Society had mustered in force at the Cahors Law Courts, where the
Assizes were about to be held. Hooting motor-cars and antiquated coaches
drawn by pursy horses were arriving every minute, bringing gentry from
the great houses in the neighbourhood, squireens and well-to-do country
people, prosperous farmers and jolly wine-growers, all of them
determined not to miss "the trial" that was causing such immense
excitement because the principal figure in it was well known as a friend
of one of the oldest families in those parts; and because he was not
merely a witness, nor even the victim, but actually the defendant in the
case, although he had been admitted to bail in the interval by order of
the court.
Compared with those of large towns, this court room at Cahors was small,
but it was filled by a considerable and most select crowd. Quiet
greetings and low-toned conversation were freely exchanged, but there
was an air of melancholy about every person present, and it was obvious
that they were drawn there by no mere curiosity or desire for horrid
details, but by legitimate interest in the development of great drama.
One of the leading heroines in the case was pointed out with particular
sympathy.
"That's Thérèse Auvernois, over there in the first row! The President of
the Court gave her that seat; the officer who took the card of admission
over to Querelles told me so."
"That's where Mme. de Vibray lives, isn't it?"
"Yes: she is sitting next to Thérèse now: that pretty woman in grey.
Since Mme. de Langrune's death she has kept the child with her,
thinking, very rightly, that it would be too painful for her to be at
Beaulieu. The family council have appointed President Bonnet temporary
guardian of Thérèse. He is that tall, thin man over there, talking to
the steward, Dollon."
The Baronne de Vibray turned affectionately to Thérèse, who was looking
dreadfully pale in her long mourning veil.
"Are you sure this won't tire you too much, dear? Shall we go outside
for a little while?"
"Oh, no, please do not worry about me," Thérèse replied. "Indeed I shall
be all right."
President Bonnet sat by the two ladies. He had been engaged solemnly
exchanging bows with everyone in the court room whom he considered it
flattering to himself to know; now he took part in the conversation, and
displayed his special knowledge by explaining the constitution of the
court and pointing out where the clerk sat, and where the public
prosecutor sat, and where the jury sat, all at great length and much to
the interest of the people near him: with, however, one exception; a man
dressed entirely in black, with his head half buried in the huge collar
of a travelling ulster, and dark glasses over his eyes, appeared to be
vastly bored by the old magistrate's disquisition. Juve--for it was
he--knew too much about legal procedure to require explanations from
President Bonnet.
Suddenly a thrill ran through the room and conversation stopped
abruptly. M. Etienne Rambert had just walked down the gangway in the
court to the seat reserved for him, just in front of the witness box and
close to a kind of rostrum in which Maître Dareuil, an old member of the
Cahors Bar, immediately took his place. M. Etienne Rambert was very
pale, but it was obvious that he was by no means overwhelmed by the
fatality overhanging him. He was, indeed, a fine figure as he took his
seat and mechanically passed his hand through his long white curls,
flinging them back and raising his head almost as if in defiance of the
inquisitive crowd that was gazing at him.
Almost immediately after he had taken his seat a door was thrown open
and the jury filed in, and then a black-gowned usher came forward and
shrilly called for silence.
"Stand up, gentlemen! Hats off, please! Gentlemen, the Court!"
With solemn, measured steps, and heads bent as if absorbed in
profoundest meditation, the judges slowly proceeded to their seats. The
president formally declared the court open, whereupon the clerk rose
immediately to read the indictment.
The Clerk of the Court at Cahors was a most excellent man, but modesty
was his distinguishing characteristic and his chief desire appeared to
be to shun responsibility, figure as little prominently as possible, and
even escape observation altogether. Assizes were not often held at
Cahors, and he had had few occasions to read an indictment as tragic as
this present one, with the result that he lacked confidence now. He read
in a toneless, monotonous voice, so nervously and softly that nobody in
the body of the court could hear a word he said, and even the jury were
obliged to lean their elbows on the desk before them and make an ear
trumpet of their hands to find out what it was all about.
