M. Daburon had been surprised at Claire’s visit.
M. de Commarin was still more so, when his valet whispered to him that
Mademoiselle d’Arlange desired a moment’s conversation with him.
M. Daburon had broken a handsome card-plate; M. de Commarin, who was at
breakfast, dropped his knife on his plate.
Like the magistrate he exclaimed, “Claire!”
He hesitated to receive her, fearing a painful and disagreeable scene.
She could only have, as he knew, a very slight affection for him, who
had for so long repulsed her with such obstinacy. What could she want
with him? To inquire about Albert, of course. And what could he reply?
She would probably have some nervous attack or other; and he would
be thoroughly upset. However, he thought of how much she must have
suffered; and he pitied her.
He felt that it would be cruel, as well as unworthy of him, to keep away
from her who was to have been his daughter-in-law, the Viscountess de
Commarin.
He sent a message, asking her to wait a few minutes in one of the little
drawing-rooms on the ground floor.
He did not keep her waiting long, his appetite having been destroyed by
the mere announcement of her visit. He was fully prepared for anything
disagreeable.
As soon as he appeared, Claire saluted him with one of those graceful,
yet highly dignified bows, which distinguished the Marchioness
d’Arlange.
“Sir--,” she began.
“You come, do you not, my poor child, to obtain news of the unhappy
boy?” asked M. de Commarin.
He interrupted Claire, and went straight to the point, in order to get
the disagreeable business more quickly over.
“No sir,” replied the young girl, “I come, on the contrary, to bring you
news. Albert is innocent.”
The count looked at her most attentively, persuaded that grief had
affected her reason; but in that case her madness was very quiet.
“I never doubted it,” continued Claire; “but now I have the most
positive proof.”
“Are you quite sure of what you are saying?” inquired the count, whose
eyes betrayed his doubt.
Mademoiselle d’Arlange understood his thoughts; her interview with M.
Daburon had given her experience.
“I state nothing which is not of the utmost accuracy,” she replied,
“and easily proved. I have just come from M. Daburon, the investigating
magistrate, who is one of my grandmother’s friends; and, after what I
told him, he is convinced that Albert is innocent.”
“He told you that, Claire!” exclaimed the count. “My child, are you
sure, are you not mistaken?”
“No, sir. I told him something, of which every one was ignorant, and
of which Albert, who is a gentleman, could not speak. I told him that
Albert passed with me, in my grandmother’s garden, all that evening on
which the crime was committed. He had asked to see me--”
“But your word will not be sufficient.”
“There are proofs, and justice has them by this time.”
“Heavens! Is it really possible?” cried the count, who was beside
himself.
“Ah, sir!” said Mademoiselle d’Arlange bitterly, “you are like the
magistrate; you believed in the impossible. You are his father, and
you suspected him! You do not know him, then. You were abandoning him,
without trying to defend him. Ah, I did not hesitate one moment!”
One is easily induced to believe true that which one is anxiously
longing for. M. de Commarin was not difficult to convince. Without
thinking, without discussion, he put faith in Claire’s assertions. He
shared her convictions, without asking himself whether it were wise or
prudent to do so.
Yes, he had been overcome by the magistrate’s certitude, he had told
himself that what was most unlikely was true; and he had bowed his head.
One word from a young girl had upset this conviction. Albert innocent!
The thought descended upon his heart like heavenly dew.
Claire appeared to him like a bearer of happiness and hope.
During the last three days, he had discovered how great was his
affection for Albert. He had loved him tenderly, for he had never been
able to discard him, in spite of his frightful suspicions as to his
paternity.
For three days, the knowledge of the crime imputed to his unhappy son,
the thought of the punishment which awaited him, had nearly killed the
father. And after all he was innocent!
No more shame, no more scandalous trial, no more stains upon the
escutcheon; the name of Commarin would not be heard at the assizes.
“But, then, mademoiselle,” asked the count, “are they going to release
him?”
“Alas! sir, I demanded that they should at once set him at liberty. It
is just, is it not, since he is not guilty? But the magistrate replied
that it was not possible; that he was not the master; that Albert’s fate
depended on many others. It was then that I resolved to come to you for
aid.”
