well?”
The doctor went a few steps farther, and then replied in a tone of despair,—
“Lieut. Champcey is lost!”
“Great God! What do you mean?”
“What I think. Daniel has a violent brain-fever, or rather congestion94 of the brain. Weakened, exhausted, extenuated95 as he is, how can he endure it? He cannot; that is evident. It would take another miracle to save him now; and you may rest assured it won’t be done. In less than twenty-four hours he will be a dead man, and his assassins will triumph.”
“Oh!”
“And who could keep those rascals97 from triumphing? If Daniel dies, you will be bound to release that scamp, the wretched murderer whom you keep imprisoned,—that man Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet; for there will be no evidence. Or, if you send him before a court, he will be declared guilty of involuntary homicide. And yet you know, as well as I do, he has wantonly fired at one of the noblest creatures I have ever known. And, when he has served his term, he will receive the price of Champcey’s life, and he will spend it in orgies; and the others, the true criminals, who have hired him, will go about the world with lofty pride, rich, honored, and haughty98.”
“Doctor!”
But the old original was not to be stopped. He went on,—
“Ah, let me alone! Your human justice,—do you want me to tell you what I think of it? I am ashamed of it! When you send every year three or four stupid murderers to the scaffold, and some dozens of miserable99 thieves to the penitentiary100, you fold your black gowns around you, and proudly proclaim that all is well, and that society, thus protected, may sleep soundly. Well, do you know what is the real state of things? You only catch the stupid, the fools. The others, the strong, escape between the meshes of your laws, and, relying on their cleverness and your want of power, they enjoy the fruit of their crimes in all the pride of their impunity101, until”—
He hesitated, and added, unlike his usual protestations of atheism,—
Far from appearing hurt by such an outburst of indignation, the magistrate, after having listened with impassive face, said, as soon as the doctor stopped for want of breath,—
“You must have discovered something new.”
“Most assuredly. I think I hold at last the thread of the fearful plot which is killing103 my poor Daniel. Ah, if he would but live! But he cannot live.”
“Well, well, console yourself, doctor. You said human justice has its limits, and hosts of criminals escape its vengeance104; but in this case, whether Lieut. Champcey live or die, justice shall be done, I promise you!”
He spoke105 in a tone of such absolute certainty, that the old surgeon was struck by it. He exclaimed,—
“Has the murderer confessed the crime?”
The magistrate shook his head.
“No,” he replied; “nor have I seen him again since the first examination. But I have not been asleep. I have been searching; and I think I have sufficient evidence now to bring out the truth. And if you, on your side, have any positive information”—
“Yes, I have; and I think I am justified106 now in communicating it to you. I have, besides, a letter”—
He was pulling the letter out of his pocket; but the magistrate stopped him, saying,—
“We cannot talk here in the middle of the court, where everybody can watch us from the windows. The court-room is quite near: suppose we go there, doctor.”
For all answer the surgeon put on his cap firmly, took his friend’s arm, and the next moment the soldier on duty at the gate of the hospital saw them go out, engaged in a most animated107 conversation. When they had reached the magistrate’s room, he shut the door carefully; and, after having invited the surgeon to take a seat, he said:—
“I shall ask you for your information in a moment. First listen to what I have to say. I know now who Evariste Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, really is; and I know the principal events of his life. Ah! it has cost me time and labor108 enough; but human justice is patient, doctor. Considering that this man had sailed on board ‘The Conquest’ for more than four months, in company with one hundred and fifty emigrants109, I thought it would be unlikely that he should not have tried to break the monotony of such a voyage by long talks with friends. He is a good speaker, a Parisian, a former soldier, and a great traveller. He was, no doubt, always sure of an audience. I sent, therefore, one by one, for all the former passengers on board ‘The Conquest,’ whom I could find, a hundred, perhaps; and I examined them. I soon found out that my presumption110 was not unfounded.