Etienne Rambert, however, was only a few feet from the clerk; he did not
miss a word, and it was evident from his nervous movements every now and
then that some passages in the indictment hit him very hard indeed, and
even lessened his general confidence.
When the clerk had finished Etienne Rambert sat still, with his forehead
resting in his hands, as if crushed by the weight of the memories the
indictment had evoked. Then the sharp, thin voice of the President of
the Court snapped the chain of his thoughts.
"Stand up, sir!"
And pale as death Etienne Rambert rose and folded his arms across his
breast. In firm, yet somehow muffled tones, he answered the preliminary
formal questions. His name was Hervé Paul Etienne Rambert; his age,
fifty-nine; his occupation, a merchant, owning and working rubber
plantations in South America. Then followed the formal enquiry whether
he had heard and understood the indictment which had just been read.
"I followed it all, sir," he replied, with a little gesture expressive
of his sense of the gravity of the facts detailed and the weight of the
evidence adduced, which won general sympathy for him. "I followed it
all, but I protest against some of the allegations, and I protest with
my whole energy against the suggestion that I have failed in my duty as
a man of honour and as a father!"
The President of the Court checked him irritably.
"Excuse me, I do not intend to permit you to extend the pleadings
indefinitely. I shall examine you on the various points of the
indictment, and you may protest as much as you please." The unfeeling
rudeness provoked no comment from the defendant, and the President
proceeded. "Well, you have heard the indictment. It charges you first
with having aided and abetted the escape of your son, whom an enquiry
held in another place had implicated in the murder of the Marquise de
Langrune; and it charges you secondly with having killed your son, whose
body has been recovered from the Dordogne, in order that you might
escape the penalty of public obloquy."
At this brutal statement of the case Etienne Rambert made a proud
gesture of indignation.
"Sir," he exclaimed, "there are different ways of putting things. I do
not deny the purport of the indictment, but I object to the summary of
it that you present. No one has ever dared to contend that I killed my
son in order to escape public obloquy, as you have just insinuated. I am
entirely indifferent to the world's opinion. What the indictment is
intended to allege, the only thing it can allege, is that I wrought
justice upon a criminal who ought to have filled me with horror but
whom, nevertheless, I ought not to have handed over to the public
executioner."
This time it was the judge's turn to be astonished. He was so accustomed
to the cheap triumphs that judges look to win in court that he had
expected to make mincemeat of this poor, broken old man whom the law had
delivered to his tender mercy. But he discovered that the old man had
fine courage and replied with spirit to his malevolent remarks.
"We will discuss your right to take the law into your own hands
presently," he said, "but that is not the question now: there are other
points which it would be well for you to explain to the jury. Why, in
the first place, did you obstinately decline to speak to the examining
magistrate?"
"I had no answer to make to the examining magistrate," Etienne Rambert
answered slowly, as if he were weighing his words, "because in my
opinion he had no questions to put to me! I do not admit that I am
charged with anything contrary to the Code, or that any such charge can
be formulated against me. The indictment charges me with having killed
my son because I believed him to be guilty of the murder of Mme. de
Langrune and would not hand him over to the gallows. I have never
confessed to that murder, sir, and nothing will ever make me do so. And
that is why I would not reply to the examining magistrate, because I
would not admit that there was anything before the court concerning
myself: because, since the dreadful tragedy in my private life was
exposed to public opinion, I desired that I should be judged by public
opinion, which, sir, is not represented by you who are a professional
judge, but by the jury here who will shortly say whether I am really a
criminal wretch: by the jury, many of whom are fathers themselves and,
when they think of their own sons, will wonder what appalling visions
must have passed through my mind when I was forced to believe that my
boy, my own son, had committed a cowardly murder! What sort of tragedy
will they think that must have been for a man like me, with sixty years
of honour and of honourable life behind him?"
