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.