“Can I then do something?”
“I at least hope so. I am only a poor girl, very ignorant; and I know
no one in the world. I do not know what can be done to get him released
from prison. There ought, however, to be some means for obtaining
justice. Will you not try all that can be done, sir, you, who are his
father?”
“Yes,” replied M. de Commarin quickly, “yes, and without losing a
minute.”
Since Albert’s arrest, the count had been plunged in a dull stupor. In
his profound grief, seeing only ruin and disaster about him, he had done
nothing to shake off this mental paralysis. Ordinarily very active,
he now sat all day long without moving. He seemed to enjoy a condition
which prevented his feeling the immensity of his misfortune. Claire’s
voice sounded in his ear like the resurrection trumpet. The frightful
darkness was dispelled; he saw a glimmering in the horizon; he recovered
the energy of his youth.
“Let us go,” he said.
Suddenly the radiance in his face changed to sadness, mixed with anger.
“But where,” he asked. “At what door shall we knock with any hope of
success? In the olden times, I would have sought the king. But to-day!
Even the emperor himself cannot interfere with the law. He will tell me
to await the decision of the tribunals, that he can do nothing. Wait!
And Albert is counting the minutes in mortal agony! We shall certainly
have justice; but to obtain it promptly is an art taught in schools that
I have not frequented.”
“Let us try, at least, sir,” persisted Claire. “Let us seek out judges,
generals, ministers, any one. Only lead me to them. I will speak; and
you shall see if we do not succeed.”
The count took Claire’s little hands between his own, and held them a
moment pressing them with paternal tenderness.
“Brave girl!” he cried, “you are a noble, courageous woman, Claire! Good
blood never fails. I did not know you. Yes, you shall be my daughter;
and you shall be happy together, Albert and you. But we must not rush
about everywhere, like wild geese. We need some one to tell us whom we
should address,--some guide, lawyer, advocate. Ah!” he cried, “I have
it,--Noel!”
Claire raised her eyes to the count’s in surprise.
“He is my son,” replied M. de Commarin, evidently embarrassed, “my
other son, Albert’s brother. The best and worthiest of men,” he added,
repeating quite appropriately a phrase already uttered by M. Daburon.
“He is a advocate; he knows all about the Palais; he will tell us what
to do.”
Noel’s name, thus thrown into the midst of this conversation so full of
hope, oppressed Claire’s heart.
The count perceived her affright.
“Do not feel anxious, dear child,” he said. “Noel is good; and I will
tell you more, he loves Albert. Do not shake your head so; Noel told me
himself, on this very spot, that he did not believe Albert guilty. He
declared that he intended doing everything to dispel the fatal mistake,
and that he would be his advocate.”
These assertions did not seem to reassure the young girl. She thought
to herself, “What then has this Noel done for Albert?” But she made no
remark.
“I will send for him,” continued M. de Commarin; “he is now with
Albert’s mother, who brought him up, and who is now on her deathbed.”
“Albert’s mother!”
“Yes, my child. Albert will explain to you what may perhaps seem to you
an enigma. Now time presses. But I think--”
He stopped suddenly. He thought, that, instead of sending for Noel at
Madame Gerdy’s, he might go there himself. He would thus see Valerie!
and he had longed to see her again so much!
It was one of those actions which the heart urges, but which one does
not dare risk, because a thousand subtle reasons and interests are
against it.
One wishes, desires, and even longs for it; and yet one struggles,
combats, and resists. But, if an opportunity occurs, one is only too
happy to seize it; then one has an excuse with which to silence one’s
conscience.
In thus yielding to the impulse of one’s feelings, one can say: “It was
not I who willed it, it was fate.”
“It will be quicker, perhaps,” observed the count, “to go to Noel.”
“Let us start then, sir.”
“I hardly know though, my child,” said the old gentleman, hesitating,
“whether I may, whether I ought to take you with me. Propriety--”
“Ah, sir, propriety has nothing to do with it!” replied Claire
impetuously. “With you, and for his sake, I can go anywhere. Is it not
indispensable that I should give some explanations? Only send word to my
grandmother by Schmidt, who will come back here and await my return. I
am ready, sir.”