“Almost every one of them had found out some detail of Bagnolet’s life, some more, some less, according to the degree of honesty or demoralization which Bagnolet thought he discovered in them. I collected all the depositions111 of these witnesses; I completed and compared them, one by the other; and thus, by means of the confessions112 of the accused, certain allusions113 and confidences of his made to others, and his indiscretions when he was drunk, I was enabled to make up his biography with a precision which is not likely to be doubted.”
Without seeming to notice the doctor’s astonishment114, he opened a large case on his table; and, drawing from it a huge bundle of papers, he held it up in the air, saying,—
“Here are the verbal depositions of my hundred and odd witnesses.”
Then, pointing at four or five sheets of paper, which were covered with very fine and close writing, he added,—
“And here are my extracts. Now, doctor, listen,—”
And at once he commenced reading this biography of his “accused,” making occasional remarks, and explaining what he had written.
“Evariste Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, was born at Bagnolet in 1829, and is, consequently, older than he says, although he looks younger. He was born in February; and this month is determined115 by the deposition of a witness, to whom the accused offered, during the voyage, a bottle, with the words, ‘To-day is my birthday.’
“From all the accounts of the accused, it appears that his parents were evidently very honest people. His father was foreman in a copper116 foundry; and his mother a seamstress. They may be still living; but for many years they have not seen their son.
“The accused was sent to school; and, if you believe him, he learned quickly, and showed remarkable117 talents. But from his twelfth year he joined several bad companions of his age, and frequently abandoned his home for weeks, roaming about Paris. How did he support himself while he was thus vagabondizing?
“He has never given a satisfactory explanation. But he has made such precise statements about the manner in which youthful thieves maintain themselves in the capital, that many witnesses suspect him of having helped them in robbing open stalls in the streets.
“The positive result of these investigations118 is, that his father, distressed119 by his misconduct, and despairing of ever seeing him mend his ways, had him sent to a house of correction when he was fourteen years old.
“Released at the end of eighteen months, he says he was bound out as an apprentice120, and soon learned his business well enough to support himself. This last allegation, however, cannot be true; for four witnesses, of whom one at least is of the same profession as Crochard, declare that they have seen him at work, and that, if he ever was a skilled mechanic, he is so no longer. Besides, he cannot have been long at work; for he had been a year in prison again, when the revolution of 1848 began. This fact he has himself stated to more than twenty-five persons. But he has explained his imprisonment121 very differently; and almost every witness has received a new version. One was told that he had been sentenced for having stabbed one of his companions while drunk; another, that it was for a row in a drinking-saloon; and a third, that he was innocently involved with others in an attempt to rob a foreigner.
“The prosecution122 is, therefore, entitled to conclude fairly that Crochard was sentenced simply as a thief.
“Set free soon after the revolution, he did not resume his profession, but secured a place as machinist in a theatre on the boulevards. At the end of three months he was turned off, because of ‘improper123 conduct with women,’ according to one; or, if we believe another statement, because he was accused of a robbery committed in one of the boxes.
“Unable to procure124 work, he engaged himself as groom125 in a wandering circus, and thus travelled through the provinces. But at Marseilles, he is wounded in a fight, and has to go to a hospital, where he remains126 three months.
“After his return to Paris, he associated himself with a rope-dancer, but was soon called upon to enter the army. He escaped conscription by good luck. But the next year we find him negotiating with a dealer127 in substitutes; and he confesses having sold himself purely128 from a mad desire to possess fifteen hundred francs at once, and to be able to spend them in debauch129. Having successfully concealed his antecedents, he is next admitted as substitute in the B Regiment130 of the line; but, before a year had elapsed, his insubordination has caused him to be sent to Africa as a punishment.
“He remained there sixteen months, and conducted himself well enough to be incorporated in the First Regiment of Marines, one battalion131 of which was to be sent to Senegambia. He had, however, by no means given up his bad ways; for he was very soon after condemned132 to ten years’ penal134 servitude for having broken into a house by night as a robber.”
