الفصل الفصل 32 · 第32章

“Mademoiselle,” this M. Gondureau was saying, “I do not see any

cause for your scruples. His Excellency, Monseigneur the Minister of

Police----”

“Yes, his Excellency is taking a personal interest in the matter,” said

Gondureau.

Who would think it probable that Poiret, a retired clerk, doubtless

possessed of some notions of civic virtue, though there might be nothing

else in his head--who would think it likely that such a man would

continue to lend an ear to this supposed independent gentleman of the

Rue de Buffon, when the latter dropped the mask of a decent citizen by

that word “police,” and gave a glimpse of the features of a detective

from the Rue de Jerusalem? And yet nothing was more natural. Perhaps the

following remarks from the hitherto unpublished records made by certain

observers will throw a light on the particular species to which Poiret

belonged in the great family of fools. There is a race of quill-drivers,

confined in the columns of the budget between the first degree of

latitude (a kind of administrative Greenland where the salaries begin at

twelve hundred francs) to the third degree, a more temperate zone, where

incomes grow from three to six thousand francs, a climate where

the _bonus_ flourishes like a half-hardy annual in spite of some

difficulties of culture. A characteristic trait that best reveals the

feeble narrow-mindedness of these inhabitants of petty officialdom is a

kind of involuntary, mechanical, and instinctive reverence for the Grand

Lama of every Ministry, known to the rank and file only by his signature

(an illegible scrawl) and by his title--“His Excellency Monseigneur

le Ministre,” five words which produce as much effect as the _il Bondo

Cani_ of the _Calife de Bagdad_, five words which in the eyes of this

low order of intelligence represent a sacred power from which there is

no appeal. The Minister is administratively infallible for the clerks

in the employ of the Government, as the Pope is infallible for good

Catholics. Something of this peculiar radiance invests everything he

does or says, or that is said or done in his name; the robe of office

covers everything and legalizes everything done by his orders; does not

his very title--His Excellency--vouch for the purity of his intentions

and the righteousness of his will, and serve as a sort of passport and

introduction to ideas that otherwise would not be entertained for a

moment? Pronounce the words “His Excellency,” and these poor folk will

forthwith proceed to do what they would not do for their own interests.

Passive obedience is as well known in a Government department as in

the army itself; and the administrative system silences consciences,

annihilates the individual, and ends (give it time enough) by fashioning

a man into a vise or a thumbscrew, and he becomes part of the machinery

of Government. Wherefore, M. Gondureau, who seemed to know something

of human nature, recognized Poiret at once as one of those dupes of

officialdom, and brought out for his benefit, at the proper moment, the

_deus ex machina_, the magical words “His Excellency,” so as to dazzle

Poiret just as he himself unmasked his batteries, for he took Poiret and

the Michonneau for the male and female of the same species.

“If his Excellency himself, his Excellency the Minister... Ah! that is

quite another thing,” said Poiret.

“You seem to be guided by this gentleman’s opinion, and you hear what he

says,” said the man of independent means, addressing Mlle. Michonneau.

“Very well, his Excellency is at this moment absolutely certain that the

so-called Vautrin, who lodges at the Maison Vauquer, is a convict

who escaped from penal servitude at Toulon, where he is known by the

nickname _Trompe-la-Mort_.”

“Trompe-la-Mort?” said Pioret. “Dear me, he is very lucky if he deserves

that nickname.”

“Well, yes,” said the detective. “They call him so because he has been

so lucky as not to lose his life in the very risky businesses that he

has carried through. He is a dangerous man, you see! He has qualities

that are out of the common; the thing he is wanted for, in fact, was a

matter which gained him no end of credit with his own set----”

“Then is he a man of honor?” asked Poiret.

“Yes, according to his notions. He agreed to take another man’s crime

upon himself--a forgery committed by a very handsome young fellow that

he had taken a great fancy to, a young Italian, a bit of a gambler,

who has since gone into the army, where his conduct has been

unexceptionable.”

“But if his Excellency the Minister of Police is certain that M.

Vautrin is this _Trompe-la-Mort_, why should he want me?” asked Mlle.

Michonneau.

“Oh yes,” said Poiret, “if the Minister, as you have been so obliging as

to tell us, really knows for a certainty----”

“Certainty is not the word; he only suspects. You will soon understand

how things are. Jacques Collin, nicknamed _Trompe-la-Mort_, is in the

confidence of every convict in the three prisons; he is their man of

business and their banker. He makes a very good thing out of managing

their affairs, which want a _man of mark_ to see about them.”

