CHAPTER VII.
M. Daburon did not return home on leaving Mademoiselle d'Arlange. Allthrough the night he wandered about at random, seeking to cool hisheated brow, and to allay his excessive weariness.
"Fool that I was!" said he to himself, "thousand times fool to havehoped, to have believed, that she would ever love me. Madman! howcould I have dared to dream of possessing so much grace, nobleness, andbeauty! How charming she was this evening, when her face was bathed intears! Could anything be more angelic? What a sublime expression hereyes had in speaking of him! How she must love him! And I? She loves meas a father, she told me so,--as a father! And could it be otherwise?Is it not justice? Could she see a lover in a sombre and severe-lookingmagistrate, always as sad as his black coat? Was it not a crime to dreamof uniting that virginal simplicity to my detestable knowledge of theworld? For her, the future is yet the land of smiling chimeras; and longsince experience has dissipated all my illusions. She is as young asinnocence, and I am as old as vice."
The unfortunate magistrate felt thoroughly ashamed of himself. Heunderstood Claire, and excused her. He reproached himself for havingshown her how he suffered; for having cast a shadow upon her life. Hecould not forgive himself for having spoken of his love. Ought he notto have foreseen what had happened?--that she would refuse him, that hewould thus deprive himself of the happiness of seeing her, of hearingher, and of silently adoring her?
"A young and romantic girl," pursued he, "must have a lover she candream of,--whom she can caress in imagination, as an ideal, gratifyingherself by seeing in him every great and brilliant quality, imagininghim full of nobleness, of bravery, of heroism. What would she see,if, in my absence, she dreamed of me? Her imagination would present medressed in a funeral robe, in the depth of a gloomy dungeon, engagedwith some vile criminal. Is it not my trade to descend into all moralsinks, to stir up the foulness of crime? Am I not compelled to washin secrecy and darkness the dirty linen of the most corrupt members ofsociety? Ah! some professions are fatal. Ought not the magistrate, likethe priest, to condemn himself to solitude and celibacy? Both know all,they hear all, their costumes are nearly the same; but, while the priestcarries consolation in the folds of his black robe, the magistrateconveys terror. One is mercy, the other chastisement. Such are theimages a thought of me would awaken; while the other,--the other--"
The wretched man continued his headlong course along the deserted quays.He went with his head bare, his eyes haggard. To breathe more freely, hehad torn off his cravat and thrown it to the winds.
Sometimes, unconsciously, he crossed the path of a solitary wayfarer,who would pause, touched with pity, and turn to watch the retreatingfigure of the unfortunate wretch he thought deprived of reason. In aby-road, near Grenelle, some police officers stopped him, and tried toquestion him. He mechanically tendered them his card. They read it, andpermitted him to pass, convinced that he was drunk.
Anger,--a furious anger, began to replace his first feeling ofresignation. In his heart arose a hate, stronger and more violent thaneven his love for Claire. That other, that preferred one, that haughtyviscount, who could not overcome those paltry obstacles, oh, that he hadhim there, under his knee!
At that moment, this noble and proud man, this severe and gravemagistrate experienced an irresistible longing for vengeance. He beganto understand the hate that arms itself with a knife, and lays in ambushin out-of-the-way places; which strikes in the dark, whether in frontor from behind matters little, but which strikes, which kills, whosevengeance blood alone can satisfy.
At that very hour he was supposed to be occupied with an inquiryinto the case of an unfortunate, accused of having stabbed one of herwretched companions. She was jealous of the woman, who had tried totake her lover from her. He was a soldier, coarse in manners, and alwaysdrunk.
M. Daburon felt himself seized with pity for this miserable creature,whom he had commenced to examine the day before. She was very ugly, infact truly repulsive; but the expression of the eyes, when speaking ofher soldier, returned to the magistrate's memory.
"She loves him sincerely," thought he. "If each one of the jurors hadsuffered what I am suffering now, she would be acquitted. But how manymen in this world have loved passionately? Perhaps not one in twenty."
He resolved to recommend this girl to the indulgence of the tribunal,and to extenuate as much as possible her guilt.
For he himself had just determined upon the commission of a crime. Hewas resolved to kill Albert de Commarin.