“Very well, then,” said the count.
Then, ringing the bell violently, he called to the servant, “My
carriage.”
In descending the steps, he insisted upon Claire’s taking his arm.
The gallant and elegant politeness of the friend of the Count d’Artois
reappeared.
“You have taken twenty years from my age,” he said; “it is but right
that I should devote to you the youth you have restored to me.”
As soon as Claire had entered the carriage, he said to the footman: “Rue
St. Lazare, quick!”
Whenever the count said “quick,” on entering his carriage, the
pedestrians had to get out of the way. But the coachman was a skillful
driver, and arrived without accident.
Aided by the concierge’s directions, the count and the young girl went
towards Madame Gerdy’s apartments. The count mounted slowly, holding
tightly to the balustrade, stopping at every landing to recover his
breath. He was, then, about to see her again! His emotion pressed his
heart like a vice.
“M. Noel Gerdy?” he asked of the servant.
The advocate had just that moment gone out. She did not know where he
had gone; but he had said he should not be out more than half an hour.
“We will wait for him, then,” said the count.
He advanced; and the servant drew back to let them pass. Noel had
strictly forbidden her to admit any visitors; but the Count de Commarin
was one of those whose appearance makes servants forget all their
orders.
Three persons were in the room into which the servant introduced the
count and Mademoiselle d’Arlange.
They were the parish priest, the doctor, and a tall man, an officer
of the Legion of Honour, whose figure and bearing indicated the old
soldier.
They were conversing near the fireplace, and the arrival of strangers
appeared to astonish them exceedingly.
In bowing, in response to M. de Commarin’s and Claire’s salutations,
they seemed to inquire their business: but this hesitation was brief,
for the soldier almost immediately offered Mademoiselle d’Arlange a
chair.
The count considered that his presence was inopportune; and he thought
that he was called upon to introduce himself, and explain his visit.
“You will excuse me, gentlemen,” said he, “if I am indiscreet. I did not
think of being so when I asked to wait for Noel, whom I have the most
pressing need of seeing. I am the Count de Commarin.”
At this name, the old soldier let go the back of the chair which he was
still holding and haughtily raised his head. An angry light flashed in
his eyes, and he made a threatening gesture. His lips moved, as if he
were about to speak; but he restrained himself, and retired, bowing his
head, to the window.
Neither the count nor the two other men noticed his strange behaviour;
but it did not escape Claire.
While Mademoiselle d’Arlange sat down rather surprised, the count, much
embarrassed at his position, went up to the priest, and asked in a low
voice, “What is, I pray, M. l’Abbe; Madame Gerdy’s condition?”
The doctor, who had a sharp ear, heard the question, and approached
quickly.
He was very pleased to have an opportunity to speak to a person as
celebrated as the Count de Commarin, and to become acquainted with him.
“I fear, sir,” he said, “that she cannot live throughout the day.”
The count pressed his hand against his forehead, as though he had felt a
sudden pain there. He hesitated to inquire further.
After a moment of chilling silence, he resolved to go on.
“Does she recognise her friends?” he murmured.
“No, sir. Since last evening, however, there has been a great change.
She was very uneasy all last night: she had moments of fierce delirium.
About an hour ago, we thought she was recovering her senses, and we sent
for M. l’Abbe.”
“Very needlessly, though,” put in the priest, “and it is a sad
misfortune. Her reason is quite gone. Poor woman! I have known her ten
years. I have been to see her nearly every week; I never knew a more
worthy person.”
“She must suffer dreadfully,” said the doctor.
Almost at the same instant, and as if to bear out the doctor’s words,
they heard stifled cries from the next room, the door of which was
slightly open.
“Do you hear?” exclaimed the count, trembling from head to foot.
Claire understood nothing of this strange scene. Dark presentiments
oppressed her; she felt as though she were enveloped in an atmosphere of
evil. She grew frightened, rose from her chair, and drew near the count.
“She is, I presume, in there?” asked M. de Commarin.
