บทที่ บทที่ 14 · On the Monday morning, at nine o’clock, M. Daburon was preparing to

start for the Palais de Justice, where he expected to find Gevrol and

his man, and perhaps old Tabaret. His preparations were nearly made,

when his servant announced that a young lady, accompanied by another

considerably older, asked to speak with him. She declined giving

her name, saying, however, that she would not refuse it, if it was

absolutely necessary in order to be received.

“Show them in,” said the magistrate.

He thought it must be a relation of one or other of the prisoners, whose

case he had had in hand when this fresh crime occurred. He determined to

send her away quickly. He was standing before the fireplace, seeking

for an address in a small china plate filled with visiting cards. At

the sound of the opening of the door, at the rustling of a silk dress

gliding by the window, he did not take the trouble to move, nor deign

even to turn his head. He contented himself with merely casting a

careless glance into the mirror.

But he immediately started with a movement of dismay, as if he had seen

a ghost. In his confusion, he dropped the card-plate, which fell noisily

on to the hearth, and broke into a thousand pieces.

“Claire!” he stammered, “Claire!”

And as if he feared equally either being deceived by an illusion or

actually seeing her whose name he had uttered, he turned slowly round.

It was truly Mademoiselle d’Arlange. This young girl, usually so proud

and reserved, had had the courage to come to his house alone, or almost

so, for her governess, whom she had left in the ante-room, could hardly

count. She was evidently obeying some powerful emotion, since it made

her forget her habitual timidity.

Never, even in the time when a sight of her was his greatest happiness,

had she appeared to him more fascinating. Her beauty, ordinarily

veiled by a sweet sadness, was bright and shining. Her features had an

animation which he had never seen in them before. In her eyes, rendered

more brilliant by recent tears but partly wiped away, shone the noblest

resolution. One could see that she was conscious of performing a great

duty, and that she performed it, if not with pleasure, at least with

that simplicity which in itself is heroism.

She advanced calm and dignified, and held out her hand to the magistrate

in that English style that some ladies can render so gracefully.

“We are always friends, are we not?” asked she, with a sad smile.

The magistrate did not dare take the ungloved hand she held out to him.

He scarcely touched it with the tips of his fingers, as though he feared

too great an emotion.

“Yes,” he replied indistinctly, “I am always devoted to you.”

Mademoiselle d’Arlange sat down in the large armchair, where, two nights

previously, old Tabaret had planned Albert’s arrest. M. Daburon remained

standing leaning against his writing-table.

“You know why I have come?” asked the young girl.

With a nod, he replied in the affirmative.

He divined her object only too easily; and he was asking himself whether

he would be able to resist prayers from such a mouth. What was she about

to ask of him? What could he refuse her? Ah, if he had but foreseen

this? He had not yet got over his surprise.

“I only knew of this dreadful event yesterday,” pursued Claire; “my

grandmother considered it best to hide it from me, and, but for my

devoted Schmidt, I should still be ignorant of it all. What a night I

have passed! At first I was terrified; but, when they told me that all

depended upon you, my fears were dispelled. It is for my sake, is it

not, that you have undertaken this investigation? Oh, you are good, I

know it! How can I ever express my gratitude?”

What humiliation for the worthy magistrate were these heartfelt thanks!

Yes, he had at first thought of Mademoiselle d’Arlange, but since--He

bowed his head to avoid Claire’s glance, so pure and so daring.

“Do not thank me, mademoiselle,” he stammered, “I have not the claim

that you think upon your gratitude.”

Claire had been too troubled herself, at first, to notice the

magistrate’s agitation. The trembling of his voice attracted her

attention; but she did not suspect the cause. She thought that her

presence recalled sad memories, that he doubtless still loved her,

and that he suffered. This idea saddened her, and filled her with

self-reproach.

“And yet, sir,” she continued, “I thank you all the same. I might never

have dared go to another magistrate, to speak to a stranger! Besides,

what value would another attach to my words, not knowing me? While you,

so generous, will re-assure me, will tell me by what awful mistake he

has been arrested like a villain and thrown into prison.”

“Alas!” sighed the magistrate, so low that Claire scarcely heard him,

and did not understand the terrible meaning of the exclamation.

“With you,” she continued, “I am not afraid. You are my friend, you told

me so; you will not refuse my prayers. Give him his liberty quickly. I

do not know exactly of what he is accused, but I swear to you that he is

innocent.”

Claire spoke in the positive manner of one who saw no obstacle in the

way of the very simple and natural desire which she had expressed. A

formal assurance given by her ought to be amply sufficient; with a

word, M. Daburon would repair everything. The magistrate was silent. He

admired that saint-like ignorance of everything, that artless and frank

confidence which doubted nothing. She had commenced by wounding him,

unconsciously, it is true, but he had quite forgotten that.

He was really an upright man, as good as the best, as is proved from

the fact that he trembled at the moment of unveiling the fatal truth. He

hesitated to pronounce the words which, like a whirlwind, would overturn

the fragile edifice of this young girl’s happiness. He who had been so

humiliated, so despised, he was going to have his revenge; and yet

he did not experience the least feeling of a shameful, though easily

understood, satisfaction.

