The Lerouge Case by Émile Gaboriau (best classic books TXT) 📕

her who had been as a mother to him, he took one of her hands, and pressed it close to his lips.

“Dead!” he groaned, “she is dead!”

The nun and the priest knelt beside him, and repeated in a low voice the prayers for the dead. They implored God to shed his peace and mercy on the departed soul. They begged for a little happiness in heaven for her who had suffered so much on earth. Fallen into a chair, his head thrown back, the Count de Commarin was more overwhelmed and more livid than this dead woman, his old love, once so beautiful. Claire and the doctor hastened to assist him. They undid his cravat, and took off his shirt collar, for he was suffocating. With the help of the old soldier, whose red, tearful eyes, told of suppressed grief, they moved the count’s chair to the half-opened window to give him a little air. Three days before, this scene would have killed him. But the heart hardens by misfortune, like hands by labour.

“His tears have saved him,” whispered the doctor to Claire.

M. de Commarin gradually recovered, and, as his thoughts became clearer, his sufferings returned. Prostration follows great mental shocks. Nature seems to collect her strength to sustain the misfortune. We do not feel all its intensity at once; it is only afterwards that we realize the extent and profundity of the evil. The count’s gaze was fixed upon the bed where lay Valerie’s body. There, then, was all that remained of her. The soul, that soul so devoted and so tender, had flown. What would he not have given if God would have restored that unfortunate woman to life for a day, or even for an hour? With what transports of repentance he would have cast himself at her feet, to implore her pardon, to tell her how much he detested his past conduct! How had he acknowledged the inexhaustible love of that angel? Upon a mere suspicion, without deigning to inquire, without giving her a hearing, he had treated her with the coldest contempt. Why had he not seen her again? He would have spared himself twenty years of doubt as to Albert’s birth. Instead of an isolated existence, he would have led a happy, joyous life. Then he remembered the countess’s death. She also had loved him, and had died of her love. He had not understood them; he had killed them both. The hour of expiation had come; and he could not say: “Lord, the punishment is too great.” And yet, what punishment, what misfortunes, during the last five days!

“Yes,” he stammered, “she predicted it. Why did I not listen to her?”

Madame Gerdy’s brother pitied the old man, so severely tried. He held out his hand.

“M. de Commarin,” he said, in a grave, sad voice, “my sister forgave you long ago, even if she ever had any ill feeling against you. It is my turn today; I forgive you sincerely.”

“Thank you, sir,” murmured the count, “thank you!” and then he added: “What a death!”

“Yes,” murmured Claire, “she breathed her last in the idea that her son was guilty of a crime. And we were not able to undeceive her.”

“At least,” cried the count, “her son should be free to render her his last duties; yes, he must be. Noel!”

The barrister had approached his father, and heard all.

“I have promised, father,” he replied, “to save him.”

For the first time, Mademoiselle d’Arlange was face to face with Noel. Their eyes met, and she could not restrain a movement of repugnance, which the barrister perceived.

“Albert is already saved,” she said proudly. “What we ask is, that prompt justice shall be done him; that he shall be immediately set at liberty. The magistrate now knows the truth.”

“How the truth?” exclaimed the barrister.

“Yes; Albert passed at my house, with me, the evening the crime was committed.”

Noel looked at her surprised; so singular a confession from such a mouth, without explanation, might well surprise him.

She drew herself up haughtily. “I am Mademoiselle Claire d’Arlange, sir,” said she.

M. de Commarin now quickly ran over all the incidents reported by Claire. When he had finished, Noel replied: “You see, sir, my position at this moment, tomorrow⁠—”

“Tomorrow?” interrupted the count, “you said, I believe, tomorrow! Honour demands, sir, that we act today, at this moment. You can show your love for this poor woman much better by delivering her son than by praying for her.”

Noel bowed low. “To hear your wish, sir, is to obey it,” he said; “I go. This evening, at your house, I shall have the honour of giving you an account of my proceedings. Perhaps I shall be able to bring Albert with me.”

He spoke, and, again embracing the dead woman, went out. Soon the count and Mademoiselle d’Arlange also retired. The old soldier went to the Mayor, to give notice of the death, and to fulfil the necessary formalities. The nun alone remained, awaiting the priest, which the curé had promised to send to watch the corpse. The daughter of St. Vincent felt neither fear nor embarrassment, she had been so many times in a similar position. Her prayers said, she arose and went about the room, arranging everything as it should be in the presence of death. She removed all traces of the illness, put away the medicine bottles, burnt some sugar upon the fire shovel, and, on a table covered with a white cloth at the head of the bed, placed some lighted candles, a crucifix with holy water, and a branch of palm.

XVII

Greatly troubled and perplexed by Mademoiselle d’Arlange’s revelations, M. Daburon was ascending the stairs that led to the offices of the investigating magistrates, when he saw old Tabaret coming towards him. The sight pleased him, and he at once called out: “M. Tabaret!”

But the old fellow, who showed signs of the most intense agitation, was scarcely disposed to stop, or to lose a single minute.

“You must excuse me, sir,” he said, bowing, “but I