L'affaire Lerouge. English

  CHAPTER XII.

  Albert scarcely noticed his removal from home to the seclusion of theprison. Snatched away from his painful thoughts by the harsh voice ofthe commissary, saying. "In the name of the law I arrest you," hismind, completely upset, was a long time in recovering its equilibrium,Everything that followed appeared to him to float indistinctly in athick mist, like those dream-scenes represented on the stage behind aquadruple curtain of gauze.

  To the questions put to him he replied, without knowing what he said.Two police agents took hold of his arms, and helped him down the stairs.He could not have walked down alone. His limbs, which bent beneath him,refused their support. The only thing he understood of all that was saidaround him was that the count had been struck with apoplexy; but eventhat he soon forgot.

  They lifted him into the cab, which was waiting in the court-yard at thefoot of the steps, rather ashamed at finding itself in such a place; andthey placed him on the back seat. Two police agents installed themselvesin front of him while a third mounted the box by the side of the driver.During the drive, he did not at all realize his situation. He layperfectly motionless in the dirty, greasy vehicle. His body, whichfollowed every jolt, scarcely allayed by the worn-out springs, rolledfrom one side to the other and his head oscillated on his shoulders,as if the muscles of his neck were broken. He thought of Widow Lerouge. Herecalled her as she was when he went with his father to La Jonchere. Itwas in the spring-time; and the hawthorn blossoms scented the air.The old woman, in a white cap, stood at her garden gate: she spokebeseechingly. The count looked sternly at her as he listened, then,taking some gold from his purse, he gave it to her.

  On arriving at their destination they lifted him out of the cab, thesame way as they had lifted him in at starting.

  During the formality of entering his name in the jail-book in the dingy,stinking record office, and whilst replying mechanically to everything,he gave himself up with delight to recollections of Claire. He went backto the time of the early days of their love, when he doubted whether hewould ever have the happiness of being loved by her in return; when theyused to meet at Mademoiselle Goello's.

  This old maid had a house on the left bank of the Seine furnished inthe most eccentric manner. On all the dining-room furniture, and on themantel-piece, were placed a dozen or fifteen stuffed dogs, of variousbreeds, which together or successively had helped to cheer the maiden'slonely hours. She loved to relate stories of these pets whose affectionhad never failed her. Some were grotesque, others horrible. Oneespecially, outrageously stuffed seemed ready to burst. How many timeshe and Claire had laughed at it until the tears came!

  The officials next began to search him. This crowning humiliation, theserough hands passing all over his body brought him somewhat to himself,and roused his anger. But it was already over; and they at once draggedhim along the dark corridors, over the filthy, slippery floor. Theyopened a door, and pushed him into a small cell. He then heard them lockand bolt the door.

  He was a prisoner, and, in accordance with special orders, in solitaryconfinement. He immediately felt a marked sensation of comfort. He wasalone.

  No more stifled whispers, harsh voices, implacable questions, soundedin his ears. A profound silence reigned around. It seemed to him that hehad forever escaped from society; and he rejoiced at it. He would havefelt relieved, had this even been the silence of the grave. His body,as well as his mind, was weighed down with weariness. He wanted tosit down, when he perceived a small bed, to the right, in front of thegrated window, which let in the little light there was. This bed was aswelcome to him as a plank would be to a drowning man. He threw himselfupon it, and lay down with delight; but he felt cold, so he unfoldedthe coarse woollen coverlid, and wrapping it about him, was soon soundasleep.

  In the corridor, two detectives, one still young, the other rather old,applied alternately their eyes and ears to the peep-hole in the door,watching every movement of the prisoner; "What a fellow he is!" murmuredthe younger officer. "If a man has no more nerve than that, he oughtto remain honest. He won't care much about his looks the morning of hisexecution, eh, M. Balan?"

  "That depends," replied the other. "We must wait and see. Lecoq told methat he was a terrible rascal."

  "Ah! look he arranges his bed, and lies down. Can he be going to sleep?That's good! It's the first time I ever saw such a thing."

  "It is because, comrade, you have only had dealings with the smallerrogues. All rascals of position--and I have had to do with more thanone--are this sort. At the moment of arrest, they are incapable ofanything; their heart fails them; but they recover themselves next day."