The outburst ended on a sob, and the whole court was moved with
sympathy, women wiping their eyes, men coughing, and even the jury
striving hard to conceal the emotion that stirred them.
The judge glared round the court, and after a pause addressed the
defendant again with sarcastic phrases.
"So that is why you stood mute during the enquiry, was it, sir? Odd!
very odd! I admire the interpretation you place upon your duty as an
honourable man. It is--quaint!"
Etienne Rambert interrupted the sneering speech.
"I am quite sure, sir, that there are plenty of people here who will
understand and endorse what I did."
The declaration was so pointedly personal that the judge took it up.
"And I am quite sure that people of principle will understand me when I
have shown them your conduct as it really was. You have a predilection
for heroics; it will not be without interest to bring things to the
point. Your attitude throughout this affair has been this:--it is not
for me to anticipate the issue of the enquiry which will be held some
day into the murder of Mme. de Langrune, but I must recall the fact that
the moment you believed your son was the murderer, the moment you
discovered the blood-stained towel which furnished the circumstantial
evidence of his guilt, you--the man of honour, mind you,--never thought
of handing over the culprit to the police who were actually in the
precincts of the château, but only thought of securing his escape, and
helping him to get away! You even accompanied him in his flight, and so
became in a sense his accomplice. I suppose you do not deny that?"
Etienne Rambert shook with emotion and answered in ringing tones.
"If you are of opinion, sir, that that was an act of complicity on my
part, I will not only not deny it, I will proclaim it from the
housetops! I became the accomplice of a murderer by inducing him to run
away, did I? You forget, sir, that at the moment when I first believed
my son was the culprit--I was not his accomplice then, I suppose?--there
was a bond between him and me already that I could not possibly break:
he was my son! Sir, the duty of a father--and I attach the very loftiest
meaning to the word 'duty'--can never entail his giving up his son!"
A fresh murmur of sympathy through the court annoyed the judge, who
shrugged his shoulders.
"Let us leave empty rhetoric alone," he said. "You have plenty of fine
phrases with which to defend your action; that, indeed, is your concern,
as the jury will doubtless appreciate; but I think it will be more
advantageous to clear up the facts a little--not more advantageous to
you, perhaps, but that is what I am here to do. So will you please tell
me whether your son confessed to having murdered Mme. de Langrune,
either during that night when you persuaded him to run away, or
afterwards? Yes or no, please."
"I can't answer, sir. My son was mad! I will not believe my son was a
criminal! There was absolutely no motive to prompt him to the deed, and
his mother is in an asylum! That is the whole explanation of the crime!
If he committed murder, it was in a fit of temporary insanity! He is
dead; I refuse to cover his memory with the stain of infamy!"
"In other words, according to you Charles Rambert did confess, but you
don't want to say so."
"I do not say he did confess."
"You leave it to be inferred."
Etienne Rambert made no reply, and the judge passed on to another point.
"What exactly did you do after you left the château?"
"What anyone does, I suppose, when he runs away. We wandered miserably
about, going through fields and woods, I accusing him and he defending
himself. We avoided the villages, scarcely venturing even in the early
morning to go and buy food, and walked quickly, wishing to get as far
away as possible. We spent the most frightful time it is possible to
conceive."
"How long was all this?"
"I was with my son for four days, sir."
"So it was on the fourth day that you killed him?"
"Have pity, sir! I did not kill my son. It was a murderer that I had
with me, a murderer for whom the police were hunting and for whom the
guillotine was waiting!"
"A murderer, if you prefer it so," said the judge, entirely heedless of
the unhappy man's protests. "But you had no right to assume the
functions of executioner. Come, you admit you did kill him?"
"I do not admit it."
"Do you deny that you killed him?"
"I did what my duty told me to do!"
"Still the same story!" said the judge, angrily drumming his fingers on
the desk. "You refuse to answer. But even in your own interests you must
have the courage to adopt some definite theory. Well, would you have
been glad if your son had taken his own life?"