The chief surgeon, who had for some time given unmistakable signs of impatience, now rose all of a sudden, and said,—
“Pardon me, if I interrupt you, sir; but can you rely upon the veracity of your witnesses?”
“Why should I doubt them?”
“Because it seems to me very improbable that a cunning fellow, such as this Crochard seems to be, should have denounced himself.”
“But he has not denounced himself.”
“Ah?”
“He has often mentioned this condemnation135; but he has always attributed it to acts of violence against a superior; On that point he has never varied136 in his statements.”
“Then how on earth did you learn”—
“The truth? Oh, very simply. I inquired at Saigon; and I succeeded in finding a sergeant137 in the Second Regiment of Marines, who was in the First Regiment at the same time with Crochard. He gave me all these details. And there is no mistake about the identity; for, as soon as I said ‘Crochard’ the sergeant exclaimed, ‘Oh, yes! Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet.’”
And, as the doctor bowed without saying a word, the magistrate said,—
“I resume the account. The statements of the accused since his arrest are too insignificant138 to be here reported. There is only one peculiarity139 of importance for the prosecution, which may possibly serve to enable us to trace the instigators of this crime. On three occasions, and in the presence of, at least, three witnesses each time, Crochard has used, in almost the same terms, these words,—
“‘No one would believe the strange acquaintances one makes in prisons. You meet there young men of family, who have done a foolish thing, and lots of people, who, wishing to make a fortune all at once, had no chance. When they come out from there, many of these fellows get into very good positions; and then, if you meet them, they don’t know you. I have known some people there, who now ride in their carriages.’”
The doctor had become silent.
“Oh!” he said half aloud, “might not some of these people whom the assassin has known in prison have put arms in his hand?”
“That is the very question I asked myself.”
“Because, you see, some of Daniel’s enemies are fearful people; and if you knew what is in this letter here in my hand, which, no doubt, will be the cause of that poor boy’s death”—
“Allow me to finish, doctor,” said the man of law. And then, more rapidly, he went on,—
“Here follows a blank. How the accused lived in Paris, to which he had returned after his release, is not known. Did he resort to mean cheating, or to improper enterprises, in order to satisfy his passions? The prosecution is reduced to conjectures, since Crochard has refused to give details, and only makes very general statements as to these years.
“This fact only is established, that every thing he took with him when he left Paris was new,—his tools, the linen in his valise, the clothes he wore, from the cap on his head to his shoes. Why were they all new?”
As the magistrate had now reached the last line on the first sheet, the surgeon rose, bowed low, and said,—
“Upon my word, sir, I surrender; and I do begin to hope that Lieut. Champcey may still be avenged140.”
A smile of pleased pride appeared for a moment on the lips of the lawyer; but assuming his mask of impassiveness instantly again, as if he had been ashamed of his weakness, he said with delicate irony,—
“I really think human justice may this time reach the guilty. But wait before you congratulate me.”
“What!” he said, “you have more evidence still?”
The magistrate gravely shook his head, and said,—
“The biography which I have just read establishes nothing. We do not succeed by probabilities and presumptions143; however strong they are in convincing a jury. They want and require proof, positive proof, before they condemn133. Well, such proof I have.”
“Oh!”
From the same box from which he had taken the papers concerning Crochard he now drew a letter, which he shook in the air with a threatening gesture. “Here is something,” he said, “which was sent to the state attorney twelve days after the last attempt had been made on M. Champcey’s life. Listen!” And he read thus,—
“Sir,—A sailor, who has come over to Boen-Hoa, where I live with my wife, has told us that a certain Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, has shot, and perhaps mortally wounded, Lieut. Champcey of the ship ‘Conquest.’
“In connection with this misfortune, my wife thinks, and I also consider it a matter of conscience, that we should make known to you a very serious matter.