During the rest of the night he became all the more determined in thisresolution, demonstrating to himself by a thousand mad reasons, which hefound solid and inscrutable, the necessity for and the justifiablenessof this vengeance.
At seven o'clock in the morning, he found himself in an avenue of theBois de Boulogne, not far from the lake. He made at once for the PorteMaillot, procured a cab, and was driven to his house.
The delirium of the night continued, but without suffering. He wasconscious of no fatigue. Calm and cool, he acted under the power of anhallucination, almost like a somnambulist.
He reflected and reasoned, but without his reason. As soon as he arrivedhome he dressed himself with care, as was his custom formerly whenvisiting the Marchioness d'Arlange, and went out. He first called at anarmourer's and bought a small revolver, which he caused to be carefullyloaded under his own eyes, and put it into his pocket. He then called onthe different persons he supposed capable of informing him to what clubthe viscount belonged. No one noticed the strange state of his mind, sonatural were his manners and conversations.
It was not until the afternoon that a young friend of his gave him thename of Albert de Commarin's club, and offered to conduct him thither,as he too was a member.
M. Daburon accepted warmly, and accompanied his friend. While passingalong, he grasped with frenzy the handle of the revolver which he keptconcealed, thinking only of the murder he was determined to commit, andthe means of insuring the accuracy of his aim.
"This will make a terrible scandal," thought he, "above all if I do notsucceed in blowing my own brains out. I shall be arrested, throwninto prison, and placed upon my trial at the assizes. My name will bedishonoured! Bah! what does that signify? Claire does not love me, sowhat care I for all the rest? My father no doubt will die of grief, butI must have my revenge!"
On arriving at the club, his friend pointed out a very dark young man,with a haughty air, or what appeared so to him, who, seated at a table,was reading a review. It was the viscount.
M. Daburon walked up to him without drawing his revolver. But whenwithin two paces, his heart failed him; he turned suddenly and fled,leaving his friend astonished at a scene, to him, utterly inexplicable.
Only once again will Albert de Commarin be as near death.
On reaching the street, it seemed to M. Daburon that the ground wasreceding from beneath him, that everything was turning around him. Hetried to cry out, but could not utter a sound; he struck at the air withhis hands, reeled for an instant, and then fell all of a heap on thepavement.
The passers-by ran and assisted the police to raise him. In one of hispockets they found his address, and carried him home. When he recoveredhis senses, he was in his bed, at the foot of which he perceived hisfather.
"What has happened?" he asked. With much caution they told him, thatfor six weeks he had wavered between life and death. The doctors haddeclared his life saved; and, now that reason was restored, all would gowell.
Five minutes' conversation exhausted him. He shut his eyes, and tried tocollect his ideas; but they whirled hither and thither wildly, as autumnleaves in the wind. The past seemed shrouded in a dark mist; yet, inthe midst of the darkness and confusion, all that concerned Mademoiselled'Arlange stood out clear and luminous. All his actions from the momentwhen he embraced Claire appeared before him. He shuddered, and his hairwas in a moment soaking with perspiration.
He had almost become an assassin. The proof that he was restored to fullpossession of his f
aculties was, that a question of criminal law crossedhis brain.
"The crime committed," said he to himself, "should I have beencondemned? Yes. Was I responsible? No. Is crime merely the result ofmental alienation? Was I mad? Or was I in that peculiar state of mindwhich usually precedes an illegal attempt? Who can say? Why have not alljudges passed through an incomprehensible crisis such as mine? But whowould believe me, were I to recount my experience?"
Some days later, he was sufficiently recovered to tell his father all.The old gentleman shrugged his shoulders, and assured him it was but areminiscence of his delirium.
The good old man was moved at the story of his son's luckless wooing,without seeing therein, however, an irreparable misfortune. He advisedhim to think of something else, placed at his disposal his entirefortune, and recommended him to marry a stout Poitevine heiress, verygay and healthy, who would bear him some fine children. Then, as hisestate was suffering by his absence, he returned home. Two months later,the investigating magistrate had resumed his ordinary avocations. Buttry as he would, he only went through his duties like a body without asoul. He felt that something was broken.
Once he ventured to pay a visit to his old friend, the marchioness. Onseeing him, she uttered a cry of terror. She took him for a spectre, somuch was he changed in appearance.
