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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 3802 ***
+THE LEROUGE CASE
+
+By Emile Gaboriau
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+On Thursday, the 6th of March, 1862, two days after Shrove Tuesday, five
+women belonging to the village of La Jonchere presented themselves at
+the police station at Bougival.
+
+They stated that for two days past no one had seen the Widow Lerouge,
+one of their neighbours, who lived by herself in an isolated cottage.
+They had several times knocked at the door, but all in vain. The
+window-shutters as well as the door were closed; and it was impossible
+to obtain even a glimpse of the interior.
+
+This silence, this sudden disappearance alarmed them. Apprehensive of
+a crime, or at least of an accident, they requested the interference of
+the police to satisfy their doubts by forcing the door and entering the
+house.
+
+Bougival is a pleasant riverside village, peopled on Sundays by crowds
+of boating parties. Trifling offences are frequently heard of in its
+neighbourhood, but crimes are rare.
+
+The commissary of police at first refused to listen to the women, but
+their importunities so fatigued him that he at length acceded to their
+request. He sent for the corporal of gendarmes, with two of his
+men, called into requisition the services of a locksmith, and, thus
+accompanied, followed the neighbours of the Widow Lerouge.
+
+La Jonchere owes some celebrity to the inventor of the sliding railway,
+who for some years past has, with more enterprise than profit, made
+public trials of his system in the immediate neighbourhood. It is
+a hamlet of no importance, resting upon the slope of the hill which
+overlooks the Seine between La Malmaison and Bougival. It is about
+twenty minutes’ walk from the main road, which, passing by Rueil and
+Port-Marly, goes from Paris to St. Germain, and is reached by a steep
+and rugged lane, quite unknown to the government engineers.
+
+The party, led by the gendarmes, followed the main road which here
+bordered the river until it reached this lane, into which it turned, and
+stumbled over the rugged inequalities of the ground for about a hundred
+yards, when it arrived in front of a cottage of extremely modest yet
+respectable appearance. This cottage had probably been built by some
+little Parisian shopkeeper in love with the beauties of nature; for
+all the trees had been carefully cut down. It consisted merely of two
+apartments on the ground floor with a loft above. Around it extended a
+much-neglected garden, badly protected against midnight prowlers, by
+a very dilapidated stone wall about three feet high, and broken and
+crumbling in many places. A light wooden gate, clumsily held in its
+place by pieces of wire, gave access to the garden.
+
+“It is here,” said the women.
+
+The commissary stopped. During his short walk, the number of his
+followers had been rapidly increasing, and now included all the
+inquisitive and idle persons of the neighbourhood. He found himself
+surrounded by about forty individuals burning with curiosity.
+
+“No one must enter the garden,” said he; and, to ensure obedience, he
+placed the two gendarmes on sentry before the entrance, and advanced
+towards the house, accompanied by the corporal and the locksmith.
+
+He knocked several times loudly with his leaded cane, first at the door,
+and then successively at all the window shutters. After each blow, he
+placed his ear against the wood and listened. Hearing nothing, he turned
+to the locksmith.
+
+“Open!” said he.
+
+The workman unstrapped his satchel, and produced his implements. He had
+already introduced a skeleton key into the lock, when a loud exclamation
+was heard from the crowd outside the gate.
+
+“The key!” they cried. “Here is the key!”
+
+A boy about twelve years old playing with one of his companions, had
+seen an enormous key in a ditch by the roadside; he had picked it up and
+carried it to the cottage in triumph.
+
+“Give it to me youngster,” said the corporal. “We shall see.”
+
+The key was tried, and it proved to be the key of the house.
+
+The commissary and the locksmith exchanged glances full of sinister
+misgivings. “This looks bad,” muttered the corporal. They entered the
+house, while the crowd, restrained with difficulty by the gendarmes,
+stamped with impatience, or leant over the garden wall, stretching their
+necks eagerly, to see or hear something of what was passing within the
+cottage.
+
+Those who anticipated the discovery of a crime, were unhappily not
+deceived. The commissary was convinced of this as soon as he crossed the
+threshold. Everything in the first room pointed with a sad eloquence to
+the recent presence of a malefactor. The furniture was knocked about,
+and a chest of drawers and two large trunks had been forced and broken
+open.
+
+In the inner room, which served as a sleeping apartment, the disorder
+was even greater. It seemed as though some furious hand had taken a
+fiendish pleasure in upsetting everything. Near the fireplace, her face
+buried in the ashes, lay the dead body of Widow Lerouge. All one side of
+the face and the hair were burnt; it seemed a miracle that the fire had
+not caught her clothing.
+
+“Wretches!” exclaimed the corporal. “Could they not have robbed, without
+assassinating the poor woman?”
+
+“But where has she been wounded?” inquired the commissary, “I do not see
+any blood.”
+
+“Look! here between the shoulders,” replied the corporal; “two fierce
+blows, by my faith. I’ll wager my stripes she had no time to cry out.”
+
+He stooped over the corpse and touched it.
+
+“She is quite cold,” he continued, “and it seems to me that she is no
+longer very stiff. It is at least thirty-six hours since she received
+her death-blow.”
+
+The commissary began writing, on the corner of a table, a short official
+report.
+
+“We are not here to talk, but to discover the guilty,” said he to the
+corporal. “Let information be at once conveyed to the justice of the
+peace, and the mayor, and send this letter without delay to the Palais
+de Justice. In a couple of hours, an investigating magistrate can be
+here. In the meanwhile, I will proceed to make a preliminary inquiry.”
+
+“Shall I carry the letter?” asked the corporal of gendarmes.
+
+“No, send one of your men; you will be useful to me here in keeping
+these people in order, and in finding any witnesses I may want. We
+must leave everything here as it is. I will install myself in the other
+room.”
+
+A gendarme departed at a run towards the station at Rueil; and the
+commissary commenced his investigations in regular form, as prescribed
+by law.
+
+“Who was Widow Lerouge? Where did she come from? What did she do? Upon
+what means, and how did she live? What were her habits, her morals, and
+what sort of company did she keep? Was she known to have enemies? Was
+she a miser? Did she pass for being rich?”
+
+The commissary knew the importance of ascertaining all this: but
+although the witnesses were numerous enough, they possessed but
+little information. The depositions of the neighbours, successively
+interrogated, were empty, incoherent, and incomplete. No one knew
+anything of the victim, who was a stranger in the country. Many
+presented themselves as witnesses moreover, who came forward less to
+afford information than to gratify their curiosity. A gardener’s wife,
+who had been friendly with the deceased, and a milk-woman with whom
+she dealt, were alone able to give a few insignificant though precise
+details.
+
+In a word, after three hours of laborious investigation, after having
+undergone the infliction of all the gossip of the country, after
+receiving evidence the most contradictory, and listened to commentaries
+the most ridiculous, the following is what appeared the most reliable to
+the commissary.
+
+Twelve years before, at the beginning of 1850, the woman Lerouge had
+made her appearance at Bougival with a large wagon piled with furniture,
+linen, and her personal effects. She had alighted at an inn, declaring
+her intention of settling in the neighbourhood, and had immediately gone
+in quest of a house. Finding this one unoccupied, and thinking it would
+suit her, she had taken it without trying to beat down the terms, at
+a rental of three hundred and twenty francs payable half yearly and in
+advance, but had refused to sign a lease.
+
+The house taken, she occupied it the same day, and expended about a
+hundred francs on repairs.
+
+She was a woman about fifty-four or fifty-five years of age, well
+preserved, active, and in the enjoyment of excellent health. No one
+knew her reasons for taking up her abode in a country where she was an
+absolute stranger. She was supposed to have come from Normandy, having
+been frequently seen in the early morning to wear a white cotton cap.
+This night-cap did not prevent her dressing very smartly during the day;
+indeed, she ordinarily wore very handsome dresses, very showy ribbons
+in her caps, and covered herself with jewels like a saint in a chapel.
+Without doubt she had lived on the coast, for ships and the sea recurred
+incessantly in her conversation.
+
+She did not like speaking of her husband who had, she said, perished
+in a shipwreck. But she had never given the slightest detail. On one
+particular occasion she had remarked, in presence of the milk-woman and
+three other persons, “No woman was ever more miserable than I during my
+married life.” And at another she had said, “All new, all fine! A new
+broom sweeps clean. My defunct husband only loved me for a year!”
+
+Widow Lerouge passed for rich, or at the least for being very well off
+and she was not a miser. She had lent a woman at La Malmaison sixty
+francs with which to pay her rent, and would not let her return them.
+At another time she had advanced two hundred francs to a fisherman of
+Port-Marly. She was fond of good living, spent a good deal on her food,
+and bought wine by the half cask. She took pleasure in treating her
+acquaintances, and her dinners were excellent. If complimented on her
+easy circumstances, she made no very strong denial. She had frequently
+been heard to say, “I have nothing in the funds, but I have everything I
+want. If I wished for more, I could have it.”
+
+Beyond this, the slightest allusion to her past life, her country, or
+her family had never escaped her. She was very talkative, but all she
+would say would be to the detriment of her neighbours. She was supposed,
+however, to have seen the world, and to know a great deal. She was very
+distrustful and barricaded herself in her cottage as in a fortress. She
+never went out in the evening, and it was well known that she got tipsy
+regularly at her dinner and went to bed very soon afterwards. Rarely had
+strangers been seen to visit her; four or five times a lady accompanied
+by a young man had called, and upon one occasion two gentlemen, one
+young, the other old and decorated, had come in a magnificent carriage.
+
+In conclusion, the deceased was held in but little esteem by her
+neighbours. Her remarks were often most offensive and odious in the
+mouth of a woman of her age. She had been heard to give a young girl
+the most detestable counsels. A pork butcher, belonging to Bougival,
+embarrassed in his business, and tempted by her supposed wealth, had at
+one time paid her his addresses. She, however, repelled his advances,
+declaring that to be married once was enough for her. On several
+occasions men had been seen in her house; first of all, a young one, who
+had the appearance of a clerk of the railway company; then another,
+a tall, elderly man, very sunburnt, who was dressed in a blouse, and
+looked very villainous. These men were reported to be her lovers.
+
+Whilst questioning the witnesses, the commissary wrote down their
+depositions in a more condensed form, and he had got so far, when the
+investigating magistrate arrived, attended by the chief of the detective
+police, and one of his subordinates.
+
+M. Daburon was a man thirty-eight years of age, and of prepossessing
+appearance; sympathetic notwithstanding his coldness; wearing upon his
+countenance a sweet, and rather sad expression. This settled melancholy
+had remained with him ever since his recovery, two years before, from a
+dreadful malady, which had well-nigh proved fatal.
+
+Investigating magistrate since 1859, he had rapidly acquired the most
+brilliant reputation. Laborious, patient, and acute, he knew with
+singular skill how to disentangle the skein of the most complicated
+affair, and from the midst of a thousand threads lay hold to the right
+one. None better than he, armed with an implacable logic, could
+solve those terrible problems in which X--in algebra, the unknown
+quantity--represents the criminal. Clever in deducing the unknown from
+the known, he excelled in collecting facts, and in uniting in a
+bundle of overwhelming proofs circumstances the most trifling, and in
+appearance the most insignificant.
+
+Although possessed of qualifications for his office so numerous and
+valuable, he was tremblingly distrustful of his own abilities and
+exercised his terrible functions with diffidence and hesitation. He
+wanted audacity to risk those sudden surprises so often resorted to by
+his colleagues in the pursuit of truth.
+
+Thus it was repugnant to his feelings to deceive even an accused person,
+or to lay snares for him; in fact the mere idea of the possibility of a
+judicial error terrified him. They said of him in the courts, “He is
+a trembler.” What he sought was not conviction, nor the most probable
+presumptions, but the most absolute certainty. No rest for him until the
+day when the accused was forced to bow before the evidence; so much
+so that he had been jestingly reproached with seeking not to discover
+criminals but innocents.
+
+The chief of detective police was none other than the celebrated Gevrol.
+He is really an able man, but wanting in perseverance, and liable to be
+blinded by an incredible obstinacy. If he loses a clue, he cannot bring
+himself to acknowledge it, still less to retrace his steps. His audacity
+and coolness, however, render it impossible to disconcert him; and
+being possessed of immense personal strength, hidden under a most
+meagre appearance, he has never hesitated to confront the most daring of
+malefactors.
+
+But his specialty, his triumph, his glory, is a memory of faces, so
+prodigious as to exceed belief. Let him see a face for five minutes, and
+it is enough. Its possessor is catalogued, and will be recognised at any
+time. The impossibilities of place, the unlikelihood of circumstances,
+the most incredible disguises will not lead him astray. The reason for
+this, so he pretends, is because he only looks at a man’s eyes, without
+noticing any other features.
+
+This faculty was severely tested some months back at Poissy, by the
+following experiment. Three prisoners were draped in coverings so as
+to completely disguise their height. Over their faces were thick veils,
+allowing nothing of the features to be seen except the eyes, for which
+holes had been made; and in this state they were shown to Gevrol.
+
+Without the slightest hesitation he recognised the prisoners and named
+them. Had chance alone assisted him?
+
+The subordinate Gevrol had brought with him, was an old offender,
+reconciled to the law. A smart fellow in his profession, crafty as
+a fox, and jealous of his chief, whose abilities he held in light
+estimation. His name was Lecoq.
+
+The commissary, by this time heartily tired of his responsibilities,
+welcomed the investigating magistrate and his agents as liberators. He
+rapidly related the facts collected and read his official report.
+
+“You have proceeded very well,” observed the investigating magistrate.
+“All is stated clearly; yet there is one fact you have omitted to
+ascertain.”
+
+“What is that, sir?” inquired the commissary.
+
+“On what day was Widow Lerouge last seen, and at what hour?”
+
+“I was coming to that presently. She was last seen and spoken to on the
+evening of Shrove Tuesday, at twenty minutes past five. She was then
+returning from Bougival with a basketful of purchases.”
+
+“You are sure of the hour, sir?” inquired Gevrol.
+
+“Perfectly, and for this reason; the two witnesses who furnished me
+with this fact, a woman named Tellier and a cooper who lives hard by,
+alighted from the omnibus which leaves Marly every hour, when they
+perceived the widow in the cross-road, and hastened to overtake her.
+They conversed with her and only left her when they reached the door of
+her own house.”
+
+“And what had she in her basket?” asked the investigating magistrate.
+
+“The witnesses cannot say. They only know that she carried two sealed
+bottles of wine, and another of brandy. She complained to them of
+headache, and said, ‘Though it is customary to enjoy oneself on Shrove
+Tuesday, I am going to bed.’”
+
+“So, so!” exclaimed the chief of detective police. “I know where to
+search!”
+
+“You think so?” inquired M. Daburon.
+
+“Why, it is clear enough. We must find the tall sunburnt man, the
+gallant in the blouse. The brandy and the wine were intended for his
+entertainment. The widow expected him to supper. He came, sure enough,
+the amiable gallant!”
+
+“Oh!” cried the corporal of gendarmes, evidently scandalised, “she was
+very old, and terribly ugly!”
+
+Gevrol surveyed the honest fellow with an expression of contemptuous
+pity. “Know, corporal,” said he, “that a woman who has money is always
+young and pretty, if she desires to be thought so!”
+
+“Perhaps there is something in that,” remarked the magistrate; “but it
+is not what strikes me most. I am more impressed by the remark of this
+unfortunate woman. ‘If I wished for more, I could have it.’”
+
+“That also attracted my attention,” acquiesced the commissary.
+
+But Gevrol no longer took the trouble to listen. He stuck to his
+own opinion, and began to inspect minutely every corner of the room.
+Suddenly he turned towards the commissary. “Now that I think of it,”
+ cried he, “was it not on Tuesday that the weather changed? It had been
+freezing for a fortnight past, and on that evening it rained. At what
+time did the rain commence here?”
+
+“At half-past nine,” answered the corporal. “I went out from supper to
+make my circuit of the dancing halls, when I was overtaken opposite the
+Rue des Pecheurs by a heavy shower. In less than ten minutes there was
+half an inch of water in the road.”
+
+“Very well,” said Gevrol. “Then if the man came after half-past nine his
+shoes must have been very muddy. If they were dry, he arrived sooner.
+This must have been noticed, for the floor is a polished one. Were there
+any imprints of footsteps, M. Commissary?”
+
+“I must confess we never thought of looking for them.”
+
+“Ah!” exclaimed the chief detective, in a tone of irritation, “that is
+vexatious!”
+
+“Wait,” added the commissary; “there is yet time to see if there are
+any, not in this room, but in the other. We have disturbed absolutely
+nothing there. My footsteps and the corporal’s will be easily
+distinguished. Let us see.”
+
+As the commissary opened the door of the second chamber, Gevrol stopped
+him. “I ask permission, sir,” said he to the investigating magistrate,
+“to examine the apartment before any one else is permitted to enter. It
+is very important for me.”
+
+“Certainly,” approved M. Daburon.
+
+Gevrol passed in first, the others remaining on the threshold. They
+all took in at a glance the scene of the crime. Everything, as the
+commissary had stated, seemed to have been overturned by some furious
+madman. In the middle of the room was a table covered with a fine linen
+cloth, white as snow. Upon this was placed a magnificent wineglass of
+the rarest manufacture, a very handsome knife, and a plate of the finest
+porcelain. There was an opened bottle of wine, hardly touched, and
+another of brandy, from which about five or six small glassfuls had been
+taken.
+
+On the right, against the wall, stood two handsome walnut-wood
+wardrobes, with ornamental locks; they were placed one on each side of
+the window; both were empty, and the contents scattered about on all
+sides. There were clothing, linen, and other effects unfolded, tossed
+about, and crumpled. At the end of the room, near the fireplace, a large
+cupboard used for keeping the crockery was wide open. On the other side
+of the fireplace, an old secretary with a marble top had been forced,
+broken, smashed into bits, and rummaged, no doubt, to its inmost
+recesses. The desk, wrenched away, hung by a single hinge. The drawers
+had been pulled out and thrown upon the floor.
+
+To the left of the room stood the bed, which had been completely
+disarranged and upset. Even the straw of the mattress had been pulled
+out and examined.
+
+“Not the slightest imprint,” murmured Gevrol disappointed. “He must have
+arrived before half-past nine. You can all come in now.”
+
+He walked right up to the corpse of the widow, near which he knelt.
+
+“It can not be said,” grumbled he, “that the work is not properly done!
+the assassin is no apprentice!”
+
+Then looking right and left, he continued: “Oh! oh! the poor devil was
+busy with her cooking when he struck her; see her pan of ham and eggs
+upon the hearth. The brute hadn’t patience enough to wait for the
+dinner. The gentleman was in a hurry, he struck the blow fasting;
+therefore he can’t invoke the gayety of dessert in his defense!”
+
+“It is evident,” said the commissary to the investigating magistrate,
+“that robbery was the motive of the crime.”
+
+“It is probable,” answered Gevrol in a sly way; “and that accounts for
+the absence of the silver spoons from the table.”
+
+“Look here! Some pieces of gold in this drawer!” exclaimed Lecoq, who
+had been searching on his own account, “just three hundred and twenty
+francs!”
+
+“Well, I never!” cried Gevrol, a little disconcerted. But he soon
+recovered from his embarrassment, and added: “He must have forgotten
+them; that often happens. I have known an assassin, who, after
+accomplishing the murder, became so utterly bewildered as to depart
+without remembering to take the plunder, for which he had committed the
+crime. Our man became excited perhaps, or was interrupted. Some one may
+have knocked at the door. What makes me more willing to think so is,
+that the scamp did not leave the candle burning. You see he took the
+trouble to put it out.”
+
+“Pooh!” said Lecoq. “That proves nothing. He is probably an economical
+and careful man.”
+
+The investigations of the two agents were continued all over the house;
+but their most minute researches resulted in discovering absolutely
+nothing; not one piece of evidence to convict; not the faintest
+indication which might serve as a point of departure. Even the dead
+woman’s papers, if she possessed any, had disappeared. Not a letter, not
+a scrap of paper even, to be met with. From time to time Gevrol stopped
+to swear or grumble. “Oh! it is cleverly done! It is a tiptop piece of
+work! The scoundrel is a cool hand!”
+
+“Well, what do you make of it?” at length demanded the investigating
+magistrate.
+
+“It is a drawn game monsieur,” replied Gevrol. “We are baffled for the
+present. The miscreant has taken his measures with great precaution;
+but I will catch him. Before night, I shall have a dozen men in pursuit.
+Besides, he is sure to fall into our hands. He has carried off the plate
+and the jewels. He is lost!”
+
+“Despite all that,” said M. Daburon, “we are no further advanced than we
+were this morning!”
+
+“Well!” growled Gevrol. “A man can only do what he can!”
+
+“Ah!” murmured Lecoq in a low tone, perfectly audible, however, “why is
+not old Tirauclair here?”
+
+“What could he do more than we have done?” retorted Gevrol, directing a
+furious glance at his subordinate. Lecoq bowed his head and was silent,
+inwardly delighted at having wounded his chief.
+
+“Who is old Tirauclair?” asked M. Daburon. “It seems to me that I have
+heard the name, but I can’t remember where.”
+
+“He is an extraordinary man!” exclaimed Lecoq. “He was formerly a clerk
+at the Mont de Piete,” added Gevrol; “but he is now a rich old fellow,
+whose real name is Tabaret. He goes in for playing the detective by way
+of amusement.”
+
+“And to augment his revenues,” insinuated the commissary.
+
+“He?” cried Lecoq. “No danger of that. He works so much for the glory
+of success that he often spends money from his own pocket. It’s
+his amusement, you see! At the Prefecture we have nicknamed him
+‘Tirauclair,’ from a phrase he is constantly in the habit of repeating.
+Ah! he is sharp, the old weasel! It was he who in the case of that
+banker’s wife, you remember, guessed that the lady had robbed herself,
+and who proved it.”
+
+“True!” retorted Gevrol; “and it was also he who almost had poor Dereme
+guillotined for killing his wife, a thorough bad woman; and all the
+while the poor man was innocent.”
+
+“We are wasting our time, gentlemen,” interrupted M. Daburon. Then,
+addressing himself to Lecoq, he added:--“Go and find M. Tabaret. I have
+heard a great deal of him, and shall be glad to see him at work here.”
+
+Lecoq started off at a run, Gevrol was seriously humiliated. “You have
+of course, sir, the right to demand the services of whom you please,”
+ commenced he, “but yet--”
+
+“Do not,” interrupted M. Daburon, “let us lose our tempers, M. Gevrol.
+I have known you for a long time, and I know your worth; but to-day we
+happen to differ in opinion. You hold absolutely to your sunburnt man
+in the blouse, and I, on my side, am convinced that you are not on the
+right track!”
+
+“I think I am right,” replied the detective, “and I hope to prove it. I
+shall find the scoundrel, be he whom he may!”
+
+“I ask nothing better,” said M. Daburon.
+
+“Only, permit me, sir, to give--what shall I say without failing in
+respect?--a piece of advice?”
+
+“Speak!”
+
+“I would advise you, sir, to distrust old Tabaret.”
+
+“Really? And for what reason?”
+
+“The old fellow allows himself to be carried away too much by
+appearances. He has become an amateur detective for the sake of
+popularity, just like an author; and, as he is vainer than a peacock,
+he is apt to lose his temper and be very obstinate. As soon as he finds
+himself in the presence of a crime, like this one, for example, he
+pretends he can explain everything on the instant. And he manages to
+invent a story that will correspond exactly with the situation. He
+professes, with the help of one single fact, to be able to reconstruct
+all the details of an assassination, as a savant pictures an
+antediluvian animal from a single bone. Sometimes he divines correctly;
+very often, though, he makes a mistake. Take, for instance, the case of
+the tailor, the unfortunate Dereme, without me--”
+
+“I thank you for your advice,” interrupted M. Daburon, “and will profit
+by it. Now commissary,” he continued, “it is most important to ascertain
+from what part of the country Widow Lerouge came.”
+
+The procession of witnesses under the charge of the corporal of
+gendarmes were again interrogated by the investigating magistrate.
+
+But nothing new was elicited. It was evident that Widow Lerouge had been
+a singularly discreet woman; for, although very talkative, nothing in
+any way connected with her antecedents remained in the memory of the
+gossips of La Jonchere.
+
+All the people interrogated, however, obstinately tried to impart to
+the magistrate their own convictions and personal conjectures. Public
+opinion sided with Gevrol. Every voice denounced the tall sunburnt man
+with the gray blouse. He must surely be the culprit. Everyone remembered
+his ferocious aspect, which had frightened the whole neighbourhood. He
+had one evening menaced a woman, and another day beaten a child. They
+could point out neither the child nor the woman; but no matter: these
+brutal acts were notoriously public. M. Daburon began to despair of
+gaining the least enlightenment, when some one brought the wife of a
+grocer of Bougival, at whose shop the victim used to deal, and a child
+thirteen years old, who knew, it was said, something positive.
+
+The grocer’s wife first made her appearance. She had heard Widow Lerouge
+speak of having a son still living.
+
+“Are you quite sure of that?” asked the investigating magistrate.
+
+“As of my existence,” answered the woman, “for, on that evening, yes, it
+was evening, she was, saving your presence, a little tipsy. She remained
+in my shop more than an hour.”
+
+“And what did she say?”
+
+“I think I see her now,” continued the shopkeeper: “she was leaning
+against the counter near the scales, jesting with a fisherman of Marly,
+old Husson, who can tell you the same; and she called him a fresh water
+sailor. ‘My husband,’ said she, ‘was a real sailor, and the proof is,
+he would sometimes remain years on a voyage, and always used to bring me
+back cocoanuts. I have a son who is also a sailor, like his dead father,
+in the imperial navy.’”
+
+“Did she mention her son’s name?”
+
+“Not that time, but another evening, when she was, if I may say so, very
+drunk. She told us that her son’s name was Jacques, and that she had not
+seen him for a very long time.”
+
+“Did she speak ill of her husband?”
+
+“Never! She only said he was jealous and brutal, though a good man at
+bottom, and that he led her a miserable life. He was weak-headed, and
+forged ideas out of nothing at all. In fact he was too honest to be
+wise.”
+
+“Did her son ever come to see her while she lived here?”
+
+“She never told me of it.”
+
+“Did she spend much money with you?”
+
+“That depends. About sixty francs a month; sometimes more, for she
+always buys the best brandy. She paid cash for all she bought.”
+
+The woman knowing no more was dismissed. The child, who was now brought
+forward, belonged to parents in easy circumstances. Tall and strong
+for his age, he had bright intelligent eyes, and features expressive of
+watchfulness and cunning. The presence of the magistrate did not seem to
+intimidate him in the least.
+
+“Let us hear, my boy,” said M. Daburon, “what you know.”
+
+“Well, sir, a few days ago, on Sunday last, I saw a man at Madame
+Lerouge’s garden-gate.”
+
+“At what time of the day?”
+
+“Early in the morning. I was going to church, to serve in the second
+mass.”
+
+“Well,” continued the magistrate, “and this man was tall and sunburnt,
+and dressed in a blouse?”
+
+“No, sir, on the contrary, he was short, very fat, and old.”
+
+“You are sure you are not mistaken?”
+
+“Quite sure,” replied the urchin, “I saw him close face to face, for I
+spoke to him.”
+
+“Tell me, then, what occurred?”
+
+“Well, sir, I was passing when I saw this fat man at the gate. He
+appeared very much vexed, oh! but awfully vexed! His face was red, or
+rather purple, as far as the middle of his head, which I could see very
+well, for it was bare, and had very little hair on it.”
+
+“And did he speak to you first?”
+
+“Yes, sir, he saw me, and called out, ‘Halloa! youngster!’ as I came
+up to him, and he asked me if I had got a good pair of legs? I answered
+yes. Then he took me by the ear, but without hurting me, and said,
+‘Since that is so, if you will run an errand for me, I will give you
+ten sous. Run as far as the Seine; and when you reach the quay, you will
+notice a large boat moored. Go on board, and ask to see Captain Gervais:
+he is sure to be there. Tell him that he can prepare to leave, that I am
+ready.’ Then he put ten sous in my hand; and off I went.”
+
+“If all the witnesses were like this bright little fellow,” murmured the
+commissary, “what a pleasure it would be!”
+
+“Now,” said the magistrate, “tell us how you executed your commission?”
+
+“I went to the boat, sir, found the man, and I told him; and that’s
+all.”
+
+Gevrol, who had listened with the most lively attention, leaned over
+towards the ear of M. Daburon, and said in a low voice: “Will you permit
+me, sir, to ask the brat a few questions?”
+
+“Certainly, M. Gevrol.”
+
+“Come now, my little friend,” said Gevrol, “if you saw this man again,
+would you know him?”
+
+“Oh, yes!”
+
+“Then there was something remarkable about him?”
+
+“Yes, I should think so! his face was the colour of a brick!”
+
+“And is that all?”
+
+“Well, yes, sir.”
+
+“But you must remember how he was dressed; had he a blouse on?”
+
+“No; he wore a jacket. Under the arms were very large pockets, and from
+out of one of them peeped a blue spotted handkerchief.”
+
+“What kind of trousers had he on?”
+
+“I do not remember.”
+
+“And his waistcoat?”
+
+“Let me see,” answered the child. “I don’t think he wore a waistcoat.
+And yet,--but no, I remember he did not wear one; he had a long cravat,
+fastened near his neck by a large ring.”
+
+“Ah!” said Gevrol, with an air of satisfaction, “you are a bright boy;
+and I wager that if you try hard to remember you will find a few more
+details to give us.”
+
+The boy hung down his head, and remained silent. From the knitting of
+his young brows, it was plain he was making a violent effort of memory.
+“Yes,” cried he suddenly, “I remember another thing.”
+
+“What?”
+
+“The man wore very large rings in his ears.”
+
+“Bravo!” cried Gevrol, “here is a complete description. I shall find the
+fellow now. M. Daburon can prepare a warrant for his appearance whenever
+he likes.”
+
+“I believe, indeed, the testimony of this child is of the highest
+importance,” said M. Daburon; and turning to the boy added, “Can you
+tell us, my little friend, with what this boat was loaded?”
+
+“No, sir, I couldn’t see because it was decked.”
+
+“Which way was she going, up the Seine or down?”
+
+“Neither, sir, she was moored.”
+
+“We know that,” said Gevrol. “The magistrate asks you which way the prow
+of the boat was turned,--towards Paris or towards Marly?”
+
+“The two ends of the boat seemed alike to me.”
+
+The chief of the detective of police made a gesture of disappointment.
+
+“At least,” said he, addressing the child again, “you noticed the name
+of the boat? you can read I suppose. One should always know the names of
+the boats one goes aboard of.”
+
+“No, I didn’t see any name,” said the little boy.
+
+“If this boat was moored at the quay,” remarked M. Daburon, “it was
+probably noticed by the inhabitants of Bougival.”
+
+“That is true, sir,” approved the commissary.
+
+“Yes,” said Gevrol, “and the sailors must have come ashore. I shall find
+out all about it at the wine shop. But what sort of a man was Gervais,
+the master, my little friend?”
+
+“Like all the sailors hereabouts, sir.”
+
+The child was preparing to depart when M. Daburon recalled him.
+
+“Before you go, my boy, tell me, have you spoken to any one of this
+meeting before to-day?”
+
+“Yes, sir, I told all to mamma when I got back from church, and gave her
+the ten sous.”
+
+“And you have told us the whole truth?” continued the magistrate. “You
+know that it is a very grave matter to attempt to impose on justice. She
+always finds it out, and it is my duty to warn you that she inflicts the
+most terrible punishment upon liars.”
+
+The little fellow blushed as red as a cherry, and held down his head.
+
+“I see,” pursued M. Daburon, “that you have concealed something from us.
+Don’t you know that the police know everything?”
+
+“Pardon! sir,” cried the boy, bursting into tears,--“pardon. Don’t
+punish me, and I will never do so again.”
+
+“Tell us, then, how you have deceived us?”
+
+“Well, sir, it was not ten sous that the man gave me, it was twenty
+sous. I only gave half to mamma; and I kept the rest to buy marbles
+with.”
+
+“My little friend,” said the investigating magistrate, “for this time I
+forgive you. But let it be a lesson for the remainder of your life. You
+may go now, and remember it is useless to try and hide the truth; it
+always comes to light!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+The two last depositions awakened in M. Daburon’s mind some slight
+gleams of hope. In the midst of darkness, the humblest rush-light
+acquires brilliancy.
+
+“I will go at once to Bougival, sir, if you approve of this step,”
+ suggested Gevrol.
+
+“Perhaps you would do well to wait a little,” answered M. Daburon. “This
+man was seen on Sunday morning; we will inquire into Widow Lerouge’s
+movements on that day.”
+
+Three neighbours were called. They all declared that the widow had
+kept her bed all Sunday. To one woman who, hearing she was unwell,
+had visited her, she said, “Ah! I had last night a terrible accident.”
+ Nobody at the time attached any significance to these words.
+
+“The man with the rings in his ears becomes more and important,” said
+the magistrate, when the woman had retired. “To find him again is
+indispensable: you must see to this, M. Gevrol.”
+
+“Before eight days, I shall have him,” replied the chief of detective
+police, “if I have to search every boat on the Seine, from its source
+to the ocean. I know the name of the captain, Gervais. The navigation
+office will tell me something.”
+
+He was interrupted by Lecoq, who rushed into the house breathless. “Here
+is old Tabaret,” he said. “I met him just as he was going out. What a
+man! He wouldn’t wait for the train, but gave I don’t know how much to a
+cabman; and we drove here in fifty minutes!”
+
+Almost immediately, a man appeared at the door, whose aspect it must be
+admitted was not at all what one would have expected of a person who had
+joined the police for honour alone. He was certainly sixty years old and
+did not look a bit younger. Short, thin, and rather bent, he leant
+on the carved ivory handle of a stout cane. His round face wore that
+expression of perpetual astonishment, mingled with uneasiness, which
+has made the fortunes of two comic actors of the Palais-Royal theatre.
+Scrupulously shaved, he presented a very short chin, large and good
+natured lips, and a nose disagreeably elevated, like the broad end of
+one of Sax’s horns. His eyes of a dull gray, were small and red at the
+lids, and absolutely void of expression; yet they fatigued the observer
+by their insupportable restlessness. A few straight hairs shaded his
+forehead, which receded like that of a greyhound, and through their
+scantiness barely concealed his long ugly ears. He was very comfortably
+dressed, clean as a new franc piece, displaying linen of dazzling
+whiteness, and wearing silk gloves and leather gaiters. A long and
+massive gold chain, very vulgar-looking, was twisted thrice round his
+neck, and fell in cascades into the pocket of his waistcoat.
+
+M. Tabaret, surnamed Tirauclair, stood at the threshold, and bowed
+almost to the ground, bending his old back into an arch, and in the
+humblest of voices asked, “The investigating magistrate has deigned to
+send for me?”
+
+“Yes!” replied M. Daburon, adding under his breath; “and if you are a
+man of any ability, there is at least nothing to indicate it in your
+appearance.”
+
+“I am here,” continued the old fellow, “completely at the service of
+justice.”
+
+“I wish to know,” said M. Daburon, “whether you can discover some clue
+that will put us upon the track of the assassin. I will explain the--”
+
+“Oh, I know enough of it!” interrupted old Tabaret. “Lecoq has told me
+the principal facts, just as much as I desire to know.”
+
+“Nevertheless--” commenced the commissary of police.
+
+“If you will permit me, I prefer to proceed without receiving any
+details, in order to be more fully master of my own impressions. When
+one knows another’s opinion it can’t help influencing one’s judgment.
+I will, if you please, at once commence my researches, with Lecoq’s
+assistance.”
+
+As the old fellow spoke, his little gray eyes dilated, and became
+brilliant as carbuncles. His face reflected an internal satisfaction;
+even his wrinkles seemed to laugh. His figure became erect, and his step
+was almost elastic, as he darted into the inner chamber.
+
+He remained there about half an hour; then came out running, then
+re-entered and then again came out; once more he disappeared and
+reappeared again almost immediately. The magistrate could not help
+comparing him to a pointer on the scent, his turned-up nose even moved
+about as if to discover some subtle odour left by the assassin. All
+the while he talked loudly and with much gesticulation, apostrophising
+himself, scolding himself, uttering little cries of triumph or
+self-encouragement. He did not allow Lecoq to have a moment’s rest. He
+wanted this or that or the other thing. He demanded paper and a pencil.
+Then he wanted a spade; and finally he cried out for plaster of Paris,
+some water and a bottle of oil.
+
+When more than an hour had elapsed, the investigating magistrate began
+to grow impatient, and asked what had become of the amateur detective.
+
+“He is on the road,” replied the corporal, “lying flat in the mud, and
+mixing some plaster in a plate. He says he has nearly finished, and that
+he is coming back presently.”
+
+He did in fact return almost instantly, joyous, triumphant, looking at
+least twenty years younger. Lecoq followed him, carrying with the utmost
+precaution a large basket.
+
+“I have solved the riddle!” said Tabaret to the magistrate. “It is all
+clear now, and as plain as noon-day. Lecoq, my lad, put the basket on
+the table.”
+
+Gevrol at this moment returned from his expedition equally delighted.
+
+“I am on the track of the man with the earrings,” said he; “the boat
+went down the river. I have obtained an exact description of the master
+Gervais.”
+
+“What have you discovered, M. Tabaret!” asked the magistrate.
+
+The old fellow carefully emptied upon the table the contents of the
+basket,--a big lump of clay, several large sheets of paper, and three
+or four small lumps of plaster yet damp. Standing behind this table, he
+presented a grotesque resemblance to those mountebank conjurers who in
+the public squares juggle the money of the lookers-on. His clothes had
+greatly suffered; he was covered with mud up to the chin.
+
+“In the first place,” said he, at last, in a tone of affected modesty,
+“robbery has had nothing to do with the crime that occupies our
+attention.”
+
+“Oh! of course not!” muttered Gevrol.
+
+“I shall prove it,” continued old Tabaret, “by the evidence. By-and-by
+I shall offer my humble opinion as to the real motive. In the second
+place, the assassin arrived here before half-past nine; that is to
+say, before the rain fell. No more than M. Gevrol have I been able to
+discover traces of muddy footsteps; but under the table, on the spot
+where his feet rested, I find dust. We are thus assured of the hour.
+The widow did not in the least expect her visitor. She had commenced
+undressing, and was winding up her cuckoo clock when he knocked.”
+
+“These are absolute details!” cried the commissary.
+
+“But easily established,” replied the amateur. “You see this cuckoo
+clock above the secretary; it is one of those which run fourteen or
+fifteen hours at most, for I have examined it. Now it is more than
+probable, it is certain, that the widow wound it up every evening before
+going to bed. How, then, is it that the clock has stopped at five?
+Because she must have touched it. As she was drawing the chain, the
+assassin knocked. In proof, I show this chair standing under the clock,
+and on the seat a very plain foot-mark. Now look at the dress of the
+victim; the body of it is off. In order to open the door more quickly,
+she did not wait to put it on again, but hastily threw this old shawl
+over her shoulders.”
+
+“By Jove!” exclaimed the corporal, evidently struck.
+
+“The widow,” continued the old fellow, “knew the person who knocked.
+Her haste to open the door gives rise to this conjecture; what follows
+proves it. The assassin then gained admission without difficulty. He
+is a young man, a little above the middle height, elegantly dressed. He
+wore on that evening a high hat. He carried an umbrella, and smoked a
+trabucos cigar in a holder.”
+
+“Ridiculous!” cried Gevrol. “This is too much.”
+
+“Too much, perhaps,” retorted old Tabaret. “At all events, it is the
+truth. If you are not minute in your investigations, I cannot help it;
+anyhow, I am, I search, and I find. Too much, say you? Well deign to
+glance at these lumps of damp plaster. They represent the heels of the
+boots worn by the assassin, of which I found a most perfect impression
+near the ditch, where the key was picked up. On these sheets of paper,
+I have marked in outline the imprint of the foot which I cannot take
+up, because it is on some sand. Look! heel high, instep pronounced, sole
+small and narrow,--an elegant boot, belonging to a foot well cared for
+evidently. Look for this impression all along the path; and you will
+find it again twice. Then you will find it five times repeated in the
+garden where no one else had been; and these footprints prove, by
+the way, that the stranger knocked not at the door, but at the
+window-shutter, beneath which shone a gleam of light. At the entrance to
+the garden, the man leapt to avoid a flower bed! the point of the foot,
+more deeply imprinted than usual, shows it. He leapt more than two yards
+with ease, proving that he is active, and therefore young.”
+
+Old Tabaret spoke in a low voice, clear and penetrating: and his eye
+glanced from one to the other of his auditors, watching the impression
+he was making.
+
+“Does the hat astonish you, M. Gevrol?” he pursued. “Just look at the
+circle traced in the dust on the marble top of the secretary. Is it
+because I have mentioned his height that you are surprised? Take the
+trouble to examine the tops of the wardrobes and you will see that the
+assassin passed his hands across them. Therefore he is taller than I am.
+Do not say that he got on a chair, for in that case, he would have seen
+and would not have been obliged to feel. Are you astonished about the
+umbrella? This lump of earth shows an admirable impression not only of
+the end of the stick, but even of the little round piece of wood which
+is always placed at the end of the silk. Perhaps you cannot get over the
+statement that he smoked a cigar? Here is the end of a trabucos that
+I found amongst the ashes. Has the end been bitten? No. Has it been
+moistened with saliva? No. Then he who smoked it used a cigar-holder.”
+
+Lecoq was unable to conceal his enthusiastic admiration, and noiselessly
+rubbed his hands together. The commissary appeared stupefied, while
+M. Daburon was delighted. Gevrol’s face, on the contrary, was sensibly
+elongated. As for the corporal, he was overwhelmed.
+
+“Now,” continued the old fellow, “follow me closely. We have traced the
+young man into the house. How he explained his presence at this hour, I
+do not know; this much is certain, he told the widow he had not dined.
+The worthy woman was delighted to hear it, and at once set to work to
+prepare a meal. This meal was not for herself; for in the cupboard I
+have found the remains of her own dinner. She had dined off fish; the
+autopsy will confirm the truth of this statement. Besides you can see
+yourselves, there is but one glass on the table, and one knife. But
+who is this young man? Evidently the widow looked upon him as a man of
+superior rank to her own; for in the cupboard is a table-cloth still
+very clean. Did she use it? No. For her guest she brought out a clean
+linen one, her very best. It is for him this magnificent glass, a
+present, no doubt, and it is evident she did not often use this knife
+with the ivory handle.”
+
+“That is all true,” murmured M. Daburon, “very true.”
+
+“Now, then we have got the young man seated. He began by drinking a
+glass of wine, while the widow was putting her pan on the fire. Then,
+his heart failing him, he asked for brandy, and swallowed about five
+small glassfuls. After an internal struggle of ten minutes (the time it
+must have taken to cook the ham and eggs as much as they are), the young
+man arose and approached the widow, who was squatting down and leaning
+forward over her cooking. He stabbed her twice on the back; but she was
+not killed instantly. She half arose seizing the assassin by the hands;
+while he drew back, lifting her suddenly, and then hurling her down in
+the position in which you see her. This short struggle is indicated by
+the posture of the body; for, squatting down and being struck in the
+back, it is naturally on her back that she ought to have fallen. The
+murderer used a sharp narrow weapon, which was, unless I am deceived,
+the end of a foil, sharpened, and with the button broken off. By
+wiping the weapon upon his victim’s skirt, the assassin leaves us this
+indication. He was not, however, hurt in the struggle. The victim must
+have clung with a death-grip to his hands; but, as he had not taken off
+his lavender kid gloves,--”
+
+“Gloves! Why this is romance,” exclaimed Gevrol.
+
+“Have you examined the dead woman’s finger-nails, M. Gevrol? No. Well,
+do so, and then tell me whether I am mistaken. The woman, now dead,
+we come to the object of her assassination. What did this well-dressed
+young gentleman want? Money? Valuables? No! no! a hundred times no! What
+he wanted, what he sought, and what he found, were papers, documents,
+letters, which he knew to be in the possession of the victim. To find
+them, he overturned everything, upset the cupboards, unfolded the linen,
+broke open the secretary, of which he could not find the key, and even
+emptied the mattress of the bed. At last he found these documents. And
+then do you know what he did with them? Why, burned them, of course; not
+in the fire-place, but in the little stove in the front room. His end
+accomplished, what does he do next? He flies, carrying with him all
+that he finds valuable, to baffle detection, by suggesting a robbery. He
+wrapped everything he found worth taking in the napkin which was to have
+served him at dinner, and blowing out the candle, he fled, locking the
+door on the outside, and throwing the key into a ditch. And that is
+all.”
+
+“M. Tabaret,” said the magistrate, “your investigation is admirable; and
+I am persuaded your inferences are correct.”
+
+“Ah!” cried Lecoq, “is he not colossal, my old Tirauclair?”
+
+“Pyramidal!” cried Gevrol ironically. “I fear, however, your
+well-dressed young man must have been just a little embarrassed in
+carrying a bundle covered with a snow white napkin, which could be so
+easily seen from a distance.
+
+“He did not carry it a hundred leagues,” responded old Tabaret. “You may
+well believe, that, to reach the railway station, he was not fool enough
+to take the omnibus. No, he returned on foot by the shortest way, which
+borders the river. Now on reaching the Seine, unless he is more knowing
+than I take him to be, his first care was to throw this tell-tale bundle
+into the water.”
+
+“Do you believe so, M. Tirauclair?” asked Gevrol.
+
+“I don’t mind making a bet on it; and the best evidence of my belief
+is, that I have sent three men, under the surveillance of a gendarme, to
+drag the Seine at the nearest spot from here. If they succeed in finding
+the bundle, I have promised them a recompense.”
+
+“Out of your own pocket, old enthusiast?”
+
+“Yes, M. Gevrol, out of my own pocket.”
+
+“If they should however find this bundle!” murmured M. Daburon.
+
+He was interrupted by the entrance of a gendarme, who said: “Here is a
+soiled table-napkin, filled with plate, money, and jewels, which these
+men have found; they claim the hundred francs’ reward, promised them.”
+
+Old Tabaret took from his pocket-book a bank note, which he handed to
+the gendarme. “Now,” demanded he, crushing Gevrol with one disdainful
+glance, “what thinks the investigating magistrate after this?”
+
+“That, thanks to your remarkable penetration, we shall discover--”
+
+He did not finish. The doctor summoned to make the post-mortem
+examination entered the room. That unpleasant task accomplished, it
+only confirmed the assertions and conjectures of old Tabaret. The doctor
+explained, as the old man had done, the position of the body. In his
+opinion also, there had been a struggle. He pointed out a bluish circle,
+hardly perceptible, round the neck of the victim, produced apparently
+by the powerful grasp of the murderer; finally he declared that Widow
+Lerouge had eaten about three hours before being struck.
+
+Nothing now remained except to collect the different objects which would
+be useful for the prosecution, and might at a later period confound
+the culprit. Old Tabaret examined with extreme care the dead woman’s
+finger-nails; and, using infinite precaution, he even extracted from
+behind them several small particles of kid. The largest of these pieces
+was not above the twenty-fifth part of an inch in length; but all the
+same their colour was easily distinguishable. He put aside also the part
+of the dress upon which the assassin had wiped his weapon. These with
+the bundle recovered from the Seine, and the different casts taken by
+the old fellow, were all the traces the murderer had left behind him.
+
+It was not much; but this little was enormous in the eyes of M. Daburon;
+and he had strong hopes of discovering the culprit. The greatest
+obstacle to success in the unravelling of mysterious crimes is in
+mistaking the motive. If the researches take at the first step a false
+direction, they are diverted further and further from the truth, in
+proportion to the length they are followed. Thanks to old Tabaret, the
+magistrate felt confident that he was in the right path.
+
+Night had come on. M. Daburon had now nothing more to do at La Jonchere;
+but Gevrol, who still clung to his own opinion of the guilt of the man
+with the rings in his ears, declared he would remain at Bougival. He
+determined to employ the evening in visiting the different wine shops,
+and finding if possible new witnesses. At the moment of departure, after
+the commissary and the entire party had wished M. Daburon good-night,
+the latter asked M. Tabaret to accompany him.
+
+“I was about to solicit that honour,” replied the old fellow. They set
+out together; and naturally the crime which had been discovered, and
+with which they were mutually preoccupied, formed the subject of their
+conversation.
+
+“Shall we, or shall we not, ascertain the antecedents of this woman!”
+ repeated old Tabaret. “All depends upon that now!”
+
+“We shall ascertain them, if the grocer’s wife has told the truth,”
+ replied M. Daburon. “If the husband of Widow Lerouge was a sailor, and
+if her son Jacques is in the navy, the minister of marine can furnish
+information that will soon lead to their discovery. I will write to the
+minister this very night.”
+
+They reached the station at Rueil, and took their places in the train.
+They were fortunate enough to secure a 1st class carriage to themselves.
+But old Tabaret was no longer disposed for conversation. He reflected,
+he sought, he combined; and in his face might easily be read the working
+of his thoughts. M. Daburon watched him curiously and felt singularly
+attracted by this eccentric old man, whose very original taste had led
+him to devote his services to the secret police of the Rue de Jerusalem.
+
+“M Tabaret,” he suddenly asked, “have you been long associated with the
+police?”
+
+“Nine years, M. Daburon, more than nine years; and permit me to confess
+I am a little surprised that you have never before heard of me.”
+
+“I certainly knew you by reputation,” answered M. Daburon; “but your
+name did not occur to me, and it was only in consequence of hearing you
+praised that I had the excellent idea of asking your assistance.
+But what, I should like to know, is your reason for adopting this
+employment?”
+
+“Sorrow, sir, loneliness, weariness. Ah! I have not always been happy!”
+
+“I have been told, though, that you are rich.”
+
+The old fellow heaved a deep sigh, which revealed the most cruel
+deceptions. “I am well off, sir,” he replied; “but I have not always
+been so. Until I was forty-five years old, my life was a series of
+absurd and useless privations. I had a father who wasted my youth,
+ruined my life, and made me the most pitiable of human creatures.”
+
+There are men who can never divest themselves of their professional
+habits. M. Daburon was at all times and seasons more or less an
+investigating magistrate.
+
+“How, M. Tabaret,” he inquired, “your father the author of all your
+misfortunes?”
+
+“Alas, yes, sir! I have forgiven him at last; but I used to curse him
+heartily. In the first transports of my resentment, I heaped upon his
+memory all the insults that can be inspired by the most violent hatred,
+when I learnt,--But I will confide my history to you, M. Daburon. When
+I was five and twenty years of age. I was earning two thousand francs a
+year, as a clerk at the Monte de Piete. One morning my father entered
+my lodging, and abruptly announced to me that he was ruined, and without
+food or shelter. He appeared in despair, and talked of killing himself.
+I loved my father. Naturally, I strove to reassure him; I boasted of my
+situation, and explained to him at some length, that, while I earned
+the means for living, he should want for nothing; and, to commence, I
+insisted that henceforth we should live together. No sooner said than
+done, and during twenty years I was encumbered with the old--”
+
+“What! you repent of your admirable conduct, M. Tabaret?”
+
+“Do I repent of it! That is to say he deserved to be poisoned by the
+bread I gave him.”
+
+M. Daburon was unable to repress a gesture of surprise, which did not
+escape the old fellow’s notice.
+
+“Hear, before you condemn me,” he continued. “There was I at
+twenty-five, imposing upon myself the severest privations for the sake
+of my father,--no more friends, no more flirtations, nothing. In the
+evenings, to augment our scanty revenues, I worked at copying law
+papers for a notary. I denied myself even the luxury of tobacco.
+Notwithstanding this, the old fellow complained without ceasing; he
+regretted his lost fortune; he must have pocket-money, with which to
+buy this, or that; my utmost exertions failed to satisfy him. Ah, heaven
+alone knows what I suffered! I was not born to live alone and grow old,
+like a dog. I longed for the pleasures of a home and a family. My dream
+was to marry, to adore a good wife, by whom I might be loved a little,
+and to see innocent healthy little ones gambolling about my knees. But
+pshaw! when such thoughts entered my heart and forced a tear or two from
+my eyes, I rebelled against myself. I said: ‘My lad, when you earn but
+three thousand francs a year, and have an old and cherished father to
+support, it is your duty to stifle such desires, and remain a bachelor.’
+And yet I met a young girl. It is thirty years now since that time;
+well! just look at me, I am sure I am blushing as red as a tomato.
+Her name was Hortense. Who can tell what has become of her? She was
+beautiful and poor. Well, I was quite an old man when my father died,
+the wretch, the--”
+
+“M. Tabaret!” interrupted the magistrate, “for shame, M. Tabaret!”
+
+“But I have already told you, I have forgiven him, sir. However, you
+will soon understand my anger. On the day of his death, looking in his
+secretary, I found a memorandum of an income of twenty thousand francs!”
+
+“How so! was he rich?”
+
+“Yes, very rich; for that was not all: he owned near Orleans a property
+leased for six thousand francs a year. He owned, besides, the house I
+now live in, where we lived together; and I, fool, sot, imbecile,
+stupid animal that I was, used to pay the rent every three months to the
+concierge!”
+
+“That was too much!” M. Daburon could not help saying.
+
+“Was it not, sir? I was robbing myself of my own money! To crown his
+hypocrisy, he left a will wherein he declared, in the name of Holy
+Trinity, that he had no other aim in view, in thus acting, than my own
+advantage. He wished, so he wrote, to habituate me to habits of good
+order and economy, and keep me from the commission of follies. And I was
+forty-five years old, and for twenty years I had been reproaching myself
+if ever I spent a single sou uselessly. In short, he had speculated on
+my good heart, he had ... Bah! on my word, it is enough to disgust the
+human race with filial piety!”
+
+M. Tabaret’s anger, albeit very real and justified, was so highly
+ludicrous, that M. Daburon had much difficulty to restrain his laughter,
+in spite of the real sadness of the recital.
+
+“At least,” said he, “this fortune must have given you pleasure.”
+
+“Not at all, sir, it came too late. Of what avail to have the bread when
+one has no longer the teeth? The marriageable age had passed. I resigned
+my situation, however, to make way for some one poorer than myself. At
+the end of a month I was sick and tired of life; and, to replace the
+affections that had been denied me, I resolved to give myself a passion,
+a hobby, a mania. I became a collector of books. You think, sir, perhaps
+that to take an interest in books a man must have studied, must be
+learned?”
+
+“I know, dear M. Tabaret, that he must have money. I am acquainted with
+an illustrious bibliomaniac who may be able to read, but who is most
+certainly unable to sign his own name.”
+
+“This is very likely. I, too, can read; and I read all the books I
+bought. I collected all I could find which related, no matter how
+little, to the police. Memoirs, reports, pamphlets, speeches, letters,
+novels,--all suited me; and I devoured them. So much so, that little by
+little I became attracted towards the mysterious power which, from the
+obscurity of the Rue de Jerusalem, watches over and protects society,
+which penetrates everywhere, lifts the most impervious veils, sees
+through every plot, divines what is kept hidden, knows exactly the
+value of a man, the price of a conscience, and which accumulates in its
+portfolios the most terrible, as well as the most shameful secrets! In
+reading the memoirs of celebrated detectives, more attractive to me
+than the fables of our best authors I became inspired by an enthusiastic
+admiration for those men, so keen scented, so subtle, flexible as steel,
+artful and penetrating, fertile in expedients, who follow crime on
+the trail, armed with the law, through the rushwood of legality, as
+relentlessly as the savages of Cooper pursue their enemies in the depths
+of the American forests. The desire seized me to become a wheel of this
+admirable machine,--a small assistance in the punishment of crime
+and the triumph of innocence. I made the essay; and I found I did not
+succeed too badly.”
+
+“And does this employment please you?”
+
+“I owe to it, sir, my liveliest enjoyments. Adieu weariness! since I
+have abandoned the search for books to the search for men. I shrug my
+shoulders when I see a foolish fellow pay twenty-five francs for the
+right of hunting a hare. What a prize! Give me the hunting of a man!
+That, at least, calls the faculties into play, and the victory is not
+inglorious! The game in my sport is equal to the hunter; they both
+possess intelligence, strength, and cunning. The arms are nearly equal.
+Ah! if people but knew the excitement of these games of hide and seek
+which are played between the criminal and the detective, everybody
+would be wanting employment at the office of the Rue de Jerusalem. The
+misfortune is, that the art is becoming lost. Great crimes are now so
+rare. The race of strong fearless criminals has given place to the mob
+of vulgar pick-pockets. The few rascals who are heard of occasionally
+are as cowardly as foolish. They sign their names to their misdeeds, and
+even leave their cards lying about. There is no merit in catching them.
+Their crime found out, you have only to go and arrest them,--”
+
+“It seems to me, though,” interrupted M. Daburon, smiling, “that our
+assassin is not such a bungler.”
+
+“He, sir, is an exception; and I shall have greater delight in tracking
+him. I will do everything for that, I will even compromise myself if
+necessary. For I ought to confess, M. Daburon,” added he, slightly
+embarrassed, “that I do not boast to my friends of my exploits; I even
+conceal them as carefully as possible. They would perhaps shake hands
+with me less warmly did they know that Tirauclair and Tabaret were one
+and the same.”
+
+Insensibly the crime became again the subject of conversation. It was
+agreed, that, the first thing in the morning, M. Tabaret should install
+himself at Bougival. He boasted that in eight days he should examine
+all the people round about. On his side M. Daburon promised to keep him
+advised of the least evidence that transpired, and recall him, if by any
+chance he should procure the papers of Widow Lerouge.
+
+“To you, M. Tabaret,” said the magistrate in conclusion, “I shall be
+always at home. If you have any occasion to speak to me, do not hesitate
+to come at night as well as during the day. I rarely go out, and you
+will always find me either at my home, Rue Jacob, or in my office at the
+Palais de Justice. I will give orders for your admittance whenever you
+present yourself.”
+
+The train entered the station at this moment. M. Daburon, having called
+a cab, offered a seat to M. Tabaret. The old fellow declined.
+
+“It is not worth while,” he replied, “for I live, as I have had the
+honour of telling you, in the Rue St. Lazare, only a few steps from
+here.”
+
+“Till to-morrow, then!” said M. Daburon.
+
+“Till to-morrow,” replied old Tabaret; and he added, “We shall succeed.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+M. Tabaret’s house was in fact not more than four minutes’ walk from the
+railway terminus of St. Lazare. It was a fine building carefully kept,
+and which probably yielded a fine income though the rents were not too
+high. The old fellow found plenty of room in it. He occupied on the
+first floor, overlooking the street, some handsome apartments, well
+arranged and comfortably furnished, the principal of which was his
+collection of books. He lived very simply from taste, as well as habit,
+waited on by an old servant, to whom on great occasions the concierge
+lent a helping hand.
+
+No one in the house had the slightest suspicion of the avocations of the
+proprietor. Besides, even the humblest agent of police would be expected
+to possess a degree of acuteness for which no one gave M. Tabaret
+credit. Indeed, they mistook for incipient idiocy his continual
+abstraction of mind.
+
+It is true that all who knew him remarked the singularity of his
+habits. His frequent absences from home had given to his proceedings an
+appearance at once eccentric and mysterious. Never was young libertine
+more irregular in his habits than this old man. He came or failed to
+come home to his meals, ate it mattered not what or when. He went out
+at every hour of the day and night, often slept abroad, and even
+disappeared for entire weeks at a time. Then too he received the
+strangest visitors, odd looking men of suspicious appearance, and
+fellows of ill-favoured and sinister aspect.
+
+This irregular way of living had robbed the old fellow of much
+consideration. Many believed they saw in him a shameless libertine, who
+squandered his income in disreputable places. They would remark to one
+another, “Is it not disgraceful, a man of his age?”
+
+He was aware of all this tittle-tattle, and laughed at it. This did not,
+however, prevent many of his tenants from seeking his society and paying
+court to him. They would invite him to dinner, but he almost invariably
+refused.
+
+He seldom visited but one person of the house, but with that one he
+was very intimate, so much so indeed, that he was more often in her
+apartment, than in his own. She was a widow lady, who for fifteen years
+had occupied an apartment on the third floor. Her name was Madame Gerdy,
+and she lived with her son Noel, whom she adored.
+
+Noel Gerdy was a man thirty-three years of age, but looking older; tall
+and well made, with a noble and intelligent face, large black eyes, and
+black hair which curled naturally. An advocate, he passed for having
+great talent, and greater industry, and had already gained a certain
+amount of notoriety. He was an obstinate worker, cold and meditative,
+though devoted to his profession, and affected, with some ostentation,
+perhaps, a great rigidity of principle, and austerity of manners.
+
+In Madame Gerdy’s apartment, old Tabaret felt himself quite at home. He
+considered her as a relation, and looked upon Noel as a son. In spite
+of her fifty years, he had often thought of asking the hand of this
+charming widow, and was restrained less by the fear of a refusal than
+its consequence. To propose and to be rejected would sever the existing
+relations, so pleasurable to him. However, he had by his will, which
+was deposited with his notary constituted this young advocate his sole
+legatee; with the single condition of founding an annual prize of two
+thousand francs to be bestowed on the police agent who during the year
+had unravelled the most obscure and mysterious crime.
+
+Short as was the distance to his house, old Tabaret was a good quarter
+of an hour in reaching it. On leaving M. Daburon his thoughts reverted
+to the scene of the murder; and, so blinded was the old fellow to
+external objects, that he moved along the street, first jostled on the
+right, then on the left, by the busy passers by, advancing one step and
+receding two. He repeated to himself for the fiftieth time the words
+uttered by Widow Lerouge, as reported by the milk-woman. “If I wished
+for any more, I could have it.”
+
+“All is in that,” murmured he. “Widow Lerouge possessed some important
+secret, which persons rich and powerful had the strongest motives for
+concealing. She had them in her power, and that was her fortune. She
+made them sing to her tune; she probably went too far, and so they
+suppressed her. But of what nature was this secret, and how did she
+become possessed of it? Most likely she was in her youth a servant in
+some great family; and whilst there, she saw, heard, or discovered,
+something--What? Evidently there is a woman at the bottom of it. Did she
+assist her mistress in some love intrigue? What more probable? And in
+that case the affair becomes even more complicated. Not only must the
+woman be found but her lover also; for it is the lover who has moved in
+this affair. He is, or I am greatly deceived, a man of noble birth. A
+person of inferior rank would have simply hired an assassin. This man
+has not hung back; he himself has struck the blow and by that means
+avoiding the indiscretion or the stupidity of an accomplice. He is a
+courageous rascal, full of audacity and coolness, for the crime has
+been admirably executed. The fellow left nothing behind of a nature to
+compromise him seriously. But for me, Gevrol, believing in the robbery,
+would have seen nothing. Fortunately, however, I was there. But yet it
+can hardly be that,” continued the old man. “It must be something worse
+than a mere love affair.”
+
+Old Tabaret entered the porch of the house. The concierge seated by the
+window of his lodge saw him as he passed beneath the gas lamp.
+
+“Ah,” said he, “the proprietor has returned at last.”
+
+“So he has,” replied his wife, “but it looks as though his princess
+would have nothing to do with him to-night. He seems more loose than
+ever.”
+
+“Is it not positively indecent,” said the concierge, “and isn’t he in
+a state! His fair ones do treat him well! One of these fine mornings I
+shall have to take him to a lunatic asylum in a straight waistcoat.”
+
+“Look at him now!” interrupted his wife, “just look at him now, in the
+middle of the courtyard!”
+
+The old fellow had stopped at the extremity of the porch. He had taken
+off his hat, and, while talking to himself, gesticulated violently.
+
+“No,” said he, “I have not yet got hold of the clue, I am getting near
+it; but have not yet found it out.”
+
+He mounted the staircase, and rang his bell, forgetting that he had his
+latch-key in his pocket. His housekeeper opened the door.
+
+“What, is it you, sir,” said she, “and at this hour!”
+
+“What’s that you say?” asked the old fellow.
+
+“I say,” replied the housekeeper, “that it is more than half-past eight
+o’clock. I thought you were not coming back this evening. Have you at
+least dined?”
+
+“No, not yet.”
+
+“Well, fortunately I have kept your dinner warm. You can sit down to it
+at once.”
+
+Old Tabaret took his place at the table, and helped himself to soup,
+but mounting his hobby-horse again, he forgot to eat, and remained, his
+spoon in the air, as though suddenly struck by an idea.
+
+“He is certainly touched in the head,” thought Manette, the housekeeper.
+“Look at that stupid expression. Who in his senses would lead the life
+he does?” She touched him on the shoulder, and bawled in his ear, as if
+he were deaf,--“You do not eat. Are you not hungry?”
+
+“Yes, yes,” muttered he, trying mechanically to escape the voice that
+sounded in his ears, “I am very hungry, for since the morning I have
+been obliged--” He interrupted himself, remaining with his mouth open,
+his eyes fixed on vacancy.
+
+“You were obliged--?” repeated Manette.
+
+“Thunder!” cried he, raising his clenched fists towards the
+ceiling,--“heaven’s thunder! I have it!”
+
+His movement was so violent and sudden that the housekeeper was a little
+alarmed, and retired to the further end of the dining-room, near the
+door.
+
+“Yes,” continued he, “it is certain there is a child!”
+
+Manette approached him quickly. “A child?” she asked in astonishment.
+
+“What next!” cried he in a furious tone. “What are you doing there? Has
+your hardihood come to this that you pick up the words which escape me?
+Do me the pleasure to retire to your kitchen, and stay there until I
+call you.”
+
+“He is going crazy!” thought Manette, as she disappeared very quickly.
+
+Old Tabaret resumed his seat. He hastily swallowed his soup which was
+completely cold. “Why,” said he to himself, “did I not think of it
+before? Poor humanity! I am growing old, and my brain is worn out. For
+it is clear as day; the circumstances all point to that conclusion.”
+
+He rang the bell placed on the table beside him; the servant reappeared.
+
+“Bring the roast,” he said, “and leave me to myself.”
+
+“Yes,” continued he furiously carving a leg of Presale mutton--“Yes,
+there is a child, and here is his history! The Widow Lerouge, when a
+young woman, is in the service of a great lady, immensely rich. Her
+husband, a sailor, probably had departed on a long voyage. The lady had
+a lover--found herself enciente. She confided in the Widow Lerouge, and,
+with her assistance, accomplished a clandestine accouchement.”
+
+He called again.
+
+“Manette, the dessert, and get out!”
+
+Certainly such a master was unworthy of so excellent a cook as Manette.
+He would have been puzzled to say what he had eaten for diner, or even
+what he was eating at this moment; it was a preserve of pears.
+
+“But what,” murmured he, “has become of the child? Has it been
+destroyed? No; for the Widow Lerouge, an accomplice in an infanticide,
+would be no longer formidable. The child has been preserved, and
+confided to the care of our widow, by whom it has been reared. They have
+been able to take the infant away from her, but not the proofs of its
+birth and its existence. Here is the opening. The father is the man of
+the fine carriage; the mother is the lady who came with the handsome
+young man. Ha! ha! I can well believe the dear old dame wanted for
+nothing. She had a secret worth a farm in Brie. But the old lady was
+extravagant; her expenses and her demands have increased year by year.
+Poor humanity! She has leaned upon the staff too heavily, and broken it.
+She has threatened. They have been frightened, and said, ‘Let there be
+an end of this!’ But who has charged himself with the commission? The
+papa? No; he is too old. By jupiter! The son,--the child himself! He
+would save his mother, the brave boy! He has slain the witness and burnt
+the proofs!”
+
+Manette all this time, her ear to the keyhole, listened with all her
+soul; from time to time she gleaned a word, an oath, the noise of a blow
+upon the table; but that was all.
+
+“For certain,” thought she, “his women are running in his head.”
+
+Her curiosity overcame her prudence. Hearing no more, she ventured to
+open the door a little way. The old fellow caught her in the very act.
+
+“Monsieur wants his coffee?” stammered she timidly.
+
+“Yes, you may bring it to me,” he answered.
+
+He attempted to swallow his coffee at a gulp, but scalded himself so
+severely that the pain brought him suddenly from speculation to reality.
+
+“Thunder!” growled he; “but it is hot! Devil take the case! it has set
+me beside myself. They are right when they say I am too enthusiastic.
+But who amongst the whole lot of them could have, by the sole exercise
+of observation and reason, established the whole history of the
+assassination? Certainly not Gevrol, poor man! Won’t he feel vexed and
+humiliated, being altogether out of it. Shall I seek M. Daburon? No,
+not yet. The night is necessary to me to sift to the bottom all the
+particulars, and arrange my ideas systematically. But, on the other
+hand, if I sit here all alone, this confounded case will keep me in a
+fever of speculation, and as I have just eaten a great deal, I may get
+an attack of indigestion. My faith! I will call upon Madame Gerdy: she
+has been ailing for some days past. I will have a chat with Noel, and
+that will change the course of my ideas.”
+
+He got up from the table, put on his overcoat, and took his hat and
+cane.
+
+“Are you going out, sir?” asked Manette.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Shall you be late?”
+
+“Possibly.”
+
+“But you will return to-night?”
+
+“I do not know.”
+
+One minute later, M. Tabaret was ringing his friend’s bell.
+
+Madame Gerdy lived in respectable style. She possessed sufficient for
+her wants; and her son’s practice, already large, had made them almost
+rich. She lived very quietly, and with the exception of one or two
+friends, whom Noel occasionally invited to dinner, received very few
+visitors. During more than fifteen years that M. Tabaret came familiarly
+to the apartments, he had only met the cure of the parish, one of Noel’s
+old professors, and Madame Gerdy’s brother, a retired colonel. When
+these three visitors happened to call on the same evening, an event
+somewhat rare, they played at a round game called Boston; on other
+evenings piquet or all-fours was the rule. Noel, however, seldom
+remained in the drawing-room, but shut himself up after dinner in
+his study, which with his bedroom formed a separate apartment to his
+mother’s, and immersed himself in his law papers. He was supposed to
+work far into the night. Often in winter his lamp was not extinguished
+before dawn.
+
+Mother and son absolutely lived for one another, as all who knew them
+took pleasure in repeating. They loved and honoured Noel for the care
+he bestowed upon his mother, for his more than filial devotion, for the
+sacrifices which all supposed he made in living at his age like an old
+man.
+
+The neighbours were in the habit of contrasting the conduct of this
+exemplary young man with that of M. Tabaret, the incorrigible old rake,
+the hairless dangler.
+
+As for Madame Gerdy, she saw nothing but her son in all the world. Her
+love had actually taken the form of worship. In Noel she believed she
+saw united all the physical and moral perfections. To her he seemed of a
+superior order to the rest of humanity. If he spoke, she was silent and
+listened: his word was a command, his advice a decree of Providence. To
+care for her son, study his tastes, anticipate his wishes, was the sole
+aim of her life. She was a mother.
+
+“Is Madame Gerdy visible?” asked old Tabaret of the girl who opened the
+door; and, without waiting for an answer, he walked into the room like
+a man assured that his presence cannot be inopportune, and ought to be
+agreeable.
+
+A single candle lighted the drawing-room, which was not in its
+accustomed order. The small marble-top table, usually in the middle of
+the room, had been rolled into a corner. Madame Gerdy’s large arm-chair
+was near the window; a newspaper, all crumpled, lay before it on the
+carpet.
+
+The amateur detective took in the whole at a glance.
+
+“Has any accident happened?” he asked of the girl.
+
+“Do not speak of it, sir: we have just had a fright! oh, such a fright!”
+
+“What was it? tell me quickly!”
+
+“You know that madame has been ailing for the last month. She has eaten
+I may say almost nothing. This morning, even, she said to me--”
+
+“Yes, yes! but this evening?”
+
+“After her dinner, madame went into the drawing-room as usual. She sat
+down and took up one of M. Noel’s newspapers. Scarcely had she begun to
+read, when she uttered a great cry,--oh, a terrible cry! We hastened to
+her; madame had fallen on to the floor, as one dead. M. Noel raised
+her in his arms, and carried her into her room. I wanted to fetch the
+doctor, sir, but he said there was no need; he knew what was the matter
+with her.”
+
+“And how is she now?”
+
+“She has come to her senses; that is to say, I suppose so; for M. Noel
+made me leave the room. All that I do know is, that a little while ago
+she was talking, and talking very loudly too, for I heard her. Ah, sir,
+it is all the same, very strange!”
+
+“What is strange?”
+
+“What I heard Madame Gerdy say to M. Noel.”
+
+“Ah ha! my girl!” sneered old Tabaret; “so you listen at key-holes, do
+you?”
+
+“No, sir, I assure you; but madame cried out like one lost. She said,--”
+
+“My girl!” interrupted old Tabaret severely, “one always hears wrong
+through key-holes. Ask Manette if that is not so.”
+
+The poor girl, thoroughly confused, sought to excuse herself.
+
+“Enough, enough!” said the old man. “Return to your work: you need not
+disturb M. Noel; I can wait for him very well here.”
+
+And satisfied with the reproof he had administered, he picked up the
+newspaper, and seated himself beside the fire, placing the candle near
+him so as to read with ease. A minute had scarcely elapsed when he in
+his turn bounded in his chair, and stifled a cry of instinctive terror
+and surprise. These were the first words that met his eye.
+
+“A horrible crime has plunged the village of La Jonchere in
+consternation. A poor widow, named Lerouge, who enjoyed the general
+esteem and love of the community, has been assassinated in her home. The
+officers of the law have made the usual preliminary investigations, and
+everything leads us to believe that the police are already on the track
+of the author of this dastardly crime.”
+
+“Thunder!” said old Tabaret to himself, “can it be that Madame Gerdy?--”
+
+The idea but flashed across his mind; he fell back into his chair, and,
+shrugging his shoulders, murmured,--
+
+“Really this affair of La Jonchere is driving me out of my senses! I
+can think of nothing but this Widow Lerouge. I shall be seeing her in
+everything now.”
+
+In the mean while, an uncontrollable curiosity made him peruse the
+entire newspaper. He found nothing with the exception of these lines, to
+justify or explain even the slightest emotion.
+
+“It is an extremely singular coincidence, at the same time,” thought
+the incorrigible police agent. Then, remarking that the newspaper was
+slightly torn at the lower part, and crushed, as if by a convulsive
+grasp, he repeated,--
+
+“It is strange!”
+
+At this moment the door of Madame Gerdy’s room opened, and Noel appeared
+on the threshold.
+
+Without doubt the accident to his mother had greatly excited him; for
+he was very pale and his countenance, ordinarily so calm, wore an
+expression of profound sorrow. He appeared surprised to see old Tabaret.
+
+“Ah, my dear Noel!” cried the old fellow. “Calm my inquietude. How is
+your mother?”
+
+“Madame Gerdy is as well as can be expected.”
+
+“Madame Gerdy!” repeated the old fellow with an air of astonishment; but
+he continued, “It is plain you have been seriously alarmed.”
+
+“In truth,” replied the advocate, seating himself, “I have experienced a
+rude shock.”
+
+Noel was making visibly the greatest efforts to appear calm, to listen
+to the old fellow, and to answer him. Old Tabaret, as much disquieted on
+his side, perceived nothing.
+
+“At least, my dear boy,” said he, “tell me how this happened?”
+
+The young man hesitated a moment, as if consulting with himself. No
+doubt he was unprepared for this point blank question, and knew not what
+answer to make; at last he replied,--
+
+“Madame Gerdy has suffered a severe shock in learning from a paragraph
+in this newspaper that a woman in whom she takes a strong interest has
+been assassinated.”
+
+“Ah!” replied old Tabaret.
+
+The old fellow was in a fever of embarrassment. He wanted to question
+Noel, but was restrained by the fear of revealing the secret of his
+association with the police. Indeed he had almost betrayed himself by
+the eagerness with which he exclaimed,--
+
+“What! your mother knew the Widow Lerouge?”
+
+By an effort he restrained himself, and with difficulty dissembled his
+satisfaction; for he was delighted to find himself so unexpectedly on
+the trace of the antecedents of the victim of La Jonchere.
+
+“She was,” continued Noel, “the slave of Madame Gerdy, devoted to her in
+every way! She would have sacrificed herself for her at a sign from her
+hand.”
+
+“Then you, my dear friend, you knew this poor woman!”
+
+“I had not seen her for a very long time,” replied Noel, whose voice
+seemed broken by emotion, “but I knew her well. I ought even to say I
+loved her tenderly. She was my nurse.”
+
+“She, this woman?” stammered old Tabaret.
+
+This time he was thunderstruck. Widow Lerouge Noel’s nurse? He was most
+unfortunate. Providence had evidently chosen him for its instrument, and
+was leading him by the hand. He was about to obtain all the information,
+which half an hour ago he had almost despaired of procuring. He remained
+seated before Noel amazed and speechless. Yet he understood, that,
+unless he would compromise himself, he must speak.
+
+“It is a great misfortune,” he murmured at last.
+
+“What it is for Madame Gerdy, I cannot say,” replied Noel with a gloomy
+air; “but, for me, it is an overwhelming misfortune! I am struck to
+the heart by the blow which has slain this poor woman. Her death, M.
+Tabaret, has annihilated all my dreams of the future, and probably
+overthrown my most cherished hopes. I had to avenge myself for cruel
+injuries; her death breaks the weapon in my hands, and reduces me to
+despair, to impotence. Alas! I am indeed unfortunate.”
+
+“You unfortunate?” cried old Tabaret, singularly affected by his dear
+Noel’s sadness. “In heaven’s name, what has happened to you?”
+
+“I suffer,” murmured the advocate, “and very cruelly. Not only do I fear
+that the injustice is irreparable; but here am I totally without defence
+delivered over to the shafts of calumny. I may be accused of inventing
+falsehood, of being an ambitious intriguer, having no regard for truth,
+no scruples of conscience.”
+
+Old Tabaret was puzzled. What connection could possibly exist between
+Noel’s honour and the assassination at La Jonchere? His brain was in
+a whirl. A thousand troubled and confused ideas jostled one another in
+inextricable confusion.