“One day I happened to be on a yardarm, side by side with Crochard, helping144 the sailors to furl a sail, when I saw him drop a huge block, which fell upon Lieut. Champcey, and knocked him down.
“No one else had noticed it; and Crochard instantly pulled up the block again. I was just considering whether I ought to report him, when he fell at my feet, and implored145 me to keep it secret; for he had been very unfortunate in life, and if I spoke he would be ruined.
“Thinking that he had been simply awkward, I allowed myself to be moved, and swore to Crochard that the matter should remain between us. But what has happened since proves very clearly, as my wife says, that I was wrong to keep silence; and I am ready now to tell all, whatever may be the consequences.
“Still, sir, I beg you will protect me, in case Crochard should think of avenging146 himself on me or on my family,—a thing which might very easily happen, as he is a very bad man, capable of any thing.
“As I cannot write, my wife sends you this letter. And we are, with the most profound respect, &c.”
The doctor rubbed his hands violently.
“And you have seen this blacksmith?” he asked.
“Certainly! He has been here, he and his wife. Ah! if the man had been left to his own counsels, he would have kept it all secret, so terribly is he afraid of this Crochard; but, fortunately, his wife had more courage.”
“Decidedly,” growled the surgeon. “The women are, after all, the better part of creation.”
The magistrate carefully replaced the letter in the box, and then went on in his usual calm voice,—
“Thus the first attempt at murder is duly and fully proven. As for the second,—the one made on the river,—we are not quite so far advanced. Still I have hopes. I have found out, for instance, that Crochard is a first-rate swimmer. Only about three months ago he made a bet with one of the waiters at the hotel where he is engaged, that he would swim across the Dong-Nai twice, at a place where the current is strongest; and he did it.”
“But that is evidence; is it not?”
“No; it is only a probability in favor of the prosecution. But I have another string to my bow. The register on board ship proves that Crochard went on shore the very evening after the arrival of the vessel66. Where, and with whom, did he spend the evening? Not one of my hundred and odd witnesses has seen him that night. And that is not all. No one has noticed, the next day, that his clothes were wet. Therefore he must have changed his clothes; and, in order to do that, he must have bought some; for he had taken nothing with him out of the ship but what he had on. Where did he buy these clothes? I mean to find that out as soon as I shall no longer be forced to carry on the investigation secretly, as I have done so far. For I never forget one thing, that the real criminals are in France, and that they will surely escape us, if they hear that their wretched accomplice147 here is in trouble.”
Once more the surgeon drew Henrietta’s letter from his pocket, and handed it to the lawyer, saying,—
“I know who they are, the really guilty ones. I know Daniel’s enemies,—Sarah Brandon, Maxime de Brevan, and the others.”
But the magistrate waved back the letter, and replied,—
“It is not enough for us to know them, doctor; we want evidence against them,—clear, positive, irrefutable evidence. This evidence we will get from Crochard. Oh, I know the ways of these rascals! As soon as they see they are overwhelmed by the evidence against them, and feel they are in real danger, they hasten to denounce their accomplices148, and to aid justice, with all their perversity149 to discover them. The accused will do the same. When I shall have established the fact that he was hired to murder M. Champcey, he will tell me by whom he was hired; and he will have to confess that he was thus hired, when I show him how much of the money he received for the purpose is now left.”
The old surgeon once more jumped up from his chair.
“What!” he said, “you have found Crochard’s treasure?”
“No,” replied the lawyer, “not yet; but”—
He could hardly keep from smiling grimly; but he added at once,—
“But I know where it is, I think. Ah! I can safely say it was not on the first day exactly that I saw where the truth probably was hid. I have had a good deal of perplexity and trouble. Morally sure as I was, after the first examination of the accused, that he had a relatively150 large sum hidden somewhere, I first gave all my attention to his chamber151. Assisted by a clever police-agent, I examined that room for a whole fortnight, till I was furious. The furniture was taken to pieces, and examined, the lining152 taken out of the chairs, and even the paper stripped from the walls. All in vain. I was in despair, when a thought struck me,—one of those simple thoughts which make you wonder why it did not occur to you at once. I said to myself, ‘I have found it!’ And, anxious to ascertain68 if I was right, I immediately sent for the man with whom Crochard had made the bet about swimming across the Dong-Nai. He came; and—But I prefer reading you his deposition.”