“Yes, sir,” harshly answered the old soldier, who had also drawn near.
At any other time, the count would have noticed the soldier’s tone,
and have resented it. Now, he did not even raise his eyes. He remained
insensible to everything. Was she not there, close to him? His thoughts
were in the past; it seemed to him but yesterday that he had quitted her
for the last time.
“I should very much like to see her,” he said timidly.
“That is impossible.” replied the old soldier.
“Why?” stammered the count.
“At least, M. de Commarin,” replied the soldier, “let her die in peace.”
The count started, as if he had been struck. His eyes encountered the
officer’s; he lowered them like a criminal before his judge.
“Nothing need prevent the count’s entering Madame Gerdy’s room,” put in
the doctor, who purposely saw nothing of all this. “She would probably
not notice his presence; and if--”
“Oh, she would perceive nothing!” said the priest. “I have just spoken
to her, taken her hand, she remained quite insensible.”
The old soldier reflected deeply.
“Enter,” said he at last to the count; “perhaps it is God’s will.”
The count tottered so that the doctor offered to assist him. He gently
motioned him away.
The doctor and the priest entered with him; Claire and the old soldier
remained at the threshold of the door, facing the bed.
The count took three or four steps, and was obliged to stop. He wished
to, but could not go further.
Could this dying woman really be Valerie?
He taxed his memory severely; nothing in those withered features,
nothing in that distorted face, recalled the beautiful, the adored
Valerie of his youth. He did not recognise her.
But she knew him, or rather divined his presence. With supernatural
strength, she raised herself, exposing her shoulders and emaciated arms;
then pushing away the ice from her forehead, and throwing back her still
plentiful hair, bathed with water and perspiration, she cried, “Guy!
Guy!”
The count trembled all over.
He did not perceive that which immediately struck all the other persons
present--the transformation in the sick woman. Her contracted features
relaxed, a celestial joy spread over her face, and her eyes, sunken by
disease, assumed an expression of infinite tenderness.
“Guy,” said she in a voice heartrending by its sweetness, “you have come
at last! How long, O my God! I have waited for you! You cannot think
what I have suffered by your absence. I should have died of grief, had
it not been for the hope of seeing you again. Who kept you from me?
Your parents again? How cruel of them! Did you not tell them that no one
could love you here below as I do? No, that is not it; I remember. You
were angry when you left me. Your friends wished to separate us; they
said that I was deceiving you with another. Who have I injured that I
should have so many enemies! They envied my happiness; and we were so
happy! But you did not believe the wicked calumny, you scorned it, for
are you not here?”
The nun, who had risen on seeing so many persons enter the sick room,
opened her eyes with astonishment.
“I deceive you?” continued the dying woman; “only a madman would
believe it. Am I not yours, your very own, heart and soul? To me you are
everything: and there is nothing I could expect or hope for from another
which you have not already given me. Was I not yours, alone, from the
very first? I never hesitated to give myself entirely to you; I felt
that I was born for you, Guy, do you remember? I was working for a lace
maker, and was barely earning a living. You told me you were a poor
student; I thought you were depriving yourself for me. You insisted on
having our little apartment on the Quai Saint-Michel done up. It was
lovely, with the new paper all covered with flowers, which we hung
ourselves. How delightful it was! From the window, we could see the
great trees of the Tuileries gardens; and by leaning out a little we
could see the sun set through the arches of the bridges. Oh, those happy
days! The first time that we went into the country together, one Sunday,
you brought me a more beautiful dress than I had ever dreamed of, and
such darling little boots, that it was a shame to walk out in them! But
you had deceived me! You were not a poor student. One day, when taking
my work home, I met you in an elegant carriage, with tall footmen,
dressed in liveries covered with gold lace, behind. I could not believe
my eyes. That evening you told me the truth, that you were a nobleman
and immensely rich. O my darling, why did you tell me?”
Had she her reason, or was this a mere delirium?
Great tears rolled down the Count de Commarin’s wrinkled face, and the
doctor and the priest were touched by the sad spectacle of an old man
weeping like a child.
