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

you of the position of a father, obliged to blush before his son; you understand it, and will feel for me. Let us spare each other, and try to be calm. Tell me, how did you obtain your knowledge of this correspondence?”

Albert had had time to recover himself, and prepare for the present struggle, as he had impatiently waited four days for this interview.

The difficulty he experienced in uttering the first words had now given place to a dignified and proud demeanor. He expressed himself clearly and forcibly, without losing himself in those details which in serious matters needlessly defer the real point at issue.

“Sir,” he replied, “on Sunday morning, a young man called here, stating that he had business with me of the utmost importance. I received him. He then revealed to me that I, alas! am only your natural son, substituted through your affection, for the legitimate child borne you by Madame de Commarin.”

“And did you not have this man kicked out of doors?” exclaimed the count.

“No, sir. I was about to answer him very sharply, of course; but, presenting me with a packet of letters, he begged me to read them before replying.”

“Ah!” cried M. de Commarin, “you should have thrown them into the fire, for there was a fire, I suppose? You held them in your hands; and they still exist! Why was I not there?”

“Sir!” said Albert, reproachfully. And, recalling the position Noel had occupied against the mantelpiece, and the manner in which he stood, he added⁠—“Even if the thought had occurred to me, it was impracticable. Besides, at the first glance, I recognised your handwriting. I therefore took the letters, and read them.”

“And then?”

“And then, sir, I returned the correspondence to the young man, and asked for a delay of eight days; not to think over it myself⁠—there was no need of that⁠—but because I judged an interview with you indispensable. Now, therefore, I beseech you, tell me whether this substitution really did take place.”

“Certainly it did,” replied the count violently, “yes, certainly. You know that it did, for you have read what I wrote to Madame Gerdy, your mother.”

Albert had foreseen, had expected this reply; but it crushed him nevertheless.

There are misfortunes so great, that one must constantly think of them to believe in their existence. This flinching, however, lasted but an instant.

“Pardon me, sir,” he replied. “I was almost convinced; but I had not received a formal assurance of it. All the letters that I read spoke distinctly of your purpose, detailed your plan minutely; but not one pointed to, or in any way confirmed, the execution of your project.”

The count gazed at his son with a look of intense surprise. He recollected distinctly all the letters; and he could remember, that, in writing to Valerie, he had over and over again rejoiced at their success, thanking her for having acted in accordance with his wishes.

“You did not go to the end of them, then, viscount,” he said, “you did not read them all?”

“Every line, sir, and with an attention that you may well understand. The last letter shown me simply announced to Madame Gerdy the arrival of Claudine Lerouge, the nurse who was charged with accomplishing the substitution. I know nothing beyond that.”

“These proofs amount to nothing,” muttered the count. “A man may form a plan, cherish it for a long time, and at the last moment abandon it; it often happens so.”

He reproached himself for having answered so hastily. Albert had had only serious suspicions, and he had changed them to certainty. What stupidity!

“There can be no possible doubt,” he said to himself; “Valerie has destroyed the most conclusive letters, those which appeared to her the most dangerous, those I wrote after the substitution. But why has she preserved these others, compromising enough in themselves? and why, after having preserved them, has she let them go out of her possession?”

Without moving, Albert awaited a word from the count. What would it be? No doubt, the old nobleman was at that moment deciding what he should do.

“Perhaps she is dead!” said M. de Commarin aloud.

And at the thought that Valerie was dead, without his having again seen her, he started painfully. His heart, after more than twenty years of voluntary separation, still suffered, so deeply rooted was this first love of his youth. He had cursed her; at this moment he pardoned her. True, she had deceived him; but did he not owe to her the only years of happiness he had ever known? Had she not formed all the poetry of his youth? Had he experienced, since leaving her, one single hour of joy or forgetfulness? In his present frame of mind, his heart retained only happy memories, like a vase which, once filled with precious perfumes, retains the odour until it is destroyed.

“Poor woman!” he murmured.

He sighed deeply. Three or four times his eyelids trembled, as if a tear were about to fall. Albert watched him with anxious curiosity. This was the first time since the viscount had grown to man’s estate that he had surprised in his father’s countenance other emotion than ambition or pride, triumphant or defeated. But M. de Commarin was not the man to yield long to sentiment.

“You have not told me, viscount,” he said, “who sent you that messenger of misfortune.”

“He came in person, sir, not wishing, he told me to mix any others up in this sad affair. The young man was no other than he whose place I have occupied⁠—your legitimate son, M. Noel Gerdy himself.”

“Yes,” said the count in a low tone, “Noel, that is his name, I remember.” And then, with evident hesitation, he added: “Did he speak to you of his⁠—of your mother?”

“Scarcely, sir. He only told me that he came unknown to her; that he had accidentally discovered the secret which he revealed to me.”

M. de Commarin asked nothing further. There was more for him to learn. He remained for some time deep in thought. The decisive moment had come; and he saw