L'affaire Lerouge. English

by Emile Gaboriau

  CHAPTER XVII.

  Greatly troubled and perplexed by Mademoiselle d'Arlange's revelations,M. Daburon was ascending the stairs that led to the offices of theinvestigating 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, wasscarcely disposed to stop, or to lose a single minute.

  "You must excuse me, sir," he said, bowing, "but I am expected at home."

  "I hope, however--"

  "Oh, he is innocent," interrupted old Tabaret. "I have already someproofs; and before three days--But you are going to see Gevrol's manwith the earrings. He is very cunning, Gevrol; I misjudged him."

  And without listening to another word, he hurried away, jumping downthree steps at a times, at the risk of breaking his neck.

  M. Daburon, greatly disappointed, also hastened on.

  In the passage, on a bench of rough wood before his office door, Albertsat awaiting him, under the charge of a Garde de Paris.

  "You will be summoned immediately, sir," said the magistrate to theprisoner, as he opened his door.

  In the office, Constant was talking with a skinny little man, whomight have been taken, from his dress, for a well-to-do inhabitant ofBatignolles, had it not been for the enormous pin in imitation goldwhich shone in his cravat, and betrayed the detective.

  "You received my letters?" asked M. Daburon of his clerk.

  "Your orders have been executed, sir; the prisoner is without, and hereis M. Martin, who this moment arrived from the neighbourhood of theInvalides."

  "That is well," said the magistrate in a satisfied tone. And, turningtowards the detective, "Well, M. Martin," he asked, "what did you see?"

  "The walls had been scaled, sir."

  "Lately?"

  "Five or six days ago."

  "You are sure of this?"

  "As sure as I am that I see M. Constant at this moment mending his pen."

  "The marks are plain?"

  "As plain as the nose on my face, sir, if I may so express myself. Thethief--it was done by a thief, I imagine," continued M. Martin, who wasa great talker--"the thief entered the garden before the rain, and wentaway after it, as you had conjectured. This circumstance is easy toestablish by examining the marks on the wall of the ascent and thedescent on the side towards the street. These marks are severalabrasions, evidently made by feet of some one climbing. The first areclean; the others, muddy. The scamp--he was a nimble fellow--in gettingin, pulled himself up by the strength of his wrists; but when goingaway, he enjoyed the luxury of a ladder, which he threw down as soon ashe was on the top of the wall. It is to see where he placed it, by holesmade in the ground by the fellow's weight; and also by the mortar whichhas been knocked away from the top of the wall."

  "Is that all?" asked the magistrate.

  "Not yet, sir. Three of the pieces of glass which cover the top of thewall have been removed. Several of the acacia branches, which extendover the wall have been twisted or broken. Adhering to the thorns ofone of these branches, I found this little piece of lavender kid, whichappears to me to belong to a glove."

  The magistrate eagerly seized the piece of kid.

  It had evidently come from a glove.

  "You took care, I hope, M. Martin," said M. Daburon, "not to attractattention at the house where you made this investigation?"

  "Certainly, sir. I first of all examined the exterior of the wall at myleisure. After that, leaving my hat at a wine shop round the corner,I called at the Marchioness d'Arlange's house, pretending to be theservant of a neighbouring duchess, who was in despair at having lost afavourite, and, if I may so speak, an eloquent parrot. I was verykindly given permission to explore the garden; and, as I spoke asdisrespectfully as possible of my pretended mistress they, no doubt,took me for a genuine servant."

  "You are an adroit and prompt fellow, M. Martin," interrupted themagistrate. "I am well satisfied with you; and I will report youfavourably at headquarters."

  He rang his bell, while the detective, delighted at the praise he hadreceived, moved backwards to the door, bowing the while.

  Albert was then brought in.

  "Have you decided, sir," asked the investigating magistrate withoutpreamble, "to give me a true account of how you spent last Tuesdayevening?"

  "I have already told you, sir."

  "No, sir, you have not; and I regret to say that you lied to me."

  Albert, at this apparent insult, turned red, and his eyes flashed.

  "I know all that you did on that evening," continued the magistrate,"because justice, as I have already told you, is ignorant of nothingthat it is important for it to know."

  Then, looking straight into Albert's eyes, he continued slowly: "I haveseen Mademoiselle Claire d'Arlange."

  On hearing that name, the prisoner's features, contracted by a firmresolve not to give way, relaxed.

  It seemed as though he experienced an immense sensation of delight, likea man who escapes almost by a miracle from an imminent danger which hehad despaired of avoiding. However, he made no reply.

  "Mademoiselle d'Arlange," continued the magistrate, "has told me whereyou were on Tuesday evening."