"May I entreat you to remember that my son is dead!" Etienne Rambert
said once more. "I can only remember the one fact that he was my son. I
can't say that I desired his death. I don't even know now if he was
guilty. Whatever horror I may feel for a crime, I can only remember now
that Charles was not in his right mind, and that he was the son of my
loins!"
Again a tremor of emotion passed through the court, and again the judge
made an angry gesture ordering silence.
"So you decline to answer any of the principal points of the indictment?
The jury will no doubt appreciate the reason. Well, can you let us know
any of the advice you gave your son? If you did not desire him to take
his own life, and if you had no intention of killing him, what did you
want?"
"Oblivion," said Etienne Rambert, more calmly this time. "It was not for
me to give my son up, and I could only desire for him oblivion, and if
that was impossible, then death. I implored him to think of the life
that was before him, and the future of shame, and I urged him to
disappear for ever."
"Ah, you admit you did recommend him to commit suicide?"
"I mean I wanted him to go abroad."
The president feigned to be occupied with his notes, purposely giving
time for the importance of the last admission he had wrung from Etienne
Rambert to sink into the minds of the jury. Then, without raising his
head, he asked abruptly:
"You were very surprised to hear of his death?"
"No," said Rambert dully.
"How did you part from each other?"
"The last night we slept out of doors, under a stack; we were both worn
out and heart-sick; I prayed God of His mercy to have pity on us. It was
by the bank of the Dordogne. Next morning when I woke up I was alone.
He--my son--had disappeared. I know no more."
The judge quelled the emotion in the court by a threatening glance, and
sprang a question on the defendant which was like a trap to catch him
lying.
"If at that time you knew no more, how was it that a few days later you
called on Inspector Juve and asked him at once what was known about the
dead body of your son? The body had only been recovered within the
previous hour or two, and had not been absolutely identified; the
newspapers, at any rate, only suggested the identity, with the utmost
reserve. But you, sir, had no doubt on the subject! You knew that the
corpse was that of your son! Why? How?"
It was one of the strongest points that could be made in support of the
theory that Etienne Rambert had murdered his son, and the defendant
immediately saw the difficulty he would have in giving an adequate
answer without compromising himself. He turned to the jury, as though he
had more hope in them than in the court.
"Gentlemen," he cried, "this is torture! I can bear no more! I cannot
answer any more. You know quite enough to form your judgment of me! Form
it now! Say if I failed in my duty as a man of honour and a father! I,
at least, can answer no more questions!" and he sank back in his place
like a beaten man, crushed by the distress evoked by all these painful
memories.
The judge nodded to the jury with the grim complacency of a man who has
run down his game.
"This refusal to answer my questions is in itself tantamount to a
confession," he said acidly. "Well, we will proceed to call the
witnesses. I should like to say that the most interesting witness would
undoubtedly be Bouzille, the tramp who recovered the body of Charles
Rambert; but unfortunately that individual has no fixed abode and it has
not been possible to serve him with a subpoena."
A number of witnesses succeeded one another in the box, without,
however, throwing any fresh light upon the matter; they were peasants
who had met the two Ramberts when they were flying from the château,
village bakers who had sold them bread, and lockkeepers who had seen,
but been unable to recover, the floating corpse. The people in the court
began to weary of the proceedings, the more so as it was confidently
rumoured that Etienne Rambert had proudly declined to call any
witnesses on his behalf, and even to allow his counsel to make any
rhetorical appeal to the jury. It might be imprudent, but there was
something fine in his defiance.
There was, however, one more thrill of interest for the public. The
judge had explained that he deemed it unnecessary to call the detective
Juve, inasmuch as all the information he had to give was already
detailed in the long indictment, but as Mme. de Langrune's granddaughter
was present in court, he would exercise his discretion and request her
to answer one or two questions. And, much taken aback by this unexpected
publicity, Thérèse Auvernois followed the usher to the witness-box.
"Mademoiselle Thérèse Auvernois, I need hardly ask if you recognise M.