As she dreaded dismal faces, she ever after shut her door to him.
Claire was ill for a week after seeing him. "How he loved me," thoughtshe! "It has almost killed him! Can Albert love me as much?" She did notdare to answer herself. She felt a desire to console him, to speak tohim, attempt something; but he came no more.
M. Daburon was not, however, a man to give way without a struggle. Hetried, as his father advised him, to distract his thoughts. He soughtfor pleasure, and found disgust, but not forgetfulness. Often he wentso far as the threshold of debauchery; but the pure figure of Claire,dressed in white garments, always barred the doors against him.
Then he took refuge in work, as in a sanctuary; condemned himself to themost incessant labour, and forbade himself to think of Claire, as theconsumptive forbids himself to meditate upon his malady.
His eagerness, his feverish activity, earned him the reputation of anambitious man, who would go far; but he cared for nothing in the world.
At length, he found, not rest, but that painless benumbing whichcommonly follows a great catastrophe. The convalescence of oblivion wascommencing.
These were the events, recalled to M. Daburon's mind when old Tabaretpronounced the name of Commarin. He believed them buried under the ashesof time; and behold they reappeared, just the same as those characterstraced in sympathetic ink when held before a fire. In an instant theyunrolled themselves before his memory, with the instantaneousness of adream annihilating time and space.
During some minutes, he assisted at the representation of his own life.At once actor and spectator, he was there seated in his arm-chair,and at the same time he appeared on the stage. He acted, and he judgedhimself.
His first thought, it must be confessed, was one of hate, followed bya detestable feeling of satisfaction. Chance had, so to say, deliveredinto his hands this man preferred by Claire, this man, now no longer ahaughty nobleman, illustrious by his fortune and his ancestors, but theillegitimate offspring of a courtesan. To retain a stolen name, he hadcommitted a most cowardly assassination. And he, the magistrate, wasabout to experience the infinite gratification of striking his enemywith the sword of justice.
But this was only a passing thought. The man's upright consciencerevolted against it, and made its powerful voice heard.
"Is anything," it cried, "more monstrous than the association of thesetwo ideas,--hatred and justice? Can a magistrate, without despisinghimself more than he despises the vile beings he condemns, recollectthat a criminal, whose fate is in his hands, has been his enemy? Has aninvestigating magistrate the right to make use of his exceptional powersin dealing with a prisoner; so long as he harbours the least resentmentagainst him?"
M. Daburon repeated to himself what he had so frequently thought duringthe year, when commencing a fresh investigation: "And I also, I almoststained myself with a vile murder!"
And now it was his duty to cause to be arrested, to interrogate, andhand over to the assizes the man he had once resolved to kill.
All the world, it is true, ignored this crime of thought and intention;but could he himself forget it? Was not this, of all others, a case inwhich he should decline to be mixed up? Ought he not to withdraw, andwash his hands of the blood that had been shed, leaving to another thetask of avenging him in the name of society?
"No," said he, "it would be a cowardice unworthy of me."
A project of mad generosity occurred to the bewildered man. "If I savehim," murmured he, "if for Claire's sake I leave him his honour and hislife. But how can I save him? To do so I shall be obliged to suppressold Tabaret's discoveries, and make an accomplice of him by ensuring hissilence. We shall have to follow a wrong track, join Gevrol in runningafter some imaginary murderer. Is this practicable? Besides, to spareAlbert is to defame Noel; it is to assure impunity to the most odious ofcrimes. In short, it is still sacrificing justice to my feelings."
The magistrate suffered greatly. How choose a path in the midst ofso many perplexities! Impelled by different interests, he wavered,undecided between the most opposite decisions, his mind oscillating fromone extreme to the other.
What could he do? His reason after this new and unforeseen shock vainlysought to regain its equilibrium.
"Resign?" said he to himself. "Where, then, would be my courage? OughtI not rather to remain the representative of the law, incapable ofemotion, insensible to prejudice? am I so weak that, in assuming myoffice, I am unable to divest myself of my personality? Can I not, forthe present, make abstraction of the past? My duty is to pursue thisinvestigation. Claire herself would desire me to act thus. Would she weda man suspected of a crime? Never. If he is innocent, he will be saved;if guilty, let him perish!"