+
+“Come, come, Noel,” said he, “compose yourself. Who would believe any
+calumny uttered about you? Take courage, have you not friends? am I
+not here? Have confidence, tell me what troubles you, and it will be
+strange, indeed if between us two--”
+
+The advocate started to his feet, impressed by a sudden resolution.
+
+“Well! yes,” interrupted he, “yes, you shall know all. In fact, I am
+tired of carrying all alone a secret that is stifling me. The part I
+have been playing irritates and wearies me. I have need of a friend to
+console me. I require a counsellor whose voice will encourage me, for
+one is a bad judge of his own cause, and this crime has plunged me into
+an abyss of hesitations.”
+
+“You know,” replied M. Tabaret kindly, “that I regard you as my own son.
+Do not scruple to let me serve you.”
+
+“Know then,” commenced the advocate,--“but no, not here: what I have to
+say must not be overheard. Let us go into my study.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+When Noel and old Tabaret were seated face to face in Noel’s study, and
+the door had been carefully shut, the old fellow felt uneasy, and said:
+“What if your mother should require anything.”
+
+“If Madame Gerdy rings,” replied the young man drily, “the servant will
+attend to her.”
+
+This indifference, this cold disdain, amazed old Tabaret, accustomed as
+he was to the affectionate relations always existing between mother and
+son.
+
+“For heaven’s sake, Noel,” said he, “calm yourself. Do not allow
+yourself to be overcome by a feeling of irritation. You have, I see,
+some little pique against your mother, which you will have forgotten
+to-morrow. Don’t speak of her in this icy tone; but tell me what you
+mean by calling her Madame Gerdy?”
+
+“What I mean?” rejoined the advocate in a hollow tone,--“what I mean?”
+
+Then rising from his arm-chair, he took several strides about the room,
+and, returning to his place near the old fellow, said,--
+
+“Because, M. Tabaret, Madame Gerdy is not my mother!”
+
+This sentence fell like a heavy blow on the head of the amateur
+detective.
+
+“Oh!” he said, in the tone one assumes when rejecting an absurd
+proposition, “do you really know what you are saying, Noel? Is it
+credible? Is it probable?”
+
+“It is improbable,” replied Noel with a peculiar emphasis which was
+habitual to him: “it is incredible, if you will; but yet it is true.
+That is to say, for thirty-three years, ever since my birth, this woman
+has played a most marvellous and unworthy comedy, to ennoble and enrich
+her son,--for she has a son,--at my expense!”
+
+“My friend,” commenced old Tabaret, who in the background of the picture
+presented by this singular revelation saw again the phantom of the
+murdered Widow Lerouge.
+
+But Noel heard not, and seemed hardly in a state to hear. The young man,
+usually so cold, so self-contained, could no longer control his anger.
+At the sound of his own voice, he became more and more animated, as a
+good horse might at the jingling of his harness.
+
+“Was ever man,” continued he, “more cruelly deceived, more miserably
+duped, than I have been! I, who loved this woman, who knew not how to
+show my affection for her, who, for her sake, sacrificed my youth! How
+she must have laughed at me! Her infamy dates from the moment when for
+the first time she took me on her knees; and, until these few days past,
+she has sustained without faltering her execrable role. Her love for me
+was nothing but hypocrisy! her devotion, falsehood! her caresses,
+lies! And I adored her! Ah! why can I not take back all the embraces I
+bestowed on her in exchange for her Judas kisses? And for what was all
+this heroism of deception, this caution, this duplicity? To betray me
+more securely, to despoil me, to rob me, to give to her bastard all
+that lawfully appertained to me; my name, a noble name, my fortune, a
+princely inheritance!”
+
+“We are getting near it!” thought old Tabaret, who was fast relapsing
+into the colleague of M. Gevrol; then aloud he said, “This is very
+serious, all that you have been saying, my dear Noel, terribly serious.
+We must believe Madame Gerdy possessed of an amount of audacity and
+ability rarely to be met with in a woman. She must have been assisted,
+advised, compelled perhaps. Who have been her accomplices? She could
+never have managed this unaided; perhaps her husband himself.”
+
+“Her husband!” interrupted the advocate, with a laugh. “Ah! you too have
+believed her a widow. Pshaw! She never had a husband, the defunct Gerdy
+never existed. I was a bastard, dear M. Tabaret, very much a bastard;
+Noel, son of the girl Gerdy and an unknown father!”
+
+“Ah!” cried the old fellow; “that then was the reason why your marriage
+with Mademoiselle Levernois was broken off four years ago?”
+
+“Yes, my friend, that was the reason. And what misfortunes might have
+been averted by this marriage with a young girl whom I loved! However
+I did not complain to her whom I then called my mother. She wept, she
+accused herself, she seemed ready to die of grief: and I, poor fool! I
+consoled her as best I could, I dried her tears, and excused her in her
+own eyes. No, there was no husband. Do such women as she have husbands?
+She was my father’s mistress; and, on the day when he had had enough of
+her, he took up his hat and threw her three hundred thousand francs, the
+price of the pleasures she had given him.”
+
+Noel would probably have continued much longer to pour forth his furious
+denunciations; but M. Tabaret stopped him. The old fellow felt he was
+on the point of learning a history in every way similar to that which he
+had imagined; and his impatience to know whether he had guessed aright,
+almost caused him to forget to express any sympathy for his friend’s
+misfortunes.
+
+“My dear boy,” said he, “do not let us digress. You ask me for advice;
+and I am perhaps the best adviser you could have chosen. Come, then,
+to the point. How have you learned this? Have you any proofs? where are
+they?”
+
+The decided tone in which the old fellow spoke, should no doubt, have
+awakened Noel’s attention; but he did not notice it. He had not leisure
+to reflect. He therefore answered,--
+
+“I have known the truth for three weeks past. I made the discovery by
+chance. I have important moral proofs; but they are mere presumptive
+evidence. A word from Widow Lerouge, one single word, would have
+rendered them decisive. This word she cannot now pronounce, since they
+have killed her; but she had said it to me. Now, Madame Gerdy will deny
+all. I know her; with her head on the block, she will deny it. My father
+doubtless will turn against me. I am certain, and I possess proofs; now
+this crime makes my certitude but a vain boast, and renders my proofs
+null and void!”
+
+“Explain it all to me,” said old Tabaret after a pause--“all, you
+understand. We old ones are sometimes able to give good advice. We will
+decide what’s to be done afterwards.”
+
+“Three weeks ago,” commenced Noel, “searching for some old documents,
+I opened Madame Gerdy’s secretary. Accidentally I displaced one of the
+small shelves: some papers tumbled out, and a packet of letters fell in
+front of my eyes. A mechanical impulse, which I cannot explain, prompted
+me to untie the string, and, impelled by an invincible curiosity, I read
+the first letter which came to my hand.”
+
+“You did wrong,” remarked M. Tabaret.
+
+“Be it so; anyhow I read. At the end of ten lines, I was convinced that
+these letters were from my father, whose name, Madame Gerdy, in spite of
+my prayers, had always hidden from me. You can understand my emotion.
+I carried off the packet, shut myself up in this room, and devoured the
+correspondence from beginning to end.”
+
+“And you have been cruelly punished my poor boy!”
+
+“It is true; but who in my position could have resisted? These letters
+have given me great pain; but they afford the proof of what I just now
+told you.”
+
+“You have at least preserved these letters?”
+
+“I have them here, M. Tabaret,” replied Noel, “and, that you may
+understand the case in which I have requested your advice, I am going to
+read them to you.”
+
+The advocate opened one of the drawers of his bureau, pressed an
+invisible spring, and from a hidden receptacle constructed in the
+thick upper shelf, he drew out a bundle of letters. “You understand, my
+friend,” he resumed, “that I will spare you all insignificant details,
+which, however, add their own weight to the rest. I am only going to
+deal with the more important facts, treating directly of the affair.”
+
+Old Tabaret nestled in his arm-chair, burning with curiosity; his face
+and his eyes expressing the most anxious attention. After a selection,
+which he was some time in making, the advocate opened a letter, and
+commenced reading in a voice which trembled at times, in spite of his
+efforts to render it calm.
+
+
+“‘My dearly loved Valerie,’--
+
+
+“Valerie,” said he, “is Madame Gerdy.”
+
+“I know, I know. Do not interrupt yourself.”
+
+Noel then resumed.
+
+
+“‘My dearly loved Valerie,
+
+“‘This is a happy day. This morning I received your darling letter, I
+have covered it with kisses, I have re-read it a hundred times; and now
+it has gone to join the others here upon my heart. This letter, oh, my
+love! has nearly killed me with joy. You were not deceived, then; it was
+true! Heaven has blessed our love. We shall have a son.
+
+“‘I shall have a son, the living image of my adored Valerie! Oh! why are
+we separated by such an immense distance? Why have I not wings that I
+might fly to your feet and fall into your arms, full of the sweetest
+voluptuousness! No! never as at this moment have I cursed the fatal
+union imposed upon me by an inexorable family, whom my tears could not
+move. I cannot help hating this woman, who, in spite of me bears my
+name, innocent victim though she is of the barbarity of our parents.
+And, to complete my misery, she too will soon render me a father.
+Who can describe my sorrow when I compare the fortunes of these two
+children?
+
+“‘The one, the son of the object of my tenderest love, will have neither
+father nor family, nor even a name, since a law framed to make lovers
+unhappy prevents my acknowledging him. While the other, the son of
+my detested wife, by the sole fact of his birth, will be rich, noble,
+surrounded by devotion and homage, with a great position in the world.
+I cannot bear the thought of this terrible injustice! How it is to be
+prevented, I do not know: but rest assured I shall find a way. It is to
+him who is the most desired, the most cherished, the most beloved, that
+the greater fortune should come; and come to him it shall, for I so will
+it.’”
+
+
+“From where is that letter dated?” asked old Tabaret. The style in which
+it was written had already settled one point in his mind.
+
+“See,” replied Noel. He handed the letter to the old fellow, who read,--
+
+“Venice, December, 1828.”
+
+“You perceive,” resumed the advocate, “all the importance of this first
+letter. It is like a brief statement of the facts. My father, married in
+spite of himself, adores his mistress, and detests his wife. Both find
+themselves enceinte at the same time, and his feelings towards the two
+infants about to be born, are not at all concealed. Towards the end one
+almost sees peeping forth the germ of the idea which later on he will
+not be afraid to put into execution, in defiance of all law human or
+divine!”
+
+He was speaking as though pleading the cause, when old Tabaret
+interrupted him.
+
+“It is not necessary to explain it,” said he. “Thank goodness, what you
+have just read is explicit enough. I am not an adept in such matters, I
+am as simple as a juryman; however I understand it admirably so far.”
+
+“I pass over several letters,” continued Noel, “and I come to this one
+dated Jan. 23, 1829. It is very long, and filled with matters altogether
+foreign to the subject which now occupies us. However, it contains
+two passages, which attest the slow but steady growth of my father’s
+project. ‘A destiny, more powerful than my will, chains me to this
+country; but my soul is with you, my Valerie! Without ceasing, my
+thoughts rest upon the adored pledge of our love which moves within you.
+Take care, my darling, take care of yourself, now doubly precious. It
+is the lover, the father, who implores you. The last part of your letter
+wounds my heart. Is it not an insult to me, for you to express anxiety
+as to the future of our child! Oh heaven! she loves me, she knows me,
+and yet she doubts!’
+
+“I skip,” said Noel, “two pages of passionate rhapsody, and stop at
+these few lines at the end. ‘The countess’s condition causes her to
+suffer very much! Unfortunate wife! I hate and at the same time pity
+her. She seems to divine the reason of my sadness and my coldness. By
+her timid submission and unalterable sweetness, one would think she
+sought pardon for our unhappy union. Poor sacrificed creature! She also
+may have given her heart to another, before being dragged to the altar.
+Our fates would then be the same. Your good heart will pardon my pitying
+her.’
+
+“That one was my mother,” cried the advocate in a trembling voice. “A
+saint! And he asks pardon for the pity she inspires! Poor woman.”
+
+He passed his hands over his eyes, as if to force back his tears, and
+added,--
+
+“She is dead!”
+
+In spite of his impatience, old Tabaret dared not utter a word. Besides
+he felt keenly the profound sorrow of his young friend, and respected
+it. After a rather long silence, Noel raised his head, and returned to
+the correspondence.
+
+“All the letters which follow,” said he, “carry traces of the
+preoccupation of my father’s mind on the subject of his bastard son. I
+lay them, however, aside. But this is what strikes me in the one written
+from Rome, on March 5, 1829. ‘My son, our son, that is my great, my only
+anxiety. How to secure for him the future position of which I dream?
+The nobles of former times were not worried in this way. In those days
+I would have gone to the king, who, with a word, would have assured
+the child’s position in the world. To-day, the king who governs with
+difficulty his disaffected subjects can do nothing. The nobility has
+lost its rights, and the highest in the land are treated the same as
+the meanest peasants!’ Lower down I find,--‘My heart loves to picture to
+itself the likeness of our son. He will have the spirit, the mind, the
+beauty, the grace, all the fascinations of his mother. He will inherit
+from his father, pride, valour, and the sentiments of a noble race. And
+the other, what will he be like? I tremble to think of it. Hatred can
+only engender a monster. Heaven reserves strength and beauty for the
+children of love!’ The monster, that is I!” said the advocate, with
+intense rage. “Whilst the other--But let us ignore these preliminaries
+to an outrageous action. I only desired up to the present to show you
+the aberration of my father’s reason under the influence of his passion.
+We shall soon come to the point.”
+
+M. Tabaret was astonished at the strength of this passion, of which Noel
+was disturbing the ashes. Perhaps, he felt it all the more keenly on
+account of those expressions which recalled his own youth. He understood
+how irresistible must have been the strength of such a love and he
+trembled to speculate as to the result.
+
+“Here is,” resumed Noel, holding up a sheet of paper, “not one of those
+interminable epistles from which I have read you short extracts, but a
+simple billet. It is dated from Venice at the beginning of May; it is
+short but nevertheless decisive; ‘Dear Valerie,--Tell me, as near as
+possible, the probable date of your confinement. I await your reply
+with an anxiety you would imagine, could you but guess my projects with
+regard to our child.’
+
+“I do not know,” said Noel, “whether Madame Gerdy understood; anyhow
+she must have answered at once, for this is what my father wrote on the
+14th: ‘Your reply, my darling, is what I did not dare expect it to be.
+The project I had conceived is now practicable. I begin to feel more
+calm and secure. Our son shall bear my name; I shall not be obliged to
+separate myself from him. He shall be reared by my side, in my mansion,
+under my eyes, on my knees, in my arms. Shall I have strength enough to
+bear this excess of happiness? I have a soul for grief, shall I have
+one for joy? Oh! my adored one, oh! my precious child, fear nothing, my
+heart is vast, enough to love you both! I set out to-morrow for Naples,
+from whence I shall write to you at length. Happen what may, however,
+though I should have to sacrifice the important interests confided to
+me, I shall be in Paris for the critical hour. My presence will double
+your courage; the strength of my love will diminish your sufferings.’”
+
+“I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Noel,” said old Tabaret, “do
+you know what important affairs detained your father abroad?”
+
+“My father, my old friend,” replied the advocate, “was, in spite of his
+youth, one of the friends, one of the confidants, of Charles X.; and he
+had been entrusted by him with a secret mission to Italy. My father is
+Count Rheteau de Commarin.”
+
+“Whew!” exclaimed the old fellow; and the better to engrave the name
+upon his memory, he repeated several times, between his teeth, “Rheteau
+de Commarin.”
+
+For a few minutes Noel remained silent. After having appeared to do
+everything to control his resentment, he seemed utterly dejected, as
+though he had formed the determination to attempt nothing to repair the
+injury he had sustained.
+
+“In the middle of the month of May, then,” he continued, “my father is
+at Naples. It is whilst there, that he, a man of prudence and sense,
+a dignified diplomatist, a nobleman, prompted by an insensate passion,
+dares to confide to paper this most monstrous of projects. Listen!
+
+“‘My adored one,--
+
+“‘It is Germain, my old valet, who will hand you this letter. I am
+sending him to Normandy, charged with a commission of the most delicate
+nature. He is one of those servitors who may be trusted implicitly.
+
+“‘The time has come for me to explain to you my projects respecting my
+son. In three weeks, at the latest, I shall be in Paris.
+
+“‘If my previsions are not deceited, the countess and you will be
+confined at the same time. An interval of three or four days will not
+alter my plan. This is what I have resolved.
+
+“‘My two children will be entrusted to two nurses of Normandy, where my
+estates are nearly all situated. One of these women, known to Germain,
+and to whom I am sending him, will be in our interests. It is to this
+person, Valerie, that our son will be confided. These two women will
+leave Paris the same day, Germain accompanying her who will have charge
+of the son of the countess.
+
+“‘An accident, devised beforehand, will compel these two women to pass
+one night on the road. Germain will arrange so they will have to sleep
+in the same inn, and in the same chamber! During the night, our nurse
+will change the infants in their cradles.
+
+“‘I have foreseen everything, as I will explain to you, and every
+precaution has been taken to prevent our secret from escaping. Germain
+has instructions to procure, while in Paris, two sets of baby linen
+exactly similar. Assist him with your advice.
+
+“‘Your maternal heart, my sweet Valerie, may perhaps bleed at the
+thought of being deprived of the innocent caresses of your child. You
+will console yourself by thinking of the position secured to him by your
+sacrifice. What excess of tenderness can serve him as powerfully as this
+separation? As to the other, I know your fond heart, you will cherish
+him. Will it not be another proof of your love for me? Besides, he will
+have nothing to complain of. Knowing nothing he will have nothing to
+regret; and all that money can secure in this world he shall have.
+
+“‘Do not tell me that this attempt is criminal. No, my well beloved, no.
+The success of our plan depends upon so many unlikely circumstances, so
+many coincidences, independent of our will, that, without the evident
+protection of Providence, we cannot succeed. If, then, success crowns
+our efforts, it will be because heaven decreed it.
+
+“‘Meanwhile I hope.’”
+
+
+“Just what I expected,” murmured old Tabaret.
+
+“And the wretched man,” cried Noel, “dares to invoke the aid of
+Providence! He would make heaven his accomplice!”
+
+“But,” asked the old fellow, “how did your mother,--pardon me, I would
+say, how did Madame Gerdy receive this proposition?”
+
+“She would appear to have rejected it, at first, for here are twenty
+pages of eloquent persuasion from the count, urging her to agree to it,
+trying to convince her. Oh, that woman!”
+
+“Come my child,” said M. Tabaret, softly, “try not to be too unjust. You
+seem to direct all your resentment against Madame Gerdy? Really, in my
+opinion, the count is far more deserving of your anger than she is.”
+
+“True,” interrupted Noel, with a certain degree of violence,--“true,
+the count is guilty, very guilty. He is the author of the infamous
+conspiracy, and yet I feel no hatred against him. He has committed a
+crime, but he has an excuse, his passion. Moreover, my father has not
+deceived me, like this miserable woman, every hour of my life, during
+thirty years. Besides, M. de Commarin has been so cruelly punished,
+that, at this present moment, I can only pardon and pity him.”
+
+“Ah! so he has been punished?” interrogated the old fellow.
+
+“Yes, fearfully, as you will admit. But allow me to continue. Towards
+the end of May, or, rather, during the first days of June, the count
+must have arrived in Paris, for the correspondence ceases. He saw Madame
+Gerdy, and the final arrangements of the conspiracy were decided on.
+Here is a note which removes all uncertainty on that point. On the day
+it was written, the count was on service at the Tuileries, and unable
+to leave his post. He has written it even in the king’s study, on the
+king’s paper; see the royal arms! The bargain has been concluded, and
+the woman who has consented to become the instrument of my father’s
+projects is in Paris. He informs his mistress of the fact.”
+
+
+“‘Dear Valerie,--Germain informs me of the arrival of your son’s, our
+son’s nurse. She will call at your house during the day. She is to be
+depended upon; a magnificent recompense ensures her discretion. Do not,
+however, mention our plans to her; for she has been given to
+understand that you know nothing. I wish to charge myself with the sole
+responsibility of the deed; it is more prudent. This woman is a native
+of Normandy. She was born on our estate, almost in our house. Her
+husband is a brave and honest sailor. Her name is Claudine Lerouge.
+
+“‘Be of good courage, my dear love I am exacting from you the greatest
+sacrifice that a lover can hope for from a mother. Heaven, you can no
+longer doubt it, protects us. Everything depends now upon our skill and
+our prudence, so that we are sure to succeed!’”
+
+
+On one point, at least, M. Tabaret was sufficiently enlightened. The
+researches into the past life of widow Lerouge were no longer difficult.
+He could not restrain an exclamation of satisfaction, which passed
+unnoticed by Noel.
+
+“This note,” resumed the advocate, “closes the count’s correspondence
+with Madame Gerdy.”
+
+“What!” exclaimed the old fellow, “you are in possession of nothing
+more?”
+
+“I have also ten lines, written many years later, which certainly have
+some weight, but after all are only a moral proof.”
+
+“What a misfortune!” murmured M. Tabaret. Noel laid on the bureau the
+letters he had held in his hand, and, turning towards his old friend, he
+looked at him steadily.
+
+“Suppose,” said he slowly and emphasising every syllable,--“suppose that
+all my information ends here. We will admit, for a moment, that I know
+nothing more than you do now. What is your opinion?”
+
+Old Tabaret remained some minutes without answering; he was estimating
+the probabilities resulting from M. de Commarin’s letters.
+
+“For my own part,” said he at length, “I believe on my conscience that
+you are not Madame Gerdy’s son.”
+
+“And you are right!” answered the advocate forcibly. “You will easily
+believe, will you not, that I went and saw Claudine. She loved me, this
+poor woman who had given me her milk, she suffered from the knowledge
+of the injustice that had been done me. Must I say it, her complicity in
+the matter weighed upon her conscience; it was a remorse too great for
+her old age. I saw her, I interrogated her, and she told me all. The
+count’s scheme, simply and yet ingeniously conceived, succeeded without
+any effort. Three days after my birth, the crime was committed, and I,
+poor, helpless infant, was betrayed, despoiled and disinherited by my
+natural protector, by my own father! Poor Claudine! She promised me her
+testimony for the day on which I should reclaim my rights!”
+
+“And she is gone, carrying her secret with her!” murmured the old fellow
+in a tone of regret.
+
+“Perhaps!” replied Noel, “for I have yet one hope. Claudine had in her
+possession several letters which had been written to her a long time
+ago, some by the count, some by Madame Gerdy, letters both imprudent
+and explicit. They will be found, no doubt, and their evidence will
+be decisive. I have held these letters in my hands, I have read them;
+Claudine particularly wished me to keep them, why did I not do so?”
+
+No! there was no hope on that side, and old Tabaret knew so better than
+any one. It was these very letters, no doubt, that the assassin of La
+Jonchere wanted. He had found them and had burnt them with the other
+papers, in the little stove. The old amateur detective was beginning to
+understand.
+
+“All the same,” said he, “from what I know of your affairs, which I
+think I know as well as my own, it appears to me that the count has not
+overwell kept the dazzling promises of fortune he made Madame Gerdy on
+your behalf.”
+
+“He never even kept them in the least degree, my old friend.”
+
+“That now,” cried the old fellow indignantly, “is even more infamous
+than all the rest.”
+
+“Do not accuse my father,” answered Noel gravely; “his connection with
+Madame Gerdy lasted a long time. I remember a haughty-looking man who
+used sometimes to come and see me at school, and who could be no other
+than the count. But the rupture came.”
+
+“Naturally,” sneered M. Tabaret, “a great nobleman--”
+
+“Wait before judging,” interrupted the advocate. “M. de Commarin had his
+reasons. His mistress was false to him, he learnt it, and cast her
+off with just indignation. The ten lines which I mentioned to you were
+written then.”
+
+Noel searched a considerable time among the papers scattered upon the
+table, and at length selected a letter more faded and creased than the
+others. Judging from the number of folds in the paper one could guess
+that it had been read and re-read many times. The writing even was here
+and there partly obliterated.
+
+“In this,” said he in a bitter tone, “Madame Gerdy is no longer the
+adored Valerie: ‘A friend, cruel as all true friends, has opened my
+eyes. I doubted. You have been watched, and today, unhappily, I can
+doubt no more. You, Valerie, you to whom I have given more than my life,
+you deceive me and have been deceiving me for a long time past. Unhappy
+man that I am! I am no longer certain that I am the father of your
+child.’”
+
+“But this note is a proof,” cried old Tabaret, “an overwhelming proof.
+Of what importance to the count would be a doubt of his paternity, had
+he not sacrificed his legitimate son to his bastard? Yes, you have said
+truly, his punishment has been severe.”
+
+“Madame Gerdy,” resumed Noel, “wished to justify herself. She wrote to
+the count; but he returned her letters unopened. She called on him,
+but he would not receive her. At length she grew tired of her useless
+attempts to see him. She knew that all was well over when the count’s
+steward brought her for me a legal settlement of fifteen thousand francs
+a year. The son had taken my place, and the mother had ruined me!”
+
+Three or four light knocks at the door of the study interrupted Noel.
+
+“Who is there?” he asked, without stirring.
+
+“Sir,” answered the servant from the other side of the door, “madame
+wishes to speak to you.”
+
+The advocate appeared to hesitate.
+
+“Go, my son,” advised M. Tabaret; “do not be merciless, only bigots have
+that right.”
+
+Noel arose with visible reluctance, and passed into Madame Gerdy’s
+sleeping apartment.
+
+“Poor boy!” thought M. Tabaret when left alone. “What a fatal discovery!
+and how he must feel it. Such a noble young man! such a brave heart!
+In his candid honesty he does not even suspect from whence the blow has
+fallen. Fortunately I am shrewd enough for two, and it is just when he
+despairs of justice, I am confident of obtaining it for him. Thanks to
+his information, I am now on the track. A child might now divine whose
+hand struck the blow. But how has it happened? He will tell me without
+knowing it. Ah! if I had one of those letters for four and twenty hours.
+He has probably counted them. If I ask for one, I must acknowledge my
+connection with the police. I had better take one, no matter which, just
+to verify the handwriting.”
+
+Old Tabaret had just thrust one of the letters into the depths of his
+capacious pocket, when the advocate returned.
+
+He was one of those men of strongly formed character, who never lose
+their self-control. He was very cunning and had long accustomed himself
+to dissimulation, that indispensable armour of the ambitious.
+
+As he entered the room nothing in his manner betrayed what had taken
+place between Madame Gerdy and himself. He was absolutely as calm as,
+when seated in his arm-chair, he listened to the interminable stories of
+his clients.
+
+“Well,” asked old Tabaret, “how is she now?”
+
+“Worse,” answered Noel. “She is now delirious, and no longer knows
+what she says. She has just assailed me with the most atrocious abuse,
+upbraiding me as the vilest of mankind! I really believe she is going
+out of her mind.”
+
+“One might do so with less cause,” murmured M. Tabaret; “and I think you
+ought to send for the doctor.”
+
+“I have just done so.”
+
+The advocate had resumed his seat before his bureau, and was rearranging
+the scattered letters according to their dates. He seemed to have
+forgotten that he had asked his old friend’s advice; nor did he appear
+in any way desirous of renewing the interrupted conversation. This was
+not at all what old Tabaret wanted.
+
+“The more I ponder over your history, my dear Noel,” he observed, “the
+more I am bewildered. I really do not know what resolution I should
+adopt, were I in your situation.”
+
+“Yes, my old friend,” replied the advocate sadly, “it is a situation
+that might well perplex even more profound experiences than yours.”
+
+The old amateur detective repressed with difficulty the sly smile, which
+for an instant hovered about his lips.
+
+“I confess it humbly,” he said, taking pleasure in assuming an air of
+intense simplicity, “but you, what have you done? Your first impulse
+must have been to ask Madame Gerdy for an explanation.”
+
+Noel made a startled movement, which passed unnoticed by old Tabaret,
+preoccupied as he was in trying to give the turn he desired to the
+conversation.
+
+“It was by that,” answered Noel, “that I began.”
+
+“And what did she say?”
+
+“What could she say! Was she not overwhelmed by the discovery?”
+
+“What! did she not attempt to exculpate herself?” inquired the detective
+greatly surprised.
+
+“Yes! she attempted the impossible. She pretended she could explain
+the correspondence. She told me ... But can I remember what she said?
+Lies, absurd, infamous lies.”
+
+The advocate had finished gathering up his letters, without noticing the
+abstraction. He tied them together carefully, and replaced them in the
+secret drawer of his bureau.
+
+“Yes,” continued he, rising and walking backwards and forward across
+his study, as if the constant movement could calm his anger, “yes, she
+pretended she could show me I was wrong. It was easy, was it not, with
+the proofs I held against her? The fact is she adores her son, and her
+heart is breaking at the idea that he may be obliged to restitute what
+he has stolen from me. And I, idiot, fool, coward, almost wished not to
+mention the matter to her. I said to myself, I will forgive, for after
+all she has loved me! Loved? no. She would see me suffer the most
+horrible tortures, without shedding a tear, to prevent a single hair
+falling from her son’s head.”
+
+“She has probably warned the count,” observed old Tabaret, still
+pursuing his idea.
+
+“She may have tried, but cannot have succeeded, for the count has been
+absent from Paris for more than a month and is not expected to return
+until the end of the week.”
+
+“How do you know that?”
+
+“I wished to see the count my father, to speak with him.”
+
+“You?”
+
+“Yes, I. Do you think that I shall not reclaim my own? Do you imagine
+that I shall not raise my voice. On what account should I keep silent,
+who have I to consider? I have rights, and I will make them good. What
+do you find surprising in that?”
+
+“Nothing, certainly, my friend. So then you called at M. de Commarin’s
+house?”
+
+“Oh! I did not decide on doing so all at once,” continued Noel. “At
+first my discovery almost drove me mad. Then I required time to reflect.
+A thousand opposing sentiments agitated me. At one moment, my fury
+blinded me; the next, my courage deserted me. I would, and I would not.
+I was undecided, uncertain, wild. The scandal that must arise from the
+publicity of such an affair terrified me. I desired, I still desire to
+recover my name, that much is certain. But on the eve of recovering it,
+I wish to preserve it from stain. I was seeking a means of arranging
+everything, without noise, without scandal.”
+
+“At length, however, you made up your mind?”
+
+“Yes, after a struggle of fifteen days, fifteen days of torture, of
+anguish! Ah! what I suffered in that time! I neglected my business,
+being totally unfit for work. During the day, I tried by incessant
+action to fatigue my body, that at night I might find forgetfulness
+in sleep. Vain hope! since I found these letters, I have not slept an
+hour.”
+
+From time to time, old Tabaret slyly consulted his watch. “M. Daburon
+will be in bed,” thought he.
+
+“At last one morning,” continued Noel, “after a night of rage, I
+determined to end all uncertainty. I was in that desperate state of
+mind, in which the gambler, after successive losses, stakes upon a card
+his last remaining coin. I plucked up courage, sent for a cab, and was
+driven to the de Commarin mansion.”
+
+The old amateur detective here allowed a sigh of satisfaction to escape
+him.
+
+“It is one of the most magnificent houses, in the Faubourg St. Germain,
+my friend, a princely dwelling, worthy a great noble twenty times
+millionaire; almost a palace in fact. One enters at first a vast
+courtyard, to the right and left of which are the stables, containing
+twenty most valuable horses, and the coach-houses. At the end rises the
+grand facade of the main building, majestic and severe, with its immense
+windows, and its double flight of marble steps. Behind the house is
+a magnificent garden, I should say a park, shaded by the oldest trees
+which perhaps exist in all Paris.”
+
+This enthusiastic description was not at all what M. Tabaret wanted. But
+what could he do, how could he press Noel for the result of his visit!
+An indiscreet word might awaken the advocate’s suspicions, and reveal to
+him that he was speaking not to a friend, but to a detective.
+
+“Were you then shown over the house and grounds?” asked the old fellow.
+
+“No, but I have examined them alone. Since I discovered that I was the
+only heir of the Rheteau de Commarin, I have found out the antecedents
+of my new family.
+
+“Standing before the dwelling of my ancestors,” continued Noel, “you
+cannot comprehend the excess of my emotion. Here, said I, is the house
+in which I was born. This is the house in which I should have been
+reared; and, above all, this is the spot where I should reign to-day,
+whereon I stand an outcast and a stranger, devoured by the sad and
+bitter memories, of which banished men have died. I compared my
+brother’s brilliant destinies with my sad and labourious career; and my
+indignation well nigh overmastered reason. The mad impulse stirred me
+to force the doors, to rush into the grand salon, and drive out the
+intruder,--the son of Madame Gerdy,--who had taken the place of the
+son of the Countess de Commarin! Out, usurper, out of this. I am master
+here. The propriety of legal means at once recurred to my distracted
+mind, however, and restrained me. Once more I stood before the
+habitation of my fathers. How I love its old sculptures, its grand old
+trees, its shaded walls, worn by the feet of my poor mother! I love
+all, even to the proud escutcheon, frowning above the principal doorway,
+flinging its defiance to the theories of this age of levellers.”
+
+This last phrase conflicted so directly with the code of opinions
+habitual to Noel, that old Tabaret was obliged to turn aside, to conceal
+his amusement.
+
+“Poor humanity!” thought he; “he is already the grand seigneur.”
+
+“On presenting myself,” continued the advocate, “I demanded to see the
+Count de Commarin. A Swiss porter, in grand livery, answered, the count
+was travelling, but that the viscount was at home. This ran counter to
+my designs; but I was embarked; so I insisted on speaking to the son in
+default of the father. The Swiss porter stared at me with astonishment.
+He had evidently seen me alight from a hired carriage, and so
+deliberated for some moments as to whether I was not too insignificant a
+person to have the honour of being admitted to visit the viscount.”
+
+“But tell me, have you seen him?” asked old Tabaret, unable to restrain
+his impatience.
+
+“Of course, immediately,” replied the advocate in a tone of bitter
+raillery. “Could the examination, think you, result otherwise than in
+my favour? No. My white cravat and black costume produced their natural
+effect. The Swiss porter entrusted me to the guidance of a chasseur with
+a plumed hat, who led me across the yard to a superb vestibule, where
+five or six footmen were lolling and gaping on their seats. One of these
+gentlemen asked me to follow him. He led me up a spacious staircase,
+wide enough for a carriage to ascend, preceded me along an extensive
+picture gallery, guided me across vast apartments, the furniture of
+which was fading under its coverings, and finally delivered me into the
+hands of M. Albert’s valet. That is the name by which Madame Gerdy’s son
+is known, that is to say, my name.”
+
+“I understand, I understand.”
+
+“I had passed an inspection; now I had to undergo an examination. The
+valet desired to be informed who I was, whence I came, what was my
+profession, what I wanted and all the rest. I answered simply, that,
+quite unknown to the viscount, I desired five minutes’ conversation with
+him on a matter of importance. He left me, requesting me to sit down and
+wait. I had waited more than a quarter of an hour, when he reappeared.
+His master graciously deigned to receive me.”
+
+It was easy to perceive that the advocate’s reception rankled in his
+breast, and that he considered it an insult. He could not forgive Albert
+his lackeys and his valet. He forgot the words of the illustrious duke,
+who said, “I pay my lackeys to be insolent, to save myself the trouble
+and ridicule of being so.” Old Tabaret was surprised at his young
+friend’s display of bitterness, in speaking of these trivial details.
+
+“What narrow-mindedness,” thought he, “for a man of such intelligence!
+Can it be true that the arrogance of lackeys is the secret of the
+people’s hatred of an amiable and polite aristocracy?”
+
+“I was ushered into a small apartment,” continued Noel, “simply
+furnished, the only ornaments of which were weapons. These, ranged
+against the walls, were of all times and countries. Never have I seen
+in so small a space so many muskets, pistols, swords, sabres, and foils.
+One might have imagined himself in a fencing master’s arsenal.”
+
+The weapon used by Widow Lerouge’s assassin naturally recurred to the
+old fellow’s memory.
+
+“The viscount,” said Noel, speaking slowly, “was half lying on a divan
+when I entered. He was dressed in a velvet jacket and loose trousers of
+the same material, and had around his neck an immense white silk scarf.
+I do not cherish any resentment against this young man; he has never to
+his knowledge injured me: he was in ignorance of our father’s crime; I
+am therefore able to speak of him with justice. He is handsome, bears
+himself well, and nobly carries the name which does not belong to him.
+He is about my height, of the same dark complexion, and would resemble
+me, perhaps, if he did not wear a beard. Only he looks five or six
+years younger; but this is readily explained, he has neither worked,
+struggled, nor suffered. He is one of the fortunate ones who arrive
+without having to start, or who traverse life’s road on such soft
+cushions that they are never injured by the jolting of their carriage.
+On seeing me, he arose and saluted me graciously.”
+
+“You must have been dreadfully excited,” remarked old Tabaret.
+
+“Less than I am at this moment. Fifteen preparatory days of mental
+torture exhausts one’s emotions. I answered the question I saw upon
+his lips. ‘Sir,’ said I, ‘you do not know me; but that is of little
+consequence. I come to you, charged with a very grave, a very sad
+mission, which touches the honour of the name you bear.’ Without doubt
+he did not believe me, for, in an impertinent tone, he asked me, ‘Shall
+you be long?’ I answered simply, ‘Yes.’”
+
+“Pray,” interrupted old Tabaret, now become very attentive, “do not omit
+a single detail; it may be very important, you understand.”
+
+“The viscount,” continued Noel, “appeared very much put out. ‘The fact
+is,’ he explained, ‘I had already disposed of my time. This is the hour
+at which I call on the young lady to whom I am engaged, Mademoiselle
+d’Arlange. Can we not postpone this conversation?’”
+
+“Good! another woman!” said the old fellow to himself.
+
+“I answered the viscount, that an explanation would admit of no delay;
+and, as I saw him prepare to dismiss me, I drew from my pocket the
+count’s correspondence, and presented one of the letters to him. On
+recognizing his father’s handwriting, he became more tractable, declared
+himself at my service, and asked permission to write a word of apology
+to the lady by whom he was expected. Having hastily written the note
+he handed it to his valet, and ordered him to send at once to Madame
+d’Arlange. He then asked me to pass into the next room, which was his
+library.”
+
+“One word,” interrupted the old fellow; “was he troubled on seeing the
+letters?”
+
+“Not the least in the world. After carefully closing the door, he
+pointed to a chair, seated himself, and said, ‘Now, sir, explain
+yourself.’ I had had time to prepare myself for this interview whilst
+waiting in the ante-room. I had decided to go straight to the point.
+‘Sir,’ said I, ‘my mission is painful. The facts I am about to reveal to
+you are incredible. I beg you, do not answer me until you have read the
+letters I have here. I beseech you, above all, to keep calm.’ He looked
+at me with an air of extreme surprise, and answered, ‘Speak! I can hear
+all.’ I stood up, and said, ‘Sir, I must inform you that you are not the
+legitimate son of M. de Commarin, as this correspondence will prove to
+you. The legitimate son exists; and he it is who sends me.’ I kept my
+eyes on his while speaking, and I saw there a passing gleam of fury.
+For a moment I thought he was about to spring at my throat. He soon
+recovered himself. ‘The letters,’ said he in a short tone. I handed them
+to him.”
+
+“How!” cried old Tabaret, “these letters,--the true ones? How
+imprudent!”
+
+“And why?”
+
+“If he had--I don’t know; but--” the old fellow hesitated.
+
+The advocate laid his hand upon his friend’s shoulder. “I was there,”
+ said he in a hollow tone; “and I promise you the letters were in no
+danger.”
+
+Noel’s features assumed such an expression of ferocity that the old
+fellow was almost afraid, and recoiled instinctively. “He would have
+killed him,” thought he.
+
+“That which I have done for you this evening, my friend,” resumed the
+advocate, “I did for the viscount. I obviated, at least for the moment,
+the necessity of reading all of these hundred and fifty-six letters.
+I told him only to stop at those marked with a cross, and to carefully
+read the passages indicated with a red pencil.”
+
+“It was an abridgment of his penance,” remarked old Tabaret.
+
+“He was seated,” continued Noel, “before a little table, too fragile
+even to lean upon. I was standing with my back to the fireplace in which
+a fire was burning. I followed his slightest movements; and I scanned
+his features closely. Never in my life have I seen so sad a spectacle,
+nor shall I forget it, if I live for a thousand years. In less than five
+minutes his face changed to such an extent that his own valet would not
+have recognized him. He held his handkerchief in his hand, with which
+from time to time he mechanically wiped his lips. He grew paler and
+paler, and his lips became as white as his handkerchief. Large drops of
+sweat stood upon his forehead, and his eyes became dull and clouded, as
+if a film had covered them; but not an exclamation, not a sigh, not a
+groan, not even a gesture, escaped him. At one moment, I felt such pity
+for him that I was almost on the point of snatching the letters from his
+hands, throwing them into the fire and taking him in my arms, crying,
+‘No, you are my brother! Forget all; let us remain as we are and love
+one another!’”
+
+M. Tabaret took Noel’s hand, and pressed it. “Ah!” he said, “I recognise
+my generous boy.”
+
+“If I have not done this, my friend, it is because I thought to myself,
+‘Once these letters destroyed, would he recognise me as his brother?’”
+
+“Ah! very true.”
+
+“In about half an hour, he had finished reading; he arose, and facing me
+directly, said, ‘You are right, sir. If these letters are really written
+by my father, as I believe them to be, they distinctly prove that I am
+not the son of the Countess de Commarin.’ I did not answer. ‘Meanwhile,’
+continued he, ‘these are only presumptions. Are you possessed of
+other proofs?’ I expected, of course, a great many other objections.
+‘Germain,’ said I, ‘can speak.’ He told me that Germain had been dead
+for several years. Then I spoke of the nurse, Widow Lerouge--I explained
+how easily she could be found and questioned, adding that she lived at
+La Jonchere.”
+
+“And what said he, Noel, to this?” asked old Tabaret anxiously.
+
+“He remained silent at first, and appeared to reflect. All on a sudden
+he struck his forehead, and said, ‘I remember; I know her. I have
+accompanied my father to her house three times, and in my presence he
+gave her a considerable sum of money.’ I remarked to him that this was
+yet another proof. He made no answer, but walked up and down the room.
+At length he turned towards me, saying, ‘Sir, you know M. de Commarin’s
+legitimate son?’ I answered: ‘I am he.’ He bowed his head and murmured
+‘I thought so.’ He then took my hand and added, ‘Brother, I bear you no
+ill will for this.’”
+
+“It seems to me,” remarked old Tabaret, “that he might have left that to
+you to say, and with more reason and justice.”
+
+“No, my friend, for he is more ill-used than I. I have not been lowered,
+for I did not know, whilst he! ... .”
+
+The old police agent nodded his head, he had to hide his thoughts, and
+they were stifling him.
+
+“At length,” resumed Noel, after a rather long pause, “I asked him what
+he proposed doing. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I expect my father in about eight
+or ten days. You will allow me this delay. As soon as he returns I will
+have an explanation with him, and justice shall be done. I give you my
+word of honour. Take back your letters and leave me to myself. This news
+has utterly overwhelmed me. In a moment I lose everything: a great
+name that I have always borne as worthily as possible, a magnificent
+position, an immense fortune, and, more than all that, perhaps, the
+woman who is dearer to me than life. In exchange, it is true, I shall
+find a mother. We will console each other. And I will try, sir, to make
+her forget you, for she must love you, and will miss you.’”
+
+“Did he really say that?”
+
+“Almost word for word.”
+
+“Hypocrite!” growled the old fellow between his teeth.
+
+“What did you say?” asked Noel.
+
+“I say that he is a fine young man; and I shall be delighted to make his
+acquaintance.”
+
+“I did not show him the letter referring to the rupture,” added
+Noel; “it is best that he should ignore Madame Gerdy’s misconduct. I
+voluntarily deprived myself of this proof, rather than give him further
+pain.”
+
+“And now?”
+
+“What am I to do? I am waiting the count’s return. I shall act more
+freely after hearing what he has to say. Tomorrow I shall ask permission
+to examine the papers belonging to Claudine. If I find the letters, I am
+saved; if not,--but, as I have told you, I have formed no plan since I
+heard of the assassination. Now, what do you advise?”
+
+“The briefest counsel demands long reflection,” replied the old fellow,
+who was in haste to depart. “Alas! my poor boy, what worry you have
+had!”
+
+“Terrible! and, in addition, I have pecuniary embarrassments.”
+
+“How! you who spend nothing?”
+
+“I have entered into various engagements. Can I now make use of Madame
+Gerdy’s fortune, which I have hitherto used as my own? I think not.”
+
+“You certainly ought not to. But listen! I am glad you have spoken of
+this; you can render me a service.
+
+“Very willingly. What is it?”
+
+“I have, locked up in my secretary, twelve or fifteen thousand francs,
+which trouble me exceedingly. You see, I am old, and not very brave, if
+any one heard I had this money--”
+
+“I fear I cannot--” commenced the advocate.
+
+“Nonsense!” said the old fellow. “To-morrow I will give them to you
+to take care of.” But remembering he was about to put himself at M.
+Daburon’s disposal, and that perhaps he might not be free on the morrow,
+he quickly added, “No, not to-morrow; but this very evening. This
+infernal money shall not remain another night in my keeping.”
+
+He hurried out, and presently reappeared, holding in his hand fifteen
+notes of a thousand francs each. “If that is not sufficient,” said he,
+handing them to Noel, “you can have more.”
+
+“Anyhow,” replied the advocate, “I will give you a receipt for these.”
+
+“Oh! never mind. Time enough to-morrow.”
+
+“And if I die to-night?”
+
+“Then,” said the old fellow to himself, thinking of his will, “I shall
+still be your debtor. Good-night!” added he aloud. “You have asked my
+advice, I shall require the night for reflection. At present my brain is
+whirling; I must go into the air. If I go to bed now, I am sure to have
+a horrible nightmare. Come, my boy; patience and courage. Who knows
+whether at this very hour Providence is not working for you?”
+
+He went out, and Noel, leaving his door open, listened to the sound of
+his footsteps as he descended the stairs. Almost immediately the cry of,
+“Open, if you please,” and the banging of the door apprised him that
+M. Tabaret had gone out. He waited a few minutes and refilled his lamp.
+Then he took a small packet from one of his bureau drawers, slipped
+into his pocket the bank notes lent him by his old friend, and left his
+study, the door of which he double-locked. On reaching the landing, he
+paused. He listened intently as though the sound of Madame Gerdy’s moans
+could reach him where he stood. Hearing nothing, he descended the stairs
+on tiptoe. A minute later, he was in the street.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+Included in Madame Gerdy’s lease was a coach-house, which was used by
+her as a lumber room. Here were heaped together all the old rubbish
+of the household, broken pieces of furniture, utensils past service,
+articles become useless or cumbrous. It was also used to store the
+provision of wood and coal for the winter. This old coach-house had
+a small door opening on the street, which had been in disuse for many
+years; but which Noel had had secretly repaired and provided with a
+lock. He could thus enter or leave the house at any hour without the
+concierge or any one else knowing. It was by this door that the advocate
+went out, though not without using the utmost caution in opening
+and closing it. Once in the street, he stood still a moment, as if
+hesitating which way to go. Then, he slowly proceeded in the direction
+of the St. Lazare railway station, when a cab happening to pass, he
+hailed it. “Rue du Faubourg Montmarte, at the corner of the Rue de
+Provence,” said Noel, entering the vehicle, “and drive quick.”
+
+The advocate alighted at the spot named, and dismissed the cabman. When
+he had seen him drive off, Noel turned into the Rue de Provence, and,
+after walking a few yards, rang the bell of one of the handsomest houses
+in the street. The door was immediately opened. As Noel passed
+before him the concierge made a most respectful, and at the same time
+patronizing bow, one of those salutations which Parisian concierges
+reserve for their favorite tenants, generous mortals always ready to
+give. On reaching the second floor, the advocate paused, drew a key from
+his pocket, and opening the door facing him, entered as if at home. But
+at the sound of the key in the lock, though very faint, a lady’s maid,
+rather young and pretty, with a bold pair of eyes, ran toward him.
+
+“Ah! it is you, sir,” cried she.
+
+This exclamation escaped her just loud enough to be audible at the
+extremity of the apartment, and serve as a signal if needed. It was as
+if she had cried, “Take care!”
+
+Noel did not seem to notice it. “Madame is there?” asked he.
+
+“Yes, sir, and very angry too. This morning she wanted to send some one
+to you. A little while ago she spoke of going to find you, sir, herself.
+I have had much difficulty in prevailing on her not to disobey your
+orders.”
+
+“Very well,” said the advocate.
+
+“Madame is in the smoking room,” continued the girl “I am making her a
+cup of tea. Will you have one, sir?”
+
+“Yes,” replied Noel. “Show me a light, Charlotte.”
+
+He passed successively through a magnificent dining-room, a splendid
+gilded drawing-room in Louis XIV. style, and entered the smoking-room.
+This was a rather large apartment with a very high ceiling. Once inside
+one might almost fancy oneself three thousand miles from Paris, in
+the house of some opulent mandarin of the celestial Empire. Furniture,
+carpet, hangings, pictures, all had evidently been imported direct from
+Hong Kong or Shanghai. A rich silk tapestry representing brilliantly
+coloured figures, covered the walls, and hid the doors from view.
+All the empire of the sun and moon was depicted thereon in vermillion
+landscapes: corpulent mandarins surrounded by their lantern-bearers;
+learned men lay stupefied with opium, sleeping under their parasols;
+young girls with elevated eyebrows, stumbled upon their diminutive feet
+swathed in bandages. The carpet of a manufacture unknown to Europeans,
+was strewn with fruits and flowers, so true to nature that they might
+have deceived a bee. Some great artist of Pekin had painted on the silk
+which covered the ceiling numerous fantastic birds, opening on azure
+ground their wings of purple and gold. Slender rods of lacquer, inlaid
+with mother of pearl, bordered the draperies, and marked the angles of
+the apartment. Two fantastic looking chests entirely occupied one side
+of the room. Articles of furniture of capricious and incoherent forms,
+tables with porcelain tops, and chiffoniers of precious woods encumbered
+every recess or angle. There were also ornamental cabinets and shelves
+purchased of Lien-Tsi, the Tahan of Sou-Tcheou, the artistic city, and
+a thousand curiosities, both miscellaneous and costly, from the ivory
+sticks which are used instead of forks, to the porcelain teacups,
+thinner than soap bubbles,--miracles of the reign of Kien-Loung. A very
+large and very low divan piled up with cushions, covered with tapestry
+similar to the hangings, occupied one end of the room. There was no
+regular window, but instead a large single pane of glass, fixed into the
+wall of the house; in front of it was a double glass door with moveable
+panes, and the space between was filled with the most rare flowers. The
+grate was replaced by registers adroitly concealed, which maintained
+in the apartment a temperature fit for hatching silkworms, thus truly
+harmonising with the furniture.
+
+When Noel entered, a woman, still young, was reclining on the divan,
+smoking a cigarette. In spite of the tropical heat, she was enveloped
+in heavy Cashmere shawls. She was small, but then only small women can
+unite in their persons every perfection. Women who are above the medium
+height must be either essays, or errors of nature. No matter how lovely
+they may look, they invariably present some defect, like the work of a
+statuary, who, though possessed of genius, attempts for the first time
+sculpture on a grand scale. She was small, but her neck, her shoulders,
+and her arms had the most exquisite contours. Her hands with their
+tapering fingers and rosy nails looked like jewels preciously cared for.
+Her feet, encased in silken stockings almost as thin as a spider’s-web,
+were a marvel; not that they recalled the very fabulous foot which
+Cinderella thrust into the glass slipper; but the other, very real, very
+celebrated and very palpable foot, of which the fair owner (the lovely
+wife of a well-known banker) used to present the model either in bronze
+or in marble to her numerous admirers. Her face was not beautiful, nor
+even pretty; but her features were such as one seldom forgets; for, at
+the first glance, they startled the beholder like a flash of lightning.
+Her forehead was a little high, and her mouth unmistakably large,
+notwithstanding the provoking freshness of her lips. Her eyebrows were
+so perfect they seem to have been drawn with India ink; but, unhappily
+the pencil had been used too heavily; and they gave her an unpleasant
+expression when she frowned. On the other hand, her smooth complexion
+had a rich golden pallor; and her black and velvety eyes possessed
+enormous magnetic power. Her teeth were of a pearly brilliancy and
+whiteness, and her hair, of prodigious opulence, was black and fine, and
+glossy as a raven’s wing.
+
+On perceiving Noel, as he pushed aside the silken hangings, she half
+arose and leaned upon her elbow. “So you have come at last?” she
+observed in a tone of vexation; “you are very kind.”
+
+The advocate felt almost suffocated by the oppressive temperature of the
+room. “How warm it is!” said he; “it is enough to stifle one!”
+
+“Do you find it so?” replied the young woman. “Well, I am actually
+shivering! It is true though, that I am very unwell. Waiting is
+unbearable to me, it acts upon my nerves; and I have been waiting for
+you ever since yesterday.”
+
+“It was quite impossible for me to come,” explained Noel, “quite
+impossible!”
+
+“You knew, however,” continued the lady, “that to-day was my settling
+day; and that I had several heavy accounts to settle. The tradesmen all
+came, and I had not a half-penny to give them. The coachmaker sent his
+bill, but there was no money. Then that old rascal Clergot, to whom I
+had given an acceptance for three thousand francs, came and kicked up a
+frightful row. How pleasant all this is!”
+
+Noel bowed his head like a schoolboy rebuked for having neglected his
+lessons. “It is but one day behind,” he murmured.
+
+“And that is nothing, is it?” retorted the young woman. “A man
+who respects himself, my friend, may allow his own signature to be
+dishonoured, but never that of his mistress! Do you wish to destroy
+my credit altogether? You know very well that the only consideration I
+receive is what my money pays for. So as soon as I am unable to pay, it
+will be all up with me.”
+
+“My dear Juliette,” began the advocate gently.
+
+“Oh, yes! that’s all very fine,” interrupted she. “Your dear Juliette!
+your adored Juliette! so long as you are here it is really charming;
+but no sooner are you outside than you forget everything. Do you ever
+remember then that there is such a person as Juliette?”
+
+“How unjust you are!” replied Noel. “Do you not know that I am always
+thinking of you; have I not proved it to you a thousand times? Look
+here! I am going to prove it to you again this very instant.” He
+withdrew from his pocket the small packet he had taken out of his bureau
+drawer, and, undoing it, showed her a handsome velvet casket. “Here,”
+ said he exultingly, “is the bracelet you longed for so much a week ago
+at Beaugrau’s.”
+
+Madame Juliette, without rising, held out her hand to take the casket,
+and, opening it with the utmost indifference, just glanced at the jewel,
+and merely said, “Ah!”
+
+“Is this the one you wanted?” asked Noel.
+
+“Yes, but it looked much prettier in the shop window.” She closed the
+casket, and threw it carelessly on to a small table near her.
+
+“I am unfortunate this evening,” said the advocate, much mortified.
+
+“How so?”
+
+“I see plainly the bracelet does not please you.”
+
+“Oh, but it does. I think it lovely ... besides, it will complete the
+two dozen.”
+
+It was now Noel’s turn to say: “Ah! ...” and as Juliette said nothing,
+he added: “Well, if you are pleased, you do not show it.”
+
+“Oh! so that is what you are driving at!” cried the lady. “I am not
+grateful enough to suit you! You bring me a present, and I ought at once
+to pay cash, fill the house with cries of joy, and throw myself upon my
+knees before you, calling you a great and magnificent lord!”
+
+Noel was unable this time to restrain a gesture of impatience, which
+Juliette perceived plainly enough, to her great delight.
+
+“Would that be sufficient?” continued she. “Shall I call Charlotte,
+so that she may admire this superb bracelet, this monument of your
+generosity? Shall I have the concierge up, and call the cook to tell
+them how happy I am to possess such a magnificent lover.”
+
+The advocate shrugged his shoulders like a philosopher, incapable of
+noticing a child’s banter. “What is the use of these insulting jests?”
+ said he. “If you have any real complaint against me, better to say so
+simply and seriously.”
+
+“Very well,” said Juliette, “let us be serious. And, that being so, I
+will tell you it would have been better to have forgotten the bracelet,
+and to have brought me last night or this morning the eight thousand
+francs I wanted.”
+
+“I could not come.”
+
+“You should have sent them; messengers are still to be found at the
+street-corners.”
+
+“If I neither brought nor sent them, my dear Juliette, it was because I
+did not have them. I had trouble enough in getting them promised me for
+to-morrow. If I have the sum this evening, I owe it to a chance upon
+which I could not have counted an hour ago; but by which I profited, at
+the risk of compromising myself.”
+
+“Poor man!” said Juliette, with an ironical touch of pity in her
+voice. “Do you dare to tell me you have had difficulty in obtaining ten
+thousand francs,--you?”
+
+“Yes,--I!”
+
+The young woman looked at her lover, and burst into a fit of laughter.
+“You are really superb when you act the poor young man!” said she.
+
+“I am not acting.”
+
+“So you say, my own. But I see what you are aiming at. This amiable
+confession is the preface. To-morrow you will declare that your affairs
+are very much embarrassed, and the day after to-morrow ... Ah! you are
+becoming very avaricious. It is a virtue you used not to possess. Do you
+not already regret the money you have given me?”
+
+“Wretched woman!” murmured Noel, fast losing patience.
+
+“Really,” continued the lady, “I pity you, oh! so much. Unfortunate
+lover! Shall I get up a subscription for you? In your place, I would
+appeal to public charity.”
+
+Noel could stand it no longer, in spite of his resolution to remain
+calm. “You think it a laughing matter?” cried he. “Well! let me tell
+you, Juliette, I am ruined, and I have exhausted my last resources! I am
+reduced to expedients!”
+
+The eyes of the young woman brightened. She looked at her lover
+tenderly. “Oh, if ‘twas only true, my big pet!” said she. “If I only
+could believe you!”
+
+The advocate was wounded to the heart. “She believes me,” thought he;
+“and she is glad. She detests me.”
+
+He was mistaken. The idea that a man had loved her sufficiently to ruin
+himself for her, without allowing even a reproach to escape him, filled
+this woman with joy. She felt herself on the point of loving the man,
+now poor and humbled, whom she had despised when rich and proud. But the
+expression of her eyes suddenly changed, “What a fool I am,” cried she,
+“I was on the point of believing all that, and of trying to console
+you. Don’t pretend that you are one of those gentlemen who scatter their
+money broadcast. Tell that to somebody else, my friend! All men in our
+days calculate like money-lenders. There are only a few fools who ruin
+themselves now, some conceited youngsters, and occasionally an amorous
+old dotard. Well, you are a very calm, very grave, and very serious
+fellow, but above all, a very strong one.”
+
+“Not with you, anyhow,” murmured Noel.
+
+“Come now, stop that nonsense! You know very well what you are about.
+Instead of a heart, you have a great big double zero, just like a
+Homburg. When you took a fancy to me, you said to yourself, ‘I will
+expend so much on passion,’ and you have kept your word. It is an
+investment, like any other, in which one receives interest in the form
+of pleasure. You are capable of all the extravagance in the world, to
+the extent of your fixed price of four thousand francs a month! If it
+required a franc more you would very soon take back your heart and
+your hat, and carry them elsewhere; to one or other of my rivals in the
+neighborhood.”
+
+“It is true,” answered the advocate, coolly. “I know how to count, and
+that accomplishment is very useful to me. It enables me to know exactly
+how and where I have got rid of my fortune.”
+
+“So you really know?” sneered Juliette.
+
+“And I can tell you, madam,” continued he. “At first you were not very
+exacting, but the appetite came with eating. You wished for luxury,
+you have it; splendid furniture, you have it; a complete establishment,
+extravagant dresses, I could refuse you nothing. You required a
+carriage, a horse, I gave them you. And I do not mention a thousand
+other whims. I include neither this Chinese cabinet nor the two dozen
+bracelets. The total is four hundred thousand francs!”
+
+“Are you sure?”
+
+“As one can be who has had that amount, and has it no longer.”
+
+“Four hundred thousand francs, only fancy! Are there no centimes?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Then, my dear friend, if I make up my bill, you will still owe me
+something.”
+
+The entrance of the maid with the tea-tray interrupted this amorous
+duet, of which Noel had experienced more than one repetition. The
+advocate held his tongue on account of the servant. Juliette did the
+same on account of her lover, for she had no secrets from Charlotte, who
+had been with her three years, and with whom she had shared everything,
+sometimes even her lovers.
+
+Madame Juliette Chaffour was a Parisienne. She was born about 1839,
+somewhere in the upper end of the Faubourg Montmarte. Her father was
+unknown. Her infancy was a long alternation of beatings and caresses,
+equally furious. She had lived as best she could, on sweetmeats and
+damaged fruit; so that now her stomach could stand anything. At twelve
+years old she was as thin as a nail, as green as a June apple, and more
+depraved than the inmates of the prison of St. Lazare. Prudhomme would
+have said that this precocious little hussy was totally destitute of
+morality. She had not the slightest idea what morality was. She thought
+the world was full of honest people living like her mother, and her
+mother’s friends. She feared neither God nor devil, but she was afraid
+of the police. She dreaded also certain mysterious and cruel persons,
+whom she had heard spoken of, who dwell near the Palais de Justice, and
+who experience a malicious pleasure in seeing pretty girls in trouble.
+As she gave no promise of beauty, she was on the point of being placed
+in a shop, when an old and respectable gentleman, who had known her
+mamma some years previously, accorded her his protection. This
+old gentleman, prudent and provident like all old gentlemen, was a
+connoisseur, and knew that to reap one must sow. He resolved first of
+all to give his protege just a varnish of education. He procured masters
+for her, who in less than three years taught her to write, to play the
+piano, and to dance. What he did not procure her, however, was a lover.
+She therefore found one for herself, an artist who taught her nothing
+very new, but who carried her off to offer her half of what he
+possessed, that is to say nothing. At the end of three months, having
+had enough of it, she left the nest of her first love, with all she
+possessed tied up in a cotton pocket handkerchief.
+
+During the four years which followed, she led a precarious existence,
+sometimes with little else to live upon but hope, which never wholly
+abandons a young girl who knows she has pretty eyes. By turns she sunk
+to the bottom, or rose to the surface of the stream in which she found
+herself. Twice had fortune in new gloves come knocking at her door, but
+she had not the sense to keep her. With the assistance of a strolling
+player, she had just appeared on the stage of a small theatre, and
+spoken her lines rather well, when Noel by chance met her, loved her,
+and made her his mistress. Her advocate, as she called him, did not
+displease her at first. After a few months, though, she could not bear
+him. She detested him for his polite and polished manners, his manly
+bearing, his distinguished air, his contempt, which he did not care
+to hide, for all that is low and vulgar, and, above all, for his
+unalterable patience, which nothing could tire. Her great complaint
+against him was that he was not at all funny, and also, that he
+absolutely declined to conduct her to those places where one can give
+a free vent to one’s spirits. To amuse herself, she began to squander
+money; and her aversion for her lover increased at the same rate as her
+ambition and his sacrifices. She rendered him the most miserable of men,
+and treated him like a dog; and this not from any natural badness of
+disposition, but from principle. She was persuaded that a woman is
+beloved in proportion to the trouble she causes and the mischief she
+does.
+
+Juliette was not wicked, and she believed she had much to complain of.
+The dream of her life was to be loved in a way which she felt, but could
+scarcely have explained. She had never been to her lovers more than a
+plaything. She understood this; and, as she was naturally proud, the
+idea enraged her. She dreamed of a man who would be devoted enough to
+make a real sacrifice for her, a lover who would descend to her level,
+instead of attempting to raise her to his. She despaired of ever meeting
+such a one. Noel’s extravagance left her as cold as ice. She believed he
+was very rich, and singularly, in spite of her greediness, she did
+not care much for money. Noel would have won her easier by a brutal
+frankness that would have shown her clearly his situation. He lost her
+love by the delicacy of his dissimulation, that left her ignorant of the
+sacrifices he was making for her.
+
+Noel adored Juliette. Until the fatal day he saw her, he had lived like
+a sage. This, his first passion, burned him up; and, from the disaster,
+he saved only appearances.
+
+The four walls remained standing, but the interior of the edifice was
+destroyed. Even heroes have their vulnerable parts, Achilles died from
+a wound in the heel. The most artfully constructed armour has a flaw
+somewhere. Noel was assailable by means of Juliette, and through her
+was at the mercy of everything and every one. In four years, this
+model young man, this advocate of immaculate reputation, this austere
+moralist, had squandered not only his own fortune on her, but Madame
+Gerdy’s also. He loved her madly, without reflection, without measure,
+with his eyes shut. At her side, he forgot all prudence, and thought out
+loud. In her boudoir, he dropped his mask of habitual dissimulation, and
+his vices displayed themselves, at ease, as his limbs in a bath. He felt
+himself so powerless against her, that he never essayed to struggle. She
+possessed him. Once or twice he attempted to firmly oppose her ruinous
+caprices; but she had made him pliable as the osier. Under the dark
+glances of this girl, his strongest resolutions melted more quickly than
+snow beneath an April sun. She tortured him; but she had also the power
+to make him forget all by a smile, a tear, or a kiss. Away from the
+enchantress, reason returned at intervals, and, in his lucid moments,
+he said to himself, “She does not love me. She is amusing herself at
+my expense!” But the belief in her love had taken such deep root in his
+heart that he could not pluck it forth. He made himself a monster of
+jealousy, and then argued with himself respecting her fidelity. On
+several occasions he had strong reasons to doubt her constancy, but he
+never had the courage to declare his suspicions. “If I am not mistaken,
+I shall either have to leave her,” thought he, “or accept everything in
+the future.” At the idea of a separation from Juliette, he trembled,
+and felt his passion strong enough to compel him to submit to the lowest
+indignity. He preferred even these heartbreaking doubts to a still more
+dreadful certainty.
+
+The presence of the maid who took a considerable time in arranging the
+tea-table gave Noel an opportunity to recover himself. He looked at
+Juliette; and his anger took flight. Already he began to ask himself if
+he had not been a little cruel to her. When Charlotte retired, he came
+and took a seat on the divan beside his mistress, and attempted to put
+his arms round her. “Come,” said he in a caressing tone, “you have been
+angry enough for this evening. If I have done wrong, you have punished
+me sufficiently. Kiss me, and make it up.”
+
+She repulsed him angrily, and said in a dry tone,--“Let me alone! How
+many times must I tell you that I am very unwell this evening.”
+
+“You suffer, my love?” resumed the advocate, “where? Shall I send for
+the doctor?”
+
+“There is no need. I know the nature of my malady; it is called ennui.
+You are not at all the doctor who could do anything for me.”
+
+Noel rose with a discouraged air, and took his place at the side of the
+tea-table, facing her. His resignation bespoke how habituated he had
+become to these rebuffs. Juliette snubbed him; but he returned always,
+like the poor dog who lies in wait all day for the time when his
+caresses will not be inopportune. “You have told me very often during
+the last few months, that I bother you. What have I done?” he asked.
+
+“Nothing.”
+
+“Well, then, why--?”
+
+“My life is nothing more than a continual yawn,” answered the young
+woman; “is it my fault? Do you think it very amusing to be your
+mistress? Look at yourself. Does there exist another being as sad,
+as dull as you, more uneasy, more suspicious, devoured by a greater
+jealousy!”
+
+“Your reception of me, my dear Juliette,” ventured Noel “is enough to
+extinguish gaiety and freeze all effusion. Then one always fears when
+one loves!”
+
+“Really! Then one should seek a woman to suit oneself, or have her made
+to order; shut her up in the cellar, and have her brought upstairs once
+a day, at the end of dinner, during dessert, or with the champagne just
+by way of amusement.”
+
+“I should have done better not to have come,” murmured the advocate.
+
+“Of course. I am to remain alone here, without anything to occupy me
+except a cigarette and a stupid book, that I go to sleep over? Do you
+call this an existence, never to budge out of the house even?”
+
+“It is the life of all the respectable women that I know,” replied the
+advocate drily.
+
+“Then I cannot compliment them on their enjoyment. Happily, though, I
+am not a respectable woman, and I can tell you I am tired of living
+more closely shut up than the wife of a Turk, with your face for sole
+amusement.”
+
+“You live shut up, you?”
+
+“Certainly!” continued Juliette, with increased bitterness. “Come, have
+you ever brought one of your friends here? No, you hide me. When
+have you offered me your arm for a walk? Never, your dignity would be
+sullied, if you were seen in my company. I have a carriage. Have you
+entered it half a dozen times? Perhaps; but then you let down the
+blinds! I go out alone. I walk about alone!”
+
+“Always the same refrain,” interrupted Noel, anger getting the better of
+him, “always these uncalled for complaints. As though you had still to
+learn the reason why this state of things exists.”
+
+“I know well enough,” pursued the young woman, “that you are ashamed of
+me. Yet I know many bigger swells then you, who do not mind being seen
+with their mistresses. My lord trembles for his fine name of Gerdy that
+I might sully, while the sons of the most noble families are not afraid
+of showing themselves in public places in the company of the stupidest
+of kept women.”
+
+At last Noel could stand it no longer, to the great delight of Madame
+Chaffour.
+
+“Enough of these recriminations!” cried he, rising. “If I hide our
+relations, it is because I am constrained to do so. Of what do you
+complain? You have unrestrained liberty; and you use it, too, and
+so largely that your actions altogether escape me. You accuse me of
+creating a vacuum around you. Who is to blame? Did I grow tired of a
+happy and quiet existence? My friends would have come to see us in a
+home in accordance with a modest competence. Can I bring them here? On
+seeing all this luxury, this insolent display of my folly, they would
+ask each other where I obtained all the money I have spent on you. I
+may have a mistress, but I have not the right to squander a fortune that
+does not belong to me. If my acquaintances learnt to-morrow that it is I
+who keep you, my future prospects would be destroyed. What client would
+confide his interests to the imbecile who ruined himself for the woman
+who has been the talk of all Paris? I am not a great lord, I have
+neither an historical name to tarnish, nor an immense fortune to lose. I
+am plain Noel Gerdy, a advocate. My reputation is all that I possess. It
+is a false one, I admit. Such as it is, however, I must keep it, and I
+will keep it.”
+
+Juliette who knew her Noel thoroughly, saw that she had gone far
+enough. She determined, therefore, to put him in a good humor again. “My
+friend,” said she, tenderly, “I did not wish to cause you pain. You must
+be indulgent, I am so horribly nervous this evening.”
+
+This sudden change delighted the advocate, and almost sufficed to calm
+his anger. “You will drive me mad with your injustice,” said he. “While
+I exhaust my imagination to find what can be agreeable to you, you are
+perpetually attacking my gravity; yet it is not forty-eight hours since
+we were plunged in all the gaiety of the carnival. I kept the fete of
+Shrove Tuesday like a student. We went to a theatre; I then put on a
+domino, and accompanied you to the ball at the opera, and even invited
+two of my friends to sup with us.”
+
+“It was very gay indeed!” answered the young woman, making a wry face.
+
+“So I think.”
+
+“Do you! Then you are not hard to please. We went to the Vaudeville, it
+is true, but separately, as we always do, I alone above, you below. At
+the ball you looked as though you were burying the devil. At the supper
+table your friends were as melancholy as a pair of owls. I obeyed your
+orders by affecting hardly to know you. You imbibed like a sponge,
+without my being able to tell whether you were drunk or not.”
+
+“That proves,” interrupted Noel, “that we ought not to force our tastes.
+Let us talk of something else.”
+
+He took a few steps in the room, then looking at his watch said: “Almost
+one o’clock; my love, I must leave you.”
+
+“What! you are not going to remain?”
+
+“No, to my great regret; my mother is dangerously ill.”
+
+He unfolded and counted out on the table the bank notes he had received
+from old Tabaret.
+
+“My little Juliette,” said he, “here are not eight thousand francs, but
+ten thousand. You will not see me again for a few days.”
+
+“Are you leaving Paris, then?”
+
+“No; but my entire time will be absorbed by an affair of immense
+importance to myself. If I succeed in my undertaking, my dear, our
+future happiness is assured, and you will then see whether I love you!”
+
+“Oh, my dear Noel, tell me what it is.”
+
+“I cannot now.”
+
+“Tell me I beseech you,” pleaded the young woman, hanging round his
+neck, raising herself upon the tips of her toes to press her lips to
+his. The advocate embraced her; and his resolution seemed to waver.
+
+“No,” said he at length, “seriously I cannot. Of what use to awaken in
+you hopes which can never be realized? Now, my darling, listen to me.
+Whatever may happen, understand, you must under no pretext whatever
+again come to my house, as you once had the imprudence to do. Do not
+even write to me. By disobeying, you may do me an irreparable injury. If
+any accident occurs, send that old rascal Clergot to me. I shall have
+a visit from him the day after to-morrow, for he holds some bills of
+mine.”
+
+Juliette recoiled, menacing Noel with a mutinous gesture. “You will not
+tell me anything?” insisted she.
+
+“Not this evening, but very soon,” replied the advocate, embarrassed by
+the piercing glance of his mistress.
+
+“Always some mystery!” cried Juliette, piqued at the want of success
+attending her blandishments.
+
+“This will be the last, I swear to you!”
+
+“Noel, my good man,” said the young woman in a serious tone, “you are
+hiding something from me. I understand you, as you know; for several
+days past there has been something or other the matter with you, you
+have completely changed.”
+
+“I swear to you, Juliette--”
+
+“No, swear nothing; I should not believe you. Only remember, no attempt
+at deceiving me, I forewarn you. I am a woman capable of revenge.”
+
+The advocate was evidently ill at ease. “The affair in question,”
+ stammered he, “can as well fail as succeed.”
+
+“Enough,” interrupted Juliette; “your will shall be obeyed. I promise
+that. Come, sir, kiss me. I am going to bed.”
+
+The door was hardly shut upon Noel when Charlotte was installed on the
+divan near her mistress. Had the advocate been listening at the door,
+he might have heard Madame Juliette saying, “No, really, I can no longer
+endure him. What a bore he is, my girl. Ah! if I was not so afraid of
+him, wouldn’t I leave him at once? But he is capable of killing me!”
+
+The girl vainly tried to defend Noel; but her mistress did not listen.
+She murmured, “Why does he absent himself, and what is he plotting? An
+absence of eight days is suspicious. Can he by any chance intend to be
+married? Ah! if I only knew. You weary me to death, my good Noel, and I
+am determined to leave you to yourself one of these fine mornings; but
+I cannot permit you to quit me first. Supposing he is going to get
+married? But I will not allow it. I must make inquiries.”
+
+Noel, however, was not listening at the door. He went along the Rue de
+Provence as quickly as possible, gained the Rue St. Lazare, and entered
+the house as he had departed, by the stable door. He had but just sat
+down in his study, when the servant knocked.
+
+“Sir,” cried she, “in heaven’s name answer me!”
+
+He opened the door and said impatiently, “What is it?”
+
+“Sir,” stammered the girl in tears, “this is the third time I have
+knocked, and you have not answered. Come, I implore you. I am afraid
+madame is dying!”
+
+He followed her to Madame Gerdy’s room. He must have found the poor
+woman terribly changed, for he could not restrain a movement of terror.
+The invalid struggled painfully beneath her coverings. Her face was of
+a livid paleness, as though there was not a drop of blood left in her
+veins; and her eyes, which glittered with a sombre light, seemed filled
+with a fine dust. Her hair, loose and disordered, falling over her
+cheeks and upon her shoulders, contributed to her wild appearance.
+She uttered from time to time a groan hardly audible, or murmured
+unintelligible words. At times, a fiercer pang than the former ones
+forced a cry of anguish from her. She did not recognise Noel.
+
+“You see, sir,” said the servant.
+
+“Yes. Who would have supposed her malady could advance so rapidly?
+Quick, run to Dr. Herve’s, tell him to get up, and to come at once, tell
+him it is for me.” And he seated himself in an arm-chair, facing the
+suffering woman.
+
+Dr. Herve was one of Noel’s friends, an old school-fellow, and the
+companion of his student days. The doctor’s history differed in
+nothing from that of most young men, who, without fortune, friends,
+or influence, enter upon the practice of the most difficult, the most
+hazardous of professions that exist in Paris, where one sees so many
+talented young doctors forced, to earn their bread, to place themselves
+at the disposition of infamous drug vendors. A man of remarkable courage
+and self-reliance, Herve, his studies over, said to himself, “No, I will
+not go and bury myself in the country, I will remain in Paris, I will
+there become celebrated. I shall be surgeon-in-chief of an hospital, and
+a knight of the Legion of Honour.”
+
+To enter upon this path of thorns, leading to a magnificent triumphal
+arch, the future academician ran himself twenty thousand francs in debt
+to furnish a small apartment. Here, armed with a patience which
+nothing could fatigue, an iron resolution that nothing could subdue, he
+struggled and waited. Only those who have experienced it can understand
+what sufferings are endured by the poor, proud man, who waits in a black
+coat, freshly shaven, with smiling lips, while he is starving of hunger!
+The refinements of civilization have inaugurated punishments which put
+in the shade the cruelties of the savage. The unknown physician must
+begin by attending the poor who cannot pay him. Sometimes too the
+patient is ungrateful. He is profuse in promises whilst in danger; but,
+when cured, he scorns the doctor, and forgets to pay him his fee.
+
+After seven years of heroic perseverance, Herve has secured at last
+a circle of patients who pay him. During this he lived and paid the
+exorbitant interest of his debt, but he is getting on. Three or four
+pamphlets, and a prize won without much intrigue, have attracted public
+attention to him. But he is no longer the brave young enthusiast, full
+of the faith and hope that attended him on his first visits. He still
+wishes, and more than ever, to acquire distinction, but he no longer
+expects any pleasure from his success. He used up that feeling in the
+days when he had not wherewith to pay for his dinner. No matter how
+great his fortune may be in the days to come, he has already paid too
+dearly for it. For him future success is only a kind of revenge.
