Greatly troubled and perplexed by Mademoiselle d’Arlange’s revelations,
M. Daburon was ascending the stairs that led to the offices of the
investigating magistrates, when he saw old Tabaret coming towards him.
The sight pleased him, and he at once called out: “M. Tabaret!”
But the old fellow, who showed signs of the most intense agitation, was
scarcely disposed to stop, or to lose a single minute.
“You must excuse me, sir,” he said, bowing, “but I am expected at home.”
“I hope, however--”
“Oh, he is innocent,” interrupted old Tabaret. “I have already some
proofs; and before three days--But you are going to see Gevrol’s man
with the earrings. He is very cunning, Gevrol; I misjudged him.”
And without listening to another word, he hurried away, jumping down
three steps at a times, at the risk of breaking his neck.
M. Daburon, greatly disappointed, also hastened on.
In the passage, on a bench of rough wood before his office door, Albert
sat awaiting him, under the charge of a Garde de Paris.
“You will be summoned immediately, sir,” said the magistrate to the
prisoner, as he opened his door.
In the office, Constant was talking with a skinny little man, who
might have been taken, from his dress, for a well-to-do inhabitant of
Batignolles, had it not been for the enormous pin in imitation gold
which shone in his cravat, and betrayed the detective.
“You received my letters?” asked M. Daburon of his clerk.
“Your orders have been executed, sir; the prisoner is without, and here
is M. Martin, who this moment arrived from the neighbourhood of the
Invalides.”
“That is well,” said the magistrate in a satisfied tone. And, turning
towards the detective, “Well, M. Martin,” he asked, “what did you see?”
“The walls had been scaled, sir.”
“Lately?”
“Five or six days ago.”
“You are sure of this?”
“As sure as I am that I see M. Constant at this moment mending his pen.”
“The marks are plain?”
“As plain as the nose on my face, sir, if I may so express myself. The
thief--it was done by a thief, I imagine,” continued M. Martin, who was
a great talker--“the thief entered the garden before the rain, and went
away after it, as you had conjectured. This circumstance is easy to
establish by examining the marks on the wall of the ascent and the
descent on the side towards the street. These marks are several
abrasions, evidently made by feet of some one climbing. The first are
clean; the others, muddy. The scamp--he was a nimble fellow--in getting
in, pulled himself up by the strength of his wrists; but when going
away, he enjoyed the luxury of a ladder, which he threw down as soon as
he was on the top of the wall. It is to see where he placed it, by holes
made in the ground by the fellow’s weight; and also by the mortar which
has been knocked away from the top of the wall.”
“Is that all?” asked the magistrate.
“Not yet, sir. Three of the pieces of glass which cover the top of the
wall have been removed. Several of the acacia branches, which extend
over the wall have been twisted or broken. Adhering to the thorns of
one of these branches, I found this little piece of lavender kid, which
appears to me to belong to a glove.”
The magistrate eagerly seized the piece of kid.
It had evidently come from a glove.
“You took care, I hope, M. Martin,” said M. Daburon, “not to attract
attention at the house where you made this investigation?”
“Certainly, sir. I first of all examined the exterior of the wall at my
leisure. After that, leaving my hat at a wine shop round the corner,
I called at the Marchioness d’Arlange’s house, pretending to be the
servant of a neighbouring duchess, who was in despair at having lost a
favourite, and, if I may so speak, an eloquent parrot. I was very
kindly given permission to explore the garden; and, as I spoke as
disrespectfully as possible of my pretended mistress they, no doubt,
took me for a genuine servant.”
“You are an adroit and prompt fellow, M. Martin,” interrupted the
magistrate. “I am well satisfied with you; and I will report you
favourably at headquarters.”
He rang his bell, while the detective, delighted at the praise he had
received, moved backwards to the door, bowing the while.
Albert was then brought in.
“Have you decided, sir,” asked the investigating magistrate without
preamble, “to give me a true account of how you spent last Tuesday
evening?”
“I have already told you, sir.”
“No, sir, you have not; and I regret to say that you lied to me.”
Albert, at this apparent insult, turned red, and his eyes flashed.
“I know all that you did on that evening,” continued the magistrate,
“because justice, as I have already told you, is ignorant of nothing
that it is important for it to know.”
Then, looking straight into Albert’s eyes, he continued slowly: “I have
seen Mademoiselle Claire d’Arlange.”
On hearing that name, the prisoner’s features, contracted by a firm
resolve not to give way, relaxed.