This was very sound reasoning; but, at the bottom of his heart, athousand disquietudes darted their thorns. He wanted to reassurehimself.
"Do I still hate this young man?" he continued. "No, certainly. IfClaire has preferred him to me, it is to Claire and not to him I owe mysuffering. My rage was no more than a passing fit of delirium. I willprove it, by letting him find me as much a counsellor as a magistrate.If he is not guilty, he shall make use of all the means in my power toestablish his innocence. Yes, I am worthy to be his judge. Heaven, whoreads all my thoughts, sees that I love Claire enough to desire with allmy heart the innocence of her lover."
Only then did M. Daburon seem to be vaguely aware of the lapse of time.It was nearly three o'clock in the morning.
"Goodness!" cried he; "why, old Tabaret is waiting for me. I shallprobably find him asleep."
But M. Tabaret was not asleep. He had noticed the passage of time nomore than the magistrate.
Ten minutes had sufficed him to take an inventory of the contents of M.Daburon's study, which was large, and handsomely furnished in accordancewith his position and fortune. Taking up a lamp, he first admired sixvery valuable pictures, which ornamented the walls; he then examinedwith considerable curiosity some rare bronzes placed about the room, andbestowed on the bookcase the glance of a connoisseur.
After which, taking an evening paper from the table, he approached thehearth, and seated himself in a vast armchair.
He had not read a third of the leading article, which, like all leadingarticles of the time, was exclusively occupied with the Roman question,when, letting the paper drop from his hands, he became absorbedin meditation. The fixed idea, stronger than one's will, and moreinteresting to him than politics, brought him forcibly back to LaJonchere, where lay the murdered Widow Lerouge. Like the child who againand again builds up and demolishes his house of cards, he arranged andentangled alternately his chain of inductions and arguments.
In his own mind there was certainly no longer a doubt as
regards thissad affair, and it seemed to him that M. Daburon shared his opinions.But yet, what difficulties there still remained to encounter!
There exists between the investigating magistrate and the accused asupreme tribunal, an admirable institution which is a guarantee for all,a powerful moderator, the jury.
And the jury, thank heaven! do not content themselves with a moralconviction. The strongest probabilities cannot induce them to give anaffirmative verdict.
Placed upon a neutral ground, between the prosecution and the defence,it demands material and tangible proofs. Where the magistrate wouldcondemn twenty times for one, in all security of conscience, the juryacquit for lack of satisfying evidence.
The deplorable execution of Lesurques has certainly assured impunity tomany criminals; but, it is necessary to say it justifies hesitation inreceiving circumstantial evidence in capital crimes.
In short, save where a criminal is taken in the very act, or confesseshis guilt, it is not certain that the minister of justice can secure aconviction. Sometimes the judge of inquiry is as anxious as the accusedhimself. Nearly all crimes are in some particular point mysterious,perhaps impenetrable to justice and the police; and the duty of theadvocate is, to discover this weak point, and thereon establish hisclient's defence. By pointing out this doubt to the jury, he insinuatesin their minds a distrust of the entire evidence; and frequently thedetection of a distorted induction, cleverly exposed, can change theface of a prosecution, and make a strong case appear to the jury a weakone. This uncertainty explains the character of passion which is sooften perceptible in criminal trials.
And, in proportion to the march of civilisation, juries in importanttrials will become more timid and hesitating. The weight ofresponsibility oppresses the man of conscientious scruple. Alreadynumbers recoil from the idea of capital punishment; and, whenever a jurycan find a peg to hang a doubt on, they will wash their hands of theresponsibility of condemnation. We have seen numbers of persons signingappeals for mercy to a condemned malefactor, condemned for what crime?Parricide! Every juror, from the moment he is sworn, weighs infinitelyless the evidence he has come to listen to than the risk he runs ofincurring the pangs of remorse. Rather than risk the condemnation of oneinnocent man, he will allow twenty scoundrels to go unpunished.
The accusation must then come before the jury, armed at all points, withabundant proofs. A task often tedious to the investigating magistrate,and bristling with difficulties, is the arrangement and condensation ofthis evidence, particularly when the accused is a cool hand, certain ofhaving left no traces of his guilt. Then from the depths of his dungeonhe defies the assault of justice, and laughs at the judge of inquiry. Itis a terrible struggle, enough to make one tremble at the responsibilityof the magistrate, when he remembers, that after all, this manimprisoned, without consolation or advice, may be innocent. How hard isit, then for the judge to resist his moral convictions!