+Less than thirty-five years old, he is already sick of the world, and
+believes in nothing. Under the appearance of universal benevolence he
+conceals universal scorn. His finesse, sharpened by the grindstone
+of adversity, has become mischievous. And, while he sees through all
+disguises worn by others, he hides his penetration carefully under a
+mask of cheerful good nature and jovialness. But he is kind, he loves
+his friends, and is devoted to them.
+
+He arrived, hardly dressed, so great had been his haste. His first words
+on entering were, “What is the matter?”
+
+Noel pressed his hand in silence, and by way of answer, pointed to the
+bed. In less than a minute, the doctor seized the lamp, examined the
+sick woman, and returned to his friend. “What has happened?” he asked
+sharply. “It is necessary I should know.”
+
+The advocate started at the question. “Know what?” stammered he.
+
+“Everything!” answered Herve. “She is suffering from inflammation of the
+brain. There is no mistaking that. It is by no means a common complaint,
+in spite of the constant working of that organ. What can have caused
+it? There appears to be no injury to the brain or its bony covering, the
+mischief, then, must have been caused by some violent emotion, a great
+grief, some unexpected catastrophe ...”
+
+Noel interrupted his friend by a gesture, and drew him into the
+embrasure of the window. “Yes, my friend,” said he in a low tone,
+“Madame Gerdy has experienced great mental suffering, she has been
+frightfully tortured by remorse. Listen, Herve. I will confide our
+secret to your honour and your friendship. Madame Gerdy is not my
+mother; she despoiled me, to enrich her son with my fortune and my name.
+Three weeks ago I discovered this unworthy fraud; she knows it, and
+the consequences terrify her. Ever since, she has been dying minute by
+minute.”
+
+The advocate expected some exclamations of astonishment, and a host
+of questions from his friend; but the doctor received the explanation
+without remark, as a simple statement, indispensable to his
+understanding the case.
+
+“Three weeks,” he murmured; “then, that explains everything. Has she
+appeared to suffer much during the time?”
+
+“She complained of violent headaches, dimness of sight, and intolerable
+pains in her ears, she attributed all that though to megrims. Do
+not, however, conceal anything from me, Herve; is her complaint very
+serious?”
+
+“So serious, my friend, so invariably fatal, that I am almost
+undertaking a hopeless task in attempting a cure.”
+
+“Ah! good heaven!”
+
+“You asked for the truth, and I have told it you. If I had that courage,
+it was because you told me this poor woman is not your mother. Nothing
+short of a miracle can save her; but this miracle we may hope and
+prepare for. And now to work!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+The clock of the St. Lazare terminus was striking eleven as old Tabaret,
+after shaking hands with Noel, left his house, still bewildered by what
+he had just heard. Obliged to restrain himself at the time, he now fully
+appreciated his liberty of action. It was with an unsteady gait that
+he took his first steps in the street, like the toper, who, after being
+shut up in a warm room, suddenly goes out into the open air. He was
+beaming with pleasure, but at the same time felt rather giddy, from that
+rapid succession of unexpected revelations, which, so he thought, had
+suddenly placed him in possession of the truth.
+
+Notwithstanding his haste to arrive at M. Daburon’s he did not take a
+cab. He felt the necessity of walking. He was one of those who require
+exercise to see things clearly. When he moved about his ideas fitted and
+classified themselves in his brain, like grains of wheat when shaken in
+a bushel. Without hastening his pace, he reached the Rue de la Chaussee
+d’Antin, crossed the Boulevard with its resplendent cafes, and turned to
+the Rue Richelieu.
+
+He walked along, unconscious of external objects, tripping and stumbling
+over the inequalities of the sidewalk, or slipping on the greasy
+pavement. If he followed the proper road, it was a purely mechanical
+impulse that guided him. His mind was wandering at random through the
+field of probabilities, and following in the darkness the mysterious
+thread, the almost imperceptible end of which he had seized at La
+Jonchere.
+
+Like all persons labouring under strong emotion without knowing it, he
+talked aloud, little thinking into what indiscreet ears his exclamations
+and disjointed phrases might fall. At every step, we meet in Paris
+people babbling to themselves, and unconsciously confiding to the four
+winds of heaven their dearest secrets, like cracked vases that allow
+their contents to steal away. Often the passers-by mistake these
+eccentric monologuists for lunatics. Sometimes the curious follow them,
+and amuse themselves by receiving these strange confidences. It was
+an indiscretion of this kind which told the ruin of Riscara the rich
+banker. Lambreth, the assassin of the Rue de Venise, betrayed himself in
+a similar manner.
+
+“What luck!” exclaimed old Tabaret. “What an incredible piece of good
+fortune! Gevrol may dispute it if he likes, but after all, chance is the
+cleverest agent of the police. Who would have imagined such a history? I
+was not, however, very far from the reality. I guessed there was a
+child in the case. But who would have dreamed of a substitution?--an old
+sensational effect, that playwrights no longer dare make use of. This
+is a striking example of the danger of following preconceived ideas in
+police investigation. We are affrighted at unlikelihood; and, as in this
+case, the greatest unlikelihood often proves to be the truth. We
+retire before the absurd, and it is the absurd that we should examine.
+Everything is possible. I would not take a thousand crowns for what
+I have learnt this evening. I shall kill two birds with one stone. I
+deliver up the criminal; and I give Noel a hearty lift up to recover his
+title and his fortune. There, at least; is one who deserves what he will
+get. For once I shall not be sorry to see a lad get on, who has been
+brought up in the school of adversity. But, pshaw! he will be like all
+the rest. Prosperity will turn his brain. Already he begins to prate of
+his ancestors... . Poor humanity he almost made me laugh... . But
+it is mother Gerdy who surprises me most. A woman to whom I would have
+given absolution without waiting to hear her confess. When I think that
+I was on the point of proposing to her, ready to marry her! B-r-r-r!”
+
+At this thought, the old fellow shivered. He saw himself married, and
+all on a sudden, discovering the antecedents of Madame Tabaret, becoming
+mixed up with a scandalous prosecution, compromised, and rendered
+ridiculous.
+
+“When I think,” he continued, “that my worthy Gevrol is running after
+the man with the earrings! Run, my boy, run! Travel is a good thing for
+youth. Won’t he be vexed? He will wish me dead. But I don’t care. If any
+one wishes to do me an injury, M. Daburon will protect me. Ah! there is
+one to whom I am going to do a good turn. I can see him now, opening his
+eyes like saucers, when I say to him, ‘I have the rascal!’ He can boast
+of owing me something. This investigation will bring him honour, or
+justice is not justice. He will, at least, be made an officer of the
+Legion of Honour. So much the better! I like him. If he is asleep, I am
+going to give him an agreeable awaking. Won’t he just overpower me with
+questions! He will want to know everything at once.”
+
+Old Tabaret, who was now crossing the Pont des Saints-Peres, stopped
+suddenly. “But the details!” said he. “By Jove! I have none. I only know
+the bare facts.” He resumed his walk, and continued, “They are right
+at the office, I am too enthusiastic; I jump at conclusions, as Gevrol
+says. When I was with Noel, I should have cross-examined him, got hold
+of a quantity of useful details; but I did not even think of doing so.
+I drank in his words. I would have had him tell the story in a sentence.
+All the same, it is but natural; when one is pursuing a stag, one does
+not stop to shoot a blackbird. But I see very well now, I did not draw
+him out enough. On the other hand, by questioning him more, I might have
+awakened suspicions in Noel’s mind, and led him to discover that I am
+working for the Rue de Jerusalem. To be sure, I do not blush for my
+connection with the police, I am even vain of it; but at the same time,
+I prefer that no one should know of it. People are so stupid, that
+they detest the police, who protect them; I must be calm and on my best
+behaviour, for here I am at the end of my journey.”
+
+M. Daburon had just gone to bed, but had given orders to his servant; so
+that M. Tabaret had but to give his name, to be at once conducted to the
+magistrate’s sleeping apartment. At sight of his amateur detective,
+M. Daburon raised himself in his bed, saying, “There is something
+extraordinary! What have you discovered? have you got a clue?”
+
+“Better than that,” answered the old fellow, smiling with pleasure.
+
+“Speak quickly!”
+
+“I know the culprit!”
+
+Old Tabaret ought to have been satisfied; he certainly produced an
+effect. The magistrate bounded in his bed. “Already!” said he. “Is it
+possible?”
+
+“I have the honour to repeat to you, sir,” resumed the old fellow, “that
+I know the author of the crime of La Jonchere.”
+
+“And I,” said M. Daburon, “I proclaim you the greatest of all
+detectives, past or future. I shall certainly never hereafter undertake
+an investigation without your assistance.”
+
+“You are too kind, sir. I have had little or nothing to do in the
+matter. The discovery is due to chance alone.”
+
+“You are modest, M. Tabaret. Chance assists only the clever, and it is
+that which annoys the stupid. But I beg you will be seated and proceed.”
+
+Then with the lucidness and precision of which few would have believed
+him capable, the old fellow repeated to the magistrate all that he had
+learned from Noel. He quoted from memory the extracts from the letters,
+almost without changing a word.
+
+“These letters,” added he, “I have seen; and I have even taken one, in
+order to verify the writing. Here it is.”
+
+“Yes,” murmured the magistrate--“Yes, M. Tabaret, you have discovered
+the criminal. The evidence is palpable, even to the blind. Heaven has
+willed this. Crime engenders crime. The great sin of the father has made
+the son an assassin.”
+
+“I have not given you the names, sir,” resumed old Tabaret. “I wished
+first to hear your opinion.”
+
+“Oh! you can name them,” interrupted M. Daburon with a certain degree
+of animation, “no matter how high he may have to strike, a French
+magistrate has never hesitated.”
+
+“I know it, sir, but we are going very high this time. The father who
+has sacrificed his legitimate son for the sake of his bastard is Count
+Rheteau de Commarin, and the assassin of Widow Lerouge is the bastard,
+Viscount Albert de Commarin!”
+
+M. Tabaret, like an accomplished artist, had uttered these words slowly,
+and with a deliberate emphasis, confidently expecting to produce a
+great impression. His expectation was more than realized. M. Daburon
+was struck with stupor. He remained motionless, his eyes dilated with
+astonishment. Mechanically he repeated like a word without meaning which
+he was trying to impress upon his memory: “Albert de Commarin! Albert de
+Commarin!”
+
+“Yes,” insisted old Tabaret, “the noble viscount. It is incredible, I
+know.” But he perceived the alteration in the magistrate’s face, and
+a little frightened, he approached the bed. “Are you unwell, sir?” he
+asked.
+
+“No,” answered M. Daburon, without exactly knowing what he said. “I am
+very well; but the surprise, the emotion,--”
+
+“I understand that,” said the old fellow.
+
+“Yes, it is not surprising, is it? I should like to be alone a few
+minutes. Do not leave the house though; we must converse at some length
+on this business. Kindly pass into my study, there ought still to be a
+fire burning there. I will join you directly.”
+
+Then M. Daburon slowly got out of bed, put on a dressing gown, and
+seated himself, or rather fell, into an armchair. His face, to which
+in the exercise of his austere functions he had managed to give the
+immobility of marble, reflected the most cruel agitation; while his
+eyes betrayed the inward agony of his soul. The name of Commarin,
+so unexpectedly pronounced, awakened in him the most sorrowful
+recollections, and tore open a wound but badly healed. This name
+recalled to him an event which had rudely extinguished his youth and
+spoilt his life. Involuntarily, he carried his thoughts back to this
+epoch, so as to taste again all its bitterness. An hour ago, it had
+seemed to him far removed, and already hidden in the mists of the past;
+one word had sufficed to recall it, clear and distinct. It seemed to him
+now that this event, in which the name of Albert de Commarin was mixed
+up, dated from yesterday. In reality nearly two years elapsed since.
+
+Pierre-Marie Daburon belonged to one of the oldest families of Poitou.
+Three or four of his ancestors had filled successively the most
+important positions in the province. Why, then, had they not bequeathed
+a title and a coat of arms to their descendants?
+
+The magistrate’s father possesses, round about the ugly modern chateau
+which he inhabits, more than eight hundred thousand francs’ worth of the
+most valuable land. By his mother, a Cottevise-Luxe, he is related to
+the highest nobility of Poitou, one of the most exclusive that exists in
+France, as every one knows.
+
+When he received his nomination in Paris, his relationship caused him to
+be received at once by five or six aristocratic families, and it was not
+long before he extended his circle of acquaintance.
+
+He possessed, however, none of the qualifications which ensure social
+success. He was cold and grave even to sadness, reserved and timid
+even to excess. His mind wanted brilliancy and lightness; he lacked
+the facility of repartee, and the amiable art of conversing without a
+subject; he could neither tell a lie, nor pay an insipid compliment.
+Like most men who feel deeply, he was unable to interpret his
+impressions immediately. He required to reflect and consider within
+himself.
+
+However, he was sought after for more solid qualities than these: for
+the nobleness of his sentiments, his pleasant disposition, and the
+certainty of his connections. Those who knew him intimately quickly
+learned to esteem his sound judgment, his keen sense of honour, and to
+discover under his cold exterior a warm heart, an excessive sensibility,
+and a delicacy almost feminine. In a word, although he might be eclipsed
+in a room full of strangers or simpletons, he charmed all hearts in a
+smaller circle, where he felt warmed by an atmosphere of sympathy.
+
+He accustomed himself to go about a great deal. He reasoned, wisely
+perhaps, that a magistrate can make better use of his time than by
+remaining shut up in his study, in company with books of law. He thought
+that a man called upon to judge others, ought to know them, and for that
+purpose study them. An attentive and discreet observer, he examined the
+play of human interests and passions, exercised himself in disentangling
+and manoeuvring at need the strings of the puppets he saw moving around
+him. Piece by piece, so to say, he laboured to comprehend the working
+of the complicated machine called society, of which he was charged to
+overlook the movements, regulate the springs, and keep the wheels in
+order.
+
+And on a sudden, in the early part of the winter of 1860 and 1861, M.
+Daburon disappeared. His friends sought for him, but he was nowhere to
+be met with. What could he be doing? Inquiry resulted in the discovery
+that he passed nearly all his evenings at the house of the Marchioness
+d’Arlange. The surprise was as great as it was natural.
+
+This dear marchioness was, or rather is,--for she is still in the land
+of the living,--a personage whom one would consider rather out of date.
+She is surely the most singular legacy bequeathed us by the eighteenth
+century. How, and by what marvellous process she had been preserved
+such as we see her, it is impossible to say. Listening to her, you would
+swear that she was yesterday at one of those parties given by the queen
+where cards and high stakes were the rule, much to the annoyance of
+Louis XIV., and where the great ladies cheated openly in emulation of
+each other.
+
+Manners, language, habits, almost costume, she has preserved everything
+belonging to that period about which authors have written only to
+display the defects. Her appearance alone will tell more than an
+exhaustive article, and an hour’s conversation with her, more than a
+volume.
+
+She was born in a little principality, where her parents had taken
+refuge whilst awaiting the chastisements and repentance of an erring and
+rebellious people. She had been brought up amongst the old nobles of
+the emigration, in some very ancient and very gilded apartment, just as
+though she had been in a cabinet of curiosities. Her mind had awakened
+amid the hum of antediluvian conversations, her imagination had first
+been aroused by arguments a little less profitable than those of an
+assembly of deaf persons convoked to decide upon the merits of the work
+of some distinguished musician. Here she imbibed a fund of ideas, which,
+applied to the forms of society of to-day, are as grotesque as would
+be those of a child shut up until twenty years of age in an Assyrian
+museum.
+
+The first empire, the restoration, the monarchy of July, the second
+republic, the second empire, have passed beneath her windows, but she
+has not taken the trouble to open them. All that has happened since ‘89
+she considers as never having been. For her it is a nightmare from which
+she is still awaiting a release. She has looked at everything, but then
+she looks through her own pretty glasses which show her everything as
+she would wish it, and which are to be obtained of dealers in illusions.
+
+Though over sixty-eight years old she is as straight as a poplar, and
+has never been ill. She is vivacious, and active to excess, and can only
+keep still when asleep, or when playing her favorite game of piquet. She
+has her four meals a day, eats like a vintager, and takes her wine neat.
+She professes an undisguised contempt for the silly women of our century
+who live for a week on a partridge, and inundate with water grand
+sentiments which they entangle in long phrases. She has always been, and
+still is, very positive, and her word is prompt and easily understood.
+She never shrinks from using the most appropriate word to express her
+meaning. So much the worse, if some delicate ears object! She heartily
+detests hypocrisy.
+
+She believes in God, but she believes also in M. de Voltaire, so that
+her devotion is, to say the least, problematical. However, she is on
+good terms with the curate of her parish, and is very particular about
+the arrangement of her dinner on the days she honours him with an
+invitation to her table. She seems to consider him a subaltern, very
+useful to her salvation, and capable of opening the gate of paradise for
+her.
+
+Such as she is, she is shunned like the plague. Everybody dreads her
+loud voice, her terrible indiscretion, and the frankness of speech which
+she affects, in order to have the right of saying the most unpleasant
+things which pass through her head. Of all her family, there only
+remains her granddaughter, whose father died very young.
+
+Of a fortune originally large, and partly restored by the indemnity
+allowed by the government, but since administered in the most careless
+manner, she has only been able to preserve an income of twenty thousand
+francs, which diminishes day by day. She is, also, proprietor of the
+pretty little house which she inhabits, situated near the Invalides,
+between a rather narrow court-yard, and a very extensive garden.
+
+So circumstanced, she considers herself the most unfortunate of God’s
+creatures, and passes the greater part of her life complaining of her
+poverty. From time to time, especially after some exceptionally bad
+speculation, she confesses that what she fears most is to die in a
+pauper’s bed.
+
+A friend of M. Daburon’s presented him one evening to the Marchioness
+d’Arlange, having dragged him to her house in a mirthful mood, saying,
+“Come with me, and I will show you a phenomenon, a ghost of the past in
+flesh and bone.”
+
+The marchioness rather puzzled the magistrate the first time he was
+admitted to her presence. On his second visit, she amused him very much;
+for which reason, he came again. But after a while she no longer amused
+him, though he still continued a faithful and constant visitor to the
+rose-coloured boudoir wherein she passed the greater part of her life.
+
+Madame d’Arlange conceived a violent friendship for him, and became
+eloquent in his praises.
+
+“A most charming young man,” she declared, “delicate and sensible! What
+a pity he is not born!” (Her ladyship meant born of noble parentage,
+but used the phrase as ignoring the fact of the unfortunates who are
+not noble having been born at all) “One can receive him though, all
+the same; his forefathers were very decent people, and his mother was a
+Cottevise who, however, went wrong. I wish him well, and will do all I
+can to push him forward.”
+
+The strongest proof of friendship he received from her was, that she
+condescended to pronounce his name like the rest of the world. She had
+preserved that ridiculous affectation of forgetfulness of the names of
+people who were not of noble birth, and who in her opinion had no right
+to names. She was so confirmed in this habit, that, if by accident she
+pronounced such a name correctly, she immediately repeated it with some
+ludicrous alteration. During his first visit, M. Daburon was extremely
+amused at hearing his name altered every time she addressed him.
+Successively she made it Taburon, Dabiron, Maliron, Laliron, Laridon;
+but, in three months time, she called him Daburon as distinctly as if he
+had been a duke of something, and a lord of somewhere.
+
+Occasionally she exerted herself to prove to the worthy magistrate that
+he was a nobleman, or at least ought to be. She would have been happy,
+if she could have persuaded him to adopt some title, and have a helmet
+engraved upon his visiting cards.
+
+“How is it possible,” said she, “that your ancestors, eminent, wealthy,
+and influential, never thought of being raised from the common herd
+and securing a title for their descendants? Today you would possess a
+presentable pedigree.--”
+
+“My ancestors were wise,” responded M. Daburon. “They preferred being
+foremost among their fellow-citizens to becoming last among the nobles.”
+
+Upon which the marchioness explained, and proved to demonstration, that
+between the most influential and wealthy citizen and the smallest scion
+of nobility, there was an abyss that all the money in the world could
+not fill up.
+
+They who were so surprised at the frequency of the magistrate’s
+visits to this celebrated “relic of the past” did not know that lady’s
+granddaughter, or, at least, did not recollect her; she went out so
+seldom! The old marchioness did not care, so she said, to be bothered
+with a young spy who would be in her way when she related some of her
+choice anecdotes.
+
+Claire d’Arlange was just seventeen years old. She was extremely
+graceful and gentle in manner, and lovely in her natural innocence. She
+had a profusion of fine light brown hair, which fell in ringlets over
+her well-shaped neck and shoulders. Her figure was still rather slender;
+but her features recalled Guide’s most celestial faces. Her blue eyes,
+shaded by long lashes of a hue darker than her hair, had above all an
+adorable expression.
+
+A certain air of antiquity, the result of her association with her
+grandmother, added yet another charm to the young girl’s manner. She had
+more sense, however, than her relative; and, as her education had not
+been neglected, she had imbibed pretty correct ideas of the world in
+which she lived. This education, these practical ideas, Claire owed
+to her governess, upon whose shoulders the marchioness had thrown the
+entire responsibility of cultivating her mind.
+
+This governess, Mademoiselle Schmidt, chosen at hazard, happened by
+the most fortunate chance to be both well informed and possessed of
+principle. She was, what is often met with on the other side of
+the Rhine, a woman at once romantic and practical, of the tenderest
+sensibility and the severest virtue. This good woman, while she carried
+her pupil into the land of sentimental phantasy and poetical imaginings,
+gave her at the same time the most practical instruction in matters
+relating to actual life. She revealed to Claire all the peculiarities
+of thought and manner that rendered her grandmother so ridiculous, and
+taught her to avoid them, but without ceasing to respect them.
+
+Every evening, on arriving at Madame d’Arlange’s, M. Daburon was sure to
+find Claire seated beside her grandmother, and it was for that that
+he called. Whilst listening with an inattentive ear to the old lady’s
+rigmaroles and her interminable anecdotes of the emigration, he gazed
+upon Claire, as a fanatic upon his idol. Often in his ecstasy he forgot
+where he was for the moment and became absolutely oblivious of the old
+lady’s presence, although her shrill voice was piercing the tympanum
+of his ear like a needle. Then he would answer her at cross-purposes,
+committing the most singular blunders, which he labored afterwards to
+explain. But he need not have taken the trouble. Madame d’Arlange did
+not perceive her courtier’s absence of mind; her questions were of such
+a length, that she did not care about the answers. Having a listener,
+she was satisfied, provided that from time to time he gave signs of
+life.
+
+When obliged to sit down to play piquet, he cursed below his breath the
+game and its detestable inventor. He paid no attention to his cards.
+He made mistakes every moment, discarding what he should keep in
+and forgetting to cut. The old lady was annoyed by these continual
+distractions, but she did scruple to profit by them. She looked at the
+discard, changed the cards which did not suit her, while she audaciously
+scored points she never made, and pocketed the money thus won without
+shame or remorse.
+
+M. Daburon’s timidity was extreme, and Claire was unsociable to excess,
+they therefore seldom spoke to each other. During the entire winter, the
+magistrate did not directly address the young girl ten times; and, on
+these rare occasions, he had learned mechanically by heart the phrase he
+proposed to repeat to her, well knowing that, without this precaution,
+he would most likely be unable to finish what he had to say.
+
+But at least he saw her, he breathed the same air with her, he heard her
+voice, whose pure and harmonious vibrations thrilled his very soul.
+
+By constantly watching her eyes, he learned to understand all their
+expressions. He believed he could read in them all her thoughts, and
+through them look into her soul like through an open window.
+
+“She is pleased to-day,” he would say to himself; and then he would
+be happy. At other times, he thought, “She has met with some annoyance
+to-day;” and immediately he became sad.
+
+The idea of asking for her hand many times presented itself to his
+imagination; but he never dared to entertain it. Knowing, as he did,
+the marchioness’s prejudices, her devotion to titles, her dread of any
+approach to a misalliance, he was convinced she would shut his mouth
+at the first word by a very decided “no,” which she would maintain. To
+attempt the thing would be to risk, without a chance of success, his
+present happiness which he thought immense, for love lives upon its own
+misery.
+
+“Once repulsed,” thought he, “the house is shut against me; and then
+farewell to happiness, for life will end for me.” Upon the other
+hand, the very rational thought occurred to him that another might
+see Mademoiselle d’Arlange, love her, and, in consequence, ask for and
+obtain her. In either case, hazarding a proposal, or hesitating still,
+he must certainly lose her in the end. By the commencement of spring,
+his mind was made up.
+
+One fine afternoon, in the month of April, he bent his steps towards the
+residence of Madame d’Arlange, having truly need of more bravery than
+a soldier about to face a battery. He, like the soldier, whispered to
+himself, “Victory or death!” The marchioness who had gone out shortly
+after breakfast had just returned in a terrible rage, and was uttering
+screams like an eagle.
+
+This was what had taken place. She had some work done by a neighboring
+painter some eight or ten months before; and the workman had presented
+himself a hundred times to receive payment, without avail. Tired of this
+proceeding, he had summoned the high and mighty Marchioness d’Arlange
+before the Justice of the Peace.
+
+This summons had exasperated the marchioness; but she kept the matter
+to herself, having decided, in her wisdom, to call upon the judge and
+request him to reprimand the insolent painter who had dared to plague
+her for a paltry sum of money. The result of this fine project may be
+guessed. The judge had been compelled to eject her forcibly from his
+office; hence her fury.
+
+M. Daburon found her in the rose-colored boudoir half undressed, her
+hair in disorder, red as a peony, and surrounded by the debris of the
+glass and china which had fallen under her hands in the first moments of
+her passion. Unfortunately, too, Claire and her governess were gone out.
+A maid was occupied in inundating the old lady with all sorts of waters,
+in the hope of calming her nerves.
+
+She received Daburon as a messenger direct from Providence. In a little
+more than half an hour, she told her story, interlarded with numerous
+interjections and imprecations.
+
+“Do you comprehend this judge?” cried she. “He must be some frantic
+Jacobin,--some son of the furies, who washed their hands in the blood of
+their king. Ah! my friend, I read stupor and indignation in your glance.
+He listened to the complaint of that impudent scoundrel whom I enabled
+to live by employing him! And when I addressed some severe remonstrances
+to this judge, as it was my duty to do, he had me turned out! Do you
+hear? turned out!”
+
+At this painful recollection, she made a menacing gesture with her arm.
+In her sudden movement, she struck a handsome scent bottle that her maid
+held in her hand. The force of the blow sent it to the other end of the
+room, where it broke into pieces.
+
+“Stupid, awkward fool!” cried the marchioness, venting her anger upon
+the frightened girl.
+
+M. Daburon, bewildered at first, now endeavored to calm her
+exasperation. She did not allow him to pronounce three words.
+
+“Happily you are here,” she continued; “you are always willing to serve
+me, I know. I count upon you! you will exercise your influence, your
+powerful friends, your credit, to have this pitiful painter and this
+miscreant of a judge flung into some deep ditch, to teach them the
+respect due to a woman of my rank.”
+
+The magistrate did not permit himself even to smile at this imperative
+demand. He had heard many speeches as absurd issue from her lips without
+ever making fun of them. Was she not Claire’s grandmother? for that
+alone he loved and venerated her. He blessed her for her granddaughter,
+as an admirer of nature blesses heaven for the wild flower that delights
+him with its perfume.
+
+The fury of the old lady was terrible; nor was it of short duration. At
+the end of an hour, however, she was, or appeared to be, pacified. They
+replaced her head-dress, repaired the disorder of her toilette, and
+picked up the fragments of broken glass and china. Vanquished by her
+own violence, the reaction was immediate and complete. She fell back
+helpless and exhausted into an arm-chair.
+
+This magnificent result was due to the magistrate. To accomplish it, he
+had had to use all his ability, to exercise the most angelic patience,
+the greatest tact. His triumph was the more meritorious, because he
+came completely unprepared for this adventure, which interfered with his
+intended proposal. The first time that he had felt sufficient courage
+to speak, fortune seemed to declare against him, for this untoward event
+had quite upset his plans.
+
+Arming himself, however, with his professional eloquence, he talked the
+old lady into calmness. He was not so foolish as to contradict her. On
+the contrary, he caressed her hobby. He was humorous and pathetic by
+turns. He attacked the authors of the revolution, cursed its errors,
+deplored its crimes, and almost wept over its disastrous results.
+Commencing with the infamous Marat he eventually reached the rascal of a
+judge who had offended her. He abused his scandalous conduct in good set
+terms, and was exceedingly severe upon the dishonest scamp of a painter.
+However, he thought it best to let them off the punishment they so
+richly deserved; and ended by suggesting that it would perhaps be
+prudent, wise, noble even to pay.
+
+The unfortunate word “pay” brought Madame d’Arlange to her feet in the
+fiercest attitude.
+
+“Pay!” she screamed. “In order that these scoundrels may persist in
+their obduracy! Encourage them by a culpable weakness! Never! Besides to
+pay one must have money! and I have none!”
+
+“Why!” said M. Daburon, “it amounts to but eighty-seven francs!”
+
+“And is that nothing?” asked the marchioness; “you talk very foolishly,
+my dear sir. It is easy to see that you have money; your ancestors were
+people of no rank; and the revolution passed a hundred feet above their
+heads. Who can tell whether they may not have been the gainers by it? It
+took all from the d’Arlanges. What will they do to me, if I do not pay?”
+
+“Well, madame, they can do many things; almost ruin you, in costs. They
+may seize your furniture.”
+
+“Alas!” cried the old lady, “the revolution is not ended yet. We shall
+all be swallowed up by it, my poor Daburon! Ah! you are happy, you who
+belong to the people! I see plainly that I must pay this man without
+delay, and it is frightfully sad for me, for I have nothing, and am
+forced to make such sacrifices for the sake of my grandchild!”
+
+This statement surprised the magistrate so strongly that involuntarily
+he repeated half-aloud, “Sacrifices?”
+
+“Certainly!” resumed Madame d’Arlange. “Without her, would I have to
+live as I am doing, refusing myself everything to make both ends meet?
+Not a bit of it! I would invest my fortune in a life annuity. But I
+know, thank heaven, the duties of a mother; and I economise all I can
+for my little Claire.”
+
+This devotion appeared so admirable to M. Daburon, that he could not
+utter a word.
+
+“Ah! I am terribly anxious about this dear child,” continued the
+marchioness. “I confess M. Daburon, it makes me giddy when I wonder how
+I am to marry her.”
+
+The magistrate reddened with pleasure. At last his opportunity had
+arrived; he must take advantage of it at once.
+
+“It seems to me,” stammered he, “that to find Mademoiselle Claire a
+husband ought not to be difficult.”
+
+“Unfortunately, it is. She is pretty enough, I admit, although rather
+thin, but, now-a-days, beauty goes for nothing. Men are so mercenary
+they think only of money. I do not know of one who has the manhood to
+take a d’Arlange with her bright eyes for a dowry.”
+
+“I believe that you exaggerate,” remarked M. Daburon, timidly.
+
+“By no means. Trust to my experience which is far greater than yours.
+Besides, when I find a son-in-law, he will cause me a thousand troubles.
+Of this, I am assured by my lawyer. I shall be compelled, it seems, to
+render an account of Claire’s patrimony. As if ever I kept accounts!
+It is shameful! Ah! if Claire had any sense of filial duty, she would
+quietly take the veil in some convent. I would use every effort to pay
+the necessary dower; but she has no affection for me.”
+
+M. Daburon felt that now was the time to speak. He collected his
+courage, as a good horseman pulls his horse together when going to leap
+a hedge, and in a voice, which he tried to render firm, he said: “Well!
+Madame, I believe I know a party who would suit Mademoiselle Claire,--an
+honest man, who loves her, and who will do everything in the world to
+make her happy.”
+
+“That,” said Madame d’Arlange, “is always understood.”
+
+“The man of whom I speak,” continued the magistrate, “is still young,
+and is rich. He will be only too happy to receive Mademoiselle Claire
+without a dowry. Not only will he decline an examination of your
+accounts of guardianship, but he will beg you to invest your fortune as
+you think fit.”
+
+“Really! Daburon, my friend, you are by no means a fool!” exclaimed the
+old lady.
+
+“If you prefer not to invest your fortune in a life-annuity, your
+son-in-law will allow you sufficient to make up what you now find
+wanting.”
+
+“Ah! really I am stifling,” interrupted the marchioness. “What! you know
+such a man, and have never yet mentioned him to me! You ought to have
+introduced him long ago.”
+
+“I did not dare, madame, I was afraid--”
+
+“Quick! tell me who is this admirable son-in-law, this white blackbird?
+where does he nestle?”
+
+The magistrate felt a strange fluttering of the heart; he was going
+to stake his happiness on a word. At length he stammered, “It is I,
+madame!”
+
+His voice, his look, his gesture were beseeching. He was surprised at
+his own audacity, frightened at having vanquished his timidity, and was
+on the point of falling at the old lady’s feet. She, however, laughed
+until the tears came into her eyes, then shrugging her shoulders, she
+said: “Really, dear Daburon is too ridiculous, he will make me die of
+laughing! He is so amusing!” After which she burst out laughing again.
+But suddenly she stopped, in the very height of her merriment, and
+assumed her most dignified air. “Are you perfectly serious in all you
+have told me, M. Daburon?” she asked.
+
+“I have stated the truth,” murmured the magistrate.
+
+“You are then very rich?”
+
+“I inherited, madame, from my mother, about twenty thousand francs a
+year. One of my uncles, who died last year, bequeathed me over a hundred
+thousand crowns. My father is worth about a million. Were I to ask him
+for the half to-morrow, he would give it to me; he would give me all
+his fortune, if it were necessary to my happiness, and be but too well
+contented, should I leave him the administration of it.”
+
+Madame d’Arlange signed to him to be silent; and, for five good minutes
+at least, she remained plunged in reflection, her forehead resting in
+her hands. At length she raised her head.
+
+“Listen,” said she. “Had you been so bold as to make this proposal to
+Claire’s father, he would have called his servants to show you the door.
+For the sake of our name I ought to do the same; but I cannot do so. I
+am old and desolate; I am poor; my grandchild’s prospects disquiet me;
+that is my excuse. I cannot, however, consent to speak to Claire of this
+horrible misalliance. What I can promise you, and that is too much,
+is that I will not be against you. Take your own measures; pay your
+addresses to Mademoiselle d’Arlange, and try to persuade her. If she
+says ‘yes,’ of her own free will, I shall not say ‘no.’”
+
+M. Daburon, transported with happiness, could almost have embraced the
+old lady. He thought her the best, the most excellent of women, not
+noticing the facility with which this proud spirit had been brought to
+yield. He was delirious, almost mad.
+
+“Wait!” said the old lady; “your cause is not yet gained. Your mother,
+it is true, was a Cottevise, and I must excuse her for marrying so
+wretchedly; but your father is simple M. Daburon. This name, my dear
+friend, is simply ridiculous. Do you think it will be easy to make a
+Daburon of a young girl who for nearly eighteen years has been called
+d’Arlange?”
+
+This objection did not seem to trouble the magistrate.
+
+“After all,” continued the old lady, “your father gained a Cottevise,
+so you may win a d’Arlange. On the strength of marrying into noble
+families, the Daburons may perhaps end by ennobling themselves. One last
+piece of advice; you believe Claire to be just as she looks,--timid,
+sweet, obedient. Undeceive yourself, my friend. Despite her innocent
+air, she is hardy, fierce, and obstinate as the marquis her father, who
+was worse than an Auvergne mule. Now you are warned. Our conditions are
+agreed to, are they not? Let us say no more on the subject. I almost
+wish you to succeed.”
+
+This scene was so present to the magistrate’s mind, that as he sat at
+home in his arm-chair, though many months had passed since these events,
+he still seemed to hear the old lady’s voice, and the word “success”
+ still sounded in his ears.
+
+He departed in triumph from the d’Arlange abode, which he had entered
+with a heart swelling with anxiety. He walked with his head erect, his
+chest dilated, and breathing the fresh air with the full strength of his
+lungs. He was so happy! The sky appeared to him more blue, the sun
+more brilliant. This grave magistrate felt a mad desire to stop the
+passers-by, to press them in his arms, to cry to them,--“Have you heard?
+The marchioness consents!”
+
+He walked, and the earth seemed to him to give way beneath his
+footsteps; it was either too small to carry so much happiness, or else
+he had become so light that he was going to fly away towards the stars.
+
+What castles in the air he built upon what Madame d’Arlange had said to
+him! He would tender his resignation. He would build on the banks of the
+Loire, not far from Tours, an enchanting little villa. He already saw
+it, with its facade to the rising sun, nestling in the midst of flowers,
+and shaded with wide-spreading trees. He furnished this dwelling in the
+most luxuriant style. He wished to provide a marvellous casket, worthy
+the pearl he was about to possess. For he had not a doubt; not a cloud
+obscured the horizon made radiant by his hopes, no voice at the bottom
+of his heart raised itself to cry, “Beware!”
+
+From that day, his visits to the marchioness became more frequent.
+He might almost be said to live at her house. While he preserved his
+respectful and reserved demeanour towards Claire, he strove assiduously
+to be something in her life. True love is ingenious. He learnt to
+overcome his timidity, to speak to the well-beloved of his soul, to
+encourage her to converse with him, to interest her. He went in quest
+of all the news, to amuse her. He read all the new books, and brought to
+her all that were fit for her to read.
+
+Little by little he succeeded, thanks to the most delicate persistence,
+in taming this shy young girl. He began to perceive that her fear of him
+had almost disappeared, that she no longer received him with the cold
+and haughty air which had previously kept him at a distance. He felt
+that he was insensibly gaining her confidence. She still blushed when
+she spoke to him; but she no longer hesitated to address the first word.
+She even ventured at times to ask him a question. If she had heard a
+play well spoken of and wished to know the subject, M. Daburon would at
+once go to see it, and commit a complete account of it to writing, which
+he would send her through the post. At times she intrusted him with
+trifling commissions, the execution of which he would not have exchanged
+for the Russian embassy.
+
+Once he ventured to send her a magnificent bouquet. She accepted it with
+an air of uneasy surprise, but begged him not to repeat the offering.
+
+The tears came to his eyes; he left her presence broken-hearted, and the
+unhappiest of men. “She does not love me,” thought he, “she will never
+love me.” But, three days after, as he looked very sad, she begged him
+to procure her certain flowers, then very much in fashion, which she
+wished to place on her flower-stand. He sent enough to fill the house
+from the garret to the cellar. “She will love me,” he whispered to
+himself in his joy.
+
+These events, so trifling but yet so great, had not interrupted the
+games of piquet; only the young girl now appeared to interest herself
+in the play, nearly always taking the magistrate’s side against the
+marchioness. She did not understand the game very well; but, when
+the old gambler cheated too openly, she would notice it, and say,
+laughingly,--“She is robbing you, M. Daburon,--she is robbing you!” He
+would willingly have been robbed of his entire fortune, to hear that
+sweet voice raised on his behalf.
+
+It was summer time. Often in the evening she accepted his arm, and,
+while the marchioness remained at the window, seated in her arm-chair,
+they walked around the lawn, treading lightly upon the paths spread with
+gravel sifted so fine that the trailing of her light dress effaced the
+traces of their footsteps. She chatted gaily with him, as with a beloved
+brother, while he was obliged to do violence to his feelings, to refrain
+from imprinting a kiss upon the little blonde head, from which the light
+breeze lifted the curls and scattered them like fleecy clouds. At such
+moments, he seemed to tread an enchanted path strewn with flowers, at
+the end of which appeared happiness.
+
+When he attempted to speak of his hopes to the marchioness, she would
+say: “You know what we agreed upon. Not a word. Already does the
+voice of conscience reproach me for lending my countenance to such an
+abomination. To think that I may one day have a granddaughter calling
+herself Madame Daburon! You must petition the king, my friend, to change
+your name.”
+
+If instead of intoxicating himself with dreams of happiness, this acute
+observer had studied the character of his idol, the effect might have
+been to put him upon his guard. In the meanwhile, he noticed singular
+alterations in her humour. On certain days, she was gay and careless
+as a child. Then, for a week, she would remain melancholy and dejected.
+Seeing her in this state the day following a ball, to which her
+grandmother had made a point of taking her, he dared to ask her the
+reason of her sadness.
+
+“Oh! that,” answered she, heaving a deep sigh, “is my secret,--a secret
+of which even my grandmother knows nothing.”
+
+M. Daburon looked at her. He thought he saw a tear between her long
+eyelashes.
+
+“One day,” continued she, “I may confide in you: it will perhaps be
+necessary.”
+
+The magistrate was blind and deaf. “I also,” answered he, “have a
+secret, which I wish to confide to you in return.”
+
+When he retired towards midnight, he said to himself, “To-morrow I will
+confess everything to her.” Then passed a little more than fifty days,
+during which he kept repeating to himself,--“To-morrow!”
+
+It happened at last one evening in the month of August; the heat all
+day had been overpowering; towards dusk a breeze had risen, the leaves
+rustled; there were signs of a storm in the atmosphere.
+
+They were seated together at the bottom of the garden, under the arbour,
+adorned with exotic plants, and, through the branches, they perceived
+the fluttering gown of the marchioness, who was taking a turn after her
+dinner. They had remained a long time without speaking, enjoying the
+perfume of the flowers, the calm beauty of the evening.
+
+M. Daburon ventured to take the young girl’s hand. It was the first
+time, and the touch of her fine skin thrilled through every fibre of his
+frame, and drove the blood surging to his brain.
+
+“Mademoiselle,” stammered he, “Claire--”
+
+She turned towards him her beautiful eyes, filled with astonishment.
+
+“Forgive me,” continued he, “forgive me. I have spoken to your
+grandmother, before daring to raise my eyes to you. Do you not
+understand me? A word from your lips will decide my future happiness or
+misery. Claire, mademoiselle, do not spurn me: I love you!”
+
+While the magistrate was speaking, Mademoiselle d’Arlange looked at him
+as though doubtful of the evidence of her senses; but at the words, “I
+love you!” pronounced with the trembling accents of the most devoted
+passion, she disengaged her hand sharply, and uttered a stifled cry.
+
+“You,” murmured she, “is this really you?”
+
+M. Daburon, at this the most critical moment of his life was powerless
+to utter a word. The presentiment of an immense misfortune oppressed his
+heart. What were then his feelings, when he saw Claire burst into tears.
+She hid her face in her hands, and kept repeating,--
+
+“I am very unhappy, very unhappy!”
+
+“You unhappy?” exclaimed the magistrate at length, “and through me?
+Claire, you are cruel! In heaven’s name, what have I done? What is the
+matter? Speak! Anything rather then this anxiety which is killing me.”
+
+He knelt before her on the gravelled walk, and again made an attempt to
+take her hand. She repulsed him with an imploring gesture.
+
+“Let me weep,” said she: “I suffer so much, you are going to hate me,
+I feel it. Who knows! you will, perhaps, despise me, and yet I swear
+before heaven that I never expected what you have just said to me, that
+I had not even a suspicion of it!”
+
+M. Daburon remained upon his knees, awaiting his doom.
+
+“Yes,” continued Claire, “you will think you have been the victim of a
+detestable coquetry. I see it now! I comprehend everything! It is not
+possible, that, without a profound love, a man can be all that you
+have been to me. Alas! I was but a child. I gave myself up to the great
+happiness of having a friend! Am I not alone in the world, and as if
+lost in a desert? Silly and imprudent, I thoughtlessly confided in you,
+as in the best, the most indulgent of fathers.”
+
+These words revealed to the unfortunate magistrate the extent of
+his error. The same as a heavy hammer, they smashed into a thousand
+fragments the fragile edifice of his hopes. He raised himself slowly,
+and, in a tone of involuntary reproach, he repeated,--“Your father!”
+
+Mademoiselle d’Arlange felt how deeply she had wounded this man whose
+intense love she dare not even fathom. “Yes,” she resumed, “I love you
+as a father! Seeing you, usually so grave and austere, become for me
+so good, so indulgent, I thanked heaven for sending me a protector to
+replace those who are dead.”
+
+M. Daburon could not restrain a sob; his heart was breaking.
+
+“One word,” continued Claire,--“one single word, would have enlightened
+me. Why did you not pronounce it! It was with such happiness that I
+leant on you as a child on its mother; and with what inward joy I said
+to myself, ‘I am sure of one friend, of one heart into which runs the
+overflow of mine!’ Ah! why was not my confidence greater? Why did I
+withhold my secret from you? I might have avoided this fearful calamity.
+I ought to have told you long since. I no longer belong to myself freely
+and with happiness, I have given my life to another.”
+
+To hover in the clouds, and suddenly to fall rudely to the earth, such
+was M. Daburon’s fate; his sufferings are not to be described.
+
+“Far better to have spoken,” answered he; “yet no. I owe to your
+silence, Claire, six months of delicious illusions, six months of
+enchanting dreams. This shall be my share of life’s happiness.”
+
+The last beams of closing day still enabled the magistrate to see
+Mademoiselle d’Arlange. Her beautiful face had the whiteness and the
+immobility of marble. Heavy tears rolled silently down her cheeks. It
+seemed to M. Daburon that he was beholding the frightful spectacle of a
+weeping statue.
+
+“You love another,” said he at length, “another! And your grandmother
+does not know it. Claire, you can only have chosen a man worthy of your
+love. How is it the marchioness does not receive him?”
+
+“There are certain obstacles,” murmured Claire, “obstacles which perhaps
+we may never be able to remove; but a girl like me can love but once.
+She marries him she loves, or she belongs to heaven!”
+
+“Certain obstacles!” said M. Daburon in a hollow voice. “You love a man,
+he knows it, and he is stopped by obstacles?”
+
+“I am poor,” answered Mademoiselle d’Arlange, “and his family is
+immensely rich. His father is cruel, inexorable.”
+
+“His father,” cried the magistrate, with a bitterness he did not dream
+of hiding, “his father, his family, and that withholds him! You are
+poor, he is rich, and that stops him! And yet he knows you love him!
+Ah! why am I not in his place? and why have I not the entire universe
+against me? What sacrifice can compare with love? such as I understand
+it. Nay, would it be a sacrifice? That which appears most so, is it not
+really an immense joy? To suffer, to struggle, to wait, to hope always,
+to devote oneself entirely to another; that is my idea of love.”
+
+“It is thus I love,” said Claire with simplicity.
+
+This answer crushed the magistrate. He could understand it. He knew that
+for him there was no hope; but he felt a terrible enjoyment in torturing
+himself, and proving his misfortune by intense suffering.
+
+“But,” insisted he, “how have you known him, spoken to him? Where? When?
+Madame d’Arlange receives no one.”
+
+“I ought now to tell you everything, sir,” answered Claire proudly.
+“I have known him for a long time. It was at the house of one of my
+grandmother’s friends, who is a cousin of his,--old Mademoiselle Goello,
+that I saw him for the first time. There we spoke to each other; there
+we meet each other now.”
+
+“Ah!” exclaimed M. Daburon, whose eyes were suddenly opened, “I remember
+now. A few days before your visit to Mademoiselle Goello, you are gayer
+than usual; and, when you return, you are often sad.”
+
+“That is because I see how much he is pained by the obstacles he cannot
+overcome.”
+
+“Is his family, then, so illustrious,” asked the magistrate harshly,
+“that it disdains alliance with yours?”
+
+“I should have told you everything, without waiting to be questioned,
+sir,” answered Mademoiselle d’Arlange, “even his name. He is called
+Albert de Commarin.”
+
+The marchioness at this moment, thinking she had walked enough,
+was preparing to return to her rose-coloured boudoir. She therefore
+approached the arbour, and exclaimed in her loud voice:--
+
+“Worthy magistrate, piquet awaits you.”
+
+Mechanically the magistrate arose, stammering, “I am coming.”
+
+Claire held him back. “I have not asked you to keep my secret, sir,”
+ said she.
+
+“O mademoiselle!” said M. Daburon, wounded by this appearance of doubt.
+
+“I know,” resumed Claire, “that I can count upon you; but, come what
+will, my tranquillity is gone.”
+
+M. Daburon looked at her with an air of surprise; his eyes questioned
+her.
+
+“It is certain,” continued she, “that what I, a young and inexperienced
+girl, have failed to see, has not passed unnoticed by my grandmother.
+That she has continued to receive you is a tacit encouragement of your
+addresses; which I consider, permit me to say, as very honourable to
+myself.”
+
+“I have already mentioned, mademoiselle,” replied the magistrate, “that
+the marchioness has deigned to authorise my hopes.”
+
+And briefly he related his interview with Madame d’Arlange, having the
+delicacy, however, to omit absolutely the question of money, which had
+so strongly influenced the old lady.
+
+“I see very plainly what effect this will have on my peace,” said Claire
+sadly. “When my grandmother learns that I have not received your homage,
+she will be very angry.”
+
+“You misjudge me, mademoiselle,” interrupted M. Daburon. “I have nothing
+to say to the marchioness. I will retire, and all will be concluded. No
+doubt she will think that I have altered my mind!”
+
+“Oh! you are good and generous, I know!”
+
+“I will go away,” pursued M. Daburon; “and soon you will have forgotten
+even the name of the unfortunate whose life’s hopes have just been
+shattered.”
+
+“You do not mean what you say,” said the young girl quickly.
+
+“Well, no. I cherish this last illusion, that later on you will remember
+me with pleasure. Sometimes you will say, ‘He loved me,’ I wish all the
+same to remain your friend, yes, your most devoted friend.”
+
+Claire, in her turn, clasped M. Daburon’s hands, and said with great
+emotion:--“Yes, you are right, you must remain my friend. Let us forget
+what has happened, what you have said to-night, and remain to me, as in
+the past, the best, the most indulgent of brothers.”
+
+Darkness had come, and she could not see him; but she knew he was
+weeping, for he was slow to answer.
+
+“Is it possible,” murmured he at length, “what you ask of me? What! is
+it you who talk to me of forgetting? Do you feel the power to forget?
+Do you not see that I love you a thousand times more than you love--”
+ He stopped, unable to pronounce the name of Commarin; and then, with an
+effort he added: “And I shall love you always.”
+
+They had left the arbour, and were now standing not far from the steps
+leading to the house.
+
+“And now, mademoiselle,” resumed M. Daburon, “permit me to say, adieu!
+You will see me again but seldom. I shall only return often enough to
+avoid the appearance of a rupture.”
+
+His voice trembled, so that it was with difficulty he made it distinct.
+
+“Whatever may happen,” he added, “remember that there is one unfortunate
+being in the world who belongs to you absolutely. If ever you have need
+of a friend’s devotion, come to me, come to your friend. Now it is over
+... I have courage. Claire, mademoiselle, for the last time, adieu!”
+
+She was but little less moved than he was. Instinctively she approached
+him, and for the first and last time he touched lightly with his cold
+lips the forehead of her he loved so well. They mounted the steps, she
+leaning on his arm, and entered the rose-coloured boudoir where the
+marchioness was seated, impatiently shuffling the cards, while awaiting
+her victim.
+
+“Now, then, incorruptible magistrate,” cried she.
+
+But M. Daburon felt sick at heart. He could not have held the cards. He
+stammered some absurd excuses, spoke of pressing affairs, of duties to
+be attended to, of feeling suddenly unwell, and went out, clinging to
+the walls.
+
+His departure made the old card-player highly indignant. She turned to
+her grand-daughter, who had gone to hide her confusion away from the
+candles of the card table, and asked, “What is the matter with Daburon
+this evening?”
+
+“I do not know, madame,” stammered Claire.
+
+“It appears to me,” continued the marchioness, “that the little
+magistrate permits himself to take singular liberties. He must be
+reminded of his proper place, or he will end by believing himself our
+equal.”
+
+Claire tried to explain the magistrate’s conduct: “He has been
+complaining all the evening, grandmamma; perhaps he is unwell.”
+
+“And what if he is?” exclaimed the old lady. “Is it not his duty to
+exercise some self-denial, in return for the honour of our company? I
+think I have already related to you the story of your granduncle, the
+Duke de St Hurluge, who, having been chosen to join the king’s card
+party on their return from the chase, played all through the evening and
+lost with the best grace in the world two hundred and twenty pistoles.
+All the assembly remarked his gaiety and his good humour. On the
+following day only it was learned, that, during the hunt, he had fallen
+from his horse, and had sat at his majesty’s card table with a broken
+rib. Nobody made any remark, so perfectly natural did this act of
+ordinary politeness appear in those days. This little Daburon, if he is
+unwell, would have given proof of his breeding by saying nothing about
+it, and remaining for my piquet. But he is as well as I am. Who can tell
+what games he has gone to play elsewhere!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+M. Daburon did not return home on leaving Mademoiselle d’Arlange. All
+through the night he wandered about at random, seeking to cool his
+heated brow, and to allay his excessive weariness.
+
+“Fool that I was!” said he to himself, “thousand times fool to have
+hoped, to have believed, that she would ever love me. Madman! how
+could I have dared to dream of possessing so much grace, nobleness, and
+beauty! How charming she was this evening, when her face was bathed in
+tears! Could anything be more angelic? What a sublime expression her
+eyes had in speaking of him! How she must love him! And I? She loves me
+as a father, she told me so,--as a father! And could it be otherwise?
+Is it not justice? Could she see a lover in a sombre and severe-looking
+magistrate, always as sad as his black coat? Was it not a crime to dream
+of uniting that virginal simplicity to my detestable knowledge of the
+world? For her, the future is yet the land of smiling chimeras; and long
+since experience has dissipated all my illusions. She is as young as
+innocence, and I am as old as vice.”
+
+The unfortunate magistrate felt thoroughly ashamed of himself. He
+understood Claire, and excused her. He reproached himself for having
+shown her how he suffered; for having cast a shadow upon her life. He
+could not forgive himself for having spoken of his love. Ought he not
+to have foreseen what had happened?--that she would refuse him, that he
+would thus deprive himself of the happiness of seeing her, of hearing
+her, and of silently adoring her?
+
+“A young and romantic girl,” pursued he, “must have a lover she can
+dream of,--whom she can caress in imagination, as an ideal, gratifying
+herself by seeing in him every great and brilliant quality, imagining
+him full of nobleness, of bravery, of heroism. What would she see,
+if, in my absence, she dreamed of me? Her imagination would present me
+dressed in a funeral robe, in the depth of a gloomy dungeon, engaged
+with some vile criminal. Is it not my trade to descend into all moral
+sinks, to stir up the foulness of crime? Am I not compelled to wash
+in secrecy and darkness the dirty linen of the most corrupt members of
+society? Ah! some professions are fatal. Ought not the magistrate, like
+the priest, to condemn himself to solitude and celibacy? Both know all,
+they hear all, their costumes are nearly the same; but, while the priest
+carries consolation in the folds of his black robe, the magistrate
+conveys terror. One is mercy, the other chastisement. Such are the
+images a thought of me would awaken; while the other,--the other--”
+
+The wretched man continued his headlong course along the deserted quays.
+He went with his head bare, his eyes haggard. To breathe more freely, he
+had torn off his cravat and thrown it to the winds.
+
+Sometimes, unconsciously, he crossed the path of a solitary wayfarer,
+who would pause, touched with pity, and turn to watch the retreating
+figure of the unfortunate wretch he thought deprived of reason. In a
+by-road, near Grenelle, some police officers stopped him, and tried to
+question him. He mechanically tendered them his card. They read it, and
+permitted him to pass, convinced that he was drunk.
+
+Anger,--a furious anger, began to replace his first feeling of
+resignation. In his heart arose a hate, stronger and more violent than
+even his love for Claire. That other, that preferred one, that haughty
+viscount, who could not overcome those paltry obstacles, oh, that he had
+him there, under his knee!
+
+At that moment, this noble and proud man, this severe and grave
+magistrate experienced an irresistible longing for vengeance. He began
+to understand the hate that arms itself with a knife, and lays in ambush
+in out-of-the-way places; which strikes in the dark, whether in front
+or from behind matters little, but which strikes, which kills, whose
+vengeance blood alone can satisfy.
+
+At that very hour he was supposed to be occupied with an inquiry
+into the case of an unfortunate, accused of having stabbed one of her
+wretched companions. She was jealous of the woman, who had tried to
+take her lover from her. He was a soldier, coarse in manners, and always
+drunk.
+
+M. Daburon felt himself seized with pity for this miserable creature,
+whom he had commenced to examine the day before. She was very ugly, in
+fact truly repulsive; but the expression of the eyes, when speaking of
+her soldier, returned to the magistrate’s memory.
+
+“She loves him sincerely,” thought he. “If each one of the jurors had
+suffered what I am suffering now, she would be acquitted. But how many
+men in this world have loved passionately? Perhaps not one in twenty.”
+
+He resolved to recommend this girl to the indulgence of the tribunal,
+and to extenuate as much as possible her guilt.
+
+For he himself had just determined upon the commission of a crime. He
+was resolved to kill Albert de Commarin.
+
+During the rest of the night he became all the more determined in this
+resolution, demonstrating to himself by a thousand mad reasons, which he
+found solid and inscrutable, the necessity for and the justifiableness
+of this vengeance.
+
+At seven o’clock in the morning, he found himself in an avenue of the
+Bois de Boulogne, not far from the lake. He made at once for the Porte
+Maillot, procured a cab, and was driven to his house.
+
+The delirium of the night continued, but without suffering. He was
+conscious of no fatigue. Calm and cool, he acted under the power of an
+hallucination, almost like a somnambulist.
+
+He reflected and reasoned, but without his reason. As soon as he arrived
+home he dressed himself with care, as was his custom formerly when
+visiting the Marchioness d’Arlange, and went out. He first called at an
+armourer’s and bought a small revolver, which he caused to be carefully
+loaded under his own eyes, and put it into his pocket. He then called on
+the different persons he supposed capable of informing him to what club
+the viscount belonged. No one noticed the strange state of his mind, so
+natural were his manners and conversations.
+
+It was not until the afternoon that a young friend of his gave him the
+name of Albert de Commarin’s club, and offered to conduct him thither,
+as he too was a member.
+
+M. Daburon accepted warmly, and accompanied his friend. While passing
+along, he grasped with frenzy the handle of the revolver which he kept
+concealed, thinking only of the murder he was determined to commit, and
+the means of insuring the accuracy of his aim.
+
+“This will make a terrible scandal,” thought he, “above all if I do not
+succeed in blowing my own brains out. I shall be arrested, thrown
+into prison, and placed upon my trial at the assizes. My name will be
+dishonoured! Bah! what does that signify? Claire does not love me, so
+what care I for all the rest? My father no doubt will die of grief, but
+I must have my revenge!”
+
+On arriving at the club, his friend pointed out a very dark young man,
+with a haughty air, or what appeared so to him, who, seated at a table,
+was reading a review. It was the viscount.
+
+M. Daburon walked up to him without drawing his revolver. But when
+within two paces, his heart failed him; he turned suddenly and fled,
+leaving his friend astonished at a scene, to him, utterly inexplicable.
+
+Only once again will Albert de Commarin be as near death.
+
+On reaching the street, it seemed to M. Daburon that the ground was
+receding from beneath him, that everything was turning around him. He
+tried to cry out, but could not utter a sound; he struck at the air with
+his hands, reeled for an instant, and then fell all of a heap on the
+pavement.
+
+The passers-by ran and assisted the police to raise him. In one of his
+pockets they found his address, and carried him home. When he recovered
+his senses, he was in his bed, at the foot of which he perceived his
+father.
+
+“What has happened?” he asked. With much caution they told him, that
+for six weeks he had wavered between life and death. The doctors had
+declared his life saved; and, now that reason was restored, all would go
+well.
+
+Five minutes’ conversation exhausted him. He shut his eyes, and tried to
+collect his ideas; but they whirled hither and thither wildly, as autumn
+leaves in the wind. The past seemed shrouded in a dark mist; yet, in
+the midst of the darkness and confusion, all that concerned Mademoiselle
+d’Arlange stood out clear and luminous. All his actions from the moment
+when he embraced Claire appeared before him. He shuddered, and his hair
+was in a moment soaking with perspiration.
+
+He had almost become an assassin. The proof that he was restored to full
+possession of his faculties was, that a question of criminal law crossed
+his brain.
+
+“The crime committed,” said he to himself, “should I have been
+condemned? Yes. Was I responsible? No. Is crime merely the result of
+mental alienation? Was I mad? Or was I in that peculiar state of mind
+which usually precedes an illegal attempt? Who can say? Why have not all
+judges passed through an incomprehensible crisis such as mine? But who
+would believe me, were I to recount my experience?”
+
+Some days later, he was sufficiently recovered to tell his father all.
+The old gentleman shrugged his shoulders, and assured him it was but a
+reminiscence of his delirium.
+
+The good old man was moved at the story of his son’s luckless wooing,
+without seeing therein, however, an irreparable misfortune. He advised
+him to think of something else, placed at his disposal his entire
+fortune, and recommended him to marry a stout Poitevine heiress, very
+gay and healthy, who would bear him some fine children. Then, as his
+estate was suffering by his absence, he returned home. Two months later,
+the investigating magistrate had resumed his ordinary avocations. But
+try as he would, he only went through his duties like a body without a
+soul. He felt that something was broken.
+
+Once he ventured to pay a visit to his old friend, the marchioness. On
+seeing him, she uttered a cry of terror. She took him for a spectre, so
+much was he changed in appearance.
+
+As she dreaded dismal faces, she ever after shut her door to him.
+
+Claire was ill for a week after seeing him. “How he loved me,” thought
+she! “It has almost killed him! Can Albert love me as much?” She did not
+dare to answer herself. She felt a desire to console him, to speak to
+him, attempt something; but he came no more.
+
+M. Daburon was not, however, a man to give way without a struggle. He
+tried, as his father advised him, to distract his thoughts. He sought
+for pleasure, and found disgust, but not forgetfulness. Often he went
+so far as the threshold of debauchery; but the pure figure of Claire,
+dressed in white garments, always barred the doors against him.
+
+Then he took refuge in work, as in a sanctuary; condemned himself to the
+most incessant labour, and forbade himself to think of Claire, as the
+consumptive forbids himself to meditate upon his malady.
+
+His eagerness, his feverish activity, earned him the reputation of an
+ambitious man, who would go far; but he cared for nothing in the world.
+
+At length, he found, not rest, but that painless benumbing which
+commonly follows a great catastrophe. The convalescence of oblivion was
+commencing.
+
+These were the events, recalled to M. Daburon’s mind when old Tabaret
+pronounced the name of Commarin. He believed them buried under the ashes
+of time; and behold they reappeared, just the same as those characters
+traced in sympathetic ink when held before a fire. In an instant they
+unrolled themselves before his memory, with the instantaneousness of a
+dream annihilating time and space.
+
+During some minutes, he assisted at the representation of his own life.
+At once actor and spectator, he was there seated in his arm-chair,
+and at the same time he appeared on the stage. He acted, and he judged
+himself.
+
+His first thought, it must be confessed, was one of hate, followed by
+a detestable feeling of satisfaction. Chance had, so to say, delivered
+into his hands this man preferred by Claire, this man, now no longer a
+haughty nobleman, illustrious by his fortune and his ancestors, but the
+illegitimate offspring of a courtesan. To retain a stolen name, he had
+committed a most cowardly assassination. And he, the magistrate, was
+about to experience the infinite gratification of striking his enemy
+with the sword of justice.
+
+But this was only a passing thought. The man’s upright conscience
+revolted against it, and made its powerful voice heard.
+
+“Is anything,” it cried, “more monstrous than the association of these
+two ideas,--hatred and justice? Can a magistrate, without despising
+himself more than he despises the vile beings he condemns, recollect
+that a criminal, whose fate is in his hands, has been his enemy? Has an
+investigating magistrate the right to make use of his exceptional powers
+in dealing with a prisoner; so long as he harbours the least resentment
+against him?”
+
+M. Daburon repeated to himself what he had so frequently thought during
+the year, when commencing a fresh investigation: “And I also, I almost
+stained myself with a vile murder!”
+
+And now it was his duty to cause to be arrested, to interrogate, and
+hand over to the assizes the man he had once resolved to kill.
+
+All the world, it is true, ignored this crime of thought and intention;
+but could he himself forget it? Was not this, of all others, a case in
+which he should decline to be mixed up? Ought he not to withdraw, and
+wash his hands of the blood that had been shed, leaving to another the
+task of avenging him in the name of society?
+
+“No,” said he, “it would be a cowardice unworthy of me.”
+
+A project of mad generosity occurred to the bewildered man. “If I save
+him,” murmured he, “if for Claire’s sake I leave him his honour and his
+life. But how can I save him? To do so I shall be obliged to suppress
+old Tabaret’s discoveries, and make an accomplice of him by ensuring his
+silence. We shall have to follow a wrong track, join Gevrol in running
+after some imaginary murderer. Is this practicable? Besides, to spare
+Albert is to defame Noel; it is to assure impunity to the most odious of
+crimes. In short, it is still sacrificing justice to my feelings.”
+
+The magistrate suffered greatly. How choose a path in the midst of
+so many perplexities! Impelled by different interests, he wavered,
+undecided between the most opposite decisions, his mind oscillating from
+one extreme to the other.
+
+What could he do? His reason after this new and unforeseen shock vainly
+sought to regain its equilibrium.
+
+“Resign?” said he to himself. “Where, then, would be my courage? Ought
+I not rather to remain the representative of the law, incapable of
+emotion, insensible to prejudice? am I so weak that, in assuming my
+office, I am unable to divest myself of my personality? Can I not, for
+the present, make abstraction of the past? My duty is to pursue this
+investigation. Claire herself would desire me to act thus. Would she wed
+a man suspected of a crime? Never. If he is innocent, he will be saved;
+if guilty, let him perish!”
+
+This was very sound reasoning; but, at the bottom of his heart, a
+thousand disquietudes darted their thorns. He wanted to reassure
+himself.
+
+“Do I still hate this young man?” he continued. “No, certainly. If
+Claire has preferred him to me, it is to Claire and not to him I owe my
+suffering. My rage was no more than a passing fit of delirium. I will
+prove it, by letting him find me as much a counsellor as a magistrate.
+If he is not guilty, he shall make use of all the means in my power to
+establish his innocence. Yes, I am worthy to be his judge. Heaven, who
+reads all my thoughts, sees that I love Claire enough to desire with all
+my heart the innocence of her lover.”
+
+Only then did M. Daburon seem to be vaguely aware of the lapse of time.
+It was nearly three o’clock in the morning.
+
+“Goodness!” cried he; “why, old Tabaret is waiting for me. I shall
+probably find him asleep.”
+
+But M. Tabaret was not asleep. He had noticed the passage of time no
+more than the magistrate.
+
+Ten minutes had sufficed him to take an inventory of the contents of M.
+Daburon’s study, which was large, and handsomely furnished in accordance
+with his position and fortune. Taking up a lamp, he first admired six
+very valuable pictures, which ornamented the walls; he then examined
+with considerable curiosity some rare bronzes placed about the room, and
+bestowed on the bookcase the glance of a connoisseur.
+
+After which, taking an evening paper from the table, he approached the
+hearth, and seated himself in a vast armchair.
+
+He had not read a third of the leading article, which, like all leading
+articles of the time, was exclusively occupied with the Roman question,
+when, letting the paper drop from his hands, he became absorbed
+in meditation. The fixed idea, stronger than one’s will, and more
+interesting to him than politics, brought him forcibly back to La
+Jonchere, where lay the murdered Widow Lerouge. Like the child who again
+and again builds up and demolishes his house of cards, he arranged and
+entangled alternately his chain of inductions and arguments.
+
+In his own mind there was certainly no longer a doubt as regards this
+sad affair, and it seemed to him that M. Daburon shared his opinions.
+But yet, what difficulties there still remained to encounter!
+
+There exists between the investigating magistrate and the accused a
+supreme tribunal, an admirable institution which is a guarantee for all,
+a powerful moderator, the jury.
+
+And the jury, thank heaven! do not content themselves with a moral
+conviction. The strongest probabilities cannot induce them to give an
+affirmative verdict.
+
+Placed upon a neutral ground, between the prosecution and the defence,
+it demands material and tangible proofs. Where the magistrate would
+condemn twenty times for one, in all security of conscience, the jury
+acquit for lack of satisfying evidence.
+
+The deplorable execution of Lesurques has certainly assured impunity to
+many criminals; but, it is necessary to say it justifies hesitation in
+receiving circumstantial evidence in capital crimes.
+
+In short, save where a criminal is taken in the very act, or confesses
+his guilt, it is not certain that the minister of justice can secure a
+conviction. Sometimes the judge of inquiry is as anxious as the accused
+himself. Nearly all crimes are in some particular point mysterious,
+perhaps impenetrable to justice and the police; and the duty of the
+advocate is, to discover this weak point, and thereon establish his
+client’s defence. By pointing out this doubt to the jury, he insinuates
+in their minds a distrust of the entire evidence; and frequently the
+detection of a distorted induction, cleverly exposed, can change the
+face of a prosecution, and make a strong case appear to the jury a weak
+one. This uncertainty explains the character of passion which is so
+often perceptible in criminal trials.
+
+And, in proportion to the march of civilisation, juries in important
+trials will become more timid and hesitating. The weight of
+responsibility oppresses the man of conscientious scruple. Already
+numbers recoil from the idea of capital punishment; and, whenever a jury
+can find a peg to hang a doubt on, they will wash their hands of the
+responsibility of condemnation. We have seen numbers of persons signing
+appeals for mercy to a condemned malefactor, condemned for what crime?
+Parricide! Every juror, from the moment he is sworn, weighs infinitely
+less the evidence he has come to listen to than the risk he runs of
+incurring the pangs of remorse. Rather than risk the condemnation of one
+innocent man, he will allow twenty scoundrels to go unpunished.
+
+The accusation must then come before the jury, armed at all points, with
+abundant proofs. A task often tedious to the investigating magistrate,
+and bristling with difficulties, is the arrangement and condensation of
+this evidence, particularly when the accused is a cool hand, certain of
+having left no traces of his guilt. Then from the depths of his dungeon
+he defies the assault of justice, and laughs at the judge of inquiry. It
+is a terrible struggle, enough to make one tremble at the responsibility
+of the magistrate, when he remembers, that after all, this man
+imprisoned, without consolation or advice, may be innocent. How hard is
+it, then for the judge to resist his moral convictions!
+
+Even when presumptive evidence points clearly to the criminal,
+and common sense recognises him, justice is at times compelled to
+acknowledge her defeat, for lack of what the jury consider sufficient
+proof of guilt. Thus, unhappily, many crimes escape punishment. An old
+advocate-general said one day that he knew as many as three assassins,
+living rich, happy, and respected, who would probably end by dying in
+their beds, surrounded by their families, and being followed to
+the grave with lamentations, and praised for their virtues in their
+epitaphs.
+
+At the idea that a murderer might escape the penalty of his crime, and
+steal away from the assize court, old Tabaret’s blood fairly boiled in
+his veins, as at the recollection of some deadly insult.
+
+Such a monstrous event, in his opinion, could only proceed from the
+incapacity of those charged with the preliminary inquiry, the clumsiness
+of the police, or the stupidity of the investigating magistrate.
+
+“It is not I,” he muttered, with the satisfied vanity of success, “who
+would ever let my prey escape. No crime can be committed, of which the
+author cannot be found, unless, indeed, he happens to be a madman, whose
+motive it would be difficult to understand. I would pass my life in
+pursuit of a criminal, before avowing myself vanquished, as Gevrol has
+done so many times.”
+
+Assisted by chance, he had again succeeded, so he kept repeating to
+himself, but what proofs could he furnish to the accusation, to that
+confounded jury, so difficult to convince, so precise and so cowardly?
+What could he imagine to force so cunning a culprit to betray himself?
+What trap could he prepare? To what new and infallible stratagem could
+he have recourse?
+
+The amateur detective exhausted himself in subtle but impracticable
+combinations, always stopped by that exacting jury, so obnoxious to
+the agents of the Rue de Jerusalem. He was so deeply absorbed in his
+thoughts that he did not hear the door open, and was utterly unconscious
+of the magistrate’s presence.
+
+M. Daburon’s voice aroused him from his reverie.
+
+“You will excuse me, M. Tabaret, for having left you so long alone.”
+
+The old fellow rose and bowed respectfully.
+
+“By my faith, sir,” replied he, “I have not had the leisure to perceive
+my solitude.”
+
+M. Daburon crossed the room, and seated himself, facing his agent before
+a small table encumbered with papers and documents relating to the
+crime. He appeared very much fatigued.
+
+“I have reflected a good deal,” he commenced, “about this affair--”
+
+“And I,” interrupted old Tabaret, “was just asking myself what was
+likely to be the attitude assumed by the viscount at the moment of his
+arrest. Nothing is more important, according to my idea, than his manner
+of conducting himself then. Will he fly into a passion? Will he attempt
+to intimidate the agents? Will he threaten to turn them out of the
+house? These are generally the tactics of titled criminals. My opinion,
+however, is, that he will remain perfectly cool. He will declare himself
+the victim of a misunderstanding, and insist upon an immediate interview
+with the investigating magistrate. Once that is accorded him, he will
+explain everything very quickly.”
+
+The old fellow spoke of matters of speculation in such a tone of
+assurance that M. Daburon was unable to repress a smile.
+
+“We have not got as far as that yet,” said he.
+
+“But we shall, in a few hours,” replied M. Tabaret quickly. “I presume
+you will order young M. de Commarin’s arrest at daybreak.”
+
+The magistrate trembled, like the patient who sees the surgeon deposit
+his case of instruments upon the table on entering the room.
+
+The moment for action had come. He felt now what a distance lies between
+a mental decision and the physical action required to execute it.
+
+“You are prompt, M. Tabaret,” said he; “you recognize no obstacles.”
+
+“None, having ascertained the criminal. Who else can have committed this
+assassination? Who but he had an interest in silencing Widow Lerouge,
+in suppressing her testimony, in destroying her papers? He, and only he.
+Poor Noel! who is as dull as honesty, warned him, and he acted. Should
+we fail to establish his guilt, he will remain de Commarin more than
+ever; and my young advocate will be Noel Gerdy to the grave.”
+
+“Yes, but--”
+
+The old man fixed his eyes upon the magistrate with a look of
+astonishment.
+
+“You see, then, some difficulties, sir?” he asked.
+
+“Most decidedly!” replied M. Daburon. “This is a matter demanding the
+utmost circumspection. In cases like the present, one must not strike
+until the blow is sure, and we have but presumptions. Suppose we are
+mistaken. Justice, unhappily, cannot repair her errors. Her hand once
+unjustly placed upon a man, leaves an imprint of dishonour that can
+never be effaced. She may perceive her error, and proclaim it aloud,
+but in vain! Public opinion, absurd and idiotic, will not pardon the man
+guilty of being suspected.”
+
+It was with a sinking heart that the old fellow listened to these
+remarks. He would not be withheld by such paltry considerations.
+
+“Our suspicions are well grounded,” continued the magistrate. “But,
+should they lead us into error, our precipitation would be a terrible
+misfortune for this young man, to say nothing of the effect it would
+have in abridging the authority and dignity of justice, of weakening
+the respect which constitutes her power. Such a mistake would call for
+discussion, provoke examination, and awaken distrust, at an epoch in our
+history when all minds are but too much disposed to defy the constituted
+authorities.”
+
+He leaned upon the table, and appeared to reflect profoundly.
+
+“I have no luck,” thought old Tabaret. “I have to do with a trembler.
+When he should act, he makes speeches; instead of signing warrants, he
+propounds theories. He is astounded at my discovery, and is not equal to
+the situation. Instead of being delighted by my appearance with the news
+of our success, he would have given a twenty-franc piece, I dare say, to
+have been left undisturbed. Ah! he would very willingly have the little
+fishes in his net, but the big ones frighten him. The big fishes are
+dangerous, and he prefers to let them swim away.”
+
+“Perhaps,” said M. Daburon, aloud, “it will suffice to issue a
+search-warrant, and a summons for the appearance of the accused.”
+
+“Then all is lost!” cried old Tabaret.
+
+“And why, pray?”
+
+“Because we are opposed by a criminal of marked ability. A most
+providential accident has placed us upon his track. If we give him time
+to breathe, he will escape.”
+
+The only answer was an inclination of the head, which M. Daburon may
+have intended for a sign of assent.
+
+“It is evident,” continued the old fellow, “that our adversary has
+foreseen everything, absolutely everything, even the possibility of
+suspicion attaching to one in his high position. Oh! his precautions
+are all taken. If you are satisfied with demanding his appearance, he
+is saved. He will appear before you as tranquilly as your clerk, as
+unconcerned as if he came to arrange the preliminaries of a duel. He
+will present you with a magnificent _alibi_, an _alibi_ that can not be
+gainsayed. He will show you that he passed the evening and the night
+of Tuesday with personages of the highest rank. In short, his little
+machine will be so cleverly constructed, so nicely arranged, all its
+little wheels will play so well, that there will be nothing left for you
+but to open the door and usher him out with the most humble apologies.
+The only means of securing conviction is to surprise the miscreant by
+a rapidity against which it is impossible he can be on his guard. Fall
+upon him like a thunder-clap, arrest him as he wakes, drag him hither
+while yet pale with astonishment, and interrogate him at once. Ah! I
+wish I were an investigating magistrate.”
+
+Old Tabaret stopped short, frightened at the idea that he had been
+wanting in respect; but M. Daburon showed no sign of being offended.
+
+“Proceed,” said he, in a tone of encouragement, “proceed.”
+
+“Suppose, then,” continued the detective, “I am the investigating
+magistrate. I cause my man to be arrested, and, twenty minutes later,
+he is standing before me. I do not amuse myself by putting questions to
+him, more or less subtle. No, I go straight to the mark. I overwhelm him
+at once by the weight of my certainty, prove to him so clearly that I
+know everything, that he must surrender, seeing no chance of escape.