  Albert still hesitated.

  "I am not setting a trap for you," added M. Daburon; "I give you my wordof honour. She has told me all, you understand?"

  This time Albert decided to speak.

  His explanations corresponded exactly with Claire's; not one detailmore. Henceforth, doubt was impossible.

  Mademoiselle d'Arlange had not been imposed upon. Either Albert wasinnocent, or she was his accomplice.

  Could she knowingly be the accomplice of such an odious crime? No; shecould not even be suspected of it.

  But who then was the assassin?

  For, when a crime has been committed, justice demands a culprit.

  "You see, sir," said the magistrate severely to Albert, "you did deceiveme. You risked your life, sir, and, what is also very serious, youexposed me, you exposed justice, to commit a most deplorable mistake.Why did you not tell me the truth at once?"

  "Mademoiselle d'Arlange, sir," replied Albert, "in according me ameeting, trusted in my honour."

  "And you would have died sooner than mention that interview?"interrupted M. Daburon with a touch of irony. "That is all very fine,sir, and worthy of the days of chivalry!"

  "I am not the hero that you suppose, sir," replied the prisoner simply."If I told you that I did not count on Claire, I should be telling afalsehood. I was waiting for her. I knew that, on learning of my arrest,she would brave everything to save me. But her friends might have hid itfrom her; and that was what I feared. In that event, I do not think,so far as one can answer for oneself, that I should have mentioned hername."

  There was no appearance of bravado. What Albert said, he thought andfelt. M. Daburon regretted his irony.

  "Sir," he said kindly, "you must return to your prison. I cannot releaseyou yet; but you will be no longer in solitary confinement. You will betreated with every attention due to a prisoner whose innocence appearsprobable."

  Albert bowed, and thanked him; and was then removed.

  "We are now ready for Gevrol," said the magistrate to his clerk.

  The chief of detectives was absent: he had been sent for from thePrefecture of Police; but his witness, the man with the earrings, waswaiting in the passage.

  He was told to enter.

  He was one of those short, thick-set men, powerful as oaks, who look asthough they could carry almost any weight on their broad shoulders.

  His white hair and whiskers set off his features, hardened and tannedby the inclemency of the weather, the sea winds and the heat of thetropics.

  He had large callous black hands, with big sinewy fingers which musthave possessed the strength of a vice.

  Great earrings in the form of anchors hung from his ears. He was dressedin the costume of a well-to-do Normandy fisherman, out for a h
oliday.

  The clerk was obliged to push him into the office, for this son of theocean was timid and abashed when on shore.

  He advanced, balancing himself first on one leg, then on the other, withthat irregular walk of the sailor, who, used to the rolling and tossingof the waves, is surprised to find anything immovable beneath his feet.

  To give himself confidence, he fumbled over his soft felt hat, decoratedwith little lead medals, like the cap of king Louis XI. of devoutmemory, and also adorned with some if that worsted twist made by theyoung country girls, on a primitive frame composed of four or five pinsstuck in a hollow cork.

  M. Daburon examined him, and estimated him at a glance. There was nodoubt but that he was the sunburnt man described by one of the witnessesat La Jonchere.

  It was also impossible to doubt his honesty. His open countenancedisplayed sincerity and good nature.

  "Your name?" demanded the investigating magistrate.

  "Marie Pierre Lerouge."

  "Are you, then, related to Claudine Lerouge?"

  "I am her husband, sir."

  What, the husband of the victim alive, and the police ignorant of hisexistence!

  Thus thought M. Daburon.

  What, then, does this wonderful progress in invention accomplish?

  To-day, precisely as twenty years ago, when Justice is in doubt, itrequires the same inordinate loss of time and money to obtain theslightest information.

  On Friday, they had written to inquire about Claudine's past life; itwas now Monday, and no reply had arrived.

  And yet photography was in existence, and the electric telegraph. Theyhad at their service a thousand means, formerly unknown; and they madeno use of them.

  "Every one," said the magistrate, "believed her a widow. She herselfpretended to be one."

  "Yes, for in that way she partly excused her conduct. Besides, it was anarrangement between ourselves. I had told her that I would have nothingmore to do with her."

  "Indeed? Well, you know that she is dead, victim of an odious crime?"

  "The detective who brought me here told me of it, sir," replied thesailor, his face darkening. "She was a wretch!" he added in a hollowvoice.

  "How? You, her husband, accuse her?"