It seemed as though he experienced an immense sensation of delight, like
a man who escapes almost by a miracle from an imminent danger which he
had despaired of avoiding. However, he made no reply.
“Mademoiselle d’Arlange,” continued the magistrate, “has told me where
you were on Tuesday evening.”
Albert still hesitated.
“I am not setting a trap for you,” added M. Daburon; “I give you my word
of honour. She has told me all, you understand?”
This time Albert decided to speak.
His explanations corresponded exactly with Claire’s; not one detail
more. Henceforth, doubt was impossible.
Mademoiselle d’Arlange had not been imposed upon. Either Albert was
innocent, or she was his accomplice.
Could she knowingly be the accomplice of such an odious crime? No; she
could not even be suspected of it.
But who then was the assassin?
For, when a crime has been committed, justice demands a culprit.
“You see, sir,” said the magistrate severely to Albert, “you did deceive
me. You risked your life, sir, and, what is also very serious, you
exposed me, you exposed justice, to commit a most deplorable mistake.
Why did you not tell me the truth at once?”
“Mademoiselle d’Arlange, sir,” replied Albert, “in according me a
meeting, trusted in my honour.”
“And you would have died sooner than mention that interview?”
interrupted M. Daburon with a touch of irony. “That is all very fine,
sir, and worthy of the days of chivalry!”
“I am not the hero that you suppose, sir,” replied the prisoner simply.
“If I told you that I did not count on Claire, I should be telling a
falsehood. I was waiting for her. I knew that, on learning of my arrest,
she would brave everything to save me. But her friends might have hid it
from her; and that was what I feared. In that event, I do not think,
so far as one can answer for oneself, that I should have mentioned her
name.”
There was no appearance of bravado. What Albert said, he thought and
felt. M. Daburon regretted his irony.
“Sir,” he said kindly, “you must return to your prison. I cannot release
you yet; but you will be no longer in solitary confinement. You will be
treated with every attention due to a prisoner whose innocence appears
probable.”
Albert bowed, and thanked him; and was then removed.
“We are now ready for Gevrol,” said the magistrate to his clerk.
The chief of detectives was absent: he had been sent for from the
Prefecture of Police; but his witness, the man with the earrings, was
waiting in the passage.
He was told to enter.
He was one of those short, thick-set men, powerful as oaks, who look as
though they could carry almost any weight on their broad shoulders.
His white hair and whiskers set off his features, hardened and tanned
by the inclemency of the weather, the sea winds and the heat of the
tropics.
He had large callous black hands, with big sinewy fingers which must
have possessed the strength of a vice.
Great earrings in the form of anchors hung from his ears. He was dressed
in the costume of a well-to-do Normandy fisherman, out for a holiday.
The clerk was obliged to push him into the office, for this son of the
ocean was timid and abashed when on shore.
He advanced, balancing himself first on one leg, then on the other, with
that irregular walk of the sailor, who, used to the rolling and tossing
of the waves, is surprised to find anything immovable beneath his feet.
To give himself confidence, he fumbled over his soft felt hat, decorated
with little lead medals, like the cap of king Louis XI. of devout
memory, and also adorned with some of that worsted twist made by the
young country girls, on a primitive frame composed of four or five pins
stuck in a hollow cork.
M. Daburon examined him, and estimated him at a glance. There was no
doubt but that he was the sunburnt man described by one of the witnesses
at La Jonchere.
It was also impossible to doubt his honesty. His open countenance
displayed sincerity and good nature.
“Your name?” demanded the investigating magistrate.
“Marie Pierre Lerouge.”
“Are you, then, related to Claudine Lerouge?”
“I am her husband, sir.”
What, the husband of the victim alive, and the police ignorant of his
existence!
Thus thought M. Daburon.
What, then, does this wonderful progress in invention accomplish?
To-day, precisely as twenty years ago, when Justice is in doubt, it
requires the same inordinate loss of time and money to obtain the
slightest information.
On Friday, they had written to inquire about Claudine’s past life; it
was now Monday, and no reply had arrived.
And yet photography was in existence, and the electric telegraph. They
had at their service a thousand means, formerly unknown; and they made
no use of them.
“Every one,” said the magistrate, “believed her a widow. She herself
pretended to be one.”
“Yes, for in that way she partly excused her conduct. Besides, it was an
arrangement between ourselves. I had told her that I would have nothing
more to do with her.”
