Short Stories, - [books to read fiction .txt] 📗

Scipion immediately bought himself some clothes and necessaries, took the cars and started for New York.

Here, while waiting for the sailing of the Havre steamer, he was again arrested as being Pierre Quentineau a fugitive from justice and a bond-forger.

By the merest good luck the cotton-broker in whose employ he had been in Memphis happened to be in the city, and Scipion was able to establish an alibi. His passport was stolen from him on the Memphis steamer, and he had to get another one in New York, being thus delayed a week.

Finally, to his intense joy, he was outside Sandy Hook on his return voyage.

Arrived at Havre, he was accosted on the quay by a customs officer with, “Eh bien! Monsieur Quentineau! What have you to declare at this time?”

“Sacre bete de Quentineau!” cried the exasperated boutiquier; “I am Scipion Desruelles, marchand, numero 79 bis rue de Seine.”

“Then, sir, you must be detained,” said the officer.

While he was waiting in the customs office a man came behind him, slipped something in his hand, and whispered: “Don’t be afraid, Quentineau! They have nothing whatever against you! Here’s what I owe you!”

Desruelles turned quickly, but the man who had spoken to him was already lost in the crowd, and Scipion found eight gold Napoleons in his hand. Mechanically he put the money in his pocket, cursing this Quentineau whom everybody persisted in mistaking him for.

His baggage proving all right, and his passport not objectionable, Scipion was after some delay permitted to start for Paris, but still under the suspicion of the authorities that he was not Desruelles, but Quentineau. At Rouen, in the railroad restaurant, he changed a Napoleon to buy a bottle of wine and half a chicken. As soon as he reached Paris he took a fiacre and drove to numero 79 Rue de Seine. His modest sign was no longer there, but instead of it one of:

“Lamballe, coiffeur et parfumeur.”

Astounded, he rushed into the little shop; “Madame Desruelles,” he said, “where is she?”

The attendant answered, “In America. It is four months since she went—at the summons of her husband!”

“At the summons of me!” cried Scipion, sitting down abruptly. “This is all a dream!”

Before he could say another word, a sergeant de ville entered the shop and laid hands upon him. “You are wanted, Quentineau.”

“I am not Quentineau—I am Desruelles!” shouted the unhappy man, but the officer of the law was incredulous, and bore Scipion off to prison.

He was examined on a charge of coining and of passing counterfeit Napoleons upon the dame du comptoir of the railroad restaurant at Rouen, and fully committed for trial as Quentineau, alias Desruelles, faussaire.

Desruelles employed an able advocate, and laid all the facts before him. “It is a mere question of mistaken identity,” said the lawyer, “and of course there will be no difficulty in proving who you really are—a boutiquier of the Rue de Seine, of twenty years’ standing.”

But the advocate reckoned rather too hastily. One of the most interesting trials that ever came off in Paris, now ensued. The advocate employed by Desruelles was thoroughly persuaded of his client’s innocence and good character, but the Procureur Imperial was of a different opinion. The case was sent before the Court d’Assises, and was tried by the president. A great number of witnesses were called, and the whole question turned upon the identity of the prisoner, by the mutual agreement of parties, for the reason that if the accused were Desruelles his account of how he received the gold Napoleons (admitted to be counterfeit) was probable; but if he were Quentineau, no defense was possible. Quentineau was established to be a desperate character, who had been several times convicted of minor offenses, such as smuggling, and was more than suspected of being a criminal of much deeper dye—a counterfeiter and forger.

The testimony of the customs officers at Havre and of the dame du comptoir at Rouen was first taken, and then a mass of police testimony to prove that Desruelles was unquestionably Quentineau. This was chiefly from the provinces, Quentineau having apparently operated very little in the capital. At the outset the defense experienced an unexpected difficulty. There were some hundreds of witnesses willing to swear that they knew Desruelles perfectly well, but not nearly so many who were satisfied that the prisoner was that person. His hardships, his voyages, his poverty had told upon Desruelles. He was deeply sunburnt, his hair was grizzled, his hand was hard, his manner nervous and excited—as little like as possible to the placid shopkeeper of the Rue de Seine. Unquestionably the accused resembled Desruelles remarkably, and knew as much about that person’s antecedents as if he were really himself, but then—. In short, Desruelles’ neighbors were exceedingly conscientious, and the police exceedingly positive, and the unfortunate shop keeper was convicted of being not himself at all, but Pierre Quentineau, faussaire et faux monnayeur.

The rebutting testimony adduced by the advocate general not only convinced the jury but overwhelmed Desruelles. It was a letter which one of his neighbors, a woman, testified she had received from Desruelles’ wife, from New York, that she and her Scipion were happily accommodated with a shop and a thriving custom in Broadway in that great city! Desruelles admitted that the handwriting was his wife’s, but the statement impossible, for the reason that he was in the Palais de Justice, and consequently could not be in New York.

Pierre Quentineau, calling himself Scipion Desruelles was sentenced to ten years’ close imprisonment.

The unhappy convict was moved by his sense of injustice to carry himself with unexpected dignity. He shed no tears, but said he felt certain that time would remove the evils that now bore upon him so heavily. He was sent to Brest, and set to learn the trade of shoe-making. He was one of the most tractable prisoners ever confined at the bagnes.