Even when presumptive evidence points clearly to the criminal,and common sense recognises him, justice is at times compelled toacknowledge her defeat, for lack of what the jury consider sufficientproof of guilt. Thus, unhappily, many crimes escape punishment. An oldadvocate-general said one day that he knew as many as three assassins,living rich, happy, and respected, who would probably end by dying intheir beds, surrounded by their families, and being followed tothe grave with lamentations, and praised for their virtues in theirepitaphs.
At the idea that a murderer might escape the penalty of his crime, andsteal away from the assize court, old Tabaret's blood fairly boiled inhis veins, as at the recollection of some deadly insult.
Such a monstrous event, in his opinion, could only proceed from theincapacity of those charged with the preliminary inquiry, the clumsinessof the police, or the stupidity of the investigating magistrate.
"It is not I," he muttered, with the satisfied vanity of success, "whowould ever let my prey escape. No crime can be committed, of which theauthor cannot be found, unless, indeed, he happens to be a madman, whosemotive it would be difficult to understand. I would pass my life inpursuit of a criminal, before avowing myself vanquished, as Gevrol hasdone so many times."
Assisted by chance, he had again succeeded, so he kept repeating tohimself, but what proofs could he furnish to the accusation, to thatconfounded jury, so difficult to convince, so precise and so cowardly?What could he imagine to force so cunning a culprit to betray himself?What trap could he prepare? To what new and infallible stratagem couldhe have recourse?
The amateur detective exhausted himself in subtle but impracticablecombinations, always stopped by that exacting jury, so obnoxious tothe agents of the Rue de Jerusalem. He was so deeply absorbed in histhoughts that he did not hear the door open, and was utterly unconsciousof the magistrate's presence.
M. Daburon's voice aroused him from his reverie.
"You will excuse me, M. Tabaret, for having left you so long alone."
The old fellow rose and bowed respectfully.
"By my faith, sir," replied he, "I have not had the leisure to perceivemy solitude."
M. Daburon crossed the room, and seated himself, facing his agent beforea small table encumbered with papers and documents relating to thecrime. He appeared very much fatigued.
"I have reflected a good deal," he commenced, "about this affair--"
"And I," interrupted old Tabaret, "was just asking myself what waslikely to be the attitude assumed by the viscount at the moment of hisarrest. Nothing is more important, according to my idea, than his mannerof conducting himself then. Will he fly into a passion? Will he attemptto intimidate the agents? Will he threaten to turn them out of thehouse? These are generally the tactics of titled criminals. My opinion,however, is, that he will remain perfectly cool. He will declare himselfthe victim of a misunderstanding, and insist upon an immediate interviewwith the investigating magistrate. Once that is accorded him, he willexplain everything very quickly."
The old fellow spoke of matters of speculation in such a tone ofassurance that M. Daburon was unable to repress a smile.
"We have not got as far as that yet," said he.
"But we shall, in a few hours," replied M. Tabaret quickly. "I presumeyou will order young M. de Commarin's arrest at daybreak."
The magistrate trembled, like the patient who sees the surgeon deposithis case of instruments upon the table on entering the room.
The moment for action had come. He felt now what a distance lies betweena mental decision and the physical action required to execute it.
"You are prompt, M. Tabaret," said he; "you recognize no obstacles."
"None, having ascertained the criminal. Who else can have committed thisassassination? Who but he had an interest in silencing Widow Lerouge,in suppressing her testimony, in destroying her papers? He, and only he.Poor Noel! who is as dull as honesty, warned him, and he acted. Shouldwe fail to establish his guilt, he will remain de Commarin more thanever; and my young advocate will be Noel Gerdy to the grave."
"Yes, but--"
The old man fixed his eyes upon the magistrate with a look ofastonishment.
"You see, then, some difficulties, sir?" he asked.
"Most decidedly!" replied M. Daburon. "This is a matter demanding theutmost circumspection. In cases like the present, one must not strikeuntil the blow is sure, and we have but presumptions. Suppose we aremistaken. Justice, unhappily, cannot repair her errors. Her hand onceunjustly placed upon a man, leaves an imprint of dishonour that cannever be effaced. She may perceive her error, and proclaim it aloud,but in vain! Public opinion, absurd and idiotic, will not pardon the manguilty of being suspected."
