The Lerouge Case by Emile Gaboriau (the dot read aloud .txt) 📕

“You are aware, sir,” he commenced in a tone of perfect politeness, “that you have no right to the name you bear?”

“I know, sir,” replied Albert, “that I am the natural son of M. de Commarin. I know further that my father would be unable to recognise me, even if he wished to, since I was born during his married life.”

“What were your feelings upon learning this?”

“I should speak falsely, sir, if I said I did not feel very bitterly. When one is in the high position I occupied, the fall is terrible. However, I never for a moment entertained the thought of contesting M. Noel Gerdy’s rights. I always purposed, and still purpose, to yield, I have so informed M. de Commarin.”

M. Daburon expected just such a reply; and it only strengthened his suspicions. Did it not enter into the line of defence which he had foreseen? It was now his duty to seek some way of demolishing this defence, in which the prisoner evidently meant to shut himself up like a tortoise in its shell.

“You could not oppose M. Gerdy,” continued the magistrate, “with any chance of success. You had, indeed on your side, the count, and your mother; but M. Gerdy was in possession of evidence that was certain to win his cause, that of Widow Lerouge.”

“I have never doubted that, sir.”

“Now,” continued the magistrate, seeking to hide the look which he fastened upon Albert, “justice supposes that, to do away with the only existing proof, you have assassinated Widow Lerouge.”

This terrible accusation, terribly emphasised, caused no change in Albert’s features. He preserved the same firm bearing, without bravado.

“Before God,” he answered, “and by all that is most sacred on earth, I swear to you, sir, that I am innocent! I am at this moment a close prisoner, without communication with the outer world, reduced consequently to the most absolute helplessness. It is through your probity that I hope to demonstrate my innocence.”

“What an actor!” thought the magistrate. “Can crime be so strong as this?”

He glanced over his papers, reading certain passages of the preceding depositions, turning down the corners of certain pages which contained important information. Then suddenly he resumed, “When you were arrested, you cried out, ‘I am lost,’ what did you mean by that?”

“Sir,” replied Albert, “I remember having uttered those words. When I knew of what crime I was accused, I was overwhelmed with consternation. My mind was, as it were, enlightened by a glimpse of the future. In a moment, I perceived all the horror of my situation. I understood the weight of the accusation, its probability, and the difficulties I should have in defending myself. A voice cried out to me, ‘Who was most interested in Claudine’s death?’ And the knowledge of my imminent peril forced from me the exclamation you speak of.”

His explanation was more than plausible, was possible, and even likely. It had the advantage, too, of anticipating the axiom, “Search out the one whom the crime will benefit!” Tabaret had spoken truly, when he said that they would not easily make the prisoner confess.

M. Daburon admired Albert’s presence of mind, and the resources of his perverse imagination.

“You do indeed,” continued the magistrate, “appear to have had the greatest interest in this death. Moreover, I will inform you that robbery was not the object of the crime. The things thrown into the Seine have been recovered. We know, also, that all the widow’s papers were burnt. Could they compromise any one but yourself? If you know of any one, speak.”

“What can I answer, sir? Nothing.”

“Have you often gone to see this woman?”

“Three or four times with my father.”

“One of your coachmen pretends to have driven you there at least ten times.”

“The man is mistaken. But what matters the number of visits?”

“Do you recollect the arrangements of the rooms? Can you describe them?”

“Perfectly, sir: there were two. Claudine slept in the back room.”

“You were in no way a stranger to Widow Lerouge. If you had knocked one evening at her window-shutter, do you think she would have let you in?”

“Certainly, sir, and eagerly.”

“You have been unwell these last few days?”

“Very unwell, to say the least, sir. My body bent under the weight of a burden too great for my strength. It was not, however, for want of courage.”

“Why did you forbid your valet, Lubin, to call in the doctor?”

“Ah, sir, how could the doctor cure my disease? All his science could not make me the legitimate son of the Count de Commarin.”

“Some very singular remarks made by you were overheard. You seemed to be no longer interested in anything concerning your home. You destroyed a large number of papers and letters.”

“I had decided to leave the count, sir. My resolution explains my conduct.”

Albert replied promptly to the magistrate’s questions, without the least embarrassment, and in a confident tone. His voice, which was very pleasant to the ear, did not tremble. It concealed no emotion; it retained its pure and vibrating sound.

M. Daburon deemed it wise to suspend the examination for a short time. With so cunning an adversary, he was evidently pursuing a false course. To proceed in detail was folly, he neither intimidated the prisoner, nor made him break through his reserve. It was necessary to take him unawares.

“Sir,” resumed the magistrate, abruptly, “tell me exactly how you passed your time last Tuesday evening, from six o’clock until midnight?”

For the first time, Albert seemed disconcerted. His glance, which had, till then, been fixed upon the magistrate, wavered.

“During Tuesday evening,” he stammered, repeating the phrase to gain time.

“I have him,” thought the magistrate, starting with joy, and then added aloud, “yes, from six o’clock until midnight.”

“I am afraid, sir,” answered Albert, “it will be difficult for me to satisfy you. I haven’t a very good memory.”

“Oh, don’t tell me that!” interrupted the magistrate. “If I had asked what you were doing three months ago, on a certain evening, and at a certain hour, I could understand your hesitation; but this is about Tuesday, and it is now Friday. Moreover, this day, so close, was the last of the carnival; it was Shrove Tuesday. That circumstance ought to help your memory.”

“That evening, I went out walking,” murmured Albert.

“Now,” continued the magistrate, “where did you dine?”

“At home, as usual.”

“No, not as usual. At the end of your meal, you asked for a bottle of