  "Upon my word, one would say he has gone to sleep! What a joke!"

  "I tell you, my friend," added the old man, pointedly, "that nothingis more natural. I am sure that, since the blow was struck, this youngfellow has hardly lived: his body has been all on fire. Now he knowsthat his secret is out; and that quiets him."

  "Ha, ha! M. Balan, you are joking: you say that that quiets him?"

  "Certainly. There is no greater punishment, remember, than anxiety;everything is preferable. If you only possessed an income of tenthousand francs, I would show you a way to prove this. I would tell youto go to Hamburg and risk your entire fortune on one chance at rouge etnoir. You could relate to me, afterwards, what your feelings were whilethe ball was rolling. It is, my boy, as though your brain was being tornwith pincers, as though molten lead was being poured into your bones, inplace of marrow. This anxiety is so strong, that one feels relieved, onebreathes again, even when one has lost. It is ruin; but then the anxietyis over."

  "Really, M. Balan, one would think that you yourself had had just suchan experience."

  "Alas!" sighed the old detective, "it is to my love for the queen ofspades, my unhappy love, that you owe the honour of looking throughthis peephole in my company. But this fellow will sleep for a couple ofhours, do not lose sight of him; I am going to smoke a cigarette in thecourtyard."

  Albert slept four hours. On awaking his head seemed clearer than it hadbeen ever since his interview with Noel. It was a terrible moment forhim, when, for the first time he became fully aware of his situation.

  "Now, indeed," said he, "I require all my courage."

  He longed to see some one, to speak, to be questioned, to explain. Hefelt a desire to call out.

  "But what good would that be?" he asked himself. "Some one will becoming soon." He looked for his watch, to see what time it was, andfound that they had taken it away. He felt this deeply; they weretreating him like the most abandoned of villains. He felt in hispockets: they had all been carefully emptied. He thought now of hispersonal appearance; and, getting up, he repaired as much as possiblethe disorder of his toilet. He put his clothes in order, and dustedthem; he straightened his collar, and re-tied his cravat. Then pouringa little water on his handkerchief, he passed it over his face, bathinghis eyes which were greatly inflamed. Then he endeavoured to smooth hisbeard and hair. He had no idea that four lynx eyes were fixed upon himall the while.

  "Good!" murmured the young detective: "see how our cock sticks up hiscomb, and smooths his feathers!

  "I told you," put in Balan, "that he was only staggered. Hush! he isspeaking, I believe."

  But they neither surprised one of those disordered gestures nor one ofthose incoherent speeches, which almost always escape from the feeblewhen excited by fear, or from the imprudent ones who believe in thediscretion of their cells. One word alone, "honour," reached the ears ofthe two spies.

  "These rascals of rank," grumbled Balan, "always have this word in theirmouths. That which they most fear is the opinion of some dozen friends,and several thousand strangers, who read the 'Gazette des Tribunaux.'They only think of their own heads later on."

  When the gendarmes came to conduct Albert before the investigatingmagistrate, they found him seated on the side of his bed, his feetpressed upon the iron rail, his elbows on his knees, and his head buriedin his hands. He rose, as they entered, and took
a few steps towardsthem; but his throat was so dry that he was scarcely able to speak. Heasked for a moment, and, turning towards the little table, he filled anddrank two large glassfuls of water in succession.

  "I am ready!" he then said. And, with a firm step, he followed thegendarmes along the passage which led to the Palais de Justice.

  M. Daburon was just then in great anguish. He walked furiously up anddown his office, awaiting the prisoner. Again, and for the twentiethtime since morning, he regretted having engaged in the business.

  "Curse this absurd point of honour, which I have obeyed," he inwardlyexclaimed. "I have in vain attempted to reassure myself by the aidof sophisms. I was wrong in not withdrawing. Nothing in the world canchange my feelings towards this young man. I hate him. I am his judge;and it is no less true, that at one time I longed to assassinate him. Ifaced him with a revolver in my hand: why did I not present it and fire?Do I know why? What power held my finger, when an almost insensiblepressure would have sufficed to kill him? I cannot say. Why is not hethe judge, I the assassin? If the intention was as punishable as thedeed, I ought to be guillotined. And it is under such conditions that Idare examine him!"

