He did not recognize his man in a face pitted with smallpox.
This hesitancy startled the magistrate.
“It is his build, his height,” said the agent.
“Oh! yes, it is you, Jacques Collin!” he went on, as he examined his eyes, forehead, and ears. “There are some things which no disguise can alter. . . . Certainly it is he, Monsieur Camusot. Jacques has the scar of a cut on his left arm. Take off his coat, and you will see . . . ”
Jacques Collin was again obliged to take off his coat; Bibi–Lupin turned up his sleeve and showed the scar he had spoken of.
“It is the scar of a bullet,” replied Don Carlos Herrera. “Here are several more.”
“Ah! It is certainly his voice,” cried Bibi–Lupin.
“Your certainty,” said Camusot, “is merely an opinion; it is not proof.”
“I know that,” said Bibi–Lupin with deference. “But I will bring witnesses.
One of the boarders from the Maison Vauquer is here already,” said he, with an eye on Collin.
But the prisoner’s set, calm face did not move a muscle.
“Show the person in,” said Camusot roughly, his dissatisfaction betraying itself in spite of his seeming indifference.
This irritation was not lost on Jacques Collin, who had not counted on the judge’s sympathy, and sat lost in apathy, produced by his deep meditations in the effort to guess what the cause could be.
The usher now showed in Madame Poiret. At this unexpected appearance the prisoner had a slight shiver, but his trepidation was not remarked by Camusot, who seemed to have made up his mind.
“What is your name?” asked he, proceeding to carry out the formalities introductory to all depositions and examinations.
Madame Poiret, a little old woman as white and wrinkled as a sweetbread, dressed in a dark-blue silk gown, gave her name as Christine Michelle Michonneau, wife of one Poiret, and her age as fifty-one years, said that she was born in Paris, lived in the Rue des Poules at the corner of the Rue des Postes, and that her business was that of lodging-house keeper.
“In 1818 and 1819,” said the judge, “you lived, madame, in a boarding-house kept by a Madame Vauquer?”
“Yes, monsieur; it was there that I met Monsieur Poiret, a retired official, who became my husband, and whom I have nursed in his bed this twelvemonth past. Poor man! he is very bad; and I cannot be long away from him.”
“There was a certain Vautrin in the house at the time?” asked Camusot.
“Oh, monsieur, that is quite a long story; he was a horrible man, from the galleys ——”
“You helped to get him arrested?”
“That is not true sir.”
“You are in the presence of the Law; be careful,” said Monsieur Camusot severely.
Madame Poiret was silent.
“Try to remember,” Camusot went on. “Do you recollect the man?
Would you know him again?”
“I think so.”
“Is this the man?”
Madame Poiret put on her “eye-preservers,” and looked at the Abbe Carlos Herrera.
“It is his build, his height; and yet — no — if — Monsieur le Juge,” she said, “if I could see his chest I should recognize him at once.”
The magistrate and his clerk could not help laughing, notwithstanding the gravity of their office; Jacques Collin joined in their hilarity, but discreetly.
The prisoner had not put on his coat after Bibi–Lupin had removed it, and at a sign from the judge he obligingly opened his shirt.
“Yes, that is his fur trimming, sure enough! — But it has worn gray, Monsieur Vautrin,” cried Madame Poiret.
“What have you to say to that?” asked the judge of the prisoner.
“That she is mad,” replied Jacques Collin.
“Bless me!
If I had a doubt — for his face is altered — that voice would be enough.
He is the man who threatened me.
Ah! and those are his eyes!”
“The police agent and this woman,” said Camusot, speaking to Jacques Collin, “cannot possibly have conspired to say the same thing, for neither of them had seen you till now.
How do you account for that?”
“Justice has blundered more conspicuously even than it does now in accepting the evidence of a woman who recognizes a man by the hair on his chest and the suspicions of a police agent,” replied Jacques Collin. “I am said to resemble a great criminal in voice, eyes, and build; that seems a little vague.
As to the memory which would prove certain relations between Madame and my Sosie — which she does not blush to own — you yourself laughed at.
Allow me, monsieur, in the interests of truth, which I am far more anxious to establish for my own sake than you can be for the sake of justice, to ask this lady — Madame Foiret ——”
“Poiret.”
“Poret — excuse me, I am a Spaniard — whether she remembers the other persons who lived in this — what did you call the house?”
“A boarding-house,” said Madame Poiret.
“I do not know what that is.”
“A house where you can dine and breakfast by subscription.”
“You are right,” said Camusot, with a favorable nod to Jacques Collin, whose apparent good faith in suggesting means to arrive at some conclusion struck him greatly. “Try to remember the boarders who were in the house when Jacques Collin was apprehended.”