“Ha! ha! do you see the pun, mademoiselle?” asked Poiret. “This

gentleman calls himself a _man of mark_ because he is a _marked

man_--branded, you know.”

“This so-called Vautrin,” said the detective, “receives the money

belonging to my lords the convicts, invests it for them, and holds it at

the disposal of those who escape, or hands it over to their families if

they leave a will, or to their mistresses when they draw upon him for

their benefit.”

“Their mistresses! You mean their wives,” remarked Poiret.

“No, sir. A convict’s wife is usually an illegitimate connection. We

call them concubines.”

“Then they all live in a state of concubinage?”

“Naturally.”

“Why, these are abominations that his Excellency ought not to allow.

Since you have the honor of seeing his Excellency, you, who seem to have

philanthropic ideas, ought really to enlighten him as to their immoral

conduct--they are setting a shocking example to the rest of society.”

“But the Government does not hold them up as models of all the virtues,

my dear sir----”

“Of course not, sir; but still----”

“Just let the gentleman say what he has to say, dearie,” said Mlle.

Michonneau.

“You see how it is, mademoiselle,” Gondureau continued. “The Government

may have the strongest reasons for getting this illicit hoard into its

hands; it mounts up to something considerable, by all that we can

make out. Trompe-la-Mort not only holds large sums for his friends the

convicts, but he has other amounts which are paid over to him by the

Society of the Ten Thousand----”

“Ten Thousand Thieves!” cried Pioret in alarm.

“No. The Society of the Ten Thousand is not an association of petty

offenders, but of people who set about their work on a large scale--they

won’t touch a matter unless there are ten thousand francs in it. It is

composed of the most distinguished of the men who are sent straight to

the Assize Courts when they come up for trial. They know the Code

too well to risk their necks when they are nabbed. Collin is their

confidential agent and legal adviser. By means of the large sums of

money at his disposal he has established a sort of detective system of

his own; it is widespread and mysterious in its workings. We have had

spies all about him for a twelvemonth, and yet we could not manage to

fathom his games. His capital and his cleverness are at the service of

vice and crime; this money furnishes the necessary funds for a regular

army of blackguards in his pay who wage incessant war against society.

If we can catch Trompe-la-Mort, and take possession of his funds,

we should strike at the root of this evil. So this job is a kind of

Government affair--a State secret--and likely to redound to the honor

of those who bring the thing to a successful conclusion. You, sir, for

instance, might very well be taken into a Government department again;

they might make you secretary to a Commissary of Police; you could

accept that post without prejudice to your retiring pension.”

Mlle. Michonneau interposed at this point with, “What is there to hinder

Trompe-la-Mort from making off with the money?”

“Oh!” said the detective, “a man is told off to follow him everywhere he

goes, with orders to kill him if he were to rob the convicts. Then it is

not quite as easy to make off with a lot of money as it is to run away

with a young lady of family. Besides, Collin is not the sort of fellow

to play such a trick; he would be disgraced, according to his notions.”

“You are quite right, sir,” said Poiret, “utterly disgraced he would

be.”

“But none of all this explains why you do not come and take him without

more ado,” remarked Mlle. Michonneau.

“Very well, mademoiselle, I will explain--but,” he added in her ear,

“keep your companion quiet, or I shall never have done. The old boy

ought to pay people handsomely for listening to him.--Trompe-la-Mort,

when he came back here,” he went on aloud “slipped into the skin of an

honest man; he turned up disguised as a decent Parisian citizen, and

took up his quarters in an unpretending lodging-house. He is cunning,

that he is! You don’t catch him napping. Then M. Vautrin is a man of

consequence, who transacts a good deal of business.”

“Naturally,” said Poiret to himself.

“And suppose that the Minister were to make a mistake and get hold of

the real Vautrin, he would put every one’s back up among the business

men in Paris, and public opinion would be against him. M. le Prefet de

Police is on slippery ground; he has enemies. They would take advantage

of any mistake. There would be a fine outcry and fuss made by the

Opposition, and he would be sent packing. We must set about this just as

we did about the Coignard affair, the sham Comte de Sainte-Helene; if

he had been the real Comte de Sainte-Helene, we should have been in the

wrong box. We want to be quite sure what we are about.”

“Yes, but what you want is a pretty woman,” said Mlle. Michonneau

briskly.

“Trompe-la-Mort would not let a woman come near him,” said the

detective. “I will tell you a secret--he does not like them.”