Not all the battle-flames over thee streaming; On thy immortal page sculpture, O Story, And three times infamous ever be he And now be shivered upon the stone here Exiled and lonely, from hence I depart, But the wind rises, and over the pale ÉMILE GABORIAU. ÉMILE GABORIAU, a French novelist, was born at Saujon, in the department of Charente-Inférieure, Nov. 9, 1835; died at Paris, Sept. 28, 1873. He was for a short time a cavalryman, after which he was for a while in business; and while engaged in these occupations he began to gather the store of incidents which helped to make him famous as a writer of detective stories. His earlier sketches appeared in the lesser Parisian journals; and were afterward brought together under such collective titles as "Mariages d'Aventure," "Ruses d'Amour," "Les Comédiennes Adorées." These were supposed to represent contemporary life among military, theatrical, and fashionable people generally. They were followed in 1866 by his first novel, "L'Affaire Lerouge." Next appeared "Le Dossier No. 113" (1867) and "Le Crime d'Orcival" (1868), elaborate stories of crime and its detection, the plots of which are worked out with great skill and dramatic effect. His later publications during his life included: "Monsieur Lecocq" (1869); "Les Esclaves de Paris" (1869); "La Vie Infernale" (1870); "La Clique Dorée" (1871); "La Corde au Cou" (1873). He left manuscripts of other works, which were published posthumously, including "L'Argent des Autres" (1874) and "La Degringolade ” (1876). THE BANK ROBBERY. (From "File No. 113.") IN the Paris evening papers of Tuesday, Feb. 28, 1866, under the head of "Local Items," the following announcement appeared: "A daring robbery, committed against one of our most eminent bankers, M. Andre Fauvel, caused great excitement this morning throughout the neighborhood of the Rue de Provence. "The thieves, who were as skillful as they were bold, succeeded in making an entrance to the bank, in forcing the lock of a safe that has heretofore been considered impregnable, and in possessing themselves of the enormous sum of three hundred and fifty thousand francs in bank-notes. "The police, immediately informed of the robbery, displayed their accustomed zeal, and their efforts have been crowned with success. Already, it is said, P. B., a clerk in the bank, has been arrested, and there is every reason to hope that his accomplices will be speedily overtaken by the hand of justice." For four days this robbery was the town talk of Paris. Then public attention was absorbed by later and equally interesting events; an acrobat broke his leg at the circus; an actress made her début at a small theater; and the item of the 28th was soon forgotten. But for once the newspapers were—perhaps intentionally - wrong, or at least inaccurate in their information. The sum of three hundred and fifty thousand francs certainly had been stolen from M. Andre Fauvel's bank, but not in the manner described. A clerk had also been arrested on suspicion, but no decisive proof had been found against him. This robbery of unusual importance remained, if not inexplicable, at least unexplained. The following are the facts as they were related with scrupulous exactness at the preliminary examination: The banking-house of Andre Fauvel, No. 87 Rue de Provence, is an important establishment, and, owing to its large force of clerks, presents very much the appearance of a government department. On the ground-floor are the offices, with windows opening on the street, fortified by strong iron bars, sufficiently large and close together to discourage all burglarious attempts. A large glass door opens into a spacious vestibule, where three or four office-boys are always in waiting. On the right are the rooms to which the public are admitted, and from which a narrow passage leads to the principal cash room. The offices of the corresponding clerk, book-keeper, and general accounts are on the left. At the further end is a small court on which open seven or eight little wicket doors. These are kept closed, except on certain days when notes are due; and then they are indispensable. M. Fauvel's private office is on the first floor over the offices, and leads into his elegant private apartments. This private office communicates directly with the bank by VOL. IX. - 28 means of a narrow staircase, which opens into the room occupied by the head cashier. This room, which in the bank goes by the name of the “cash office," is proof against all attacks, no matter how skillfully planned; indeed, it could almost withstand a regular siege, sheeted as it is like a monitor. The doors, and the partition where the wicket doors are cut, are covered with thick sheets of iron; and a heavy grating protects the fireplace. Fastened in the wall by enormous iron clamps is a safe, a formidable and fantastic piece of furniture, calculated to fill with envy the poor devil who easily carries his fortune in a pocket-book. This safe, which is considered the masterpiece of the firm of Becquet, is six feet in height and four and a half in width, made entirely of wrought iron, with triple sides, and divided into isolated compartments in case of fire. The safe is opened by an odd little key, which is, however, the least important part of the mechanism. Five movable steel buttons, upon which are engraved all the letters of the alphabet, constitute the real power of this ingenious safe. Before inserting the key into the lock, the letters on the buttons must be in the exact position in which they were placed when the safe was locked. In M. Fauvel's bank, as everywhere, the safe was always closed with a word that was changed from time to time. This word was known only to the head of the bank and the cashier, each of whom had also a key to the safe. In a fortress like this, a person could deposit more diamonds than the Duke of Brunswick's and sleep well assured of their safety. But one danger seemed to threaten that of forgetting the secret word which was the "Open sesame," of the safe. On the morning of the 28th of February, the bank clerks were all busy at their various desks, about half past nine o'clock, when a middle-aged man of dark complexion and military air, clad in deep mourning, appeared in the office adjoining the "safe," and announced to the five or six employés present his desire to see the cashier. He was told that the cashier had not yet come, and his attention was called to a placard in the entry, which stated that the "cash-room" was opened at ten o'clock. 66 This reply seemed to disconcert and annoy the new-comer. "I expected," he said, in a tone of cool impertinence, " to find some one here ready to attend to my business. I explained the matter to Monsieur Fauvel yesterday. I am Count Louis de Clameran, an iron manufacturer at Oloron, and have come to draw three hundred thousand francs deposited in this bank by my late brother, whose heir I am. It is surprising that no direction was given about it." Neither the title of the noble manufacturer, nor his explanations, appeared to have the slightest effect upon the clerks. "The cashier has not yet arrived," they repeated, “and we can do nothing for you." "Then conduct me to Monsieur Fauvel." There was a moment's hesitation; then a clerk named Cavaillon, who was writing near a window, said: 66 “The chief is always out at this hour." "Then I will call again," replied M. de Clameran. And he walked out, as he had entered, without saying Good-morning," or even touching his hat. "Not very polite, that customer," said little Cavaillon; "but he will soon be settled, for here comes Prosper." Prosper Bertomy, head cashier of Fauvel's banking-house, was a tall, handsome man, of about thirty, with fair hair and large dark-blue eyes, fastidiously neat, and dressed in the height of the fashion. He would have been very prepossessing but for a cold, reserved English-like manner, and a certain air of self-sufficiency which spoiled his naturally bright, open countenance. "Ah, here you are!" cried Cavaillon. been asking for you." "Some one has just "Who? An iron manufacturer, was it not?" "Exactly." "Well, he will come back again. Knowing that I would get here late this morning, I made all my arrangements yesterday." Prosper had unlocked his office door, and, as he finished speaking, entered, and closed it behind him. "Good!" exclaimed one of the clerks, "there is a man who never lets anything disturb him. The chief has quarreled with him twenty times for always coming too late, and his remonstrances have no more effect upon him than a breath of wind." |