It was all very short, very dry, and, when I wished to enlighten justice with some wise observations, a certain insolent fashion of saying, “Don’t make phrases,” so much the more wounding at my age and with my reputation of a good talker; also we were not alone in his office.  A clerk seated near me was writing down my deposition, and behind I heard the noise of great leaves turning.  The judge asked me all sorts of questions about the Nabob—­the time when he had made his payments, the place where we kept our books; and all at once, addressing himself to the person whom I could not see:  “Show us the cash-book, M. l’Expert.”

A little man in a white tie brought the great register to the table.  It was M. Joyeuse, the former cashier of Hemerlingue & Sons.  But I had not time to offer him my respects.

“Who has done that?” asked the judge, opening the book where a page was torn out.  “Don’t lie, now.”

I did not lie; I knew nothing of it, never having had to do with the books.  However, I thought it my duty to mention M. de Gery, the Nabob’s secretary, who often came at night into the office and shut himself up for hours casting balances.  Then little Father Joyeuse turned red with anger.

“That is an absurdity, M. le Juge d’Instruction.  M. de Gery is the young man of whom I have spoken to you.  He came to the Territorial as a superintendent, and thought too much of this poor M. Jansoulet to remove the receipts for his payments; that is the proof of his blind but thorough honesty.  Besides, M. de Gery, who has been detained in Tunis, is on his way back, and will furnish before long all the explanation necessary.”

I felt that my zeal was about to compromise me.

“Take care, Passajon,” said the judge.  “You are only here as a witness; but if you attempt to mislead justice, you may return a prisoner” (he, the monster, had, indeed, the manner of desiring it).  “Come now, consider; who tore out this page?”

Then I very fortunately remembered that some days before he left Paris the governor had me made bring the books to his house, where they were all night.  The clerk took a note of my declaration, after which the judge dismissed me with a sign, warning me to be ready when I was wanted.  Then, on the threshold, he called me back:  “Stay, M. Passajon, take this away.  I don’t want it any more.”

He held out the papers he had been consulting while he was questioning me; and judge of my confusion when I saw on the cover the word “Memoirs,” written in my best round-hand.  I, myself, had provided material to Justice—­important details which the suddenness of our catastrophe had prevented me from saving from the police search of our office.

My first idea on returning home was to tear up these indiscreet papers; but on reflection, and after having assured myself that the Memoirs contained nothing that would compromise me, I have decided to go on with them, with the certainty of getting some profit out of them one day or another.  There are plenty of novelists at Paris who have no imagination and can only put true stories in their books, who would be glad to buy a little book of incidents.  That is how I shall avenge myself on this society of well-to-do swindlers, with which I have been mixed up to my shame and misfortune.