Only the previous evening, the count had thought his heart dead; and now
this penetrating voice was sufficient to regain the fresh and powerful
feelings of his youth. Yet, how many years had passed away since then!
“After that,” continued Madame Gerdy, “we left the Quai Saint-Michel.
You wished it; and I obeyed, in spite of my apprehensions. You told me,
that, to please you, I ought to look like a great lady. You provided
teachers for me, for I was so ignorant that I scarcely knew how to sign
my name. Do you remember the queer spelling in my first letter? Ah, Guy,
if you had really only been a poor student! When I knew that you were so
rich, I lost my simplicity, my thoughtlessness, my gaiety. I feared that
you would think me covetous, that you would imagine that your fortune
influenced my love. Men who, like you, have millions, must be unhappy!
They must be always doubting and full of suspicions, they can never be
sure whether it is themselves or their gold which is loved, and this
awful doubt makes them mistrustful, jealous, and cruel. Oh my dearest,
why did we leave our dear little room? There, we were happy. Why did you
not leave me always where you first found me? Did you not know that the
sight of happiness irritates mankind? If we had been wise, we would have
hid ours like a crime. You thought to raise me, but you only sunk me
lower. You were proud of our love; you published it abroad. Vainly I
asked you in mercy to leave me in obscurity, and unknown. Soon the whole
town knew that I was your mistress. Every one was talking of the money
you spent on me. How I blushed at the flaunting luxury you thrust upon
me! You were satisfied, because my beauty became celebrated; I wept,
because my shame became so too. People talked about me, as those women
who make their lovers commit the greatest follies. Was not my name in
the papers? And it was through the same papers that I heard of your
approaching marriage. Unhappy woman! I should have fled from you, but I
had not the courage. I resigned myself, without an effort, to the most
humiliating, the most shameful of positions. You were married; and I
remained your mistress. Oh, what anguish I suffered during that terrible
evening. I was alone in my own home, in that room so associated with
you; and you were marrying another! I said to myself, ‘At this moment,
a pure, noble young girl is giving herself to him.’ I said again, ‘What
oaths is that mouth, which has so often pressed my lips, now taking?’
Often since that dreadful misfortune, I have asked heaven what crime I
had committed that I should be so terribly punished? This was the crime.
I remained your mistress, and your wife died. I only saw her once, and
then scarcely for a minute, but she looked at you, and I knew that she
loved you as only I could. Ah, Guy, it was our love that killed her!”
She stopped exhausted, but none of the bystanders moved. They listened
breathlessly, and waited with feverish emotion for her to resume.
Mademoiselle d’Arlange had not the strength to remain standing; she had
fallen upon her knees, and was pressing her handkerchief to her mouth to
keep back her sobs. Was not this woman Albert’s mother?
The worthy nun was alone unmoved; she had seen, she said to herself,
many such deliriums before. She understood absolutely nothing of what
was passing.
“These people are very foolish,” she muttered, “to pay so much attention
to the ramblings of a person out of her mind.”
She thought she had more sense than the others, so, approaching the bed,
she began to cover up the sick woman.
“Come, madame,” said she, “cover yourself, or you will catch cold.”
“Sister!” remonstrated the doctor and priest at the same moment.
“For God’s sake!” exclaimed the soldier, “let her speak.”
“Who,” continued the sick woman, unconscious of all that was passing
about her, “who told you I was deceiving you? Oh, the wretches! They set
spies upon me; they discovered that an officer came frequently to see
me. But that officer was my brother, my dear Louis! When he was eighteen
years old, and being unable to obtain work, he enlisted, saying to my
mother, that there would then be one mouth the less in the family. He
was a good soldier, and his officers always liked him. He worked whilst
with his regiment; he taught himself, and he quickly rose in rank. He
was promoted a lieutenant, then captain, and finally became major. Louis
always loved me; had he remained in Paris I should not have fallen. But
our mother died, and I was left all alone in this great city. He was a
non-commissioned officer when he first knew that I had a lover; and
he was so enraged that I feared he would never forgive me. But he did
forgive me, saying that my constancy in my error was its only excuse.