  Passing before the door he heard the heavy footsteps of the gendarmes inthe passage.

  "It is he," he said aloud and then hastily seated himself at his table,bending over his portfolios, as though striving to hide himself. Ifthe tall clerk had used his eyes, he would have noticed the singularspectacle of an investigating magistrate more agitated than the prisonerhe was about to examine. But he was blind to all around him; and, atthis moment, he was only aware of an error of fifteen centimes, whichhad slipped into his accounts, and which he was unable to rectify.

  Albert entered the magistrate's office with his head erect. His featuresbore traces of great fatigue and of sleepless nights. He was very pale;but his eyes were clear and sparkling.

  The usual questions which open such examinations gave M. Daburon anopportunity to recover himself. Fortunately, he had found time in themorning to prepare a plan, which he had now simply to follow.

  "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. deCommarin. 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, Ihave so informed M. de Commarin."

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

  "You could not oppose M. Gerdy," continued the magistrate, "with anychance of success. You had, indeed on your side, the count, and yourmother; but M. Gerdy was in possession of evidence that was certain towin his cause, that of Widow Lerouge."

  "I have never doubted that, sir."

  "Now," continued the magistrate, seeking to hide the look which hefastened upon Albert, "justice supposes that, to do away with the onlyexisting proof, you have assassinated Widow Lerouge."

  This terrible accusation, terribly emphasised, caused no change inAlbert'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 aclose prisoner, without communication with the outer world, reducedconsequently to the most absolute helplessness. It is through yourprobity that I hope to demonstrate my innocence."

  "What an actor!" thought the magistrate. "Can crime be so strong asthis?"

  He glanced over his papers, reading certain passages of the precedingdepositions, turning down the corners of certain pages which containedimportant information. Then suddenly he resumed, "When you werearrested, you cried out, 'I am lost,' what did you mean by that?"

  "Sir," replied Albert, "I remember having uttered those words. When Iknew 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 amoment, I perceived all the horror of my situation. I understood theweight of the accusation, its probability, and the difficulties Ishould have in defending myself. A voice cried out to me, 'Who was mostinterested in Claudine's death?' And the knowledge of my imminent perilforced 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 theone whom the crime will benefit!" Tabaret had spoken truly, when he saidthat they would not easily make the prisoner confess.

  M. Daburon admired Albert's presence of mind, and the resources of hisperverse imagination.

  "You do indeed," continued the magistrate, "appear to have had thegreatest interest in this death. Moreover, I will inform you thatrobbery was not the object of the crime. The things thrown into theSeine have been recovered. We know, also, that all the widow's paperswere burnt. Could they compromise any one but yourself? If you know ofany 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 tentimes."

  "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 oneevening 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 ofa burden too great for my strength. It was not, however, for want ofcourage."

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

  "Ah, sir, how could the doctor cure my disease? All his science couldnot make me the legitimate son of the Count de Commarin."

  "Some very singular remarks made by you were overheard. You seemed to beno longer interested in anything concerning your home. You destroyed alarge number of papers and letters."

  "I had decided to leave the count, sir. My resolution explains myconduct."

  Albert replied promptly to the magistrate's questions, without theleast embarrassment, and in a confident tone. His voice, which wasvery pleasant to the ear, did not tremble. It concealed no emotion; itretained 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 himunawares.

  "Sir," resumed the magistrate, abruptly, "tell me exactly how you passedyour 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 gaintime.

  "I have him," thought the magistrate, starting with joy, and then addedaloud, "yes, from six o'clock until midnight."

  "I am afraid, sir," answered Albert, "it will be difficult for me tosatisfy you. I haven't a very good memory."

  "Oh, don't tell me that!" interrupted the magistrate. "If I had askedwhat you were doing three months ago, on a certain evening, and at acertain hour, I could und
erstand your hesitation; but this is aboutTuesday, and it is now Friday. Moreover, this day, so close, was thelast of the carnival; it was Shrove Tuesday. That circumstance ought tohelp 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 ofBordeaux, of which you drank the whole. You doubtless had need of someextra excitement for your subsequent plans."

  "I had no plans," replied the prisoner with very evident uneasiness.

  "You make a mistake. Two friends came to seek you. You replied to them,before sitting down to dinner, that you had a very important engagementto keep."

