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

But yet, why should I harass you with all these proofs? There is one which alone is decisive. The murder was committed on the evening of Shrove Tuesday; and the prisoner cannot give an account of what he did on that evening. He went out, however, and only returned home about two o’clock in the morning, his clothes soiled and torn, and his gloves frayed.”

“Oh! enough, sir, enough!” interrupted Claire, whose eyes beamed once more with happiness. “You say it was on Shrove Tuesday evening?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“Ah! I was sure,” she cried triumphantly. “I told you truly that he could not be guilty.”

She clasped her hands, and, from the movement of her lips, it was evident that she was praying. The expression of the most perfect faith represented by some of the Italian painters illuminated her beautiful face while she rendered thanks to God in the effusion of her gratitude.

The magistrate was so disconcerted, that he forgot to admire her. He awaited an explanation.

“Well?” he asked impatiently.

“Sir,” replied Claire, “if that is your strongest proof, it exists no longer. Albert passed the entire evening you speak of with me.”

“With you?” stammered the magistrate.

“Yes, with me, at my home.”

M. Daburon was astounded. Was he dreaming? He hardly knew.

“What!” he exclaimed, “the viscount was at your house? Your grandmother, your companion, your servants, they all saw him and spoke to him?”

“No, sir; he came and left in secret. He wished no one to see him; he desired to be alone with me.”

“Ah!” said the magistrate with a sigh of relief. The sigh signified: “It’s all clear⁠—only too evident. She is determined to save him, at the risk even of compromising her reputation. Poor girl! But has this idea only just occurred to her?”

The “Ah!” was interpreted very differently by Mademoiselle d’Arlange. She thought that M. Daburon was astonished at her consenting to receive Albert.

“Your surprise is an insult, sir,” said she.

“Mademoiselle!”

“A daughter of my family, sir, may receive her betrothed without danger of anything occurring for which she would have to blush.”

She spoke thus, and at the same time was red with shame, grief, and anger. She began to hate M. Daburon.

“I had no such insulting thought as you imagine, mademoiselle,” said the magistrate. “I was only wondering why M. de Commarin went secretly to your house, when his approaching marriage gave him the right to present himself openly at all hours. I still wonder, how, on such a visit, he could get his clothes in the condition in which we found them.”

“That is to say, sir,” replied Claire bitterly, “that you doubt my word!”

“The circumstances are such, mademoiselle⁠—”

“You accuse me, then, of falsehood, sir. Know that, were we criminals, we should not descend to justifying ourselves; we should never pray nor ask for pardon.”

Mademoiselle d’Arlange’s haughty, contemptuous tone could only anger the magistrate. How harshly she treated him! And simply because he would not consent to be her dupe.

“Above all, mademoiselle,” he answered severely, “I am a magistrate; and I have a duty to perform. A crime has been committed. Everything points to M. Albert de Commarin as the guilty man. I arrest him; I examine him; and I find overwhelming proofs against him. You come and tell me that they are false; that is not enough. So long as you addressed me as a friend, you found me kind and gentle. Now it is the magistrate to whom you speak: and it is the magistrate who answers, ‘Prove it.’ ”

“My word, sir⁠—”

“Prove it!”

Mademoiselle d’Arlange rose slowly, casting upon the magistrate a look full of astonishment and suspicion.

“Would you, then, be glad, sir,” she asked, “to find Albert guilty? Would it give you such great pleasure to have him convicted? Do you then hate this prisoner, whose fate is in your hands? One would almost think so. Can you answer for your impartiality? Do not certain memories weigh heavily in the scale? Are you sure that you are not, armed with the law, revenging yourself upon a rival?”

“This is too much,” murmured the magistrate, “this is too much!”

“Do you know the unusual, the dangerous position we are in at this moment? One day, I remember, you declared your love for me. It appeared to me sincere and honest; it touched me. I was obliged to refuse you, because I loved another; and I pitied you. Now that other is accused of murder, and you are his judge; and I find myself between you two, praying to you for him. In undertaking the investigation you acquired an opportunity to help him; and yet you seem to be against him.”

Every word Claire uttered fell upon M. Daburon’s heart like a slap on his face. Was it really she who was speaking? Whence came this sudden boldness, which made her choose all those words which found an echo in his heart?

“Mademoiselle,” said he, “your grief has been too much for you. From you alone could I pardon what you have just said. Your ignorance of things makes you unjust. If you think that Albert’s fate depends upon my pleasure, you are mistaken. To convince me is nothing; it is necessary to convince others. That I should believe you is all very natural, I know you. But what weight will others attach to your testimony, when you go to them with a true story⁠—most true, I believe, but yet highly improbable?”

Tears came into Claire’s eyes.

“If I have unjustly offended you, sir,” said she, “pardon me; my unhappiness makes me forget myself.”

“You cannot offend me, mademoiselle,” replied the magistrate. “I have already told you that I am devoted to your service.”

“Then sir, help me to prove the truth of what I have said. I will tell you everything.”

M. Daburon was fully convinced that Claire was seeking to deceive him; but her confidence astonished him. He wondered what fable she was about to concoct.

“Sir,” began Claire, “you know what obstacles have stood in the way of my marriage with Albert. The Count de Commarin would not accept me for a daughter-in-law, because I am poor, I