It was with a sinking heart that the old fellow listened to theseremarks. He would not be withheld by such paltry considerations.
"Our suspicions are well grounded," continued the magistrate. "But,should they lead us into error, our precipitation would be a terriblemisfortune for this young man, to say nothing of the effect it wouldhave in abridging the authority and dignity of justice, of weak
eningthe respect which constitutes her power. Such a mistake would call fordiscussion, provoke examination, and awaken distrust, at an epoch in ourhistory when all minds are but too much disposed to defy the constitutedauthorities."
He leaned upon the table, and appeared to reflect profoundly.
"I have no luck," thought old Tabaret. "I have to do with a trembler.When he should act, he makes speeches; instead of signing warrants, hepropounds theories. He is astounded at my discovery, and is not equal tothe situation. Instead of being delighted by my appearance with the newsof our success, he would have given a twenty-franc piece, I dare say, tohave been left undisturbed. Ah! he would very willingly have the littlefishes in his net, but the big ones frighten him. The big fishes aredangerous, and he prefers to let them swim away."
"Perhaps," said M. Daburon, aloud, "it will suffice to issue asearch-warrant, and a summons for the appearance of the accused."
"Then all is lost!" cried old Tabaret.
"And why, pray?"
"Because we are opposed by a criminal of marked ability. A mostprovidential accident has placed us upon his track. If we give him timeto breathe, he will escape."
The only answer was an inclination of the head, which M. Daburon mayhave intended for a sign of assent.
"It is evident," continued the old fellow, "that our adversary hasforeseen everything, absolutely everything, even the possibility ofsuspicion attaching to one in his high position. Oh! his precautionsare all taken. If you are satisfied with demanding his appearance, heis saved. He will appear before you as tranquilly as your clerk, asunconcerned as if he came to arrange the preliminaries of a duel. Hewill present you with a magnificent _alibi_, an _alibi_ that can not begainsayed. He will show you that he passed the evening and the nightof Tuesday with personages of the highest rank. In short, his littlemachine will be so cleverly constructed, so nicely arranged, all itslittle wheels will play so well, that there will be nothing left for youbut to open the door and usher him out with the most humble apologies.The only means of securing conviction is to surprise the miscreant bya rapidity against which it is impossible he can be on his guard. Fallupon him like a thunder-clap, arrest him as he wakes, drag him hitherwhile yet pale with astonishment, and interrogate him at once. Ah! Iwish I were an investigating magistrate."
Old Tabaret stopped short, frightened at the idea that he had beenwanting in respect; but M. Daburon showed no sign of being offended.
"Proceed," said he, in a tone of encouragement, "proceed."
"Suppose, then," continued the detective, "I am the investigatingmagistrate. I cause my man to be arrested, and, twenty minutes later,he is standing before me. I do not amuse myself by putting questions tohim, more or less subtle. No, I go straight to the mark. I overwhelm himat once by the weight of my certainty, prove to him so clearly that Iknow everything, that he must surrender, seeing no chance of escape.I should say to him, 'My good man, you bring me an _alibi_; it is verywell; but I am acquainted with that system of defence. It will not dowith me. I know all about the clocks that don't keep proper time, andall the people who never lost sight of you. In the meantime, this iswhat you did. At twenty minutes past eight, you slipped away adroitly;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, andtook the road to La Jonchere; at a quarter past nine, you knocked at thewindow-shutter of Widow Lerouge's cottage. You were admitted. You askedfor something to eat, and, above all, something to drink. At twentyminutes past nine, you planted the well-sharpened end of a foil betweenher shoulders. You killed her! You then overturned everything in thehouse, and burned certain documents of importance; after which, you tiedup in a napkin all the valuables you could find, and carried them off,to lead the police to believe the murder was the work of a robber. Youlocked the door, and threw away the key. Arrived at the Seine, you threwthe bundle into the water, then hurried off to the railway station onfoot, and at eleven o'clock you reappeared amongst your friends.Your game was well played; but you omitted to provide against twoadversaries, a detective, not easily deceived, named Tirauclair, andanother still more clever, named chance. Between them, they have got thebetter of you. Moreover, you were foolish to wear such small boots, andto keep on your lavender kid gloves, besides embarrassing yourself witha silk hat and an umbrella. Now confess your guilt, for it is the onlything left you to do, and I will give you permission to smoke in yourdungeon some of those excellent trabucos you are so fond of, and whichyou always smoke with an amber mouthpiece.'"
