“Now there is reason to suppose that a person who loves you as much as you loved Mademoiselle Esther committed the theft for your benefit. — Do not interrupt me,” Camusot went on, seeing that Lucien was about to speak, and commanding silence by a gesture; “I am asking you nothing so far.
I am anxious to make you understand how deeply your honor is concerned in this question.
Give up the false and contemptible notion of the honor binding two accomplices, and tell the whole truth.”
The reader must already have observed the extreme disproportion of the weapons in this conflict between the prisoner under suspicion and the examining judge.
Absolute denial when skilfully used has in its favor its positive simplicity, and sufficiently defends the criminal; but it is, in a way, a coat of mail which becomes crushing as soon as the stiletto of cross-examination finds a joint to it.
As soon as mere denial is ineffectual in face of certain proven facts, the examinee is entirely at the judge’s mercy.
Now, supposing that a sort of half-criminal, like Lucien, might, if he were saved from the first shipwreck of his honesty, amend his ways, and become a useful member of society, he will be lost in the pitfalls of his examination.
The judge has the driest possible record drawn up of the proceedings, a faithful analysis of the questions and answers; but no trace remains of his insidiously paternal addresses or his captious remonstrances, such as this speech.
The judges of the superior courts see the results, but see nothing of the means.
Hence, as some experienced persons have thought, it would be a good plan that, as in England, a jury should hear the examination.
For a short while France enjoyed the benefit of this system.
Under the Code of Brumaire of the year IV., this body was known as the examining jury, as distinguished from the trying jury.
As to the final trial, if we should restore the examining jury, it would have to be the function of the superior courts without the aid of a jury.
“And now,” said Camusot, after a pause, “what is your name?
— Attention, Monsieur Coquart!” said he to the clerk.
“Lucien Chardon de Rubempre.”
“And you were born ——?”
“At Angouleme.”
And Lucien named the day, month, and year.
“You inherited no fortune?”
“None whatever.”
“And yet, during your first residence in Paris, you spent a great deal, as compared with your small income?”
“Yes, monsieur; but at that time I had a most devoted friend in Mademoiselle Coralie, and I was so unhappy as to lose her.
It was my grief at her death that made me return to my country home.”
“That is right, monsieur,” said Camusot; “I commend your frankness; it will be thoroughly appreciated.”
Lucien, it will be seen, was prepared to make a clean breast of it.
“On your return to Paris you lived even more expensively than before,” Camusot went on. “You lived like a man who might have about sixty thousand francs a year.”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Who supplied you with the money?”
“My protector, the Abbe Carlos Herrera.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“We met when traveling, just as I was about to be quit of life by committing suicide.”
“You never heard him spoken of by your family — by your mother?”
“Never.”
“Can you remember the year and the month when you first became connected with Mademoiselle Esther?”
“Towards the end of 1823, at a small theatre on the Boulevard.”
“At first she was an expense to you?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Lately, in the hope of marrying Mademoiselle de Grandlieu, you purchased the ruins of the Chateau de Rubempre, you added land to the value of a million francs, and you told the family of Grandlieu that your sister and your brother-in-law had just come into a considerable fortune, and that their liberality had supplied you with the money. — Did you tell the Grandlieus this, monsieur?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“You do not know the reason why the marriage was broken off?”
“Not in the least, monsieur.”
“Well, the Grandlieus sent one of the most respectable attorneys in Paris to see your brother-in-law and inquire into the facts.
At Angouleme this lawyer, from the statements of your sister and brother-in-law, learned that they not only had hardly lent you any money, but also that their inheritance consisted of land, of some extent no doubt, but that the whole amount of invested capital was not more than about two hundred thousand francs.
— Now you cannot wonder that such people as the Grandlieus should reject a fortune of which the source is more than doubtful. This, monsieur, is what a lie has led to ——”
Lucien was petrified by this revelation, and the little presence of mind he had preserved deserted him.
“Remember,” said Camusot, “that the police and the law know all they want to know.
— And now,” he went on, recollecting Jacques Collin’s assumed paternity, “do you know who this pretended Carlos Herrera is?”
“Yes, monsieur; but I knew it too late.”
“Too late! How?