“And if I should tell you, mademoiselle,” he commenced, “that M. Albert

is not innocent?”

She half-raised herself with a protesting gesture.

He continued, “If I should tell you that he is guilty?”

“Oh, sir!” interrupted Claire, “you cannot think so!”

“I do think so, mademoiselle,” exclaimed the magistrate in a sad voice,

“and I must add that I am morally certain of it.”

Claire looked at the investigating magistrate with profound amazement.

Could it be really he who was speaking thus. Had she heard him aright?

Did she understand? She was far from sure. Had he answered seriously?

Was he not deluding her by a cruel unworthy jest? She asked herself this

scarcely knowing what she did: for to her everything appeared possible,

probable, rather than that which he had said.

Not daring to raise his eyes, he continued in a tone, expressive of the

sincerest pity, “I suffer cruelly for you at this moment, mademoiselle;

but I have the sad courage to tell you the truth, and you must summon

yours to hear it. It is far better that you should know everything from

the mouth of a friend. Summon, then, all your fortitude; strengthen your

noble soul against a most dreadful misfortune. No, there is no mistake.

Justice has not been deceived. The Viscount de Commarin is accused of

an assassination; and everything, you understand me, proves that he

committed it.”

Like a doctor, who pours out drop by drop a dangerous medicine, M.

Daburon pronounced this last sentence slowly, word by word. He watched

carefully the result, ready to cease speaking, if the shock was too

great. He did not suppose that this young girl, timid to excess, with a

sensitiveness almost a disease, would be able to hear without flinching

such a terrible revelation. He expected a burst of despair, tears,

distressing cries. She might perhaps faint away; and he stood ready to

call in the worthy Schmidt.

He was mistaken. Claire drew herself up full of energy and courage. The

flame of indignation flushed her cheeks, and dried her tears.

“It is false,” she cried, “and those who say it are liars! He cannot

be--no, he cannot be an assassin. If he were here, sir, and should

himself say, ‘It is true,’ I would refuse to believe it; I would still

cry out, ‘It is false!’”

“He has not yet admitted it,” continued the magistrate, “but he will

confess. Even if he should not, there are more proofs than are needed to

convict him. The charges against him are as impossible to deny as is the

sun which shines upon us.”

“Ah! well,” interrupted Mademoiselle d’Arlange, in a voice filled

with emotion, “I assert, I repeat, that justice is deceived. Yes,” she

persisted, in answer to the magistrate’s gesture of denial, “yes, he is

innocent. I am sure of it; and I would proclaim it, even were the whole

world to join with you in accusing him. Do you not see that I know him

better even than he can know himself, that my faith in him is absolute,

as is my faith in God, that I would doubt myself before doubting him?”

The investigating magistrate attempted timidly to make an objection;

Claire quickly interrupted him.

“Must I then, sir,” said she, “in order to convince you, forget that I

am a young girl, and that I am not talking to my mother, but to a man!

For his sake I will do so. It is four years, sir, since we first loved

each other. Since that time, I have not kept a single one of my thoughts

from him, nor has he hid one of his from me. For four years, there has

never been a secret between us; he lived in me, as I lived in him.

I alone can say how worthy he is to be loved; I alone know all that

grandeur of soul, nobleness of thought, generosity of feelings, out of

which you have so easily made an assassin. And I have seen him, oh! so

unhappy, while all the world envied his lot. He is, like me, alone in

the world; his father never loved him. Sustained one by the other, we

have passed through many unhappy days; and it is at the very moment our

trials are ending that he has become a criminal? Why? tell me, why?”

“Neither the name nor the fortune of the Count de Commarin would descend

to him, mademoiselle; and the knowledge of it came upon him with a

sudden shock. One old woman alone was able to prove this. To maintain

his position, he killed her.”

“What infamy,” cried the young girl, “what a shameful, wicked, calumny!

I know, sir, that story of fallen greatness; he himself told me of it.

It is true, that for three days this misfortune unmanned him; but, if he

was dismayed, it was on my account more than his own. He was distressed

at thinking that perhaps I should be grieved, when he confessed to me

that he could no longer give me all that his love dreamed of. I grieved?

Ah! what to me are that great name, that immense wealth? I owe to them

the only unhappiness I have ever known. Was it, then, for such things

that I loved him? It was thus that I replied to him; and he, so sad,

immediately recovered his gaiety. He thanked me, saying, ‘You love me;

the rest is of no consequence.’ I chided him, then, for having doubted

me; and after that, you pretend that he cowardly assassinated an old

woman? You would not dare repeat it.”

Mademoiselle d’Arlange ceased speaking, a smile of victory on her lips.

That smile meant, “At last I have attained my end: you are conquered;

what can you reply to all that I have said?”

The investigating magistrate did not long leave this smiling illusion to

the unhappy child. He did not perceive how cruel and offensive was his

persistence. Always the same predominant idea! In persuading Claire, he

would justify his own conduct to himself.