  "That was only a polite way of getting rid of them."

  "Why?"

  "Can you not understand, sir? I was resigned, but not comforted. I waslearning to get accustomed to the terrible blow. Would not one seeksolitude in the great crisis of one's life?"

  "The prosecution pretends that you wished to be left alone, that youmight go to La Jonchere. During the day, you said, 'She can not resistme.' Of whom were you speaking?"

  "Of some one to whom I had written the evening before, and who hadreplied to me. I spoke the words, with her letter still in my hands."

  "This letter was, then, from a woman?"

  "Yes."

  "What have you done with it?"

  "I have burnt it."

  "This precaution leads one to suppose that you considered the lettercompromising."

  "Not at all, sir; it treated entirely of private matters."

  M. Daburon was sure that this letter came from Mademoiselle d'Arlange.Should he nevertheless ask the question, and again hear pronounced thename of Claire, which always aroused such painful emotions within him?He ventured to do so, leaning over his papers, so that the prisonercould not detect his emotion.

  "From whom did this letter come?" he asked.

  "From one whom I can not name."

  "Sir," said the magistrate severely, "I will not conceal from youthat your position is greatly compromised. Do not aggravate it by thisculpable reticence. You are here to tell everything, sir."

  "My own affairs, yes, not those of others."

  Albert gave this last answer in a dry tone. He was giddy, flurried,exasperated, by the prying and irritating mode of the examination, whichscarcely gave him time to breathe. The magistrate's questions fell uponhim more thickly than the blows of the blacksmith's hammer upon thered-hot iron which he is anxious to beat into shape before it cools.

  The apparent rebellion of his prisoner troubled M. Daburon a great deal.He was further extremely surprised to find the discernment of the olddetective at fault; just as though Tabaret were infallible. Tabarethad predicted an unexceptionable _alibi_; and this _alibi_ was notforthcoming. Why? Had this subtle villain something better than that?What artful defence had he to fall back upon? Doubtless he kept inreserve some unforeseen stroke, perhaps irresistible.

  "Gently," thought the magistrate. "I have not got him yet." Then hequickly added aloud: "Continue. After dinner what did you do?"

  "I went out for a walk."

  "Not immediately. The bottle emptied, you smoked a cigar in thedining-room, which was so unusual as to be noticed. What kind of cigarsdo you usually smoke?"

  "Trabucos."

  "Do you not use a cigar-holder, to keep your lips from contact with thetobacco?"

  "Yes, sir," replied Albert, much surprised at this series of questions.

  "At what time did you go out?"

  "About eight o'clock."

  "Did you carry an umbrella?"

  "Yes."

  "Where did you go?"

  "I walked about."

  "Alone, without any object, all the evening?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Now trace out your wanderings for me very carefully."

  "Ah, sir, that is very difficult to do! I went out simply to walk about,for the sake of exercise, to drive away the torpor which had depressedme for three days. I don't know whether you can picture to yourself myexact condition. I was half out of my mind. I walked about at hazardalong the quays. I wandered through the streets,--"

  "All that is very improbable," interrupted the magistrate. M. Daburon,however, knew that it was at least possible. Had not he himself, onenight, in a similar condition, traversed all Paris? What reply could hehave made, had some one asked him next morning where he had been, exceptthat he had not paid attention, and did not know? But he had forgottenthis; and his previous hesitations, too, had all vanished.

  As the inquiry advanced, the fever of investigation took possessionof him. He enjoyed the emotions of the struggle, his passion for hiscalling became stronger than ever.

  He was again an investigating magistrate, like the fencing master, who,once practising with his dearest friend, became excited by the clash ofthe weapons, and, forgetting himself, killed him.

  "So," resumed M. Daburon, "you met absolutely no one who can affirm thathe saw you? You did not speak to a living soul? You entered no place,not even a cafe or a theatre, or a tobacconist's to light one of yourfavourite trabucos?"

  "No, sir."

  "Well, it is a great misfortune for you, yes, a very great misfortune;for I must inform you, that it was precisely during this Tuesdayevening, between eight o'clock and midnight, that Widow Lerouge wasassassinated. Justice can point out the exact hour. Again, sir, in yourown interest, I recommend you to reflect,--to make a strong appeal toyour memory."