  "I have but too good reason to do so, sir. Ah, my dead father, whoforesaw it all at the time, warned me! I laughed, when he said, 'Takecare, or she will dishonour us all.' He was right. Through her, Ihave been hunted down by the police, just like some skulking thief.Everywhere that they inquired after me with their warrant, people musthave said 'Ah, ha, he has then committed some crime!' And here I ambefore a magistrate! Ah, sir, what a disgrace! The Lerouges have beenhonest people, from father to son, ever since the world began.Inquire of all who have ever had dealings with me, they will tell you,'Lerouge's word is as good as another man's writing.' Yes, she was awicked woman; and I have often told her that she would come to a badend."

  "You told her that?"

  "More than a hundred times, sir."

  "Why? Come, my friend, do not be uneasy, your honour is not at stakehere, no one questions it. When did you warn her so wisely?"

  "Ah, a long time ago, sir," replied the sailor, "the first time was morethan thirty years back. She had ambition even in her blood; she wishedto mix herself up in the intrigues of the great. It was that that ruinedher. She said that one got money for keeping secrets; and I said thatone got disgraced and that was all. To help the great to hide theirvillainies, and to expect happiness from it, is like making your bed ofthorns, in the hope of sleeping well. But she had a will of her own."

  "You were her husband, though," objected M. Daburon, "you had the rightto command her obedience."

  The sailor shook his head, and heaved a deep sigh.

  "Alas, sir! it was I who obeyed."

  To proceed by short inquiries with a witness, when you have no idea ofthe information he brings, is but to lose time in attempting to gain it.When you think you are approaching the important fact, you may be justavoiding it. It is much better to give the witness the rein, and tolisten carefully, putting him back on the track should he get toofar away. It is the surest and easiest method. This was the courseM. Daburon adopted, all the time cursing Gevrol's absence, as he by asingle word could have shortened by a good half the examination, theimportance of which, by the way, the magistrate did not even suspect.

  "In what intrigues did your wife mingle?" asked he. "Go on, my friend,tell me everything exactly; here, you know, we must have not only thetruth, but the whole truth."

  Lerouge placed his hat on a chair. Then he began alternately to pullhis fingers, making them crack almost sufficiently to break them, andultimately scratched his head violently. It was his way of arranging hisideas.

  "I must tell you," he began, "that it will be thirty-five years on St.John's day since I fell in love with Claudine. She was a pretty, neat,fascinating girl, with a voice sweeter than honey. She was the mostbeautiful girl in our part of the country, straight as a mast, supple asa willow, graceful and strong as a racing boat. Her eyes sparkled likeold cider; her hair was black, her teeth as white as pearls, and herbreath was as fresh as the sea breeze. The misfortune was, that shehadn't a sou, while we were in easy circumstances. Her mother, who wasthe widow of I can't say how many husbands, was, saving your presence,a bad woman, and my father was the worthiest man alive. When I spoke tothe old fellow of marrying Claudine he swore fiercely, and eightdays after, he sent me to Porto on a schooner belonging to one of ourneighbours, just to give me a change of air. I came back, at the end ofsix months, thinner than a marling spike, but more in love than ever.Recollections of Claudine scorched me like a fire. I could scarcely eator drink; but I felt that she loved me a little in return, for I was afine young fellow, and more than one girl had set her cap at me. Thenmy father, seeing that he could do nothing, that I was wasting away,and was on the road to join my mother in the cemetery, decided to letme complete my folly. So one evening, after we had returned from fishingand I got up from supper without tasting it, he said to me, 'Marrythe hag's daughter, and let's have no more of this.' I remember itdistinctly, because, when I heard the old fellow call my love such aname, I flew into a great passion, and almost wanted to kill him. Ah,one never gains anything by marrying in opposition to one's parents!"

  The worthy fellow was lost in the midst of his recollections. He wasvery far from his story. The investigating magistrate attempted to bringhim back into the right path, "Come to the point," he said.

  "I am going to, sir; but it was necessary to begin at the beginning.I married. The evening after the wedding, and when the relatives andguests had departed, I was about to join my wife, when I perceived myfather all alone in a corner weeping. The sight touched my heart, andI had a foreboding of evil; but it quickly passed away. It is sodelightful during the first six months one passes with a dearly lovedwife! One seems to be surrounded by mists that change the very rocksinto palaces and temples so completely that novices are taken in. Fortwo years, in spite of a few little quarrels, everything went on nicely.Claudine managed me like a child. Ah, she was cunning! She might haveseized and bound me, and carried me to market and sold me, without mynoticing it. Her great fault was her love of finery. All that I earned,and my business was very prosperous, she put on her back. Every weekthere was something new, dresses, jewels, bonnets, the devil's baubles,which the dealers invent for the perdition of the female sex. Theneighbors chattered, but I thought it was all right. At the baptismof our son, who was called Jacques after my father, to please her, Isquandered all I had economized during my youth, more than three hundredpistoles, with which I had intended purchasing a meadow that lay in themidst of our property."