Ah, my friend, he was more jealous of your honour than you yourself! He
came to see me in secret, because I placed him in the unhappy position
of blushing for his sister. I had condemned myself never to speak of
him, never to mention his name. Could a brave soldier confess that his
sister was the mistress of a count? That it might not be known, I took
the utmost precautions, but alas! only to make you doubt me. When Louis
knew what was said, he wished in his blind rage to challenge you; and
then I was obliged to make him think that he had no right to defend me.
What misery! Ah, I have paid dearly for my years of stolen happiness!
But you are here, and all is forgotten. For you do believe me, do you
not, Guy? I will write to Louis; he will come, he will tell you that I
do not lie, and you cannot doubt his, a soldier’s word.”
“Yes, on my honour,” said the old soldier, “what my sister says is the
truth.”
The dying woman did not hear him; she continued in a voice panting
from weariness: “How your presence revives me. I feel that I am growing
stronger. I have nearly been very ill. I am afraid I am not very pretty
today; but never mind, kiss me!”
She opened her arms, and thrust out her lips as if to kiss him.
“But it is on one condition, Guy, that you will leave me my child? Oh! I
beg of you, I entreat you not to take him from me; leave him to me.
What is a mother without her child? You are anxious to give him
an illustrious name, an immense fortune. No! You tell me that this
sacrifice will be for his good. No! My child is mine; I will keep him.
The world has no honours, no riches, which can replace a mother’s love.
You wish to give me in exchange, that other woman’s child. Never! What!
you would have that woman embrace my boy! It is impossible. Take away
this strange child from me; he fills me with horror; I want my own! Ah,
do not insist, do not threaten me with anger, do not leave me. I should
give in, and then, I should die. Guy, forget this fatal project, the
thought of it alone is a crime. Cannot my prayers, my tears, can nothing
move you? Ah, well, God will punish us. All will be discovered. The day
will come when these children will demand a fearful reckoning. Guy, I
foresee the future; I see my son coming towards me, justly angered.
What does he say, great heaven! Oh, those letters, those letters, sweet
memories of our love! My son, he threatens me! He strikes me! Ah, help!
A son strike his mother. Tell no one of it, though. O my God, what
torture! Yet he knows well that I am his mother. He pretends not to
believe me. Lord, this is too much! Guy! pardon! oh, my only friend! I
have neither the power to resist, nor the courage to obey you.”
At this moment the door opening on to the landing opened, and Noel
appeared, pale as usual, but calm and composed. The dying woman saw him,
and the sight affected her like an electric shock. A terrible shudder
shook her frame; her eyes grew inordinately large, her hair seemed to
stand on end. She raised herself on her pillows, stretched out her
arm in the direction where Noel stood, and in a loud voice exclaimed,
“Assassin!”
She fell back convulsively on the bed. Some one hastened forward: she
was dead.
A deep silence prevailed.
Such is the majesty of death, and the terror which accompanies it, that,
in its presence, even the strongest and most sceptical bow their heads.
For a time, passions and interests are forgotten. Involuntarily we
are drawn together, when some mutual friend breathes his last in our
presence.
All the bystanders were deeply moved by this painful scene, this last
confession, wrested so to say from the delirium.
And the last word uttered by Madame Gerdy, “assassin,” surprised no one.
All, excepting the nun, knew of the awful accusation which had been made
against Albert.
To him they applied the unfortunate mother’s malediction.
Noel seemed quite broken hearted. Kneeling by the bedside of her who had
been as a mother to him, he took one of her hands, and pressed it close
to his lips.
“Dead!” he groaned, “she is dead!”
The nun and the priest knelt beside him, and repeated in a low voice the
prayers for the dead.
They implored God to shed his peace and mercy on the departed soul.
They begged for a little happiness in heaven for her who had suffered so
much on earth.
Fallen into a chair, his head thrown back, the Count de Commarin was
more overwhelmed and more livid than this dead woman, his old love, once
so beautiful.
Claire and the doctor hastened to assist him.
