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

“Wretch!” cried the count.

And, dreading his own violence, the old nobleman threw his cane into a corner. He was unwilling to strike his son; he considered him unworthy of being struck by his hand. Then there was a moment of mortal silence, which seemed to both of them a century.

At the same time their minds were filled with thoughts, which would require a volume to transcribe.

Noel had the courage to speak first.

“Sir,” he began.

“Silence!” exclaimed the count hoarsely; “be silent! Can it be, heaven forgive me! that you are my son? Alas, I cannot doubt it now! Wretch! you knew well that you were Madame Gerdy’s son. Infamous villain! you not only committed this murder, but you did everything to cause an innocent man to be charged with your crime! Parricide! you have also killed your mother.”

The advocate attempted to stammer forth a protest.

“You killed her,” continued the count with increased energy, “if not by poison, at least by your crime. I understand all now; she was not delirious this morning. But you know as well as I do what she was saying. You were listening, and, if you dared to enter at that moment when one word more would have betrayed you, it was because you had calculated the effect of your presence. It was to you that she addressed her last word, ‘Assassin!’”

Little by little, Noel had retired to the end of the room, and he stood leaning against the wall, his head thrown back, his hair on end, his look haggard. A convulsive trembling shook his frame. His face betrayed a terror most horrible to see, the terror of the criminal found out.

“I know all, you see,” continued the count; “and I am not alone in my knowledge. At this moment, a warrant of arrest is issued against you.”

A cry of rage like a hollow rattle burst from the advocate’s breast. His lips, which were hanging through terror, now grew firm. Overwhelmed in the very midst of his triumph, he struggled against this fright. He drew himself up with a look of defiance.

M. de Commarin, without seeming to pay any attention to Noel, approached his writing table, and opened a drawer.

“My duty,” said he, “would be to leave you to the executioner who awaits you; but I remember that I have the misfortune to be your father. Sit down; write and sign a confession of your crime. You will then find fire-arms in this drawer. May heaven forgive you!”

The old nobleman moved towards the door. Noel with a sign stopped him, and drawing at the same time a revolver from his pocket, he said: “Your fire-arms are needless, sir; my precautions, as you see, are already taken; they will never catch me alive. Only——”

“Only?” repeated the count harshly.

“I must tell you, sir,” continued the advocate coldly, “that I do not choose to kill myself—at least, not at present.”

“Ah!” cried M. de Commarin in disgust, “you are a coward!”

“No, sir, not a coward; but I will not kill myself until I am sure that every opening is closed against me, that I cannot save myself.”

“Miserable wretch!” said the count, threateningly, “must I then do it myself?”

He moved towards the drawer, but Noel closed it with a kick.

“Listen to me, sir,” said he, in that hoarse, quick tone, which men use in moments of imminent danger, “do not let us waste in vain words the few moments’ respite left me. I have committed a crime, it is true, and I do not attempt to justify it; but who laid the foundation of it, if not yourself? Now, you do me the favor of offering me a pistol. Thanks. I must decline it. This generosity is not through any regard for me. You only wish to avoid the scandal of my trial, and the disgrace which cannot fail to reflect upon your name.”

The count was about to reply.

“Permit me,” interrupted Noel imperiously. “I do not choose to kill myself; I wish to save my life, if possible. Supply me with the means of escape; and I promise you that I will sooner die than be captured. I say, supply me with means, for I have not twenty francs in the world. My last thousand franc note was nearly all gone the day when—you understand me. There isn’t sufficient money at home to give my mother a decent burial. Therefore, I say, give me some money.”

“Never!”

“Then I will deliver myself up to justice, and you will see what will happen to the name you hold so dear!”

The count, mad with rage, rushed to his table for a pistol. Noel placed himself before him.

“Oh, do not let us have any struggle,” said he coldly; “I am the strongest.”

M. de Commarin recoiled. By thus speaking of the trial, of the scandal and of the disgrace, the advocate had made an impression upon him.

For a moment hesitating between love for his name and his burning desire to see this wretch punished, the old nobleman stood undecided.

Finally his feeling for his rank triumphed.

“Let us end this,” he said in a tremulous voice, filled with the utmost contempt; “let us end this disgraceful scene. What do you demand of me?”

“I have already told you, money, all that you have here. But make up your mind quickly.”

On the previous Saturday the count had withdrawn from his bankers the sum he had destined for fitting up the apartments of him whom he thought was his legitimate child.

“I have eighty thousand francs here,” he replied.

“That’s very little,” said the advocate; “but give them to me. I will tell you though that I had counted on you for five hundred thousand francs. If I succeed in escaping my pursuers, you must hold at my disposal the balance, four hundred and twenty thousand francs. Will you pledge yourself to give them to me at the first demand? I will find some means of sending for them, without any risk to myself. At that price, you need never fear hearing of me again.”

By way of reply, the count opened a little iron chest imbedded in the wall, and took out a roll of bank notes, which he threw at Noel’s feet.

An angry look flashed in the advocate’s eyes, as he took one step towards his father.

“Oh! take care!” he said threateningly; “people who, like me, have nothing to lose are dangerous. I can yet give myself up, and——”

He stooped down, however, and picked up the notes.

“Will you give me your word,” he continued, “to let me have the rest whenever I ask for them?”

“Yes.”