Chapter Twenty Five.
The Trial.
(The author has given the cross-examination in the shape best known to English readers, since it is a mere question of form. French counsel do examine, though they may not directly address the accused, and have to ask the judge to ask, etc, a formality which becomes tedious in report, and which has therefore been omitted.—Code d’Instruction Criminelle, art. 310.)
The trial, which was creating so much excitement, not only in Paris, but throughout the length and breadth of France, had reached its third day. The indictment against the prisoner had been powerfully presented; it alluded to distinct evidence of the theft, and to the astonishment of the public who were not already in the secret Maître Barraud had remarked, with an air of indifference, that his side admitted all the facts which had been brought forward. This acknowledgment still further stimulated curiosity, the public imagining that the famous advocate had some counter-evidence in his pocket, since he so readily allowed what appeared damaging to pass unquestioned. As M. Rodoin had foreseen, however, the move was disliked by the prosecution, because they had counted upon the prisoner’s denial, and upon at once proving his falsehood and creating a prejudice against him.
Maître Barraud, while still vowing vengeance against M. Rodoin for having dragged him into the affair, was allowing his professional instincts to get the upper hand. The fact of Maître Miron being opposed to him and having a strong case was enough to excite his fighting powers. Moreover, he had become convinced that Léon’s story was true. It was unfortunately weak and unsupported, but he was certain that no attempt was made to deceive him. Added to this he read in Mme. Léon’s eyes that she distrusted his age and his energy, in spite of all M. Rodoin’s assurances, and her want of confidence piqued him. She thought him indifferent, while in reality he was bringing all his wits and his resources to bear upon the case, without, it must be conceded, much hope of success. He had directed the prisoner to be perfectly frank and straightforward in his own replies both to the juge d’instruction and in court.
“There lies your one chance.”
“And you think that if I had not admitted the fact of exchange, it would have been proved against me?”
“Certainly, baron. Since you recalled writing a letter to Monsieur de Cadanet, I can see how Lemaire got upon your track. If you had denied, the letter would have been produced. Now they will keep it back because, as you admit the fact, it would tell in your favour. I shall call for it.”
“It was my wife who urged speaking out.”
“And she showed her sense. Women’s intuitions are generally to be trusted when they don’t go too far,” said Maître Barraud, carelessly.
In spite of his opinion, he expressed extreme impatience when M. Rodoin, on the morning of the third day, asked whether he could give a few minutes to Mme. de Beaudrillart.
“Certainly not. I know exactly the sort, of questions I should have to answer: Is the trial going for or against? Have the jury made up their minds? Might she not stand up and bear witness to the perfect probity of her beloved husband? Console Madame de Beaudrillart yourself; the task of defending monsieur is quite as much as I desire to undertake.”
“Please yourself, my dear Albert,” said M. Rodoin, quietly. “You know very well that Madame Léon is not the silly woman you pretend. If you will not listen to her, you must listen to me; but the idea was her own. She wondered whether it would be possible for her to make a personal appeal to Madame Lemaire?”
“On what ground?” Maître Barraud shot out the words after a moment’s consideration.
“All our investigations point to the fact that it is an unhappy marriage, and that Lemaire neglects, if he does not ill-use, his wife.”
“Bah! That will only make her stick to him the closer.”
“Possibly. But she is, by every account, a woman of strong religious principle. If she knew of a wrong being committed her conscience might lead her—”
“To denounce it?” Maître Barraud pushed out his lips, and passed his hand over his chin. “She will not know. That sort of woman, if she has to live with that sort of man, shuts her eyes, and refuses to open them. It is her only chance.”
“Possibly, again, if you or I went to her. But another woman?”
“If we could hit on her line of sentiment—she is sure to have a sentiment,” murmured the other, reflectively. “But no, no, no. It can’t be done. It would be a confession of weakness. Miron would get hold of it, and we should have a triumphant peroration of the straits to which the other side are driven. I can only reach that scoundrel through the court, but I will make him feel.”
“If the wife is in court?”
“She will not be. Either she will know nothing, or will keep out of it.”