  This pointing out of the exact day and hour of the murder seemed toastound Albert. He raised his hand to his forehead with a despairinggesture. However he replied in a calm voice,--"I am very unfortunate,sir: but I can recollect nothing."

  M. Daburon's surprise was immense. What, not an _alibi_? Nothing? Thiscould be no snare nor system of defence. Was, then, this man as cunningas he had imagined? Doubtless. Only he had been taken unawares. He hadnever imagined it possible for the accusation to fall upon him; and itwas almost by a miracle it had done so.

  The magistrate slowly raised, one by one, the large pieces of paper thatcovered the articles seized in Albert's rooms.

  "We will pass," he continued, "to the examination of the charges whichweigh against you. Will you please come nearer? Do you recognize thesearticles as belonging to yourself?"

  "Yes, sir, they are all mine."

  "Well, take this foil. Who broke it?"

  "I, sir, in fencing with M. de Courtivois, who can bear witness to it."

  "He will be heard. Where is the broken end?"

  "I do not know. You must ask Lubin, my valet."

  "Exactly. He declares that he has hunted for it, and cannot find it. Imust tell you that the victim received the fatal blow from the sharpenedend of a broken foil. This piece of stuff, on which the assassin wipedhis weapon, is a proof of what I state."

  "I beseech you, sir, to order a most minute search to be made. It isimpossible that the other half of the foil is not to be found."

  "Orders shall be given to that effect. Look, here is the exact imprintof the murderer's foot traced on this sheet of paper. I will place oneof your boots upon it and the sole, as you perceive, fits the tracingwith the utmost precision. This plaster was poured into the hollow leftby the heel: you observe that it is, in all respects, similar in shapeto the heels of your own boots. I perceive, too, the mark of a peg,which appears in both."

  Albert followed with marked anxiety every movement of the magistrate.It was plain that he was struggling against a growing terror. Washe attacked by that fright which overpowers the guilty when they seethemselves on the point of being confounded. To all the magistrate'sremarks, he answered in a low voice,--"It is true--perfectly true."

  "That is so," continued M. Daburon; "yet listen further, beforeattempting to defend yourself. The criminal had an umbrella. The end ofthis umbrella sank in the clayey soil; the round of wood which is placedat the end of the silk, was found
moulded in the clay. Look at this clodof clay, raised with the utmost care; and now look at your umbrella.Compare the rounds. Are they alike, or not?"

  "These things, sir," attempted Albert, "are manufactured in largequantities."

  "Well, we will pass over that proof. Look at this cigar end, found onthe scene of the crime, and tell me of what brand it is, and how it wassmoked."

  "It is a trabucos, and was smoked in a cigar-holder."

  "Like these?" persisted the magistrate, pointing to the cigars and theamber and meerschaum-holders found in the viscount's library.

  "Yes!" murmured Albert, "it is a fatality--a strange coincidence."

  "Patience, that is nothing, as yet. The assassin wore gloves. Thevictim, in the death struggle, seized his hands; and some pieces of kidremained in her nails. These have been preserved, and are here. They areof a lavender colour, are they not? Now, here are the gloves which youwore on Tuesday. They, too, are lavender, and they are frayed. Comparethese pieces of kid with your own gloves. Do they not correspond? Arethey not of the same colour, the same skin?"

  It was useless to deny it, equivocate, or seek subterfuges. The evidencewas there, and it was irrefutable. While appearing to occupy himselfsolely with the objects lying upon his table, M. Daburon did not losesight of the prisoner. Albert was terrified. A cold perspiration bathedhis temples, and glided drop by drop down his cheeks. His hands trembledso much that they were of no use to him. In a chilling voice he keptrepeating: "It is horrible, horrible!"

  "Finally," pursued the inexorable magistrate, "here are the trousers youwore on the evening of the murder. It is plain that not long ago theywere very wet; and, besides the mud on them, there are traces of earth.Besides that they are torn at the knees. We will admit, for the momentthat you might not remember where you went on that evening; but whowould believe that you do not know when you tore your trousers and howyou frayed your gloves?"

  What courage could resist such assaults? Albert's firmness and energywere at an end. His brain whirled. He fell heavily into a chair,exclaiming,--"It is enough to drive me mad!"