“Indeed? Well, you know that she is dead, victim of an odious crime?”
“The detective who brought me here told me of it, sir,” replied the
sailor, his face darkening. “She was a wretch!” he added in a hollow
voice.
“How? You, her husband, accuse her?”
“I have but too good reason to do so, sir. Ah, my dead father, who
foresaw it all at the time, warned me! I laughed, when he said, ‘Take
care, or she will dishonour us all.’ He was right. Through her, I
have been hunted down by the police, just like some skulking thief.
Everywhere that they inquired after me with their warrant, people must
have said ‘Ah, ha, he has then committed some crime!’ And here I am
before a magistrate! Ah, sir, what a disgrace! The Lerouges have been
honest people, from father to son, ever since the world began.
Inquire of all who have ever had dealings with me, they will tell you,
‘Lerouge’s word is as good as another man’s writing.’ Yes, she was a
wicked woman; and I have often told her that she would come to a bad
end.”
“You told her that?”
“More than a hundred times, sir.”
“Why? Come, my friend, do not be uneasy, your honour is not at stake
here, no one questions it. When did you warn her so wisely?”
“Ah, a long time ago, sir,” replied the sailor, “the first time was more
than thirty years back. She had ambition even in her blood; she wished
to mix herself up in the intrigues of the great. It was that that ruined
her. She said that one got money for keeping secrets; and I said that
one got disgraced and that was all. To help the great to hide their
villainies, and to expect happiness from it, is like making your bed of
thorns, in the hope of sleeping well. But she had a will of her own.”
“You were her husband, though,” objected M. Daburon, “you had the right
to command her obedience.”
The sailor shook his head, and heaved a deep sigh.
“Alas, sir! it was I who obeyed.”
To proceed by short inquiries with a witness, when you have no idea of
the information he brings, is but to lose time in attempting to gain it.
When you think you are approaching the important fact, you may be just
avoiding it. It is much better to give the witness the rein, and to
listen carefully, putting him back on the track should he get too
far away. It is the surest and easiest method. This was the course
M. Daburon adopted, all the time cursing Gevrol’s absence, as he by a
single word could have shortened by a good half the examination, the
importance of which, by the way, the magistrate did not even suspect.
“In what intrigues did your wife mingle?” asked he. “Go on, my friend,
tell me everything exactly; here, you know, we must have not only the
truth, but the whole truth.”
Lerouge placed his hat on a chair. Then he began alternately to pull
his fingers, making them crack almost sufficiently to break them, and
ultimately scratched his head violently. It was his way of arranging his
ideas.
“I must tell you,” he began, “that it will be thirty-five years on St.
John’s day since I fell in love with Claudine. She was a pretty, neat,
fascinating girl, with a voice sweeter than honey. She was the most
beautiful girl in our part of the country, straight as a mast, supple as
a willow, graceful and strong as a racing boat. Her eyes sparkled like
old cider; her hair was black, her teeth as white as pearls, and her
breath was as fresh as the sea breeze. The misfortune was, that she
hadn’t a sou, while we were in easy circumstances. Her mother, who was
the widow of I can’t say how many husbands, was, saving your presence,
a bad woman, and my father was the worthiest man alive. When I spoke to
the old fellow of marrying Claudine he swore fiercely, and eight
days after, he sent me to Porto on a schooner belonging to one of our
neighbours, just to give me a change of air. I came back, at the end of
six months, thinner than a marling spike, but more in love than ever.
Recollections of Claudine scorched me like a fire. I could scarcely eat
or drink; but I felt that she loved me a little in return, for I was a
fine young fellow, and more than one girl had set her cap at me. Then
my father, seeing that he could do nothing, that I was wasting away,
and was on the road to join my mother in the cemetery, decided to let
me complete my folly. So one evening, after we had returned from fishing
and I got up from supper without tasting it, he said to me, ‘Marry
the hag’s daughter, and let’s have no more of this.’ I remember it
distinctly, because, when I heard the old fellow call my love such a
name, I flew into a great passion, and almost wanted to kill him. Ah,
one never gains anything by marrying in opposition to one’s parents!”
The worthy fellow was lost in the midst of his recollections. He was
very far from his story. The investigating magistrate attempted to bring
him back into the right path, “Come to the point,” he said.
“I am going to, sir; but it was necessary to begin at the beginning.