M. Rodoin had to carry back this refusal to Nathalie, for whom his admiration daily strengthened. She was so courageous and so cheerful, so sensible, and so full of resource that instead of hindering the lawyers, her suggestions had more than once proved valuable; and as for poor Léon, the sight of her brave and earnest face, and the smile with which she never failed to meet his eye, gave him his best support in the terrible hours which he spent in the court. It created also, as Maître Barraud was swift to note, an unexpressed and subtle feeling of sympathy with the accused. The fine and noble lines of her face, the breathless interest with which she followed every point as it was mooted, offered evidence as powerful as it was unconscious in his favour. He dared not count upon its being strong enough to weigh against the testimony of facts, but he knew that any point he could succeed in making would be strengthened by its presence.
Léon, too, bore himself well. Those who knew him before remarked how greatly he had aged, and his face was colourless. His manner, however, was what it should have been—simple and unexaggerated. Evidently he felt his position profoundly, but he answered the questions addressed to him by the Court with a dignity which to M. Rodoin was unexpected and quite frankly. On the whole, the impression he gave was favourable. But this, again, however desirable, was not worth one grain of actual proof.
And for proof M. Rodoin had ransacked Paris in vain. The notes had been sent in a registered packet, but it was too long ago to obtain a record from the post-office. An examination of M. de Cadanet’s papers had been made, naturally without success. One point and one only had been established in Léon’s favour. The banker’s book showed that about the time he claimed to have repaid the debt a sum of one hundred thousand francs had been entered in M. de Cadanet’s account, and the clerk believed remembering that they were mostly notes issued by the provincial bank of Tours. But there had been a change of clerks since; the one who had that impression was then a junior, and could not swear to it. Two had died of influenza.
The prisoner himself was first interrogated. He was very white, and his hand grasped the nearest wood-work convulsively; but he answered well, and without hesitation. He acknowledged that M. de Cadanet showed great displeasure towards him, and reproached him even violently for the extravagances with which he showed himself well acquainted. The judge inquired how he considered they had reached his ears, to which he replied that he never doubted they were conveyed by M. Lemaire, as he was, he understood, the only person who constantly saw M. de Cadanet—excepting his lawyer, who had told them in his evidence that he only received instructions from the count, and was never permitted so much as to offer advice. Asked whether he himself had not done his utmost to vilify M. Lemaire to M. de Cadanet, he replied indignantly that he had avoided mentioning him or the places in which he had met him—an answer which was received with a show of incredulity.
He had to give a close account of the interview, and the replies were pumped from him; for by this time he was angry, and stood upright, touching nothing. He admitted having gone to ask for help in his difficulties.
“You had, in fact, squandered your fortune, and Poissy must inevitably have been sold if money was not forthcoming?”
“I have never denied it.”
“Had Monsieur de Cadanet given you reason to expect assistance from him?”
“None, except that he was under obligations to my father.”
“He may not have considered that affording you the means of running into further extravagances was the best means of showing gratitude to the late baron?”
The prisoner remained silent.
Asked what drew his attention to the cheque, he replied that M. de Cadanet enclosed it before his eyes, and that he believed it to be coming to him until the count informed him that the reports he had received of his conduct had made him resolve against assisting him, and that the money he had prepared would be given to another.
“Did he mention the name of this other!”
“I remarked that I presumed the other was Monsieur Charles Lemaire.”
“Why did you arrive at this conclusion?”
“Because I was certain that Monsieur Lemaire was the person through whom the reports had reached him.”
“They were, however, correct?”
M. de Beaudrillart was again silent.
Further questions extracted what had passed in the remainder of the interview and in the street. He was asked if he had ever mentioned the circumstance to any one?
“Until this action was threatened, never.”
“And then?”
“To my wife.”
“You must speak louder. How did you account for the change in your circumstances?”
“My family believed I had received a loan from Monsieur de Cadanet.”
He declared that he had sent, first, an instalment of five hundred francs, and, on his marriage, a further sum of two hundred and three thousand, part of his wife’s dowry. On this point he was closely interrogated by the judge, who professed utter incredulity.
