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

short of death! And, if he must mount the scaffold, I shall die, I know it, from the blow which kills him.”

M. Daburon had buried his face in his hands. He did not wish Claire to perceive a trace of the emotion which affected him.

“How she loves him!” he thought, “how she loves him!”

His mind was sunk in the darkest thoughts. All the stings of jealousy were rending him. What would not be his delight, if he were the object of so irresistible a passion as that which burst forth before him! What would he not give in return! He had, too, a young and ardent soul, a burning thirst for love. But who had ever thought of that? He had been esteemed, respected, perhaps feared, but not loved; and he never would be. Was he, then, unworthy of it? Why do so many men pass through life dispossessed of love, while others, the vilest beings sometimes, seem to possess a mysterious power, which charms and seduces, and inspires those blind and impetuous feelings which to assert themselves rush to the sacrifice all the while longing for it? Have women, then, no reason, no discernment?

Mademoiselle d’Arlange’s silence brought the magistrate back to the reality. He raised his eyes to her. Overcome by the violence of her emotion, she lay back in her chair, and breathed with such difficulty that M. Daburon feared she was about to faint. He moved quickly towards the bell, to summon aid; but Claire noticed the movement, and stopped him.

“What would you do?” she asked.

“You seemed suffering so,” he stammered, “that I——”

“It is nothing, sir,” replied she. “I may seem weak; but I am not so. I am strong, believe me, very strong. It is true that I suffer, as I never believed that one could suffer. It is cruel for a young girl to have to do violence to all her feelings. You ought to be satisfied, sir. I have torn aside all veils; and you have read even the inmost recesses of my heart. But I do not regret it; it was for his sake. That which I do regret is my having lowered my self so far as to defend him; but he will forgive me that one doubt. Your assurance took me unawares. A man like him does not need defence; his innocence must be proved; and, God helping me, I will prove it.”

As Claire was half-rising to depart, M. Daburon detained her by a gesture. In his blindness, he thought he would be doing wrong to leave this poor young girl in the slightest way deceived. Having gone so far as to begin, he persuaded himself that his duty bade him go on to the end. He said to himself, in all good faith, that he would thus preserve Claire from herself, and spare her in the future many bitter regrets. The surgeon who has commenced a painful operation does not leave it half-finished because the patient struggles, suffers, and cries out.

“It is painful, Mademoiselle,—” he began.

Claire did not let him finish.

“Enough, sir,” said she; “all that you can say will be of no avail. I respect your unhappy conviction. I ask, in return, the same regard for mine. If you were truly my friend, I would ask you to aid me in the task of saving him, to which I am about to devote myself. But, doubtless, you would not do so.”

“If you knew the proofs which I possess, mademoiselle,” he said in a cold tone, which expressed his determination not to give way to anger, “if I detailed them to you, you would no longer hope.”

“Speak, sir,” cried Claire imperiously.

“You wish it, mademoiselle? Very well; I will give you in detail all the evidence we have collected. I am entirely yours, as you are aware. 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