+I should say to him, ‘My good man, you bring me an _alibi_; it is very
+well; but I am acquainted with that system of defence. It will not do
+with me. I know all about the clocks that don’t keep proper time, and
+all the people who never lost sight of you. In the meantime, this is
+what you did. At twenty minutes past eight, you slipped away adroitly;
+at thirty-five minutes past eight, you took the train at the St Lazare
+station; at nine o’clock, you alighted at the station at Rueil, and
+took the road to La Jonchere; at a quarter past nine, you knocked at the
+window-shutter of Widow Lerouge’s cottage. You were admitted. You asked
+for something to eat, and, above all, something to drink. At twenty
+minutes past nine, you planted the well-sharpened end of a foil between
+her shoulders. You killed her! You then overturned everything in the
+house, and burned certain documents of importance; after which, you tied
+up in a napkin all the valuables you could find, and carried them off,
+to lead the police to believe the murder was the work of a robber. You
+locked the door, and threw away the key. Arrived at the Seine, you threw
+the bundle into the water, then hurried off to the railway station on
+foot, and at eleven o’clock you reappeared amongst your friends.
+Your game was well played; but you omitted to provide against two
+adversaries, a detective, not easily deceived, named Tirauclair, and
+another still more clever, named chance. Between them, they have got the
+better of you. Moreover, you were foolish to wear such small boots, and
+to keep on your lavender kid gloves, besides embarrassing yourself with
+a silk hat and an umbrella. Now confess your guilt, for it is the only
+thing left you to do, and I will give you permission to smoke in your
+dungeon some of those excellent trabucos you are so fond of, and which
+you always smoke with an amber mouthpiece.’”
+
+During this speech, M. Tabaret had gained at least a couple of inches in
+height, so great was his enthusiasm. He looked at the magistrate, as if
+expecting a smile of approbation.
+
+“Yes,” continued he, after taking breath, “I would say that, and nothing
+else; and, unless this man is a hundred times stronger than I suppose
+him to be, unless he is made of bronze, of marble, or of steel, he would
+fall at my feet and avow his guilt.”
+
+“But supposing he were of bronze,” said M. Daburon, “and did not fall at
+your feet, what would you do next?”
+
+The question evidently embarrassed the old fellow.
+
+“Pshaw!” stammered he; “I don’t know; I would see; I would search; but
+he would confess.”
+
+After a prolonged silence, M. Daburon took a pen, and hurriedly wrote a
+few lines.
+
+“I surrender,” said he. “M. Albert de Commarin shall be arrested;
+that is settled. The different formalities to be gone through and
+the perquisitions will occupy some time, which I wish to employ in
+interrogating the Count de Commarin, the young man’s father, and your
+friend M. Noel Gerdy, the young advocate. The letters he possesses are
+indispensable to me.”
+
+At the name of Gerdy, M. Tabaret’s face assumed a most comical
+expression of uneasiness.
+
+“Confound it,” cried he, “the very thing I most dreaded.”
+
+“What?” asked M. Daburon.
+
+“The necessity for the examination of those letters. Noel will discover
+my interference. He will despise me: he will fly from me, when he knows
+that Tabaret and Tirauclair sleep in the same nightcap. Before eight
+days are past, my oldest friends will refuse to shake hands with me, as
+if it were not an honour to serve justice. I shall be obliged to change
+my residence, and assume a false name.”
+
+He almost wept, so great was his annoyance. M. Daburon was touched.
+
+“Reassure yourself, my dear M. Tabaret,” said he. “I will manage that
+your adopted son, your Benjamin, shall know nothing. I will lead him to
+believe I have reached him by means of the widow’s papers.”
+
+The old fellow seized the magistrate’s hand in a transport of gratitude,
+and carried it to his lips. Oh! thanks, sir, a thousand thanks! I should
+like to be permitted to witness the arrest; and I shall be glad to
+assist at the perquisitions.”
+
+“I intended to ask you to do so, M. Tabaret,” answered the magistrate.
+
+The lamps paled in the gray dawn of the morning; already the rumbling of
+vehicles was heard; Paris was awaking.
+
+“I have no time to lose,” continued M. Daburon, “if I would have all my
+measures well taken. I must at once see the public prosecutor, whether
+he is up or not. I shall go direct from his house to the Palais de
+Justice, and be there before eight o’clock; and I desire, M. Tabaret,
+that you will there await my orders.”
+
+The old fellow bowed his thanks and was about to leave, when the
+magistrate’s servant appeared.
+
+“Here is a note, sir,” said he, “which a gendarme has just brought from
+Bougival. He waits an answer.”
+
+“Very well,” replied M. Daburon. “Ask the man to have some refreshment;
+at least offer him a glass of wine.”
+
+He opened the envelope. “Ah!” he cried, “a letter from Gevrol;” and he
+read:
+
+
+“‘To the investigating magistrate. Sir, I have the honour to inform you,
+that I am on the track of the man with the earrings. I heard of him at
+a wine shop, which he entered on Sunday morning, before going to Widow
+Lerouge’s cottage. He bought, and paid for two litres of wine; then,
+suddenly striking his forehead, he cried, “Old fool! to forget that
+to-morrow is the boat’s fete day!” and immediately called for three
+more litres. According to the almanac the boat must be called the
+Saint-Martin. I have also learned that she was laden with grain. I write
+to the Prefecture at the same time as I write to you, that inquiries may
+be made at Paris and Rouen. He will be found at one of those places. I
+am in waiting, sir, etc.’”
+
+
+“Poor Gevrol!” cried old Tabaret, bursting with laughter. “He sharpens
+his sabre, and the battle is over. Are you not going to put a stop to
+his inquiries, sir?”
+
+“No; certainly not,” answered M. Daburon; “to neglect the slightest clue
+often leads one into error. Who can tell what light we may receive from
+this mariner?”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+On the same day that the crime of La Jonchere was discovered, and
+precisely at the hour that M. Tabaret made his memorable examination
+in the victim’s chamber, the Viscount Albert de Commarin entered his
+carriage, and proceeded to the Northern railway station, to meet his
+father.
+
+The young man was very pale: his pinched features, his dull eyes, his
+blanched lips, in fact his whole appearance denoted either overwhelming
+fatigue or unusual sorrow. All the servants had observed, that, during
+the past five days, their young master had not been in his ordinary
+condition: he spoke but little, ate almost nothing, and refused to see
+any visitors. His valet noticed that this singular change dated from
+the visit, on Sunday morning, of a certain M. Noel Gerdy, who had been
+closeted with him for three hours in the library.
+
+The Viscount, gay as a lark until the arrival of this person, had, from
+the moment of his departure, the appearance of a man at the point of
+death. When setting forth to meet his father, the viscount appeared to
+suffer so acutely that M. Lubin, his valet, entreated him not to go out;
+suggesting that it would be more prudent to retire to his room, and call
+in the doctor.
+
+But the Count de Commarin was exacting on the score of filial duty, and
+would overlook the worst of youthful indiscretions sooner than what he
+termed a want of reverence. He had announced his intended arrival
+by telegraph, twenty-four hours in advance; therefore the house was
+expected to be in perfect readiness to receive him, and the absence of
+Albert at the railway station would have been resented as a flagrant
+omission of duty.
+
+The viscount had been but five minutes in the waiting-room, when the
+bell announced the arrival of the train. Soon the doors leading on
+to the platform were opened, and the travelers crowded in. The throng
+beginning to thin a little, the count appeared, followed by a servant,
+who carried a travelling pelisse lined with rare and valuable fur.
+
+The Count de Commarin looked a good ten years less than his age. His
+beard and hair, yet abundant, were scarcely gray. He was tall and
+muscular, held himself upright, and carried his head high. His
+appearance was noble, his movements easy. His regular features presented
+a study to the physiognomist, all expressing easy, careless good
+nature, even to the handsome, smiling mouth; but in his eyes flashed the
+fiercest and the most arrogant pride. This contrast revealed the secret
+of his character. Imbued quite as deeply with aristocratic prejudice
+as the Marchioness d’Arlange, he had progressed with his century or at
+least appeared to have done so. As fully as the marchioness, he held in
+contempt all who were not noble; but his disdain expressed itself in a
+different fashion. The marchioness proclaimed her contempt loudly and
+coarsely; the count had kept eyes and ears open and had seen and heard
+a good deal. She was stupid, and without a shade of common sense. He was
+witty and sensible, and possessed enlarged views of life and politics.
+She dreamed of the return of the absurd traditions of a former age;
+he hoped for things within the power of events to bring forth. He was
+sincerely persuaded that the nobles of France would yet recover slowly
+and silently, but surely, all their lost power, with its prestige and
+influence.
+
+In a word, the count was the flattered portrait of his class; the
+marchioness its caricature. It should be added, that M. de Commarin knew
+how to divest himself of his crushing urbanity in the company of his
+equals. There he recovered his true character, haughty, self-sufficient,
+and intractable, enduring contradiction pretty much as a wild horse the
+application of the spur. In his own house, he was a despot.
+
+Perceiving his father, Albert advanced towards him. They shook hands
+and embraced with an air as noble as ceremonious, and, in less than
+a minute, had exchanged all the news that had transpired during the
+count’s absence. Then only did M. de Commarin perceive the alteration in
+his son’s face.
+
+“You are unwell, viscount,” said he.
+
+“Oh, no, sir,” answered Albert, laconically.
+
+The count uttered “Ah!” accompanied by a certain movement of the head,
+which, with him, expressed perfect incredulity; then, turning to his
+servant, he gave him some orders briefly.
+
+“Now,” resumed he, “let us go quickly to the house. I am in haste to
+feel at home; and I am hungry, having had nothing to-day, but some
+detestable broth, at I know not what way station.”
+
+M. de Commarin had returned to Paris in a very bad temper, his journey
+to Austria had not brought the results he had hoped for. To crown his
+dissatisfaction, he had rested, on his homeward way, at the chateau of
+an old friend, with whom he had had so violent a discussion that they
+had parted without shaking hands. The count was hardly seated in his
+carriage before he entered upon the subject of this disagreement.
+
+“I have quarrelled with the Duke de Sairmeuse,” said he to his son.
+
+“That seems to me to happen whenever you meet,” answered Albert, without
+intending any raillery.
+
+“True,” said the count: “but this is serious. I passed four days at his
+country-seat, in a state of inconceivable exasperation. He has entirely
+forfeited my esteem. Sairmeuse has sold his estate of Gondresy, one of
+the finest in the north of France. He has cut down the timber, and
+put up to auction the old chateau, a princely dwelling, which is to be
+converted into a sugar refinery; all this for the purpose, as he says,
+of raising money to increase his income!”
+
+“And was that the cause of your rupture?” inquired Albert, without much
+surprise.
+
+“Certainly it was! Do you not think it a sufficient one?”
+
+“But, sir, you know the duke has a large family, and is far from rich.”
+
+“What of that? A French noble who sells his land commits an unworthy
+act. He is guilty of treason against his order!”
+
+“Oh, sir,” said Albert, deprecatingly.
+
+“I said treason!” continued the count. “I maintain the word. Remember
+well, viscount, power has been, and always will be, on the side of
+wealth, especially on the side of those who hold the soil. The men of
+‘93 well understood this principle, and acted upon it. By impoverishing
+the nobles, they destroyed their prestige more effectually than by
+abolishing their titles. A prince dismounted, and without footmen, is
+no more than any one else. The Minister of July, who said to the people,
+‘Make yourselves rich,’ was not a fool. He gave them the magic formula
+for power. But they have not the sense to understand it. They want to
+go too fast. They launch into speculations, and become rich, it is true;
+but in what? Stocks, bonds, paper,--rags, in short. It is smoke they are
+locking in their coffers. They prefer to invest in merchandise, which
+pays eight or ten per cent, to investing in vines or corn which will
+return but three. The peasant is not so foolish. From the moment he owns
+a piece of ground the size of a handkerchief, he wants to make it as
+large as a tablecloth. He is slow as the oxen he ploughs with, but as
+patient, as tenacious, and as obstinate. He goes directly to his object,
+pressing firmly against the yoke; and nothing can stop or turn him
+aside. He knows that stocks may rise or fall, fortunes be won or lost on
+‘change; but the land always remains,--the real standard of wealth. To
+become landholders, the peasant starves himself, wears sabots in winter;
+and the imbeciles who laugh at him will be astonished by and by when he
+makes his ‘93, and the peasant becomes a baron in power if not in name.”
+
+“I do not understand the application,” said the viscount.
+
+“You do not understand? Why, what the peasant is doing is what the
+nobles ought to have done! Ruined, their duty was to reconstruct their
+fortunes. Commerce is interdicted to us; be it so: agriculture remains.
+Instead of grumbling uselessly during the half-century, instead of
+running themselves into debt, in the ridiculous attempt to support an
+appearance of grandeur, they ought to have retreated to their provinces,
+shut themselves up in their chateaux; there worked, economised, denied
+themselves, as the peasant is doing, purchased the land piece by piece.
+Had they taken this course, they would to-day possess France. Their
+wealth would be enormous; for the value of land rises year after year.
+I have, without effort, doubled my fortune in thirty years. Blauville,
+which cost my father a hundred crowns in 1817, is worth to-day more
+than a million: so that, when I hear the nobles complain, I shrug the
+shoulder. Who but they are to blame? They impoverish themselves from
+year to year. They sell their land to the peasants. Soon they will be
+reduced to beggary, and their escutcheons. What consoles me is, that
+the peasant, having become the proprietor of our domains will then be
+all-powerful, and will yoke to his chariot wheels these traders in scrip
+and stocks, whom he hates as much as I execrate them myself.”
+
+The carriage at this moment stopped in the court-yard of the de Commarin
+mansion, after having described that perfect half-circle, the glory of
+coachmen who preserve the old tradition.
+
+The count alighted first, and leaning upon his son’s arm, ascended the
+steps of the grand entrance. In the immense vestibule, nearly all the
+servants, dressed in rich liveries, stood in a line. The count gave them
+a glance, in passing, as an officer might his soldiers on parade, and
+proceeded to his apartment on the first floor, above the reception
+rooms.
+
+Never was there a better regulated household than that of the Count
+de Commarin. He possessed in a high degree the art, more rare than is
+generally supposed, of commanding an army of servants. The number of his
+domestics caused him neither inconvenience nor embarrassment. They were
+necessary to him. So perfect was the organisation of this household,
+that its functions were performed like those of a machine,--without
+noise, variation, or effort.
+
+Thus when the count returned from his journey, the sleeping hotel was
+awakened as if by the spell of an enchanter. Each servant was at his
+post; and the occupations, interrupted during the past six weeks,
+resumed without confusion. As the count was known to have passed the day
+on the road, the dinner was served in advance of the usual hour. All the
+establishment, even to the lowest scullion, represented the spirit
+of the first article of the rules of the house, “Servants are not to
+execute orders, but anticipate them.”
+
+M. de Commarin had hardly removed the traces of his journey, and changed
+his dress, when his butler announced that the dinner was served.
+
+He went down at once; and father and son met upon the threshold of the
+dining-room. This was a large apartment, with a very high ceiling,
+as were all the rooms of the ground floor, and was most magnificently
+furnished. The count was not only a great eater, but was vain of his
+enormous appetite. He was fond of recalling the names of great men,
+noted for their capacity of stomach. Charles V. devoured mountains of
+viands. Louis XIV. swallowed at each repast as much as six ordinary men
+would eat at a meal. He pretended that one can almost judge of men’s
+qualities by their digestive capacities; he compared them to lamps,
+whose power of giving light is in proportion to the oil they consume.
+
+During the first half hour, the count and his son both remained silent.
+M. de Commarin ate conscientiously, not perceiving or not caring to
+notice that Albert ate nothing, but merely sat at the table as if to
+countenance him. The old nobleman’s ill-humour and volubility returned
+with the dessert, apparently increased by a Burgundy of which he was
+particularly fond, and of which he drank freely.
+
+He was partial, moreover, to an after dinner argument, professing a
+theory that moderate discussion is a perfect digestive. A letter which
+had been delivered to him on his arrival, and which he had found time to
+glance over, gave him at once a subject and a point of departure.
+
+“I arrived home but an hour ago;” said he, “and I have already received
+a homily from Broisfresnay.”
+
+“He writes a great deal,” observed Albert.
+
+“Too much; he consumes himself in ink. He mentions a lot more of his
+ridiculous projects and vain hopes, and he mentions a dozen names of men
+of his own stamp who are his associates. On my word of honour, they seem
+to have lost their senses! They talk of lifting the world, only
+they want a lever and something to rest it on. It makes me die with
+laughter!”
+
+For ten minutes the count continued to discharge a volley of abuse and
+sarcasm against his best friends, without seeming to see that a great
+many of their foibles which he ridiculed were also a little his own.
+
+“If,” continued he more seriously,--“if they only possessed a little
+confidence in themselves, if they showed the least audacity! But
+no! they count upon others to do for them what they ought to do for
+themselves. In short, their proceedings are a series of confessions of
+helplessness, of premature declarations of failure.”
+
+The coffee having been served, the count made a sign, and the servants
+left the room.
+
+“No,” continued he, “I see but one hope for the French aristocracy, but
+one plank of salvation, one good little law, establishing the right of
+primogeniture.”
+
+“You will never obtain it.”
+
+“You think not? Would you then oppose such a measure, viscount?”
+
+Albert knew by experience what dangerous ground his father was
+approaching, and remained silent.
+
+“Let us put it, then, that I dream of the impossible!” resumed the
+count. “Then let the nobles do their duty. Let all the younger sons and
+the daughters of our great families forego their rights, by giving up
+the entire patrimony to the first-born for five generations, contenting
+themselves each with a couple of thousand francs a year. By that means
+great fortunes can be reconstructed, and families, instead of being
+divided by a variety of interests, become united by one common desire.”
+
+“Unfortunately,” objected the viscount, “the time is not favorable to
+such devotedness.”
+
+“I know it, sir,” replied the count quickly; “and in my own house I have
+the proof of it. I, your father, have conjured you to give up all
+idea of marrying the granddaughter of that old fool, the Marchioness
+d’Arlange. And all to no purpose; for I have at last been obliged to
+yield to your wishes.”
+
+“Father--” Albert commenced.
+
+“It is well,” interrupted the count. “You have my word; but remember my
+prediction: you will strike a fatal blow at our house. You will be one
+of the largest proprietors in France; but have half a dozen children,
+and they will be hardly rich. If they also have as many, you will
+probably see your grandchildren in poverty!”
+
+“You put all at the worst, father.”
+
+“Without doubt: it is the only means of pointing out the danger, and
+averting the evil. You talk of your life’s happiness. What is that? A
+true noble thinks of his name above all. Mademoiselle d’Arlange is
+very pretty, and very attractive; but she is penniless. I had found an
+heiress for you.”
+
+“Whom I should never love!”
+
+“And what of that? She would have brought you four millions in her
+apron,--more than the kings of to-day give their daughters. Besides
+which she had great expectations.”
+
+The discussion upon this subject would have been interminable, had
+Albert taken an active share in it; but his thoughts were far away. He
+answered from time to time so as not to appear absolutely dumb, and then
+only a few syllables. This absence of opposition was more irritating to
+the count than the most obstinate contradiction. He therefore directed
+his utmost efforts to excite his son to argue.
+
+However he was vainly prodigal of words, and unsparing in unpleasant
+allusions, so that at last he fairly lost his temper, and, on receiving
+a laconic reply, he burst forth: “Upon my word, the butler’s son would
+say the same as you! What blood have you in your veins? You are more
+like one of the people than a Viscount de Commarin!”
+
+There are certain conditions of mind in which the least conversation
+jars upon the nerves. During the last hour, Albert had suffered an
+intolerable punishment. The patience with which he had armed himself at
+last escaped him.
+
+“Well, sir,” he answered, “if I resemble one of the people, there are
+perhaps good reasons for it.”
+
+The glance with which the viscount accompanied his speech was so
+expressive that the count experienced a sudden shock. All his animation
+forsook him, and in a hesitating voice, he asked: “What is that you say,
+viscount?”
+
+Albert had no sooner uttered the sentence than he regretted his
+precipitation, but he had gone too far to stop.
+
+“Sir,” he replied with some embarrassment, “I have to acquaint you with
+some important matters. My honour, yours, the honour of our house, are
+involved. I intended postponing this conversation till to-morrow, not
+desiring to trouble you on the evening of your return. However, as you
+wish me to explain, I will do so.”
+
+The count listened with ill-concealed anxiety. He seemed to have divined
+what his son was about to say, and was terrified at himself for having
+divined it.
+
+“Believe me, sir,” continued Albert slowly, “whatever may have been
+your acts, my voice will never be raised to reproach you. Your constant
+kindness to me--”
+
+M. de Commarin held up his hand. “A truce to preambles; let me have the
+facts without phrases,” said he sternly.
+
+Albert was some time without answering, he hesitated how to commence.
+
+“Sir,” said he at length, “during your absence, I have read all your
+correspondence with Madame Gerdy. All!” added he, emphasising the word,
+already so significant.
+
+The count, as though stung by a serpent, started up with such violence
+that he overturned his chair.
+
+“Not another word!” cried he in a terrible voice. “I forbid you to
+speak!” But he no doubt soon felt ashamed of his violence, for he
+quietly raised his chair, and resumed in a tone which he strove to
+render light and rallying: “Who will hereafter refuse to believe in
+presentiments? A couple of hours ago, on seeing your pale face at
+the railway station, I felt that you had learned more or less of this
+affair. I was sure of it.”
+
+There was a long silence. With one accord, father and son avoided
+letting their eyes meet, lest they might encounter glances too eloquent
+to bear at so painful a moment.
+
+“You were right, sir,” continued the count, “our honour is involved. It
+is important that we should decide on our future conduct without delay.
+Will you follow me to my room?”
+
+He rang the bell, and a footman appeared almost immediately.
+
+“Neither the viscount nor I am at home to any one,” said M. de Commarin,
+“no matter whom.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+The revelation which had just taken place, irritated much more than
+it surprised the Count de Commarin. For twenty years, he had been
+constantly expecting to see the truth brought to light. He knew that
+there can be no secret so carefully guarded that it may not by some
+chance escape; and his had been known to four people, three of whom were
+still living.
+
+He had not forgotten that he had been imprudent enough to trust it to
+paper, knowing all the while that it ought never to have been written.
+How was it that he, a prudent diplomat, a statesman, full of precaution,
+had been so foolish? How was it that he had allowed this fatal
+correspondence to remain in existence! Why had he not destroyed, at no
+matter what cost, these overwhelming proofs, which sooner or later might
+be used against him? Such imprudence could only have arisen from an
+absurd passion, blind and insensible, even to madness.
+
+So long as he was Valerie’s lover, the count never thought of asking
+the return of his letters from his beloved accomplice. If the idea had
+occurred to him, he would have repelled it as an insult to the character
+of his angel. What reason could he have had to suspect her discretion?
+None. He would have been much more likely to have supposed her desirous
+of removing every trace, even the slightest, of what had taken place.
+Was it not her son who had received the benefits of the deed, who had
+usurped another’s name and fortune?
+
+When eight years after, believing her to be unfaithful, the count had
+put an end to the connection which had given him so much happiness he
+thought of obtaining possession of this unhappy correspondence. But he
+knew not how to do so. A thousand reasons prevented his moving in the
+matter.
+
+The principal one was, that he did not wish to see this woman, once so
+dearly loved. He did not feel sufficiently sure either of his anger or
+of his firmness. Could he, without yielding, resist the tearful pleading
+of those eyes, which had so long held complete sway over him?
+
+To look again upon this mistress of his youth would, he feared, result
+in his forgiving her; and he had been too cruelly wounded in his pride
+and in his affection to admit the idea of a reconciliation.
+
+On the other hand, to obtain the letters though a third party was
+entirely out of the question. He abstained, then, from all action,
+postponing it indefinitely. “I will go to her,” said he to himself; “but
+not until I have so torn her from my heart that she will have become
+indifferent to me. I will not gratify her with the sight of my grief.”
+
+So months and years passed on; and finally he began to say and believe
+that it was too late. And for now more than twenty years, he had never
+passed a day without cursing his inexcusable folly. Never had he been
+able to forget that above his head a danger more terrible than the sword
+of Damocles hung, suspended by a thread, which the slightest accident
+might break.
+
+And now that thread had broken. Often, when considering the possibility
+of such a catastrophe, he had asked himself how he should avert it? He
+had formed and rejected many plans: he had deluded himself, like all men
+of imagination, with innumerable chimerical projects, and now he found
+himself quite unprepared.
+
+Albert stood respectfully, while his father sat in his great armorial
+chair, just beneath the large frame in which the genealogical tree
+of the illustrious family of Rheteau de Commarin spread its luxuriant
+branches. The old gentleman completely concealed the cruel apprehensions
+which oppressed him. He seemed neither irritated nor dejected; but
+his eyes expressed a haughtiness more than usually disdainful, and a
+self-reliance full of contempt.
+
+“Now viscount,” he began in a firm voice, “explain yourself. I need say
+nothing to you of the position of a father, obliged to blush before his
+son; you understand it, and will feel for me. Let us spare each other,
+and try to be calm. Tell me, how did you obtain your knowledge of this
+correspondence?”
+
+Albert had had time to recover himself, and prepare for the present
+struggle, as he had impatiently waited four days for this interview.
+
+The difficulty he experienced in uttering the first words had now given
+place to a dignified and proud demeanor. He expressed himself clearly
+and forcibly, without losing himself in those details which in serious
+matters needlessly defer the real point at issue.
+
+“Sir,” he replied, “on Sunday morning, a young man called here, stating
+that he had business with me of the utmost importance. I received
+him. He then revealed to me that I, alas! am only your natural son,
+substituted through your affection, for the legitimate child borne you
+by Madame de Commarin.”
+
+“And did you not have this man kicked out of doors?” exclaimed the
+count.
+
+“No, sir. I was about to answer him very sharply, of course; but,
+presenting me with a packet of letters, he begged me to read them before
+replying.”
+
+“Ah!” cried M. de Commarin, “you should have thrown them into the fire,
+for there was a fire, I suppose? You held them in your hands; and they
+still exist! Why was I not there?”
+
+“Sir!” said Albert, reproachfully. And, recalling the position Noel had
+occupied against the mantelpiece, and the manner in which he stood, he
+added,--“Even if the thought had occurred to me, it was impracticable.
+Besides, at the first glance, I recognised your handwriting. I therefore
+took the letters, and read them.”
+
+“And then?”
+
+“And then, sir, I returned the correspondence to the young man, and
+asked for a delay of eight days; not to think over it myself--there
+was no need of that,--but because I judged an interview with you
+indispensable. Now, therefore, I beseech you, tell me whether this
+substitution really did take place.
+
+“Certainly it did,” replied the count violently, “yes, certainly. You
+know that it did, for you have read what I wrote to Madame Gerdy, your
+mother.”
+
+Albert had foreseen, had expected this reply; but it crushed him
+nevertheless.
+
+There are misfortunes so great, that one must constantly think of them
+to believe in their existence. This flinching, however, lasted but an
+instant.
+
+“Pardon me, sir,” he replied. “I was almost convinced; but I had not
+received a formal assurance of it. All the letters that I read spoke
+distinctly of your purpose, detailed your plan minutely; but not one
+pointed to, or in any way confirmed, the execution of your project.”
+
+The count gazed at his son with a look of intense surprise. He
+recollected distinctly all the letters; and he could remember, that,
+in writing to Valerie, he had over and over again rejoiced at their
+success, thanking her for having acted in accordance with his wishes.
+
+“You did not go to the end of them, then, viscount,” he said, “you did
+not read them all?”
+
+“Every line, sir, and with an attention that you may well understand.
+The last letter shown me simply announced to Madame Gerdy the arrival
+of Claudine Lerouge, the nurse who was charged with accomplishing the
+substitution. I know nothing beyond that.”
+
+“These proofs amount to nothing,” muttered the count. “A man may form a
+plan, cherish it for a long time, and at the last moment abandon it; it
+often happens so.”
+
+He reproached himself for having answered so hastily. Albert had had
+only serious suspicions, and he had changed them to certainty. What
+stupidity!
+
+“There can be no possible doubt,” he said to himself; “Valerie has
+destroyed the most conclusive letters, those which appeared to her the
+most dangerous, those I wrote after the substitution. But why has she
+preserved these others, compromising enough in themselves? and why,
+after having preserved them, has she let them go out of her possession?”
+
+Without moving, Albert awaited a word from the count. What would it be?
+No doubt, the old nobleman was at that moment deciding what he should
+do.
+
+“Perhaps she is dead!” said M. de Commarin aloud.
+
+And at the thought that Valerie was dead, without his having again seen
+her, he started painfully. His heart, after more than twenty years of
+voluntary separation, still suffered, so deeply rooted was this first
+love of his youth. He had cursed her; at this moment he pardoned her.
+True, she had deceived him; but did he not owe to her the only years of
+happiness he had ever known? Had she not formed all the poetry of his
+youth? Had he experienced, since leaving her, one single hour of joy
+or forgetfulness? In his present frame of mind, his heart retained only
+happy memories, like a vase which, once filled with precious perfumes,
+retains the odour until it is destroyed.
+
+“Poor woman!” he murmured.
+
+He sighed deeply. Three or four times his eyelids trembled, as if a tear
+were about to fall. Albert watched him with anxious curiosity. This was
+the first time since the viscount had grown to man’s estate that he had
+surprised in his father’s countenance other emotion than ambition or
+pride, triumphant or defeated. But M. de Commarin was not the man to
+yield long to sentiment.
+
+“You have not told me, viscount,” he said, “who sent you that messenger
+of misfortune.”
+
+“He came in person, sir, not wishing, he told me to mix any others up in
+this sad affair. The young man was no other than he whose place I have
+occupied,--your legitimate son, M. Noel Gerdy himself.”
+
+“Yes,” said the count in a low tone, “Noel, that is his name, I
+remember.” And then, with evident hesitation, he added: “Did he speak to
+you of his--of your mother?”
+
+“Scarcely, sir. He only told me that he came unknown to her; that he had
+accidentally discovered the secret which he revealed to me.”
+
+M. de Commarin asked nothing further. There was more for him to learn.
+He remained for some time deep in thought. The decisive moment had come;
+and he saw but one way to escape.
+
+“Come, viscount,” he said, in a tone so affectionate that Albert was
+astonished, “do not stand; sit down here by me, and let us discuss
+this matter. Let us unite our efforts to shun, if possible, this great
+misfortune. Confide in me, as a son should in his father. Have you
+thought of what is to be done? have you formed any determination?”
+
+“It seems to me, sir, that hesitation is impossible.”
+
+“In what way?”
+
+“My duty, father, is very plain. Before your legitimate son, I ought
+to give way without a murmur, if not without regret. Let him come. I
+am ready to yield to him everything that I have so long kept from him
+without a suspicion of the truth--his father’s love, his fortune and his
+name.”
+
+At this most praiseworthy reply, the old nobleman could scarcely
+preserve the calmness he had recommended to his son in the earlier part
+of the interview. His face grew purple; and he struck the table with his
+fist more furiously than he had ever done in his life. He, usually so
+guarded, so decorous on all occasions, uttered a volley of oaths that
+would not have done discredit to an old cavalry officer.
+
+“And I tell you, sir, that this dream of yours shall never take place.
+No; that it sha’n’t. I swear it. I promise you, whatever happens,
+understand, that things shall remain as they are; because it is my will.
+You are Viscount de Commarin, and Viscount de Commarin you shall remain,
+in spite of yourself, if necessary. You shall retain the title to your
+death, or at least to mine; for never, while I live, shall your absurd
+idea be carried out.”
+
+“But, sir,” began Albert, timidly.
+
+“You are very daring to interrupt me while I am speaking, sir,”
+ exclaimed the count. “Do I not know all your objections beforehand? You
+are going to tell me that it is a revolting injustice, a wicked robbery.
+I confess it, and grieve over it more than you possibly can. Do you
+think that I now for the first time repent of my youthful folly? For
+twenty years, sir, I have lamented my true son; for twenty years I have
+cursed the wickedness of which he is the victim. And yet I learnt how to
+keep silence, and to hide the sorrow and remorse which have covered my
+pillow with thorns. In a single instant, your senseless yielding would
+render my long sufferings of no avail. No, I will never permit it!”
+
+The count read a reply on his son’s lips: he stopped him with a
+withering glance.
+
+“Do you think,” he continued, “that I have never wept over the thought
+of my legitimate son passing his life struggling for a competence? Do
+you think that I have never felt a burning desire to repair the wrong
+done him? There have been times, sir, when I would have given half of my
+fortune simply to embrace that child of a wife too tardily appreciated.
+The fear of casting a shadow of suspicion upon your birth prevented me.
+I have sacrificed myself to the great name I bear. I received it from my
+ancestors without a stain. May you hand it down to your children equally
+spotless! Your first impulse was a worthy one, generous and noble;
+but you must forget it. Think of the scandal, if our secret should
+be disclosed to the public gaze. Can you not foresee the joy of our
+enemies, of that herd of upstarts which surrounds us? I shudder at the
+thought of the odium and the ridicule which would cling to our name. Too
+many families already have stains upon their escutcheons; I will have
+none on mine.”
+
+M. de Commarin remained silent for several minutes, during which Albert
+did not dare say a word, so much had he been accustomed since infancy to
+respect the least wish of the terrible old gentleman.
+
+“There is no possible way out of it,” continued the count. “Can I
+discard you to-morrow, and present this Noel as my son, saying, ‘Excuse
+me, but there has been a slight mistake; this one is the viscount?’ And
+then the tribunals will get hold of it. What does it matter who is named
+Benoit, Durand, or Bernard? But, when one is called Commarin, even but
+for a single day, one must retain that name through life. The same
+moral does not do for everyone; because we have not the same duties to
+perform. In our position, errors are irreparable. Take courage, then,
+and show yourself worthy of the name you bear. The storm is upon you;
+raise your head to meet it.”
+
+Albert’s impassibility contributed not a little to increase M. de
+Commarin’s irritation. Firm in an unchangeable resolution, the viscount
+listened like one fulfilling a duty: and his face reflected no emotion.
+The count saw that he was not shaken.
+
+“What have you to reply?” he asked.
+
+“It seems to me sir, that you have no idea of all the dangers which I
+foresee. It is difficult to master the revolts of conscience.”
+
+“Indeed!” interrupted the count contemptuously; “your conscience
+revolts, does it? It has chosen its time badly. Your scruples come
+too late. So long as you saw that your inheritance consisted of an
+illustrious title and a dozen or so of millions, it pleased you. To-day
+the name appears to you laden with a heavy fault, a crime, if you will;
+and your conscience revolts. Renounce this folly. Children, sir, are
+accountable to their fathers; and they should obey them. Willing or
+unwilling, you must be my accomplice; willing or unwilling, you must
+bear the burden, as I have borne it. And, however much you may suffer,
+be assured your sufferings can never approach what I have endured for so
+many years.”
+
+“Ah, sir!” cried Albert, “is it then I, the dispossessor, who has made
+this trouble? is it not, on the contrary, the dispossessed! It is not I
+who you have to convince, it is M. Noel Gerdy.”
+
+“Noel!” repeated the count.
+
+“Your legitimate son, yes, sir. You act as if the issue of this unhappy
+affair depended solely upon my will. Do you then, imagine that M. Gerdy
+will be so easily disposed of, so easily silenced? And, if he should
+raise his voice, do you hope to move him by the considerations you have
+just mentioned?”
+
+“I do not fear him.”
+
+“Then you are wrong, sir, permit me to tell you. Suppose for a moment
+that this young man has a soul sufficiently noble to relinquish his
+claim upon your rank and your fortune. Is there not now the accumulated
+rancour of years to urge him to oppose you? He cannot help feeling a
+fierce resentment for the horrible injustice of which he has been the
+victim. He must passionately long for vengeance, or rather reparation.”
+
+“He has no proofs.”
+
+“He has your letters, sir.”
+
+“They are not decisive, you yourself have told me so.”
+
+“That is true, sir; and yet they convinced me, who have an interest in
+not being convinced. Besides, if he needs witnesses, he will find them.”
+
+“Who? Yourself, viscount?”
+
+“Yourself, sir. The day when he wishes it, you will betray us. Suppose
+you were summoned before a tribunal, and that there, under oath, you
+should be required to speak the truth, what answer would you make?”
+
+M. de Commarin’s face darkened at this very natural supposition. He
+hesitated, he whose honour was usually so great.
+
+“I would save the name of my ancestors,” he said at last.
+
+Albert shook his head doubtfully. “At the price of a lie, my father,”
+he said. “I never will believe it. But let us suppose even that. He
+will then call Madame Gerdy.”
+
+“Oh, I will answer for her!” cried the count, “her interests are the
+same as ours. If necessary, I will see her. Yes,” he added with an
+effort, “I will call on her, I will speak to her; and I will guarantee
+that she will not betray us.”
+
+“And Claudine,” continued the young man; “will she be silent, too?”
+
+“For money, yes; and I will give her whatever she asks.”
+
+“And you would trust, father, to a paid silence, as if one could ever
+be sure of a purchased conscience? What is sold to you may be sold to
+another. A certain sum may close her mouth; a larger will open it.”
+
+“I will frighten her.”
+
+“You forget, father, that Claudine Lerouge was Noel Gerdy’s nurse, that
+she takes an interest in his happiness, that she loves him. How do you
+know that he has not already secured her aid? She lives at Bougival. I
+went there, I remember, with you. No doubt, he sees her often; perhaps
+it is she who put him on the track of this correspondence. He spoke to
+me of her, as though he were sure of her testimony. He almost proposed
+my going to her for information.”
+
+“Alas!” cried the count, “why is not Claudine dead instead of my
+faithful Germain?”
+
+“You see, sir,” concluded Albert, “Claudine Lerouge would alone render
+all your efforts useless.”
+
+“Ah, no!” cried the count; “I shall find some expedient.”
+
+The obstinate old gentleman was not willing to give in to this argument,
+the very clearness of which blinded him. The pride of his blood
+paralyzed his usual practical good sense. To acknowledge that he was
+conquered humiliated him, and seemed to him unworthy of himself. He did
+not remember to have met during his long career an invincible resistance
+or an absolute impediment. He was like all men of imagination, who
+fall in love with their projects, and who expect them to succeed on all
+occasions, as if wishing hard was all that was necessary to change their
+dreams into realities.
+
+Albert this time broke the silence, which threatened to be prolonged.
+
+“I see, sir,” he said, “that you fear, above all things, the publicity
+of this sad history; the possible scandal renders you desperate. But,
+unless we yield, the scandal will be terrible. There will be a trial
+which will be the talk of all Europe. The newspapers will print the
+facts, accompanied by heavens knows what comments of their own. Our
+name, however the trial results, will appear in all the papers of the
+world. This might be borne, if we were sure of succeeding; but we are
+bound to lose, my father, we shall lose. Then think of the exposure!
+think of the dishonour branded upon us by public opinion.”
+
+“I think,” said the count, “that you can have neither respect nor
+affection for me, when you speak in that way.”
+
+“It is my duty, sir, to point out to you the evils I see threatening,
+and which there is yet time to shun. M. Noel Gerdy is your legitimate
+son, recognize him, acknowledge his just pretensions, and receive him.
+We can make the change very quietly. It is easy to account for it,
+through a mistake of the nurse, Claudine Lerouge, for instance. All
+parties being agreeable, there can be no trouble about it. What is
+to prevent the new Viscount de Commarin from quitting Paris, and
+disappearing for a time? He might travel about Europe for four or five
+years; by the end of that time, all will be forgotten, and no one will
+remember me.”
+
+M. de Commarin was not listening; he was deep in thought.
+
+“But instead of contesting, viscount,” he cried, “we might compromise.
+We may be able to purchase these letters. What does this young fellow
+want? A position and a fortune? I will give him both. I will make him
+as rich as he can wish. I will give him a million; if need be, two,
+three,--half of all I possess. With money, you see, much money--”
+
+“Spare him, sir; he is your son.”
+
+“Unfortunately! and I wish him to the devil! I will see him, and he will
+agree to what I wish. I will prove to him the bad policy of the earthen
+pot struggling with the iron kettle; and, if he is not a fool, he will
+understand.”
+
+The count rubbed his hands while speaking. He was delighted with this
+brilliant plan of negotiation. It could not fail to result favorably. A
+crowd of arguments occurred to his mind in support of it. He would buy
+back again his lost rest.
+
+But Albert did not seem to share his father’s hopes, “You will perhaps
+think it unkind in me, sir,” said he, sadly, “to dispel this last
+illusion of yours; but I must. Do not delude yourself with the idea of
+an amicable arrangement; the awakening will only be the more painful.
+I have seen M. Gerdy, my father, and he is not one, I assure you, to be
+intimidated. If there is an energetic will in the world, it is his.
+He is truly your son; and his expression, like yours, shows an iron
+resolution, that may be broken but never bent. I can still hear his
+voice trembling with resentment, while he spoke to me. I can still see
+the dark fire of his eyes. No, he will never accept a compromise. He
+will have all or nothing; and I cannot say that he is wrong. If you
+resist, he will attack you without the slightest consideration. Strong
+in his rights, he will cling to you with stubborn animosity. He will
+drag you from court to court; he will not stop short of utter defeat or
+complete triumph.”
+
+Accustomed to absolute obedience from his son, the old nobleman was
+astounded at this unexpected obstinacy.
+
+“What is your object in saying all this?” he asked.
+
+“It is this, sir. I should utterly despise myself, if I did not spare
+your old age this greatest of calamities. Your name does not belong to
+me; I will take my own. I am your natural son; I will give up my place
+to your legitimate son. Permit me to withdraw with at least the honour
+of having freely done my duty. Do not force me to wait till I am driven
+out in disgrace.”
+
+“What!” cried the count, stunned, “you will abandon me? You refuse to
+help me, you turn against me, you recognize the rights of this man in
+spite of my wishes?”
+
+Albert bowed his head. He was much moved, but still remained firm.
+
+“My resolution is irrevocably taken,” he replied. “I can never consent
+to despoil your son.”
+
+“Cruel, ungrateful boy!” cried M. de Commarin. His wrath was such,
+that, when he found he could do nothing by abuse, he passed at once to
+jeering. “But no,” he continued, “you are great, you are noble, you are
+generous; you are acting after the most approved pattern of chivalry,
+viscount, I should say, my dear M. Gerdy; after the fashion of
+Plutarch’s time! So you give up my name and my fortune, and you leave
+me. You will shake the dust from your shoes upon the threshold of my
+house; and you will go out into the world. I see only one difficulty in
+your way. How do you expect to live, my stoic philosopher? Have you a
+trade at your fingers’ ends, like Jean Jacques Rousseau’s Emile? Or,
+worthy M. Gerdy, have you learned economy from the four thousand francs
+a month I allow you for waxing your moustache? Perhaps you have made
+money on the Bourse! Then my name must have seemed very burdensome to
+you to bear, since you so eagerly introduced it into such a place! Has
+dirt, then, so great an attraction for you that you must jump from
+your carriage so quickly? Say, rather, that the company of my friends
+embarrasses you, and that you are anxious to go where you will be among
+your equals.”
+
+“I am very wretched, sir,” replied Albert to this avalanche of insults,
+“and you would crush me!”
+
+“You wretched! Well, whose fault is it? But let us get back to my
+question. How and on what will you live?”
+
+“I am not so romantic as you are pleased to say, sir. I must confess
+that, as regards the future, I have counted upon your kindness. You are
+so rich, that five hundred thousand francs would not materially affect
+your fortune; and, on the interest of that sum, I could live quietly, if
+not happily.”
+
+“And suppose I refuse you this money?”
+
+“I know you well enough, sir, to feel sure that you will not do so. You
+are too just to wish that I alone should expiate wrongs that are not of
+my making. Left to myself, I should at my present age have achieved a
+position. It is late for me to try and make one now; but I will do my
+best.”
+
+“Superb!” interrupted the count; “you are really superb! One never heard
+of such a hero of romance. What a character! But tell me, what do you
+expect from all this astonishing disinterestedness?”
+
+“Nothing, sir.”
+
+The count shrugged his shoulders, looked sarcastically at his son, and
+observed: “The compensation is very slight. And you expect me to believe
+all this! No, sir, mankind is not in the habit of indulging in such fine
+actions for its pleasure alone. You must have some reason for acting so
+grandly; some reason which I fail to see.”
+
+“None but what I have already told you.”
+
+“Therefore it is understood you intend to relinquish everything;
+you will even abandon your proposed union with Mademoiselle Claire
+d’Arlange? You forget that for two years I have in vain constantly
+expressed my disappointment of this marriage.”
+
+“No, sir. I have seen Mademoiselle Claire; I have explained my unhappy
+position to her. Whatever happens, she has sworn to be my wife.”
+
+“And do you think that Madame d’Arlange will give her granddaughter to
+M. Gerdy?”
+
+“We hope so, sir. The marchioness is sufficiently infected with
+aristocratic ideas to prefer a nobleman’s bastard to the son of some
+honest tradesman; but should she refuse, we would await her death,
+though without desiring it.”
+
+The calm manner in which Albert said this enraged the count.
+
+“Can this be my son?” he cried. “Never! What blood have you then in your
+veins, sir? Your worthy mother alone might tell us, provided, however,
+she herself knows.”
+
+“Sir,” cried Albert menacingly, “think well before you speak! She is
+my mother, and that is sufficient. I am her son, not her judge. No one
+shall insult her in my presence, I will not permit it, sir; and I will
+suffer it least of all from you.”
+
+The count made great efforts to keep his anger within bounds, but
+Albert’s behavior thoroughly enraged him. What, his son rebelled, he
+dared to brave him to his face, he threatened him! The old fellow jumped
+from his chair, and moved towards the young man as if he would strike
+him.
+
+“Leave the room,” he cried, in a voice choking with rage, “leave the
+room instantly! Retire to your apartments, and take care not to leave
+them without my orders. To-morrow I will let you know my decision.”
+
+Albert bowed respectfully, but without lowering his eyes and walked
+slowly to the door. He had already opened it, when M. de Commarin
+experienced one of those revulsions of feeling, so frequent in violent
+natures.
+
+“Albert,” said he, “come here and listen to me.”
+
+The young man turned back, much affected by this change.
+
+“Do not go,” continued the count, “until I have told you what I think.
+You are worthy of being the heir of a great house, sir. I may be angry
+with you; but I can never lose my esteem for you. You are a noble man,
+Albert. Give me your hand.”
+
+It was a happy moment for these two men, and such a one as they had
+scarcely ever experienced in their lives, restrained as they had been by
+cold etiquette. The count felt proud of his son, and recognised in
+him himself at that age. For a long time their hands remained clasped,
+without either being able to utter a word.
+
+At last, M. de Commarin resumed his seat.
+
+“I must ask you to leave me, Albert,” he said kindly. “I must be alone
+to reflect, to try and accustom myself to this terrible blow.”
+
+And, as the young man closed the door, he added, as if giving vent to
+his inmost thoughts, “If he, in whom I have placed all my hope, deserts
+me, what will become of me? And what will the other one be like?”
+
+Albert’s features, when he left the count’s study, bore traces of the
+violent emotions he had felt during the interview. The servants whom he
+met noticed it the more, as they had heard something of the quarrel.
+
+“Well,” said an old footman who had been in the family thirty years,
+“the count has had another unhappy scene with his son. The old fellow
+has been in a dreadful passion.”
+
+“I got wind of it at dinner,” spoke up a valet de chambre: “the count
+restrained himself enough not to burst out before me; but he rolled his
+eyes fiercely.”
+
+“What can be the matter?”
+
+“Pshaw! that’s more than they know themselves. Why, Denis, before
+whom they always speak freely, says that they often wrangle for hours
+together, like dogs, about things which he can never see through.”
+
+“Ah,” cried out a young fellow, who was being trained to service, “if
+I were in the viscount’s place, I’d settle the old gent pretty
+effectually!”
+
+“Joseph, my friend,” said the footman pointedly, “you are a fool. You
+might give your father his walking ticket very properly, because you
+never expect five sous from him; and you have already learned how to
+earn your living without doing any work at all. But the viscount, pray
+tell me what he is good for, what he knows how to do? Put him in the
+centre of Paris, with only his fine hands for capital, and you will
+see.”
+
+“Yes, but he has his mother’s property in Normandy,” replied Joseph.
+
+“I can’t for the life of me,” said the valet de chambre, “see what
+the count finds to complain of; for his son is a perfect model, and
+I shouldn’t be sorry to have one like him. There was a very different
+pair, when I was in the Marquis de Courtivois’s service. He was one
+who made it a point never to be in good humor. His eldest son, who is
+a friend of the viscount’s, and who comes here occasionally, is a pit
+without a bottom, as far as money is concerned. He will fritter away a
+thousand-franc note quicker than Joseph can smoke a pipe.”
+
+“But the marquis is not rich,” said a little old man, who himself had
+perhaps the enormous wages of fifteen francs; “he can’t have more than
+sixty thousand francs’ income at the most.”
+
+“That’s why he gets angry. Every day there is some new story about
+his son. He had an apartment in the house; he went in and out when he
+pleased; he passed his nights in gaming and drinking; he cut up so with
+the actresses that the police had to interfere. Besides all this, I have
+many a time had to help him up to his room, and put him to bed, when the
+waiters from the restaurants brought him home in a carriage, so drunk
+that he could scarcely say a word.”
+
+“Ha!” exclaimed Joseph enthusiastically, “this fellow’s service must be
+mighty profitable.”
+
+“That was according to circumstances. When he was at play, he was lavish
+with his money; but he always lost: and, when he was drunk, he had a
+quick temper, and didn’t spare the blows. I must do him the justice to
+say, though, that his cigars were splendid. But he was a ruffian; while
+the viscount here is a true child of wisdom. He is severe upon our
+faults, it is true; but he is never harsh nor brutal to his servants.
+Then he is uniformly generous; which in the long run pays us best. I
+must say that he is better than the majority, and that the count is very
+unreasonable.”
+
+Such was the judgment of the servants. That of society was perhaps less
+favorable.
+
+The Viscount de Commarin was not one of those who possess the rather
+questionable and at times unenviable accomplishment of pleasing every
+one. He was wise enough to distrust those astonishing personages who
+are always praising everybody. In looking about us, we often see men of
+success and reputation, who are simply dolts, without any merit except
+their perfect insignificance. That stupid propriety which offends
+no one, that uniform politeness which shocks no one’s vanity, have
+peculiarly the gift of pleasing and of succeeding.
+
+One cannot meet certain persons without saying, “I know that face; I
+have seen it somewhere, before;” because it has no individuality, but
+simply resembles faces seen in a common crowd. It is precisely so with
+the minds of certain other people. When they speak, you know exactly
+what they are going to say; you have heard the same thing so many times
+already from them, you know all their ideas by heart. These people are
+welcomed everywhere: because they have nothing peculiar about them; and
+peculiarity, especially in the upper classes, is always irritating and
+offensive; they detest all innovations.
+
+Albert was peculiar; consequently much discussed, and very differently
+estimated. He was charged with sins of the most opposite character, with
+faults so contradictory that they were their own defence. Some accused
+him, for instance, of entertaining ideas entirely too liberal for one
+of his rank; and, at the same time, others complained of his excessive
+arrogance. He was charged with treating with insulting levity the most
+serious questions, and was then blamed for his affectation of gravity.
+People knew him scarcely well enough to love him, while they were
+jealous of him and feared him.
+
+He wore a bored look in all fashionable reunions, which was considered
+very bad taste. Forced by his relations, by his father, to go into
+society a great deal, he was bored, and committed the unpardonable sin
+of letting it be seen. Perhaps he had been disgusted by the constant
+court made to him, by the rather coarse attentions which were never
+spared the noble heir of one of the richest families in France. Having
+all the necessary qualities for shining, he despised them. Dreadful sin!
+He did not abuse his advantages; and no one ever heard of his getting
+into a scrape.
+
+He had had once, it was said, a very decided liking for Madame Prosny,
+perhaps the naughtiest, certainly the most mischievous woman in Paris;
+but that was all. Mothers who had daughters to dispose of upheld him;
+but, for the last two years, they had turned against him, when his love
+for Mademoiselle d’Arlange became well known.
+
+At the club they rallied him on his prudence. He had had, like others,
+his run of follies; but he had soon got disgusted with what it is the
+fashion to call pleasure. The noble profession of bon vivant appeared
+to him very tame and tiresome. He did not enjoy passing his nights at
+cards; nor did he appreciate the society of those frail sisters, who in
+Paris give notoriety to their lovers. He affirmed that a gentleman
+was not necessarily an object of ridicule because he would not expose
+himself in the theatre with these women. Finally, none of his friends
+could ever inoculate him with a passion for the turf.
+
+As doing nothing wearied him, he attempted, like the parvenu, to give
+some meaning to life by work. He purposed, after a while, to take part
+in public affairs; and, as he had often been struck with the gross
+ignorance of many men in power, he wished to avoid their example. He
+busied himself with politics; and this was the cause of all his quarrels
+with his father. The one word of “liberal” was enough to throw the count
+into convulsions; and he suspected his son of liberalism, ever since
+reading an article by the viscount, published in the “Revue des Deux
+Mondes.”
+
+His ideas, however, did not prevent his fully sustaining his rank. He
+spent most nobly on the world the revenue which placed his father and
+himself a little above it. His establishment, distinct from the count’s,
+was arranged as that of a wealthy young gentleman’s ought to be. His
+liveries left nothing to be desired; and his horses and equipages were
+celebrated. Letters of invitation were eagerly sought for to the grand
+hunting parties, which he formed every year towards the end of October
+at Commarin,--an admirable piece of property, covered with immense
+woods.
+
+Albert’s love for Claire--a deep, well-considered love--had contributed
+not a little to keep him from the habits and life of the pleasant and
+elegant idleness indulged in by his friends. A noble attachment is
+always a great safeguard. In contending against it, M. de Commarin had
+only succeeded in increasing its intensity and insuring its continuance.
+This passion, so annoying to the count, was the source of the most
+vivid, the most powerful emotions in the viscount. Ennui was banished
+from his existence.
+
+All his thoughts took the same direction; all his actions had but one
+aim. Could he look to the right or the left, when, at the end of his
+journey, he perceived the reward so ardently desired? He resolved that
+he would never have any wife but Claire; his father absolutely refused
+his consent. The effort to change this refusal had long been the
+business of his life. Finally, after three years of perseverance, he
+had triumphed; the count had given his consent. And now, just as he was
+reaping the happiness of success, Noel had arrived, implacable as fate,
+with his cursed letters.
+
+On leaving M. de Commarin, and while slowly mounting the stairs which
+led to his apartments, Albert’s thoughts reverted to Claire. What was
+she doing at that moment? Thinking of him no doubt. She knew that the
+crisis would come that very evening, or the next day at the latest. She
+was probably praying. Albert was thoroughly exhausted; his head felt
+dizzy, and seemed ready to burst. He rang for his servant, and ordered
+some tea.
+
+“You do wrong in not sending for the doctor, sir,” said Lubin, his
+valet. “I ought to disobey you, and send for him myself.”
+
+“It would be useless,” replied Albert sadly; “he could do nothing for
+me.”
+
+As the valet was leaving the room, he added,--“Say nothing about my
+being unwell to any one, Lubin; it is nothing at all. If I should feel
+worse, I will ring.”
+
+At that moment, to see any one, to hear a voice, to have to reply, was
+more than he could bear. He longed to be left entirely to himself.
+
+After the painful emotions arising from his explanations with the count,
+he could not sleep. He opened one of the library windows, and looked
+out. It was a beautiful night: and there was a lovely moon. Seen at this
+hour, by the mild, tremulous evening light, the gardens attached to
+the mansion seemed twice their usual size. The moving tops of the great
+trees stretched away like an immense plain, hiding the neighbouring
+houses; the flower-beds, set off by the green shrubs, looked like great
+black patches, while particles of shell, tiny pieces of glass, and
+shining pebbles sparkled in the carefully kept walks. The horses stamped
+in the stable and the rattling of their halter chains against the bars
+of the manger could be distinctly heard. In the coach-house the men were
+putting away for the night the carriage, always kept ready throughout
+the evening, in case the count should wish to go out.
+
+Albert was reminded by these surroundings, of the magnificence of his
+past life. He sighed deeply.
+
+“Must I, then, lose all this?” he murmured. “I can scarcely, even for
+myself, abandon so much splendour without regret; and thinking of
+Claire makes it hard indeed. Have I not dreamed of a life of exceptional
+happiness for her, a result almost impossible to realise without
+wealth?”
+
+Midnight sounded from the neighbouring church of St. Clotilde, and as
+the night was chilly, he closed the window, and sat down near the fire,
+which he stirred. In the hope of obtaining a respite from his
+thoughts, he took up the evening paper, in which was an account of the
+assassination at La Jonchere; but he found it impossible to read: the
+lines danced before his eyes. Then he thought of writing to Claire. He
+sat down at his desk, and wrote, “My dearly loved Claire,” but he could
+go no further; his distracted brain could not furnish him with a single
+sentence.
+
+At last, at break of day, he threw himself on to a sofa, and fell into a
+heavy sleep peopled with phantoms.
+
+At half-past nine in the morning, he was suddenly awakened, by the noise
+of the door being hastily opened. A servant entered, with a scared look
+on his face, and so out of breath from having come up the stairs four at
+a time, that he could scarcely speak.
+
+“Sir,” said he, “viscount, be quick, fly and hide, save yourself, they
+are here, it is the--”
+
+A commissary of police, wearing his sash, appeared at the door. He
+was followed by a number of men, among whom M. Tabaret could be seen,
+keeping as much out of sight as possible.
+
+The commissary approached Albert.
+
+“You are,” he asked, “Guy Louis Marie Albert de Rheteau de Commarin?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+The commissary placed his hand upon him, while pronouncing the usual
+formula: “M. de Commarin, in the name of the law I arrest you.”
+
+“Me, sir? me?”
+
+Albert, aroused suddenly from his painful dreams, seemed hardly to
+comprehend what was taking place, seemed to ask himself,--“Am I really
+awake? Is not this some hideous nightmare?”
+
+He threw a stupid, astonished look upon the commissary of police, his
+men, and M. Tabaret, who had not taken his eyes off him.
+
+“Here is the warrant,” added the commissary, unfolding the paper.
+
+Mechanically Albert glanced over it.
+
+“Claudine assassinated!” he cried.
+
+Then very low, but distinct enough to be heard by the commissary, by one
+of his officers, and by old Tabaret, he added,--“I am lost!”
+
+While the commissary was making inquiries, which immediately follow
+all arrests, the police officers spread through the apartments, and
+proceeded to a searching examination of them. They had received orders
+to obey M. Tabaret, and the old fellow guided them in their search,
+made them ransack drawers and closets, and move the furniture to look
+underneath or behind. They seized a number of articles belonging to the
+viscount,--documents, manuscripts, and a very voluminous correspondence;
+but it was with especial delight that M. Tabaret put his hands on
+certain articles, which were carefully described in their proper order
+in the official report:
+
+1. In the ante-room, hung with all sorts of weapons, a broken foil was
+found behind a sofa. This foil has a peculiar handle, and is unlike
+those commonly sold. It is ornamented with the count’s coronet, and
+the initials A. C. It has been broken at about the middle; and the end
+cannot be found. When questioned, the viscount declared that he did not
+know what had become of the missing end.
+
+2. In the dressing-room, a pair of black cloth trousers was discovered
+still damp, and bearing stains of mud or rather of mould. All one side
+is smeared with greenish moss, like that which grows on walls. On the
+front are numerous rents; and one near the knee is about four inches
+long. These trousers had not been hung up with the other clothes; but
+appear to have been hidden between two large trunks full of clothing.
+
+3. In the pocket of the above mentioned trousers was found a pair of
+lavender kid gloves. The palm of the right hand glove bears a large
+greenish stain, produced by grass or moss. The tips of the fingers
+have been worn as if by rubbing. Upon the backs of both gloves are some
+scratches, apparently made by finger-nails.
+
+4. There were also found in the dressing-room two pairs of boots, one of
+which, though clean and polished, was still very damp; and an umbrella
+recently wetted, the end of which was still covered with a light
+coloured mud.
+
+5. In a large room, called the library, were found a box of cigars of
+the trabucos brand, and on the mantel-shelf a number of cigar-holders in
+amber and meerschaum.
+
+The last article noted down, M. Tabaret approached the commissary of
+police.
+
+“I have everything I could desire,” he whispered.
+
+“And I have finished,” replied the commissary. “Our prisoner does not
+appear to know exactly how to act. You heard what he said. He gave in at
+once. I suppose YOU will call it lack of experience.”
+
+“In the middle of the day,” replied the amateur detective in a whisper,
+“he would not have been quite so crestfallen. But early in the morning,
+suddenly awakened, you know--Always arrest a person early in the
+morning, when he’s hungry, and only half awake.”
+
+“I have questioned some of the servants. Their evidence is rather
+peculiar.”
+
+“Very well; we shall see. But I must hurry off and find the
+investigating magistrate, who is impatiently expecting me.”
+
+Albert was beginning to recover a little from the stupor into which he
+had been plunged by the entrance of the commissary of police.
+
+“Sir,” he asked, “will you permit me to say a few words in your presence
+to the Count de Commarin? I am the victim of some mistake, which will be
+very soon discovered.”
+
+“It’s always a mistake,” muttered old Tabaret.
+
+“What you ask is impossible,” replied the commissary. “I have special
+orders of the strictest sort. You must not henceforth communicate with
+a living soul. A cab is in waiting below. Have the goodness to accompany
+me to it.”
+
+In crossing the vestibule, Albert noticed a great stir among the
+servants; they all seemed to have lost their senses. M. Denis gave some
+orders in a sharp, imperative tone. Then he thought he heard that the
+Count de Commarin had been struck down with apoplexy. After that, he
+remembered nothing. They almost carried him to the cab which drove off
+as fast as the two little horses could go. M. Tabaret had just hastened
+away in a more rapid vehicle.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+The visitor who risks himself in the labyrinth of galleries and
+stairways in the Palais de Justice, and mounts to the third story in
+the left wing, will find himself in a long, low-studded gallery, badly
+lighted by narrow windows, and pierced at short intervals by little
+doors, like a hall at the ministry or at a lodging-house.
+
+It is a place difficult to view calmly, the imagination makes it appear
+so dark and dismal.
+
+It needs a Dante to compose an inscription to place above the doors
+which lead from it. From morning to night, the flagstones resound under
+the heavy tread of the gendarmes, who accompany the prisoners. You can
+scarcely recall anything but sad figures there. There are the parents or
+friends of the accused, the witnesses, the detectives. In this gallery,
+far from the sight of men, the judicial curriculum is gone through with.
+
+Each one of the little doors, which has its number painted over it in
+black, opens into the office of a judge of inquiry. All the rooms are
+just alike: if you see one, you have seen them all. They have nothing
+terrible nor sad in themselves; and yet it is difficult to enter one of
+them without a shudder. They are cold. The walls all seem moist with
+the tears which have been shed there. You shudder, at thinking of the
+avowals wrested from the criminals, of the confessions broken with sobs
+murmured there.
+
+In the office of the judge of inquiry, Justice clothes herself in none
+of that apparel which she afterwards dons in order to strike fear into
+the masses. She is still simple, and almost disposed to kindness. She
+says to the prisoner,--
+
+“I have strong reasons for thinking you guilty; but prove to me your
+innocence, and I will release you.”
+
+On entering one of these rooms, a stranger would imagine that he got
+into a cheap shop by mistake. The furniture is of the most primitive
+sort, as is the case in all places where important matters are
+transacted. Of what consequence are surroundings to the judge hunting
+down the author of a crime, or to the accused who is defending his life?
+
+A desk full of documents for the judge, a table for the clerk, an
+arm-chair, and one or two chairs besides comprise the entire furniture
+of the antechamber of the court of assize. The walls are hung with green
+paper; the curtains are green, and the floors are carpeted in the same
+color. Monsieur Daburon’s office bore the number fifteen.
+
+M. Daburon had arrived at his office in the Palais de Justice at nine
+o’clock in the morning, and was waiting. His course resolved upon,
+he had not lost an instant, understanding as well as old Tabaret the
+necessity for rapid action. He had already had an interview with the
+public prosecutor, and had arranged everything with the police.
+
+Besides issuing the warrant against Albert, he had summoned the Count de
+Commarin, Madame Gerdy, Noel, and some of Albert’s servants, to appear
+before him with as little delay as possible.
+
+He thought it essential to question all these persons before examining
+the prisoner. Several detectives had started off to execute his orders,
+and he himself sat in his office, like a general commanding an army,
+who sends off his aide-de-camp to begin the battle, and who hopes that
+victory will crown his combinations.
+
+Often, at this same hour, he had sat in this office, under circumstances
+almost identical. A crime had been committed, and, believing he had
+discovered the criminal, he had given orders for his arrest. Was not
+that his duty? But he had never before experienced the anxiety of mind
+which disturbed him now. Many a time had he issued warrants of arrest,
+without possessing even half the proofs which guided him in the present
+case. He kept repeating this to himself; and yet he could not quiet his
+dreadful anxiety, which would not allow him a moment’s rest.
+
+He wondered why his people were so long in making their appearance. He
+walked up and down the room, counting the minutes, drawing out his watch
+three times within a quarter of an hour, to compare it with the clock.
+Every time he heard a step in the passage, almost deserted at that
+hour, he moved near the door, stopped and listened. At length some
+one knocked. It was his clerk, whom he had sent for. There was nothing
+particular in this man; he was tall rather than big, and very slim.
+His gait was precise, his gestures were methodical, and his face was as
+impassive as if it had been cut out of a piece of yellow wood. He was
+thirty-four years of age and during fifteen years had acted as clerk
+to four investigating magistrates in succession. He could hear the most
+astonishing things without moving a muscle. His name was Constant.
+
+He bowed to the magistrate, and excused himself for his tardiness. He
+had been busy with some book-keeping, which he did every morning; and
+his wife had had to send after him.
+
+“You are still in good time,” said M. Daburon: “but we shall soon have
+plenty of work: so you had better get your paper ready.”
+
+Five minutes later, the usher introduced M. Noel Gerdy. He entered
+with an easy manner, like an advocate who was well acquainted with the
+Palais, and who knew its winding ways. He in no wise resembled, this
+morning, old Tabaret’s friend; still less could he have been recognized
+as Madame Juliette’s lover. He was entirely another being, or rather he
+had resumed his every-day bearing. From his firm step, his placid
+face, one would never imagine that, after an evening of emotion and
+excitement, after a secret visit to his mistress, he had passed the
+night by the pillow of a dying woman, and that woman his mother, or at
+least one who had filled his mother’s place.
+
+What a contrast between him and the magistrate!
+
+M. Daburon had not slept either: but one could easily see that in his
+feebleness, in his anxious look, in the dark circles about his eyes.
+His shirt-front was all rumpled, and his cuffs were far from clean.
+Carried away by the course of events, the mind had forgotten the body.
+Noel’s well-shaved chin, on the contrary, rested upon an irreproachably
+white cravat; his collar did not show a crease; his hair and his
+whiskers had been most carefully brushed. He bowed to M. Daburon, and
+held out the summons he had received.
+
+“You summoned me, sir,” he said; “and I am here awaiting your orders.”
+
+The investigating magistrate had met the young advocate several times in
+the lobbies of the Palais; and he knew him well by sight. He remembered
+having heard M. Gerdy spoken of as a man of talent and promise,
+whose reputation was fast rising. He therefore welcomed him as a
+fellow-workman, and invited him to be seated.
+
+The preliminaries common in the examinations of all witnesses ended;
+the name, surname, age, place of business, and so on having been written
+down, the magistrate, who had followed his clerk with his eyes while he
+was writing, turned towards Noel.
+
+“I presume you know, M. Gerdy,” he began, “the matters in connection
+with which you are troubled with appearing before me?”
+
+“Yes, sir, the murder of that poor old woman at La Jonchere.”
+
+“Precisely,” replied M. Daburon. Then, calling to mind his promise to
+old Tabaret, he added, “If justice has summoned you so promptly, it
+is because we have found your name often mentioned in Widow Lerouge’s
+papers.”
+
+“I am not surprised at that,” replied the advocate: “we were greatly
+interested in that poor woman, who was my nurse; and I know that Madame
+Gerdy wrote to her frequently.”
+
+“Very well; then you can give me some information about her.”
+
+“I fear, sir, that it will be very incomplete. I know very little about
+this poor old Madame Lerouge. I was taken from her at a very early
+age; and, since I have been a man, I have thought but little about her,
+except to send her occasionally a little aid.”
+
+“You never went to visit her?”
+
+“Excuse me. I have gone there to see her many times, but I remained only
+a few minutes. Madame Gerdy, who has often seen her, and to whom she
+talked of all her affairs, could have enlightened you much better than
+I.”
+
+“But,” said the magistrate, “I expect shortly to see Madame Gerdy here;
+she, too, must have received a summons.”
+
+“I know it, sir, but it is impossible for her to appear. She is ill in
+bed.”
+
+“Seriously?”
+
+“So seriously that you will be obliged, I think, to give up all hope of
+her testimony. She is attacked with a disease which, in the words of my
+friend, Dr. Herve, never forgives. It is something like inflammation of
+the brain, if I am not mistaken. It may be that her life will be saved,
+but she will never recover her reason. If she does not die, she will be
+insane.”
+
+M. Daburon appeared greatly vexed. “This is very annoying,” he muttered.
+“And you think, my dear sir, that it will be impossible to obtain any
+information from her?”
+
+“It is useless even to hope for it. She has completely lost her reason.
+She was, when I left her, in such a state of utter prostration that I
+fear she can not live through the day.”
+
+“And when was she attacked by this illness?”
+
+“Yesterday evening.”
+
+“Suddenly?”
+
+“Yes, sir; at least, apparently so, though I myself think she has been
+unwell for the last three weeks at least. Yesterday, however, on rising
+from dinner, after having eaten but little, she took up a newspaper;
+and, by a most unfortunate hazard, her eyes fell exactly upon the lines
+which gave an account of this crime. She at once uttered a loud cry,
+fell back in her chair, and thence slipped to the floor, murmuring, ‘Oh,
+the unhappy man, the unhappy man!’”
+
+“The unhappy woman, you mean.”
+
+“No, sir. She uttered the words I have just repeated. Evidently the
+exclamation did not refer to my poor nurse.”
+
+Upon this reply, so important and yet made in the most unconscious tone,
+M. Daburon raised his eyes to the witness. The advocate lowered his
+head.
+
+“And then?” asked the magistrate, after a moment’s silence, during which
+he had taken a few notes.
+
+“Those words, sir, were the last spoken by Madame Gerdy. Assisted by our
+servant, I carried her to her bed. The doctor was sent for; and, since
+then, she has not recovered consciousness. The doctor--”
+
+“It is well,” interrupted M. Daburon. “Let us leave that for the
+present. Do you know, sir, whether Widow Lerouge had any enemies?”
+
+“None that I know of, sir.”
+
+“She had no enemies? Well, now tell me, does there exist to your
+knowledge any one having the least interest in the death of this poor
+woman?”
+
+As he asked this question the investigating magistrate kept his eyes
+fixed on Noel’s, not wishing him to turn or lower his head.
+
+The advocate started, and seemed deeply moved. He was disconcerted; he
+hesitated, as if a struggle was going on within him.
+
+Finally, in a voice which was by no means firm, he replied, “No, no
+one.”
+
+“Is that really true?” asked the magistrate, looking at him more
+searchingly. “You know no one whom this crime benefits, or whom it might
+benefit,--absolutely no one?”
+
+“I know only one thing, sir,” replied Noel; “and that is, that, as far
+as I am concerned, it has caused me an irreparable injury.”
+
+“At last,” thought M. Daburon, “we have got at the letters; and I have
+not betrayed poor old Tabaret. It would be too bad to cause the least
+trouble to that zealous and invaluable man.” He then added aloud: “An
+injury to you, my dear sir? You will, I hope, explain yourself.”
+
+Noel’s embarrassment, of which he had already given some signs, appeared
+much more marked.
+
+“I am aware, sir,” he replied, “that I owe justice not merely the truth,
+but the whole truth; but there are circumstances involved so delicate
+that the conscience of a man of honour sees danger in them. Besides, it
+is very hard to be obliged to unveil such sad secrets, the revelation of
+which may sometimes--”
+
+M. Daburon interrupted with a gesture. Noel’s sad tone impressed him.
+Knowing, beforehand, what he was about to hear, he felt for the young
+advocate. He turned to his clerk.
+
+“Constant!” said he in a peculiar tone. This was evidently a signal; for
+the tall clerk rose methodically, put his pen behind his ear, and went
+out in his measured tread.
+
+Noel appeared sensible of this kindness. His face expressed the
+strongest gratitude; his look returned thanks.
+
+“I am very much obliged to you, sir,” he said with suppressed warmth,
+“for your considerateness. What I have to say is very painful; but it
+will be scarcely an effort to speak before you now.”
+
+“Fear nothing,” replied the magistrate; “I will only retain of your
+deposition, my dear sir, what seems to me absolutely indispensable.”
+
+“I feel scarcely master of myself, sir,” began Noel; “so pray pardon
+my emotion. If any words escape me that seem charged with bitterness,
+excuse them; they will be involuntary. Up to the past few days, I always
+believed that I was the offspring of illicit love. My history is short.
+I have been honourably ambitious; I have worked hard. He who has no
+name must make one, you know. I have passed a quiet life, retired and
+austere, as people must, who, starting at the foot of the ladder, wish
+to reach the top. I worshipped her whom I believed to be my mother; and
+I felt convinced that she loved me in return. The stain of my birth had
+some humiliations attached to it; but I despised them. Comparing my
+lot with that of so many others, I felt that I had more than common
+advantages. One day, Providence placed in my hands all the letters which
+my father, the Count de Commarin, had written to Madame Gerdy during
+the time she was his mistress. On reading these letters, I was convinced
+that I was not what I had hitherto believed myself to be,--that Madame
+Gerdy was not my mother!”
+
+And, without giving M. Daburon time to reply, he laid before him the
+facts which, twelve hours before, he had related to M. Tabaret. It
+was the same story, with the same circumstances, the same abundance of
+precise and conclusive details; but the tone in which it was told was
+entirely changed. When speaking to the old detective, the young
+advocate had been emphatic and violent; but now, in the presence of the
+investigating magistrate, he restrained his vehement emotions.
+
+One might imagine that he adapted his style to his auditors, wishing to
+produce the same effect on both, and using the method which would best
+accomplish his purpose.
+
+To an ordinary mind like M. Tabaret’s he used the exaggeration of anger;
+but to a man of superior intelligence like M. Daburon, he employed the
+exaggeration of restraint. With the detective he had rebelled against
+his unjust lot; but with the magistrate he seemed to bow, full of
+resignation, before a blind fatality.
+
+With genuine eloquence and rare facility of expression, he related his
+feelings on the day following the discovery,--his grief, his perplexity,
+his doubts.
+
+To support this moral certainty, some positive testimony was needed.
+Could he hope for this from the count or from Madame Gerdy, both
+interested in concealing the truth? No. But he had counted upon that of
+his nurse,--the poor old woman who loved him, and who, near the close of
+her life, would be glad to free her conscience from this heavy load. She
+was dead now; and the letters became mere waste paper in his hands.
+
+Then he passed on to his explanation with Madame Gerdy, and he gave the
+magistrate even fuller details than he had given his old neighbour.
+
+She had, he said, at first utterly denied the substitution, but he
+insinuated that, plied with questions, and overcome by the evidence, she
+had, in a moment of despair, confessed all, declaring, soon after,
+that she would retract and deny this confession, being resolved at all
+hazards that her son should preserve his position.
+
+From this scene, in the advocate’s judgment, might be dated the first
+attacks of the illness, to which she was now succumbing.
+
+Noel then described his interview with the Viscount de Commarin. A few
+inaccuracies occurred in his narrative, but so slight that it would have
+been difficult to charge him with them. Besides, there was nothing in
+them at all unfavourable to Albert.
+
+He insisted, on the contrary, upon the excellent impression which that
+young man had made on him. Albert had received the revelation with a
+certain distrust, it is true, but with a noble firmness at the same
+time, and, like a brave heart, was ready to bow before the justification
+of right.
+
+In fact, he drew an almost enthusiastic portrait of this rival, who
+had not been spoiled by prosperity, who had left him without a look of
+hatred, towards whom he felt himself drawn, and who after all was his
+brother.
+
+M. Daburon listened to Noel with the most unremitting attention, without
+allowing a word, a movement, or a frown, to betray his feelings.
+
+“How, sir,” observed the magistrate when the young man ceased speaking,
+“could you have told me that, in your opinion, no one was interested in
+Widow Lerouge’s death?”
+
+The advocate made no reply.
+
+“It seems to me,” continued M. Daburon, “that the Viscount de Commarin’s
+position has thereby become almost impregnable. Madame Gerdy is insane;
+the count will deny all; your letters prove nothing. It is evident that
+the crime is of the greatest service to this young man, and that it was
+committed at a singularly favourable moment.”
+
+“Oh sir!” cried Noel, protesting with all his energy, “this insinuation
+is dreadful.”
+
+The magistrate watched the advocate’s face narrowly. Was he speaking
+frankly, or was he but playing at being generous? Could it really be
+that he had never had any suspicion of this?
+
+Noel did not flinch under the gaze, but almost immediately
+continued,--“What reason could this young man have for trembling, or
+fearing for his position? I did not utter one threatening word, even
+indirectly. I did not present myself like a man who, furious at being
+robbed, demands that everything which had been taken from him should be
+restored on the spot. I merely presented the facts to Albert, saying,
+‘Here is the truth? what do you think we ought to do? Be the judge.’”