I married. The evening after the wedding, and when the relatives and
guests had departed, I was about to join my wife, when I perceived my
father all alone in a corner weeping. The sight touched my heart, and
I had a foreboding of evil; but it quickly passed away. It is so
delightful during the first six months one passes with a dearly loved
wife! One seems to be surrounded by mists that change the very rocks
into palaces and temples so completely that novices are taken in. For
two years, in spite of a few little quarrels, everything went on nicely.
Claudine managed me like a child. Ah, she was cunning! She might have
seized and bound me, and carried me to market and sold me, without my
noticing it. Her great fault was her love of finery. All that I earned,
and my business was very prosperous, she put on her back. Every week
there was something new, dresses, jewels, bonnets, the devil’s baubles,
which the dealers invent for the perdition of the female sex. The
neighbors chattered, but I thought it was all right. At the baptism
of our son, who was called Jacques after my father, to please her, I
squandered all I had economized during my youth, more than three hundred
pistoles, with which I had intended purchasing a meadow that lay in the
midst of our property.”
M. Daburon was boiling over with impatience, but he could do nothing.
“Go on, go on,” he said every time Lerouge seemed inclined to stop.
“I was well enough pleased,” continued the sailor, “until one morning
I saw one of the Count de Commarin’s servants entering our house; the
count’s chateau is only about a mile from where I lived on the other
side of the town. It was a fellow named Germain whom I didn’t like at
all. It was said about the country that he had been mixed up in the
seduction of poor Thomassine, a fine young girl who lived near us; she
appears to have pleased the count, and one day suddenly disappeared. I
asked my wife what the fellow wanted; she replied that he had come to
ask her to take a child to nurse. I would not hear of it at first, for
our means were sufficient to allow Claudine to keep all her milk for
our own child. But she gave me the very best of reasons. She said she
regretted her past flirtations and her extravagance. She wished to
earn a little money, being ashamed of doing nothing while I was killing
myself with work. She wanted to save, to economize, so that our child
should not be obliged in his turn to go to sea. She was to get a very
good price, that we could save up to go towards the three hundred
pistoles. That confounded meadow, to which she alluded, decided me.”
“Did she not tell you of the commission with which she was charged?”
asked the magistrate.
This question astonished Lerouge. He thought that there was good reason
to say that justice sees and knows everything.
“Not then,” he answered, “but you will see. Eight days after, the
postman brought a letter, asking her to go to Paris to fetch the
child. It arrived in the evening. ‘Very well,’ said she, ‘I will start
to-morrow by the diligence.’ I didn’t say a word then; but next morning,
when she was about to take her seat in the diligence, I declared that I
was going with her. She didn’t seem at all angry, on the contrary. She
kissed me, and I was delighted. At Paris, she was to call for the little
one at a Madame Gerdy’s, who lived on the Boulevard. We arranged that
she should go alone, while I awaited for her at our inn. After she
had gone, I grew uneasy. I went out soon after, and prowled about near
Madame Gerdy’s house, making inquiries of the servants and others; I
soon discovered that she was the Count de Commarin’s mistress. I felt
so annoyed that, if I had been master, my wife should have come away
without the little bastard. I am only a poor sailor, and I know that
a man sometimes forgets himself. One takes too much to drink, for
instance, or goes out on the loose with some friends; but that a man
with a wife and children should live with another woman and give her
what really belongs to his legitimate offspring, I think is bad--very
bad. Is it not so, sir?”
The investigating magistrate moved impatiently in his chair. “Will
this man never come to the point,” he muttered. “Yes, you are perfectly
right,” he added aloud; “but never mind your thoughts. Go on, go on!”
“Claudine, sir, was more obstinate than a mule. After three days of
violent discussion, she obtained from me a reluctant consent, between
two kisses. Then she told me that we were not going to return home by
the diligence. The lady, who feared the fatigue of the journey for her
child, had arranged that we should travel back by short stages, in her
carriage, and drawn by her horses. For she was kept in grand style. I
was ass enough to be delighted, because it gave me a chance to see the
country at my leisure. We were, therefore, installed with the children,
mine and the other, in an elegant carriage, drawn by magnificent
animals, and driven by a coachman in livery. My wife was mad with joy;
she kissed me over and over again, and chinked handfuls of gold in my
face. I felt as foolish as an honest husband who finds money in his
house which he didn’t earn himself. Seeing how I felt, Claudine, hoping
to pacify me, resolved to tell me the whole truth. ‘See here,’ she said
to me,--”
Lerouge stopped, and, changing his tone, said, “You understand that it
is my wife who is speaking?”