  "Do you admit," insisted the magistrate, whose gaze had become firmlyfixed upon the prisoner, "do you admit that Widow Lerouge could onlyhave been stabbed by you?"

  "I admit," protested Albert, "that I am the victim of one of thoseterrible fatalities which make men doubt the evidence of their reason. Iam innocent."

  "Then tell me where you passed Tuesday evening."

  "Ah, sir!" cried the prisoner, "I should have to--" But, restraininghimself, he added in a faint voice, "I have made the only answer that Ican make."

  M. Daburon rose, having now reached his grand stroke.

  "It is, then, my duty," said he, with a shade of irony, "to supply yourfailure of memory. I am going to remind you of where you went and whatyou did. On Tuesday evening at eight o'clock, after having obtained fromthe wine you drank, the dreadful energy you needed, you left your home.At thirty-five minutes past eight, you took the train at the St. Lazarestation. At nine o'clock, you alighted at the station at Rueil."

  And, not disdaining to employ Tabaret's ideas, the investigatingmagistrate repeated nearly word for word the tirade improvised the nightbefore by the amateur detective.

  He had every reason, while speaking, to admire the old fellow'spenetration. In all his life, his eloquence had never produced sostriking an effect. Every sentence, every word, told. The prisoner'sassurance, already shaken, fell little by little, just like the outercoating of a wall when riddled with bullets.

  Albert was, as the magistrate perceived, like a man, who, rolling tothe bottom of a precipice, sees every branch and every projecture whichmight retard his fall fail him, and who feels a new and more painfulbruise each time his body comes in contact with them.

  "And now," concluded the investigating magistrate, "listen to goodadvice: do not persist in a system of denying, impossible to sustain.Give in. Justice, rest assured, is ignorant of nothing which it isimportant to know. Believe me; seek to deserve the indulgence of yourjudges, confess your guilt."

  M. Daburon did not believe that his prisoner would still persistin asserting his innocence. He imagined he would be overwhelmed andconfounded, that he would throw himself at his feet, begging for mercy.But he was mistaken.

  Albert, in spite of his great prostration, found, in one last effortof his will, sufficient strength to recover himself and againprotest,--"You are right, sir," he said in a sad, but firm voice;"everything seems to prove me guilty. In your place, I should havespoken as you have done; yet all the same, I swear to you that I aminnocent."

  "Come now, do you really--" began the magistrate.

  "I am innocent," interrupted Albert; "and I repeat it, without the leasthope of changing in any way your conviction. Yes, everything speaksagainst me, everything, even my own bearing before you. It is true, mycourage has been shaken by these incredible, miraculous, overwhelmingcoincidences. I am overcome, because I feel the impossibility of provingmy innocence. But I do not despair. My honour and my life are in thehands of God. At this very hour when to you I appear lost,--for I in noway deceive myself, sir,--I do not despair of a complete justification.I await confidently."

  "What do you mean?" asked the magistrate.

  "Nothing but what I say, sir."

  "So you persist in denying your guilt?"

  "I am innocent."

  "But this is folly--"

  "I am innocent."

  "Very well," said M. Daburon; "that is enough for to-day. You will hearthe official report of your examination read, and will then be takenback to solitary confinement. I exhort you to reflect. Night willperhaps bring on a better feeling; if you wish at any time to speakto me, send word, and I will come to you. I will give orders to thateffect. You may read now, Constant."

  When Albert had departed under the escort of the gendarmes, themagistrate muttered in a low tone, "There's an obstinate fellow foryou." He certainly no longer entertained the shadow of a doubt. To him,Albert was as surely the murderer as if he had admitted his guiltEven if he should persist in his system of denial to the end of theinvestigation, it was impossible, that, with the proofs already in thepossession of the police, a true bill should not be found against him.He was therefore certain of being committed for trial at the assizes. Itwas a hundred to one, that the jury would bring in a verdict of guilty.

  Left to himself, however, M. Daburon did not experience that intensesatisfaction, mixed with vanity, which he ordinarily felt after he hadsuccessfully conducted an examination, and had succeeded in gettinghis prisoner into the same position as Albert. Something disturbed andshocked him. At the bottom of his heart, he felt ill at ease. He hadtriumphed; but his victory gave him only uneasiness, pain, and vexation.A reflection so simple that he could hardly understand why it had notoccurred to him at first, increased his discontent, and made him angrywith himself.