+
+“And he asked you for time?”
+
+“Yes. I had suggested his accompanying me to see Widow Lerouge, whose
+testimony might dispel all doubts; he did not seem to understand me. But
+he was well acquainted with her, having visited her with the count, who
+supplied her, I have since learned, liberally with money.”
+
+“Did not this generosity appear to you very singular?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Can you explain why the viscount did not appear disposed to accompany
+you?”
+
+“Certainly. He had just said that he wished, before all, to have an
+explanation with his father, who was then absent, but who would return
+in a few days.”
+
+The truth, as all the world knows, and delights in proclaiming, has an
+accent which no one can mistake. M. Daburon had not the slightest doubt
+of his witness’s good faith. Noel continued with the ingenuous candour
+of an honest heart which suspicion has never touched with its
+bat’s wing: “The idea of treating at once with my father pleased me
+exceedingly. I thought it so much better to wash all one’s dirty linen
+at home, I had never desired anything but an amicable arrangement. With
+my hands full of proofs, I should still recoil from a public trial.”
+
+“Would you not have brought an action?”
+
+“Never, sir, not at any price. Could I,” he added proudly, “to regain my
+rightful name, begin by dishonouring it?”
+
+This time M. Daburon could not conceal his sincere admiration.
+
+“A most praiseworthy feeling, sir,” he said.
+
+“I think,” replied Noel, “that it is but natural. If things came to the
+worst, I had determined to leave my title with Albert. No doubt the name
+of Commarin is an illustrious one; but I hope that, in ten years
+time, mine will be more known. I would, however, have demanded a
+large pecuniary compensation. I possess nothing: and I have often been
+hampered in my career by the want of money. That which Madame Gerdy owed
+to the generosity of my father was almost entirely spent. My education
+had absorbed a great part of it; and it was long before my profession
+covered my expenses. Madame Gerdy and I live very quietly; but,
+unfortunately, though simple in her tastes, she lacks economy and
+system; and no one can imagine how great our expenses have been. But
+I have nothing to reproach myself with, whatever happens. At the
+commencement, I could not keep my anger well under control; but now I
+bear no ill-will. On learning of the death of my nurse, though, I cast
+all my hopes into the sea.”
+
+“You were wrong, my dear sir,” said the magistrate. “I advise you to
+still hope. Perhaps, before the end of the day, you will enter into
+possession of your rights. Justice, I will not conceal from you, thinks
+she has found Widow Lerouge’s assassin. At this moment, Viscount Albert
+is doubtless under arrest.”
+
+“What!” exclaimed Noel, with a sort of stupor: “I was not, then,
+mistaken, sir, in the meaning of your words. I dreaded to understand
+them.”
+
+“You have not mistaken me, sir,” said M. Daburon. “I thank you for
+your sincere straightforward explanations; they have eased my task
+materially. To-morrow,--for today my time is all taken up,--we will
+write down your deposition together if you like. I have nothing more to
+say, I believe, except to ask you for the letters in your possession,
+and which are indispensable to me.”
+
+“Within an hour, sir, you shall have them,” replied Noel. And
+he retired, after having warmly expressed his gratitude to the
+investigating magistrate.
+
+Had he been less preoccupied, the advocate might have perceived at the
+end of the gallery old Tabaret, who had just arrived, eager and happy,
+like a bearer of great news as he was.
+
+His cab had scarcely stopped at the gate of the Palais de Justice
+before he was in the courtyard and rushing towards the porch. To see him
+jumping more nimbly than a fifth-rate lawyer’s clerk up the steep flight
+of stairs leading to the magistrate’s office, one would never have
+believed that he was many years on the shady side of fifty. Even he
+himself had forgotten it. He did not remember how he had passed the
+night; he had never before felt so fresh, so agile, in such spirits; he
+seemed to have springs of steel in his limbs.
+
+He burst like a cannon-shot into the magistrate’s office, knocking up
+against the methodical clerk in the rudest of ways, without even asking
+his pardon.
+
+“Caught!” he cried, while yet on the threshold, “caught, nipped,
+squeezed, strung, trapped, locked! We have got the man.”
+
+Old Tabaret, more Tirauclair than ever, gesticulated with such comical
+vehemence and such remarkable contortions that even the tall clerk
+smiled, for which, however, he took himself severely to task on going to
+bed that night.
+
+But M. Daburon, still under the influence of Noel’s deposition, was
+shocked at this apparently unseasonable joy; although he felt the safer
+for it. He looked severely at old Tabaret, saying,--“Hush, sir; be
+decent, compose yourself.”
+
+At any other time, the old fellow would have felt ashamed at having
+deserved such a reprimand. Now, it made no impression on him.
+
+“I can’t be quiet,” he replied. “Never has anything like this been known
+before. All that I mentioned has been found. Broken foil, lavender kid
+gloves slightly frayed, cigar-holder; nothing is wanting. You shall have
+them, sir, and many other things besides. I have a little system of my
+own, which appears by no means a bad one. Just see the triumph of my
+method of induction, which Gevrol ridiculed so much. I’d give a hundred
+francs if he were only here now. But no; my Gevrol wants to nab the
+man with the earrings; he is just capable of doing that. He is a fine
+fellow, this Gevrol, a famous fellow! How much do you give him a year
+for his skill?”
+
+“Come, my dear M. Tabaret,” said the magistrate, as soon as he could get
+in a word, “be serious, if you can, and let us proceed in order.”
+
+“Pooh!” replied the old fellow, “what good will that do? It is a clear
+case now. When they bring the fellow before you, merely show him the
+particles of kid taken from behind the nails of the victim, side by side
+with his torn gloves, and you will overwhelm him. I wager that he will
+confess all, hic et nunc,--yes, I wager my head against his; although
+that’s pretty risky; for he may get off yet! Those milk-sops on the jury
+are just capable of according him extenuating circumstances. Ah! all
+those delays are fatal to justice! Why if all the world were of my mind,
+the punishment of rascals wouldn’t take such a time. They should be
+hanged as soon as caught. That’s my opinion.”
+
+M. Daburon resigned himself to this shower of words. As soon as the old
+fellow’s excitement had cooled down a little, he began questioning him.
+He even then had great trouble in obtaining the exact details of the
+arrest; details which later on were confirmed by the commissary’s
+official report.
+
+The magistrate appeared very surprised when he heard that Albert had
+exclaimed, “I am lost!” at sight of the warrant. “That,” muttered he,
+“is a terrible proof against him.”
+
+“I should think so,” replied old Tabaret. “In his ordinary state, he
+would never have allowed himself to utter such words; for they in fact
+destroy him. We arrested him when he was scarcely awake. He hadn’t been
+in bed, but was lying in a troubled sleep, upon a sofa, when we arrived.
+I took good care to let a frightened servant run in in advance, and to
+follow closely upon him myself, to see the effect. All my arrangements
+were made. But, never fear, he will find a plausible excuse for this
+fatal exclamation. By the way, I should add that we found on the floor,
+near by, a crumpled copy of last evening’s ‘Gazette de France,’ which
+contained an account of the assassination. This is the first time that a
+piece of news in the papers ever helped to nab a criminal.”
+
+“Yes,” murmured the magistrate, deep in thought, “yes, you are a
+valuable man, M. Tabaret.” Then, louder, he added, “I am thoroughly
+convinced; for M. Gerdy has just this moment left me.”
+
+“You have seen Noel!” cried the old fellow. On the instant all his proud
+self-satisfaction disappeared. A cloud of anxiety spread itself like
+a veil over his beaming countenance. “Noel here,” he repeated. Then he
+timidly added: “And does he know?”
+
+“Nothing,” replied M. Daburon. “I had no need of mentioning your name.
+Besides, had I not promised absolute secrecy?”
+
+“Ah, that’s all right,” cried old Tabaret. “And what do you think sir,
+of Noel?”
+
+“His is, I am sure, a noble, worthy heart,” said the magistrate; “a
+nature both strong and tender. The sentiments which I heard him express
+here, and the genuineness of which it is impossible to doubt, manifested
+an elevation of soul, unhappily, very rare. Seldom in my life have I met
+with a man who so won my sympathy from the first. I can well understand
+one’s pride in being among his friends.”
+
+“Just what I said; he has precisely the same effect upon every one. I
+love him as though he were my own child; and, whatever happens, he
+will inherit almost the whole of my fortune: yes, I intend leaving him
+everything. My will is made, and is in the hands of M. Baron, my notary.
+There is a small legacy, too, for Madame Gerdy; but I am going to have
+the paragraph that relates to that taken out at once.”
+
+“Madame Gerdy, M. Tabaret, will soon be beyond all need of worldly
+goods.”
+
+“How, what do you mean? Has the count--”
+
+“She is dying, and is not likely to live through the day; M. Gerdy told
+me so himself.”
+
+“Ah! heavens!” cried the old fellow, “what is that you say? Dying? Noel
+will be distracted; but no: since she is not his mother, how can it
+affect him? Dying! I thought so much of her before this discovery. Poor
+humanity! It seems as though all the accomplices are passing away at
+the same time; for I forgot to tell you, that, just as I was leaving
+the Commarin mansion, I heard a servant tell another that the count had
+fallen down in a fit on learning the news of his son’s arrest.”
+
+“That will be a great misfortune for M. Gerdy.”
+
+“For Noel?”
+
+“I had counted upon M. de Commarin’s testimony to recover for him all
+that he so well deserves. The count dead, Widow Lerouge dead, Madame
+Gerdy dying, or in any event insane, who then can tell us whether the
+substitution alluded to in the letters was ever carried into execution?”
+
+“True,” murmured old Tabaret; “it is true! And I did not think of it.
+What fatality! For I am not deceived; I am certain that--”
+
+He did not finish. The door of M. Daburon’s office opened, and the Count
+de Commarin himself appeared on the threshold, as rigid as one of those
+old portraits which look as though they were frozen in their gilded
+frames. The nobleman motioned with his hand, and the two servants who
+had helped him up as far as the door, retired.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+It was indeed the Count de Commarin, though more like his shadow. His
+head, usually carried so high, leant upon his chest; his figure was
+bent; his eyes had no longer their accustomed fire; his hands trembled.
+The extreme disorder of his dress rendered more striking still the
+change which had come over him. In one night, he had grown twenty years
+older. This man, yesterday so proud of never having bent to a storm,
+was now completely shattered. The pride of his name had constituted his
+entire strength; that humbled, he seemed utterly overwhelmed. Everything
+in him gave way at once; all his supports failed him at the same time.
+His cold, lifeless gaze revealed the dull stupor of his thoughts.
+He presented such a picture of utter despair that the investigating
+magistrate slightly shuddered at the sight. M. Tabaret looked
+frightened, and even the clerk seemed moved.
+
+“Constant,” said M. Daburon quickly, “go with M. Tabaret, and see if
+there’s any news at the Prefecture.”
+
+The clerk left the room, followed by the detective, who went away
+regretfully. The count had not noticed their presence; he paid no
+attention to their departure.
+
+M. Daburon offered him a seat, which he accepted with a sad smile. “I
+feel so weak,” said he, “you must excuse my sitting.”
+
+Apologies to an investigating magistrate! What an advance in
+civilisation, when the nobles consider themselves subject to the law,
+and bow to its decrees! Every one respects justice now-a-days, and fears
+it a little, even when only represented by a simple and conscientious
+investigating magistrate.
+
+“You are, perhaps, too unwell, count,” said the magistrate, “to give me
+the explanations I had hoped for.”
+
+“I am better, thank you,” replied M. de Commarin, “I am as well as could
+be expected after the shock I have received. When I heard of the crime
+of which my son is accused, and of his arrest, I was thunderstruck.
+I believed myself a strong man; but I rolled in the dust. My servants
+thought me dead. Why was it not so? The strength of my constitution,
+my physician tells me, was all that saved me; but I believe that heaven
+wishes me to live, that I may drink to the bitter dregs my cup of
+humiliation.”
+
+He stopped suddenly, nearly choked by a flow of blood that rose to his
+mouth.
+
+The investigating magistrate remained standing near the table, almost
+afraid to move.
+
+After a few moments’ rest, the count found relief, and
+continued,--“Unhappy man that I am! ought I not to have expected it?
+Everything comes to light sooner or later. I am punished for my great
+sin,--pride. I thought myself out of reach of the thunderbolt; and I
+have been the means of drawing down the storm upon my house. Albert an
+assassin! A Viscount de Commarin arraigned before a court of assize! Ah,
+sir, punish me, also; for I alone and long ago, laid the foundation of
+this crime. Fifteen centuries of spotless fame end with me in infamy.”
+
+M. Daburon considered Count de Commarin’s conduct unpardonable, and had
+determined not to spare him.
+
+He had expected to meet a proud, haughty noble, almost unmanageable; and
+he had resolved to humble his arrogance.
+
+Perhaps the harsh treatment he had received of old from the Marchioness
+d’Arlange had given him, unconsciously, a slight grudge against the
+aristocracy.
+
+He had vaguely thought of certain rather severe remarks, which were to
+overcome the old nobleman, and bring him to a sense of his position.
+
+But when he found himself in the presence of such a sincere repentance,
+his indignation changed to profound pity; and he began to wonder how he
+could assuage the count’s grief.
+
+“Write, sir,” continued M. de Commarin with an exaltation of which he
+did not seem capable ten minutes before,--“write my avowal and suppress
+nothing. I have no longer need of mercy nor of tenderness. What have
+I to fear now? Is not my disgrace public? Must not I, Count Rheteau
+de Commarin appear before the tribunal, to proclaim the infamy of our
+house? Ah! all is lost now, even honour itself. Write, sir; for I wish
+that all the world shall know that I am the most deserving of blame. But
+they shall also know that the punishment has been already terrible, and
+that there was no need for this last and awful trial.”
+
+The count stopped for a moment, to concentrate and arrange his memory.
+
+He soon continued, in a firmer voice, and adapting his tone to what he
+had to say, “When I was of Albert’s age, sir, my parents made me marry,
+in spite of my protestations, the noblest and purest of young girls. I
+made her the most unhappy of women. I could not love her. I cherished a
+most passionate love for a mistress, who had trusted herself to me, and
+whom I had loved for a long time. I found her rich in beauty, purity and
+mind. Her name was Valerie. My heart is, so to say, dead and cold in me,
+sir, but, ah! when I pronounce that name, it still has a great effect
+upon me. In spite of my marriage, I could not induce myself to part from
+her, though she wished me to. The idea of sharing my love with another
+was revolting to her. No doubt she loved me then. Our relations
+continued. My wife and my mistress became mothers at nearly the same
+time. This coincidence suggested to me the fatal idea of sacrificing
+my legitimate son to his less fortunate brother. I communicated this
+project to Valerie. To my great surprise, she refused it with horror.
+Already the maternal instinct was aroused within her; she would not be
+separated from her child. I have preserved, as a monument of my folly,
+the letters which she wrote to me at that time. I re-read them only last
+night. Ah! why did I not listen to both her arguments and her prayers?
+It was because I was mad. She had a sort of presentiment of the evil
+which overwhelms me to-day. But I came to Paris;--I had absolute
+control over her. I threatened to leave her, never to see her again. She
+yielded; and my valet and Claudine Lerouge were charged with this wicked
+substitution. It is, therefore, the son of my mistress who bears the
+title of Viscount de Commarin, and who was arrested but a short time
+ago.”
+
+M. Daburon had not hoped for a declaration so clear, and above all
+so prompt. He secretly rejoiced for the young advocate whose noble
+sentiments had quite captivated him.
+
+“So, count,” said he, “you acknowledge that M. Noel Gerdy is the issue
+of your legitimate marriage, and that he alone is entitled to bear your
+name?”
+
+“Yes, sir. Alas! I was then more delighted at the success of my project
+than I should have been over the most brilliant victory. I was so
+intoxicated with the joy of having my Valerie’s child there, near me,
+that I forgot everything else. I had transferred to him a part of my
+love for his mother; or, rather, I loved him still more, if that be
+possible. The thought that he would bear my name, that he would inherit
+all my wealth, to the detriment of the other, transported me with
+delight. The other, I hated; I could not even look upon him. I do not
+recollect having kissed him twice. On this point Valerie, who was
+very good, reproached me severely. One thing alone interfered with my
+happiness. The Countess de Commarin adored him whom she believed to be
+her son, and always wished to have him on her knees. I cannot express
+what I suffered at seeing my wife cover with kisses and caresses the
+child of my mistress. But I kept him from her as much as I could; and
+she, poor woman! not understanding what was passing within me, imagined
+that I was doing everything to prevent her son loving her. She died,
+sir, with this idea, which poisoned her last days. She died of sorrow;
+but saint-like, without a complaint, without a murmur, pardon upon her
+lips and in her heart.”
+
+Though greatly pressed for time, M. Daburon did not venture to interrupt
+the count, to ask him briefly for the immediate facts of the case. He
+knew that fever alone gave him this unnatural energy, to which at any
+moment might succeed the most complete prostration. He feared, if he
+stopped him for an instant, that he would not have strength enough to
+resume.
+
+“I did not shed a single tear,” continued the count. “What had she been
+in my life? A cause of sorrow and remorse. But God’s justice, in advance
+of man’s was about to take a terrible revenge. One day, I was warned
+that Valerie was deceiving me, and had done so for a long time. I could
+not believe it at first; it seemed to me impossible, absurd. I would
+have sooner doubted myself than her. I had taken her from a garret,
+where she was working sixteen hours a day to earn a few pence; she owed
+all to me. I had made her so much a part of myself that I could not
+credit her being false. I could not induce myself to feel jealous.
+However, I inquired into the matter; I had her watched; I even acted the
+spy upon her myself. I had been told the truth. This unhappy woman had
+another lover, and had had him for more than ten years. He was a cavalry
+officer. In coming to her house he took every precaution. He usually
+left about midnight; but sometimes he came to pass the night, and in
+that case went away in the early morning. Being stationed near Paris, he
+frequently obtained leave of absence and came to visit her; and he would
+remain shut up in her apartments until his time expired. One evening,
+my spies brought me word that he was there. I hastened to the house. My
+presence did not embarrass her. She received me as usual, throwing her
+arms about my neck. I thought that my spies had deceived me; and I was
+going to tell her all, when I saw upon the piano a buckskin glove, such
+as are worn by soldiers. Not wishing a scene, and not knowing to what
+excess my anger might carry me, I rushed out of the place without saying
+a word. I have never seen her since. She wrote to me. I did not open her
+letters. She attempted to force her way into my presence, but in vain;
+my servants had orders that they dared not ignore.”
+
+Could this be the Count de Commarin, celebrated for his haughty
+coldness, for his reserve so full of disdain, who spoke thus, who opened
+his whole life without restrictions, without reserve? And to whom? To a
+stranger.
+
+But he was in one of those desperate states, allied to madness, when all
+reflection leaves us, when we must find some outlet for a too powerful
+emotion. What mattered to him this secret, so courageously borne for
+so many years? He disburdened himself of it, like the poor man, who,
+weighed down by a too heavy burden, casts it to the earth without
+caring where it falls, nor how much it may tempt the cupidity of the
+passers-by.
+
+“Nothing,” continued he, “no, nothing, can approach to what I then
+endured. My very heartstrings were bound up in that woman. She was like
+a part of myself. In separating from her, it seemed to me that I was
+tearing away a part of my own flesh. I cannot describe the furious
+passions her memory stirred within me. I scorned her and longed for her
+with equal vehemence. I hated her, and I loved her. And, to this day,
+her detestable image has been ever present to my imagination. Nothing
+can make me forget her. I have never consoled myself for her loss. And
+that is not all, terrible doubts about Albert occurred to me. Was I
+really his father? Can you understand what my punishment was, when I
+thought to myself, ‘I have perhaps sacrificed my own son to the child
+of an utter stranger.’ This thought made me hate the bastard who
+called himself Commarin. To my great affection for him succeeded an
+unconquerable aversion. How often, in those days I struggled against
+an insane desire to kill him! Since then, I have learned to subdue my
+aversion; but I have never completely mastered it. Albert, sir, has been
+the best of sons. Nevertheless, there has always been an icy barrier
+between us, which he was unable to explain. I have often been on the
+point of appealing to the tribunals, of avowing all, of reclaiming my
+legitimate heir; but regard for my rank has prevented me. I recoiled
+before the scandal. I feared the ridicule or disgrace that would attach
+to my name; and yet I have not been able to save it from infamy.”
+
+The old nobleman remained silent, after pronouncing these words. In a
+fit of despair, he buried his face in his hands, and two great tears
+rolled silently down his wrinkled cheeks.
+
+In the meantime, the door of the room opened slightly, and the tall
+clerk’s head appeared.
+
+M. Daburon signed to him to enter, and then addressing M. de Commarin,
+he said in a voice rendered more gentle by compassion: “Sir, in the eyes
+of heaven, as in the eyes of society, you have committed a great sin;
+and the results, as you see, are most disastrous. It is your duty to
+repair the evil consequences of your sin as much as lies in your power.”
+
+“Such is my intention, sir, and, may I say so? my dearest wish.”
+
+“You doubtless understand me,” continued M. Daburon.
+
+“Yes, sir,” replied the old man, “yes, I understand you.”
+
+“It will be a consolation to you,” added the magistrate, “to learn that
+M. Noel Gerdy is worthy in all respects of the high position that you
+are about to restore to him. He is a man of great talent, better
+and worthier than any one I know. You will have a son worthy of his
+ancestors. And finally, no one of your family has disgraced it, sir, for
+Viscount Albert is not a Commarin.”
+
+“No,” rejoined the count quickly, “a Commarin would be dead at this
+hour; and blood washes all away.”
+
+The old nobleman’s remark set the investigating magistrate thinking
+profoundly.
+
+“Are you then sure,” said he, “of the viscount’s guilt?”
+
+M. de Commarin gave the magistrate a look of intense surprise.
+
+“I only arrived in Paris yesterday evening,” he replied; “and I am
+entirely ignorant of all that has occurred. I only know that justice
+would not proceed without good cause against a man of Albert’s rank. If
+you have arrested him, it is quite evident that you have something more
+than suspicion against him,--that you possess positive proofs.”
+
+M. Daburon bit his lips, and, for a moment, could not conceal a feeling
+of displeasure. He had neglected his usual prudence, had moved too
+quickly. He had believed the count’s mind entirely upset; and now he had
+aroused his distrust. All the skill in the world could not repair such
+an unfortunate mistake. A witness on his guard is no longer a witness to
+be depended upon; he trembles for fear of compromising himself, measures
+the weight of the questions, and hesitates as to his answers.
+
+On the other hand, justice, in the form of a magistrate, is disposed to
+doubt everything, to imagine everything, and to suspect everybody.
+How far was the count a stranger to the crime at La Jonchere? Although
+doubting Albert’s paternity, he would certainly have made great efforts
+to save him. His story showed that he thought his honour in peril just
+as much as his son. Was he not the man to suppress, by every means, an
+inconvenient witness? Thus reasoned M. Daburon. And yet he could not
+clearly see how the Count de Commarin’s interests were concerned in the
+matter. This uncertainty made him very uneasy.
+
+“Sir,” he asked, more sternly, “when were you informed of the discovery
+of your secret?”
+
+“Last evening, by Albert himself. He spoke to me of this sad story, in a
+way which I now seek in vain to explain, unless--”
+
+The count stopped short, as if his reason had been struck by the
+improbability of the supposition which he had formed.
+
+“Unless!--” inquired the magistrate eagerly.
+
+“Sir,” said the count, without replying directly, “Albert is a hero, if
+he is not guilty.”
+
+“Ah!” said the magistrate quickly, “have you, then, reason to think him
+innocent?”
+
+M. Daburon’s spite was so plainly visible in the tone of his words that
+M. de Commarin could and ought to have seen the semblance of an insult.
+He started, evidently offended, and rising, said: “I am now no more a
+witness for, than I was a moment ago a witness against. I desire only to
+render what assistance I can to justice, in accordance with my duty.”
+
+“Confound it,” said M. Daburon to himself, “here I have offended him
+now! Is this the way to do things, making mistake after mistake?”
+
+“The facts are these,” resumed the count. “Yesterday, after having
+spoken to me of these cursed letters, Albert began to set a trap to
+discover the truth,--for he still had doubts, Noel Gerdy not having
+obtained the complete correspondence. An animated discussion arose
+between us. He declared his resolution to give way to Noel. I, on the
+other hand, was resolved to compromise the matter, cost what it might.
+Albert dared to oppose me. All my efforts to convert him to my views
+were useless. Vainly I tried to touch those chords in his breast which I
+supposed the most sensitive. He firmly repeated his intention to retire
+in spite of me, declaring himself satisfied, if I would consent to allow
+him a modest competence. I again attempted to shake him, by showing him
+that his marriage, so ardently looked forward to for two years, would be
+broken off by this blow. He replied that he felt sure of the constancy
+of his betrothed, Mademoiselle d’Arlange.”
+
+This name fell like a thunderbolt upon the ears of the investigating
+magistrate. He jumped in his chair. Feeling that his face was turning
+crimson, he took up a large bundle of papers from his table, and,
+to hide his emotion, he raised them to his face, as though trying to
+decipher an illegible word. He began to understand the difficult duty
+with which he was charged. He knew that he was troubled like a child,
+having neither his usual calmness nor foresight. He felt that he
+might commit the most serious blunders. Why had he undertaken this
+investigation? Could he preserve himself quite free from bias? Did he
+think his will would be perfectly impartial? Gladly would he put off
+to another time the further examination of the count; but could he?
+His conscience told him that this would be another blunder. He renewed,
+then, the painful examination.
+
+“Sir,” said he, “the sentiments expressed by the viscount are very fine,
+without doubt; but did he not mention Widow Lerouge?”
+
+“Yes,” replied the count, who appeared suddenly to brighten, as by the
+remembrance of some unnoticed circumstances,--“yes, certainly.”
+
+“He must have shown you that this woman’s testimony rendered a struggle
+with M. Gerdy impossible.”
+
+“Precisely; sir; and, aside from the question of duty, it was upon that
+that he based his refusal to follow my wishes.”
+
+“It will be necessary, count, for you to repeat to me very exactly all
+that passed between the viscount and yourself. Appeal, then, I beseech
+you, to your memory, and try to repeat his own words as nearly as
+possible.”
+
+M. de Commarin could do so without much difficulty. For some little
+time, a salutary reaction had taken place within him. His blood, excited
+by the persistence of the examination, moved in its accustomed course.
+His brain cleared itself.
+
+The scene of the previous evening was admirably presented to his memory,
+even to the most insignificant details. The sound of Albert’s voice was
+still in his ears; he saw again his expressive gestures. As his story
+advanced, alive with clearness and precision, M. Daburon’s conviction
+became more confirmed.
+
+The magistrate turned against Albert precisely that which the day before
+had won the count’s admiration.
+
+“What wonderful acting!” thought he. “Tabaret is decidedly possessed
+of second sight. To his inconceivable boldness, this young man joins an
+infernal cleverness. The genius of crime itself inspires him. It is a
+miracle that we are able to unmask him. How well everything was foreseen
+and arranged? How marvellously this scene with his father was brought
+about, in order to procure doubt in case of discovery? There is not
+a sentence which lacks a purpose, which does not tend to ward off
+suspicion. What refinement of execution! What excessive care for
+details! Nothing is wanting, not even the great devotion of his
+betrothed. Has he really informed Claire? Probably I might find out;
+but I should have to see her again, to speak to her. Poor child! to love
+such a man! But his plan is now fully exposed. His discussion with the
+count was his plank of safety. It committed him to nothing, and gained
+time. He would of course raise objections, since they would only end by
+binding him the more firmly in his father’s heart. He could thus make a
+merit of his compliance, and would ask a reward for his weakness. And,
+when Noel returned to the charge, he would find himself in presence of
+the count, who would boldly deny everything, politely refuse to have
+anything to do with him and would possibly have him driven out of the
+house, as an impostor and forger.”
+
+It was a strange coincidence, but yet easily explained, that M. de
+Commarin, while telling his story, arrived at the same ideas as the
+magistrate, and at conclusions almost identical. In fact, why that
+persistence with respect to Claudine? He remembered plainly, that, in
+his anger, he had said to his son, “Mankind is not in the habit of
+doing such fine actions for its own satisfaction.” That great
+disinterestedness was now explained.
+
+When the count had ceased speaking, M. Daburon said: “I thank you, sir.
+I can say nothing positive; but justice has weighty reasons to believe
+that, in the scene which you have just related to me, Viscount Albert
+played a part previously arranged.”
+
+“And well arranged,” murmured the count; “for he deceived me!”
+
+He was interrupted by the entrance of Noel, who carried under his arm a
+black shagreen portfolio, ornamented with his monogram.
+
+The advocate bowed to the old gentleman, who in his turn rose and
+retired politely to the end of the room.
+
+“Sir,” said Noel, in an undertone to the magistrate, “you will find all
+the letters in this portfolio. I must ask permission to leave you at
+once, as Madame Gerdy’s condition grows hourly more alarming.”
+
+Noel had raised his voice a little, in pronouncing these last words; and
+the count heard them. He started, and made a great effort to restrain
+the question which leaped from his heart to his lips.
+
+“You must however give me a moment, my dear sir,” replied the
+magistrate.
+
+M. Daburon then quitted his chair, and, taking the advocate by the hand,
+led him to the count.
+
+“M. de Commarin,” said he, “I have the honour of presenting to you M.
+Noel Gerdy.”
+
+M. de Commarin was probably expecting some scene of this kind: for not a
+muscle of his face moved: he remained perfectly calm. Noel, on his side,
+was like a man who had received a blow on the head; he staggered, and
+was obliged to seek support from the back of a chair.
+
+Then these two, father and son, stood face to face, apparently deep in
+thought, but in reality examining one another with mutual distrust, each
+striving to gather something of the other’s thoughts.
+
+M. Daburon had augured better results from this meeting, which he had
+been awaiting ever since the count’s arrival. He had expected that this
+abrupt presentation would bring about an intensely pathetic scene, which
+would not give his two witnesses time for reflection. The count
+would open his arms: Noel would throw himself into them; and this
+reconciliation would only await the sanction of the tribunals, to be
+complete.
+
+The coldness of the one, the embarrassment of the other, disconcerted
+his plans. He therefore thought it necessary to intervene.
+
+“Count,” said he reproachfully, “remember that it was only a few minutes
+ago that you admitted that M. Gerdy was your legitimate son.”
+
+M. de Commarin made no reply; to judge from his lack of emotion, he
+could not have heard.
+
+So Noel, summoning all his courage, ventured to speak first,--“Sir,” he
+stammered, “I entertain no--”
+
+“You may call me father,” interrupted the haughty old man, in a tone
+which was by no means affectionate. Then addressing the magistrate he
+said: “Can I be of any further use to you, sir?”
+
+“Only to hear your evidence read over,” replied M. Daburon, “and to sign
+it if you find everything correct. You can proceed, Constant,” he added.
+
+The tall clerk turned half round on his chair and commenced. He had
+a peculiar way of jabbering over what he had scrawled. He read very
+quickly, all at a stretch, without paying the least attention to either
+full stops or commas, questions or replies; but went on reading as long
+as his breath lasted. When he could go on no longer, he took a breath,
+and then continued as before. Unconsciously, he reminded one of a diver,
+who every now and then raises his head above water, obtains a supply of
+air, and disappears again. Noel was the only one to listen attentively
+to the reading, which to unpractised ears was unintelligible. It
+apprised him of many things which it was important for him to know. At
+last Constant pronounced the words, “In testimony whereof,” etc., which
+end all official reports in France.
+
+He handed the pen to the count, who signed without hesitation. The old
+nobleman then turned towards Noel.
+
+“I am not very strong,” he said; “you must therefore, my son,”
+ emphasizing the word, “help your father to his carriage.”
+
+The young advocate advanced eagerly. His face brightened, as he passed
+the count’s arm through his own. When they were gone, M. Daburon could
+not resist a impulse of curiosity. He hastened to the door, which he
+opened slightly; and, keeping his body in the background that he might
+not himself be seen, he looked out into the passage. The count and Noel
+had not yet reached the end. They were going slowly. The count seemed to
+drag heavily and painfully along; the advocate took short steps, bending
+slightly towards his father; and all his movements were marked with the
+greatest solicitude. The magistrate remained watching them until they
+passed out of sight at the end of the gallery. Then he returned to his
+seat, heaving a deep sigh.
+
+“At least,” thought he, “I have helped to make one person happy. The day
+will not be entirely a bad one.”
+
+But he had no time to give way to his thoughts, the hours flew by so
+quickly. He wished to interrogate Albert as soon as possible; and he had
+still to receive the evidence of several of the count’s servants, and
+the report of the commissary of police charged with the arrest. The
+servants who had been waiting their turn a long while were now
+brought in without delay, and examined separately. They had but little
+information to give; but the testimony of each was so to say a fresh
+accusation. It was easy to see that all believed their master guilty.
+
+Albert’s conduct since the beginning of the fatal week, his least words,
+his most insignificant movements, were reported, commented upon, and
+explained.
+
+The man who lives in the midst of thirty servants is like an insect in
+a glass box under the magnifying glass of a naturalist. Not one of his
+acts escapes their notice: he can scarcely have a secret of his own;
+and, if they cannot divine what it is, they at least know that he has
+one. From morn till night he is the point of observation for thirty
+pairs of eyes, interested in studying the slightest changes in his
+countenance.
+
+The magistrate obtained, therefore, an abundance of those frivolous
+details which seem nothing at first; but the slightest of which may, at
+the trial, become a question of life or death.
+
+By combining these depositions, reconciling them and putting them in
+order, M. Daburon was able to follow his prisoner hour by hour from the
+Sunday morning.
+
+Directly Noel left, the viscount gave orders that all visitors should be
+informed that he had gone into the country. From that moment, the whole
+household perceived that something had gone wrong with him, that he was
+very much annoyed, or very unwell.
+
+He did not leave his study on that day, but had his dinner brought up to
+him. He ate very little,--only some soup, and a very thin fillet of
+sole with white wine. While eating, he said to M. Contois, the butler:
+“Remind the cook to spice the sauce a little more, in future,” and then
+added in a low tone, “Ah! to what purpose?” In the evening he dismissed
+his servants from all duties, saying, “Go, and amuse yourselves.” He
+expressly warned them not to disturb him unless he rang.
+
+On the Monday, he did not get up until noon, although usually an early
+riser. He complained of a violent headache, and of feeling sick.
+He took, however a cup of tea. He ordered his brougham, but almost
+immediately countermanded the order. Lubin, his valet, heard him say:
+“I am hesitating too much;” and a few moments later, “I must make up my
+mind.” Shortly afterwards he began writing.
+
+He then gave Lubin a letter to carry to Mademoiselle Claire d’Arlange,
+with orders to deliver it only to herself or to Mademoiselle Schmidt,
+the governess. A second letter, containing two thousand franc notes,
+was intrusted to Joseph, to be taken to the viscount’s club. Joseph
+no longer remembered the name of the person to whom the letter was
+addressed; but it was not a person of title. That evening, Albert only
+took a little soup, and remained shut up in his room.
+
+He rose early on the Tuesday. He wandered about the house, as though he
+were in great trouble, or impatiently awaiting something which did not
+arrive. On his going into the garden, the gardener asked his advice
+concerning a lawn. He replied, “You had better consult the count upon
+his return.”
+
+He did not breakfast any more than the day before. About one o’clock, he
+went down to stables, and caressed, with an air of sadness, his favorite
+mare, Norma. Stroking her neck, he said, “Poor creature! poor old girl!”
+
+At three o’clock, a messenger arrived with a letter. The viscount took
+it, and opened it hastily. He was then near the flower-garden. Two
+footmen distinctly heard him say, “She cannot resist.” He returned to
+the house, and burnt the letter in the large stove in the hall.
+
+As he was sitting down to dinner, at six o’clock, two of his friends,
+M. de Courtivois and the Marquis de Chouze, insisted upon seeing him,
+in spite of all orders. They would not be refused. These gentlemen were
+anxious for him to join them in some pleasure party, but he declined,
+saying that he had a very important appointment.
+
+At dinner he ate a little more than on the previous days. He even asked
+the butler for a bottle of Chateau-Lafitte, the whole of which he drank
+himself. While taking his coffee, he smoked a cigar in the dining room,
+contrary to the rules of the house. At half-past seven, according to
+Joseph and two footmen, or at eight according to the Swiss porter and
+Lubin, the viscount went out on foot, taking an umbrella with him. He
+returned home at two o’clock in the morning, and at once dismissed his
+valet, who had waited up for him.
+
+On entering the viscount’s room on the Wednesday, the valet was struck
+with the condition in which he found his master’s clothes. They were
+wet, and stained with mud; the trousers were torn. He ventured to make
+a remark about them. Albert replied, in a furious manner, “Throw the old
+things in a corner, ready to be given away.”
+
+He appeared to be much better all that day. He breakfasted with a good
+appetite; and the butler noticed that he was in excellent spirits. He
+passed the afternoon in the library, and burnt a pile of papers.
+
+On the Thursday, he again seemed very unwell. He was scarcely able to go
+and meet the count. That evening, after his interview with his father,
+he went to his room looking extremely ill. Lubin wanted to run for the
+doctor: he forbade him to do so, or to mention to any one that he was
+not well.
+
+Such was the substance of twenty large pages, which the tall clerk
+had covered with writing, without once turning his head to look at the
+witnesses who passed by in their fine livery.
+
+M. Daburon managed to obtain this evidence in less than two hours.
+Though well aware of the importance of their testimony, all these
+servants were very voluble. The difficulty was, to stop them when they
+had once started. From all they said, it appeared that Albert was a very
+good master,--easily served, kind and polite to his servants. Wonderful
+to relate! there were found only three among them who did not appear
+perfectly delighted at the misfortune which had befallen the family.
+Two were greatly distressed. M. Lubin, although he had been an object of
+especial kindness, was not one of these.
+
+The turn of the commissary of police had now come. In a few words, he
+gave an account of the arrest, already described by old Tabaret. He did
+not forget to mention the one word “Lost,” which had escaped Albert; to
+his mind, it was a confession. He then delivered all the articles seized
+in the Viscount de Commarin’s apartments.
+
+The magistrate carefully examined these things, and compared them
+closely with the scraps of evidence gathered at La Jonchere. He soon
+appeared, more than ever, satisfied with the course he had taken.
+
+He then placed all these material proofs upon his table, and covered
+them over with three or four large sheets of paper.
+
+The day was far advanced; and M. Daburon had no more than sufficient
+time to examine the prisoner before night. He now remembered that he had
+tasted nothing since morning; and he sent hastily for a bottle of wine
+and some biscuits. It was not strength, however, that the magistrate
+needed; it was courage. All the while that he was eating and drinking,
+his thoughts kept repeating this strange sentence, “I am about to appear
+before the Viscount de Commarin.” At any other time, he would have
+laughed at the absurdity of the idea, but, at this moment, it seemed to
+him like the will of Providence.
+
+“So be it,” said he to himself; “this is my punishment.”
+
+And immediately he gave the necessary orders for Viscount Albert to be
+brought before him.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+
+Albert scarcely noticed his removal from home to the seclusion of the
+prison. Snatched away from his painful thoughts by the harsh voice of
+the commissary, saying. “In the name of the law I arrest you,” his
+mind, completely upset, was a long time in recovering its equilibrium,
+Everything that followed appeared to him to float indistinctly in a
+thick mist, like those dream-scenes represented on the stage behind a
+quadruple curtain of gauze.
+
+To the questions put to him he replied, without knowing what he said.
+Two police agents took hold of his arms, and helped him down the stairs.
+He could not have walked down alone. His limbs, which bent beneath him,
+refused their support. The only thing he understood of all that was said
+around him was that the count had been struck with apoplexy; but even
+that he soon forgot.
+
+They lifted him into the cab, which was waiting in the court-yard at
+the foot of the steps, rather ashamed at finding itself in such a
+place; and they placed him on the back seat. Two police agents
+installed themselves in front of him while a third mounted the box by
+the side of the driver. During the drive, he did not at all realize his
+situation. He lay perfectly motionless in the dirty, greasy vehicle.
+His body, which followed every jolt, scarcely allayed by the worn-out
+springs, rolled from one side to the other and his head oscillated on
+his shoulders, as if the muscles of his neck were broken. He thought of
+Widow Lerouge. He recalled her as she was when he went with his father
+to La Jonchere. It was in the spring-time; and the hawthorn blossoms
+scented the air. The old woman, in a white cap, stood at her garden
+gate: she spoke beseechingly. The count looked sternly at her as he
+listened, then, taking some gold from his purse, he gave it to her.
+
+On arriving at their destination they lifted him out of the cab, the
+same way as they had lifted him in at starting.
+
+During the formality of entering his name in the jail-book in the
+dingy, stinking record office, and whilst replying mechanically to
+everything, he gave himself up with delight to recollections of Claire.
+He went back to the time of the early days of their love, when he
+doubted whether he would ever have the happiness of being loved by her
+in return; when they used to meet at Mademoiselle Goello’s.
+
+This old maid had a house on the left bank of the Seine furnished in
+the most eccentric manner. On all the dining-room furniture, and on the
+mantel-piece, were placed a dozen or fifteen stuffed dogs, of various
+breeds, which together or successively had helped to cheer the maiden’s
+lonely hours. She loved to relate stories of these pets whose affection
+had never failed her. Some were grotesque, others horrible. One
+especially, outrageously stuffed seemed ready to burst. How many times
+he and Claire had laughed at it until the tears came!
+
+The officials next began to search him. This crowning humiliation, these
+rough hands passing all over his body brought him somewhat to himself,
+and roused his anger. But it was already over; and they at once dragged
+him along the dark corridors, over the filthy, slippery floor. They
+opened a door, and pushed him into a small cell. He then heard them lock
+and bolt the door.
+
+He was a prisoner, and, in accordance with special orders, in solitary
+confinement. He immediately felt a marked sensation of comfort. He was
+alone.
+
+No more stifled whispers, harsh voices, implacable questions, sounded
+in his ears. A profound silence reigned around. It seemed to him that he
+had forever escaped from society; and he rejoiced at it. He would have
+felt relieved, had this even been the silence of the grave. His body,
+as well as his mind, was weighed down with weariness. He wanted to
+sit down, when he perceived a small bed, to the right, in front of the
+grated window, which let in the little light there was. This bed was as
+welcome to him as a plank would be to a drowning man. He threw himself
+upon it, and lay down with delight; but he felt cold, so he unfolded
+the coarse woollen coverlid, and wrapping it about him, was soon sound
+asleep.
+
+In the corridor, two detectives, one still young, the other rather old,
+applied alternately their eyes and ears to the peep-hole in the door,
+watching every movement of the prisoner; “What a fellow he is!” murmured
+the younger officer. “If a man has no more nerve than that, he ought
+to remain honest. He won’t care much about his looks the morning of his
+execution, eh, M. Balan?”
+
+“That depends,” replied the other. “We must wait and see. Lecoq told me
+that he was a terrible rascal.”
+
+“Ah! look he arranges his bed, and lies down. Can he be going to sleep?
+That’s good! It’s the first time I ever saw such a thing.”
+
+“It is because, comrade, you have only had dealings with the smaller
+rogues. All rascals of position--and I have had to do with more than
+one--are this sort. At the moment of arrest, they are incapable of
+anything; their heart fails them; but they recover themselves next day.”
+
+“Upon my word, one would say he has gone to sleep! What a joke!”
+
+“I tell you, my friend,” added the old man, pointedly, “that nothing
+is more natural. I am sure that, since the blow was struck, this young
+fellow has hardly lived: his body has been all on fire. Now he knows
+that his secret is out; and that quiets him.”
+
+“Ha, ha! M. Balan, you are joking: you say that that quiets him?”
+
+“Certainly. There is no greater punishment, remember, than anxiety;
+everything is preferable. If you only possessed an income of ten
+thousand francs, I would show you a way to prove this. I would tell you
+to go to Hamburg and risk your entire fortune on one chance at rouge et
+noir. You could relate to me, afterwards, what your feelings were while
+the ball was rolling. It is, my boy, as though your brain was being torn
+with pincers, as though molten lead was being poured into your bones, in
+place of marrow. This anxiety is so strong, that one feels relieved, one
+breathes again, even when one has lost. It is ruin; but then the anxiety
+is over.”
+
+“Really, M. Balan, one would think that you yourself had had just such
+an experience.”
+
+“Alas!” sighed the old detective, “it is to my love for the queen of
+spades, my unhappy love, that you owe the honour of looking through
+this peephole in my company. But this fellow will sleep for a couple of
+hours, do not lose sight of him; I am going to smoke a cigarette in the
+courtyard.”
+
+Albert slept four hours. On awaking his head seemed clearer than it had
+been ever since his interview with Noel. It was a terrible moment for
+him, when, for the first time he became fully aware of his situation.
+
+“Now, indeed,” said he, “I require all my courage.”
+
+He longed to see some one, to speak, to be questioned, to explain. He
+felt a desire to call out.
+
+“But what good would that be?” he asked himself. “Some one will be
+coming soon.” He looked for his watch, to see what time it was, and
+found that they had taken it away. He felt this deeply; they were
+treating him like the most abandoned of villains. He felt in his
+pockets: they had all been carefully emptied. He thought now of his
+personal appearance; and, getting up, he repaired as much as possible
+the disorder of his toilet. He put his clothes in order, and dusted
+them; he straightened his collar, and re-tied his cravat. Then pouring
+a little water on his handkerchief, he passed it over his face, bathing
+his eyes which were greatly inflamed. Then he endeavoured to smooth his
+beard and hair. He had no idea that four lynx eyes were fixed upon him
+all the while.
+
+“Good!” murmured the young detective: “see how our cock sticks up his
+comb, and smooths his feathers!
+
+“I told you,” put in Balan, “that he was only staggered. Hush! he is
+speaking, I believe.”
+
+But they neither surprised one of those disordered gestures nor one of
+those incoherent speeches, which almost always escape from the feeble
+when excited by fear, or from the imprudent ones who believe in the
+discretion of their cells. One word alone, “honour,” reached the ears of
+the two spies.
+
+“These rascals of rank,” grumbled Balan, “always have this word in their
+mouths. That which they most fear is the opinion of some dozen friends,
+and several thousand strangers, who read the ‘Gazette des Tribunaux.’
+They only think of their own heads later on.”
+
+When the gendarmes came to conduct Albert before the investigating
+magistrate, they found him seated on the side of his bed, his feet
+pressed upon the iron rail, his elbows on his knees, and his head buried
+in his hands. He rose, as they entered, and took a few steps towards
+them; but his throat was so dry that he was scarcely able to speak. He
+asked for a moment, and, turning towards the little table, he filled and
+drank two large glassfuls of water in succession.
+
+“I am ready!” he then said. And, with a firm step, he followed the
+gendarmes along the passage which led to the Palais de Justice.
+
+M. Daburon was just then in great anguish. He walked furiously up and
+down his office, awaiting the prisoner. Again, and for the twentieth
+time since morning, he regretted having engaged in the business.
+
+“Curse this absurd point of honour, which I have obeyed,” he inwardly
+exclaimed. “I have in vain attempted to reassure myself by the aid
+of sophisms. I was wrong in not withdrawing. Nothing in the world can
+change my feelings towards this young man. I hate him. I am his judge;
+and it is no less true, that at one time I longed to assassinate him. I
+faced him with a revolver in my hand: why did I not present it and fire?
+Do I know why? What power held my finger, when an almost insensible
+pressure would have sufficed to kill him? I cannot say. Why is not he
+the judge, I the assassin? If the intention was as punishable as the
+deed, I ought to be guillotined. And it is under such conditions that I
+dare examine him!”
+
+Passing before the door he heard the heavy footsteps of the gendarmes in
+the passage.
+
+“It is he,” he said aloud and then hastily seated himself at his table,
+bending over his portfolios, as though striving to hide himself. If
+the tall clerk had used his eyes, he would have noticed the singular
+spectacle of an investigating magistrate more agitated than the prisoner
+he was about to examine. But he was blind to all around him; and, at
+this moment, he was only aware of an error of fifteen centimes, which
+had slipped into his accounts, and which he was unable to rectify.
+
+Albert entered the magistrate’s office with his head erect. His features
+bore traces of great fatigue and of sleepless nights. He was very pale;
+but his eyes were clear and sparkling.
+
+The usual questions which open such examinations gave M. Daburon an
+opportunity to recover himself. Fortunately, he had found time in the
+morning to prepare a plan, which he had now simply to follow.
+
+“You are aware, sir,” he commenced in a tone of perfect politeness,
+“that you have no right to the name you bear?”
+
+“I know, sir,” replied Albert, “that I am the natural son of M. de
+Commarin. I know further that my father would be unable to recognise me,
+even if he wished to, since I was born during his married life.”
+
+“What were your feelings upon learning this?”
+
+“I should speak falsely, sir, if I said I did not feel very bitterly.
+When one is in the high position I occupied, the fall is terrible.
+However, I never for a moment entertained the thought of contesting M.
+Noel Gerdy’s rights. I always purposed, and still purpose, to yield. I
+have so informed M. de Commarin.”
+
+M. Daburon expected just such a reply; and it only strengthened his
+suspicions. Did it not enter into the line of defence which he had
+foreseen? It was now his duty to seek some way of demolishing this
+defence, in which the prisoner evidently meant to shut himself up like a
+tortoise in its shell.
+
+“You could not oppose M. Gerdy,” continued the magistrate, “with any
+chance of success. You had, indeed on your side, the count, and your
+mother; but M. Gerdy was in possession of evidence that was certain to
+win his cause, that of Widow Lerouge.”
+
+“I have never doubted that, sir.”
+
+“Now,” continued the magistrate, seeking to hide the look which he
+fastened upon Albert, “justice supposes that, to do away with the only
+existing proof, you have assassinated Widow Lerouge.”
+
+This terrible accusation, terribly emphasised, caused no change in
+Albert’s features. He preserved the same firm bearing, without bravado.
+
+“Before God,” he answered, “and by all that is most sacred on earth,
+I swear to you, sir, that I am innocent! I am at this moment a
+close prisoner, without communication with the outer world, reduced
+consequently to the most absolute helplessness. It is through your
+probity that I hope to demonstrate my innocence.”
+
+“What an actor!” thought the magistrate. “Can crime be so strong as
+this?”
+
+He glanced over his papers, reading certain passages of the preceding
+depositions, turning down the corners of certain pages which contained
+important information. Then suddenly he resumed, “When you were
+arrested, you cried out, ‘I am lost,’ what did you mean by that?”
+
+“Sir,” replied Albert, “I remember having uttered those words. When I
+knew of what crime I was accused, I was overwhelmed with consternation.
+My mind was, as it were, enlightened by a glimpse of the future. In a
+moment, I perceived all the horror of my situation. I understood the
+weight of the accusation, its probability, and the difficulties I
+should have in defending myself. A voice cried out to me, ‘Who was most
+interested in Claudine’s death?’ And the knowledge of my imminent peril
+forced from me the exclamation you speak of.”
+
+His explanation was more than plausible, was possible, and even likely.
+It had the advantage, too, of anticipating the axiom, “Search out the
+one whom the crime will benefit!” Tabaret had spoken truly, when he said
+that they would not easily make the prisoner confess.
+
+M. Daburon admired Albert’s presence of mind, and the resources of his
+perverse imagination.
+
+“You do indeed,” continued the magistrate, “appear to have had the
+greatest interest in this death. Moreover, I will inform you that
+robbery was not the object of the crime. The things thrown into the
+Seine have been recovered. We know, also, that all the widow’s papers
+were burnt. Could they compromise any one but yourself? If you know of
+any one, speak.”
+
+“What can I answer, sir? Nothing.”
+
+“Have you often gone to see this woman?”
+
+“Three or four times with my father.”
+
+“One of your coachmen pretends to have driven you there at least ten
+times.”
+
+“The man is mistaken. But what matters the number of visits?”
+
+“Do you recollect the arrangements of the rooms? Can you describe them?”
+
+“Perfectly, sir: there were two. Claudine slept in the back room.”
+
+“You were in no way a stranger to Widow Lerouge. If you had knocked one
+evening at her window-shutter, do you think she would have let you in?”
+
+“Certainly, sir, and eagerly.”
+
+“You have been unwell these last few days?”
+
+“Very unwell, to say the least, sir. My body bent under the weight of
+a burden too great for my strength. It was not, however, for want of
+courage.”
+
+“Why did you forbid your valet, Lubin, to call in the doctor?”
+
+“Ah, sir, how could the doctor cure my disease? All his science could
+not make me the legitimate son of the Count de Commarin.”
+
+“Some very singular remarks made by you were overheard. You seemed to be
+no longer interested in anything concerning your home. You destroyed a
+large number of papers and letters.”
+
+“I had decided to leave the count, sir. My resolution explains my
+conduct.”
+
+Albert replied promptly to the magistrate’s questions, without the
+least embarrassment, and in a confident tone. His voice, which was
+very pleasant to the ear, did not tremble. It concealed no emotion; it
+retained its pure and vibrating sound.
+
+M. Daburon deemed it wise to suspend the examination for a short time.
+With so cunning an adversary, he was evidently pursuing a false course.
+To proceed in detail was folly, he neither intimidated the prisoner,
+nor made him break through his reserve. It was necessary to take him
+unawares.
+
+“Sir,” resumed the magistrate, abruptly, “tell me exactly how you passed
+your time last Tuesday evening, from six o’clock until midnight?”
+
+For the first time, Albert seemed disconcerted. His glance, which had,
+till then, been fixed upon the magistrate, wavered.
+
+“During Tuesday evening,” he stammered, repeating the phrase to gain
+time.
+
+“I have him,” thought the magistrate, starting with joy, and then added
+aloud, “yes, from six o’clock until midnight.”
+
+“I am afraid, sir,” answered Albert, “it will be difficult for me to
+satisfy you. I haven’t a very good memory.”
+
+“Oh, don’t tell me that!” interrupted the magistrate. “If I had asked
+what you were doing three months ago, on a certain evening, and at a
+certain hour, I could understand your hesitation; but this is about
+Tuesday, and it is now Friday. Moreover, this day, so close, was the
+last of the carnival; it was Shrove Tuesday. That circumstance ought to
+help your memory.”
+
+“That evening, I went out walking,” murmured Albert.
+
+“Now,” continued the magistrate, “where did you dine?”
+
+“At home, as usual.”
+
+“No, not as usual. At the end of your meal, you asked for a bottle of
+Bordeaux, of which you drank the whole. You doubtless had need of some
+extra excitement for your subsequent plans.”
+
+“I had no plans,” replied the prisoner with very evident uneasiness.
+
+“You make a mistake. Two friends came to seek you. You replied to them,
+before sitting down to dinner, that you had a very important engagement
+to keep.”
+
+“That was only a polite way of getting rid of them.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Can you not understand, sir? I was resigned, but not comforted. I was
+learning to get accustomed to the terrible blow. Would not one seek
+solitude in the great crisis of one’s life?”
+
+“The prosecution pretends that you wished to be left alone, that you
+might go to La Jonchere. During the day, you said, ‘She can not resist
+me.’ Of whom were you speaking?”
+
+“Of some one to whom I had written the evening before, and who had
+replied to me. I spoke the words, with her letter still in my hands.”
+
+“This letter was, then, from a woman?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“What have you done with it?”
+
+“I have burnt it.”
+
+“This precaution leads one to suppose that you considered the letter
+compromising.”
+
+“Not at all, sir; it treated entirely of private matters.”
+
+M. Daburon was sure that this letter came from Mademoiselle d’Arlange.
+Should he nevertheless ask the question, and again hear pronounced the
+name of Claire, which always aroused such painful emotions within him?
+He ventured to do so, leaning over his papers, so that the prisoner
+could not detect his emotion.
+
+“From whom did this letter come?” he asked.
+
+“From one whom I can not name.”
+
+“Sir,” said the magistrate severely, “I will not conceal from you
+that your position is greatly compromised. Do not aggravate it by this
+culpable reticence. You are here to tell everything, sir.”
+
+“My own affairs, yes, not those of others.”
+
+Albert gave this last answer in a dry tone. He was giddy, flurried,
+exasperated, by the prying and irritating mode of the examination, which
+scarcely gave him time to breathe. The magistrate’s questions fell upon
+him more thickly than the blows of the blacksmith’s hammer upon the
+red-hot iron which he is anxious to beat into shape before it cools.
+
+The apparent rebellion of his prisoner troubled M. Daburon a great deal.
+He was further extremely surprised to find the discernment of the old
+detective at fault; just as though Tabaret were infallible. Tabaret
+had predicted an unexceptionable _alibi_; and this _alibi_ was not
+forthcoming. Why? Had this subtle villain something better than that?
+What artful defence had he to fall back upon? Doubtless he kept in
+reserve some unforeseen stroke, perhaps irresistible.
+
+“Gently,” thought the magistrate. “I have not got him yet.” Then he
+quickly added aloud: “Continue. After dinner what did you do?”
+
+“I went out for a walk.”
+
+“Not immediately. The bottle emptied, you smoked a cigar in the
+dining-room, which was so unusual as to be noticed. What kind of cigars
+do you usually smoke?”
+
+“Trabucos.”
+
+“Do you not use a cigar-holder, to keep your lips from contact with the
+tobacco?”
+
+“Yes, sir,” replied Albert, much surprised at this series of questions.
+
+“At what time did you go out?”
+
+“About eight o’clock.”
+
+“Did you carry an umbrella?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Where did you go?”
+
+“I walked about.”
+
+“Alone, without any object, all the evening?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“Now trace out your wanderings for me very carefully.”
+
+“Ah, sir, that is very difficult to do! I went out simply to walk about,
+for the sake of exercise, to drive away the torpor which had depressed
+me for three days. I don’t know whether you can picture to yourself my
+exact condition. I was half out of my mind. I walked about at hazard
+along the quays. I wandered through the streets,--”
+
+“All that is very improbable,” interrupted the magistrate. M. Daburon,
+however, knew that it was at least possible. Had not he himself, one
+night, in a similar condition, traversed all Paris? What reply could he
+have made, had some one asked him next morning where he had been, except
+that he had not paid attention, and did not know? But he had forgotten
+this; and his previous hesitations, too, had all vanished.
+
+As the inquiry advanced, the fever of investigation took possession
+of him. He enjoyed the emotions of the struggle, his passion for his
+calling became stronger than ever.
+
+He was again an investigating magistrate, like the fencing master, who,
+once practising with his dearest friend, became excited by the clash of
+the weapons, and, forgetting himself, killed him.
+
+“So,” resumed M. Daburon, “you met absolutely no one who can affirm that
+he saw you? You did not speak to a living soul? You entered no place,
+not even a cafe or a theatre, or a tobacconist’s to light one of your
+favourite trabucos?”
+
+“No, sir.”
+
+“Well, it is a great misfortune for you, yes, a very great misfortune;
+for I must inform you, that it was precisely during this Tuesday
+evening, between eight o’clock and midnight, that Widow Lerouge was
+assassinated. Justice can point out the exact hour. Again, sir, in your
+own interest, I recommend you to reflect,--to make a strong appeal to
+your memory.”
+
+This pointing out of the exact day and hour of the murder seemed to
+astound Albert. He raised his hand to his forehead with a despairing
+gesture. However he replied in a calm voice,--“I am very unfortunate,
+sir: but I can recollect nothing.”
+
+M. Daburon’s surprise was immense. What, not an _alibi_? Nothing? This
+could be no snare nor system of defence. Was, then, this man as cunning
+as he had imagined? Doubtless. Only he had been taken unawares. He had
+never imagined it possible for the accusation to fall upon him; and it
+was almost by a miracle it had done so.
+
+The magistrate slowly raised, one by one, the large pieces of paper that
+covered the articles seized in Albert’s rooms.
+
+“We will pass,” he continued, “to the examination of the charges which
+weigh against you. Will you please come nearer? Do you recognize these
+articles as belonging to yourself?”
+
+“Yes, sir, they are all mine.”
+
+“Well, take this foil. Who broke it?”
+
+“I, sir, in fencing with M. de Courtivois, who can bear witness to it.”
+
+“He will be heard. Where is the broken end?”
+
+“I do not know. You must ask Lubin, my valet.”
+
+“Exactly. He declares that he has hunted for it, and cannot find it. I
+must tell you that the victim received the fatal blow from the sharpened
+end of a broken foil. This piece of stuff, on which the assassin wiped
+his weapon, is a proof of what I state.”
+
+“I beseech you, sir, to order a most minute search to be made. It is
+impossible that the other half of the foil is not to be found.”
+
+“Orders shall be given to that effect. Look, here is the exact imprint
+of the murderer’s foot traced on this sheet of paper. I will place one
+of your boots upon it and the sole, as you perceive, fits the tracing
+with the utmost precision. This plaster was poured into the hollow left
+by the heel: you observe that it is, in all respects, similar in shape
+to the heels of your own boots. I perceive, too, the mark of a peg,
+which appears in both.”
+
+Albert followed with marked anxiety every movement of the magistrate.
+It was plain that he was struggling against a growing terror. Was
+he attacked by that fright which overpowers the guilty when they see
+themselves on the point of being confounded. To all the magistrate’s
+remarks, he answered in a low voice,--“It is true--perfectly true.”
+
+“That is so,” continued M. Daburon; “yet listen further, before
+attempting to defend yourself. The criminal had an umbrella. The end of
+this umbrella sank in the clayey soil; the round of wood which is placed
+at the end of the silk, was found moulded in the clay. Look at this clod
+of clay, raised with the utmost care; and now look at your umbrella.
+Compare the rounds. Are they alike, or not?”
+
+“These things, sir,” attempted Albert, “are manufactured in large
+quantities.”
+
+“Well, we will pass over that proof. Look at this cigar end, found on
+the scene of the crime, and tell me of what brand it is, and how it was
+smoked.”
+
+“It is a trabucos, and was smoked in a cigar-holder.”
+
+“Like these?” persisted the magistrate, pointing to the cigars and the
+amber and meerschaum-holders found in the viscount’s library.
+
+“Yes!” murmured Albert, “it is a fatality--a strange coincidence.”
+
+“Patience, that is nothing, as yet. The assassin wore gloves. The
+victim, in the death struggle, seized his hands; and some pieces of kid
+remained in her nails. These have been preserved, and are here. They are
+of a lavender colour, are they not? Now, here are the gloves which you
+wore on Tuesday. They, too, are lavender, and they are frayed. Compare
+these pieces of kid with your own gloves. Do they not correspond? Are
+they not of the same colour, the same skin?”
+
+It was useless to deny it, equivocate, or seek subterfuges. The evidence
+was there, and it was irrefutable. While appearing to occupy himself
+solely with the objects lying upon his table, M. Daburon did not lose
+sight of the prisoner. Albert was terrified. A cold perspiration bathed
+his temples, and glided drop by drop down his cheeks. His hands trembled
+so much that they were of no use to him. In a chilling voice he kept
+repeating: “It is horrible, horrible!”
+
+“Finally,” pursued the inexorable magistrate, “here are the trousers you
+wore on the evening of the murder. It is plain that not long ago they
+were very wet; and, besides the mud on them, there are traces of earth.
+Besides that they are torn at the knees. We will admit, for the moment
+that you might not remember where you went on that evening; but who
+would believe that you do not know when you tore your trousers and how
+you frayed your gloves?”
+
+What courage could resist such assaults? Albert’s firmness and energy
+were at an end. His brain whirled. He fell heavily into a chair,
+exclaiming,--“It is enough to drive me mad!”
+
+“Do you admit,” insisted the magistrate, whose gaze had become firmly
+fixed upon the prisoner, “do you admit that Widow Lerouge could only
+have been stabbed by you?”
+
+“I admit,” protested Albert, “that I am the victim of one of those
+terrible fatalities which make men doubt the evidence of their reason. I
+am innocent.”
+
+“Then tell me where you passed Tuesday evening.”
+
+“Ah, sir!” cried the prisoner, “I should have to--” But, restraining
+himself, he added in a faint voice, “I have made the only answer that I
+can make.”
+
+M. Daburon rose, having now reached his grand stroke.
+
+“It is, then, my duty,” said he, with a shade of irony, “to supply your
+failure of memory. I am going to remind you of where you went and what
+you did. On Tuesday evening at eight o’clock, after having obtained from
+the wine you drank, the dreadful energy you needed, you left your home.
+At thirty-five minutes past eight, you took the train at the St. Lazare
+station. At nine o’clock, you alighted at the station at Rueil.”
+
+And, not disdaining to employ Tabaret’s ideas, the investigating
+magistrate repeated nearly word for word the tirade improvised the night
+before by the amateur detective.
+
+He had every reason, while speaking, to admire the old fellow’s
+penetration. In all his life, his eloquence had never produced so
+striking an effect. Every sentence, every word, told. The prisoner’s
+assurance, already shaken, fell little by little, just like the outer
+coating of a wall when riddled with bullets.
+
+Albert was, as the magistrate perceived, like a man, who, rolling to
+the bottom of a precipice, sees every branch and every projecture which
+might retard his fall fail him, and who feels a new and more painful
+bruise each time his body comes in contact with them.
+
+“And now,” concluded the investigating magistrate, “listen to good
+advice: do not persist in a system of denying, impossible to sustain.
+Give in. Justice, rest assured, is ignorant of nothing which it is
+important to know. Believe me; seek to deserve the indulgence of your
+judges, confess your guilt.”
+
+M. Daburon did not believe that his prisoner would still persist
+in asserting his innocence. He imagined he would be overwhelmed and
+confounded, that he would throw himself at his feet, begging for mercy.
+But he was mistaken.
+
+Albert, in spite of his great prostration, found, in one last effort
+of his will, sufficient strength to recover himself and again
+protest,--“You are right, sir,” he said in a sad, but firm voice;
+“everything seems to prove me guilty. In your place, I should have
+spoken as you have done; yet all the same, I swear to you that I am
+innocent.”
+
+“Come now, do you really--” began the magistrate.
+
+“I am innocent,” interrupted Albert; “and I repeat it, without the least
+hope of changing in any way your conviction. Yes, everything speaks
+against me, everything, even my own bearing before you. It is true, my
+courage has been shaken by these incredible, miraculous, overwhelming
+coincidences. I am overcome, because I feel the impossibility of proving
+my innocence. But I do not despair. My honour and my life are in the
+hands of God. At this very hour when to you I appear lost,--for I in no
+way deceive myself, sir,--I do not despair of a complete justification.
+I await confidently.”
+
+“What do you mean?” asked the magistrate.
+
+“Nothing but what I say, sir.”
+
+“So you persist in denying your guilt?”
+
+“I am innocent.”
+
+“But this is folly--”
+
+“I am innocent.”
+
+“Very well,” said M. Daburon; “that is enough for to-day. You will hear
+the official report of your examination read, and will then be taken
+back to solitary confinement. I exhort you to reflect. Night will
+perhaps bring on a better feeling; if you wish at any time to speak
+to me, send word, and I will come to you. I will give orders to that
+effect. You may read now, Constant.”
+
+When Albert had departed under the escort of the gendarmes, the
+magistrate muttered in a low tone, “There’s an obstinate fellow for
+you.” He certainly no longer entertained the shadow of a doubt. To him,
+Albert was as surely the murderer as if he had admitted his guilt
+Even if he should persist in his system of denial to the end of the
+investigation, it was impossible, that, with the proofs already in the
+possession of the police, a true bill should not be found against him.
+He was therefore certain of being committed for trial at the assizes. It
+was a hundred to one, that the jury would bring in a verdict of guilty.
+
+Left to himself, however, M. Daburon did not experience that intense
+satisfaction, mixed with vanity, which he ordinarily felt after he had
+successfully conducted an examination, and had succeeded in getting
+his prisoner into the same position as Albert. Something disturbed and
+shocked him. At the bottom of his heart, he felt ill at ease. He had
+triumphed; but his victory gave him only uneasiness, pain, and vexation.
+A reflection so simple that he could hardly understand why it had not
+occurred to him at first, increased his discontent, and made him angry
+with himself.
+
+“Something told me,” he muttered, “that I was wrong to undertake this
+business. I am punished for not having obeyed that inner voice. I ought
+to have declined to proceed with the investigation. The Viscount
+de Commarin, was, all the same, certain to be arrested, imprisoned,
+examined, confounded, tried, and probably condemned. Then, being in no
+way connected with the trial, I could have reappeared before Claire. Her
+grief will be great. As her friend, I could have soothed her, mingled
+my tears with hers, calmed her regrets. With time, she might have been
+consoled, and perhaps have forgotten him. She could not have helped
+feeling grateful to me, and then who knows--? While now, whatever may
+happen, I shall be an object of loathing to her: she will never be able
+to endure the sight of me. In her eyes I shall always be her lover’s
+assassin. I have with my own hands opened an abyss! I have lost her a
+second time, and by my own fault.”
+
+The unhappy man heaped the bitterest reproaches upon himself. He was in
+despair. He had never so hated Albert,--that wretch, who, stained with
+a crime, stood in the way of his happiness. Then too he cursed old
+Tabaret! Alone, he would not have decided so quickly. He would have
+waited, thought over the matter, matured his decision, and certainly
+have perceived the inconveniences, which now occurred to him. The old
+fellow, always carried away like a badly trained bloodhound, and full
+of stupid enthusiasm, had confused him, and led him to do what he now so
+much regretted.
+
+It was precisely this unfavorable moment that M. Tabaret chose for
+reappearing before the magistrate. He had just been informed of the
+termination of the inquiry; and he arrived, impatient to know what had
+passed, swelling with curiosity, and full of the sweet hope of hearing
+of the fulfilment of his predictions.
+
+“What answers did he make?” he asked even before he had closed the door.
+
+“He is evidently guilty,” replied the magistrate, with a harshness very
+different to his usual manner.
+
+Old Tabaret, who expected to receive praises by the basketful, was
+astounded at this tone! It was therefore, with great hesitancy that he
+offered his further services.
+
+“I have come,” he said modestly, “to know if any investigations are
+necessary to demolish the _alibi_ pleaded by the prisoner.”
+
+“He pleaded no _alibi_,” replied the magistrate, dryly.
+
+“How,” cried the detective, “no _alibi_? Pshaw! I ask pardon: he has of
+course then confessed everything.”
+
+“No,” said the magistrate impatiently, “he has confessed nothing. He
+acknowledges that the proofs are decisive: he cannot give an account of
+how he spent his time; but he protests his innocence.”
+
+In the centre of the room, M. Tabaret stood with his mouth wide open,
+and his eyes staring wildly, and altogether in the most grotesque
+attitude his astonishment could effect. He was literally thunderstruck.
+In spite of his anger, M. Daburon could not help smiling; and even
+Constant gave a grin, which on his lips was equivalent to a paroxysm of
+laughter.
+
+“Not an _alibi_, nothing?” murmured the old fellow. “No explanations?
+The idea! It is inconceivable! Not an _alibi_? We must then be mistaken:
+he cannot be the criminal. That is certain!”
+
+The investigating magistrate felt that the old amateur must have been
+waiting the result of the examination at the wine shop round the corner,
+or else that he had gone mad.
+
+“Unfortunately,” said he, “we are not mistaken. It is but too clearly
+shown that M. de Commarin is the murderer. However, if you like, you can
+ask Constant for his report of the examination, and read it over while I
+put these papers in order.”
+
+“Very well,” said the old fellow with feverish anxiety.
+
+He sat down in Constant’s chair, and, leaning his elbows on the table,
+thrusting his hands in his hair, he in less than no time read the
+report through. When he had finished, he arose with pale and distorted
+features.
+
+“Sir,” said he to the magistrate in a strange voice, “I have been the
+involuntary cause of a terrible mistake. This man is innocent.”
+
+“Come, come,” said M. Daburon, without stopping his preparations for
+departure, “you are going out of your mind, my dear M. Tabaret. How,
+after all that you have read there, can--”
+
+“Yes, sir, yes: it is because I have read this that I entreat you to
+pause, or we shall add one more mistake to the sad list of judicial
+errors. Read this examination over carefully; there is not a reply
+but which declares this unfortunate man innocent, not a word but which
+throws out a ray of light. And he is still in prison, still in solitary
+confinement?”
+
+“He is; and there he will remain, if you please,” interrupted the
+magistrate. “It becomes you well to talk in this manner, after the way
+you spoke last night, when I hesitated so much.”
+
+“But, sir,” cried the old detective, “I still say precisely the same.
+Ah, wretched Tabaret! all is lost; no one understands you. Pardon me,
+sir, if I lack the respect due to you; but you have not grasped my
+method. It is, however, very simple. Given a crime, with all the
+circumstances and details, I construct, bit by bit, a plan of
+accusation, which I do not guarantee until it is entire and perfect. If
+a man is found to whom this plan applies exactly in every particular
+the author of the crime is found: otherwise, one has laid hands upon
+an innocent person. It is not sufficient that such and such particulars
+seem to point to him; it must be all or nothing. This is infallible.
+Now, in this case, how have I reached the culprit? Through proceeding by
+inference from the known to the unknown. I have examined his work; and I
+have formed an idea of the worker. Reason and logic lead us to what? To
+a villain, determined, audacious, and prudent, versed in the business.
+And do you think that such a man would neglect a precaution that would
+not be omitted by the stupidest tyro? It is inconceivable. What! this
+man is so skillful as to leave such feeble traces that they escape
+Gevrol’s practised eye, and you think he would risk his safety by
+leaving an entire night unaccounted for? It’s impossible! I am as sure
+of my system as of a sum that has been proved. The assassin has an
+_alibi_. Albert has pleaded none; then he is innocent.”
+
+M. Daburon surveyed the detective pityingly, much as he would
+have looked at a remarkable monomaniac. When the old fellow had
+finished,--“My worthy M. Tabaret,” the magistrate said to him: “you have
+but one fault. You err through an excess of subtlety, you accord too
+freely to others the wonderful sagacity with which you yourself are
+endowed. Our man has failed in prudence, simply because he believed his
+rank would place him above suspicion.”
+
+“No, sir, no, a thousand times no. My culprit,--the true one,--he whom
+we have missed catching, feared everything. Besides, does Albert defend
+himself? No. He is overwhelmed because he perceives coincidences so
+fatal that they appear to condemn him, without a chance of escape. Does
+he try to excuse himself? No. He simply replies, ‘It is terrible.’ And
+yet all through his examination I feel reticence that I cannot explain.”
+
+“I can explain it very easily; and I am as confident as though he had
+confessed everything. I have more than sufficient proofs for that.”
+
+“Ah, sir, proofs! There are always enough of those against an arrested
+man. They existed against every innocent man who was ever condemned.
+Proofs! Why, I had them in quantities against Kaiser, the poor little
+tailor, who--”
+
+“Well,” interrupted the magistrate, hastily, “if it is not he, the most
+interested one, who committed the crime, who then is it? His father, the
+Count de Commarin?”
+
+“No: the true assassin is a young man.”
+
+M. Daburon had arranged his papers, and finished his preparations. He
+took up his hat, and, as he prepared to leave, replied: “You must then
+see that I am right. Come and see me by-and-by, M. Tabaret, and make
+haste and get rid of all your foolish ideas. To-morrow we will talk the
+whole matter over again. I am rather tired to-night.” Then he added,
+addressing his clerk, “Constant, look in at the record office, in case
+the prisoner Commarin should wish to speak to me.”
+
+He moved towards the door; but M. Tabaret barred his exit.
+
+“Sir,” said the old man, “in the name of heaven listen to me! He is
+innocent, I swear to you. Help me, then, to find the real culprit. Sir,
+think of your remorse should you cause an--”
+
+But the magistrate would not hear more. He pushed old Tabaret quickly
+aside, and hurried out.
+
+The old man now turned to Constant. He wished to convince him. Lost
+trouble: the tall clerk hastened to put his things away, thinking of his
+soup, which was getting cold.
+
+So that M. Tabaret soon found himself locked out of the room and alone
+in the dark passage. All the usual sounds of the Palais had ceased: the
+place was silent as the tomb. The old detective desperately tore his
+hair with both hands.
+
+“Ah!” he exclaimed, “Albert is innocent; and it is I who have cast
+suspicion upon him. It is I, fool that I am, who have infused into the
+obstinate spirit of this magistrate a conviction that I can no longer
+destroy. He is innocent and is yet enduring the most horrible anguish.
+Suppose he should commit suicide! There have been instances of wretched
+men, who in despair at being falsely accused have killed themselves in
+their cells. Poor boy! But I will not abandon him. I have ruined him: I
+will save him! I must, I will find the culprit; and he shall pay dearly
+for my mistake, the scoundrel!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+
+After seeing the Count de Commarin safely in his carriage at the
+entrance of the Palais de Justice, Noel Gerdy seemed inclined to leave
+him. Resting one hand against the half-opened carriage door, he bowed
+respectfully, and said: “When, sir, shall I have the honour of paying my
+respects to you?”
+
+“Come with me now,” said the old nobleman.
+
+The advocate, still leaning forward, muttered some excuses. He had, he
+said, important business: he must positively return home at once.
+
+“Come,” repeated the count, in a tone which admitted no reply.
+
+Noel obeyed.
+
+“You have found your father,” said M. de Commarin in a low tone; “but I
+must warn you, that at the same time you lose your independence.”
+
+The carriage started; and only then did the count notice that Noel
+had very modestly seated himself opposite him. This humility seemed to
+displease him greatly.
+
+“Sit here by my side, sir,” he exclaimed; “are you not my son?”
+
+The advocate, without replying, took his seat by the side of the
+terrible old man, but occupied as little room as possible.
+
+He had been very much upset by his interview with M. Daburon; for he
+retained none of his usual assurance, none of that exterior coolness by
+which he was accustomed to conceal his feelings. Fortunately, the ride
+gave him time to breathe, and to recover himself a little.
+
+On the way from the Palais de Justice to the De Commarin mansion, not a
+word passed between the father and son. When the carriage stopped before
+the steps leading to the principal entrance, and the count got out with
+Noel’s assistance, there was great commotion among the servants.
