The Lerouge Case, Émile Gaboriau [old books to read TXT] 📗

Noel had promised to use every effort, to attempt even the impossible, to obtain Albert’s release. He in fact did interview the Public Prosecutor and some members of the bar, but managed to be repulsed everywhere. At four o’clock, he called at the Count de Commarin’s house, to inform his father of the ill success of his efforts.

“The Count has gone out,” said Denis; “but if you will take the trouble to wait⁠—”

“I will wait,” answered Noel.

“Then,” replied the valet, “will you please follow me? I have the count’s orders to show you into his private room.”

This confidence gave Noel an idea of his new power. He was at home, henceforth, in that magnificent house, he was the master, the heir! His glance, which wandered over the entire room, noticed the genealogical tree, hanging on the wall. He approached it, and read. It was like a page, and one of the most illustrious, taken from the golden book of French nobility. Every name which has a place in our history was there. The Commarins had mingled their blood with all the great families; two of them had even married daughters of royalty. A warm glow of pride filled the barrister’s heart, his pulse beat quicker, he raised his head haughtily, as he murmured, “Viscount de Commarin!”

The door opened. He turned, and saw the count entering. As Noel was about to bow respectfully, he was petrified by the look of hatred, anger, and contempt on his father’s face. A shiver ran through his veins; his teeth chattered; he felt that he was lost.

“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 barrister 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 barrister’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 firearms 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 firearms 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 barrister 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