Rambert: but do you identify him as the person whose conversation with
young Charles Rambert you overheard on that fatal night at the château
of Beaulieu?"
"Yes, sir, that is M. Etienne Rambert," she replied in low tones, and
with a long and tender look of pity at the defendant.
"Will you please tell us anything you know that has any bearing upon the
charge brought against the defendant, the charge of having killed his
son?"
Thérèse made a visible effort to restrain her distress.
"I can only say one thing, sir: that M. Rambert was talking to his son
in tones of such terrible distress that I knew his heart was broken by
the tragedy. I have heard so much from my dear grandmother about M.
Etienne Rambert that I can only remember that she always declared him to
be a man of the very highest principle, and I can only tell him here how
dreadfully sorry I am for him, and that everybody pities him as much as
I do."
The judge had expected that Thérèse would be a witness hostile to the
defendant, whereas anything she was going to say would obviously be much
to his advantage. He cut her short.
"That is enough, mademoiselle. Thank you," and while Thérèse was going
back to her seat, wiping away the tears that would come to her eyes
despite her bravest efforts to keep her self-control in the presence of
so many strangers, the judge announced that there were no other
witnesses to be heard, and called upon the Public Prosecutor to address
the court.
That personage rose at once and made a harangue that was eloquent
enough, no doubt, but introduced no new features into the case. He
relied upon his law rather than his facts: rapidly recapitulated the
defendant's contradictions and pitifully weak arguments, if arguments
they could be called: claimed that the facts had been proved despite the
defendant's steady refusal to answer questions: and insisted on the
point that the defendant had no right whatever to take the law into his
own hands, and either kill his son or aid and abet in his flight. He
concluded by asking for a verdict of guilty, and a sentence of penal
servitude for life.
To him succeeded counsel for the defendant, whose speech was brevity
itself. He declined to make any appeal _ad misericordiam_, but simply
asked the jury to decide whether the defendant had not acted as any
high-principled father would act when he discovered that his son had
committed a crime during a fit of insanity. He asked only for an
impartial decision on the facts, from men of high principle, and he sat
down conscious of having focussed the issue on the proper point and
secured the sympathy of the public.
The judges withdrew to their room, the jury retired to consider their
verdict, and Etienne Rambert was removed between two warders. Juve had
not stirred during the whole trial, or displayed the least sign of
approval or disapproval at any of the questions and answers exchanged.
He sat now unobtrusively listening to the conversation that passed near
him, relative to the issue of the case.
President Bonnet opined that Etienne Rambert had blundered in refusing
to put up any defence: he had shown contempt of court, which was always
unwise, and the court would show him no mercy. Dollon was of another
opinion: according to him Etienne Rambert was a sport of fate, deserving
pity rather than severity, and the court would be very lenient. Another
man declared that Etienne Rambert had been in an impasse: however fondly
he loved his son he could not but hope that he might commit suicide: if
a friend committed an offence against the laws of honour, the only thing
to do was to put a pistol into his hand. And so on: the only point on
which all were unanimous was their sympathy with the defendant.
But a bell rang sharply; grave and impassive, the jury returned, the
judges filed once more into their seats, Etienne Rambert was led back
into court by the warders. In tense silence the foreman of the jury
spoke:
"In the presence of God and of man, and upon my honour and my conscience
I declare that the answer of the jury is 'no' to all the questions put,
and that is the answer of them all."
It was acquittal!
There was no applause, but yet it seemed as if the words that set the
defendant free had relieved every bosom of an overwhelming dread; the
air seemed easier to breathe; and there was no one there but seemed
physically better and also happier, for hearing a verdict which gave
sanction for the general pity they had felt for the unhappy defendant, a
man of honour and a most unhappy father!
By their verdict the jury had implicitly applauded and commiserated
Etienne Rambert; but he still sat in the dock, broken and prostrated by
terrible distress, sobbing unreservedly and making no effort to restrain
his immeasurable grief.