+
+There were, it is true, few of them present, nearly all having been
+summoned to the Palais; but the count and the advocate had scarcely
+disappeared, when, as if by enchantment, they were all assembled in
+the hall. They came from the garden, the stables, the cellar, and the
+kitchen. Nearly all bore marks of their calling. A young groom appeared
+with his wooden shoes filled with straw, shuffling about on the marble
+floor like a mangy dog on a Gobelin tapestry. One of them recognised
+Noel as the visitor of the previous Sunday; and that was enough to set
+fire to all these gossip-mongers, thirsting for scandal.
+
+Since morning, moreover, the unusual events at the De Commarin mansion
+had caused a great stir in society. A thousand stories were
+circulated, talked over, corrected, and added to by the ill-natured
+and malicious,--some abominably absurd, others simply idiotic. Twenty
+people, very noble and still more proud, had not been above sending
+their most intelligent servants to pay a little visit among the count’s
+retainers, for the sole purpose of learning something positive. As
+it was, nobody knew anything; and yet everybody pretended to be fully
+informed.
+
+Let any one explain who can this very common phenomenon: A crime is
+committed; justice arrives, wrapped in mystery; the police are still
+ignorant of almost everything; and yet details of the most minute
+character are already circulated about the streets.
+
+“So,” said a cook, “that tall dark fellow with the whiskers is the
+count’s true son!”
+
+“You are right,” said one of the footmen who had accompanied M. de
+Commarin; “as for the other, he is no more his son than Jean here; who,
+by the way, will be kicked out of doors, if he is caught in this part of
+the house with his dirty working-shoes on.”
+
+“What a romance,” exclaimed Jean, supremely indifferent to the danger
+which threatened him.
+
+“Such things constantly occur in great families,” said the cook.
+
+“How ever did it happen?”
+
+“Well, you see, one day, long ago, when the countess who is now dead was
+out walking with her little son, who was about six months old, the child
+was stolen by gypsies. The poor lady was full of grief; but above all,
+was greatly afraid of her husband, who was not over kind. What did she
+do? She purchased a brat from a woman, who happened to be passing;
+and, never having noticed his child, the count has never known the
+difference.”
+
+“But the assassination!”
+
+“That’s very simple. When the woman saw her brat in such a nice berth,
+she bled him finely, and has kept up a system of blackmailing all along.
+The viscount had nothing left for himself. So he resolved at last to put
+an end to it, and come to a final settling with her.”
+
+“And the other, who is up there, the dark fellow?”
+
+The orator would have gone on, without doubt, giving the most
+satisfactory explanations of everything, if he had not been interrupted
+by the entrance of M. Lubin, who came from the Palais in company of
+young Joseph. His success, so brilliant up to this time, was cut short,
+just like that of a second-rate singer when the star of the evening
+comes on the stage. The entire assembly turned towards Albert’s valet,
+all eyes questioning him. He of course knew all, he was the man they
+wanted. He did not take advantage of his position, and keep them
+waiting.
+
+“What a rascal!” he exclaimed at first. “What a villainous fellow is
+this Albert!”
+
+He entirely did away with the “Mr.” and the “Viscount,” and met with
+general approval for doing so.
+
+“However,” he added, “I always had my doubts. The fellow didn’t
+please me by half. You see now to what we are exposed every day in our
+profession, and it is dreadfully disagreeable. The magistrate did not
+conceal it from me. ‘M. Lubin,’ said he, ‘it is very sad for a man
+like you to have waited on such a scoundrel.’ For you must know, that,
+besides an old woman over eighty years old, he also assassinated a young
+girl of twelve. The little child, the magistrate told me, was chopped
+into bits.”
+
+“Ah!” put in Joseph; “he must have been a great fool. Do people do those
+sort of things themselves when they are rich, and when there are so many
+poor devils who only ask to gain their living?”
+
+“Pshaw!” said M. Lubin in a knowing tone; “you will see him come out of
+it as white as snow. These rich men can do anything.”
+
+“Anyhow,” said the cook, “I’d willingly give a month’s wages to be a
+mouse, and to listen to what the count and the tall dark fellow are
+talking about. Suppose some one went up and tried to find out what is
+going on.”
+
+This proposition did not meet with the least favour. The servants
+knew by experience that, on important occasions, spying was worse than
+useless.
+
+M. de Commarin knew all about servants from infancy. His study was,
+therefore, a shelter from all indiscretion. The sharpest ear placed at
+the keyhole could hear nothing of what was going on within, even when
+the master was in a passion, and his voice loudest. One alone, Denis,
+the count’s valet, had the opportunity of gathering information; but he
+was well paid to be discreet, and he was so.
+
+At this moment, M. de Commarin was sitting in the same arm-chair on
+which the evening before he had bestowed such furious blows while
+listening to Albert.
+
+As soon as he left his carriage, the old nobleman recovered his
+haughtiness. He became even more arrogant in his manner, than he had
+been humble when before the magistrate, as though he were ashamed of
+what he now considered an unpardonable weakness.
+
+He wondered how he could have yielded to a momentary impulse, how his
+grief could have so basely betrayed him.
+
+At the remembrance of the avowals wrested from him by a sort of
+delirium, he blushed, and reproached himself bitterly. The same as
+Albert, the night before, Noel, having fully recovered himself, stood
+erect, cold as marble, respectful, but no longer humble.
+
+The father and son exchanged glances which had nothing of sympathy nor
+friendliness.
+
+They examined one another, they almost measured each other, much as
+two adversaries feel their way with their eyes before encountering with
+their weapons.
+
+“Sir,” said the count at length in a harsh voice, “henceforth this house
+is yours. From this moment you are the Viscount de Commarin; you regain
+possession of all the rights of which you were deprived. Listen, before
+you thank me. I wish, at once, to relieve you of all misunderstanding.
+Remember this well, sir; had I been master of the situation, I would
+never have recognised you: Albert should have remained in the position
+in which I placed him.”
+
+“I understand you, sir,” replied Noel. “I don’t think that I could
+ever bring myself to do an act like that by which you deprived me of
+my birthright; but I declare that, if I had the misfortune to do so, I
+should afterwards have acted as you have. Your rank was too conspicuous
+to permit a voluntary acknowledgment. It was a thousand times better to
+suffer an injustice to continue in secret, than to expose the name to
+the comments of the malicious.”
+
+This answer surprised the count, and very agreeably too. But he wouldn’t
+let his satisfaction be seen, and it was in a still harsher voice that
+he resumed.
+
+“I have no claim, sir, upon your affection; I do not ask for it, but I
+insist at all times upon the utmost deference. It is traditional in our
+house, that a son shall never interrupt his father when he is speaking;
+that, you have just been guilty of. Neither do children judge their
+parents; that also you have just done. When I was forty years of age my
+father was in his second childhood; but I do not remember ever having
+raised my voice above his. This said, I continue. I provided the
+necessary funds for the expenses of Albert’s household completely,
+distinct from my own, for he had his own servants, horses, and
+carriages; and besides that I allowed the unhappy boy four thousand
+francs a month. I have decided in order to put a stop to all foolish
+gossip, and to make your position the easier, that you should live on
+a grander scale; this matter concerns myself. Further, I will increase
+your monthly allowance to six thousand francs; which I trust you
+will spend as nobly as possible, giving the least possible cause for
+ridicule. I cannot too strongly exhort you to the utmost caution. Keep
+close watch over yourself. Weigh your words well. Study your slightest
+actions. You will be the point of observation of the thousands of
+impertinent idlers who compose our world; your blunders will be their
+delight. Do you fence?”
+
+“Moderately well.”
+
+“That will do! Do you ride?”
+
+“No; but in six months I will be a good horseman, or break my neck.”
+
+“You must become a horseman, and not break anything. Let us proceed.
+You will, of course, not occupy Albert’s apartments. They will be walled
+off, as soon as I am free of the police. Thank heaven! the house is
+large. You will occupy the other wing; and there will be a separate
+entrance to your apartments, by another staircase. Servants, horses,
+carriages, furniture, such as become a viscount, will be at your
+service, cost what it may, within forty-eight hours. On the day of your
+taking possession, you must look as though you had been installed there
+for years. There will be a great scandal; but that cannot be avoided. A
+prudent father might send you away for a few months to the Austrian or
+Russian courts; but, in this instance, such prudence would be absurd.
+Much better a dreadful outcry, which ends quickly, than low murmurs
+which last forever. Dare public opinion; and, in eight days, it will
+have exhausted its comments, and the story will have become old. So,
+to work! This very evening the workmen shall be here; and, in the first
+place, I must present you to my servants.”
+
+To put his purpose into execution, the count moved to touch the
+bell-rope. Noel stopped him.
+
+Since the commencement of this interview, the advocate had wandered in
+the regions of the thousand and one nights, the wonderful lamp in his
+hand. The fairy reality cast into the shade his wildest dreams. He was
+dazzled by the count’s words, and had need of all his reason to struggle
+against the giddiness which came over him, on realising his great good
+fortune. Touched by a magic wand, he seemed to awake to a thousand novel
+and unknown sensations. He rolled in purple, and bathed in gold.
+
+But he knew how to appear unmoved. His face had contracted the habit of
+guarding the secret of the most violent internal excitement. While all
+his passions vibrated within him, he appeared to listen with a sad and
+almost indifferent coldness.
+
+“Permit me, sir,” he said to the count “without overstepping the bounds
+of the utmost respect, to say a few words. I am touched more than I
+can express by your goodness; and yet I beseech you, to delay its
+manifestation. The proposition I am about to suggest may perhaps appear
+to you worthy of consideration. It seems to me that the situation
+demands the greatest delicacy on my part. It is well to despise public
+opinion, but not to defy it. I am certain to be judged with the utmost
+severity. If I install myself so suddenly in your house, what will be
+said? I shall have the appearance of a conqueror, who thinks little,
+so long as he succeeds, of passing over the body of the conquered. They
+will reproach me with occupying the bed still warm from Albert’s body.
+They will jest bitterly at my haste in taking possession. They will
+certainly compare me to Albert, and the comparison will be to my
+disadvantage, since I should appear to triumph at a time when a great
+disaster has fallen upon our house.”
+
+The count listened without showing any signs of disapprobation,
+struck perhaps by the justice of these reasons. Noel imagined that his
+harshness was much more feigned than real; and this idea encouraged him.
+
+“I beseech you then, sir,” he continued, “to permit me for the present
+in no way to change my mode of living. By not showing myself, I leave
+all malicious remarks to waste themselves in air,--I let public opinion
+the better familiarise itself with the idea of a coming change. There
+is a great deal in not taking the world by surprise. Being expected, I
+shall not have the air of an intruder on presenting myself. Absent,
+I shall have the advantages which the unknown always possess; I shall
+obtain the good opinion of all those who have envied Albert; and I
+shall secure as champions all those who would to-morrow assail me, if
+my elevation came suddenly upon them. Besides, by this delay, I shall
+accustom myself to my abrupt change of fortune. I ought not to bring
+into your world, which is now mine, the manners of a parvenu. My name
+ought not to inconvenience me, like a badly fitting coat.”
+
+“Perhaps it would be wisest,” murmured the count.
+
+This assent, so easily obtained, surprised Noel. He got the idea that
+the count had only wished to prove him, to tempt him. In any case,
+whether he had triumphed by his eloquence, or whether he had simply
+shunned a trap, he had succeeded. His confidence increased; he recovered
+all his former assurance.
+
+“I must add, sir,” he continued, “that there are a few matters
+concerning myself which demand my attention. Before entering upon my new
+life, I must think of those I am leaving behind me. I have friends and
+clients. This event has surprised me, just as I am beginning to reap the
+reward of ten years of hard work and perseverance. I have as yet only
+sown; I am on the point of reaping. My name is already known; I have
+obtained some little influence. I confess, without shame, that I have
+heretofore professed ideas and opinions that would not be suited to this
+house; and it is impossible in the space of a day--”
+
+“Ah!” interrupted the count in a bantering tone, “you are a liberal. It
+is a fashionable disease. Albert also was a great liberal.”
+
+“My ideas, sir,” said Noel quickly, “were those of every intelligent man
+who wishes to succeed. Besides, have not all parties one and the same
+aim--power? They merely take different means of reaching it. I will not
+enlarge upon this subject. Be assured, sir, that I shall know how to
+bear my name, and think and act as a man of my rank should.”
+
+“I trust so,” said M. de Commarin; “and I hope that you will never make
+me regret Albert.”
+
+“At least, sir, it will not be my fault. But, since you have mentioned
+the name of that unfortunate young man, let us occupy ourselves about
+him.”
+
+The count cast a look of distrust upon Noel.
+
+“What can now be done for Albert?” he asked.
+
+“What, sir!” cried Noel with ardour, “would you abandon him, when he
+has not a friend left in the world? He is still your son, sir, he is
+my brother; for thirty years he has borne the name of Commarin. All the
+members of a family are jointly liable. Innocent, or guilty, he has a
+right to count upon us; and we owe him our assistance.”
+
+“What do you then hope for, sir?” asked the count.
+
+“To save him, if he is innocent; and I love to believe that he is. I am
+an advocate, sir, and I wish to defend him. I have been told that I
+have some talent; in such a cause I must have. Yes, however strong the
+charges against him may be, I will overthrow them. I will dispel all
+doubts. The truth shall burst forth at the sound of my voice. I will
+find new accents to imbue the judges with my own conviction. I will save
+him, and this shall be my last cause.”
+
+“And if he should confess,” said the count, “if he has already
+confessed?”
+
+“Then, sir,” replied Noel with a dark look, “I will render him the last
+service, which in such a misfortune I should ask of a brother, I will
+procure him the means of avoiding judgment.”
+
+“That is well spoken, sir,” said the count, “very well, my son!”
+
+And he held out his hand to Noel, who pressed it, bowing a respectful
+acknowledgment. The advocate took a long breath. At last he had found
+the way to this haughty noble’s heart; he had conquered, he had pleased
+him.
+
+“Let us return to yourself, sir,” continued the count. “I yield to the
+reasons which you have suggested. All shall be done as you desire. But
+do not consider this a precedent. I never change my plans, even though
+they are proved to be bad, and contrary to my interests. But at least
+nothing prevents your remaining here from to-day, and taking your meals
+with me. We will, first of all, see where you can be lodged, until you
+formally take possession of the apartments which are to be prepared for
+you.”
+
+Noel had the hardihood to again interrupt the old nobleman.
+
+“Sir,” said he, “when you bade me follow you here, I obeyed you, as was
+my duty. Now another and a sacred duty calls me away. Madame Gerdy is
+at this moment dying. Ought I to leave the deathbed of her who filled my
+mother’s place?”
+
+“Valerie!” murmured the count. He leaned upon the arm of his chair, his
+face buried in his hands; in one moment the whole past rose up before
+him.
+
+“She has done me great harm,” he murmured, as if answering his thoughts.
+“She has ruined my whole life; but ought I to be implacable? She is
+dying from the accusation which is hanging over Albert our son. It was
+I who was the cause of it all. Doubtless, in this last hour, a word from
+me would be a great consolation to her. I will accompany you, sir.”
+
+Noel started at this unexpected proposal.
+
+“O sir!” said he hastily, “spare yourself, pray, a heart-rending sight.
+Your going would be useless. Madame Gerdy exists probably still; but
+her mind is dead. Her brain was unable to resist so violent a shock. The
+unfortunate woman would neither recognise nor understand you.”
+
+“Go then alone,” sighed the count, “go, my son!”
+
+The words “my son,” pronounced with a marked emphasis, sounded like a
+note of victory in Noel’s ears.
+
+He bowed to take his leave. The count motioned him to wait.
+
+“In any case,” he said, “a place at table will be set for you here. I
+dine at half-past six precisely. I shall be glad to see you.”
+
+He rang. His valet appeared.
+
+“Denis,” said he, “none of the orders I may give will affect this
+gentleman. You will tell this to all the servants. This gentleman is at
+home here.”
+
+The advocate took his leave; and the count felt great comfort in being
+once more alone. Since morning, events had followed one another with
+such bewildering rapidity that his thoughts could scarcely keep pace
+with them. At last, he was able to reflect.
+
+“That, then,” said he to himself, “is my legitimate son. I am sure of
+his birth, at any rate. Besides I should be foolish to disown him, for I
+find him the exact picture of myself at thirty. He is a handsome fellow,
+Noel, very handsome. His features are decidedly in his favour. He
+is intelligent and acute. He knows how to be humble without lowering
+himself, and firm without arrogance. His unexpected good fortune does
+not turn his head. I augur well of a man who knows how to bear himself
+in prosperity. He thinks well; he will carry his title proudly. And yet
+I feel no sympathy with him; it seems to me that I shall always regret
+my poor Albert. I never knew how to appreciate him. Unhappy boy! To
+commit such a vile crime! He must have lost his reason. I do not like
+the look of this one’s eye. They say that he is perfect. He expresses,
+at least, the noblest and most appropriate sentiments. He is gentle
+and strong, magnanimous, generous, heroic. He is without malice, and is
+ready to sacrifice himself to repay me for what I have done for him.
+He forgives Madame Gerdy; he loves Albert. It is enough to make one
+distrust him. But all young men now-a-days are so. Ah! we live in a
+happy age. Our children are born free from all human shortcomings. They
+have neither the vices, the passions, nor the tempers of their fathers;
+and these precocious philosophers, models of sagacity and virtue, are
+incapable of committing the least folly. Alas! Albert, too, was perfect;
+and he has assassinated Claudine! What will this one do?--All the same,”
+ he added, half-aloud, “I ought to have accompanied him to see Valerie!”
+
+And, although the advocate had been gone at least a good ten minutes,
+M. de Commarin, not realising how the time had passed, hastened to the
+window, in the hope of seeing Noel in the court-yard, and calling him
+back.
+
+But Noel was already far away. On leaving the house, he took a cab and
+was quickly driven to the Rue St. Lazare.
+
+On reaching his own door, he threw rather than gave five francs to the
+driver, and ran rapidly up the four flights of stairs.
+
+“Who has called to see me?” he asked of the servant.
+
+“No one, sir.”
+
+He seemed relieved from a great anxiety, and continued in a calmer tone,
+“And the doctor?”
+
+“He came this morning, sir,” replied the girl, “while you were out; and
+he did not seem at all hopeful. He came again just now, and is still
+here.”
+
+“Very well. I will go and speak to him. If any one calls, show them into
+my study, and let me know.”
+
+On entering Madame Gerdy’s chamber, Noel saw at a glance that no change
+for the better had taken place during his absence. With fixed eyes
+and convulsed features, the sick woman lay extended upon her back. She
+seemed dead, save for the sudden starts, which shook her at intervals,
+and disarranged the bedclothes.
+
+Above her head was placed a little vessel, filled with ice water, which
+fell drop by drop upon her forehead, covered with large bluish spots.
+The table and mantel-piece were covered with little pots, medicine
+bottles, and half-emptied glasses. At the foot of the bed, a piece of
+rag stained with blood showed that the doctor had just had recourse to
+leeches.
+
+Near the fireplace, where was blazing a large fire, a nun of the order
+of St. Vincent de Paul was kneeling, watching a saucepan. She was a
+young woman, with a face whiter than her cap. Her immovably placid
+features, her mournful look, betokened the renunciation of the flesh,
+and the abdication of all independence of thought.
+
+Her heavy grey costume hung about her in large ungraceful folds. Every
+time she moved, her long chaplet of beads of coloured box-wood, loaded
+with crosses and copper medals, shook and trailed along the floor with a
+noise like a jingling of chains.
+
+Dr. Herve was seated on a chair opposite the bed, watching, apparently
+with close attention, the nun’s preparations. He jumped up as Noel
+entered.
+
+“At last you are here,” he said, giving his friend a strong grasp of the
+hand.
+
+“I was detained at the Palais,” said the advocate, as if he felt the
+necessity of explaining his absence; “and I have been, as you may well
+imagine, dreadfully anxious.”
+
+He leant towards the doctor’s ear, and in a trembling voice asked:
+“Well, is she at all better?”
+
+The doctor shook his head with an air of deep discouragement.
+
+“She is much worse,” he replied: “since morning bad symptoms have
+succeeded each other with frightful rapidity.”
+
+He checked himself. The advocate had seized his arm and was pressing it
+with all his might. Madame Gerdy stirred a little, and a feeble groan
+escaped her.
+
+“She heard you,” murmured Noel.
+
+“I wish it were so,” said the doctor; “It would be most encouraging.
+But I fear you are mistaken. However, we will see.” He went up to Madame
+Gerdy, and, whilst feeling her pulse, examined her carefully; then, with
+the tip of his finger, he lightly raised her eyelid.
+
+The eye appeared dull, glassy, lifeless.
+
+“Come, judge for yourself; take her hand, speak to her.”
+
+Noel, trembling all over, did as his friend wished. He drew near, and,
+leaning over the bed, so that his mouth almost touched the sick woman’s
+ear, he murmured: “Mother, it is I, Noel, your own Noel. Speak to me,
+make some sign, do you hear me, mother?”
+
+It was in vain; she retained her frightful immobility. Not a sign of
+intelligence crossed her features.
+
+“You see,” said the doctor, “I told you the truth.”
+
+“Poor woman!” sighed Noel, “does she suffer?”
+
+“Not at present.”
+
+The nun now rose; and she too came beside the bed.
+
+“Doctor,” said she: “all is ready.”
+
+“Then call the servant, sister, to help us. We are going to apply a
+mustard poultice.”
+
+The servant hastened in. In the arms of the two women, Madame Gerdy was
+like a corpse, whom they were dressing for the last time. She was as
+rigid as though she were dead. She must have suffered much and long,
+poor woman, for it was pitiable to see how thin she was. The nun
+herself was affected, although she had become habituated to the sight of
+suffering. How many invalids had breathed their last in her arms during
+the fifteen years that she had gone from pillow to pillow!
+
+Noel, during this time, had retired into the window recess, and pressed
+his burning brow against the panes.
+
+Of what was he thinking, while she who had given him so many proofs of
+maternal tenderness and devotion was dying a few paces from him? Did
+he regret her? was he not thinking rather of the grand and magnificent
+existence which awaited him on the other side of the river, at the
+Faubourg St. Germain? He turned abruptly round on hearing his friend’s
+voice.
+
+“It is done,” said the doctor; “we have only now to wait the effect
+of the mustard. If she feels it, it will be a good sign; if it has no
+effect, we will try cupping.”
+
+“And if that does not succeed?”
+
+The doctor answered only with a shrug of the shoulders, which showed his
+inability to do more.
+
+“I understand your silence, Herve,” murmured Noel. “Alas! you told me
+last night she was lost.”
+
+“Scientifically, yes; but I do not yet despair. It is hardly a year ago
+that the father-in-law of one of our comrades recovered from an almost
+identical attack; and I saw him when he was much worse than this;
+suppuration had set in.”
+
+“It breaks my heart to see her in this state,” resumed Noel. “Must she
+die without recovering her reason even for one moment? Will she not
+recognise me, speak one word to me?”
+
+“Who knows? This disease, my poor friend, baffles all foresight. Each
+moment, the aspect may change, according as the inflammation affects
+such or such a part of the brain. She is now in a state of utter
+insensibility, of complete prostration of all her intellectual
+faculties, of coma, of paralysis so to say; to-morrow, she may be seized
+with convulsions, accompanied with a fierce delirium.”
+
+“And will she speak then?”
+
+“Certainly; but that will neither modify the nature nor the gravity of
+the disease.”
+
+“And will she recover her reason?”
+
+“Perhaps,” answered the doctor, looking fixedly at his friend; “but why
+do you ask that?”
+
+“Ah, my dear Herve, one word from Madame Gerdy, only one, would be of
+such use to me!”
+
+“For your affair, eh! Well, I can tell you nothing, can promise you
+nothing. You have as many chances in your favour as against you;
+only, do not leave her. If her intelligence returns, it will be only
+momentary, try and profit by it. But I must go,” added the doctor; “I
+have still three calls to make.”
+
+Noel followed his friend. When they reached the landing, he asked: “You
+will return?”
+
+“This evening, at nine. There will be no need of me till then. All
+depends upon the watcher. But I have chosen a pearl. I know her well.”
+
+“It was you, then, who brought this nun?”
+
+“Yes, and without your permission. Are you displeased?”
+
+“Not the least in the world. Only I confess--”
+
+“What! you make a grimace. Do your political opinions forbid your having
+your mother, I should say Madame Gerdy, nursed by a nun of St. Vincent?”
+
+“My dear Herve, you--”
+
+“Ah! I know what you are going to say. They are adroit, insinuating,
+dangerous, all that is quite true. If I had a rich old uncle whose heir
+I expected to be, I shouldn’t introduce one of them into his house.
+These good creatures are sometimes charged with strange commissions.
+But, what have you to fear from this one? Never mind what fools say.
+Money aside, these worthy sisters are the best nurses in the world.
+I hope you will have one when your end comes. But good-bye; I am in a
+hurry.”
+
+And, regardless of his professional dignity, the doctor hurried down
+the stairs; while Noel, full of thought, his countenance displaying the
+greatest anxiety, returned to Madame Gerdy.
+
+At the door of the sick-room, the nun awaited the advocate’s return.
+
+“Sir,” said she, “sir.”
+
+“You want something of me, sister?”
+
+“Sir, the servant bade me come to you for money; she has no more, and
+had to get credit at the chemist’s.”
+
+“Excuse me, sister,” interrupted Noel, seemingly very much vexed;
+“excuse me for not having anticipated your request; but you see I am
+rather confused.”
+
+And, taking a hundred-franc note out of his pocket-book, he laid it on
+the mantel piece.
+
+“Thanks, sir,” said the nun; “I will keep an account of what I spend. We
+always do that,” she added; “it is more convenient for the family. One
+is so troubled at seeing those one loves laid low by illness. You have
+perhaps not thought of giving this poor lady the sweet aid of our
+holy religion! In your place, sir, I should send without delay for a
+priest,--”
+
+“What, now, sister? Do you not see the condition she is in? She is the
+same as dead; you saw that she did not hear my voice.”
+
+“That is of little consequence, sir,” replied the nun; “you will always
+have done your duty. She did not answer you; but are you sure that she
+will not answer the priest? Ah, you do not know all the power of the
+last sacraments! I have seen the dying recover their intelligence and
+sufficient strength to confess, and to receive the sacred body of our
+Lord Jesus Christ. I have often heard families say that they do not wish
+to alarm the invalid, that the sight of the minister of our Lord might
+inspire a terror that would hasten the final end. It is a fatal error.
+The priest does not terrify; he reassures the soul, at the beginning of
+its long journey. He speaks in the name of the God of mercy, who comes
+to save, not to destroy. I could cite to you many cases of dying people
+who have been cured simply by contact with the sacred balm.”
+
+The nun spoke in a tone as mournful as her look. Her heart was evidently
+not in the words which she uttered. Without doubt, she had learned them
+when she first entered the convent. Then they expressed something
+she really felt, she spoke her own thoughts; but, since then, she had
+repeated the words over and over again to the friends of every sick
+person that she attended, until they lost all meaning so far as she was
+concerned. To utter them became simply a part of her duties as nurse,
+the same as the preparation of draughts, and the making of poultices.
+
+Noel was not listening to her; his thoughts were far away.
+
+“Your dear mother,” continued the nun, “this good lady that you love
+so much, no doubt trusted in her religion. Do you wish to endanger her
+salvation? If she could speak in the midst of her cruel sufferings--”
+
+The advocate was on the point of replying, when the servant announced
+that a gentleman, who would not give his name, wished to speak with him
+on business.
+
+“I will come,” he said quickly.
+
+“What do you decide, sir?” persisted the nun.
+
+“I leave you free, sister, to do as you may judge best.”
+
+The worthy woman began to recite her lesson of thanks, but to no
+purpose. Noel had disappeared with a displeased look; and almost
+immediately she heard his voice in the next room, saying: “At last you
+have come, M. Clergeot, I had almost given you up!”
+
+The visitor, whom the advocate had been expecting, is a person well
+known in the Rue St. Lazare, round about the Rue de Provence, the
+neighbourhood of Notre Dame de Lorette, and all along the exterior
+Boulevards, from the Chaussee des Martyrs to the Rond-Point of the old
+Barriere de Clichy.
+
+M. Clergeot is no more a usurer than M. Jourdin’s father was a
+shopkeeper. Only, as he has lots of money, and is very obliging, he
+lends it to his friends; and, in return for this kindness, he consents
+to receive interest, which varies from fifteen to five hundred per cent.
+
+The excellent man positively loves his clients, and his honesty is
+generally appreciated. He has never been known to seize a debtor’s
+goods; he prefers to follow him up without respite for ten years, and
+tear from him bit by bit what is his due.
+
+He lives near the top of the Rue de la Victoire. He has no shop, and yet
+he sells everything saleable, and some other things, too, that the law
+scarcely considers merchandise. Anything to be useful or neighbourly.
+He often asserts that he is not very rich. It is possibly true. He is
+whimsical more than covetous, and fearfully bold. Free with his money
+when one pleases him, he would not lend five francs, even with a
+mortgage on the Chateau of Ferrieres as guarantee, to whosoever does
+not meet with his approval. However, he often risks his all on the most
+unlucky cards.
+
+His preferred customers consist of women of doubtful morality,
+actresses, artists, and those venturesome fellows who enter upon
+professions which depend solely upon those who practice them, such as
+lawyers and doctors.
+
+He lends to women upon their present beauty, to men upon their future
+talent. Slight pledges! His discernment, it should be said, however,
+enjoys a great reputation. It is rarely at fault. A pretty girl
+furnished by Clergeot is sure to go far. For an artist to be in
+Clergeot’s debt was a recommendation preferable to the warmest
+criticism.
+
+Madame Juliette had procured this useful and honourable acquaintance for
+her lover.
+
+Noel, who well knew how sensitive this worthy man was to kind
+attentions, and how pleased by politeness, began by offering him a seat,
+and asking after his health. Clergeot went into details. His teeth were
+still good; but his sight was beginning to fail. His legs were no
+longer so steady, and his hearing was not all that could be desired. The
+chapter of complaints ended--“You know,” said he, “why I have called.
+Your bills fall due to-day; and I am devilishly in need of money. I have
+one of ten, one of seven, and a third of five thousand francs, total,
+twenty-two thousand francs.”
+
+“Come, M. Clergeot,” replied Noel, “do not let us have any joking.”
+
+“Excuse me,” said the usurer; “I am not joking at all.”
+
+“I rather think you are though. Why, it’s just eight days ago to-day
+that I wrote to tell you that I was not prepared to meet the bills, and
+asked for a renewal!”
+
+“I recollect very well receiving your letter.”
+
+“What do you say to it, then?”
+
+“By my not answering the note, I supposed that you would understand
+that I could not comply with your request; I hoped that you would exert
+yourself to find the amount for me.”
+
+Noel allowed a gesture of impatience to escape him.
+
+“I have not done so,” he said; “so take your own course. I haven’t a
+sou.”
+
+“The devil. Do you know that I have renewed these bills four times
+already?”
+
+“I know that the interest has been fully and promptly paid, and at a
+rate which cannot make you regret the investment.”
+
+Clergeot never likes talking about the interest he received. He pretends
+that it is humiliating.
+
+“I do not complain; I only say that you take things too easily with me.
+If I had put your signature in circulation all would have been paid by
+now.”
+
+“Not at all.”
+
+“Yes, you would have found means to escape being sued. But you say to
+yourself: ‘Old Clergeot is a good fellow.’ And that is true. But I am
+so only when it can do me no harm. Now, to-day, I am absolutely in
+great need of my money. Ab--so--lute--ly,” he added, emphasising each
+syllable.
+
+The old fellow’s decided tone seemed to disturb the advocate.
+
+“Must I repeat it?” he said; “I am completely drained, com--plete--ly!”
+
+“Indeed?” said the usurer; “well, I am sorry for you; but I shall have
+to sue you.”
+
+“And what good will that do? Let us play above board, M. Clergeot. Do
+you care to increase the lawyers’ fees? You don’t do you? Even though,
+you may put me to great expense, will that procure you even a centime?
+You will obtain judgment against me. Well, what then? Do you think of
+putting in an execution? This is not my home; the lease is in Madame
+Gerdy’s name.”
+
+“I know all that. Besides, the sale of everything here would not cover
+the amount.”
+
+“Then you intend to put me in prison, at Clichy! Bad speculation, I warn
+you, my practice will be lost, and, you know, no practice, no money.”
+
+“Good!” cried the worthy money-lender. “Now you are talking nonsense!
+You call that being frank. Pshaw! If you supposed me capable of half
+the cruel things you have said, my money would be there in your drawer,
+ready for me.”
+
+“A mistake! I should not know where to get it, unless by asking Madame
+Gerdy, a thing I would never do.”
+
+A sarcastic and most irritating little laugh, peculiar to old Clergeot,
+interrupted Noel.
+
+“It would be no good doing that,” said the usurer; “mamma’s purse has
+long been empty; and if the dear creature should die now,--they tell
+me she is very ill,--I would not give two hundred napoleons for the
+inheritance.”
+
+The advocate turned red with passion, his eyes glittered; but he
+dissembled, and protested with some spirit.
+
+“We know what we know,” continued Clergeot quietly. “Before a man risks
+his money, he takes care to make some inquiries. Mamma’s remaining bonds
+were sold last October. Ah! the Rue de Provence is an expensive place!
+I have made an estimate, which is at home. Juliette is a charming woman,
+to be sure; she has not her equal, I am convinced; but she is expensive,
+devilish expensive.”
+
+Noel was enraged at hearing his Juliette thus spoke of by this
+honourable personage. But what reply could he make? Besides, none of
+us are perfect; and M. Clergeot possessed the fault of not properly
+appreciating women, which doubtless arises from the business
+transactions he has had with them. He is charming in his business
+with the fair sex, complimenting and flattering them; but the coarsest
+insults would be less revolting than his disgusting familiarity.
+
+“You have gone too fast,” he continued, without deigning to notice his
+client’s ill looks; “and I have told you so before. But, you would not
+listen; you are mad about the girl. You can never refuse her anything.
+Fool! When a pretty girl wants anything, you should let her long for it
+for a while; she has then something to occupy her mind and keep her from
+thinking of a quantity of other follies. Four good strong wishes, well
+managed, ought to last a year. You don’t know how to look after your own
+interests. I know that her glance would turn the head of a stone saint;
+but you should reason with yourself, hang it! Why, there are not ten
+girls in Paris who live in such style! And do you think she loves you
+any the more for it? Not a bit. When she has ruined you, she’ll leave
+you in the lurch.”
+
+Noel accepted the eloquence of his prudent banker like a man without an
+umbrella accepts a shower.
+
+“What is the meaning of all this!” he asked.
+
+“Simply that I will not renew your bills. You understand? Just now, if
+you try very hard, you will be able to hand me the twenty-two thousand
+francs in question. You need not frown: you will find means to do so to
+prevent my seizing your goods,--not here, for that would be absurd, but
+at your little woman’s apartments. She would not be at all pleased, and
+would not hesitate to tell you so.”
+
+“But everything there belongs to her; and you have no right--”
+
+“What of that? She will oppose the seizure, no doubt, and I expect her
+to do so; but she will make you find the requisite sum. Believe me, you
+had best parry the blow. I insist on being paid now. I won’t give you
+any further delay; because, in three months’ time, you will have used
+your last resources. It is no use saying ‘No,’ like that. You are in one
+of those conditions that must be continued at any price. You would burn
+the wood from your dying mother’s bed to warm this creature’s feet.
+Where did you obtain the ten thousand francs that you left with her the
+other evening? Who knows what you will next attempt to procure money?
+The idea of keeping her fifteen days, three days, a single day more, may
+lead you far. Open your eyes. I know the game well. If you do not leave
+Juliette, you are lost. Listen to a little good advice, gratis. You must
+give her up, sooner or later, mustn’t you? Do it to-day, then.”
+
+As you see, our worthy Clergeot never minces the truth to his customers,
+when they do not keep their engagements. If they are displeased, so much
+the worse for them! His conscience is at rest. He would never join in
+any foolish business.
+
+Noel could bear it no longer: and his anger burst forth.
+
+“Enough,” he cried decidedly. “Do as you please, M. Clergeot, but have
+done with your advice. I prefer the lawyer’s plain prose. If I have
+committed follies, I can repair them, and in a way that would surprise
+you. Yes, M. Clergeot, I can procure twenty-two thousand francs; I could
+have a hundred thousand to-morrow morning, if I saw fit. They would
+only cost me the trouble of asking for them. But that I will not do.
+My extravagance, with all due deference to you, will remain a secret as
+heretofore. I do not choose that my present embarrassed circumstances
+should be even suspected. I will not relinquish, for your sake, that at
+which I have been aiming, the very day it is within my grasp.”
+
+“He resists,” thought the usurer; “he is less deeply involved than I
+imagined.”
+
+“So,” continued the advocate, “put your bills in the hands of your
+lawyer. Let him sue me. In eight days, I shall be summoned to appear
+before the Tribunal de Commerce, and I shall ask for the twenty-five
+days’ delay, which the judges always grant to an embarrassed debtor.
+Twenty-five and eight, all the world over, make just thirty-three days.
+That is precisely the respite I need. You have two alternatives: either
+accept from me at once a new bill for twenty-four thousand francs
+payable in six weeks, or else, as I have an appointment, go off to your
+lawyer.”
+
+“And in six weeks,” replied the usurer, “you will be in precisely the
+same condition you are to-day. And forty-five days more of Juliette will
+cost--”
+
+“M. Clergeot,” interrupted Noel, “long before that time, my position
+will be completely changed. But I have finished,” he added rising; “and
+my time is valuable.”
+
+“One moment, you impatient fellow!” exclaimed the good-natured banker,
+“you said twenty-four thousand francs at forty-five days?”
+
+“Yes. That is about seventy-five per cent,--pretty fair interest.”
+
+“I never cavil about interest,” said M. Clergeot; “only--” He looked
+slyly at Noel scratching his chin violently, a movement which in him
+indicated how insensibly his brain was at work. “Only,” he continued, “I
+should very much like to know what you are counting upon.”
+
+“That I will not tell you. You will know it ere long, in common with all
+the world.”
+
+“I have it!” cried M. Clergeot, “I have it! You are going to marry! You
+have found an heiress, of course, your little Juliette told me something
+of the sort this morning. Ah! you are going to marry! Is she pretty? But
+no matter. She has a full purse, eh? You wouldn’t take her without that.
+So you are going to start a home of your own?”
+
+“I did not say so.”
+
+“That’s right. Be discreet. But I can take a hint. One word more. Beware
+of the storm; your little woman has a suspicion of the truth. You are
+right; it wouldn’t do to be seeking money now. The slightest inquiry
+would be sufficient to enlighten your father-in-law as to your financial
+position, and you would lose the damsel. Marry and settle down. But get
+rid of Juliette, or I won’t give five francs for the fortune. So it is
+settled: prepare a new bill for twenty-four thousand francs, and I will
+call for it when I bring you the old ones on Monday.”
+
+“You haven’t them with you, then?”
+
+“No. And to be frank, I confess that, knowing well I should get nothing
+from you, I left them with others at my lawyer’s. However, you may rest
+easy: you have my word.”
+
+M. Clergeot made a pretence of retiring; but just as he was going out,
+he returned quickly.
+
+“I had almost forgotten,” said he; “while you are about it, you can make
+the bill for twenty-six thousand francs. Your little woman ordered some
+dresses, which I shall deliver to-morrow; in this way they will be paid
+for.”
+
+The advocate began to remonstrate. He certainly did not refuse to pay,
+only he thought he ought to be consulted when any purchases were made.
+He didn’t like this way of disposing of his money.
+
+“What a fellow!” said the usurer, shrugging his shoulders; “do you want
+to make the girl unhappy for nothing at all? She won’t let you off yet,
+my friend. You may be quite sure she will eat up your new fortune also.
+And you know, if you need any money for the wedding, you have but to
+give me some guarantee. Procure me an introduction to the notary, and
+everything shall be arranged. But I must go. On Monday then.”
+
+Noel listened, to make sure that the usurer had actually gone. When he
+heard him descending the staircase, “Scoundrel!” he cried, “miserable
+thieving old skinflint! Didn’t he need a lot of persuading? He had quite
+made up his mind to sue me. It would have been a pleasant thing had
+the count come to hear of it. Vile usurer! I was afraid, one moment, of
+being obliged to tell him all.”
+
+While inveighing thus against the money-lender, the advocate looked at
+his watch.
+
+“Half-past five already,” he said.
+
+His indecision was great. Ought he to go and dine with his father? Could
+he leave Madame Gerdy? He longed to dine at the de Commarin mansion;
+yet, on the other hand, to leave a dying woman!
+
+“Decidedly,” he murmured, “I can’t go.”
+
+He sat down at his desk, and with all haste wrote a letter of apology
+to his father. Madame Gerdy, he said, might die at any moment; he must
+remain with her. As he bade the servant give the note to a messenger, to
+carry it to the count, a sudden thought seemed to strike him.
+
+“Does madame’s brother,” he asked, “know that she is dangerously ill?”
+
+“I do not know, sir,” replied the servant, “at any rate, I have not
+informed him.”
+
+“What, did you not think to send him word? Run to his house quickly.
+Have him sought for, if he is not at home; he must come.”
+
+Considerably more at ease, Noel went and sat in the sick-room. The lamp
+was lighted; and the nun was moving about the room as though quite at
+home, dusting and arranging everything, and putting it in its place. She
+wore an air of satisfaction, that Noel did not fail to notice.
+
+“Have we any gleam of hope, sister?” he asked.
+
+“Perhaps,” replied the nun. “The priest has been here, sir; your dear
+mother did not notice his presence; but he is coming back. That is not
+all. Since the priest was here, the poultice has taken admirably. The
+skin is quite reddened. I am sure she feels it.”
+
+“God grant that she does, sister!”
+
+“Oh, I have already been praying! But it is important not to leave her
+alone a minute. I have arranged all with the servant. After the doctor
+has been, I shall lie down, and she will watch until one in the morning.
+I will then take her place and--”
+
+“You shall both go to bed, sister,” interrupted Noel, sadly. “It is I,
+who could not sleep a wink, who will watch through this night.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV.
+
+Old Tabaret did not consider himself defeated, because he had been
+repulsed by the investigating magistrate, already irritated by a long
+day’s examination. You may call it a fault, or an accomplishment; but
+the old man was more obstinate than a mule. To the excess of despair to
+which he succumbed in the passage outside the magistrate’s office, there
+soon succeeded that firm resolution which is the enthusiasm called forth
+by danger. The feeling of duty got the upper hand. Was it a time to
+yield to unworthy despair, when the life of a fellow-man depended on
+each minute? Inaction would be unpardonable. He had plunged an innocent
+man into the abyss; and he must draw him out, he alone, if no one would
+help him. Old Tabaret, as well as the magistrate, was greatly fatigued.
+On reaching the open air, he perceived that he, too, was in want of
+food. The emotions of the day had prevented him from feeling hungry;
+and, since the previous evening, he had not even taken a glass of water.
+He entered a restaurant on the Boulevard, and ordered dinner.
+
+While eating, not only his courage, but also his confidence came
+insensibly back to him. It was with him, as with the rest of mankind;
+who knows how much one’s ideas may change, from the beginning to the
+end of a repast, be it ever so modest! A philosopher has plainly
+demonstrated that heroism is but an affair of the stomach.
+
+The old fellow looked at the situation in a much less sombre light. He
+had plenty of time before him! A clever man could accomplish a great
+deal in a month! Would his usual penetration fail him now? Certainly
+not. His great regret was, his inability to let Albert know that some
+one was working for him.
+
+He was entirely another man, as he rose from the table; and it was with
+a sprightly step that he walked towards the Rue St. Lazare. Nine o’clock
+struck as the concierge opened the door for him. He went at once up to
+the fourth floor to inquire after the health of his former friend, her
+whom he used to call the excellent, the worthy Madame Gerdy.
+
+It was Noel who let him in, Noel, who had doubtless been thinking of
+the past, for he looked as sad as though the dying woman was really his
+mother.
+
+In consequence of this unexpected circumstance, old Tabaret could not
+avoid going in for a few minutes, though he would much have preferred
+not doing so. He knew very well, that, being with the advocate, he would
+be unavoidably led to speak of the Lerouge case; and how could he do
+this, knowing, as he did, the particulars much better than his young
+friend himself, without betraying his secret? A single imprudent word
+might reveal the part he was playing in this sad drama. It was, above
+all others, from his dear Noel, now Viscount de Commarin, that he wished
+entirely to conceal his connection with the police.
+
+But, on the other hand, he thirsted to know what had passed between the
+advocate and the count. His ignorance on this single point aroused his
+curiosity. However, as he could not withdraw he resolved to keep close
+watch upon his language and remain constantly on his guard.
+
+The advocate ushered the old man into Madame Gerdy’s room. Her
+condition, since the afternoon, had changed a little; though it was
+impossible to say whether for the better or the worse. One thing was
+evident, her prostration was not so great. Her eyes still remained
+closed; but a slight quivering of the lids was evident. She constantly
+moved on her pillow, and moaned feebly.
+
+“What does the doctor say?” asked old Tabaret, in that low voice one
+unconsciously employs in a sick room.
+
+“He has just gone,” replied Noel; “before long all will be over.”
+
+The old man advanced on tip-toe, and looked at the dying woman with
+evident emotion.
+
+“Poor creature!” he murmured; “God is merciful in taking her. She
+perhaps suffers much; but what is this pain compared to what she would
+feel if she knew that her son, her true son, was in prison, accused of
+murder?”
+
+“That is what I keep thinking,” said Noel, “to console myself for this
+sight. For I still love her, my old friend; I shall always regard her
+as a mother. You have heard me curse her, have you not? I have twice
+treated her very harshly. I thought I hated her; but now, at the moment
+of losing her, I forget every wrong she has done me, only to remember
+her tenderness. Yes, for her, death is far preferable! And yet I do not
+think, no, I cannot think her son guilty.”
+
+“No! what, you too?”
+
+Old Tabaret put so much warmth and vivacity into this exclamation, that
+Noel looked at him with astonishment. He felt his face grow red, and he
+hastened to explain himself. “I said, ‘you too,’” he continued, “because
+I, thanks perhaps to my inexperience, am persuaded also of this young
+man’s innocence. I cannot in the least imagine a man of his rank
+meditating and accomplishing so cowardly a crime. I have spoken with
+many persons on this matter which has made so much noise; and everybody
+is of my opinion. He has public opinion in his favor; that is already
+something.”
+
+Seated near the bed, sufficiently far from the lamp to be in the shade,
+the nun hastily knitted stockings destined for the poor. It was a purely
+mechanical work, during which she usually prayed. But, since old Tabaret
+entered the room, she forgot her everlasting prayers whilst listening
+to the conversation. What did it all mean? Who could this woman be? And
+this young man who was not her son, and who yet called her mother,
+and at the same time spoke of a true son accused of being an assassin?
+Before this she had overheard mysterious remarks pass between Noel and
+the doctor. Into what strange house had she entered? She was a little
+afraid; and her conscience was sorely troubled. Was she not sinning? She
+resolved to tell all to the priest, when he returned.
+
+“No,” said Noel, “no, M. Tabaret; Albert has not public opinion for him.
+We are sharper than that in France, as you know. When a poor devil is
+arrested, entirely innocent, perhaps, of the crime charged against him,
+we are always ready to throw stones at him. We keep all our pity for
+him, who, without doubt guilty, appears before the court of assize. As
+long as the justice hesitates, we side with the prosecution against the
+prisoner. The moment it is proved that the man is a villain, all our
+sympathies are in his favour. That is public opinion. You understand,
+however, that it affects me but little. I despise it to such an extent,
+that if, as I dare still hope, Albert is not released, I will defend
+him. Yes, I have told the Count de Commarin, my father, as much. I will
+be his counsel, and I will save him.”
+
+Gladly would the old man have thrown himself on Noel’s neck. He longed
+to say to him: “We will save him together.” But he restrained himself.
+Would not the advocate despise him, if he told him his secret! He
+resolved, however, to reveal all should it become necessary, or should
+Albert’s position become worse. For the time being, he contented himself
+with strongly approving his young friend.
+
+“Bravo! my boy,” said he; “you have a noble heart. I feared to see you
+spoiled by wealth and rank; pardon me. You will remain, I see, what you
+have always been in your more humble position. But, tell me, you have,
+then, seen your father, the count?”
+
+Now, for the first time, Noel seemed to notice the nun’s eyes, which,
+lighted by eager curiosity, glittered in the shadow like carbuncles.
+With a look, he drew the old man’s attention to her, and said: “I have
+seen him; and everything is arranged to my satisfaction. I will tell you
+all, in detail, by-and-by, when we are more at ease. By this bedside, I
+am almost ashamed of my happiness.”
+
+M. Tabaret was obliged to content himself with this reply and this
+promise. Seeing that he would learn nothing that evening, he spoke
+of going to bed, declaring himself tired out by what he had had to do
+during the day. Noel did not ask him to stop. He was expecting, he said,
+Madame Gerdy’s brother, who had been sent for several times, but who
+was not at home. He hardly knew how he could again meet this brother,
+he added: he did not yet know what conduct he ought to pursue. Should
+he tell him all? It would only increase his grief. On the other hand,
+silence would oblige him to play a difficult part. The old man advised
+him to say nothing; he could explain all later on.
+
+“What a fine fellow Noel is!” murmured old Tabaret, as he regained
+his apartments as quietly as possible. He had been absent from home
+twenty-four hours; and he fully expected a formidable scene with his
+housekeeper. Mannette was decidedly out of temper, and declared once
+for all, that she would certainly seek a new place if her master did not
+change his conduct.
+
+She had remained up all night, in a terrible fright, listening to the
+least sound on the stairs, expecting every moment to see her master
+brought home on a litter, assassinated. There had been great commotion
+in the house. M. Gerdy had gone down a short time after her master, and
+she had seen him return two hours later. After that, they had sent for
+the doctor. Such goings on would be the death of her, without counting
+that her constitution was too weak to allow her to sit up so late. But
+Mannette forgot that she did not sit up on her master’s account nor on
+Noel’s but was expecting one of her old friends, one of those handsome
+Gardes de Paris who had promised to marry her, and for whom she had
+waited in vain, the rascal!
+
+She burst forth in reproaches, while she prepared her master’s bed,
+too sincere, she declared, to keep anything on her mind, or to keep her
+mouth closed, when it was a question of his health and reputation. M.
+Tabaret made no reply, not being in the mood for argument. He bent his
+head to the storm, and turned his back to the hail. But, as soon as
+Mannette had finished what she was about, he put her out of the room,
+and double locked the door.
+
+He busied himself in forming a new line of battle, and in deciding upon
+prompt and active measures. He rapidly examined the situation. Had
+he been deceived in his investigations? No. Were his calculations of
+probabilities erroneous? No. He had started with a positive fact, the
+murder. He had discovered the particulars; his inferences were correct,
+and the criminal was evidently such as he had described him. The man M.
+Daburon had had arrested could not be the criminal. His confidence in a
+judicial axiom had led him astray, when he pointed to Albert.
+
+“That,” thought he, “is the result of following accepted opinions and
+those absurd phrases, all ready to hand, which are like mile-stones
+along a fool’s road! Left free to my own inspirations, I should have
+examined this case more thoroughly, I would have left nothing to chance.
+The formula, ‘Seek out the one whom the crime benefits’ may often be
+as absurd as true. The heirs of a man assassinated are in reality all
+benefited by the murder; while the assassin obtains at most the victim’s
+watch and purse. Three persons were interested in Widow Lerouge’s
+death:--Albert, Madame Gerdy, and the Count de Commarin. It is plain to
+me that Albert is not the criminal. It is not Madame Gerdy, who is dying
+from the shock caused by the unexpected announcement of the crime. There
+remains, then, the Count. Can it be he? If so, he certainly did not do
+it himself. He must have hired some wretch, a wretch of good position,
+if you please, wearing patent leather boots of a good make, and smoking
+trabucos cigars with an amber mouth-piece. These well-dressed
+villains ordinarily lack nerve. They cheat, they forge; but they don’t
+assassinate. Supposing, though, that the count did get hold of some
+dare-devil fellow. He would simply have replaced one accomplice by
+another still more dangerous. That would be idiotic, and the count is a
+sensible man. He, therefore, had nothing whatever to do with the matter.
+To be quite sure though, I will make some inquiries about him. Another
+thing, Widow Lerouge, who so readily exchanged the children while
+nursing them, would be very likely to undertake a number of other
+dangerous commissions. Who can say that she has not obliged other
+persons who had an equal interest in getting rid of her? There is a
+secret, I am getting at it, but I do not hold it yet. One thing is
+certain though, she was not assassinated to prevent Noel recovering his
+rights. She must have been suppressed for some analogous reason, by a
+bold and experienced scoundrel, prompted by similar motives to those
+of which I suspected Albert. It is, then, in that direction that I must
+follow up the case now. And, above all, I must obtain the past history
+of this obliging widow, and I will have it too, for in all probability
+the particulars which have been written for from her birthplace will
+arrive tomorrow.”
+
+Returning to Albert, old Tabaret weighed the charges which were brought
+against the young man, and reckoned the chances which he still had in
+favour of his release.
+
+“From the look of things,” he murmured, “I see only luck and myself,
+that is to say absolutely nothing, in his favor at present. As to the
+charges, they are countless. However, it is no use going over them.
+It is I who amassed them; and I know what they are worth! At once
+everything and nothing. What do signs prove, however striking they may
+be, in cases where one ought to disbelieve even the evidence of one’s
+own senses? Albert is a victim of the most remarkable coincidences; but
+one word might explain them. There have been many such cases. It was
+even worse in the matter of the little tailor. At five o’clock, he
+bought a knife, which he showed to ten of his friends, saying, ‘This is
+for my wife, who is an idle jade, and plays me false with my workmen.’
+In the evening, the neighbours heard a terrible quarrel between the
+couple, cries, threats, stampings, blows; then suddenly all was quiet.
+The next day, the tailor had disappeared from his home, and the wife was
+discovered dead, with the very same knife buried to the hilt between her
+shoulders. Ah, well! it turned out it was not the husband who had stuck
+it there; it was a jealous lover. After that, what is to be believed?
+Albert, it is true, will not give an account of how he passed Tuesday
+evening. That does not affect me. The question for me is not to prove
+where he was, but that he was not at La Jonchere. Perhaps, after all,
+Gevrol is on the right track. I hope so, from the bottom of my
+heart. Yes; God grant that he may be successful. My vanity and my mad
+presumption will deserve the slight punishment of his triumph over me.
+What would I not give to establish this man’s innocence? Half of my
+fortune would be but a small sacrifice. If I should not succeed! If,
+after having caused the evil, I should find myself powerless to undo
+it!”
+
+Old Tabaret went to bed, shuddering at this last thought. He fell
+asleep, and had a terrible nightmare. Lost in that vulgar crowd, which,
+on the days when society revenges itself, presses about the Place de la
+Rouquette and watches the last convulsions of one condemned to death,
+he attended Albert’s execution. He saw the unhappy man, his hands bound
+behind his back, his collar turned down, ascend, supported by a priest,
+the steep flight of steps leading on to the scaffold. He saw him
+standing upon the fatal platform, turning his proud gaze upon the
+terrified assembly beneath him. Soon the eyes of the condemned man met
+his own; and, bursting his cords, he pointed him, Tabaret, out to the
+crowd, crying, in a loud voice: “That man is my assassin.” Then a great
+clamour arose to curse the detective. He wished to escape; but his feet
+seemed fixed to the ground. He tried at least to close his eyes; he
+could not. A power unknown and irresistible compelled him to look.
+Then Albert again cried out: “I am innocent; the guilty one is----” He
+pronounced a name; the crowd repeated this name, and he alone did not
+catch what it was. At last the head of the condemned man fell.
+
+M. Tabaret uttered a loud cry, and awoke in a cold perspiration. It took
+him some time to convince himself that nothing was real of what he had
+just heard and seen, and that he was actually in his own house, in
+his own bed. It was only a dream! But dreams sometimes are, they say,
+warnings from heaven. His imagination was so struck with what had just
+happened that he made unheard of efforts to recall the name pronounced
+by Albert. Not succeeding, he got up and lighted his candle. The
+darkness made him afraid, the night was full of phantoms. It was no
+longer with him a question of sleep. Beset with these anxieties, he
+accused himself most severely, and harshly reproached himself for the
+occupation he had until then so delighted in. Poor humanity!
+
+He was evidently stark mad the day when he first had the idea of seeking
+employment in the Rue de Jerusalem. A noble hobby, truly, for a man of
+his age, a good quiet citizen of Paris, rich, and esteemed by all! And
+to think that he had been proud of his exploits, that he had boasted of
+his cunning, that he had plumed himself on his keenness of scent, that
+he had been flattered by that ridiculous sobriquet, “Tirauclair.” Old
+fool! What could he hope to gain from that bloodhound calling? All sorts
+of annoyance, the contempt of the world, without counting the danger of
+contributing to the conviction of an innocent man. Why had he not taken
+warning by the little tailor’s case.
+
+Recalling his few satisfactions of the past, and comparing them with his
+present anguish, he resolved that he would have no more to do with it.
+Albert once saved, he would seek some less dangerous amusement, and one
+more generally appreciated. He would break the connection of which he
+was ashamed, and the police and justice might get on the best they could
+without him.
+
+At last the day, which he had awaited with feverish impatience, dawned.
+To pass the time, he dressed himself slowly, with much care, trying to
+occupy his mind with needless details, and to deceive himself as to the
+time by looking constantly at the clock, to see if it had not stopped.
+In spite of all this delay, it was not eight o’clock when he presented
+himself at the magistrate’s house, begging him to excuse, on account of
+the importance of his business, a visit too early not to be indiscreet.
+
+Excuses were superfluous. M. Daburon was never disturbed by a call at
+eight o’clock in the morning. He was already at work. He received the
+old amateur detective with his usual kindness, and even joked with him
+a little about his excitement of the previous evening. Who would have
+thought his nerves were so sensitive? Doubtless the night had brought
+deliberation. Had he recovered his reason? or had he put his hand on the
+true criminal?
+
+This trifling tone in a magistrate, who was accused of being grave
+even to a fault, troubled the old man. Did not this quizzing hide a
+determination not to be influenced by anything that he could say?
+He believed it did; and it was without the least deception that he
+commenced his pleading.
+
+He put the case more calmly this time, but with all the energy of a
+well-digested conviction. He had appealed to the heart, he now appealed
+to reason; but, although doubt is essentially contagious, he neither
+succeeded in convincing the magistrate, nor in shaking his opinion. His
+strongest arguments were of no more avail against M. Daburon’s absolute
+conviction than bullets made of bread crumbs would be against a
+breastplate. And there was nothing very surprising in that.
+
+Old Tabaret had on his side only a subtle theory, mere words; M. Daburon
+possessed palpable testimony, facts. And such was the peculiarity of
+the case, that all the reasons brought forward by the old man to justify
+Albert simply reacted against him, and confirmed his guilt.
+
+A repulse at the magistrate’s hands had entered too much into M.
+Tabaret’s anticipations for him to appear troubled or discouraged. He
+declared that, for the present, he would insist no more; he had full
+confidence in the magistrate’s wisdom and impartiality. All he wished
+was to put him on his guard against the presumptions which he himself
+unfortunately had taken such pains to inspire.
+
+He was going, he added, to busy himself with obtaining more information.
+They were only at the beginning of the investigation; and they were
+still ignorant of very many things, even of Widow Lerouge’s past life.
+More facts might come to light. Who knew what testimony the man with the
+earrings, who was being pursued by Gevrol, might give? Though in a great
+rage internally, and longing to insult and chastise he whom he inwardly
+styled a “fool of a magistrate,” old Tabaret forced himself to be humble
+and polite. He wished, he said, to keep well posted up in the different
+phases of the investigation, and to be informed of the result of future
+interrogations. He ended by asking permission to communicate with
+Albert. He thought his services deserved this slight favour. He desired
+an interview of only ten minutes without witnesses.
+
+M. Daburon refused this request. He declared, that, for the present, the
+prisoner must continue to remain strictly in solitary confinement.
+By way of consolation, he added that, in three or four days, he might
+perhaps be able to reconsider this decision, as the motives which
+prompted it would then no longer exist.
+
+“Your refusal is cruel, sir,” said M. Tabaret; “but I understand it, and
+submit.”
+
+That was his only complaint: and he withdrew almost immediately, fearing
+that he could no longer master his indignation. He felt that, besides
+the great happiness of saving an innocent man, compromised by his
+imprudence, he would experience unspeakable delight in avenging himself
+for the magistrate’s obstinacy.
+
+“Three or four days,” he muttered, “that is the same as three or four
+years to the unfortunate prisoner. He takes things quite at his ease,
+this charming magistrate. But I must find out the real truth of the case
+between now and then.”
+
+Yes, M. Daburon only required three or four days to wring a confession
+from Albert, or at least to make him abandon his system of defence.
+
+The difficulty of the prosecution was not being able to produce any
+witness who had seen the prisoner during the evening of Shrove Tuesday.
+
+One deposition alone to that effect would have such great weight, that
+M. Daburon, as soon as Tabaret had left him, turned all his attention
+in that direction. He could still hope for a great deal. It was only
+Saturday, the day of the murder was remarkable enough to fix people’s
+memories, and up till then there had not been time to start a proper
+investigation.
+
+He arranged for five of the most experienced detectives in the secret
+service to be sent to Bougival, supplied with photographs of the
+prisoner. They were to scour the entire country between Rueil and
+La Jonchere, to inquire everywhere, and make the most minute
+investigations. The photographs would greatly aid their efforts. They
+had orders to show them everywhere and to everybody and even to leave a
+dozen about the neighbourhood, as they were furnished with a sufficient
+number to do so. It was impossible, that, on an evening when so many
+people were about, no one had noticed the original of the portrait
+either at the railway station at Rueil or upon one of the roads which
+lead to La Jonchere, the high road, and the path by the river.
+
+These arrangements made, the investigating magistrate proceeded to the
+Palais de Justice, and sent for Albert. He had already in the morning
+received a report, informing him hour by hour of the acts, gestures, and
+utterances of the prisoner, who had been carefully watched. Nothing in
+him, the report said, betrayed the criminal. He seemed very sad, but not
+despairing. He had not cried out, nor threatened, nor cursed justice,
+nor even spoken of a fatal error. After eating lightly, he had gone to
+the window of his cell, and had there remained standing for more than an
+hour. Then he laid down, and had quietly gone to sleep.
+
+“What an iron constitution!” thought M. Daburon, when the prisoner
+entered his office.
+
+Albert was no longer the despairing man who, the night before,
+bewildered with the multiplicity of charges, surprised by the rapidity
+with which they were brought against him, had writhed beneath the
+magistrate’s gaze, and appeared ready to succumb. Innocent or guilty,
+he had made up his mind how to act; his face left no doubt of that. His
+eyes expressed that cold resolution of a sacrifice freely made, and
+a certain haughtiness which might be taken for disdain, but which
+expressed the noble resentment of an injured man. In him could be
+seen the self-reliant man, who might be shaken but never overcome by
+misfortune.
+
+On beholding him, the magistrate understood that he would have to
+change his mode of attack. He recognized one of those natures which are
+provoked to resistance when assailed, and strengthened when menaced.
+He therefore gave up his former tactics, and attempted to move him by
+kindness. It was a hackneyed trick, but almost always successful, like
+certain pathetic scenes at theatres. The criminal who has girt up his
+energy to sustain the shock of intimidation, finds himself without
+defence against the wheedling of kindness, the greater in proportion to
+its lack of sincerity. Now M. Daburon excelled in producing affecting
+scenes. What confessions he had obtained with a few tears! No one knew
+so well as he how to touch those old chords which vibrate still even in
+the most corrupt hearts: honour, love, and family ties.
+
+With Albert, he became kind and friendly, and full of the liveliest
+compassion. Unfortunate man! how greatly he must suffer, he whose whole
+life had been like one long enchantment. How at a single blow everything
+about him had fallen in ruins. Who could have foreseen all this at
+the time when he was the one hope of a wealthy and illustrious house!
+Recalling the past, the magistrate pictured to him the most touching
+reminiscences of his early youth, and stirred up the ashes of all
+his extinct affections. Taking advantage of all that he knew of the
+prisoner’s life, he tortured him by the most mournful allusions to
+Claire. Why did he persist in bearing alone his great misfortune? Had he
+no one in the world who would deem it happiness to share his sufferings?
+Why this morose silence? Should he not rather hasten to reassure her
+whose very life depended upon his? What was necessary for that? A single
+word. Then he would be, if not free, at least returned to the world. His
+prison would become a habitable abode, no more solitary confinement; his
+friends would visit him, he might receive whomsoever he wished to see.
+
+It was no longer the magistrate who spoke; it was a father, who, no
+matter what happens, always keeps in the recesses of his heart, the
+greatest indulgence for his child.
+
+M. Daburon did even more. For a moment he imagined himself in Albert’s
+position. What would he have done after the terrible revelation? He
+scarcely dared ask himself. He understood the motive which prompted the
+murder of Widow Lerouge; he could explain it to himself; he could almost
+excuse it. (Another trap.) It was certainly a great crime, but in no way
+revolting to conscience or to reason. It was one of those crimes which
+society might, if not forget, at least forgive up to a certain point,
+because the motive was not a shameful one. What tribunal would fail
+to find extenuating circumstances for a moment of frenzy so excusable.
+Besides was not the Count de Commarin the more guilty of the two? Was it
+not his folly that prepared the way for this terrible event? His son was
+the victim of fatality, and was in the highest degree to be pitied.
+
+M. Daburon spoke for a long time upon this text, seeking those things
+most suitable in his opinion to soften the hardened heart of an
+assassin. And he arrived always at the same conclusion,--the wisdom
+of confessing. But he wasted his eloquence precisely as M. Tabaret had
+wasted his. Albert appeared in no way affected. His answers were of the
+shortest. He began and ended as on the first occasion, by protesting his
+innocence.
+
+One test, which has often given the desired result, still remained to be
+tried.
+
+On this same day, Saturday, Albert was confronted with the corpse of
+Widow Lerouge. He appeared impressed by the sad sight, but no more than
+anyone would be, if forced to look at the victim of an assassination
+four days after the crime. One of the bystanders having exclaimed: “Ah,
+if she could but speak!” he replied: “That would be very fortunate for
+me.”
+
+Since morning, M. Daburon had not gained the least advantage. He had had
+to acknowledge the failure of his manoeuvres; and now this last attempt
+had not succeeded either. The prisoner’s continued calmness filled to
+overflowing the exasperation of this man so sure of his guilt. His spite
+was evident to all, when, suddenly ceasing his wheedling, he harshly
+gave the order to re-conduct the prisoner to his cell.
+
+“I will compel him to confess!” he muttered between his teeth.
+
+Perhaps he regretted those gentle instruments of investigation of the
+middle ages, which compelled the prisoner to say whatever one wished to
+hear. Never, thought he, did any one ever meet a culprit like this. What
+could he reasonably hope for from his system of persistent denial? This
+obstinacy, absurd in the presence of such absolute proofs, drove the
+magistrate into a rage. Had Albert confessed his guilt, he would have
+found M. Daburon disposed to pity him; but as he denied it, he opposed
+himself to an implacable enemy.
+
+It was the very falseness of the situation which misled and blinded this
+magistrate, naturally so kind and generous. Having previously wished
+Albert innocent, he now absolutely longed to prove him guilty, and that
+for a hundred reasons which he was unable to analyze. He remembered,
+too well, his having had the Viscount de Commarin for a rival, and his
+having nearly assassinated him. Had he not repented even to remorse his
+having signed the warrant of arrest, and his having accepted the duty of
+investigating the case. Old Tabaret’s incomprehensible change of opinion
+troubled him, too.
+
+All these feelings combined, inspired M. Daburon with a feverish hatred,
+and urged him on in the path which he had chosen. It was now less the
+proofs of Albert’s guilt which he sought for than the justification of
+his own conduct as magistrate. The investigation became embittered like
+a personal matter.
+
+In fact, were the prisoner innocent, he would become inexcusable in his
+own eyes; and, in proportion as he reproached himself the more severely,
+and as the knowledge of his own failings grew, he felt the more disposed
+to try everything to conquer his former rival, even to abusing his own
+power. The logic of events urged him on. It seemed as though his honour
+itself was at stake; and he displayed a passionate activity, such as he
+had never before been known to show in any investigation.
+
+M. Daburon passed all Sunday in listening to the reports of the
+detectives he had sent to Bougival.
+
+They had spared no trouble, they stated, but they could report nothing
+new.
+
+They had heard many people speak of a woman, who pretended, they said,
+to have seen the assassin leave Widow Lerouge’s cottage; but no one
+had been able to point this woman out to them, or even to give them her
+name.
+
+They all thought it their duty, however, to inform the magistrate that
+another inquiry was going on at the same time as theirs. It was directed
+by M. Tabaret, who personally scoured the country round about in a
+cabriolet drawn by a very swift horse. He must have acted with great
+promptness; for, no matter where they went, he had been there before
+them. He appeared to have under his orders a dozen men, four of whom at
+least certainly belonged to the Rue de Jerusalem. All the detectives had
+met him; and he had spoken to them. To one, he had said: “What the deuce
+are you showing this photograph for? In less than no time you will have
+a crowd of witnesses, who, to earn three francs, will describe some one
+more like the portrait than the portrait itself.”
+
+He had met another on the high-road, and had laughed at him.
+
+“You are a simple fellow,” he cried out, “to hunt for a hiding man on
+the high-way; look a little aside, and you may find him.”
+
+Again he had accosted two who were together in a cafe at Bougival, and
+had taken them aside.
+
+“I have him,” he said to them. “He is a smart fellow; he came by
+Chatois. Three people have seen him--two railway porters and a third
+person whose testimony will be decisive, for she spoke to him. He was
+smoking.”
+
+M. Daburon became so angry with old Tabaret, that he immediately started
+for Bougival, firmly resolved to bring the too zealous man back to
+Paris, and to report his conduct in the proper quarter. The journey,
+however, was useless. M. Tabaret, the cabriolet, the swift horse, and
+the twelve men had all disappeared, or at least were not to be found.
+
+On returning home, greatly fatigued, and very much out of temper, the
+investigating magistrate found the following telegram from the chief of
+the detective force awaiting him; it was brief, but to the point:
+
+
+“ROUEN, Sunday.
+
+“The man is found. This evening we start for Paris. The most valuable
+testimony. GEVROL.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV.
+
+On the Monday morning, at nine o’clock, M. Daburon was preparing to
+start for the Palais de Justice, where he expected to find Gevrol and
+his man, and perhaps old Tabaret. His preparations were nearly made,
+when his servant announced that a young lady, accompanied by another
+considerably older, asked to speak with him. She declined giving
+her name, saying, however, that she would not refuse it, if it was
+absolutely necessary in order to be received.
+
+“Show them in,” said the magistrate.
+
+He thought it must be a relation of one or other of the prisoners, whose
+case he had had in hand when this fresh crime occurred. He determined to
+send her away quickly. He was standing before the fireplace, seeking
+for an address in a small china plate filled with visiting cards. At
+the sound of the opening of the door, at the rustling of a silk dress
+gliding by the window, he did not take the trouble to move, nor deign
+even to turn his head. He contented himself with merely casting a
+careless glance into the mirror.
+
+But he immediately started with a movement of dismay, as if he had seen
+a ghost. In his confusion, he dropped the card-plate, which fell noisily
+on to the hearth, and broke into a thousand pieces.
+
+“Claire!” he stammered, “Claire!”
+
+And as if he feared equally either being deceived by an illusion or
+actually seeing her whose name he had uttered, he turned slowly round.
+
+It was truly Mademoiselle d’Arlange. This young girl, usually so proud
+and reserved, had had the courage to come to his house alone, or almost
+so, for her governess, whom she had left in the ante-room, could hardly
+count. She was evidently obeying some powerful emotion, since it made
+her forget her habitual timidity.
+
+Never, even in the time when a sight of her was his greatest happiness,
+had she appeared to him more fascinating. Her beauty, ordinarily
+veiled by a sweet sadness, was bright and shining. Her features had an
+animation which he had never seen in them before. In her eyes, rendered
+more brilliant by recent tears but partly wiped away, shone the noblest
+resolution. One could see that she was conscious of performing a great
+duty, and that she performed it, if not with pleasure, at least with
+that simplicity which in itself is heroism.
+
+She advanced calm and dignified, and held out her hand to the magistrate
+in that English style that some ladies can render so gracefully.
+
+“We are always friends, are we not?” asked she, with a sad smile.
+
+The magistrate did not dare take the ungloved hand she held out to him.
+He scarcely touched it with the tips of his fingers, as though he feared
+too great an emotion.
+
+“Yes,” he replied indistinctly, “I am always devoted to you.”
+
+Mademoiselle d’Arlange sat down in the large armchair, where, two nights
+previously, old Tabaret had planned Albert’s arrest. M. Daburon remained
+standing leaning against his writing-table.
+
+“You know why I have come?” asked the young girl.
+
+With a nod, he replied in the affirmative.
+
+He divined her object only too easily; and he was asking himself whether
+he would be able to resist prayers from such a mouth. What was she about
+to ask of him? What could he refuse her? Ah, if he had but foreseen
+this? He had not yet got over his surprise.
+
+“I only knew of this dreadful event yesterday,” pursued Claire; “my
+grandmother considered it best to hide it from me, and, but for my
+devoted Schmidt, I should still be ignorant of it all. What a night I
+have passed! At first I was terrified; but, when they told me that all
+depended upon you, my fears were dispelled. It is for my sake, is it
+not, that you have undertaken this investigation? Oh, you are good, I
+know it! How can I ever express my gratitude?”
+
+What humiliation for the worthy magistrate were these heartfelt thanks!
+Yes, he had at first thought of Mademoiselle d’Arlange, but since--He
+bowed his head to avoid Claire’s glance, so pure and so daring.
+
+“Do not thank me, mademoiselle,” he stammered, “I have not the claim
+that you think upon your gratitude.”
+
+Claire had been too troubled herself, at first, to notice the
+magistrate’s agitation. The trembling of his voice attracted her
+attention; but she did not suspect the cause. She thought that her
+presence recalled sad memories, that he doubtless still loved her,
+and that he suffered. This idea saddened her, and filled her with
+self-reproach.
+
+“And yet, sir,” she continued, “I thank you all the same. I might never
+have dared go to another magistrate, to speak to a stranger! Besides,
+what value would another attach to my words, not knowing me? While you,
+so generous, will re-assure me, will tell me by what awful mistake he
+has been arrested like a villain and thrown into prison.”
+
+“Alas!” sighed the magistrate, so low that Claire scarcely heard him,
+and did not understand the terrible meaning of the exclamation.
+
+“With you,” she continued, “I am not afraid. You are my friend, you told
+me so; you will not refuse my prayers. Give him his liberty quickly. I
+do not know exactly of what he is accused, but I swear to you that he is
+innocent.”
+
+Claire spoke in the positive manner of one who saw no obstacle in the
+way of the very simple and natural desire which she had expressed. A
+formal assurance given by her ought to be amply sufficient; with a
+word, M. Daburon would repair everything. The magistrate was silent. He
+admired that saint-like ignorance of everything, that artless and frank
+confidence which doubted nothing. She had commenced by wounding him,
+unconsciously, it is true, but he had quite forgotten that.
+
+He was really an upright man, as good as the best, as is proved from
+the fact that he trembled at the moment of unveiling the fatal truth. He
+hesitated to pronounce the words which, like a whirlwind, would overturn
+the fragile edifice of this young girl’s happiness. He who had been so
+humiliated, so despised, he was going to have his revenge; and yet
+he did not experience the least feeling of a shameful, though easily
+understood, satisfaction.
+
+“And if I should tell you, mademoiselle,” he commenced, “that M. Albert
+is not innocent?”
+
+She half-raised herself with a protesting gesture.
+
+He continued, “If I should tell you that he is guilty?”
+
+“Oh, sir!” interrupted Claire, “you cannot think so!”
+
+“I do think so, mademoiselle,” exclaimed the magistrate in a sad voice,
+“and I must add that I am morally certain of it.”
+
+Claire looked at the investigating magistrate with profound amazement.
+Could it be really he who was speaking thus. Had she heard him aright?
+Did she understand? She was far from sure. Had he answered seriously?
+Was he not deluding her by a cruel unworthy jest? She asked herself this
+scarcely knowing what she did: for to her everything appeared possible,
+probable, rather than that which he had said.
+
+Not daring to raise his eyes, he continued in a tone, expressive of the
+sincerest pity, “I suffer cruelly for you at this moment, mademoiselle;
+but I have the sad courage to tell you the truth, and you must summon
+yours to hear it. It is far better that you should know everything from
+the mouth of a friend. Summon, then, all your fortitude; strengthen your
+noble soul against a most dreadful misfortune. No, there is no mistake.
+Justice has not been deceived. The Viscount de Commarin is accused of
+an assassination; and everything, you understand me, proves that he
+committed it.”
+
+Like a doctor, who pours out drop by drop a dangerous medicine, M.
+Daburon pronounced this last sentence slowly, word by word. He watched
+carefully the result, ready to cease speaking, if the shock was too
+great. He did not suppose that this young girl, timid to excess, with a
+sensitiveness almost a disease, would be able to hear without flinching
+such a terrible revelation. He expected a burst of despair, tears,
+distressing cries. She might perhaps faint away; and he stood ready to
+call in the worthy Schmidt.
+
+He was mistaken. Claire drew herself up full of energy and courage. The
+flame of indignation flushed her cheeks, and dried her tears.
+
+“It is false,” she cried, “and those who say it are liars! He cannot
+be--no, he cannot be an assassin. If he were here, sir, and should
+himself say, ‘It is true,’ I would refuse to believe it; I would still
+cry out, ‘It is false!’”
