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.