“Yes, yes. Go on.”
“She said to me, shaking her pocket full of money, ‘See here, my man, we
shall always have as much of this as ever we may want, and this is why:
The count, who also had a legitimate child at the same time as this
bastard, wishes that this one shall bear his name instead of the other;
and this can be accomplished, thanks to me. On the road, we shall meet
at the inn, where we are to sleep, M. Germain and the nurse to whom they
have entrusted the legitimate son. We shall be put in the same room,
and, during the night, I am to change the little ones, who have been
purposely dressed alike. For this the count gives me eight thousand
francs down, and a life annuity of a thousand francs.’”
“And you!” exclaimed the magistrate, “you, who call yourself an honest
man, permitted such villainy, when one word would have been sufficient
to prevent it?”
“Sir, I beg of you,” entreated Lerouge, “permit me to finish.”
“Well, continue!”
“I could say nothing at first, I was so choked with rage. I must have
looked terrible. But she, who was generally afraid of me when I was in
a passion, burst out laughing, and said, ‘What a fool you are! Listen,
before turning sour like a bowl of milk. The count is the only one who
wants this change made; and he is the one that’s to pay for it. His
mistress, this little one’s mother, doesn’t want it at all; she merely
pretended to consent, so as not to quarrel with her lover, and because
she has got a plan of her own. She took me aside, during my visit in her
room, and, after having made me swear secrecy on a crucifix, she told
me that she couldn’t bear the idea of separating herself from her babe
forever, and of bringing up another’s child. She added that, if I would
agree not to change the children, and not to tell the count, she would
give me ten thousand francs down, and guarantee me an annuity equal to
the one the count had promised me. She declared, also, that she could
easily find out whether I kept my word, as she had made a mark of
recognition on her little one. She didn’t show me the mark; and I have
examined him carefully, but can’t find it. Do you understand now? I
merely take care of this little fellow here. I tell the count that I
have changed the children; we receive from both sides, and Jacques will
be rich. Now kiss your little wife who has more sense than you, you old
dear!’ That, sir, is word for word what Claudine said to me.”
The rough sailor drew from his pocket a large blue-checked handkerchief,
and blew his nose so violently that the windows shook. It was his way of
weeping.
M. Daburon was confounded. Since the beginning of this sad affair, he
had encountered surprise after surprise. Scarcely had he got his ideas
in order on one point, when all his attention was directed to another.
He felt himself utterly routed. What was he about to learn now? He
longed to interrogate quickly, but he saw that Lerouge told his story
with difficulty, laboriously disentangling his recollections; he was
guided by a single thread which the least interruption might seriously
entangle.
“What Claudine proposed to me,” continued the sailor, “was villainous;
and I am an honest man. But she kneaded me to her will as easily as a
baker kneads dough. She turned my heart topsy-turvy: she made me see
white as snow that which was really as black as ink. How I loved her!
She proved to me that we were wronging no one, that we were making
little Jacques’s fortune, and I was silenced. At evening we arrived at
some village; and the coachman, stopping the carriage before an inn,
told us we were to sleep there. We entered, and who do you think we saw?
That scamp, Germain, with a nurse carrying a child dressed so exactly
like the one we had that I was startled. They had journeyed there, like
ourselves, in one of the count’s carriages. A suspicion crossed my mind.
How could I be sure that Claudine had not invented the second story
to pacify me? She was certainly capable of it. I was enraged. I had
consented to the one wickedness, but not to the other. I resolved not
to lose sight of the little bastard, swearing that they shouldn’t change
it; so I kept him all the evening on my knees, and to be all the more
sure, I tied my handkerchief about his waist. Ah! the plan had been well
laid. After supper, some one spoke of retiring, and then it turned out
that there were only two double-bedded rooms in the house. It seemed as
though it had been built expressly for the scheme. The innkeeper said
that the two nurses might sleep in one room, and Germain and myself in
the other. Do you understand, sir? Add to this, that during the evening
I had surprised looks of intelligence passing between my wife and
that rascally servant, and you can imagine how furious I was. It was
conscience that spoke; and I was trying to silence it. I knew very well
that I was doing wrong; and I almost wished myself dead. Why is it that
women can turn an honest man’s conscience about like a weather-cock with
their wheedling?”
M. Daburon’s only reply was a heavy blow of his fist on the table.
Lerouge proceeded more quickly.