When Scipion had served out three years of his sentence, an unexpected episode occurred in his history. Visitors were announced to Quentineau. He went to the office of the prison and found his Martinique cousin, Pache, and—his wife! He attempted to throw himself into the arms of the latter, but was repulsed with severe dignity.

“We know you are not Quentineau, but Desruelles,” she said; “but there are crimes charged against Desruelles.”

Scipion demanded an explanation and his release, but Madame was inexorable.

M. Pache then told him to wait. Through influence, and the facts presented by the Martinique cousin, the Court of Cassation had consented to re-examine the question as to his identity. “Of course you are Desruelles,” said M. Pache, confidently, “and I mean to prove it, if it costs me a million.” After you are shown to be not Quentineau but Desruelles, it will be time enough to go into Madame’s grievances.

Desruelles was now brought back to Paris, and M. Pache set to work to establish his cousin’s identity.

The notary he employed suggested that M. Jules Favre be retained as advocate and that eminent lawyer consented to take the case, but two days later sent a note declining to serve on account of the pressure of uncontrollable circumstances. M. Plongoulm, was consequently retained.

After various delays, the case of Desruelles or Quentineau was again called up, this time not before a jury, but before the first President of the Court of Cassation. The array of witnesses was formidable, and the testimony of the most conflicting character. For the Procureur’s side a great number of witnesses were brought who positively identified Desruelles as Quentineau. In addition to this, substantial proof was brought to the fact that Desruelles himself was dead. One of the sailors of the brig Braganza was produced, who had made the Martinique voyage with Desruelles. This man testified that after cargo was discharged at New Orleans the brig took on cotton and was towed down the river on her return voyage. Off Chandeleur Bay the brig was boarded by a tug from Lake Bargne, and Desruelles came aboard from her. Three days out Desruelles was taken with yellow fever, and died just as the brig dropped anchor in the harbor of Basse Terre, Gaudeloupe. He was buried on the extreme eastern point of the island after a considerable difficulty with the authorities, who deeply resented the brig’s anchoring at the island with such a fatal disease aboard. The log of the Braganza and the burial record from Guadeloupe were presented in court in corroboration of the sailor’s testimony, which made a deep impression.

For the side of the defense Mme. Desruelles positively identified her husband, naming marks and peculiarities upon his person which were found to be singularly identical with those on the prisoner’s person. An amusing colloquy between her and the prisoner was permitted, in which both were seen to be mutually so intimate with all the details of a domestic life together of twenty year’s standing that nothing short of a miracle could suppose the privity of a third party. The books of the shop were produced and the two went over them together, witnesses being called to corroborate these minutiæ whenever they concerned a third party, and it was thus shown by a mass of particulars that if the prisoner were really Quentineau, he must likewise be Desruelles. Having gone so far, the ingenious advocate proved, by an accumulation of circumstances that Desruelles could not be Quentineau.

The President of the Court, who seemed to take a great interest in the problem on trial before him, questioned Mme. Desruelles as to the cause of her sudden trip to New York.

She pointed to Desruelles with a scornful finger. “Ca!” she cried, “he had a mistress; he wished to abandon me; he called me Cosaque! He appointed to meet her in New York after settling up his cousin’s estate. I determined to make his amours uncomfortable. I pursued the woman to New York. I pulled her hair; I boxed her ears; I made her flee in dismay to California; then, my mission performed, I returned to Paris.”

The unhappy Scipion, in utter prostration of astonished protest, lifted his helpless hands and denied the mistress, the assignation—everything.

His wife turned away with an incredulous, scornful shrug.

“I have your letters, Monsieur. I compelled the creature to surrender them to me.”

The President ordered Mme. Desruelles to produce the letters, and while the huissier was gone examined M. Pache.

The latter gentleman testified as to the facts of Desruelles’ visit to Martinique, the false will, etc., and positively identified Desruelles.

“Have you ever seen that will?” asked the President.

“No,” said Pache.

“I have it here,” said the President. “It is duly authenticated, signed and sealed—look at it!”

“Mon Dieu! that is my own signature, and that notarial signature I would swear to as Alphonse Domairon’s!”

At this moment the huissier came into court with the package of letters, which he handed to the president. That officer looked over them, with Pache still upon the stand.

“M. Pache,” said the president, handing a letter to the witness, “do you identify that handwriting?”

“I do; it is undoubtedly Desruelles’.”

“Be kind enough to read that letter aloud to the Court.”

M. Pache, adjusting his eye glasses, read, “Ma Mignon: The will is all perfect. The Cosaque totally deceived. I sail for Martinique to-morrow, and ma poudre de succession will make short work of my stumbling-block of a cousin!”

He turned severely upon Desruelles: “Atrocious wretch! You plotted to poison me, then! I abandon the case.”

Desruelles fell back fainting. Mme. Desruelles eagerly came forward. “I swear, Judge, that letter was not in the parcel I received from Mlle. Tolly! I never saw it before!”

The president turned from her coldly. “The handwriting is precisely the same.”

The prisoner, reviving, stared around him with a ghastly face, and the president looked down upon him gloomily.

“The Court,” he said, “is not