  "Something told me," he muttered, "that I was wrong to undertake thisbusiness. I am punished for not having obeyed that inner voice. I oughtto have declined to proceed with the investigation. The Viscountde Commarin, was, all the same, certain to be arrested, imprisoned,examined, confounded, tried, and probably condemned. Then, being in noway connected with the trial, I could have reappeared before Claire. Hergrief will be great. As her friend, I could have soothed her, mingledmy tears with hers, calmed her regrets. With time, she might have beenconsoled, and perhaps have forgotten him. She could not have helpedfeeling grateful to me, and then who knows--? While now, whatever mayhappen, I shall be an object of loathing to her: she will never be ableto endure the sight of me. In her eyes I shall always be her lover'sassassin. I have with my own hands opened an abyss! I have lost her asecond time, and by my own fault."

  The unhappy man heaped the bitterest reproaches upon himself. He was indespair. He had never so hated Albert,--that wretch, who, stained witha crime, stood in the way of his happiness. Then too he cursed oldTabaret! Alone, he would not have decided so quickly. He would havewaited, thought over th
e matter, matured his decision, and certainlyhave perceived the inconveniences, which now occurred to him. The oldfellow, always carried away like a badly trained bloodhound, and fullof stupid enthusiasm, had confused him, and led him to do what he now somuch regretted.

  It was precisely this unfavorable moment that M. Tabaret chose forreappearing before the magistrate. He had just been informed of thetermination of the inquiry; and he arrived, impatient to know what hadpassed, swelling with curiosity, and full of the sweet hope of hearingof the fulfilment of his predictions.

  "What answers did he make?" he asked even before he had closed the door.

  "He is evidently guilty," replied the magistrate, with a harshness verydifferent to his usual manner.

  Old Tabaret, who expected to receive praises by the basketful, wasastounded at this tone! It was therefore, with great hesitancy that heoffered his further services.

  "I have come," he said modestly, "to know if any investigations arenecessary to demolish the _alibi_ pleaded by the prisoner."

  "He pleaded no _alibi_," replied the magistrate, dryly.

  "How," cried the detective, "no _alibi_? Pshaw! I ask pardon: he has ofcourse then confessed everything."

  "No," said the magistrate impatiently, "he has confessed nothing. Heacknowledges that the proofs are decisive: he cannot give an account ofhow he spent his time; but he protests his innocence."

  In the centre of the room, M. Tabaret stood with his mouth wide open,and his eyes staring wildly, and altogether in the most grotesqueattitude his astonishment could effect. He was literally thunderstruck.In spite of his anger, M. Daburon could not help smiling; and evenConstant gave a grin, which on his lips was equivalent to a paroxysm oflaughter.

  "Not an _alibi_, nothing?" murmured the old fellow. "No explanations?The idea! It is inconceivable! Not an _alibi_? We must then be mistaken:he cannot be the criminal. That is certain!"

  The investigating magistrate felt that the old amateur must have beenwaiting the result of the examination at the wine shop round the corner,or else that he had gone mad.

  "Unfortunately," said he, "we are not mistaken. It is but too clearlyshown that M. de Commarin is the murderer. However, if you like, you canask Constant for his report of the examination, and read it over while Iput these papers in order."

  "Very well," said the old fellow with feverish anxiety.

  He sat down in Constant's chair, and, leaning his elbows on the table,thrusting his hands in his hair, he in less than no time read thereport through. When he had finished, he arose with pale and distortedfeatures.

  "Sir," said he to the magistrate in a strange voice, "I have been theinvoluntary cause of a terrible mistake. This man is innocent."

  "Come, come," said M. Daburon, without stopping his preparations fordeparture, "you are going out of your mind, my dear M. Tabaret. How,after all that you have read there, can--"

  "Yes, sir, yes: it is because I have read this that I entreat you topause, or we shall add one more mistake to the sad list of judicialerrors. Read this examination over carefully; there is not a replybut which declares this unfortunate man innocent, not a word but whichthrows out a ray of light. And he is still in prison, still in solitaryconfinement?"