“As for me, I upset that arrangement, pretending to be too jealous to
leave my wife a minute. They were obliged to give way to me. The other
nurse went up to bed first. Claudine and I followed soon afterwards. My
wife undressed and got into bed with our son and the little bastard. I
did not undress. Under the pretext that I should be in the way of the
children, I installed myself in a chair near the bed, determined not to
shut my eyes, and to keep close watch. I put out the candle, in order to
let the women sleep, though I could not think of doing so myself; and I
thought of my father, and of what he would say, if he ever heard of my
behaviour. Towards midnight, I heard Claudine moving. I held my breath.
She was getting out of bed. Was she going to change the children? Now,
I knew that she was not; then, I felt sure that she was. I was beside
myself, and seizing her by the arm, I commenced to beat her roughly,
giving free vent to all that I had on my heart. I spoke in a loud voice,
the same as when I am on board ship in a storm; I swore like a fiend, I
raised a frightful disturbance. The other nurse cried out as though she
were being murdered. At this uproar, Germain rushed in with a lighted
candle. The sight of him finished me. Not knowing what I was doing, I
drew from my pocket a long Spanish knife, which I always carried, and
seizing the cursed bastard, I thrust the blade through his arm, crying,
‘This way, at least, he can’t be changed without my knowing it; he is
marked for life!’”
Lerouge could scarcely utter another word. Great drops of sweat stood
out upon his brow, then, trickling down his cheeks, lodged in the deep
wrinkles of his face. He panted; but the magistrate’s stern glance
harassed him, and urged him on, like the whip which flogs the negro
slave overcome with fatigue.
“The little fellow’s wound,” he resumed, “was terrible. It bled
dreadfully, and he might have died; but I didn’t think of that. I was
only troubled about the future, about what might happen afterwards. I
declared that I would write out all that had occurred, and that everyone
should sign it. This was done; we could all four write. Germain didn’t
dare resist; for I spoke with knife in hand. He wrote his name first,
begging me to say nothing about it to the count, swearing that, for his
part, he would never breathe a word of it, and pledging the other nurse
to a like secrecy.”
“And have you kept this paper?” asked M. Daburon.
“Yes, sir, and as the detective to whom I confessed all, advised me to
bring it with me, I went to take it from the place where I always kept
it, and I have it here.”
“Give it to me.”
Lerouge took from his coat pocket an old parchment pocket-book, fastened
with a leather thong, and withdrew from it a paper yellowed by age and
carefully sealed.
“Here it is,” said he. “The paper hasn’t been opened since that accursed
night.”
And, in fact, when the magistrate unfolded it, some dust fell out, which
had been used to keep the writing, when wet, from blotting.
It was really a brief description of the scene, described by the old
sailor. The four signatures were there.
“What has become of the witnesses who signed this declaration?” murmured
the magistrate, speaking to himself.
Lerouge, who thought the question was put to him, replied, “Germain is
dead. I have been told that he was drowned when out rowing. Claudine
has just been assassinated; but the other nurse still lives. I even know
that she spoke of the affair to her husband, for he hinted as much
to me. His name is Brosette, and she lives in the village of Commarin
itself.”
“And what next?” asked the magistrate, after having taken down the name
and address.
“The next day, sir, Claudine managed to pacify me, and extorted a
promise of secrecy. The child was scarcely ill at all; but he retained
an enormous scar on his arm.”
“Was Madame Gerdy informed of what took place?”
“I do not think so, sir. But I would rather say that I do not know.”
“What! you do not know?”
“Yes, sir, I swear it. You see my ignorance comes from what happened
afterwards.”
“What happened, then?”
The sailor hesitated.
“That, sir, concerns only myself, and--”
“My friend,” interrupted the magistrate, “you are an honest man, I
believe; in fact, I am sure of it. But once in your life, influenced by
a wicked woman, you did wrong, you became an accomplice in a very guilty
action. Repair that error by speaking truly now. All that is said here,
and which is not directly connected with the crime, will remain secret;
even I will forget it immediately. Fear nothing, therefore; and, if you
experience some humiliation, think that it is your punishment for the
past.”