They undid his cravat, and took off his shirt collar, for he was
suffocating. With the help of the old soldier, whose red, tearful
eyes, told of suppressed grief, they moved the count’s chair to the
half-opened window to give him a little air. Three days before, this
scene would have killed him. But the heart hardens by misfortune, like
hands by labour.
“His tears have saved him,” whispered the doctor to Claire.
M. de Commarin gradually recovered, and, as his thoughts became clearer,
his sufferings returned.
Prostration follows great mental shocks. Nature seems to collect her
strength to sustain the misfortune. We do not feel all its intensity at
once; it is only afterwards that we realize the extent and profundity of
the evil.
The count’s gaze was fixed upon the bed where lay Valerie’s body. There,
then, was all that remained of her. The soul, that soul so devoted and
so tender, had flown.
What would he not have given if God would have restored that unfortunate
woman to life for a day, or even for an hour? With what transports
of repentance he would have cast himself at her feet, to implore her
pardon, to tell her how much he detested his past conduct! How had
he acknowledged the inexhaustible love of that angel? Upon a mere
suspicion, without deigning to inquire, without giving her a hearing,
he had treated her with the coldest contempt. Why had he not seen her
again? He would have spared himself twenty years of doubt as to Albert’s
birth. Instead of an isolated existence, he would have led a happy,
joyous life.
Then he remembered the countess’s death. She also had loved him, and had
died of her love.
He had not understood them; he had killed them both.
The hour of expiation had come; and he could not say: “Lord, the
punishment is too great.”
And yet, what punishment, what misfortunes, during the last five days!
“Yes,” he stammered, “she predicted it. Why did I not listen to her?”
Madame Gerdy’s brother pitied the old man, so severely tried. He held
out his hand.
“M. de Commarin,” he said, in a grave, sad voice, “my sister forgave
you long ago, even if she ever had any ill feeling against you. It is my
turn to-day; I forgive you sincerely.”
“Thank you, sir,” murmured the count, “thank you!” and then he added:
“What a death!”
“Yes,” murmured Claire, “she breathed her last in the idea that her son
was guilty of a crime. And we were not able to undeceive her.”
“At least,” cried the count, “her son should be free to render her his
last duties; yes, he must be. Noel!”
The advocate had approached his father, and heard all.
“I have promised, father,” he replied, “to save him.”
For the first time, Mademoiselle d’Arlange was face to face with Noel.
Their eyes met, and she could not restrain a movement of repugnance,
which the advocate perceived.
“Albert is already saved,” she said proudly. “What we ask is, that
prompt justice shall be done him; that he shall be immediately set at
liberty. The magistrate now knows the truth.”
“The truth?” exclaimed the advocate.
“Yes; Albert passed at my house, with me, the evening the crime was
committed.”
Noel looked at her surprised; so singular a confession from such a
mouth, without explanation, might well surprise him.
She drew herself up haughtily.
“I am Mademoiselle Claire d’Arlange, sir,” said she.
M. de Commarin now quickly ran over all the incidents reported by
Claire.
When he had finished, Noel replied: “You see, sir, my position at this
moment, to-morrow--”
“To-morrow?” interrupted the count, “you said, I believe, to-morrow!
Honour demands, sir, that we act to-day, at this moment. You can show
your love for this poor woman much better by delivering her son than by
praying for her.”
Noel bowed low.
“To hear your wish, sir, is to obey it,” he said; “I go. This evening,
at your house, I shall have the honour of giving you an account of my
proceedings. Perhaps I shall be able to bring Albert with me.”
He spoke, and, again embracing the dead woman, went out.
Soon the count and Mademoiselle d’Arlange also retired.
The old soldier went to the Mayor, to give notice of the death, and to
fulfil the necessary formalities.
The nun alone remained, awaiting the priest, which the cure had promised
to send to watch the corpse.
The daughter of St. Vincent felt neither fear nor embarrassment, she had
been so many times in a similar position. Her prayers said, she arose
and went about the room, arranging everything as it should be in the
presence of death. She removed all traces of the illness, put away the
medicine bottles, burnt some sugar upon the fire shovel, and, on a table
covered with a white cloth at the head of the bed, placed some lighted
candles, a crucifix with holy water, and a branch of palm.