“You do not know, mademoiselle,” he resumed, “how a sudden calamity may

effect a good man’s reason. It is only at the time a thing escapes us

that we feel the greatness of the loss. God preserve me from doubting

all that you have said; but picture to yourself the immensity of the

blow which struck M. de Commarin. Can you say that on leaving you he did

not give way to despair? Think of the extremities to which it may

have led him. He may have been for a time bewildered, and have acted

unconsciously. Perhaps this is the way the crime should be explained.”

Mademoiselle d’Arlange’s face grew deathly pale, and betrayed the utmost

terror. The magistrate thought that at last doubt had begun to effect

her pure and noble belief.

“He must, then, have been mad,” she murmured.

“Possibly,” replied the magistrate; “and yet the circumstances of the

crime denote a well-laid plan. Believe me, then, mademoiselle, and do

not be too confident. Pray, and wait patiently for the issue of this

terrible trial. Listen to my voice, it is that of a friend. You used to

have in me the confidence a daughter gives to her father, you told me

so; do not, then, refuse my advice. Remain silent and wait. Hide your

grief to all; you might hereafter regret having exposed it. Young,

inexperienced, without a guide, without a mother, alas! you sadly

misplaced your first affections.”

“No, sir, no,” stammered Claire. “Ah!” she added, “you talk like the

rest of the world, that prudent and egotistical world, which I despise

and hate.”

“Poor child,” continued M. Daburon, pitiless even in his compassion,

“unhappy young girl! This is your first deception! Nothing more terrible

could be imagined; few women would know how to bear it. But you are

young; you are brave; your life will not be ruined. Hereafter you will

feel horrified at this crime. There is no wound, I know by experience,

which time does not heal.”

Claire tried to grasp what the magistrate was saying, but his words

reached her only as confused sounds, their meaning entirely escaped her.

“I do not understand you, sir,” she said. “What advice, then, do you

give me?”

“The only advice that reason dictates, and that my affection for you can

suggest, mademoiselle. I speak to you as a kind and devoted brother.

I say to you: ‘Courage, Claire, resign yourself to the saddest, the

greatest sacrifice which honour can ask of a young girl. Weep, yes, weep

for your deceived love; but forget it. Pray heaven to help you do so. He

whom you have loved is no longer worthy of you.’”

The magistrate stopped slightly frightened. Mademoiselle d’Arlange had

become livid.

But though the body was weak, the soul still remained firm.

“You said, just now,” she murmured, “that he could only have committed

this crime in a moment of distraction, in a fit of madness?”

“Yes, it is possible.”

“Then, sir, not knowing what he did, he can not be guilty.”

The investigating magistrate forgot a certain troublesome question which

he put to himself one morning in bed after his illness.

“Neither justice nor society, mademoiselle,” he replied, “can take that

into account. God alone, who sees into the depths of our hearts, can

judge, can decide those questions which human justice must pass by. In

our eyes, M. de Commarin is a criminal. There may be certain extenuating

circumstances to soften the punishment; but the moral effect will be the

same. Even if he were acquitted, and I wish he may be, but without hope,

he will not be less unworthy. He will always carry the dishonour, the

stain of blood cowardly shed. Therefore, forget him.”

Mademoiselle d’Arlange stopped the magistrate with a look in which

flashed the strongest resentment.

“That is to say,” she exclaimed, “that you counsel me to abandon him in

his misfortune. All the world deserts him; and your prudence advises me

to act with the world. Men behave thus, I have heard, when one of their

friends is down; but women never do. Look about you; however humiliated,

however wretched, however low, a man may be, you will always find a

woman near to sustain and console him. When the last friend has boldly

taken to flight, when the last relation has abandoned him, woman

remains.”

The magistrate regretted having been carried away perhaps a little too

far. Claire’s excitement frightened him. He tried, but in vain, to stop

her.

“I may be timid,” she continued with increasing energy, “but I am no

coward. I chose Albert voluntarily from amongst all. Whatever happens,

I will never desert him. No, I will never say, ‘I do not know this man.’

He would have given me half of his prosperity, and of his glory. I

will share, whether he wishes it or not, half of his shame and of his

misfortune. Between two, the burden will be less heavy to bear. Strike!

I will cling so closely to him that no blow shall touch him without

reaching me, too. You counsel me to forget him. Teach me, then, how to.

I forget him? Could I, even if I wished? But I do not wish it. I love

him. It is no more in my power to cease loving him than it is to

arrest, by the sole effort of my will, the beating of my heart. He is a

prisoner, accused of murder. So be it. I love him. He is guilty! What

of that? I love him. You will condemn him, you will dishonour him.

Condemned and dishonoured, I shall love him still. You will send him

to a convict prison. I will follow him; and in the prison, under the

convict’s dress, I will yet love him. If he falls to the bottom of the

abyss, I will fall with him. My life is his, let him dispose of it. No,

nothing will separate me from him, nothing short of death! And, if he

must mount the scaffold, I shall die, I know it, from the blow which

kills him.”