  "He is; and there he will remain, if you please," interrupted themagistrate. "It becomes you well to talk in this manner, after the wayyou spoke last night, when I hesitated so much."

  "But, sir," cried the old detective, "I still say precisely the same.Ah, wretched Tabaret! all is lost; no one understands you. Pardon me,sir, if I lack the respect due to you; but you have not grasped mymethod. It is, however, very simple. Given a crime, with all thecircumstances and details, I construct, bit by bit, a plan ofaccusation, which I do not guarantee until it is entire and perfect. Ifa man is found to whom this plan applies exactly in every particularthe author of the crime is found: otherwise, one has laid hands uponan innocent person. It is not sufficient that such and such particularsseem to point to him; it must be all or nothing. This is infallible.Now, in this case, how have I reached the culprit? Through proceeding byinference from the known to the unknown. I have examined his work; and Ihave formed an idea of the worker. Reason and logic lead us to what? Toa villain, determined, audacious, and prudent, versed in the business.And do you think that such a man would neglect a precaution that wouldnot be omitted by the stupidest tyro? It is inconceivable. What! thisman is so skillful as to leave such feeble traces that they escapeGevrol's practised eye, and you think he would risk his safety byleaving an entire night unaccounted for? It's impossible! I am as sureof my system as of a sum that has been proved. The assassin has an_alibi_. Albert has pleaded none; then he is innocent."

  M. Daburon surveyed the detective pityingly, much as he wouldhave looked at a remarkable monomaniac. When the old fellow hadfinished,--"My worthy M. Tabaret," the magistrate said to him: "you havebut one fault. You err through an excess of subtlety, you accord toofreely to others the wonderful sagacity with which you yourself areendowed. Our man has failed in prudence, simply because he believed hisrank would place him above suspicion."

  "No, sir, no, a thousand times no. My culprit,--the true one,--he whomwe have missed catching, feared everything. Besides, does Albert defendhimself? No. He is overwhelmed because he perceives coincidences sofatal that they appear to condemn him, without a chance of escape. Doeshe try to excuse himself? No. He simply replies, 'It is terrible.' Andyet all through his examination I feel reticence that I cannot explain."

  "I can explain it very easily; and I am as confident as though he hadconfessed everything. I have more than sufficient proofs for that."

  "Ah, sir, proofs! There are always enough of those against an arrestedman. They existed against every innocent man who was ever condemned.Proofs! Why, I had them in quantities against Kaiser, the poor littletailor, who--"

  "Well," interrupted the magistrate, hastily, "if it is not he, the mostinterested one, who committed the crime, who then is it? His father, theCount de Commarin?"

  "No: the true assassin is a young man."

  M. Daburon had arranged his papers, and finished his preparations. Hetook up his hat, and, as he prepared to leave, replied: "You must thensee that I am right. Come and see me by-and-by, M. Tabaret, and makehaste and get rid of all your foolish ideas. To-morrow we will talk thewhole matter over again. I am rather tired to-night." Then he added,addressing his clerk, "Constant, look in at the record office, in casethe prisoner Commarin should wish to speak to me."

  He moved towards the door; but M. Tabaret barred his exit.

  "Sir," said the old man, "in the name of heaven listen to me! He isinnocent, I swear to you. Help me, then, to find the real culprit. Sir,think of your remorse should you cause an--"

  But the magistrate would not hear more. He pushed old Tabaret quicklyaside, and hurried out.

  The old man now turned to Constant. He wished to convince him. Losttrouble: the tall clerk hastened to put his things away, thinking of hissoup, which was getting cold.

  So that M. Tabaret soon found himself locked out of the room and alonein the dark passage. All the usual sounds of the Palais had ceased: theplace was silent as the tomb. The old detective desperately tore hishair with both hands.

  "Ah!" he exclaimed, "Albert is innocent; and it is I who have castsuspicion upon him. It is I, fool that I am, who have infused into theobstinate spirit of this magistrate a conviction that I can no longerdestroy. He is innocent and is yet enduring the most horrible anguish.Suppose he should commit suicide! There have been instances of wretchedmen, who in despair at being falsely accused have killed themselves intheir cells. Poor boy! But I will not abandon him. I have ruined him: Iwill save him! I must, I will find the culprit; and he shall pay dearlyfor my mistake, the scoundrel!"