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.”