“You drew and sent a cheque?”
“No. I returned the sum in notes by a registered letter.”
“And your wife’s father consented to paying so large a sum in notes without making inquiries as to its destination? That is a most improbable story!”
Léon replied that he had explained to his father-in-law that it was in order to pay a debt of honour of which he could give no account. Then came the crucial question.
“And you wish the Court to believe that you returned the money without receiving the smallest acknowledgment from Monsieur de Cadanet.”
“That is the case.”
“You persist in such a ridiculous assertion?”
“Yes.”
“And mentioned it to no one?”
“To my mother.”
“She also was content to have no receipt?”
“No. She was very uneasy.”
“How did you quiet her?”
“I am afraid I allowed her to believe I had received one.” The prisoner gave this answer in evident distress, and Maître Barraud clasped his chin with his hand. The fact evidently told against the accused.
“You never heard again from Monsieur de Cadanet?”
“I heard no more of him until I received the announcement of his death.”
As the examination ended there was a movement round Nathalie. The Assize Court of the Seine was densely crowded, and the pushing and squeezing caused by the new arrival would have roused any one less deeply interested. Nathalie, however, had eyes only for her husband, and it was not until a square, thick-set figure had forced himself into a seat by her side that she recognised her father. No greeting but a nod passed between them, each being too anxious to hear the next evidence. It was, however, of no great importance, the principal witnesses being André, the concierge, and the doctor, who testified to M. de Cadanet’s clearness of mind throughout his illness.
M. Charles Lemaire was next duly called, sworn, and interrogated by the Procureur. People noticed that on his appearance M. de Beaudrillart lifted his head, looked coolly at him, and allowed a smile of contemptuous scorn to pass across his face. On the other hand, Lemaire had the appearance of being quite at his ease. He glanced round the court, bowed to the judge, and turned to the Procureur with an air of extreme readiness. In answer to the interrogations, he replied with perfect smoothness. His evidence, in fact, might be considered irreproachable, saying neither too much nor too little. The six years which had passed had not improved his appearance—for he had grown much stouter, and his face was puffy—but they had taught him to conceal his feelings. He was careful to speak with perfect moderation of the prisoner. Asked whether at the time of the theft he and M. de Beaudrillart were on good terms, he said they had little to say to each other. Further pressed, he allowed that he had seen him lose very considerable sums at play, and it was the common talk in Paris that he had so greatly impoverished himself that Poissy might have to be sold. M. de Cadanet put a great many questions to him on the matter. He had no wish to prejudice him against the young man, and evaded his questions when he could; on the other hand, he did not profess any regard for him, and did not conceal the fact of his extravagance. Asked whether M. de Cadanet had ever expressed his intention of assisting the accused, he replied most emphatically no. He had, on the contrary, spoken of him with great indignation. But of course he could not profess to judge of M. de Cadanet’s private intentions.
Did M. de Cadanet inform him of the abstraction of the notes?
Never, until just before his death.
Desired to relate the circumstances of M. de Cadanet’s disclosure, he gave an account of his illness. It was not until he was apparently in extremis that the count informed him of what had taken place, and advised him to recover his money from M. de Beaudrillart.
Here the examination in chief was interrupted by Maître Barraud inquiring through the judge why M. de Cadanet had not brought the action himself. M. Lemaire could not say with certainty, but thought he had abstained owing to a sentiment of affection towards the defunct baron, M. de Beaudrillart’s father. The question was then put why in a matter of so much importance he had not caused M. de Cadanet’s deposition to be formally taken before witnesses. For the first time Lemaire very slightly hesitated. He then said that it had not seemed absolutely necessary, as M. de Cadanet showed him a letter from de Beaudrillart admitting the theft.
The Procureur remarked that the theft was admitted by the defence, and at once Maître Barraud demanded the production of the letter.
The judge agreed, and meanwhile the examination proceeded.
M. de Cadanet, speaking with great difficulty, had informed the witness that he had answered this insolent letter by another, in which he told M. de Beaudrillart that he would hear more of the transaction at a later date.