During this speech, M. Tabaret had gained at least a couple of inches inheight, so great was his enthusiasm. He looked at the magistrate, as ifexpecting a smile of approbation.
"Yes," continued he, after taking breath, "I would say that, and nothingelse; and, unless this man is a hundred times stronger than I supposehim to be, unless he is made of bronze, of marble, or of steel, he wouldfall at my feet and avow his guilt."
"But supposing he were of bronze," said M. Daburon, "and did not fall atyour feet, what would you do next?"
The question evidently embarrassed the old fellow.
"Pshaw!" stammered he; "I don't know; I would see; I would search; buthe would confess."
After a prolonged silence, M. Daburon took a pen, and hurriedly wrote afew lines.
"I surrender," said he. "M. Albert de Commarin shall be arrested;that is settled. The different formalities to be gone through andthe perquisitions will occupy some time, which I wish to employ ininterrogating the Count de Commarin, the young man's father, and yourfriend M. Noel Gerdy, the young advocate. The letters he possesses areindispensable to me."
At the name of Gerdy, M. Tabaret's face assumed a most comicalexpression of uneasiness.
"Confound it," cried he, "the very thing I most dreaded."
"What?" asked M. Daburon.
"The necessity for the examination of those letters. Noel will discovermy interference. He will despise me: he will fly from me, when he knowsthat Tabaret and Tirauclair sleep in the same nightcap. Before eightdays are past, my oldest friends will refuse to shake hands with me, asif it were not an honour to serve justice. I shall be obliged to changemy residence, and assume a false name."
He almost wept, so great was his annoyance. M. Daburon was touched.
"Reassure yourself, my dear M. Tabaret," said he. "I will manage thatyour adopted son, your Benjamin, shall know nothing. I will lead him tobelieve I have reached him by means of the widow's papers."
The old fellow seized the magistrate's hand in a transport of gratitude,and carried it to his lips. Oh! thanks, sir, a thousand thanks! I shouldlike to be permitted to witness the arrest; and I shall be glad toassist at the perquisitions."
"I intended to ask you to do so, M. Tabaret," answered the magistrate.
The lamps paled in the gray dawn of the morning; already the rumbling ofvehicles was heard; Paris was awaking.
"I have no time to lose," continued M. Daburon, "if I would have all mymeasures well taken. I must at once see the public prosecutor, whetherhe is up or not. I shall go direct from his house to the Palais deJustice, and be there before eight o'clock; and I desire, M. Tabaret,that you will there await my orders."
The old fellow bowed his thanks and was about to leave, when themagistrate's servant appeared.
"Here is a note, sir," said he, "which a gendarme has just brought fromBougival. He waits an answer."
"Very well," replied M. Daburon. "Ask the man to have some refreshment;at least offer him a glass of wine."
He opened the envelope. "Ah!" he cried, "a letter from Gevrol;" and heread:
"'To the investigating magistrate. Sir, I have the honour to inform you,that I am on the track of the man with the earrings. I heard of him ata wine shop, which he entered on Sunday morning, before going to WidowLerouge's cottage. He bought, and paid for two litres of wine; then,suddenly striking his forehead, he cried, "Old fool! to forget thatto-morrow is the boat's fete day!" and immediately called for threemore lit
res. According to the almanac the boat must be called theSaint-Martin. I have also learned that she was laden with grain. I writeto the Prefecture at the same time as I write to you, that inquiries maybe made at Paris and Rouen. He will be found at one of those places. Iam in waiting, sir, etc.'"
"Poor Gevrol!" cried old Tabaret, bursting with laughter. "He sharpenshis sabre, and the battle is over. Are you not going to put a stop tohis inquiries, sir?"
"No; certainly not," answered M. Daburon; "to neglect the slightest clueoften leads one into error. Who can tell what light we may receive fromthis mariner?"