“Alas, sir,” answered the sailor, “I have been already greatly punished;
and it is a long time since my troubles began. Money, wickedly acquired,
brings no good. On arriving home, I bought the wretched meadow for much
more than it was worth; and the day I walked over it, feeling that is
was actually mine, closed my happiness. Claudine was a coquette; but she
had a great many other vices. When she realised how much money we had
these vices showed themselves, just like a fire, smouldering at the
bottom of the hold, bursts forth when you open the hatches. From
slightly greedy as she had been, she became a regular glutton. In our
house there was feasting without end. Whenever I went to sea, she would
entertain the worst women in the place; and there was nothing too good
or too expensive for them. She would get so drunk that she would have to
be put to bed. Well, one night, when she thought me at Rouen, I returned
unexpectedly. I entered, and found her with a man. And such a man, sir!
A miserable looking wretch, ugly, dirty, stinking; shunned by everyone;
in a word the bailiff’s clerk. I should have killed him, like the vermin
that he was; it was my right, but he was such a pitiful object. I took
him by the neck and pitched him out of the window, without opening it!
It didn’t kill him. Then I fell upon my wife, and beat her until she
couldn’t stir.”
Lerouge spoke in a hoarse voice, every now and then thrusting his fists
into his eyes.
“I pardoned her,” he continued; “but the man who beats his wife and then
pardons her is lost. In the future, she took better precautions, became
a greater hypocrite, and that was all. In the meanwhile, Madame Gerdy
took back her child; and Claudine had nothing more to restrain her.
Protected and counselled by her mother, whom she had taken to live with
us, on the pretence of looking after Jacques, she managed to deceive me
for more than a year. I thought she had given up her bad habits, but not
at all; she lived a most disgraceful life. My house became the resort of
all the good-for-nothing rogues in the country, for whom my wife brought
out bottles of wine and brandy, whenever I was away at sea, and they got
drunk promiscuously. When money failed, she wrote to the count or his
mistress, and the orgies continued. Occasionally I had doubts which
disturbed me; and then without reason, for a simple yes or no, I would
beat her until I was tired, and then I would forgive her, like a coward,
like a fool. It was a cursed life. I don’t know which gave me the most
pleasure, embracing her or beating her. My neighbors despised me, and
turned their backs on me; they believed me an accomplice or a willing
dupe. I heard, afterwards, that they believed I profited by my wife’s
misconduct; while in reality she paid her lovers. At all events, people
wondered where all the money came from that was spent in my house. To
distinguish me from a cousin of mine, also named Lerouge, they tacked
an infamous word on to my name. What disgrace! And I knew nothing of all
the scandal, no, nothing. Was I not the husband? Fortunately, though, my
poor father was dead.”
M. Daburon pitied the speaker sincerely.
“Rest a while, my friend,” he said; “compose yourself.”
“No,” replied the sailor, “I would rather get through with it quickly.
One man, the priest, had the charity to tell me of it. If ever he should
want Lerouge! Without losing a minute, I went and saw a lawyer, and
asked him how an honest sailor who had had the misfortune to marry a
hussy ought to act. He said that nothing could be done. To go to law was
simply to publish abroad one’s own dishonour, while a separation would
accomplish nothing. When once a man has given his name to a woman, he
told me, he cannot take it back; it belongs to her for the rest of her
days, and she has a right to dispose of it. She may sully it, cover it
with mire, drag it from wine shop to wine shop, and her husband can do
nothing. That being the case, my course was soon taken. That same day, I
sold the fatal meadow, and sent the proceeds of it to Claudine, wishing
to keep nothing of the price of shame. I then had a document drawn up,
authorising her to administer our property, but not allowing her either
to sell or mortgage it. Then I wrote her a letter in which I told her
that she need never expect to hear of me again, that I was nothing more
to her, and that she might look upon herself as a widow. That same night
I went away with my son.”
“And what became of your wife after your departure?”
“I cannot say, sir; I only know that she quitted the neighbourhood a
year after I did.”
“You have never lived with her since?”
“Never.”
“But you were at her house three days before the crime was committed.”
“That is true, but it was absolutely necessary. I had had much trouble
to find her, no one knew what had become of her. Fortunately my notary
was able to procure Madame Gerdy’s address; he wrote to her, and that
is how I learnt that Claudine was living at La Jonchere. I was then at
Rome. Captain Gervais, who is a friend of mine, offered to take me to
Paris on his boat, and I accepted. Ah, sir, what a shock I experienced
when I entered her house! My wife did not know me! By constantly telling
everyone that I was dead, she had without a doubt ended by believing
it herself. When I told her my name, she fell back in her chair. The
wretched woman had not changed in the least; she had by her side a glass
and a bottle of brandy--”
“All this doesn’t explain why you went to seek your wife.”