Here the judge again interposed, but it was to ask the prisoner whether he had received this letter.
Léon replied that he had, and that the contents were such as had been described, but that he had destroyed it at the time—an answer which created a decidedly unfavourable impression.
Lemaire, proceeding, said that M. de Cadanet was a man of few friends, who had lived altogether alone the last years of his life. During his last illness he had no one to care for and nurse him except he Lemaire himself, and his wife, M. de Cadanet’s niece by marriage.
In answer to an inquiry whether his wife had heard M. de Cadanet’s statement, he said she had not; the count had wished to speak to him alone.
“And this wish you scrupulously carried out?”
“Certainly. Monsieur de Cadanet was a man who would be obeyed.”
“You are, I think, the principal legatee under the will?”
“I am.”
“Will you state why you decided upon asking for this prosecution.”
“In compliance with Monsieur de Cadanet’s express desire, he said he had often reproached himself with having taken no steps himself, but that age and illness had weakened his energy. It was in order that I might undertake the task that he confided the papers to me.”
The examination continued for some time longer on these lines. The effect it produced was decidedly adverse to the accused. It had nearly concluded when the called-for letter arrived, and was read:
“Mr Cousin,—I have taken the liberty of borrowing the sum which you had so thoughtfully prepared for Monsieur Charles. It would have been better for him if you had accepted my offer to post your letter; as you declined to trust me, I had no scruple in exchanging it for another, which found itself in my hand at the exact moment. Do not blame your messenger, who is quite unaware of the transaction. By my writing to you, you will perceive that I have no intention of denying what I have done. It is in your power to have me arrested. You know where to find me, and I will remain in Paris for two days, so as to avoid the pain to my family of a scandal at Poissy. Permit me, however, to point out that I have only taken the money as a loan, that it will be returned to you by instalments and with interest, though, I fear, slowly, and that you may find it more advantageous to allow the matter to rest than to ruin one who, however unworthy, is the son of the man to whom you are certainly indebted for your prosperity, and who begs to subscribe himself.
“Yours faithfully,—
“Léon de Beaudrillart.”
As the last word of the letter died away, a movement passed through the court. The judge addressed himself to Léon.
“That is your letter?”
“It is.”
Maître Miron put another question to M. Lemaire.
“When Monsieur de Cadanet presented you with this letter, did he make any allusion to its concluding sentence?”
“Certainly,” replied the witness, coolly. “He said that Monsieur de Beaudrillart had very much exaggerated the services rendered to him by the defunct baron.”
The prisoner burst out with the word “Liar!” and was sharply rebuked for the interruption.
Further examined as to whether he was certain that the money had never been repaid, the witness said that his only knowledge was derived from M. de Cadanet himself, who assured him that he had not received a sou. “If it were otherwise,” he remarked, “receipts would certainly exist, the count being a man of excellent business habits.”
After a few more unimportant questions, it was felt that Lemaire had given his evidence clearly, and, except in two answers, had been very careful in both tone and wording to preserve an appearance of perfect fairness towards the prisoner. The two exceptions were those in which he alluded to the absence of a receipt, and to M. de Cadanet having disclaimed receiving any considerable help from M. de Beaudrillart’s father.
Nathalie looked at Maître Barraud with a yet more sinking heart. The Procureur de la République had appeared to her an ideal counsel—shrewd-faced, energetic, keen. His opponent, with his round, boyish face, his almost indifferent manner, and a certain air of hesitation, which she had not noticed so much before, did not give the impression of being in any way his equal. The questions he suggested appeared to her to be little to the point, and though she carefully kept discouragement from her face, so that Léon, when he glanced at her, might take comfort, she had never felt more discouraged.
With an air of extreme innocence, as of one only seeking for enlightenment, Maître Barraud pursued through the court his inquiries as to Lemaire’s first acquaintance with M. de Beaudrillart. He had seen him play. “You played yourself, of course?”
Charles shrugged his shoulders. “Occasionally. Why else should I have been there?”