He took from the large bundle of papers a single sheet, and, assuming an air of great modesty153, read the affidavit154.
“Magistrate.—At what point of the river did Crochard swim across?
“Witness.—A little below the town.
“M.—Where did he undress?
“W.—At the place where he went into the water, just opposite the tile-factory of M. Wang-Tai.
“M.—What did he do with his clothes?
“W. (very much surprised).—Nothing.
“M.—Excuse me; he must have done something. Try to recollect.
“W. (striking his forehead).—Why, yes! I remember now. When Bagnolet had undressed, I saw he looked annoyed, as if he disliked going into the water. But no! that was not it. He was afraid about his clothes; and he did not rest satisfied till I had told him I would keep watch over them. Now, his clothes consisted of a mean pair of trousers and a miserable blouse. As they were in my way, I put them down on the ground, at the foot of a tree. He had in the meantime done his work, and came back; but, instead of listening to my compliments, he cried furiously, ‘My clothes!’—‘Well,’ I said, ‘they are not lost. There they are.’ Thereupon he pushed me back fiercely, without saying a word, and ran like a madman to pick up his clothes.”
The chief surgeon was electrified155; he rose, and said,—
“I understand; yes, I understand.”
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收听单词发音
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1
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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2
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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3
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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4
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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5
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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engraver
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| n.雕刻师，雕工 | |
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10
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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11
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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12
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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13
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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14
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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15
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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16
insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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17
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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18
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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19
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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20
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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21
meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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22
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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23
ferociously
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| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
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24
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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25
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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26
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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27
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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28
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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29
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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30
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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31
plausibility
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| n. 似有道理, 能言善辩 | |
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32
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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33
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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34
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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35
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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36
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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37
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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38
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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39
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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40
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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41
deposition
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| n.免职，罢官；作证；沉淀；沉淀物 | |
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42
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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43
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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44
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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45
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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46
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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47
sloop
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| n.单桅帆船 | |
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48
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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49
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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50
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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51
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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52
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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53
cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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54
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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55
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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56
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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57
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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58
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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59
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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60
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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61
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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63
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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64
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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65
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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66
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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67
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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68
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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69
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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71
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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72
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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73
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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74
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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75
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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76
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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77
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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78
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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79
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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80
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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81
intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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82
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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83
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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84
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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85
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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86
rekindle
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| v.使再振作；再点火 | |
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87
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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88
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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89
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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90
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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91
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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extenuated
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| v.（用偏袒的辩解或借口）减轻( extenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；低估，藐视 | |
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96
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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97
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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98
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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100
penitentiary
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| n.感化院；监狱 | |
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101
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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102
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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103
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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104
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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105
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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106
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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107
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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108
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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109
emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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111
depositions
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| 沉积（物）( deposition的名词复数 )； （在法庭上的）宣誓作证； 处置； 罢免 | |
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112
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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113
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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114
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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115
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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116
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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117
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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118
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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119
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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120
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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121
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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122
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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123
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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124
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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125
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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126
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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127
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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128
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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129
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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130
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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131
battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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132
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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133
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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134
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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135
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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136
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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137
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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138
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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139
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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140
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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141
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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142
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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143
presumptions
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| n.假定( presumption的名词复数 )；认定；推定；放肆 | |
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144
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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145
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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147
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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148
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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149
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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150
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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151
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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152
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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153
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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154
affidavit
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| n.宣誓书 | |
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155
electrified
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| v.使电气化( electrify的过去式和过去分词 )；使兴奋 | |
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