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?”