+
+“He has not yet admitted it,” continued the magistrate, “but he will
+confess. Even if he should not, there are more proofs than are needed to
+convict him. The charges against him are as impossible to deny as is the
+sun which shines upon us.”
+
+“Ah! well,” interrupted Mademoiselle d’Arlange, in a voice filled
+with emotion, “I assert, I repeat, that justice is deceived. Yes,” she
+persisted, in answer to the magistrate’s gesture of denial, “yes, he is
+innocent. I am sure of it; and I would proclaim it, even were the whole
+world to join with you in accusing him. Do you not see that I know him
+better even than he can know himself, that my faith in him is absolute,
+as is my faith in God, that I would doubt myself before doubting him?”
+
+The investigating magistrate attempted timidly to make an objection;
+Claire quickly interrupted him.
+
+“Must I then, sir,” said she, “in order to convince you, forget that I
+am a young girl, and that I am not talking to my mother, but to a man!
+For his sake I will do so. It is four years, sir, since we first loved
+each other. Since that time, I have not kept a single one of my thoughts
+from him, nor has he hid one of his from me. For four years, there has
+never been a secret between us; he lived in me, as I lived in him.
+I alone can say how worthy he is to be loved; I alone know all that
+grandeur of soul, nobleness of thought, generosity of feelings, out of
+which you have so easily made an assassin. And I have seen him, oh! so
+unhappy, while all the world envied his lot. He is, like me, alone in
+the world; his father never loved him. Sustained one by the other, we
+have passed through many unhappy days; and it is at the very moment our
+trials are ending that he has become a criminal? Why? tell me, why?”
+
+“Neither the name nor the fortune of the Count de Commarin would descend
+to him, mademoiselle; and the knowledge of it came upon him with a
+sudden shock. One old woman alone was able to prove this. To maintain
+his position, he killed her.”
+
+“What infamy,” cried the young girl, “what a shameful, wicked, calumny!
+I know, sir, that story of fallen greatness; he himself told me of it.
+It is true, that for three days this misfortune unmanned him; but, if he
+was dismayed, it was on my account more than his own. He was distressed
+at thinking that perhaps I should be grieved, when he confessed to me
+that he could no longer give me all that his love dreamed of. I grieved?
+Ah! what to me are that great name, that immense wealth? I owe to them
+the only unhappiness I have ever known. Was it, then, for such things
+that I loved him? It was thus that I replied to him; and he, so sad,
+immediately recovered his gaiety. He thanked me, saying, ‘You love me;
+the rest is of no consequence.’ I chided him, then, for having doubted
+me; and after that, you pretend that he cowardly assassinated an old
+woman? You would not dare repeat it.”
+
+Mademoiselle d’Arlange ceased speaking, a smile of victory on her lips.
+That smile meant, “At last I have attained my end: you are conquered;
+what can you reply to all that I have said?”
+
+The investigating magistrate did not long leave this smiling illusion to
+the unhappy child. He did not perceive how cruel and offensive was his
+persistence. Always the same predominant idea! In persuading Claire, he
+would justify his own conduct to himself.
+
+“You do not know, mademoiselle,” he resumed, “how a sudden calamity may
+effect a good man’s reason. It is only at the time a thing escapes us
+that we feel the greatness of the loss. God preserve me from doubting
+all that you have said; but picture to yourself the immensity of the
+blow which struck M. de Commarin. Can you say that on leaving you he did
+not give way to despair? Think of the extremities to which it may
+have led him. He may have been for a time bewildered, and have acted
+unconsciously. Perhaps this is the way the crime should be explained.”
+
+Mademoiselle d’Arlange’s face grew deathly pale, and betrayed the utmost
+terror. The magistrate thought that at last doubt had begun to effect
+her pure and noble belief.
+
+“He must, then, have been mad,” she murmured.
+
+“Possibly,” replied the magistrate; “and yet the circumstances of the
+crime denote a well-laid plan. Believe me, then, mademoiselle, and do
+not be too confident. Pray, and wait patiently for the issue of this
+terrible trial. Listen to my voice, it is that of a friend. You used to
+have in me the confidence a daughter gives to her father, you told me
+so; do not, then, refuse my advice. Remain silent and wait. Hide your
+grief to all; you might hereafter regret having exposed it. Young,
+inexperienced, without a guide, without a mother, alas! you sadly
+misplaced your first affections.”
+
+“No, sir, no,” stammered Claire. “Ah!” she added, “you talk like the
+rest of the world, that prudent and egotistical world, which I despise
+and hate.”
+
+“Poor child,” continued M. Daburon, pitiless even in his compassion,
+“unhappy young girl! This is your first deception! Nothing more terrible
+could be imagined; few women would know how to bear it. But you are
+young; you are brave; your life will not be ruined. Hereafter you will
+feel horrified at this crime. There is no wound, I know by experience,
+which time does not heal.”
+
+Claire tried to grasp what the magistrate was saying, but his words
+reached her only as confused sounds, their meaning entirely escaped her.
+
+“I do not understand you, sir,” she said. “What advice, then, do you
+give me?”
+
+“The only advice that reason dictates, and that my affection for you can
+suggest, mademoiselle. I speak to you as a kind and devoted brother.
+I say to you: ‘Courage, Claire, resign yourself to the saddest, the
+greatest sacrifice which honour can ask of a young girl. Weep, yes, weep
+for your deceived love; but forget it. Pray heaven to help you do so. He
+whom you have loved is no longer worthy of you.’”
+
+The magistrate stopped slightly frightened. Mademoiselle d’Arlange had
+become livid.
+
+But though the body was weak, the soul still remained firm.
+
+“You said, just now,” she murmured, “that he could only have committed
+this crime in a moment of distraction, in a fit of madness?”
+
+“Yes, it is possible.”
+
+“Then, sir, not knowing what he did, he can not be guilty.”
+
+The investigating magistrate forgot a certain troublesome question which
+he put to himself one morning in bed after his illness.
+
+“Neither justice nor society, mademoiselle,” he replied, “can take that
+into account. God alone, who sees into the depths of our hearts, can
+judge, can decide those questions which human justice must pass by. In
+our eyes, M. de Commarin is a criminal. There may be certain extenuating
+circumstances to soften the punishment; but the moral effect will be the
+same. Even if he were acquitted, and I wish he may be, but without hope,
+he will not be less unworthy. He will always carry the dishonour, the
+stain of blood cowardly shed. Therefore, forget him.”
+
+Mademoiselle d’Arlange stopped the magistrate with a look in which
+flashed the strongest resentment.
+
+“That is to say,” she exclaimed, “that you counsel me to abandon him in
+his misfortune. All the world deserts him; and your prudence advises me
+to act with the world. Men behave thus, I have heard, when one of their
+friends is down; but women never do. Look about you; however humiliated,
+however wretched, however low, a man may be, you will always find a
+woman near to sustain and console him. When the last friend has boldly
+taken to flight, when the last relation has abandoned him, woman
+remains.”
+
+The magistrate regretted having been carried away perhaps a little too
+far. Claire’s excitement frightened him. He tried, but in vain, to stop
+her.
+
+“I may be timid,” she continued with increasing energy, “but I am no
+coward. I chose Albert voluntarily from amongst all. Whatever happens,
+I will never desert him. No, I will never say, ‘I do not know this man.’
+He would have given me half of his prosperity, and of his glory. I
+will share, whether he wishes it or not, half of his shame and of his
+misfortune. Between two, the burden will be less heavy to bear. Strike!
+I will cling so closely to him that no blow shall touch him without
+reaching me, too. You counsel me to forget him. Teach me, then, how to.
+I forget him? Could I, even if I wished? But I do not wish it. I love
+him. It is no more in my power to cease loving him than it is to
+arrest, by the sole effort of my will, the beating of my heart. He is a
+prisoner, accused of murder. So be it. I love him. He is guilty! What
+of that? I love him. You will condemn him, you will dishonour him.
+Condemned and dishonoured, I shall love him still. You will send him
+to a convict prison. I will follow him; and in the prison, under the
+convict’s dress, I will yet love him. If he falls to the bottom of the
+abyss, I will fall with him. My life is his, let him dispose of it. No,
+nothing will separate me from him, nothing short of death! And, if he
+must mount the scaffold, I shall die, I know it, from the blow which
+kills him.”
+
+M. Daburon had buried his face in his hands. He did not wish Claire to
+perceive a trace of the emotion which affected him.
+
+“How she loves him!” he thought, “how she loves him!”
+
+His mind was sunk in the darkest thoughts. All the stings of jealousy
+were rending him. What would not be his delight, if he were the object
+of so irresistible a passion as that which burst forth before him! What
+would he not give in return! He had, too, a young and ardent soul, a
+burning thirst for love. But who had ever thought of that? He had been
+esteemed, respected, perhaps feared, but not loved; and he never would
+be. Was he, then, unworthy of it? Why do so many men pass through life
+dispossessed of love, while others, the vilest beings sometimes, seem to
+possess a mysterious power, which charms and seduces, and inspires those
+blind and impetuous feelings which to assert themselves rush to the
+sacrifice all the while longing for it? Have women, then, no reason, no
+discernment?
+
+Mademoiselle d’Arlange’s silence brought the magistrate back to the
+reality. He raised his eyes to her. Overcome by the violence of her
+emotion, she lay back in her chair, and breathed with such difficulty
+that M. Daburon feared she was about to faint. He moved quickly towards
+the bell, to summon aid; but Claire noticed the movement, and stopped
+him.
+
+“What would you do?” she asked.
+
+“You seemed suffering so,” he stammered, “that I----”
+
+“It is nothing, sir,” replied she. “I may seem weak; but I am not so. I
+am strong, believe me, very strong. It is true that I suffer, as I never
+believed that one could suffer. It is cruel for a young girl to have to
+do violence to all her feelings. You ought to be satisfied, sir. I have
+torn aside all veils; and you have read even the inmost recesses of
+my heart. But I do not regret it; it was for his sake. That which I do
+regret is my having lowered my self so far as to defend him; but he will
+forgive me that one doubt. Your assurance took me unawares. A man
+like him does not need defence; his innocence must be proved; and, God
+helping me, I will prove it.”
+
+As Claire was half-rising to depart, M. Daburon detained her by a
+gesture. In his blindness, he thought he would be doing wrong to leave
+this poor young girl in the slightest way deceived. Having gone so far
+as to begin, he persuaded himself that his duty bade him go on to the
+end. He said to himself, in all good faith, that he would thus preserve
+Claire from herself, and spare her in the future many bitter regrets.
+The surgeon who has commenced a painful operation does not leave it
+half-finished because the patient struggles, suffers, and cries out.
+
+“It is painful, Mademoiselle,--” he began.
+
+Claire did not let him finish.
+
+“Enough, sir,” said she; “all that you can say will be of no avail. I
+respect your unhappy conviction. I ask, in return, the same regard for
+mine. If you were truly my friend, I would ask you to aid me in the task
+of saving him, to which I am about to devote myself. But, doubtless, you
+would not do so.”
+
+“If you knew the proofs which I possess, mademoiselle,” he said in a
+cold tone, which expressed his determination not to give way to anger,
+“if I detailed them to you, you would no longer hope.”
+
+“Speak, sir,” cried Claire imperiously.
+
+“You wish it, mademoiselle? Very well; I will give you in detail all the
+evidence we have collected. I am entirely yours, as you are aware. But
+yet, why should I harass you with all these proofs? There is one which
+alone is decisive. The murder was committed on the evening of Shrove
+Tuesday; and the prisoner cannot give an account of what he did on that
+evening. He went out, however, and only returned home about two o’clock
+in the morning, his clothes soiled and torn, and his gloves frayed.”
+
+“Oh! enough, sir, enough!” interrupted Claire, whose eyes beamed once
+more with happiness. “You say it was on Shrove Tuesday evening?”
+
+“Yes, mademoiselle.”
+
+“Ah! I was sure,” she cried triumphantly. “I told you truly that he
+could not be guilty.”
+
+She clasped her hands, and, from the movement of her lips, it was
+evident that she was praying. The expression of the most perfect faith
+represented by some of the Italian painters illuminated her beautiful
+face while she rendered thanks to God in the effusion of her gratitude.
+
+The magistrate was so disconcerted, that he forgot to admire her. He
+awaited an explanation.
+
+“Well?” he asked impatiently.
+
+“Sir,” replied Claire, “if that is your strongest proof, it exists no
+longer. Albert passed the entire evening you speak of with me.”
+
+“With you?” stammered the magistrate.
+
+“Yes, with me, at my home.”
+
+M. Daburon was astounded. Was he dreaming? He hardly knew.
+
+“What!” he exclaimed, “the viscount was at your house? Your grandmother,
+your companion, your servants, they all saw him and spoke to him?”
+
+“No, sir; he came and left in secret. He wished no one to see him; he
+desired to be alone with me.”
+
+“Ah!” said the magistrate with a sigh of relief. The sigh signified:
+“It’s all clear--only too evident. She is determined to save him, at the
+risk even of compromising her reputation. Poor girl! But has this idea
+only just occurred to her?”
+
+The “Ah!” was interpreted very differently by Mademoiselle d’Arlange.
+She thought that M. Daburon was astonished at her consenting to receive
+Albert.
+
+“Your surprise is an insult, sir,” said she.
+
+“Mademoiselle!”
+
+“A daughter of my family, sir, may receive her betrothed without danger
+of anything occurring for which she would have to blush.”
+
+She spoke thus, and at the same time was red with shame, grief, and
+anger. She began to hate M. Daburon.
+
+“I had no such insulting thought as you imagine, mademoiselle,” said the
+magistrate. “I was only wondering why M. de Commarin went secretly to
+your house, when his approaching marriage gave him the right to present
+himself openly at all hours. I still wonder, how, on such a visit, he
+could get his clothes in the condition in which we found them.”
+
+“That is to say, sir,” replied Claire bitterly, “that you doubt my
+word!”
+
+“The circumstances are such, mademoiselle,--”
+
+“You accuse me, then, of falsehood, sir. Know that, were we criminals,
+we should not descend to justifying ourselves; we should never pray nor
+ask for pardon.”
+
+Mademoiselle d’Arlange’s haughty, contemptuous tone could only anger the
+magistrate. How harshly she treated him! And simply because he would not
+consent to be her dupe.
+
+“Above all, mademoiselle,” he answered severely, “I am a magistrate; and
+I have a duty to perform. A crime has been committed. Everything points
+to M. Albert de Commarin as the guilty man. I arrest him; I examine him;
+and I find overwhelming proofs against him. You come and tell me that
+they are false; that is not enough. So long as you addressed me as a
+friend, you found me kind and gentle. Now it is the magistrate to whom
+you speak: and it is the magistrate who answers, ‘Prove it.’”
+
+“My word, sir,--”
+
+“Prove it!”
+
+Mademoiselle d’Arlange rose slowly, casting upon the magistrate a look
+full of astonishment and suspicion.
+
+“Would you, then, be glad, sir,” she asked, “to find Albert guilty?
+Would it give you such great pleasure to have him convicted? Do you then
+hate this prisoner, whose fate is in your hands? One would almost think
+so. Can you answer for your impartiality? Do not certain memories weigh
+heavily in the scale? Are you sure that you are not, armed with the law,
+revenging yourself upon a rival?”
+
+“This is too much,” murmured the magistrate, “this is too much!”
+
+“Do you know the unusual, the dangerous position we are in at this
+moment? One day, I remember, you declared your love for me. It appeared
+to me sincere and honest; it touched me. I was obliged to refuse you,
+because I loved another; and I pitied you. Now that other is accused
+of murder, and you are his judge; and I find myself between you two,
+praying to you for him. In undertaking the investigation you acquired an
+opportunity to help him; and yet you seem to be against him.”
+
+Every word Claire uttered fell upon M. Daburon’s heart like a slap on
+his face. Was it really she who was speaking? Whence came this sudden
+boldness, which made her choose all those words which found an echo in
+his heart?
+
+“Mademoiselle,” said he, “your grief has been too much for you. From you
+alone could I pardon what you have just said. Your ignorance of things
+makes you unjust. If you think that Albert’s fate depends upon my
+pleasure, you are mistaken. To convince me is nothing; it is necessary
+to convince others. That I should believe you is all very natural, I
+know you. But what weight will others attach to your testimony, when
+you go to them with a true story--most true, I believe, but yet highly
+improbable?”
+
+Tears came into Claire’s eyes.
+
+“If I have unjustly offended you, sir,” said she, “pardon me; my
+unhappiness makes me forget myself.”
+
+“You cannot offend me, mademoiselle,” replied the magistrate. “I have
+already told you that I am devoted to your service.”
+
+“Then sir, help me to prove the truth of what I have said. I will tell
+you everything.”
+
+M. Daburon was fully convinced that Claire was seeking to deceive him;
+but her confidence astonished him. He wondered what fable she was about
+to concoct.
+
+“Sir,” began Claire, “you know what obstacles have stood in the way of
+my marriage with Albert. The Count de Commarin would not accept me for
+a daughter-in-law, because I am poor, I possess nothing. It took Albert
+five years to triumph over his father’s objections. Twice the count
+yielded; twice he recalled his consent, which he said had been extorted
+from him. At last, about a month ago, he gave his consent of his own
+accord. But these hesitations, delays, refusals, had deeply hurt my
+grandmother. You know her sensitive nature; and, in this case, I must
+confess she was right. Though the wedding day had been fixed, the
+marchioness declared that we should not be compromised nor laughed at
+again for any apparent haste to contract a marriage so advantageous,
+that we had often before been accused of ambition. She decided,
+therefore, that, until the publication of the banns, Albert should
+only be admitted into the house every other day, for two hours in the
+afternoon, and in her presence. We could not get her to alter this
+determination. Such was the state of affairs, when, on Sunday morning,
+a note came to me from Albert. He told me that pressing business would
+prevent his coming, although it was his regular day. What could have
+happened to keep him away? I feared some evil. The next day I awaited
+him impatiently and distracted, when his valet brought Schmidt a
+note for me. In that letter, sir, Albert entreated me to grant him
+an interview. It was necessary, he wrote, that he should have a long
+conversation with me, alone, and without delay. Our whole future, he
+added, depended upon this interview. He left me to fix the day and hour,
+urging me to confide in no one. I did not hesitate. I sent him word to
+meet me on the Tuesday evening, at the little garden gate, which opens
+into an unfrequented street. To inform me of his presence, he was to
+knock just as nine o’clock chimed at the Invalides. I knew that my
+grandmother had invited a number of her friends for that evening; and I
+thought that, by pretending a headache, I might retire early, and so be
+free. I expected, also, that Madame d’Arlange would keep Schmidt with
+her.”
+
+“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” interrupted M. Daburon, “what day did you
+write to M. Albert?”
+
+“On Tuesday.”
+
+“Can you fix the hour?”
+
+“I must have sent the letter between two and three o’clock.”
+
+“Thanks, mademoiselle. Continue, I pray.”
+
+“All my anticipations,” continued Claire, “were realised. I retired
+during the evening, and I went into the garden a little before the
+appointed time. I had procured the key of the little door; and I at
+once tried it. Unfortunately, I could not make it turn, the lock was so
+rusty. I exerted all my strength in vain. I was in despair, when nine
+o’clock struck. At the third stroke, Albert knocked. I told him of the
+accident; and I threw him the key, that he might try and unlock the
+door. He tried, but without success. I then begged him to postpone our
+interview. He replied that it was impossible, that what he had to say
+admitted of no delay; that, during three days he had hesitated about
+confiding in me, and had suffered martyrdom, and that he could endure it
+no longer. We were speaking, you must understand, through the door. At
+last, he declared that he would climb over the wall. I begged him not to
+do so, fearing an accident. The wall is very high, as you know; the top
+is covered with pieces of broken glass, and the acacia branches stretch
+out above like a hedge. But he laughed at my fears, and said that,
+unless I absolutely forbade him to do so, he was going to attempt
+to scale the wall. I dared not say no; and he risked it. I was very
+frightened, and trembled like a leaf. Fortunately, he is very active,
+and got over without hurting himself. He had come, sir, to tell me of
+the misfortune which had befallen him. We first of all sat down upon the
+little seat you know of, in front of the grove; then, as the rain was
+falling, we took shelter in the summer house. It was past midnight when
+Albert left me, quieted and almost gay. He went back in the same manner,
+only with less danger, because I made him use the gardener’s ladder,
+which I laid down alongside the wall when he had reached the other
+side.”
+
+This account, given in the simplest and most natural manner, puzzled M.
+Daburon. What was he to think?
+
+“Mademoiselle,” he asked, “had the rain commenced to fall when M. Albert
+climbed over the wall?”
+
+“No, sir, the first drops fell when we were on the seat. I recollect
+it very well, because he opened his umbrella, and I thought of Paul and
+Virginia.”
+
+“Excuse me a minute, mademoiselle,” said the magistrate.
+
+He sat down at his desk, and rapidly wrote two letters. In the first, he
+gave orders for Albert to be brought at once to his office in the Palais
+de Justice. In the second, he directed a detective to go immediately to
+the Faubourg St. Germain to the d’Arlange house, and examine the wall
+at the bottom of the garden, and make a note of any marks of its having
+been scaled, if any such existed. He explained that the wall had been
+climbed twice, both before and during the rain; consequently the marks
+of the going and returning would be different from each other.
+
+He enjoined upon the detective to proceed with the utmost caution, and
+to invent a plausible pretext which would explain his investigations.
+
+Having finished writing, the magistrate rang for his servant, who soon
+appeared.
+
+“Here,” said he, “are two letters, which you must take to my clerk,
+Constant. Tell him to read them, and to have the orders they contain
+executed at once,--at once, you understand. Run, take a cab, and be
+quick! Ah! one word. If Constant is not in my office, have him sought
+for; he will not be far off, as he is waiting for me. Go quickly!”
+
+M. Daburon then turned and said to Claire: “Have you kept the letter,
+mademoiselle, in which M. Albert asked for this interview?”
+
+“Yes, sir, I even think I have it with me.”
+
+She arose, felt in her pocket, and drew out a much crumpled piece of
+paper.
+
+“Here it is!”
+
+The investigating magistrate took it. A suspicion crossed his mind. This
+compromising letter happened to be very conveniently in Claire’s pocket;
+and yet young girls do not usually carry about with them requests for
+secret interviews. At a glance, he read the ten lines of the note.
+
+“No date,” he murmured, “no stamp, nothing at all.”
+
+Claire did not hear him; she was racking her brain to find other proofs
+of the interview.
+
+“Sir,” said she suddenly, “it often happens, that when we wish to be,
+and believe ourselves alone, we are nevertheless observed. Summon, I
+beseech you, all of my grandmother’s servants, and inquire if any of
+them saw Albert that night.”
+
+“Inquire of your servants! Can you dream of such a thing, mademoiselle?”
+
+“What, sir? You fear that I shall be compromised. What of that, if he is
+only freed?”
+
+M. Daburon could not help admiring her. What sublime devotion in this
+young girl, whether she spoke the truth or not! He could understand the
+violence she had been doing to her feelings during the past hour, he who
+knew her character so well.
+
+“That is not all,” she added; “the key which I threw to Albert, he did
+not return it to me; he must have forgotten to do so. If it is found in
+his possession, it will well prove that he was in the garden.”
+
+“I will give orders respecting it, mademoiselle.”
+
+“There is still another thing,” continued Claire; “while I am here, send
+some one to examine the wall.”
+
+She seemed to think of everything.
+
+“That is already done, mademoiselle,” replied M. Daburon. “I will not
+hide from you that one of the letters which I have just sent off ordered
+an examination of your grandmother’s wall, a secret examination, though,
+be assured.”
+
+Claire rose joyfully, and for the second time held out her hand to the
+magistrate.
+
+“Oh, thanks!” she said, “a thousand thanks! Now I can well see that you
+are with me. But I have still another idea: Albert ought to have the
+note I wrote on Tuesday.”
+
+“No, mademoiselle, he burnt it.”
+
+Claire drew back. She imagined she felt a touch of irony in the
+magistrate’s reply. There was none, however. M. Daburon remembered the
+letter thrown into the fire by Albert on the Tuesday afternoon. It could
+only been the one Claire had sent him. It was to her, then, that the
+words, “She cannot resist me,” applied. He understood, now, the action
+and the remark.
+
+“Can you understand, mademoiselle,” he next asked, “how M. de Commarin
+could lead justice astray, and expose me to committing a most deplorable
+error, when it would have been so easy to have told me all this?”
+
+“It seems to me, sir, that an honourable man cannot confess that he has
+obtained a secret interview from a lady, until he has full permission
+from her to do so. He ought to risk his life sooner than the honour of
+her who has trusted in him; but be assured Albert relied on me.”
+
+There was nothing to reply to this; and the sentiments expressed by
+Mademoiselle d’Arlange gave a meaning to one of Albert’s replies in the
+examination.
+
+“This is not all yet, mademoiselle,” continued the magistrate; “all that
+you have told me here, you must repeat in my office, at the Palais de
+Justice. My clerk will take down your testimony, and you must sign
+it. This proceeding will be painful to you; but it is a necessary
+formality.”
+
+“Ah, sir, I will do so with pleasure. What can I refuse, when I know
+that he is in prison? I was determined to do everything. If he had
+been tried at the assizes, I would have gone there. Yes, I would have
+presented myself, and there before all I would have told the truth.
+Doubtless,” she added sadly, “I should have been greatly compromised. I
+should have been looked upon as a heroine of romance; but what matters
+public opinion, the blame or approval of the world, since I am sure of
+his love?”
+
+She rose from her seat, readjusting her cloak and the strings of her
+bonnet.
+
+“Is it necessary,” she asked, “that I should await the return of the
+police agents who are examining the wall?”
+
+“It is needless, mademoiselle.”
+
+“Then,” she continued in a sweet voice, “I can only beseech you,” she
+clasped her hands, “conjure you,” her eyes implored, “to let Albert out
+of prison.”
+
+“He shall be liberated as soon as possible; I give you my word.”
+
+“Oh, to-day, dear M. Daburon, to-day, I beg of you, now, at once! Since
+he is innocent, be kind, for you are our friend. Do you wish me to go
+down on my knees?”
+
+The magistrate had only just time to extend his arms, and prevent her.
+
+He was choking with emotion, the unhappy man! Ah! how much he envied the
+prisoner’s lot!
+
+“That which you ask of me is impossible, mademoiselle,” said he in
+an almost inaudible voice, “impracticable, upon my honour. Ah! if it
+depended upon me alone, I could not, even were he guilty, see you weep,
+and resist.”
+
+Mademoiselle d’Arlange, hitherto so firm, could no longer restrain her
+sobs.
+
+“Miserable girl that I am!” she cried, “he is suffering, he is in
+prison; I am free, and yet I can do nothing for him! Great heaven!
+inspire me with accents to touch the hearts of men! At whose feet must I
+cast myself to obtain his pardon?”
+
+She suddenly stopped, surprised at having uttered such a word.
+
+“Pardon!” she repeated fiercely; “he has no need of pardon. Why am I
+only a woman? Can I not find one man who will help me? Yes,” she said
+after a moment’s reflection, “there is one man who owes himself to
+Albert; since he it was who put him in this position,--the Count de
+Commarin. He is his father, and yet he has abandoned him. Ah, well! I
+will remind him that he still has a son.”
+
+The magistrate rose to see her to the door; but she had already
+disappeared, taking the kind-hearted Schmidt with her.
+
+M. Daburon, more dead than alive, sank back again in his chair. His eyes
+filled with tears.
+
+“And that is what she is!” he murmured. “Ah! I made no vulgar choice! I
+had divined and understood all her good qualities.”
+
+He had never loved her so much; and he felt that he would never be
+consoled for not having won her love in return. But, in the midst of his
+meditations, a sudden thought passed like a flash across his brain.
+
+Had Claire spoken the truth? Had she not been playing a part previously
+prepared? No, most decidedly no! But she might have been herself
+deceived, might have been the dupe of some skillful trick.
+
+In that case old Tabaret’s prediction was now realised.
+
+Tabaret had said: “Look out for an indisputable _alibi_.”
+
+How could he show the falsity of this one, planned in advance, affirmed
+by Claire, who was herself deceived?
+
+How could he expose a plan, so well laid that the prisoner had been
+able without danger to await certain results, with his arms folded, and
+without himself moving in the matter?
+
+And yet, if Claire’s story were true, and Albert innocent!
+
+The magistrate struggled in the midst of inextricable difficulties,
+without a plan, without an idea.
+
+He arose.
+
+“Oh!” he said in a loud voice, as though encouraging himself, “at the
+Palais, all will be unravelled.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI.
+
+M. Daburon had been surprised at Claire’s visit.
+
+M. de Commarin was still more so, when his valet whispered to him that
+Mademoiselle d’Arlange desired a moment’s conversation with him.
+
+M. Daburon had broken a handsome card-plate; M. de Commarin, who was at
+breakfast, dropped his knife on his plate.
+
+Like the magistrate he exclaimed, “Claire!”
+
+He hesitated to receive her, fearing a painful and disagreeable scene.
+She could only have, as he knew, a very slight affection for him, who
+had for so long repulsed her with such obstinacy. What could she want
+with him? To inquire about Albert, of course. And what could he reply?
+
+She would probably have some nervous attack or other; and he would
+be thoroughly upset. However, he thought of how much she must have
+suffered; and he pitied her.
+
+He felt that it would be cruel, as well as unworthy of him, to keep away
+from her who was to have been his daughter-in-law, the Viscountess de
+Commarin.
+
+He sent a message, asking her to wait a few minutes in one of the little
+drawing-rooms on the ground floor.
+
+He did not keep her waiting long, his appetite having been destroyed by
+the mere announcement of her visit. He was fully prepared for anything
+disagreeable.
+
+As soon as he appeared, Claire saluted him with one of those graceful,
+yet highly dignified bows, which distinguished the Marchioness
+d’Arlange.
+
+“Sir--,” she began.
+
+“You come, do you not, my poor child, to obtain news of the unhappy
+boy?” asked M. de Commarin.
+
+He interrupted Claire, and went straight to the point, in order to get
+the disagreeable business more quickly over.
+
+“No sir,” replied the young girl, “I come, on the contrary, to bring you
+news. Albert is innocent.”
+
+The count looked at her most attentively, persuaded that grief had
+affected her reason; but in that case her madness was very quiet.
+
+“I never doubted it,” continued Claire; “but now I have the most
+positive proof.”
+
+“Are you quite sure of what you are saying?” inquired the count, whose
+eyes betrayed his doubt.
+
+Mademoiselle d’Arlange understood his thoughts; her interview with M.
+Daburon had given her experience.
+
+“I state nothing which is not of the utmost accuracy,” she replied,
+“and easily proved. I have just come from M. Daburon, the investigating
+magistrate, who is one of my grandmother’s friends; and, after what I
+told him, he is convinced that Albert is innocent.”
+
+“He told you that, Claire!” exclaimed the count. “My child, are you
+sure, are you not mistaken?”
+
+“No, sir. I told him something, of which every one was ignorant, and
+of which Albert, who is a gentleman, could not speak. I told him that
+Albert passed with me, in my grandmother’s garden, all that evening on
+which the crime was committed. He had asked to see me--”
+
+“But your word will not be sufficient.”
+
+“There are proofs, and justice has them by this time.”
+
+“Heavens! Is it really possible?” cried the count, who was beside
+himself.
+
+“Ah, sir!” said Mademoiselle d’Arlange bitterly, “you are like the
+magistrate; you believed in the impossible. You are his father, and
+you suspected him! You do not know him, then. You were abandoning him,
+without trying to defend him. Ah, I did not hesitate one moment!”
+
+One is easily induced to believe true that which one is anxiously
+longing for. M. de Commarin was not difficult to convince. Without
+thinking, without discussion, he put faith in Claire’s assertions. He
+shared her convictions, without asking himself whether it were wise or
+prudent to do so.
+
+Yes, he had been overcome by the magistrate’s certitude, he had told
+himself that what was most unlikely was true; and he had bowed his head.
+One word from a young girl had upset this conviction. Albert innocent!
+The thought descended upon his heart like heavenly dew.
+
+Claire appeared to him like a bearer of happiness and hope.
+
+During the last three days, he had discovered how great was his
+affection for Albert. He had loved him tenderly, for he had never been
+able to discard him, in spite of his frightful suspicions as to his
+paternity.
+
+For three days, the knowledge of the crime imputed to his unhappy son,
+the thought of the punishment which awaited him, had nearly killed the
+father. And after all he was innocent!
+
+No more shame, no more scandalous trial, no more stains upon the
+escutcheon; the name of Commarin would not be heard at the assizes.
+
+“But, then, mademoiselle,” asked the count, “are they going to release
+him?”
+
+“Alas! sir, I demanded that they should at once set him at liberty. It
+is just, is it not, since he is not guilty? But the magistrate replied
+that it was not possible; that he was not the master; that Albert’s fate
+depended on many others. It was then that I resolved to come to you for
+aid.”
+
+“Can I then do something?”
+
+“I at least hope so. I am only a poor girl, very ignorant; and I know
+no one in the world. I do not know what can be done to get him released
+from prison. There ought, however, to be some means for obtaining
+justice. Will you not try all that can be done, sir, you, who are his
+father?”
+
+“Yes,” replied M. de Commarin quickly, “yes, and without losing a
+minute.”
+
+Since Albert’s arrest, the count had been plunged in a dull stupor. In
+his profound grief, seeing only ruin and disaster about him, he had done
+nothing to shake off this mental paralysis. Ordinarily very active,
+he now sat all day long without moving. He seemed to enjoy a condition
+which prevented his feeling the immensity of his misfortune. Claire’s
+voice sounded in his ear like the resurrection trumpet. The frightful
+darkness was dispelled; he saw a glimmering in the horizon; he recovered
+the energy of his youth.
+
+“Let us go,” he said.
+
+Suddenly the radiance in his face changed to sadness, mixed with anger.
+
+“But where,” he asked. “At what door shall we knock with any hope of
+success? In the olden times, I would have sought the king. But to-day!
+Even the emperor himself cannot interfere with the law. He will tell me
+to await the decision of the tribunals, that he can do nothing. Wait!
+And Albert is counting the minutes in mortal agony! We shall certainly
+have justice; but to obtain it promptly is an art taught in schools that
+I have not frequented.”
+
+“Let us try, at least, sir,” persisted Claire. “Let us seek out judges,
+generals, ministers, any one. Only lead me to them. I will speak; and
+you shall see if we do not succeed.”
+
+The count took Claire’s little hands between his own, and held them a
+moment pressing them with paternal tenderness.
+
+“Brave girl!” he cried, “you are a noble, courageous woman, Claire! Good
+blood never fails. I did not know you. Yes, you shall be my daughter;
+and you shall be happy together, Albert and you. But we must not rush
+about everywhere, like wild geese. We need some one to tell us whom we
+should address,--some guide, lawyer, advocate. Ah!” he cried, “I have
+it,--Noel!”
+
+Claire raised her eyes to the count’s in surprise.
+
+“He is my son,” replied M. de Commarin, evidently embarrassed, “my
+other son, Albert’s brother. The best and worthiest of men,” he added,
+repeating quite appropriately a phrase already uttered by M. Daburon.
+“He is a advocate; he knows all about the Palais; he will tell us what
+to do.”
+
+Noel’s name, thus thrown into the midst of this conversation so full of
+hope, oppressed Claire’s heart.
+
+The count perceived her affright.
+
+“Do not feel anxious, dear child,” he said. “Noel is good; and I will
+tell you more, he loves Albert. Do not shake your head so; Noel told me
+himself, on this very spot, that he did not believe Albert guilty. He
+declared that he intended doing everything to dispel the fatal mistake,
+and that he would be his advocate.”
+
+These assertions did not seem to reassure the young girl. She thought
+to herself, “What then has this Noel done for Albert?” But she made no
+remark.
+
+“I will send for him,” continued M. de Commarin; “he is now with
+Albert’s mother, who brought him up, and who is now on her deathbed.”
+
+“Albert’s mother!”
+
+“Yes, my child. Albert will explain to you what may perhaps seem to you
+an enigma. Now time presses. But I think--”
+
+He stopped suddenly. He thought, that, instead of sending for Noel at
+Madame Gerdy’s, he might go there himself. He would thus see Valerie!
+and he had longed to see her again so much!
+
+It was one of those actions which the heart urges, but which one does
+not dare risk, because a thousand subtle reasons and interests are
+against it.
+
+One wishes, desires, and even longs for it; and yet one struggles,
+combats, and resists. But, if an opportunity occurs, one is only too
+happy to seize it; then one has an excuse with which to silence one’s
+conscience.
+
+In thus yielding to the impulse of one’s feelings, one can say: “It was
+not I who willed it, it was fate.”
+
+“It will be quicker, perhaps,” observed the count, “to go to Noel.”
+
+“Let us start then, sir.”
+
+“I hardly know though, my child,” said the old gentleman, hesitating,
+“whether I may, whether I ought to take you with me. Propriety--”
+
+“Ah, sir, propriety has nothing to do with it!” replied Claire
+impetuously. “With you, and for his sake, I can go anywhere. Is it not
+indispensable that I should give some explanations? Only send word to my
+grandmother by Schmidt, who will come back here and await my return. I
+am ready, sir.”
+
+“Very well, then,” said the count.
+
+Then, ringing the bell violently, he called to the servant, “My
+carriage.”
+
+In descending the steps, he insisted upon Claire’s taking his arm.
+The gallant and elegant politeness of the friend of the Count d’Artois
+reappeared.
+
+“You have taken twenty years from my age,” he said; “it is but right
+that I should devote to you the youth you have restored to me.”
+
+As soon as Claire had entered the carriage, he said to the footman: “Rue
+St. Lazare, quick!”
+
+Whenever the count said “quick,” on entering his carriage, the
+pedestrians had to get out of the way. But the coachman was a skillful
+driver, and arrived without accident.
+
+Aided by the concierge’s directions, the count and the young girl went
+towards Madame Gerdy’s apartments. The count mounted slowly, holding
+tightly to the balustrade, stopping at every landing to recover his
+breath. He was, then, about to see her again! His emotion pressed his
+heart like a vice.
+
+“M. Noel Gerdy?” he asked of the servant.
+
+The advocate had just that moment gone out. She did not know where he
+had gone; but he had said he should not be out more than half an hour.
+
+“We will wait for him, then,” said the count.
+
+He advanced; and the servant drew back to let them pass. Noel had
+strictly forbidden her to admit any visitors; but the Count de Commarin
+was one of those whose appearance makes servants forget all their
+orders.
+
+Three persons were in the room into which the servant introduced the
+count and Mademoiselle d’Arlange.
+
+They were the parish priest, the doctor, and a tall man, an officer
+of the Legion of Honour, whose figure and bearing indicated the old
+soldier.
+
+They were conversing near the fireplace, and the arrival of strangers
+appeared to astonish them exceedingly.
+
+In bowing, in response to M. de Commarin’s and Claire’s salutations,
+they seemed to inquire their business: but this hesitation was brief,
+for the soldier almost immediately offered Mademoiselle d’Arlange a
+chair.
+
+The count considered that his presence was inopportune; and he thought
+that he was called upon to introduce himself, and explain his visit.
+
+“You will excuse me, gentlemen,” said he, “if I am indiscreet. I did not
+think of being so when I asked to wait for Noel, whom I have the most
+pressing need of seeing. I am the Count de Commarin.”
+
+At this name, the old soldier let go the back of the chair which he was
+still holding and haughtily raised his head. An angry light flashed in
+his eyes, and he made a threatening gesture. His lips moved, as if he
+were about to speak; but he restrained himself, and retired, bowing his
+head, to the window.
+
+Neither the count nor the two other men noticed his strange behaviour;
+but it did not escape Claire.
+
+While Mademoiselle d’Arlange sat down rather surprised, the count, much
+embarrassed at his position, went up to the priest, and asked in a low
+voice, “What is, I pray, M. l’Abbe; Madame Gerdy’s condition?”
+
+The doctor, who had a sharp ear, heard the question, and approached
+quickly.
+
+He was very pleased to have an opportunity to speak to a person as
+celebrated as the Count de Commarin, and to become acquainted with him.
+
+“I fear, sir,” he said, “that she cannot live throughout the day.”
+
+The count pressed his hand against his forehead, as though he had felt a
+sudden pain there. He hesitated to inquire further.
+
+After a moment of chilling silence, he resolved to go on.
+
+“Does she recognise her friends?” he murmured.
+
+“No, sir. Since last evening, however, there has been a great change.
+She was very uneasy all last night: she had moments of fierce delirium.
+About an hour ago, we thought she was recovering her senses, and we sent
+for M. l’Abbe.”
+
+“Very needlessly, though,” put in the priest, “and it is a sad
+misfortune. Her reason is quite gone. Poor woman! I have known her ten
+years. I have been to see her nearly every week; I never knew a more
+worthy person.”
+
+“She must suffer dreadfully,” said the doctor.
+
+Almost at the same instant, and as if to bear out the doctor’s words,
+they heard stifled cries from the next room, the door of which was
+slightly open.
+
+“Do you hear?” exclaimed the count, trembling from head to foot.
+
+Claire understood nothing of this strange scene. Dark presentiments
+oppressed her; she felt as though she were enveloped in an atmosphere of
+evil. She grew frightened, rose from her chair, and drew near the count.
+
+“She is, I presume, in there?” asked M. de Commarin.
+
+“Yes, sir,” harshly answered the old soldier, who had also drawn near.
+
+At any other time, the count would have noticed the soldier’s tone,
+and have resented it. Now, he did not even raise his eyes. He remained
+insensible to everything. Was she not there, close to him? His thoughts
+were in the past; it seemed to him but yesterday that he had quitted her
+for the last time.
+
+“I should very much like to see her,” he said timidly.
+
+“That is impossible.” replied the old soldier.
+
+“Why?” stammered the count.
+
+“At least, M. de Commarin,” replied the soldier, “let her die in peace.”
+
+The count started, as if he had been struck. His eyes encountered the
+officer’s; he lowered them like a criminal before his judge.
+
+“Nothing need prevent the count’s entering Madame Gerdy’s room,” put in
+the doctor, who purposely saw nothing of all this. “She would probably
+not notice his presence; and if--”
+
+“Oh, she would perceive nothing!” said the priest. “I have just spoken
+to her, taken her hand, she remained quite insensible.”
+
+The old soldier reflected deeply.
+
+“Enter,” said he at last to the count; “perhaps it is God’s will.”
+
+The count tottered so that the doctor offered to assist him. He gently
+motioned him away.
+
+The doctor and the priest entered with him; Claire and the old soldier
+remained at the threshold of the door, facing the bed.
+
+The count took three or four steps, and was obliged to stop. He wished
+to, but could not go further.
+
+Could this dying woman really be Valerie?
+
+He taxed his memory severely; nothing in those withered features,
+nothing in that distorted face, recalled the beautiful, the adored
+Valerie of his youth. He did not recognise her.
+
+But she knew him, or rather divined his presence. With supernatural
+strength, she raised herself, exposing her shoulders and emaciated arms;
+then pushing away the ice from her forehead, and throwing back her still
+plentiful hair, bathed with water and perspiration, she cried, “Guy!
+Guy!”
+
+The count trembled all over.
+
+He did not perceive that which immediately struck all the other persons
+present--the transformation in the sick woman. Her contracted features
+relaxed, a celestial joy spread over her face, and her eyes, sunken by
+disease, assumed an expression of infinite tenderness.
+
+“Guy,” said she in a voice heartrending by its sweetness, “you have come
+at last! How long, O my God! I have waited for you! You cannot think
+what I have suffered by your absence. I should have died of grief, had
+it not been for the hope of seeing you again. Who kept you from me?
+Your parents again? How cruel of them! Did you not tell them that no one
+could love you here below as I do? No, that is not it; I remember. You
+were angry when you left me. Your friends wished to separate us; they
+said that I was deceiving you with another. Who have I injured that I
+should have so many enemies! They envied my happiness; and we were so
+happy! But you did not believe the wicked calumny, you scorned it, for
+are you not here?”
+
+The nun, who had risen on seeing so many persons enter the sick room,
+opened her eyes with astonishment.
+
+“I deceive you?” continued the dying woman; “only a madman would
+believe it. Am I not yours, your very own, heart and soul? To me you are
+everything: and there is nothing I could expect or hope for from another
+which you have not already given me. Was I not yours, alone, from the
+very first? I never hesitated to give myself entirely to you; I felt
+that I was born for you, Guy, do you remember? I was working for a lace
+maker, and was barely earning a living. You told me you were a poor
+student; I thought you were depriving yourself for me. You insisted on
+having our little apartment on the Quai Saint-Michel done up. It was
+lovely, with the new paper all covered with flowers, which we hung
+ourselves. How delightful it was! From the window, we could see the
+great trees of the Tuileries gardens; and by leaning out a little we
+could see the sun set through the arches of the bridges. Oh, those happy
+days! The first time that we went into the country together, one Sunday,
+you brought me a more beautiful dress than I had ever dreamed of, and
+such darling little boots, that it was a shame to walk out in them! But
+you had deceived me! You were not a poor student. One day, when taking
+my work home, I met you in an elegant carriage, with tall footmen,
+dressed in liveries covered with gold lace, behind. I could not believe
+my eyes. That evening you told me the truth, that you were a nobleman
+and immensely rich. O my darling, why did you tell me?”
+
+Had she her reason, or was this a mere delirium?
+
+Great tears rolled down the Count de Commarin’s wrinkled face, and the
+doctor and the priest were touched by the sad spectacle of an old man
+weeping like a child.
+
+Only the previous evening, the count had thought his heart dead; and now
+this penetrating voice was sufficient to regain the fresh and powerful
+feelings of his youth. Yet, how many years had passed away since then!
+
+“After that,” continued Madame Gerdy, “we left the Quai Saint-Michel.
+You wished it; and I obeyed, in spite of my apprehensions. You told me,
+that, to please you, I ought to look like a great lady. You provided
+teachers for me, for I was so ignorant that I scarcely knew how to sign
+my name. Do you remember the queer spelling in my first letter? Ah, Guy,
+if you had really only been a poor student! When I knew that you were so
+rich, I lost my simplicity, my thoughtlessness, my gaiety. I feared that
+you would think me covetous, that you would imagine that your fortune
+influenced my love. Men who, like you, have millions, must be unhappy!
+They must be always doubting and full of suspicions, they can never be
+sure whether it is themselves or their gold which is loved, and this
+awful doubt makes them mistrustful, jealous, and cruel. Oh my dearest,
+why did we leave our dear little room? There, we were happy. Why did you
+not leave me always where you first found me? Did you not know that the
+sight of happiness irritates mankind? If we had been wise, we would have
+hid ours like a crime. You thought to raise me, but you only sunk me
+lower. You were proud of our love; you published it abroad. Vainly I
+asked you in mercy to leave me in obscurity, and unknown. Soon the whole
+town knew that I was your mistress. Every one was talking of the money
+you spent on me. How I blushed at the flaunting luxury you thrust upon
+me! You were satisfied, because my beauty became celebrated; I wept,
+because my shame became so too. People talked about me, as those women
+who make their lovers commit the greatest follies. Was not my name in
+the papers? And it was through the same papers that I heard of your
+approaching marriage. Unhappy woman! I should have fled from you, but I
+had not the courage. I resigned myself, without an effort, to the most
+humiliating, the most shameful of positions. You were married; and I
+remained your mistress. Oh, what anguish I suffered during that terrible
+evening. I was alone in my own home, in that room so associated with
+you; and you were marrying another! I said to myself, ‘At this moment,
+a pure, noble young girl is giving herself to him.’ I said again, ‘What
+oaths is that mouth, which has so often pressed my lips, now taking?’
+Often since that dreadful misfortune, I have asked heaven what crime I
+had committed that I should be so terribly punished? This was the crime.
+I remained your mistress, and your wife died. I only saw her once, and
+then scarcely for a minute, but she looked at you, and I knew that she
+loved you as only I could. Ah, Guy, it was our love that killed her!”
+
+She stopped exhausted, but none of the bystanders moved. They listened
+breathlessly, and waited with feverish emotion for her to resume.
+
+Mademoiselle d’Arlange had not the strength to remain standing; she had
+fallen upon her knees, and was pressing her handkerchief to her mouth to
+keep back her sobs. Was not this woman Albert’s mother?
+
+The worthy nun was alone unmoved; she had seen, she said to herself,
+many such deliriums before. She understood absolutely nothing of what
+was passing.
+
+“These people are very foolish,” she muttered, “to pay so much attention
+to the ramblings of a person out of her mind.”
+
+She thought she had more sense than the others, so, approaching the bed,
+she began to cover up the sick woman.
+
+“Come, madame,” said she, “cover yourself, or you will catch cold.”
+
+“Sister!” remonstrated the doctor and priest at the same moment.
+
+“For God’s sake!” exclaimed the soldier, “let her speak.”
+
+“Who,” continued the sick woman, unconscious of all that was passing
+about her, “who told you I was deceiving you? Oh, the wretches! They set
+spies upon me; they discovered that an officer came frequently to see
+me. But that officer was my brother, my dear Louis! When he was eighteen
+years old, and being unable to obtain work, he enlisted, saying to my
+mother, that there would then be one mouth the less in the family. He
+was a good soldier, and his officers always liked him. He worked whilst
+with his regiment; he taught himself, and he quickly rose in rank. He
+was promoted a lieutenant, then captain, and finally became major. Louis
+always loved me; had he remained in Paris I should not have fallen. But
+our mother died, and I was left all alone in this great city. He was a
+non-commissioned officer when he first knew that I had a lover; and
+he was so enraged that I feared he would never forgive me. But he did
+forgive me, saying that my constancy in my error was its only excuse.
+Ah, my friend, he was more jealous of your honour than you yourself! He
+came to see me in secret, because I placed him in the unhappy position
+of blushing for his sister. I had condemned myself never to speak of
+him, never to mention his name. Could a brave soldier confess that his
+sister was the mistress of a count? That it might not be known, I took
+the utmost precautions, but alas! only to make you doubt me. When Louis
+knew what was said, he wished in his blind rage to challenge you; and
+then I was obliged to make him think that he had no right to defend me.
+What misery! Ah, I have paid dearly for my years of stolen happiness!
+But you are here, and all is forgotten. For you do believe me, do you
+not, Guy? I will write to Louis; he will come, he will tell you that I
+do not lie, and you cannot doubt his, a soldier’s word.”
+
+“Yes, on my honour,” said the old soldier, “what my sister says is the
+truth.”
+
+The dying woman did not hear him; she continued in a voice panting
+from weariness: “How your presence revives me. I feel that I am growing
+stronger. I have nearly been very ill. I am afraid I am not very pretty
+today; but never mind, kiss me!”
+
+She opened her arms, and thrust out her lips as if to kiss him.
+
+“But it is on one condition, Guy, that you will leave me my child? Oh! I
+beg of you, I entreat you not to take him from me; leave him to me.
+What is a mother without her child? You are anxious to give him
+an illustrious name, an immense fortune. No! You tell me that this
+sacrifice will be for his good. No! My child is mine; I will keep him.
+The world has no honours, no riches, which can replace a mother’s love.
+You wish to give me in exchange, that other woman’s child. Never! What!
+you would have that woman embrace my boy! It is impossible. Take away
+this strange child from me; he fills me with horror; I want my own! Ah,
+do not insist, do not threaten me with anger, do not leave me. I should
+give in, and then, I should die. Guy, forget this fatal project, the
+thought of it alone is a crime. Cannot my prayers, my tears, can nothing
+move you? Ah, well, God will punish us. All will be discovered. The day
+will come when these children will demand a fearful reckoning. Guy, I
+foresee the future; I see my son coming towards me, justly angered.
+What does he say, great heaven! Oh, those letters, those letters, sweet
+memories of our love! My son, he threatens me! He strikes me! Ah, help!
+A son strike his mother. Tell no one of it, though. O my God, what
+torture! Yet he knows well that I am his mother. He pretends not to
+believe me. Lord, this is too much! Guy! pardon! oh, my only friend! I
+have neither the power to resist, nor the courage to obey you.”
+
+At this moment the door opening on to the landing opened, and Noel
+appeared, pale as usual, but calm and composed. The dying woman saw him,
+and the sight affected her like an electric shock. A terrible shudder
+shook her frame; her eyes grew inordinately large, her hair seemed to
+stand on end. She raised herself on her pillows, stretched out her
+arm in the direction where Noel stood, and in a loud voice exclaimed,
+“Assassin!”
+
+She fell back convulsively on the bed. Some one hastened forward: she
+was dead.
+
+A deep silence prevailed.
+
+Such is the majesty of death, and the terror which accompanies it, that,
+in its presence, even the strongest and most sceptical bow their heads.
+
+For a time, passions and interests are forgotten. Involuntarily we
+are drawn together, when some mutual friend breathes his last in our
+presence.
+
+All the bystanders were deeply moved by this painful scene, this last
+confession, wrested so to say from the delirium.
+
+And the last word uttered by Madame Gerdy, “assassin,” surprised no one.
+
+All, excepting the nun, knew of the awful accusation which had been made
+against Albert.
+
+To him they applied the unfortunate mother’s malediction.
+
+Noel seemed quite broken hearted. Kneeling by the bedside of her who had
+been as a mother to him, he took one of her hands, and pressed it close
+to his lips.
+
+“Dead!” he groaned, “she is dead!”
+
+The nun and the priest knelt beside him, and repeated in a low voice the
+prayers for the dead.
+
+They implored God to shed his peace and mercy on the departed soul.
+
+They begged for a little happiness in heaven for her who had suffered so
+much on earth.
+
+Fallen into a chair, his head thrown back, the Count de Commarin was
+more overwhelmed and more livid than this dead woman, his old love, once
+so beautiful.
+
+Claire and the doctor hastened to assist him.
+
+They undid his cravat, and took off his shirt collar, for he was
+suffocating. With the help of the old soldier, whose red, tearful
+eyes, told of suppressed grief, they moved the count’s chair to the
+half-opened window to give him a little air. Three days before, this
+scene would have killed him. But the heart hardens by misfortune, like
+hands by labour.
+
+“His tears have saved him,” whispered the doctor to Claire.
+
+M. de Commarin gradually recovered, and, as his thoughts became clearer,
+his sufferings returned.
+
+Prostration follows great mental shocks. Nature seems to collect her
+strength to sustain the misfortune. We do not feel all its intensity at
+once; it is only afterwards that we realize the extent and profundity of
+the evil.
+
+The count’s gaze was fixed upon the bed where lay Valerie’s body. There,
+then, was all that remained of her. The soul, that soul so devoted and
+so tender, had flown.
+
+What would he not have given if God would have restored that unfortunate
+woman to life for a day, or even for an hour? With what transports
+of repentance he would have cast himself at her feet, to implore her
+pardon, to tell her how much he detested his past conduct! How had
+he acknowledged the inexhaustible love of that angel? Upon a mere
+suspicion, without deigning to inquire, without giving her a hearing,
+he had treated her with the coldest contempt. Why had he not seen her
+again? He would have spared himself twenty years of doubt as to Albert’s
+birth. Instead of an isolated existence, he would have led a happy,
+joyous life.
+
+Then he remembered the countess’s death. She also had loved him, and had
+died of her love.
+
+He had not understood them; he had killed them both.
+
+The hour of expiation had come; and he could not say: “Lord, the
+punishment is too great.”
+
+And yet, what punishment, what misfortunes, during the last five days!
+
+“Yes,” he stammered, “she predicted it. Why did I not listen to her?”
+
+Madame Gerdy’s brother pitied the old man, so severely tried. He held
+out his hand.
+
+“M. de Commarin,” he said, in a grave, sad voice, “my sister forgave
+you long ago, even if she ever had any ill feeling against you. It is my
+turn to-day; I forgive you sincerely.”
+
+“Thank you, sir,” murmured the count, “thank you!” and then he added:
+“What a death!”
+
+“Yes,” murmured Claire, “she breathed her last in the idea that her son
+was guilty of a crime. And we were not able to undeceive her.”
+
+“At least,” cried the count, “her son should be free to render her his
+last duties; yes, he must be. Noel!”
+
+The advocate had approached his father, and heard all.
+
+“I have promised, father,” he replied, “to save him.”
+
+For the first time, Mademoiselle d’Arlange was face to face with Noel.
+Their eyes met, and she could not restrain a movement of repugnance,
+which the advocate perceived.
+
+“Albert is already saved,” she said proudly. “What we ask is, that
+prompt justice shall be done him; that he shall be immediately set at
+liberty. The magistrate now knows the truth.”
+
+“The truth?” exclaimed the advocate.
+
+“Yes; Albert passed at my house, with me, the evening the crime was
+committed.”
+
+Noel looked at her surprised; so singular a confession from such a
+mouth, without explanation, might well surprise him.
+
+She drew herself up haughtily.
+
+“I am Mademoiselle Claire d’Arlange, sir,” said she.
+
+M. de Commarin now quickly ran over all the incidents reported by
+Claire.
+
+When he had finished, Noel replied: “You see, sir, my position at this
+moment, to-morrow--”
+
+“To-morrow?” interrupted the count, “you said, I believe, to-morrow!
+Honour demands, sir, that we act to-day, at this moment. You can show
+your love for this poor woman much better by delivering her son than by
+praying for her.”
+
+Noel bowed low.
+
+“To hear your wish, sir, is to obey it,” he said; “I go. This evening,
+at your house, I shall have the honour of giving you an account of my
+proceedings. Perhaps I shall be able to bring Albert with me.”
+
+He spoke, and, again embracing the dead woman, went out.
+
+Soon the count and Mademoiselle d’Arlange also retired.
+
+The old soldier went to the Mayor, to give notice of the death, and to
+fulfil the necessary formalities.
+
+The nun alone remained, awaiting the priest, which the cure had promised
+to send to watch the corpse.
+
+The daughter of St. Vincent felt neither fear nor embarrassment, she had
+been so many times in a similar position. Her prayers said, she arose
+and went about the room, arranging everything as it should be in the
+presence of death. She removed all traces of the illness, put away the
+medicine bottles, burnt some sugar upon the fire shovel, and, on a table
+covered with a white cloth at the head of the bed, placed some lighted
+candles, a crucifix with holy water, and a branch of palm.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII.
+
+Greatly troubled and perplexed by Mademoiselle d’Arlange’s revelations,
+M. Daburon was ascending the stairs that led to the offices of the
+investigating magistrates, when he saw old Tabaret coming towards him.
+The sight pleased him, and he at once called out: “M. Tabaret!”
+
+But the old fellow, who showed signs of the most intense agitation, was
+scarcely disposed to stop, or to lose a single minute.
+
+“You must excuse me, sir,” he said, bowing, “but I am expected at home.”
+
+“I hope, however--”
+
+“Oh, he is innocent,” interrupted old Tabaret. “I have already some
+proofs; and before three days--But you are going to see Gevrol’s man
+with the earrings. He is very cunning, Gevrol; I misjudged him.”
+
+And without listening to another word, he hurried away, jumping down
+three steps at a times, at the risk of breaking his neck.
+
+M. Daburon, greatly disappointed, also hastened on.
+
+In the passage, on a bench of rough wood before his office door, Albert
+sat awaiting him, under the charge of a Garde de Paris.
+
+“You will be summoned immediately, sir,” said the magistrate to the
+prisoner, as he opened his door.
+
+In the office, Constant was talking with a skinny little man, who
+might have been taken, from his dress, for a well-to-do inhabitant of
+Batignolles, had it not been for the enormous pin in imitation gold
+which shone in his cravat, and betrayed the detective.
+
+“You received my letters?” asked M. Daburon of his clerk.
+
+“Your orders have been executed, sir; the prisoner is without, and here
+is M. Martin, who this moment arrived from the neighbourhood of the
+Invalides.”
+
+“That is well,” said the magistrate in a satisfied tone. And, turning
+towards the detective, “Well, M. Martin,” he asked, “what did you see?”
+
+“The walls had been scaled, sir.”
+
+“Lately?”
+
+“Five or six days ago.”
+
+“You are sure of this?”
+
+“As sure as I am that I see M. Constant at this moment mending his pen.”
+
+“The marks are plain?”
+
+“As plain as the nose on my face, sir, if I may so express myself. The
+thief--it was done by a thief, I imagine,” continued M. Martin, who was
+a great talker--“the thief entered the garden before the rain, and went
+away after it, as you had conjectured. This circumstance is easy to
+establish by examining the marks on the wall of the ascent and the
+descent on the side towards the street. These marks are several
+abrasions, evidently made by feet of some one climbing. The first are
+clean; the others, muddy. The scamp--he was a nimble fellow--in getting
+in, pulled himself up by the strength of his wrists; but when going
+away, he enjoyed the luxury of a ladder, which he threw down as soon as
+he was on the top of the wall. It is to see where he placed it, by holes
+made in the ground by the fellow’s weight; and also by the mortar which
+has been knocked away from the top of the wall.”
+
+“Is that all?” asked the magistrate.
+
+“Not yet, sir. Three of the pieces of glass which cover the top of the
+wall have been removed. Several of the acacia branches, which extend
+over the wall have been twisted or broken. Adhering to the thorns of
+one of these branches, I found this little piece of lavender kid, which
+appears to me to belong to a glove.”
+
+The magistrate eagerly seized the piece of kid.
+
+It had evidently come from a glove.
+
+“You took care, I hope, M. Martin,” said M. Daburon, “not to attract
+attention at the house where you made this investigation?”
+
+“Certainly, sir. I first of all examined the exterior of the wall at my
+leisure. After that, leaving my hat at a wine shop round the corner,
+I called at the Marchioness d’Arlange’s house, pretending to be the
+servant of a neighbouring duchess, who was in despair at having lost a
+favourite, and, if I may so speak, an eloquent parrot. I was very
+kindly given permission to explore the garden; and, as I spoke as
+disrespectfully as possible of my pretended mistress they, no doubt,
+took me for a genuine servant.”
+
+“You are an adroit and prompt fellow, M. Martin,” interrupted the
+magistrate. “I am well satisfied with you; and I will report you
+favourably at headquarters.”
+
+He rang his bell, while the detective, delighted at the praise he had
+received, moved backwards to the door, bowing the while.
+
+Albert was then brought in.
+
+“Have you decided, sir,” asked the investigating magistrate without
+preamble, “to give me a true account of how you spent last Tuesday
+evening?”
+
+“I have already told you, sir.”
+
+“No, sir, you have not; and I regret to say that you lied to me.”
+
+Albert, at this apparent insult, turned red, and his eyes flashed.
+
+“I know all that you did on that evening,” continued the magistrate,
+“because justice, as I have already told you, is ignorant of nothing
+that it is important for it to know.”
+
+Then, looking straight into Albert’s eyes, he continued slowly: “I have
+seen Mademoiselle Claire d’Arlange.”
+
+On hearing that name, the prisoner’s features, contracted by a firm
+resolve not to give way, relaxed.
+
+It seemed as though he experienced an immense sensation of delight, like
+a man who escapes almost by a miracle from an imminent danger which he
+had despaired of avoiding. However, he made no reply.
+
+“Mademoiselle d’Arlange,” continued the magistrate, “has told me where
+you were on Tuesday evening.”
+
+Albert still hesitated.
+
+“I am not setting a trap for you,” added M. Daburon; “I give you my word
+of honour. She has told me all, you understand?”
+
+This time Albert decided to speak.
+
+His explanations corresponded exactly with Claire’s; not one detail
+more. Henceforth, doubt was impossible.
+
+Mademoiselle d’Arlange had not been imposed upon. Either Albert was
+innocent, or she was his accomplice.
+
+Could she knowingly be the accomplice of such an odious crime? No; she
+could not even be suspected of it.
+
+But who then was the assassin?
+
+For, when a crime has been committed, justice demands a culprit.
+
+“You see, sir,” said the magistrate severely to Albert, “you did deceive
+me. You risked your life, sir, and, what is also very serious, you
+exposed me, you exposed justice, to commit a most deplorable mistake.
+Why did you not tell me the truth at once?”
+
+“Mademoiselle d’Arlange, sir,” replied Albert, “in according me a
+meeting, trusted in my honour.”
+
+“And you would have died sooner than mention that interview?”
+ interrupted M. Daburon with a touch of irony. “That is all very fine,
+sir, and worthy of the days of chivalry!”
+
+“I am not the hero that you suppose, sir,” replied the prisoner simply.
+“If I told you that I did not count on Claire, I should be telling a
+falsehood. I was waiting for her. I knew that, on learning of my arrest,
+she would brave everything to save me. But her friends might have hid it
+from her; and that was what I feared. In that event, I do not think,
+so far as one can answer for oneself, that I should have mentioned her
+name.”
+
+There was no appearance of bravado. What Albert said, he thought and
+felt. M. Daburon regretted his irony.
+
+“Sir,” he said kindly, “you must return to your prison. I cannot release
+you yet; but you will be no longer in solitary confinement. You will be
+treated with every attention due to a prisoner whose innocence appears
+probable.”
+
+Albert bowed, and thanked him; and was then removed.
+
+“We are now ready for Gevrol,” said the magistrate to his clerk.
+
+The chief of detectives was absent: he had been sent for from the
+Prefecture of Police; but his witness, the man with the earrings, was
+waiting in the passage.
+
+He was told to enter.
+
+He was one of those short, thick-set men, powerful as oaks, who look as
+though they could carry almost any weight on their broad shoulders.
+
+His white hair and whiskers set off his features, hardened and tanned
+by the inclemency of the weather, the sea winds and the heat of the
+tropics.
+
+He had large callous black hands, with big sinewy fingers which must
+have possessed the strength of a vice.
+
+Great earrings in the form of anchors hung from his ears. He was dressed
+in the costume of a well-to-do Normandy fisherman, out for a holiday.
+
+The clerk was obliged to push him into the office, for this son of the
+ocean was timid and abashed when on shore.
+
+He advanced, balancing himself first on one leg, then on the other, with
+that irregular walk of the sailor, who, used to the rolling and tossing
+of the waves, is surprised to find anything immovable beneath his feet.
+
+To give himself confidence, he fumbled over his soft felt hat, decorated
+with little lead medals, like the cap of king Louis XI. of devout
+memory, and also adorned with some of that worsted twist made by the
+young country girls, on a primitive frame composed of four or five pins
+stuck in a hollow cork.
+
+M. Daburon examined him, and estimated him at a glance. There was no
+doubt but that he was the sunburnt man described by one of the witnesses
+at La Jonchere.
+
+It was also impossible to doubt his honesty. His open countenance
+displayed sincerity and good nature.
+
+“Your name?” demanded the investigating magistrate.
+
+“Marie Pierre Lerouge.”
+
+“Are you, then, related to Claudine Lerouge?”
+
+“I am her husband, sir.”
+
+What, the husband of the victim alive, and the police ignorant of his
+existence!
+
+Thus thought M. Daburon.
+
+What, then, does this wonderful progress in invention accomplish?
+
+To-day, precisely as twenty years ago, when Justice is in doubt, it
+requires the same inordinate loss of time and money to obtain the
+slightest information.
+
+On Friday, they had written to inquire about Claudine’s past life; it
+was now Monday, and no reply had arrived.
+
+And yet photography was in existence, and the electric telegraph. They
+had at their service a thousand means, formerly unknown; and they made
+no use of them.
+
+“Every one,” said the magistrate, “believed her a widow. She herself
+pretended to be one.”
+
+“Yes, for in that way she partly excused her conduct. Besides, it was an
+arrangement between ourselves. I had told her that I would have nothing
+more to do with her.”
+
+“Indeed? Well, you know that she is dead, victim of an odious crime?”
+
+“The detective who brought me here told me of it, sir,” replied the
+sailor, his face darkening. “She was a wretch!” he added in a hollow
+voice.
+
+“How? You, her husband, accuse her?”
+
+“I have but too good reason to do so, sir. Ah, my dead father, who
+foresaw it all at the time, warned me! I laughed, when he said, ‘Take
+care, or she will dishonour us all.’ He was right. Through her, I
+have been hunted down by the police, just like some skulking thief.
+Everywhere that they inquired after me with their warrant, people must
+have said ‘Ah, ha, he has then committed some crime!’ And here I am
+before a magistrate! Ah, sir, what a disgrace! The Lerouges have been
+honest people, from father to son, ever since the world began.
+Inquire of all who have ever had dealings with me, they will tell you,
+‘Lerouge’s word is as good as another man’s writing.’ Yes, she was a
+wicked woman; and I have often told her that she would come to a bad
+end.”
+
+“You told her that?”
+
+“More than a hundred times, sir.”
+
+“Why? Come, my friend, do not be uneasy, your honour is not at stake
+here, no one questions it. When did you warn her so wisely?”
+
+“Ah, a long time ago, sir,” replied the sailor, “the first time was more
+than thirty years back. She had ambition even in her blood; she wished
+to mix herself up in the intrigues of the great. It was that that ruined
+her. She said that one got money for keeping secrets; and I said that
+one got disgraced and that was all. To help the great to hide their
+villainies, and to expect happiness from it, is like making your bed of
+thorns, in the hope of sleeping well. But she had a will of her own.”
+
+“You were her husband, though,” objected M. Daburon, “you had the right
+to command her obedience.”
+
+The sailor shook his head, and heaved a deep sigh.
+
+“Alas, sir! it was I who obeyed.”
+
+To proceed by short inquiries with a witness, when you have no idea of
+the information he brings, is but to lose time in attempting to gain it.
+When you think you are approaching the important fact, you may be just
+avoiding it. It is much better to give the witness the rein, and to
+listen carefully, putting him back on the track should he get too
+far away. It is the surest and easiest method. This was the course
+M. Daburon adopted, all the time cursing Gevrol’s absence, as he by a
+single word could have shortened by a good half the examination, the
+importance of which, by the way, the magistrate did not even suspect.
+
+“In what intrigues did your wife mingle?” asked he. “Go on, my friend,
+tell me everything exactly; here, you know, we must have not only the
+truth, but the whole truth.”
+
+Lerouge placed his hat on a chair. Then he began alternately to pull
+his fingers, making them crack almost sufficiently to break them, and
+ultimately scratched his head violently. It was his way of arranging his
+ideas.
+
+“I must tell you,” he began, “that it will be thirty-five years on St.
+John’s day since I fell in love with Claudine. She was a pretty, neat,
+fascinating girl, with a voice sweeter than honey. She was the most
+beautiful girl in our part of the country, straight as a mast, supple as
+a willow, graceful and strong as a racing boat. Her eyes sparkled like
+old cider; her hair was black, her teeth as white as pearls, and her
+breath was as fresh as the sea breeze. The misfortune was, that she
+hadn’t a sou, while we were in easy circumstances. Her mother, who was
+the widow of I can’t say how many husbands, was, saving your presence,
+a bad woman, and my father was the worthiest man alive. When I spoke to
+the old fellow of marrying Claudine he swore fiercely, and eight
+days after, he sent me to Porto on a schooner belonging to one of our
+neighbours, just to give me a change of air. I came back, at the end of
+six months, thinner than a marling spike, but more in love than ever.
+Recollections of Claudine scorched me like a fire. I could scarcely eat
+or drink; but I felt that she loved me a little in return, for I was a
+fine young fellow, and more than one girl had set her cap at me. Then
+my father, seeing that he could do nothing, that I was wasting away,
+and was on the road to join my mother in the cemetery, decided to let
+me complete my folly. So one evening, after we had returned from fishing
+and I got up from supper without tasting it, he said to me, ‘Marry
+the hag’s daughter, and let’s have no more of this.’ I remember it
+distinctly, because, when I heard the old fellow call my love such a
+name, I flew into a great passion, and almost wanted to kill him. Ah,
+one never gains anything by marrying in opposition to one’s parents!”
+
+The worthy fellow was lost in the midst of his recollections. He was
+very far from his story. The investigating magistrate attempted to bring
+him back into the right path, “Come to the point,” he said.
+
+“I am going to, sir; but it was necessary to begin at the beginning.
+I married. The evening after the wedding, and when the relatives and
+guests had departed, I was about to join my wife, when I perceived my
+father all alone in a corner weeping. The sight touched my heart, and
+I had a foreboding of evil; but it quickly passed away. It is so
+delightful during the first six months one passes with a dearly loved
+wife! One seems to be surrounded by mists that change the very rocks
+into palaces and temples so completely that novices are taken in. For
+two years, in spite of a few little quarrels, everything went on nicely.
+Claudine managed me like a child. Ah, she was cunning! She might have
+seized and bound me, and carried me to market and sold me, without my
+noticing it. Her great fault was her love of finery. All that I earned,
+and my business was very prosperous, she put on her back. Every week
+there was something new, dresses, jewels, bonnets, the devil’s baubles,
+which the dealers invent for the perdition of the female sex. The
+neighbors chattered, but I thought it was all right. At the baptism
+of our son, who was called Jacques after my father, to please her, I
+squandered all I had economized during my youth, more than three hundred
+pistoles, with which I had intended purchasing a meadow that lay in the
+midst of our property.”
+
+M. Daburon was boiling over with impatience, but he could do nothing.
+
+“Go on, go on,” he said every time Lerouge seemed inclined to stop.
+
+“I was well enough pleased,” continued the sailor, “until one morning
+I saw one of the Count de Commarin’s servants entering our house; the
+count’s chateau is only about a mile from where I lived on the other
+side of the town. It was a fellow named Germain whom I didn’t like at
+all. It was said about the country that he had been mixed up in the
+seduction of poor Thomassine, a fine young girl who lived near us; she
+appears to have pleased the count, and one day suddenly disappeared. I
+asked my wife what the fellow wanted; she replied that he had come to
+ask her to take a child to nurse. I would not hear of it at first, for
+our means were sufficient to allow Claudine to keep all her milk for
+our own child. But she gave me the very best of reasons. She said she
+regretted her past flirtations and her extravagance. She wished to
+earn a little money, being ashamed of doing nothing while I was killing
+myself with work. She wanted to save, to economize, so that our child
+should not be obliged in his turn to go to sea. She was to get a very
+good price, that we could save up to go towards the three hundred
+pistoles. That confounded meadow, to which she alluded, decided me.”
+
+“Did she not tell you of the commission with which she was charged?”
+ asked the magistrate.
+
+This question astonished Lerouge. He thought that there was good reason
+to say that justice sees and knows everything.
+
+“Not then,” he answered, “but you will see. Eight days after, the
+postman brought a letter, asking her to go to Paris to fetch the
+child. It arrived in the evening. ‘Very well,’ said she, ‘I will start
+to-morrow by the diligence.’ I didn’t say a word then; but next morning,
+when she was about to take her seat in the diligence, I declared that I
+was going with her. She didn’t seem at all angry, on the contrary. She
+kissed me, and I was delighted. At Paris, she was to call for the little
+one at a Madame Gerdy’s, who lived on the Boulevard. We arranged that
+she should go alone, while I awaited for her at our inn. After she
+had gone, I grew uneasy. I went out soon after, and prowled about near
+Madame Gerdy’s house, making inquiries of the servants and others; I
+soon discovered that she was the Count de Commarin’s mistress. I felt
+so annoyed that, if I had been master, my wife should have come away
+without the little bastard. I am only a poor sailor, and I know that
+a man sometimes forgets himself. One takes too much to drink, for
+instance, or goes out on the loose with some friends; but that a man
+with a wife and children should live with another woman and give her
+what really belongs to his legitimate offspring, I think is bad--very
+bad. Is it not so, sir?”
+
+The investigating magistrate moved impatiently in his chair. “Will
+this man never come to the point,” he muttered. “Yes, you are perfectly
+right,” he added aloud; “but never mind your thoughts. Go on, go on!”
+
+“Claudine, sir, was more obstinate than a mule. After three days of
+violent discussion, she obtained from me a reluctant consent, between
+two kisses. Then she told me that we were not going to return home by
+the diligence. The lady, who feared the fatigue of the journey for her
+child, had arranged that we should travel back by short stages, in her
+carriage, and drawn by her horses. For she was kept in grand style. I
+was ass enough to be delighted, because it gave me a chance to see the
+country at my leisure. We were, therefore, installed with the children,
+mine and the other, in an elegant carriage, drawn by magnificent
+animals, and driven by a coachman in livery. My wife was mad with joy;
+she kissed me over and over again, and chinked handfuls of gold in my
+face. I felt as foolish as an honest husband who finds money in his
+house which he didn’t earn himself. Seeing how I felt, Claudine, hoping
+to pacify me, resolved to tell me the whole truth. ‘See here,’ she said
+to me,--”
+
+Lerouge stopped, and, changing his tone, said, “You understand that it
+is my wife who is speaking?”
+
+“Yes, yes. Go on.”
+
+“She said to me, shaking her pocket full of money, ‘See here, my man, we
+shall always have as much of this as ever we may want, and this is why:
+The count, who also had a legitimate child at the same time as this
+bastard, wishes that this one shall bear his name instead of the other;
+and this can be accomplished, thanks to me. On the road, we shall meet
+at the inn, where we are to sleep, M. Germain and the nurse to whom they
+have entrusted the legitimate son. We shall be put in the same room,
+and, during the night, I am to change the little ones, who have been
+purposely dressed alike. For this the count gives me eight thousand
+francs down, and a life annuity of a thousand francs.’”
+
+“And you!” exclaimed the magistrate, “you, who call yourself an honest
+man, permitted such villainy, when one word would have been sufficient
+to prevent it?”
+
+“Sir, I beg of you,” entreated Lerouge, “permit me to finish.”
+
+“Well, continue!”