“Oh, precisely! Why else!” repeated his questioner, deprecatingly. “And doubtless, Monsieur de Cadanet, as a man of the world, took an interest in your fortune at the tables!” Lemaire, suspecting a trap, replied that they were not in the habit of talking over it.
“Ah! Only of Monsieur de Beaudrillart’s!”
“Nor of Monsieur de Beaudrillart’s.”
“No! I gathered that the fact of his large gambling losses displeased Monsieur de Cadanet!”
“Possibly.”
“But they were not learned from you!”
“Not in the first place. When he asked questions I could only tell the truth.”
“Unquestionably. Truth is an inestimable virtue. You were not the first to speak of them. Who, then? The concierge has given evidence that the count received no visitors.”
“It is impossible to say. Rumour filters everywhere. Possibly the servants talked.”
“We will hear that from them by-and-by. You were naturally anxious to keep on good terms with Monsieur de Cadanet, and that you did so has been amply proved. The only other person in whom he seems to have shown an interest was Monsieur de Beaudrillart!”
“I do not know that he took much interest.”
“You said he asked many questions on the subject. That looks like it.”
“I cannot say. It may have been so.”
“It looks like it,” repeated Maître Barraud, equably. “The situation, then, appears to have been that you and the accused both played, and that Monsieur de Cadanet was displeased with him only. Was it owing to the fact that he lost and you won?”
Up to this point the questions had dropped out in an almost sleepily courteous tone. The last had the effect of a sharp, sudden, and unexpected thrust. M. Bourget muttered, “That drew blood.” Nathalie listened, breathless. Lemaire answered, sulkily, “I do not know,” and Maître Barraud, after a momentary pause by which he succeeded in emphasising his inquiry, dropped the subject.
Lemaire held himself very determinedly on guard after this episode, which he was conscious had told against him, and little was elicited. The counsel passed on to the account of what took place at the time of the count’s death. He made particular inquiries as to who was in the house, and then put another question through the judge.
“You were married, I think, at the time of the alleged theft?”
“I was.”
“But your wife was not much at the house?”
“No. Monsieur de Cadanet saw her at intervals, but it was not until his health failed that he liked to have her about him.”
“Did she undertake all the nursing?”
“When he was seriously ill there was a nurse as well.”
“And at the time when he made this—this extraordinary revelation, Madame Lemaire was not in the room?”
“Certainly not!” said Lemaire, hastily.
“You have told the judge that you thought it unnecessary to have his words taken down as a formal deposition; did it not occur to you it would have been very desirable to have called in witnesses to hear what now rests upon your own unsupported word?”
“Monsieur de Beaudrillart’s own letter gave the necessary evidence.”
“As to his borrowing the sum—”
The judge here interpolated, “It was stealing. It cannot be called borrowing.”
“Unauthorised borrowing, monsieur le president, I acknowledge. But if repaid, as we maintain, the jury will not consider it a theft. And the witness, who is the person most interested, can bring no evidence to prove that it was not repaid beyond his own report of what I will venture to call an imaginary conversation!”
The Procureur remarked:
“The absence of a receipt.”
“Well, we will say no more at present on this subject. Monsieur de Cadanet, having kept silence for many years, at a time when most men are anxious to be in charity with their fellow-sinners, carried out, we will suppose, a determined act of revenge against this unfortunate young man. Did he advise or enjoin you to bring this action! Can you repeat what passed?”
“Not in exact words. He gave me to understand that he had warned Monsieur de Beaudrillart in the letter which was destroyed that proceedings would be taken.”
“And your wife heard nothing!”
“Nothing.”
“Although she was in constant attendance?”
“He only spoke once on the subject.”
“Did not even allude to her about this family, which must have been much in his mind?”
“No.”
“That was a lie,” reflected Maître Barraud, quickly. “When he tells a lie his eyebrows twitch slightly.” At this point the court adjourned for an hour, and he hastily scrawled something on a piece of paper, and had it passed to M. Rodoin. The words were, “Madame Lemaire is not in court; let Madame de Beaudrillart go to her at once and alone.”