  M. Daburon was boiling over with impatience, but he could do nothing.

  "Go on, go on," he said every time Lerouge seemed inclined to stop.

  "I was well enough pleased," continued the sailor, "until one morningI saw one of the Count de Commarin's servants entering our house; thecount's chateau is o
nly about a mile from where I lived on the otherside of the town. It was a fellow named Germain whom I didn't like atall. It was said about the country that he had been mixed up in theseduction of poor Thomassine, a fine young girl who lived near us; sheappears to have pleased the count, and one day suddenly disappeared. Iasked my wife what the fellow wanted; she replied that he had come toask her to take a child to nurse. I would not hear of it at first, forour means were sufficient to allow Claudine to keep all her milk forour own child. But she gave me the very best of reasons. She said sheregretted her past flirtations and her extravagance. She wished toearn a little money, being ashamed of doing nothing while I was killingmyself with work. She wanted to save, to economize, so that our childshould not be obliged in his turn to go to sea. She was to get a verygood price, that we could save up to go towards the three hundredpistoles. That confounded meadow, to which she alluded, decided me."

  "Did she not tell you of the commission with which she was charged?"asked the magistrate.

  This question astonished Lerouge. He thought that there was good reasonto say that justice sees and knows everything.

  "Not then," he answered, "but you will see. Eight days after, thepostman brought a letter, asking her to go to Paris to fetch thechild. It arrived in the evening. 'Very well,' said she, 'I will startto-morrow by the diligence.' I didn't say a word then; but next morning,when she was about to take her seat in the diligence, I declared that Iwas going with her. She didn't seem at all angry, on the contrary. Shekissed me, and I was delighted. At Paris, she was to call for the littleone at a Madame Gerdy's, who lived on the Boulevard. We arranged thatshe should go alone, while I awaited for her at our inn. After shehad gone, I grew uneasy. I went out soon after, and prowled about nearMadame Gerdy's house, making inquiries of the servants and others; Isoon discovered that she was the Count de Commarin's mistress. I feltso annoyed that, if I had been master, my wife should have come awaywithout the little bastard. I am only a poor sailor, and I know thata man sometimes forgets himself. One takes too much to drink, forinstance, or goes out on the loose with some friends; but that a manwith a wife and children should live with another woman and give herwhat really belongs to his legitimate offspring, I think is bad--verybad. Is it not so, sir?"

  The investigating magistrate moved impatiently in his chair. "Willthis man never come to the point," he muttered. "Yes, you are perfectlyright," he added aloud; "but never mind your thoughts. Go on, go on!"

  "Claudine, sir, was more obstinate than a mule. After three days ofviolent discussion, she obtained from me a reluctant consent, betweentwo kisses. Then she told me that we were not going to return home bythe diligence. The lady, who feared the fatigue of the journey for herchild, had arranged that we should travel back by short stages, in hercarriage, and drawn by her horses. For she was kept in grand style. Iwas ass enough to be delighted, because it gave me a chance to see thecountry at my leisure. We were, therefore, installed with the children,mine and the other, in an elegant carriage, drawn by magnificentanimals, and driven by a coachman in livery. My wife was mad with joy;she kissed me over and over again, and chinked handfuls of gold in myface. I felt as foolish as an honest husband who finds money in hishouse which he didn't earn himself. Seeing how I felt, Claudine, hopingto pacify me, resolved to tell me the whole truth. 'See here,' she saidto me,--"

  Lerouge stopped, and, changing his tone, said, "You understand that itis my wife who is speaking?"

  "Yes, yes. Go on."

  "She said to me, shaking her pocket full of money, 'See here, my man, weshall always have as much of this as ever we may want, and this is why:The count, who also had a legitimate child at the same time as thisbastard, wishes that this one shall bear his name instead of the other;and this can be accomplished, thanks to me. On the road, we shall meetat the inn, where we are to sleep, M. Germain and the nurse to whom theyhave entrusted the legitimate son. We shall be put in the same room,and, during the night, I am to change the little ones, who have beenpurposely dressed alike. For this the count gives me eight thousandfrancs down, and a life annuity of a thousand francs.'"

  "And you!" exclaimed the magistrate, "you, who call yourself an honestman, permitted such villainy, when one word would have been sufficientto prevent it?"

  "Sir, I beg of you," entreated Lerouge, "permit me to finish."