+
+“I could say nothing at first, I was so choked with rage. I must have
+looked terrible. But she, who was generally afraid of me when I was in
+a passion, burst out laughing, and said, ‘What a fool you are! Listen,
+before turning sour like a bowl of milk. The count is the only one who
+wants this change made; and he is the one that’s to pay for it. His
+mistress, this little one’s mother, doesn’t want it at all; she merely
+pretended to consent, so as not to quarrel with her lover, and because
+she has got a plan of her own. She took me aside, during my visit in her
+room, and, after having made me swear secrecy on a crucifix, she told
+me that she couldn’t bear the idea of separating herself from her babe
+forever, and of bringing up another’s child. She added that, if I would
+agree not to change the children, and not to tell the count, she would
+give me ten thousand francs down, and guarantee me an annuity equal to
+the one the count had promised me. She declared, also, that she could
+easily find out whether I kept my word, as she had made a mark of
+recognition on her little one. She didn’t show me the mark; and I have
+examined him carefully, but can’t find it. Do you understand now? I
+merely take care of this little fellow here. I tell the count that I
+have changed the children; we receive from both sides, and Jacques will
+be rich. Now kiss your little wife who has more sense than you, you old
+dear!’ That, sir, is word for word what Claudine said to me.”
+
+The rough sailor drew from his pocket a large blue-checked handkerchief,
+and blew his nose so violently that the windows shook. It was his way of
+weeping.
+
+M. Daburon was confounded. Since the beginning of this sad affair, he
+had encountered surprise after surprise. Scarcely had he got his ideas
+in order on one point, when all his attention was directed to another.
+
+He felt himself utterly routed. What was he about to learn now? He
+longed to interrogate quickly, but he saw that Lerouge told his story
+with difficulty, laboriously disentangling his recollections; he was
+guided by a single thread which the least interruption might seriously
+entangle.
+
+“What Claudine proposed to me,” continued the sailor, “was villainous;
+and I am an honest man. But she kneaded me to her will as easily as a
+baker kneads dough. She turned my heart topsy-turvy: she made me see
+white as snow that which was really as black as ink. How I loved her!
+She proved to me that we were wronging no one, that we were making
+little Jacques’s fortune, and I was silenced. At evening we arrived at
+some village; and the coachman, stopping the carriage before an inn,
+told us we were to sleep there. We entered, and who do you think we saw?
+That scamp, Germain, with a nurse carrying a child dressed so exactly
+like the one we had that I was startled. They had journeyed there, like
+ourselves, in one of the count’s carriages. A suspicion crossed my mind.
+How could I be sure that Claudine had not invented the second story
+to pacify me? She was certainly capable of it. I was enraged. I had
+consented to the one wickedness, but not to the other. I resolved not
+to lose sight of the little bastard, swearing that they shouldn’t change
+it; so I kept him all the evening on my knees, and to be all the more
+sure, I tied my handkerchief about his waist. Ah! the plan had been well
+laid. After supper, some one spoke of retiring, and then it turned out
+that there were only two double-bedded rooms in the house. It seemed as
+though it had been built expressly for the scheme. The innkeeper said
+that the two nurses might sleep in one room, and Germain and myself in
+the other. Do you understand, sir? Add to this, that during the evening
+I had surprised looks of intelligence passing between my wife and
+that rascally servant, and you can imagine how furious I was. It was
+conscience that spoke; and I was trying to silence it. I knew very well
+that I was doing wrong; and I almost wished myself dead. Why is it that
+women can turn an honest man’s conscience about like a weather-cock with
+their wheedling?”
+
+M. Daburon’s only reply was a heavy blow of his fist on the table.
+
+Lerouge proceeded more quickly.
+
+“As for me, I upset that arrangement, pretending to be too jealous to
+leave my wife a minute. They were obliged to give way to me. The other
+nurse went up to bed first. Claudine and I followed soon afterwards. My
+wife undressed and got into bed with our son and the little bastard. I
+did not undress. Under the pretext that I should be in the way of the
+children, I installed myself in a chair near the bed, determined not to
+shut my eyes, and to keep close watch. I put out the candle, in order to
+let the women sleep, though I could not think of doing so myself; and I
+thought of my father, and of what he would say, if he ever heard of my
+behaviour. Towards midnight, I heard Claudine moving. I held my breath.
+She was getting out of bed. Was she going to change the children? Now,
+I knew that she was not; then, I felt sure that she was. I was beside
+myself, and seizing her by the arm, I commenced to beat her roughly,
+giving free vent to all that I had on my heart. I spoke in a loud voice,
+the same as when I am on board ship in a storm; I swore like a fiend, I
+raised a frightful disturbance. The other nurse cried out as though she
+were being murdered. At this uproar, Germain rushed in with a lighted
+candle. The sight of him finished me. Not knowing what I was doing, I
+drew from my pocket a long Spanish knife, which I always carried, and
+seizing the cursed bastard, I thrust the blade through his arm, crying,
+‘This way, at least, he can’t be changed without my knowing it; he is
+marked for life!’”
+
+Lerouge could scarcely utter another word. Great drops of sweat stood
+out upon his brow, then, trickling down his cheeks, lodged in the deep
+wrinkles of his face. He panted; but the magistrate’s stern glance
+harassed him, and urged him on, like the whip which flogs the negro
+slave overcome with fatigue.
+
+“The little fellow’s wound,” he resumed, “was terrible. It bled
+dreadfully, and he might have died; but I didn’t think of that. I was
+only troubled about the future, about what might happen afterwards. I
+declared that I would write out all that had occurred, and that everyone
+should sign it. This was done; we could all four write. Germain didn’t
+dare resist; for I spoke with knife in hand. He wrote his name first,
+begging me to say nothing about it to the count, swearing that, for his
+part, he would never breathe a word of it, and pledging the other nurse
+to a like secrecy.”
+
+“And have you kept this paper?” asked M. Daburon.
+
+“Yes, sir, and as the detective to whom I confessed all, advised me to
+bring it with me, I went to take it from the place where I always kept
+it, and I have it here.”
+
+“Give it to me.”
+
+Lerouge took from his coat pocket an old parchment pocket-book, fastened
+with a leather thong, and withdrew from it a paper yellowed by age and
+carefully sealed.
+
+“Here it is,” said he. “The paper hasn’t been opened since that accursed
+night.”
+
+And, in fact, when the magistrate unfolded it, some dust fell out, which
+had been used to keep the writing, when wet, from blotting.
+
+It was really a brief description of the scene, described by the old
+sailor. The four signatures were there.
+
+“What has become of the witnesses who signed this declaration?” murmured
+the magistrate, speaking to himself.
+
+Lerouge, who thought the question was put to him, replied, “Germain is
+dead. I have been told that he was drowned when out rowing. Claudine
+has just been assassinated; but the other nurse still lives. I even know
+that she spoke of the affair to her husband, for he hinted as much
+to me. His name is Brosette, and she lives in the village of Commarin
+itself.”
+
+“And what next?” asked the magistrate, after having taken down the name
+and address.
+
+“The next day, sir, Claudine managed to pacify me, and extorted a
+promise of secrecy. The child was scarcely ill at all; but he retained
+an enormous scar on his arm.”
+
+“Was Madame Gerdy informed of what took place?”
+
+“I do not think so, sir. But I would rather say that I do not know.”
+
+“What! you do not know?”
+
+“Yes, sir, I swear it. You see my ignorance comes from what happened
+afterwards.”
+
+“What happened, then?”
+
+The sailor hesitated.
+
+“That, sir, concerns only myself, and--”
+
+“My friend,” interrupted the magistrate, “you are an honest man, I
+believe; in fact, I am sure of it. But once in your life, influenced by
+a wicked woman, you did wrong, you became an accomplice in a very guilty
+action. Repair that error by speaking truly now. All that is said here,
+and which is not directly connected with the crime, will remain secret;
+even I will forget it immediately. Fear nothing, therefore; and, if you
+experience some humiliation, think that it is your punishment for the
+past.”
+
+“Alas, sir,” answered the sailor, “I have been already greatly punished;
+and it is a long time since my troubles began. Money, wickedly acquired,
+brings no good. On arriving home, I bought the wretched meadow for much
+more than it was worth; and the day I walked over it, feeling that is
+was actually mine, closed my happiness. Claudine was a coquette; but she
+had a great many other vices. When she realised how much money we had
+these vices showed themselves, just like a fire, smouldering at the
+bottom of the hold, bursts forth when you open the hatches. From
+slightly greedy as she had been, she became a regular glutton. In our
+house there was feasting without end. Whenever I went to sea, she would
+entertain the worst women in the place; and there was nothing too good
+or too expensive for them. She would get so drunk that she would have to
+be put to bed. Well, one night, when she thought me at Rouen, I returned
+unexpectedly. I entered, and found her with a man. And such a man, sir!
+A miserable looking wretch, ugly, dirty, stinking; shunned by everyone;
+in a word the bailiff’s clerk. I should have killed him, like the vermin
+that he was; it was my right, but he was such a pitiful object. I took
+him by the neck and pitched him out of the window, without opening it!
+It didn’t kill him. Then I fell upon my wife, and beat her until she
+couldn’t stir.”
+
+Lerouge spoke in a hoarse voice, every now and then thrusting his fists
+into his eyes.
+
+“I pardoned her,” he continued; “but the man who beats his wife and then
+pardons her is lost. In the future, she took better precautions, became
+a greater hypocrite, and that was all. In the meanwhile, Madame Gerdy
+took back her child; and Claudine had nothing more to restrain her.
+Protected and counselled by her mother, whom she had taken to live with
+us, on the pretence of looking after Jacques, she managed to deceive me
+for more than a year. I thought she had given up her bad habits, but not
+at all; she lived a most disgraceful life. My house became the resort of
+all the good-for-nothing rogues in the country, for whom my wife brought
+out bottles of wine and brandy, whenever I was away at sea, and they got
+drunk promiscuously. When money failed, she wrote to the count or his
+mistress, and the orgies continued. Occasionally I had doubts which
+disturbed me; and then without reason, for a simple yes or no, I would
+beat her until I was tired, and then I would forgive her, like a coward,
+like a fool. It was a cursed life. I don’t know which gave me the most
+pleasure, embracing her or beating her. My neighbors despised me, and
+turned their backs on me; they believed me an accomplice or a willing
+dupe. I heard, afterwards, that they believed I profited by my wife’s
+misconduct; while in reality she paid her lovers. At all events, people
+wondered where all the money came from that was spent in my house. To
+distinguish me from a cousin of mine, also named Lerouge, they tacked
+an infamous word on to my name. What disgrace! And I knew nothing of all
+the scandal, no, nothing. Was I not the husband? Fortunately, though, my
+poor father was dead.”
+
+M. Daburon pitied the speaker sincerely.
+
+“Rest a while, my friend,” he said; “compose yourself.”
+
+“No,” replied the sailor, “I would rather get through with it quickly.
+One man, the priest, had the charity to tell me of it. If ever he should
+want Lerouge! Without losing a minute, I went and saw a lawyer, and
+asked him how an honest sailor who had had the misfortune to marry a
+hussy ought to act. He said that nothing could be done. To go to law was
+simply to publish abroad one’s own dishonour, while a separation would
+accomplish nothing. When once a man has given his name to a woman, he
+told me, he cannot take it back; it belongs to her for the rest of her
+days, and she has a right to dispose of it. She may sully it, cover it
+with mire, drag it from wine shop to wine shop, and her husband can do
+nothing. That being the case, my course was soon taken. That same day, I
+sold the fatal meadow, and sent the proceeds of it to Claudine, wishing
+to keep nothing of the price of shame. I then had a document drawn up,
+authorising her to administer our property, but not allowing her either
+to sell or mortgage it. Then I wrote her a letter in which I told her
+that she need never expect to hear of me again, that I was nothing more
+to her, and that she might look upon herself as a widow. That same night
+I went away with my son.”
+
+“And what became of your wife after your departure?”
+
+“I cannot say, sir; I only know that she quitted the neighbourhood a
+year after I did.”
+
+“You have never lived with her since?”
+
+“Never.”
+
+“But you were at her house three days before the crime was committed.”
+
+“That is true, but it was absolutely necessary. I had had much trouble
+to find her, no one knew what had become of her. Fortunately my notary
+was able to procure Madame Gerdy’s address; he wrote to her, and that
+is how I learnt that Claudine was living at La Jonchere. I was then at
+Rome. Captain Gervais, who is a friend of mine, offered to take me to
+Paris on his boat, and I accepted. Ah, sir, what a shock I experienced
+when I entered her house! My wife did not know me! By constantly telling
+everyone that I was dead, she had without a doubt ended by believing
+it herself. When I told her my name, she fell back in her chair. The
+wretched woman had not changed in the least; she had by her side a glass
+and a bottle of brandy--”
+
+“All this doesn’t explain why you went to seek your wife.”
+
+“It was on Jacques’s account, sir, that I went. The youngster has grown
+to be a man; and he wants to marry. For that, his mother’s consent was
+necessary; and I was taking to Claudine a document which the notary had
+drawn up, and which she signed. This is it.”
+
+M. Daburon took the paper, and appeared to read it attentively. After
+a moment he asked: “Have you thought who could have assassinated your
+wife?”
+
+Lerouge made no reply.
+
+“Do you suspect any one?” persisted the magistrate.
+
+“Well, sir,” replied the sailor, “what can I say? I thought that
+Claudine had wearied out the people from whom she drew money, like water
+from a well; or else getting drunk one day, she had blabbed too freely.”
+
+The testimony being as complete as possible, M. Daburon dismissed
+Lerouge, at the same time telling him to wait for Gevrol, who would take
+him to a hotel, where he might wait, at the disposal of justice, until
+further orders.
+
+“All your expenses will be paid you,” added the magistrate.
+
+Lerouge had scarcely left, when an extraordinary, unheard of,
+unprecedented event took place in the magistrate’s office. Constant, the
+serious, impressive, immovable, deaf and dumb Constant, rose from his
+seat and spoke.
+
+He broke a silence of fifteen years. He forgot himself so far as to
+offer an opinion.
+
+“This, sir,” said he, “is a most extraordinary affair.”
+
+Very extraordinary, truly, thought M. Daburon, and calculated to rout
+all predictions, all preconceived opinions.
+
+Why had he, the magistrate, moved with such deplorable haste? Why before
+risking anything, had he not waited to possess all the elements of this
+important case, to hold all the threads of this complicated drama?
+
+Justice is accused of slowness; but it is this very slowness that
+constitutes its strength and surety, its almost infallibility. One
+scarcely knows what a time evidence takes to produce itself. There is no
+knowing what important testimony investigations apparently useless may
+reveal.
+
+When the entanglement of the various passions and motives seems
+hopeless, an unknown personage presents himself, coming from no one
+knows where, and it is he who explains everything.
+
+M. Daburon, usually the most prudent of men, had considered as simple
+one of the most complex of cases. He had acted in a mysterious crime,
+which demanded the utmost caution, as carelessly as though it were a
+case of simple misdemeanour. Why? Because his memory had not left him
+his free deliberation, judgment, and discernment. He had feared equally
+appearing weak and being revengeful. Thinking himself sure of his facts,
+he had been carried away by his animosity. And yet how often had he
+not asked himself: Where is duty? But then, when one is at all doubtful
+about duty, one is on the wrong road.
+
+The singular part of it all was that the magistrate’s faults sprang from
+his very honesty. He had been led astray by a too great refinement of
+conscience. The scruples which troubled him had filled his mind with
+phantoms, and had prompted in him the passionate animosity he had
+displayed at a certain moment.
+
+Calmer now, he examined the case more soundly. As a whole, thank heaven!
+there was nothing done which could not be repaired. He accused himself,
+however, none the less harshly. Chance alone had stopped him. At that
+moment he resolved that he would never undertake another investigation.
+His profession henceforth inspired him with an unconquerable loathing.
+Then his interview with Claire had re-opened all the old wounds in his
+heart, and they bled more painfully than ever. He felt, in despair, that
+his life was broken, ruined. A man may well feel so, when all women are
+as nothing to him except one, whom he may never dare hope to possess.
+Too pious a man to think of suicide, he asked himself with anguish what
+would become of him when he threw aside his magistrate’s robes.
+
+Then he turned again to the business in hand. In any case, innocent
+or guilty, Albert was really the Viscount de Commarin, the count’s
+legitimate son. But was he guilty? Evidently he was not.
+
+“I think,” exclaimed M. Daburon suddenly, “I must speak to the Count de
+Commarin. Constant, send to his house a message for him to come here at
+once; if he is not at home, he must be sought for.”
+
+M. Daburon felt that an unpleasant duty was before him. He would be
+obliged to say to the old nobleman: “Sir, your legitimate son is not
+Noel, but Albert.” What a position, not only painful, but bordering on
+the ridiculous! As a compensation, though, he could tell him that Albert
+was innocent.
+
+To Noel he would also have to tell the truth: hurl him to earth, after
+having raised him among the clouds. What a blow it would be! But,
+without a doubt, the count would make him some compensation; at least,
+he ought to.
+
+“Now,” murmured the magistrate, “who can be the criminal?”
+
+An idea crossed his mind, at first it seemed to him absurd. He rejected
+it, then thought of it again. He examined it in all its various aspects.
+He had almost adopted it, when M. de Commarin entered. M. Daburon’s
+messenger had arrived just as the count was alighting from his carriage,
+on returning with Claire from Madame Gerdy’s.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII.
+
+Old Tabaret talked, but he acted also.
+
+Abandoned by the investigating magistrate to his own resources, he set
+to work without losing a minute and without taking a moment’s rest.
+
+The story of the cabriolet, drawn by a swift horse, was exact in every
+particular.
+
+Lavish with his money, the old fellow had gathered together a dozen
+detectives on leave or rogues out of work; and at the head of these
+worthy assistants, seconded by his friend Lecoq, he had gone to
+Bougival.
+
+He had actually searched the country, house by house, with the obstinacy
+and the patience of a maniac hunting for a needle in a hay-stack.
+
+His efforts were not absolutely wasted.
+
+After three days’ investigation, he felt comparatively certain that the
+assassin had not left the train at Rueil, as all the people of Bougival,
+La Jonchere, and Marly do, but had gone on as far as Chatou.
+
+Tabaret thought he recognized him in a man described to him by the
+porters at that station as rather young, dark, and with black whiskers,
+carrying an overcoat and an umbrella.
+
+This person, who arrived by the train which left Paris for St. Germain
+at thirty-five minutes past eight in the evening, had appeared to be in
+a very great hurry.
+
+On quitting the station, he had started off at a rapid pace on the road
+which led to Bougival. Upon the way, two men from Marly and a woman from
+La Malmaison had noticed him on account of his rapid pace. He smoked as
+he hurried along.
+
+On crossing the bridge which joins the two banks of the Seine at
+Bougival, he had been still more noticed.
+
+It is usual to pay a toll on crossing this bridge; and the supposed
+assassin had apparently forgotten this circumstance. He passed without
+paying, keeping up his rapid pace, pressing his elbows to his side,
+husbanding his breath, and the gate-keeper was obliged to run after him
+for his toll.
+
+He seemed greatly annoyed at the circumstance, threw the man a ten sou
+piece, and hurried on, without waiting for the nine sous change.
+
+Nor was that all.
+
+The station master at Rueil remembered, that, two minutes before the
+quarter past ten train came up, a passenger arrived very agitated, and
+so out of breath that he could scarcely ask for a second class ticket
+for Paris.
+
+The appearance of this man corresponded exactly with the description
+given of him by the porters at Chatou, and by the gatekeeper at the
+bridge.
+
+Finally, the old man thought he was on the track of some one who entered
+the same carriage as the breathless passenger. He had been told of a
+baker living at Asnieres, and he had written to him, asking him to call
+at his house.
+
+Such was old Tabaret’s information, when on the Monday morning he called
+at the Palais de Justice, in order to find out if the record of Widow
+Lerouge’s past life had been received. He found that nothing had
+arrived, but in the passage he met Gevrol and his man.
+
+The chief of detectives was triumphant, and showed it too. As soon as
+he saw Tabaret, he called out, “Well, my illustrious mare’s-nest hunter,
+what news? Have you had any more scoundrels guillotined since the other
+day? Ah, you old rogue, you want to oust me from my place I can see!”
+
+The old man was sadly changed.
+
+The consciousness of his mistake made him humble and meek. These
+pleasantries, which a few days before would have made him angry, now
+did not touch him. Instead of retaliating, he bowed his head in such a
+penitent manner that Gevrol was astonished.
+
+“Jeer at me, my good M. Gevrol,” he replied, “mock me without pity; you
+are right, I deserve it all.”
+
+“Ah, come now,” said the chief, “have you then performed some new
+masterpiece, you impetuous old fellow?”
+
+Old Tabaret shook his head sadly.
+
+“I have delivered up an innocent man,” he said, “and justice will not
+restore him his freedom.”
+
+Gevrol was delighted, and rubbed his hands until he almost wore away the
+skin.
+
+“This is fine,” he sang out, “this is capital. To bring criminals to
+justice is of no account at all. But to free the innocent, by Jove! that
+is the last touch of art. Tirauclair, you are an immense wonder; and I
+bow before you.”
+
+And at the same time, he raised his hat ironically.
+
+“Don’t crush me,” replied the old fellow. “As you know, in spite of my
+grey hairs, I am young in the profession. Because chance served me three
+or four times, I became foolishly proud. I have learned too late that
+I am not all that I had thought myself; I am but an apprentice, and
+success has turned my head; while you, M. Gevrol, you are the master of
+all of us. Instead of laughing, pray help me, aid me with your
+advice and your experience. Alone, I can do nothing, while with your
+assistance----!”
+
+Gevrol is vain in the highest degree.
+
+Tabaret’s submission tickled his pretensions as a detective immensely;
+for in reality he thought the old man very clever. He was softened.
+
+“I suppose,” he said patronisingly, “you refer to the La Jonchere
+affair?”
+
+“Alas! yes, my dear M. Gevrol, I wished to work without you, and I have
+got myself into a pretty mess.”
+
+Cunning old Tabaret kept his countenance as penitent as that of a
+sacristan caught eating meat on a Friday; but he was inwardly laughing
+and rejoicing all the while.
+
+“Conceited fool!” he thought, “I will flatter you so much that you will
+end by doing everything I want.”
+
+M. Gevrol rubbed his nose, put out his lower lip, and said, “Ah,--hem!”
+
+He pretended to hesitate; but it was only because he enjoyed prolonging
+the old amateur’s discomfiture.
+
+“Come,” said he at last, “cheer up, old Tirauclair. I’m a good fellow at
+heart, and I’ll give you a lift. That’s kind, isn’t it? But, to-day, I’m
+too busy, I’ve an appointment to keep. Come to me to-morrow morning,
+and we’ll talk it over. But before we part I’ll give you a light to find
+your way with. Do you know who that witness is that I’ve brought?”
+
+“No; but tell me, my good M. Gevrol.”
+
+“Well, that fellow on the bench there, who is waiting for M. Daburon, is
+the husband of the victim of the La Jonchere tragedy!”
+
+“Is it possible?” exclaimed old Tabaret, perfectly astounded. Then,
+after reflecting a moment, he added, “You are joking with me.”
+
+“No, upon my word. Go and ask him his name; he will tell you that it is
+Pierre Lerouge.”
+
+“She wasn’t a widow then?”
+
+“It appears not,” replied Gevrol sarcastically, “since there is her
+happy spouse.”
+
+“Whew!” muttered the old fellow. “And does he know anything?”
+
+In a few sentences, the chief of detectives related to his amateur
+colleague the story that Lerouge was about to tell the investigating
+magistrate.
+
+“What do you say to that?” he asked when he came to the end.
+
+“What do I say to that?” stammered old Tabaret, whose countenance
+indicated intense astonishment; “what do I say to that? I don’t say
+anything. But I think,--no, I don’t think anything either!”
+
+“A slight surprise, eh?” said Gevrol, beaming.
+
+“Say rather an immense one,” replied Tabaret.
+
+But suddenly he started, and gave his forehead a hard blow with his
+fist.
+
+“And my baker!” he cried, “I will see you to-morrow, then, M. Gevrol.”
+
+“He is crazed,” thought the head detective.
+
+The old fellow was sane enough, but he had suddenly recollected the
+Asnieres baker, whom he had asked to call at his house. Would he still
+find him there?
+
+Going down the stairs he met M. Daburon; but, as one has already seen,
+he hardly deigned to reply to him.
+
+He was soon outside, and trotted off along the quays.
+
+“Now,” said he to himself, “let us consider. Noel is once more plain
+Noel Gerdy. He won’t feel very pleased, for he thought so much of having
+a great name. Pshaw! if he likes, I’ll adopt him. Tabaret doesn’t sound
+so well as Commarin, but it’s at least a name. Anyhow, Gevrol’s story
+in no way affects Albert’s situation nor my convictions. He is the
+legitimate son; so much the better for him! That however, would not
+prove his innocence to me, if I doubted it. He evidently knew nothing of
+these surprising circumstances, any more than his father. He must have
+believed as well as the count in the substitution having taken place.
+Madame Gerdy, too, must have been ignorant of these facts; they probably
+invented some story to explain the scar. Yes, but Madame Gerdy certainly
+knew that Noel was really her son, for when he was returned to her,
+she no doubt looked for the mark she had made on him. Then, when Noel
+discovered the count’s letters, she must have hastened to explain to
+him--”
+
+Old Tabaret stopped as suddenly as if further progress were obstructed
+by some dangerous reptile. He was terrified at the conclusion he had
+reached.
+
+“Noel, then, must have assassinated Widow Lerouge, to prevent her
+confessing that the substitution had never taken place, and have burnt
+the letters and papers which proved it!”
+
+But he repelled this supposition with horror, as every honest man drives
+away a detestable thought which by accident enters his mind.
+
+“What an old idiot I am!” he exclaimed, resuming his walk; “this is the
+result of the horrible profession I once gloried in following! Suspect
+Noel, my boy, my sole heir, the personification of virtue and honour!
+Noel, whom ten years of constant intercourse have taught me to esteem
+and admire to such a degree that I would speak for him as I would for
+myself! Men of his class must indeed be moved by terrible passions to
+cause them to shed blood; and I have always known Noel to have but two
+passions, his mother and his profession. And I dare even to breath a
+suspicion against this noble soul? I ought to be whipped! Old fool!
+isn’t the lesson you have already received sufficiently terrible? Will
+you never be more cautious?”
+
+Thus he reasoned, trying to dismiss his disquieting thoughts, and
+restraining his habits of investigation; but in his heart a tormenting
+voice constantly whispered, “Suppose it is Noel.”
+
+He at length reached the Rue St. Lazare. Before the door of his house
+stood a magnificent horse harnessed to an elegant blue brougham. At the
+sight of these he stopped.
+
+“A handsome animal!” he said to himself; “my tenants receive some swell
+people.”
+
+They apparently received visitors of an opposite class also, for, at
+that moment, he saw M. Clergeot came out, worthy M. Clergeot, whose
+presence in a house betrayed ruin just as surely as the presence of the
+undertakers announce a death. The old detective, who knew everybody, was
+well acquainted with the worthy banker. He had even done business with
+him once, when collecting books. He stopped him and said: “Halloa! you
+old crocodile, you have clients, then, in my house?”
+
+“So it seems,” replied Clergeot dryly, for he does not like being
+treated with such familiarity.
+
+“Ah! ah!” said old Tabaret. And, prompted by the very natural curiosity
+of a landlord who is bound to be very careful about the financial
+condition of his tenants, he added, “Who the deuce are you ruining now?”
+
+“I am ruining no one,” replied M. Clergeot, with an air of offended
+dignity. “Have you ever had reason to complain of me whenever we have
+done business together? I think not. Mention me to the young advocate
+up there, if you like; he will tell you whether he has reason to regret
+knowing me.”
+
+These words produced a painful impression on Tabaret. What, Noel, the
+prudent Noel, one of Clergeot’s customers! What did it mean? Perhaps
+there was no harm in it; but then he remembered the fifteen thousand
+francs he had lent Noel on the Thursday.
+
+“Yes,” said he, wishing to obtain some more information, “I know that M.
+Gerdy spends a pretty round sum.”
+
+Clergeot has the delicacy never to leave his clients undefended when
+attacked.
+
+“It isn’t he personally,” he objected, “who makes the money dance; its
+that charming little woman of his. Ah, she’s no bigger than your thumb,
+but she’d eat the devil, hoofs, horns, and all!”
+
+What! Noel had a mistress, a woman whom Clergeot himself, the friend of
+such creatures, considered expensive! The revelation, at such a moment,
+pierced the old man’s heart. But he dissembled. A gesture, a look, might
+awaken the usurer’s mistrust, and close his mouth.
+
+“That’s well known,” replied Tabaret in a careless tone. “Youth must
+have it’s day. But what do you suppose the wench costs him a year?”
+
+“Oh, I don’t know! He made the mistake of not fixing a price with her.
+According to my calculation, she must have, during the four years that
+she has been under his protection, cost him close upon five hundred
+thousand francs.”
+
+Four years? Five hundred thousand francs! These words, these figures,
+burst like bombshells on old Tabaret’s brain. Half a million! In that
+case, Noel was utterly ruined. But then--
+
+“It is a great deal,” said he, succeeding by desperate efforts in hiding
+his emotion; “it is enormous. M. Gerdy, however, has resources.”
+
+“He!” interrupted the usurer, shrugging his shoulders. “Not even that!”
+ he added, snapping his fingers; “He is utterly cleaned out. But, if he
+owes you money, do not be anxious. He is a sly dog. He is going to be
+married; and I have just renewed bills of his for twenty-six thousand
+francs. Good-bye, M. Tabaret.”
+
+The usurer hurried away, leaving the poor old fellow standing like a
+milestone in the middle of the pavement. He experienced something of
+that terrible grief which breaks a father’s heart when he begins to
+realize that his dearly loved son is perhaps the worst of scoundrels.
+
+And, yet, such was his confidence in Noel that he again struggled with
+his reason to resist the suspicions which tormented him. Perhaps the
+usurer had been slandering his friend. People who lend their money
+at more than ten per cent are capable of anything. Evidently he had
+exaggerated the extent of Noel’s follies.
+
+And, supposing it were true? Have not many men done just such insane
+things for women, without ceasing to be honest?
+
+As he was about to enter his house, a whirlwind of silk, lace, and
+velvet, stopped the way. A pretty young brunette came out and jumped as
+lightly as a bird into the blue brougham.
+
+Old Tabaret was a gallant man, and the young woman was most charming,
+but he never even looked at her. He passed in, and found his concierge
+standing, cap in hand, and tenderly examining a twenty franc piece.
+
+“Ah, sir,” said the man, “such a pretty young person, and so lady-like!
+If you had only been here five minutes sooner.”
+
+“What lady? why?”
+
+“That elegant lady, who just went out, sir; she came to make some
+inquiries about M. Gerdy. She gave me twenty francs for answering her
+questions. It seems that the gentleman is going to be married; and she
+was evidently much annoyed about it. Superb creature! I have an idea
+that she is his mistress. I know now why he goes out every night.”
+
+“M. Gerdy?”
+
+“Yes, sir, but I never mentioned it to you, because he seemed to wish to
+hide it. He never asks me to open the door for him, no, not he. He slips
+out by the little stable door. I have often said to myself, ‘Perhaps he
+doesn’t want to disturb me; it is very thoughtful on his part, and he
+seems to enjoy it so.’”
+
+The concierge spoke with his eyes fixed on the gold piece. When he
+raised his head to examine the countenance of his lord and master, old
+Tabaret had disappeared.
+
+“There’s another!” said the concierge to himself. “I’ll bet a hundred
+sous, that he’s running after the superb creature! Run ahead, go it,
+old dotard, you shall have a little bit, but not much, for it’s very
+expensive!”
+
+The concierge was right. Old Tabaret was running after the lady in the
+blue brougham.
+
+“She will tell me all,” he thought, and with a bound he was in the
+street. He reached it just in time to see the blue brougham turn the
+corner of the Rue St. Lazare.
+
+“Heavens!” he murmured. “I shall lose sight of her, and yet she can tell
+me the truth.”
+
+He was in one of those states of nervous excitement which engender
+prodigies. He ran to the end of the Rue St. Lazare as rapidly as if he
+had been a young man of twenty.
+
+Joy! He saw the blue brougham a short distance from him in the Rue du
+Havre, stopped in the midst of a block of carriages.
+
+“I have her,” said he to himself. He looked all about him, but there was
+not an empty cab to be seen. Gladly would he have cried, like Richard
+the III., “My kingdom for a cab!”
+
+The brougham got out of the entanglement, and started off rapidly
+towards the Rue Tronchet. The old fellow followed.
+
+He kept his ground. The brougham gained but little upon him.
+
+While running in the middle of the street, at the same time looking out
+for a cab, he kept saying to himself: “Hurry on, old fellow, hurry on.
+When one has no brains, one must use one’s legs. Why didn’t you think to
+get this woman’s address from Clergeot? You must hurry yourself, my old
+friend, you must hurry yourself! When one goes in for being a detective,
+one should be fit for the profession, and have the shanks of a deer.”
+
+But he was losing ground, plainly losing ground. He was only halfway
+down the Rue Tronchet, and quite tired out; he felt that his legs could
+not carry him a hundred steps farther, and the brougham had almost
+reached the Madeleine.
+
+At last an open cab, going in the same direction as himself, passed by.
+He made a sign, more despairing than any drowning man ever made. The
+sign was seen. He made a supreme effort, and with a bound jumped into
+the vehicle without touching the step.
+
+“There,” he gasped, “that blue brougham, twenty francs!”
+
+“All right!” replied the coachman, nodding.
+
+And he covered his ill-conditioned horse with vigorous blows, muttering,
+“A jealous husband following his wife; that’s evident. Gee up!”
+
+As for old Tabaret, he was a long time recovering himself, his strength
+was almost exhausted.
+
+For more than a minute, he could not catch his breath. They were soon
+on the Boulevards. He stood up in the cab leaning against the driver’s
+seat.
+
+“I don’t see the brougham anywhere,” he said.
+
+“Oh, I see it all right, sir. But it is drawn by a splendid horse!”
+
+“Yours ought to be a better one. I said twenty francs; I’ll make it
+forty.”
+
+The driver whipped up his horse most mercilessly, and growled, “It’s no
+use, I must catch her. For twenty francs, I would have let her escape;
+for I love the girls, and am on their side. But, fancy! Forty francs! I
+wonder how such an ugly man can be so jealous.”
+
+Old Tabaret tried in every way to occupy his mind with other matters. He
+did not wish to reflect before seeing the woman, speaking with her, and
+carefully questioning her.
+
+He was sure that by one word she would either condemn or save her lover.
+
+“What! condemn Noel? Ah, well! yes.”
+
+The idea that Noel was the assassin harassed and tormented him, and
+buzzed in his brain, like the moth which flies again and again against
+the window where it sees a light.
+
+As they passed the Chaussee d’Antin, the brougham was scarcely thirty
+paces in advance. The cab driver turned, and said: “But the Brougham is
+stopping.”
+
+“Then stop also. Don’t lose sight of it; but be ready to follow it again
+as soon as it goes off.”
+
+Old Tabaret leaned as far as he could out of the cab.
+
+The young woman alighted, crossed the pavement, and entered a shop where
+cashmeres and laces were sold.
+
+“There,” thought the old fellow, “is where the thousand franc notes go!
+Half a million in four years! What can these creatures do with the money
+so lavishly bestowed upon them? Do they eat it? On the altar of what
+caprices do they squander these fortunes? They must have the devil’s own
+potions which they give to drink to the idiots who ruin themselves
+for them. They must possess some peculiar art of preparing and spicing
+pleasure; since, once they get hold of a man, he sacrifices everything
+before forsaking them.”
+
+The cab moved on once more, but soon stopped again.
+
+The brougham had made a fresh pause, this time in front of a curiosity
+shop.
+
+“The woman wants then to buy out half of Paris!” said old Tabaret to
+himself in a passion. “Yes, if Noel committed the crime, it was she
+who forced him to it. These are my fifteen thousand francs that she is
+frittering away now. How long will they last her? It must have been for
+money, then, that Noel murdered Widow Lerouge. If so, he is the lowest,
+the most infamous of men! What a monster of dissimulation and hypocrisy!
+And to think that he would be my heir, if I should die here of rage! For
+it is written in my will in so many words, ‘I bequeath to my son, Noel
+Gerdy!’ If he is guilty, there isn’t a punishment sufficiently severe
+for him. But is this woman never going home?”
+
+The woman was in no hurry. The weather was charming, her dress
+irresistible, and she intended showing herself off. She visited three
+or four more shops, and at last stopped at a confectioner’s, where she
+remained for more than a quarter of an hour.
+
+The old fellow, devoured by anxiety, moved about and stamped in his cab.
+It was torture thus to be kept from the key to a terrible enigma by the
+caprice of a worthless hussy! He was dying to rush after her, to seize
+her by the arm, and cry out to her: “Home, wretched, creature, home at
+once! What are you doing here? Don’t you know that at this moment your
+lover, he whom you have ruined, is suspected of an assassination? Home,
+then, that I may question you, that I may learn from you whether he is
+innocent or guilty. For you will tell me, without knowing it. Ah! I have
+prepared a fine trap for you! Go home, then, this anxiety is killing
+me!”
+
+She returned to her carriage. It started off once more, passed up the
+Rue de Faubourg Montmarte, turned into the Rue de Provence, deposited
+its fair freight at her own door, and drove away.
+
+“She lives here,” said old Tabaret, with a sigh of relief.
+
+He got out of the cab, gave the driver his forty francs, bade him wait,
+and followed in the young woman’s footsteps.
+
+“The old fellow is patient,” thought the driver; “and the little
+brunette is caught.”
+
+The detective opened the door of the concierge’s lodge.
+
+“What is the name of the lady who just came in?” he demanded.
+
+The concierge did not seem disposed to reply.
+
+“Her name!” insisted the old man.
+
+The tone was so sharp, so imperative, that the concierge was upset.
+
+“Madame Juliette Chaffour,” he answered.
+
+“On what floor does she reside?”
+
+“On the second, the door opposite the stairs.”
+
+A minute later, the old man was waiting in Madame Juliette’s
+drawing-room. Madame was dressing, the maid informed him, and would be
+down directly.
+
+Tabaret was astonished at the luxury of the room. There was nothing
+flaring or coarse, or in bad taste. It was not at all like the apartment
+of a kept woman. The old fellow, who knew a good deal about such things,
+saw that everything was of great value. The ornaments on the mantelpiece
+alone must have cost, at the lowest estimate, twenty thousand francs.
+
+“Clergeot,” thought he, “didn’t exaggerate a bit.”
+
+Juliette’s entrance disturbed his reflections.
+
+She had taken off her dress, and had hastily thrown about her a loose
+black dressing-gown, trimmed with cherry-coloured satin. Her beautiful
+hair, slightly disordered after her drive, fell in cascades about her
+neck, and curled behind her delicate ears. She dazzled old Tabaret. He
+began to understand.
+
+“You wished, sir, to speak with me?” she inquired, bowing gracefully.
+
+“Madame,” replied M. Tabaret, “I am a friend of Noel Gerdy’s, I may say
+his best friend, and--”
+
+“Pray sit down, sir,” interrupted the young woman.
+
+She placed herself on a sofa, just showing the tips of her little feet
+encased in slippers matching her dressing-gown, while the old man sat
+down in a chair.
+
+“I come, madame,” he resumed, “on very serious business. Your presence
+at M. Gerdy’s--”
+
+“Ah,” cried Juliette, “he already knows of my visit? Then he must employ
+a detective.”
+
+“My dear child--” began Tabaret, paternally.
+
+“Oh! I know, sir, what your errand is. Noel has sent you here to scold
+me. He forbade my going to his house, but I couldn’t help it. It’s
+annoying to have a puzzle for a lover, a man whom one knows nothing
+whatever about, a riddle in a black coat and a white cravat, a sad and
+mysterious being--”
+
+“You have been imprudent.”
+
+“Why? Because he is going to get married? Why does he not admit it
+then?”
+
+“Suppose that it is not true.”
+
+“Oh, but it is! He told that old shark Clergeot so, who repeated it to
+me. Any way, he must be plotting something in that head of his; for the
+last month he has been so peculiar, he has changed so, that I hardly
+recognize him.”
+
+Old Tabaret was especially anxious to know whether Noel had prepared
+an _alibi_ for the evening of the crime. For him that was the grand
+question. If he had, he was certainly guilty; if not, he might still be
+innocent. Madame Juliette, he had no doubt, could enlighten him on that
+point.
+
+Consequently he had presented himself with his lesson all prepared, his
+little trap all set.
+
+The young woman’s outburst disconcerted him a little; but trusting to
+the chances of conversation, he resumed.
+
+“Will you oppose Noel’s marriage, then?”
+
+“His marriage!” cried Juliette, bursting out into a laugh; “ah, the poor
+boy! If he meets no worse obstacle than myself, his path will be smooth.
+Let him marry by all means, the sooner the better, and let me hear no
+more of him.”
+
+“You don’t love him, then?” asked the old fellow, surprised at this
+amiable frankness.
+
+“Listen, sir. I have loved him a great deal, but everything has an
+end. For four years, I, who am so fond of pleasure, have passed an
+intolerable existence. If Noel doesn’t leave me, I shall be obliged to
+leave him. I am tired of having a lover who is ashamed of me and who
+despises me.”
+
+“If he despises you, my pretty lady, he scarcely shows it here,” replied
+old Tabaret, casting a significant glance about the room.
+
+“You mean,” said she rising, “that he spends a great deal of money on
+me. It’s true. He pretends that he has ruined himself on my account;
+it’s very possible. But what’s that to me! I am not a grabbing
+woman; and I would much have preferred less money and more regard. My
+extravagance has been inspired by anger and want of occupation. M. Gerdy
+treats me like a mercenary woman; and so I act like one. We are quits.”
+
+“You know very well that he worships you.”
+
+“He? I tell you he is ashamed of me. He hides me as though I were some
+horrible disease. You are the first of his friends to whom I have ever
+spoken. Ask him how often he takes me out. One would think that my
+presence dishonoured him. Why, no longer ago than last Tuesday, we went
+to the theatre! He hired an entire box. But do you think that he sat
+in it with me? Not at all. He slipped away and I saw no more of him the
+whole evening.”
+
+“How so? Were you obliged to return home alone?”
+
+“No. At the end of the play, towards midnight, he deigned to reappear.
+We had arranged to go to the masked ball at the Opera and then to have
+some supper. Ah, it was amusing! At the ball, he didn’t dare to let down
+his hood, or take off his mask. At supper, I had to treat him like a
+perfect stranger, because some of his friends were present.”
+
+This, then, was the _alibi_ prepared in case of trouble. Juliette, had
+she been less carried away by her own feelings, would have noticed old
+Tabaret’s emotion, and would certainly have held her tongue. He was
+perfectly livid, and trembled like a leaf.
+
+“Well,” he said, making a great effort to utter the words, “the supper,
+I suppose, was none the less gay for that.”
+
+“Gay!” echoed the young woman, shrugging her shoulders; “you do not seem
+to know much of your friend. If you ever ask him to dinner, take good
+care not to give him anything to drink. Wine makes him as merry as a
+funeral procession. At the second bottle, he was more tipsy than a
+cork; so much so, that he lost nearly everything he had with him: his
+overcoat, purse, umbrella, cigar-case--”
+
+Old Tabaret couldn’t sit and listen any longer; he jumped to his feet
+like a raving madman.
+
+“Miserable wretch!” he cried, “infamous scoundrel! It is he; but I have
+him!”
+
+And he rushed out, leaving Juliette so terrified that she called her
+maid.
+
+“Child,” said she, “I have just made some awful blunder, have let some
+secret out. I am sure that something dreadful is going to happen; I feel
+it. That old rogue was no friend of Noel’s, he came to circumvent me,
+to lead me by the nose; and he succeeded. Without knowing it I must have
+spoken against Noel. What can I have said? I have thought carefully, and
+can remember nothing; but he must be warned though. I will write him a
+line, while you find a messenger to take it.”
+
+Old Tabaret was soon in his cab and hurrying towards the Prefecture of
+Police. Noel an assassin! His hate was without bounds, as formerly had
+been his confiding affection. He had been cruelly deceived, unworthily
+duped, by the vilest and the most criminal of men. He thirsted for
+vengeance; he asked himself what punishment would be great enough for
+the crime.
+
+“For he not only assassinated Claudine,” thought he, “but he so arranged
+the whole thing as to have an innocent man accused and condemned. And
+who can say that he did not kill his poor mother?”
+
+He regretted the abolition of torture, the refined cruelty of the middle
+ages: quartering, the stake, the wheel. The guillotine acts so quickly
+that the condemned man has scarcely time to feel the cold steel cutting
+through his muscles; it is nothing more than a fillip on the neck.
+Through trying so much to mitigate the pain of death, it has now become
+little more than a joke, and might be abolished altogether.
+
+The certainty of confounding Noel, of delivering him up to justice, of
+taking vengeance upon him, alone kept old Tabaret up.
+
+“It is clear,” he murmured, “that the wretch forgot his things at the
+railway station, in his haste to rejoin his mistress. Will they still be
+found there? If he has had the prudence to go boldly, and ask for them
+under a false name, I can see no further proofs against him. Madame
+Chaffour’s evidence won’t help me. The hussy, seeing her lover in
+danger, will deny what she has just told me; she will assert that Noel
+left her long after ten o’clock. But I cannot think he has dared to go
+to the railway station again.”
+
+About half way down the Rue Richelieu, M. Tabaret was seized with a
+sudden giddiness.
+
+“I am going to have an attack, I fear,” thought he. “If I die, Noel
+will escape, and will be my heir. A man should always keep his will
+constantly with him, to be able to destroy it, if necessary.”
+
+A few steps further on, he saw a doctor’s plate on a door; he stopped
+the cab, and rushed into the house. He was so excited, so beside
+himself, his eyes had such a wild expression, that the doctor was almost
+afraid of his peculiar patient, who said to him hoarsely: “Bleed me!”
+
+The doctor ventured an objection; but already the old fellow had taken
+off his coat, and drawn up one of his shirtsleeves.
+
+“Bleed me!” he repeated. “Do you want me to die?”
+
+The doctor finally obeyed, and old Tabaret came out quieted and
+relieved.
+
+An hour later, armed with the necessary power, and accompanied by a
+policeman, he proceeded to the lost property office at the St. Lazare
+railway station, to make the necessary search. It resulted as he had
+expected. He learnt that, on the evening of Shrove Tuesday, there had
+been found in one of the second class carriages, of train No. 45, an
+overcoat and an umbrella. He was shown the articles; and he at once
+recognised them as belonging to Noel. In one of the pockets of the
+overcoat, he found a pair of lavender kid gloves, frayed and soiled, as
+well as a return ticket from Chatou, which had not been used.
+
+In hurrying on, in pursuit of the truth, old Tabaret knew only too well,
+what it was. His conviction, unwillingly formed when Clergeot had told
+him of Noel’s follies, had since been strengthened in a number of other
+ways. When with Juliette, he had felt positively sure, and yet, at this
+last moment, when doubt had become impossible, he was, on beholding the
+evidence arrayed against Noel, absolutely thunderstruck.
+
+“Onwards!” he cried at last. “Now to arrest him.”
+
+And, without losing an instant, he hastened to the Palais de Justice,
+where he hoped to find the investigating magistrate. Notwithstanding
+the lateness of the hour, M. Daburon was still in his office. He was
+conversing with the Count de Commarin, having related to him the facts
+revealed by Pierre Lerouge whom the count had believed dead many years
+before.
+
+Old Tabaret entered like a whirlwind, too distracted to notice the
+presence of a stranger.
+
+“Sir,” he cried, stuttering with suppressed rage, “we have discovered
+the real assassin! It is he, my adopted son, my heir, Noel!”
+
+“Noel!” repeated M. Daburon, rising. And then in a lower tone, he added,
+“I suspected it.”
+
+“A warrant is necessary at once,” continued the old fellow. “If we lose
+a minute, he will slip through our fingers. He will know that he is
+discovered, if his mistress has time to warn him of my visit. Hasten,
+sir, hasten!”
+
+M. Daburon opened his lips to ask an explanation; but the old detective
+continued: “That is not all. An innocent man, Albert, is still in
+prison.”
+
+“He will not be so an hour longer,” replied the magistrate; “a moment
+before your arrival, I had made arrangements to have him released. We
+must now occupy ourselves with the other one.”
+
+Neither old Tabaret nor M. Daburon had noticed the disappearance of the
+Count de Commarin. On hearing Noel’s name mentioned, he gained the door
+quietly, and rushed out into the passage.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX.
+
+Noel had promised to use every effort, to attempt even the impossible,
+to obtain Albert’s release. He in fact did interview the Public
+Prosecutor and some members of the bar, but managed to be repulsed
+everywhere. At four o’clock, he called at the Count de Commarin’s house,
+to inform his father of the ill success of his efforts.
+
+“The Count has gone out,” said Denis; “but if you will take the trouble
+to wait----”
+
+“I will wait,” answered Noel.
+
+“Then,” replied the valet, “will you please follow me? I have the
+count’s orders to show you into his private room.”
+
+This confidence gave Noel an idea of his new power. He was at home,
+henceforth, in that magnificent house, he was the master, the heir! His
+glance, which wandered over the entire room, noticed the genealogical
+tree, hanging on the wall. He approached it, and read.
+
+It was like a page, and one of the most illustrious, taken from the
+golden book of French nobility. Every name which has a place in our
+history was there. The Commarins had mingled their blood with all the
+great families; two of them had even married daughters of royalty. A
+warm glow of pride filled the advocate’s heart, his pulse beat quicker,
+he raised his head haughtily, as he murmured, “Viscount de Commarin!”
+
+The door opened. He turned, and saw the count entering. As Noel was
+about to bow respectfully, he was petrified by the look of hatred,
+anger, and contempt on his father’s face.
+
+A shiver ran through his veins; his teeth chattered; he felt that he was
+lost.
+
+“Wretch!” cried the count.
+
+And, dreading his own violence, the old nobleman threw his cane into a
+corner. He was unwilling to strike his son; he considered him unworthy
+of being struck by his hand. Then there was a moment of mortal silence,
+which seemed to both of them a century.
+
+At the same time their minds were filled with thoughts, which would
+require a volume to transcribe.
+
+Noel had the courage to speak first.
+
+“Sir,” he began.
+
+“Silence!” exclaimed the count hoarsely; “be silent! Can it be, heaven
+forgive me! that you are my son? Alas, I cannot doubt it now! Wretch!
+you knew well that you were Madame Gerdy’s son. Infamous villain! you
+not only committed this murder, but you did everything to cause an
+innocent man to be charged with your crime! Parricide! you have also
+killed your mother.”
+
+The advocate attempted to stammer forth a protest.
+
+“You killed her,” continued the count with increased energy, “if not
+by poison, at least by your crime. I understand all now; she was not
+delirious this morning. But you know as well as I do what she was
+saying. You were listening, and, if you dared to enter at that moment
+when one word more would have betrayed you, it was because you had
+calculated the effect of your presence. It was to you that she addressed
+her last word, ‘Assassin!’”
+
+Little by little, Noel had retired to the end of the room, and he stood
+leaning against the wall, his head thrown back, his hair on end, his
+look haggard. A convulsive trembling shook his frame. His face betrayed
+a terror most horrible to see, the terror of the criminal found out.
+
+“I know all, you see,” continued the count; “and I am not alone in my
+knowledge. At this moment, a warrant of arrest is issued against you.”
+
+A cry of rage like a hollow rattle burst from the advocate’s breast. His
+lips, which were hanging through terror, now grew firm. Overwhelmed in
+the very midst of his triumph, he struggled against this fright. He drew
+himself up with a look of defiance.
+
+M. de Commarin, without seeming to pay any attention to Noel, approached
+his writing table, and opened a drawer.
+
+“My duty,” said he, “would be to leave you to the executioner who awaits
+you; but I remember that I have the misfortune to be your father. Sit
+down; write and sign a confession of your crime. You will then find
+fire-arms in this drawer. May heaven forgive you!”
+
+The old nobleman moved towards the door. Noel with a sign stopped him,
+and drawing at the same time a revolver from his pocket, he said: “Your
+fire-arms are needless, sir; my precautions, as you see, are already
+taken; they will never catch me alive. Only----”
+
+“Only?” repeated the count harshly.
+
+“I must tell you, sir,” continued the advocate coldly, “that I do not
+choose to kill myself--at least, not at present.”
+
+“Ah!” cried M. de Commarin in disgust, “you are a coward!”
+
+“No, sir, not a coward; but I will not kill myself until I am sure that
+every opening is closed against me, that I cannot save myself.”
+
+“Miserable wretch!” said the count, threateningly, “must I then do it
+myself?”
+
+He moved towards the drawer, but Noel closed it with a kick.
+
+“Listen to me, sir,” said he, in that hoarse, quick tone, which men use
+in moments of imminent danger, “do not let us waste in vain words the
+few moments’ respite left me. I have committed a crime, it is true, and
+I do not attempt to justify it; but who laid the foundation of it, if
+not yourself? Now, you do me the favor of offering me a pistol. Thanks.
+I must decline it. This generosity is not through any regard for me.
+You only wish to avoid the scandal of my trial, and the disgrace which
+cannot fail to reflect upon your name.”
+
+The count was about to reply.
+
+“Permit me,” interrupted Noel imperiously. “I do not choose to kill
+myself; I wish to save my life, if possible. Supply me with the means
+of escape; and I promise you that I will sooner die than be captured. I
+say, supply me with means, for I have not twenty francs in the world.
+My last thousand franc note was nearly all gone the day when--you
+understand me. There isn’t sufficient money at home to give my mother a
+decent burial. Therefore, I say, give me some money.”
+
+“Never!”
+
+“Then I will deliver myself up to justice, and you will see what will
+happen to the name you hold so dear!”
+
+The count, mad with rage, rushed to his table for a pistol. Noel placed
+himself before him.
+
+“Oh, do not let us have any struggle,” said he coldly; “I am the
+strongest.”
+
+M. de Commarin recoiled. By thus speaking of the trial, of the scandal
+and of the disgrace, the advocate had made an impression upon him.
+
+For a moment hesitating between love for his name and his burning desire
+to see this wretch punished, the old nobleman stood undecided.
+
+Finally his feeling for his rank triumphed.
+
+“Let us end this,” he said in a tremulous voice, filled with the utmost
+contempt; “let us end this disgraceful scene. What do you demand of me?”
+
+“I have already told you, money, all that you have here. But make up
+your mind quickly.”
+
+On the previous Saturday the count had withdrawn from his bankers the
+sum he had destined for fitting up the apartments of him whom he thought
+was his legitimate child.
+
+“I have eighty thousand francs here,” he replied.
+
+“That’s very little,” said the advocate; “but give them to me. I will
+tell you though that I had counted on you for five hundred thousand
+francs. If I succeed in escaping my pursuers, you must hold at my
+disposal the balance, four hundred and twenty thousand francs. Will you
+pledge yourself to give them to me at the first demand? I will find some
+means of sending for them, without any risk to myself. At that price,
+you need never fear hearing of me again.”
+
+By way of reply, the count opened a little iron chest imbedded in the
+wall, and took out a roll of bank notes, which he threw at Noel’s feet.
+
+An angry look flashed in the advocate’s eyes, as he took one step
+towards his father.
+
+“Oh! take care!” he said threateningly; “people who, like me, have
+nothing to lose are dangerous. I can yet give myself up, and----”
+
+He stooped down, however, and picked up the notes.
+
+“Will you give me your word,” he continued, “to let me have the rest
+whenever I ask for them?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Then I am going. Do not fear, I will be faithful to our compact, they
+shall not take me alive. Adieu, my father! in all this you are the true
+criminal, but you alone will go unpunished. Ah, heaven is not just. I
+curse you!”
+
+When, an hour later, the servants entered the count’s room, they found
+him stretched on the floor with his face against the carpet, and showing
+scarcely a sign of life.
+
+On leaving the Commarin house, Noel staggered up the Rue de
+l’Universite.
+
+It seemed to him that the pavement oscillated beneath his feet, and that
+everything about him was turning round. His mouth was parched, his eyes
+were burning, and every now and then a sudden fit of sickness overcame
+him.
+
+But, at the same time, strange to relate, he felt an incredible relief,
+almost delight. It was ended then, all was over; the game was lost. No
+more anguish now, no more useless fright and foolish terrors, no more
+dissembling, no more struggles. Henceforth he had nothing more to fear.
+His horrible part being played to the bitter end, he could now lay aside
+his mask and breathe freely.
+
+An irresistible weariness succeeded the desperate energy which, in the
+presence of the count, had sustained his impudent arrogance. All the
+springs of his organization, stretched for more than a week past far
+beyond their ordinary limits, now relaxed and gave way. The fever which
+for the last few days had kept him up failed him now; and, with the
+weariness, he felt an imperative need of rest. He experienced a great
+void, an utter indifference for everything.
+
+His insensibility bore a striking resemblance to that felt by persons
+afflicted with sea-sickness, who care for nothing, whom no sensations
+are capable of moving, who have neither strength nor courage to think,
+and who could not be aroused from their lethargy by the presence of any
+great danger, not even of death itself.
+
+Had any one come to him then he would never have thought of resisting,
+nor of defending himself; he would not have taken a step to hide
+himself, to fly, to save his head.
+
+For a moment he had serious thoughts of giving himself up, in order to
+secure peace, to gain quiet, to free himself from the anxiety about his
+safety.
+
+But he struggled against this dull stupor, and at last the reaction
+came, shaking off this weakness of mind and body.
+
+The consciousness of his position, and of his danger, returned to him.
+He foresaw, with horror, the scaffold, as one sees the depth of the
+abyss by the lightning flashes.
+
+“I must save my life,” he thought; “but how?”
+
+That mortal terror which deprives the assassin of even ordinary common
+sense seized him. He looked eagerly about him, and thought he noticed
+three or four passers-by look at him curiously. His terror increased.
+
+He began running in the direction of the Latin quarter without purpose,
+without aim, running for the sake of running, to get away, like Crime,
+as represented in paintings, fleeing under the lashes of the Furies.
+
+He very soon stopped, however, for it occurred to him that this
+extraordinary behaviour would attract attention.
+
+It seemed to him that everything in him betokened the murderer; he
+thought he read contempt and horror upon every face, and suspicion in
+every eye.
+
+He walked along, instinctively repeating to himself: “I must do
+something.”
+
+But he was so agitated that he was incapable of thinking or of planning
+anything.
+
+When he still hesitated to commit the crime, he had said to himself; “I
+may be discovered.” And with that possibility in view, he had perfected
+a plan which should put him beyond all fear of pursuit. He would do
+this and that; he would have recourse to this ruse, he would take that
+precaution. Useless forethought! Now, nothing he had imagined seemed
+feasible. The police were seeking him, and he could think of no place in
+the whole world where he would feel perfectly safe.
+
+He was near the Odeon theatre, when a thought quicker than a flash of
+lightning lit up the darkness of his brain.
+
+It occurred to him that as the police were doubtless already in pursuit
+of him, his description would soon be known to everyone, his white
+cravat and well trimmed whiskers would betray him as surely as though he
+carried a placard stating who he was.
+
+Seeing a barber’s shop, he hurried to the door; but, when on the point
+of turning the handle, he grew frightened.
+
+The barber might think it strange that he wanted his whiskers shaved
+off, and supposing he should question him!
+
+He passed on.
+
+He soon saw another barber’s shop, but the same fears as before again
+prevented his entering.
+
+Gradually night had fallen, and, with the darkness, Noel seemed to
+recover his confidence and boldness.
+
+After this great shipwreck in port, hope rose to the surface. Why should
+he not save himself? There had been many just such cases. He could go to
+a foreign country, change his name, begin his life over again, become a
+new man entirely. He had money; and that was the main thing.
+
+And, besides, as soon as his eighty thousand francs were spent, he had
+the certainty of receiving, on his first request, five or six times as
+much more.
+
+He was already thinking of the disguise he should assume, and of the
+frontier to which he should proceed, when the recollection of Juliette
+pierced his heart like a red hot iron.
+
+Was he going to leave without her, going away with the certainty of
+never seeing her again? What! he would fly, pursued by all the police
+of the civilized world, tracked like a wild beast, and she would remain
+peaceably in Paris? Was it possible? For whom then had he committed this
+crime? For her. Who would have reaped the benefits of it? She. Was it
+not just, then, that she should bear her share of the punishment?
+
+“She does not love me,” thought the advocate bitterly, “she never loved
+me. She would be delighted to be forever free of me. She will not regret
+me, for I am no longer necessary to her. An empty coffer is a useless
+piece of furniture. Juliette is prudent; she has managed to save a
+nice little fortune. Grown rich at my expense, she will take some other
+lover. She will forget me, she will live happily, while I--And I was
+about to go away without her!”
+
+The voice of prudence cried out to him: “Unhappy man! to drag a woman
+along with you, and a pretty woman too, is but to stupidly attract
+attention upon you, to render flight impossible, to give yourself up
+like a fool.”
+
+“What of that?” replied passion. “We will be saved or we will perish
+together. If she does not love me, I love her; I must have her! She will
+come, otherwise--”
+
+But how to see Juliette, to speak with her, to persuade her. To go to
+her house, was a great risk for him to run. The police were perhaps
+there already.
+
+“No,” thought Noel; “no one knows that she is my mistress. It will
+not be found out for two or three days and, besides, it would be more
+dangerous still to write.”
+
+He took a cab not far from the Carrefour de l’Observatoire, and in a
+low tone told the driver the number of the house in the Rue de Provence,
+which had proved so fatal to him. Stretched on the cushions of the cab,
+lulled by its monotonous jolts, Noel gave no thought to the future, he
+did not even think over what he should say to Juliette. No. He passed
+involuntarily in review the events which had brought on and hastened the
+catastrophe, like a man on the point of death, reviews the tragedy or
+the comedy of his life.
+
+Just one month before, ruined, at the end of his expedients and
+absolutely without resources, he had determined, cost what it might,
+to procure money, so as to be able to continue to keep Madame Juliette,
+when chance placed in his hands Count de Commarin’s correspondence.
+Not only the letters read to old Tabaret, and shown to Albert, but also
+those, which, written by the count when he believed the substitution an
+accomplished fact, plainly established it.
+
+The reading of these gave him an hour of mad delight.
+
+He believed himself the legitimate son; but his mother soon undeceived
+him, told him the truth, proved to him by several letters she had
+received from Widow Lerouge, called on Claudine to bear witness to it,
+and demonstrated it to him by the scar he bore.
+
+But a falling man never selects the branch he tries to save himself by.
+Noel resolved to make use of the letters all the same.
+
+He attempted to induce his mother to leave the count in his ignorance,
+so that he might thus blackmail him. But Madame Gerdy spurned the
+proposition with horror.
+
+Then the advocate made a confession of all his follies, laid bare his
+financial condition, showed himself in his true light, sunk in debt; and
+he finally begged his mother to have recourse to M. de Commarin.
+
+This also she refused, and prayers and threats availed nothing against
+her resolution. For a fortnight, there was a terrible struggle between
+mother and son, in which the advocate was conquered.
+
+It was then that the idea of murdering Claudine occurred to him.
+
+The unhappy woman had not been more frank with Madame Gerdy than
+with others, so that Noel really thought her a widow. Therefore, her
+testimony suppressed, who else stood in his way?
+
+Madame Gerdy, and perhaps the count. He feared them but little. If
+Madame Gerdy spoke, he could always reply: “After stealing my name for
+your son, you will do everything in the world to enable him to keep it.”
+ But how to do away with Claudine without danger to himself?
+
+After long reflection, the advocate thought of a diabolical stratagem.
+
+He burnt all the count’s letters establishing the substitution, and he
+preserved only those which made it probable.
+
+These last he went and showed to Albert, feeling sure, that, should
+justice ever discover the reason of Claudine’s death, it would naturally
+suspect he who appeared to have most interest in it.
+
+Not that he really wished Albert to be suspected of the crime, it was
+simply a precaution. He thought that he could so arrange matters
+that the police would waste their time in the pursuit of an imaginary
+criminal.
+
+Nor did he think of ousting the Viscount de Commarin and putting himself
+in his place. His plan was simply this; the crime once committed,
+he would wait; things would take their own course, there would be
+negotiations, and ultimately he would compromise the matter at the price
+of a fortune.
+
+He felt sure of his mother’s silence, should she ever suspect him guilty
+of the assassination.
+
+His plan settled, he decided to strike the fatal blow on the Shrove
+Tuesday.
+
+To neglect no precaution, he, that very same evening, took Juliette to
+the theatre, and afterwards to the masked ball at the opera. In case
+things went against him, he thus secured an unanswerable _alibi_.
+
+The loss of his overcoat only troubled him for a moment. On reflection,
+he reassured himself, saying: “Pshaw! who will ever know?”
+
+Everything had resulted in accordance with his calculations; it was, in
+his opinion, a matter of patience.
+
+But when Madame Gerdy read the account of the murder, the unhappy woman
+divined her son’s work, and, in the first paroxysms of her grief, she
+declared that she would denounce him.
+
+He was terrified. A frightful delirium had taken possession of his
+mother. One word from her might destroy him. Putting a bold face on it,
+however, he acted at once and staked his all.
+
+To put the police on Albert’s track was to guarantee his own safety,
+to insure to himself, in the event of a probable success, Count de
+Commarin’s name and fortune.
+
+Circumstances, as well as his own terror, increased his boldness and his
+ingenuity.
+
+Old Tabaret’s visit occurred just at the right moment.
+
+Noel knew of his connection with the police, and guessed that the old
+fellow would make a most valuable confidant.
+
+So long as Madame Gerdy lived, Noel trembled. In her delirium she
+might betray him at any moment. But when she had breathed her last, he
+believed himself safe. He thought it all over, he could see no further
+obstacle in his way; he was sure he had triumphed.
+
+And now all was discovered, just as he was about to reach the goal of
+his ambition. But how? By whom? What fatality had resuscitated a secret
+which he had believed buried with Madame Gerdy?
+
+But where is the use, when one is at the bottom of an abyss, of knowing
+which stone gave way, or of asking down what side one fell?
+
+The cab stopped in the Rue de Provence. Noel leaned out of the door, his
+eyes exploring the neighbourhood and throwing a searching glance into
+the depths of the hall of the house. Seeing no one, he paid the fare
+through the front window, before getting out of the cab, and, crossing
+the pavement with a bound, he rushed up stairs.
+
+Charlotte, at sight of him, gave a shout of joy.
+
+“At last it is you, sir!” she cried. “Ah, madame has been expecting you
+with the greatest impatience! She has been very anxious.”
+
+Juliette expecting him! Juliette anxious!
+
+The advocate did not stop to ask questions. On reaching this spot,
+he seemed suddenly to recover all his composure. He understood his
+imprudence; he knew the exact value of every minute he delayed here.
+
+“If any one rings,” said he to Charlotte, “don’t open the door. No
+matter what may be said or done, don’t open the door!”
+
+On hearing Noel’s voice, Juliette ran out to meet him. He pushed her
+gently into the salon, and followed, closing the door.
+
+There for the first time she saw his face.
+
+He was so changed; his look was so haggard that she could not keep from
+crying out, “What is the matter?”
+
+Noel made no reply; he advanced towards her and took her hand.
+
+“Juliette,” he demanded in a hollow voice, fastening his flashing eyes
+upon her,--“Juliette, be sincere; do you love me?”
+
+She instinctively felt that something dreadful had occurred: she
+seemed to breathe an atmosphere of evil; but she, as usual, affected
+indifference.
+
+“You ill-natured fellow,” she replied, pouting her lips most
+provokingly, “do you deserve--”
+
+“Oh, enough!” broke in Noel, stamping his feet fiercely. “Answer me,” he
+continued, bruising her pretty hands in his grasp, “yes, or no,--do you
+love me?”
+
+A hundred times had she played with her lover’s anger, delighting to
+excite him into a fury, to enjoy the pleasure of appeasing him with a
+word; but she had never seen him like this before.
+
+She had wronged him greatly; and she dared not complain of this his
+first harshness.
+
+“Yes, I love you,” she stammered, “do you not know it?”
+
+“Why?” replied the advocate, releasing her hands; “why? Because, if
+you love me you must prove it; if you love me, you must follow me at
+once,--abandon everything. Come, fly with me. Time presses----”
+
+The young girl was terrified.
+
+“Great heavens! what has happened?”
+
+“Nothing, except that I have loved you too much, Juliette. When I found
+I had no more money for your luxury, your caprices, I became wild. To
+procure money, I,--I committed a crime,--a crime; do you understand?
+They are pursuing me now. I must fly: will you follow me?”
+
+Juliette’s eyes grew wide with astonishment; but she doubted Noel.
+
+“A crime? You?” she began.
+
+“Yes, me! Would you know the truth? I have committed murder, an
+assassination. But it was all for you.”
+
+The advocate felt that Juliette would certainly recoil from him in
+horror. He expected that terror which a murderer inspires. He was
+resigned to it in advance. He thought that she would fly from him;
+perhaps there would be a scene. She might, who knows, have hysterics;
+might cry out, call for succor, for help, for aid. He was wrong.
+
+With a bound, Juliette flew to him, throwing herself upon him, her arms
+about his neck, and embraced him as she had never embraced him before.
+
+“Yes, I do love you!” she cried. “Yes, you have committed a crime for
+my sake, because you loved me. You have a heart. I never really knew you
+before!”
+
+It had cost him dear to inspire this passion in Madame Juliette; but
+Noel never thought of that.
+
+He experienced a moment of intense delight: nothing appeared hopeless to
+him now.
+
+But he had the presence of mind to free himself from her embrace.
+
+“Let us go,” he said; “the one great danger is, that I do not know from
+whence the attack comes. How they have discovered the truth is still a
+mystery to me.”
+
+Juliette remembered her alarming visitor of the afternoon; she
+understood it all.
+
+“Oh, what a wretched woman I am!” she cried, wringing her hands in
+despair; “it is I who have betrayed you. It occurred on Tuesday, did it
+not?”
+
+“Yes, Tuesday.”
+
+“Ah, then I have told all, without a doubt, to your friend, the old man
+I supposed you had sent, Tabaret!”
+
+“Has Tabaret been here?”
+
+“Yes; just a little while ago.”
+
+“Come, then,” cried Noel, “quickly; it’s a miracle that he hasn’t been
+back.”
+
+He took her arm, to hurry her away; but she nimbly released herself.
+
+“Wait,” said she. “I have some money, some jewels. I will take them.”
+
+“It is useless. Leave everything behind. I have a fortune, Juliette; let
+us fly!”
+
+She had already opened her jewel box, and was throwing everything of
+value that she possessed pell mell into a little travelling bag.
+
+“Ah, you are ruining me,” cried Noel, “you are ruining me!”
+
+He spoke thus; but his heart was overflowing with joy.
+
+“What sublime devotion! She loves me truly,” he said to himself; “for my
+sake, she renounces her happy life without hesitation; for my sake, she
+sacrifices all!”
+
+Juliette had finished her preparations, and was hastily tying on her
+bonnet, when the door-bell rang.
+
+“It is the police!” cried Noel, becoming, if possible, even more livid.
+
+The young woman and her lover stood as immovable as two statues, with
+great drops of perspiration on their foreheads, their eyes dilated, and
+their ears listening intently. A second ring was heard, then a third.
+
+Charlotte appeared walking on tip-toe.
+
+“There are several,” she whispered; “I heard them talking together.”
+
+Grown tired of ringing, they knocked loudly on the door. The sound of a
+voice reached the drawing-room, and the word “law” was plainly heard.
+
+“No more hope!” murmured Noel.
+
+“Don’t despair,” cried Juliette; “try the servants’ staircase!”
+
+“You may be sure they have not forgotten it.”
+
+Juliette went to see, and returned dejected and terrified. She had
+distinguished heavy foot-steps on the landing, made by some one
+endeavouring to walk softly.
+
+“There must be some way of escape!” she cried fiercely.
+
+“Yes,” replied Noel, “one way. I have given my word. They are picking
+the lock. Fasten all the doors, and let them break them down; it will
+give me time.”
+
+Juliette and Charlotte ran to carry out his directions. Then Noel,
+leaning against the mantel piece, seized his revolver and pointed it at
+his breast.
+
+But Juliette, who had returned, perceiving the movement, threw herself
+upon her lover, but so violently that the revolver turned aside and
+went off. The shot took effect, the bullet entering Noel’s stomach. He
+uttered a frightful cry.
+
+Juliette had made his death a terrible punishment; she had prolonged his
+agony.
+
+He staggered, but remained standing, supporting himself by the mantel
+piece, while the blood flowed copiously from his wound.
+
+Juliette clung to him, trying to wrest the revolver from his grasp.
+
+“You shall not kill yourself,” she cried, “I will not let you. You are
+mine; I love you! Let them come. What can they do to you? If they
+put you in prison, you can escape. I will help you, we will bribe the
+jailors. Ah, we will live so happily together, no matter where, far away
+in America where no one knows us!”
+
+The outer door had yielded; the police were now picking the lock of the
+door of the ante-chamber.
+
+“Let me finish!” murmured Noel; “they must not take me alive!”
+
+And, with a supreme effort, triumphing over his dreadful agony, he
+released himself, and roughly pushed Juliette away. She fell down near
+the sofa.
+
+Then, he once more aimed his revolver at the place where he felt his
+heart beating, pulled the trigger and rolled to the floor.
+
+It was full time, for the police at that moment entered the room.
+
+Their first thought was, that before shooting himself, Noel had shot his
+mistress. They knew of cases where people had romantically desired
+to quit this world in company; and, moreover, had they not heard two
+reports? But Juliette was already on her feet again.
+
+“A doctor,” she cried, “a doctor! He can not be dead!”
+
+One man ran out; while the others, under old Tabaret’s direction, raised
+the body, and carried it to Madame Juliette’s bedroom where they laid it
+on the bed.
+
+“For his sake, I trust his wounds are mortal!” murmured the old
+detective, whose anger left him at the sight. “After all, I loved him as
+though he were my own child; his name is still in my will!”
+
+Old Tabaret stopped. Noel just then uttered a groan, and opened his
+eyes.
+
+“You see that he will live!” cried Juliette.
+
+The advocate shook his head feebly, and, for a moment, he tossed about
+painfully on the bed, passing his right hand first under his coat, and
+then under his pillow. He even succeeded in turning himself half-way
+towards the wall and then back again.
+
+Upon a sign, which was at once understood, someone placed another pillow
+under his head. Then in a broken, hissing voice, he uttered a few words:
+“I am the assassin,” he said. “Write it down, I will sign it; it will
+please Albert. I owe him that at least.”
+
+While they were writing, he drew Juliette’s head close to his lips.
+
+“My fortune is beneath the pillow,” he whispered. “I give it all to
+you.”
+
+A flow of blood rose to his mouth; and they all thought him dead. But he
+still had strength enough to sign his confession, and to say jestingly
+to M. Tabaret, “Ah, ha, my friend, so you go in for the detective
+business, do you! It must be great fun to trap one’s friends in person!
+Ah, I have had a fine game; but, with three women in the play, I was
+sure to lose.”
+
+The death struggle commenced, and, when the doctor arrived, he could
+only announce the decease of M. Noel Gerdy, advocate.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX.
+
+Some months later, one evening, at old Mademoiselle de Goello’s house,
+the Marchioness d’Arlange, looking ten years younger than when we saw
+her last, was giving her dowager friends an account of the wedding of
+her granddaughter Claire, who had just married the Viscount Albert de
+Commarin.
+
+“The wedding,” said she, “took place on our estate in Normandy, without
+any flourish of trumpets. My son-in-law wished it; for which I think he
+is greatly to blame. The scandal raised by the mistake of which he had
+been the victim, called for a brilliant wedding. That was my opinion,
+and I did not conceal it. But the boy is as stubborn as his father,
+which is saying a good deal; he persisted in his obstinacy. And my
+impudent granddaughter, obeying beforehand her future husband, also
+sided against me. It is, however, of no consequence; I defy anyone to
+find to-day a single individual with courage enough to confess that he
+ever for an instant doubted Albert’s innocence. I have left the young
+people in all the bliss of the honeymoon, billing and cooing like a
+pair of turtle doves. It must be admitted that they have paid dearly
+for their happiness. May they be happy then, and may they have lots of
+children, for they will have no difficulty in bringing them up and in
+providing for them. I must tell you that, for the first time in his
+life, and probably for the last, the Count de Commarin has behaved like
+an angel! He has settled all his fortune on his son, absolutely all. He
+intends living alone on one of his estates. I am afraid the poor dear
+old man will not live long. I am not sure that he has entirely recovered
+from that last attack. Anyhow, my grandchild is settled, and grandly
+too. I know what it has cost me, and how economical I shall have to be.
+But I do not think much of those parents who hesitate at any pecuniary
+sacrifice when their children’s happiness is at stake.”
+
+The marchioness forgot, however, to state that, a week before the
+wedding, Albert freed her from a very embarrassing position, and had
+discharged a considerable amount of her debts.
+
+Since then, she had not borrowed more than nine thousand francs of him;
+but she intends confessing to him some day how greatly she is annoyed by
+her upholsterer, by her dressmaker, by three linen drapers, and by five
+or six other tradesmen.
+
+Ah, well, she is all the same a worthy woman; she never says anything
+against her son-in-law!
+
+Retiring to his father’s home in Poitou, after sending in his
+resignation, M. Daburon has at length found rest; forgetfulness will
+come later on. His friends do not yet despair of inducing him to marry.
+
+Madame Juliette is quite consoled for the loss of Noel. The eighty
+thousand francs hidden by him under the pillow were not taken from her.
+They are nearly all gone now though. Before long the sale of a handsome
+suite of furniture will be announced.
+
+Old Tabaret, alone, is indelibly impressed. After having believed in the
+infallibility of justice, he now sees every where nothing but judicial
+errors.
+
+The ex-amateur detective doubts the very existence of crime, and
+maintains that the evidence of one’s senses proves nothing. He
+circulates petitions for the abolition of capital punishment, and has
+organised a society for the defence of poor and innocent prisoners.
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 3802 ***