“It was on Jacques’s account, sir, that I went. The youngster has grown
to be a man; and he wants to marry. For that, his mother’s consent was
necessary; and I was taking to Claudine a document which the notary had
drawn up, and which she signed. This is it.”
M. Daburon took the paper, and appeared to read it attentively. After
a moment he asked: “Have you thought who could have assassinated your
wife?”
Lerouge made no reply.
“Do you suspect any one?” persisted the magistrate.
“Well, sir,” replied the sailor, “what can I say? I thought that
Claudine had wearied out the people from whom she drew money, like water
from a well; or else getting drunk one day, she had blabbed too freely.”
The testimony being as complete as possible, M. Daburon dismissed
Lerouge, at the same time telling him to wait for Gevrol, who would take
him to a hotel, where he might wait, at the disposal of justice, until
further orders.
“All your expenses will be paid you,” added the magistrate.
Lerouge had scarcely left, when an extraordinary, unheard of,
unprecedented event took place in the magistrate’s office. Constant, the
serious, impressive, immovable, deaf and dumb Constant, rose from his
seat and spoke.
He broke a silence of fifteen years. He forgot himself so far as to
offer an opinion.
“This, sir,” said he, “is a most extraordinary affair.”
Very extraordinary, truly, thought M. Daburon, and calculated to rout
all predictions, all preconceived opinions.
Why had he, the magistrate, moved with such deplorable haste? Why before
risking anything, had he not waited to possess all the elements of this
important case, to hold all the threads of this complicated drama?
Justice is accused of slowness; but it is this very slowness that
constitutes its strength and surety, its almost infallibility. One
scarcely knows what a time evidence takes to produce itself. There is no
knowing what important testimony investigations apparently useless may
reveal.
When the entanglement of the various passions and motives seems
hopeless, an unknown personage presents himself, coming from no one
knows where, and it is he who explains everything.
M. Daburon, usually the most prudent of men, had considered as simple
one of the most complex of cases. He had acted in a mysterious crime,
which demanded the utmost caution, as carelessly as though it were a
case of simple misdemeanour. Why? Because his memory had not left him
his free deliberation, judgment, and discernment. He had feared equally
appearing weak and being revengeful. Thinking himself sure of his facts,
he had been carried away by his animosity. And yet how often had he
not asked himself: Where is duty? But then, when one is at all doubtful
about duty, one is on the wrong road.
The singular part of it all was that the magistrate’s faults sprang from
his very honesty. He had been led astray by a too great refinement of
conscience. The scruples which troubled him had filled his mind with
phantoms, and had prompted in him the passionate animosity he had
displayed at a certain moment.
Calmer now, he examined the case more soundly. As a whole, thank heaven!
there was nothing done which could not be repaired. He accused himself,
however, none the less harshly. Chance alone had stopped him. At that
moment he resolved that he would never undertake another investigation.
His profession henceforth inspired him with an unconquerable loathing.
Then his interview with Claire had re-opened all the old wounds in his
heart, and they bled more painfully than ever. He felt, in despair, that
his life was broken, ruined. A man may well feel so, when all women are
as nothing to him except one, whom he may never dare hope to possess.
Too pious a man to think of suicide, he asked himself with anguish what
would become of him when he threw aside his magistrate’s robes.
Then he turned again to the business in hand. In any case, innocent
or guilty, Albert was really the Viscount de Commarin, the count’s
legitimate son. But was he guilty? Evidently he was not.
“I think,” exclaimed M. Daburon suddenly, “I must speak to the Count de
Commarin. Constant, send to his house a message for him to come here at
once; if he is not at home, he must be sought for.”
M. Daburon felt that an unpleasant duty was before him. He would be
obliged to say to the old nobleman: “Sir, your legitimate son is not
Noel, but Albert.” What a position, not only painful, but bordering on
the ridiculous! As a compensation, though, he could tell him that Albert
was innocent.
To Noel he would also have to tell the truth: hurl him to earth, after
having raised him among the clouds. What a blow it would be! But,
without a doubt, the count would make him some compensation; at least,
he ought to.
“Now,” murmured the magistrate, “who can be the criminal?”
An idea crossed his mind, at first it seemed to him absurd. He rejected
it, then thought of it again. He examined it in all its various aspects.
He had almost adopted it, when M. de Commarin entered. M. Daburon’s
messenger had arrived just as the count was alighting from his carriage,
on returning with Claire from Madame Gerdy’s.