The Lerouge Case, Emile Gaboriau [e books for reading TXT] 📗

success crowns our efforts, it will be because heaven decreed it.

“‘Meanwhile I hope.’”

“Just what I expected,” murmured old Tabaret.

“And the wretched man,” cried Noel, “dares to invoke the aid of Providence! He would make heaven his accomplice!”

“But,” asked the old fellow, “how did your mother,—pardon me, I would say, how did Madame Gerdy receive this proposition?”

“She would appear to have rejected it, at first, for here are twenty pages of eloquent persuasion from the count, urging her to agree to it, trying to convince her. Oh, that woman!”

“Come my child,” said M. Tabaret, softly, “try not to be too unjust. You seem to direct all your resentment against Madame Gerdy? Really, in my opinion, the count is far more deserving of your anger than she is.”

“True,” interrupted Noel, with a certain degree of violence,—“true, the count is guilty, very guilty. He is the author of the infamous conspiracy, and yet I feel no hatred against him. He has committed a crime, but he has an excuse, his passion. Moreover, my father has not deceived me, like this miserable woman, every hour of my life, during thirty years. Besides, M. de Commarin has been so cruelly punished, that, at this present moment, I can only pardon and pity him.”

“Ah! so he has been punished?” interrogated the old fellow.

“Yes, fearfully, as you will admit. But allow me to continue. Towards the end of May, or, rather, during the first days of June, the count must have arrived in Paris, for the correspondence ceases. He saw Madame Gerdy, and the final arrangements of the conspiracy were decided on. Here is a note which removes all uncertainty on that point. On the day it was written, the count was on service at the Tuileries, and unable to leave his post. He has written it even in the king’s study, on the king’s paper; see the royal arms! The bargain has been concluded, and the woman who has consented to become the instrument of my father’s projects is in Paris. He informs his mistress of the fact.”

“‘Dear Valerie,—Germain informs me of the arrival of your son’s, our son’s nurse. She will call at your house during the day. She is to be depended upon; a magnificent recompense ensures her discretion. Do not, however, mention our plans to her; for she has been given to understand that you know nothing. I wish to charge myself with the sole responsibility of the deed; it is more prudent. This woman is a native of Normandy. She was born on our estate, almost in our house. Her husband is a brave and honest sailor. Her name is Claudine Lerouge.

“‘Be of good courage, my dear love I am exacting from you the greatest sacrifice that a lover can hope for from a mother. Heaven, you can no longer doubt it, protects us. Everything depends now upon our skill and our prudence, so that we are sure to succeed!’”

On one point, at least, M. Tabaret was sufficiently enlightened. The researches into the past life of widow Lerouge were no longer difficult. He could not restrain an exclamation of satisfaction, which passed unnoticed by Noel.

“This note,” resumed the advocate, “closes the count’s correspondence with Madame Gerdy.”

“What!” exclaimed the old fellow, “you are in possession of nothing more?”

“I have also ten lines, written many years later, which certainly have some weight, but after all are only a moral proof.”

“What a misfortune!” murmured M. Tabaret. Noel laid on the bureau the letters he had held in his hand, and, turning towards his old friend, he looked at him steadily.

“Suppose,” said he slowly and emphasising every syllable,—“suppose that all my information ends here. We will admit, for a moment, that I know nothing more than you do now. What is your opinion?”

Old Tabaret remained some minutes without answering; he was estimating the probabilities resulting from M. de Commarin’s letters.

“For my own part,” said he at length, “I believe on my conscience that you are not Madame Gerdy’s son.”

“And you are right!” answered the advocate forcibly. “You will easily believe, will you not, that I went and saw Claudine. She loved me, this poor woman who had given me her milk, she suffered from the knowledge of the injustice that had been done me. Must I say it, her complicity in the matter weighed upon her conscience; it was a remorse too great for her old age. I saw her, I interrogated her, and she told me all. The count’s scheme, simply and yet ingeniously conceived, succeeded without any effort. Three days after my birth, the crime was committed, and I, poor, helpless infant, was betrayed, despoiled and disinherited by my natural protector, by my own father! Poor Claudine! She promised me her testimony for the day on which I should reclaim my rights!”

“And she is gone, carrying her secret with her!” murmured the old fellow in a tone of regret.

“Perhaps!” replied Noel, “for I have yet one hope. Claudine had in her possession several letters which had been written to her a long time ago, some by the count, some by Madame Gerdy, letters both imprudent and explicit. They will be found, no doubt, and their evidence will be decisive. I have held these letters in my hands, I have read them; Claudine particularly wished me to keep them, why did I not do so?”

No! there was no hope on that side, and old Tabaret knew so better than any one. It was these very letters, no doubt, that the assassin of La Jonchere wanted. He had found them and had burnt them with the other papers, in the little stove. The old amateur detective was beginning to understand.

“All the same,” said he, “from what I know of your affairs, which I think I know as well as my own, it appears to me that the count has not overwell kept the dazzling promises of fortune he made Madame Gerdy on your behalf.”

“He never even kept them in the least degree, my old friend.”

“That now,” cried the old fellow indignantly, “is even more infamous than all the rest.”

“Do not accuse my father,” answered Noel gravely; “his connection with Madame Gerdy lasted a long time. I remember a haughty-looking man who used sometimes to come and see me at school, and who could be no other than the count. But the rupture came.”

“Naturally,” sneered M. Tabaret, “a great nobleman—”

“Wait before judging,” interrupted the advocate. “M. de Commarin had his reasons. His mistress was false to him, he learnt it, and cast her off with just indignation. The ten lines which I mentioned to you were written then.”

Noel searched a considerable time among the papers scattered upon the table, and at length selected a letter more faded and creased than the others. Judging from the number of folds in the paper one could guess that it had been read and re-read many times. The writing even was here and there partly obliterated.

“In this,” said he in a