  "Well, continue!"

  "I could say nothing at first, I was so choked with rage. I must havelooked terrible. But she, who was generally afraid of me when I was ina passion, burst out laughing, and said, 'What a fool you are! Listen,before turning sour like a bowl of milk. The count is the only one whowants this change made; and he is the one that's to pay for it. Hismistress, this little one's mother, doesn't want it at all; she merelypretended to consent, so as not to quarrel with her lover, and becauseshe has got a plan of her own. She took me aside, during my visit in herroom, and, after having made me swear secrecy on a crucifix, she toldme that she couldn't bear the idea of separating herself from her babeforever, and of bringing up another's child. She added that, if I wouldagree not to change the children, and not to tell the count, she wouldgive me ten thousand francs down, and guarantee me an annuity equal tothe one the count had promised me. She declared, also, that she couldeasily find out whether I kept my word, as she had made a mark ofrecognition on her little one. She didn't show me the mark; and I haveexamined him carefully, but can't find it. Do you understand now? Imerely take care of this little fellow here. I tell the count that Ihave changed the children; we receive from both sides, and Jacques willbe rich. Now kiss your little wife who has more sense than you, you olddear!' That, sir, is word for word what Claudine said to me."

  The rough sailor drew from his pocket a large blue-checked handkerchief,and blew his nose so violently that the windows shook. It was his way ofweeping.

  M. Daburon was confounded. Since the beginning of this sad affair, hehad encountered surprise after surprise. Scarcely had he got his ideasin order on one point, when all his attention was directed to another.

  He felt himself utterly routed. What was he about to learn now? Helonged to interrogate quickly, but he saw that Lerouge told his storywith difficulty, laboriously disentangling his recollections; he wasguided by a single thread which the least interruption might seriouslyentangle.

  "What Claudine proposed to me," continued the sailor, "was villainous;and I am an honest man. But she kneaded me to her will as easily as abaker kneads dough. She turned my heart topsy-turvy: she made me seewhite as snow that which was really as black as ink. How I loved her!She proved to me that we were wronging no one, that we were makinglittle Jacques's fortune, and I was silenced. At evening we arrived atsome village; and the coachman, stopping the carriage before an inn,told us we were to sleep there. We entered, and who do you think we saw?That scamp, Germain, with a nurse carrying a child dressed so exactlylike the one we had that I was startled. They had journeyed there, likeourselves, in one of the count's carriages. A suspicion crossed my mind.How could I be sure that Claudine had not invented the second storyto pacify me? She was certainly capable of it. I was enraged. I hadconsented to the one wickedness, but not to the other. I resolved notto lose sight of the little bastard, swearing that they shouldn't changeit; so I kept him all the evening on my knees, and to be all the moresure, I tied my handkerchief about his waist. Ah! the plan had been welllaid. After supper, some one spoke of retiring, and then it turned outthat there were only two double-bedded rooms in the house. It seemed asthough it had been built expressly for the scheme. The innkeeper saidthat the two nurses might sleep in one room, and Germain and myself inthe other. Do you understand, sir? Add to this, that during the eveningI had surprised looks of intelligence passing between my wife andthat rascally servant, and you can imagine how furious I was. It wasconscience that spoke; and I was trying to silence it. I knew very wellthat I was doing wrong; and I almost wished myself dead. Why is it thatwomen can turn an honest man's conscience about like a weather-cock withtheir wheedling?"
/>   M. Daburon's only reply was a heavy blow of his fist on the table.

  Lerouge proceeded more quickly.

  "As for me, I upset that arrangement, pretending to be too jealous toleave my wife a minute. They were obliged to give way to me. The othernurse went up to bed first. Claudine and I followed soon afterwards. Mywife undressed and got into bed with our son and the little bastard. Idid not undress. Under the pretext that I should be in the way of thechildren, I installed myself in a chair near the bed, determined not toshut my eyes, and to keep close watch. I put out the candle, in order tolet the women sleep, though I could not think of doing so myself; and Ithought of my father, and of what he would say, if he ever heard of mybehaviour. Towards midnight, I heard Claudine moving. I held my breath.She was getting out of bed. Was she going to change the children? Now,I knew that she was not; then, I felt sure that she was. I was besidemyself, and seizing her by the arm, I commenced to beat her roughly,giving free vent to all that I had on my heart. I spoke in a loud voice,the same as when I am on board ship in a storm; I swore like a fiend, Iraised a frightful disturbance. The other nurse cried out as though shewere being murdered. At this uproar, Germain rushed in with a lightedcandle. The sight of him finished me. Not knowing what I was doing, Idrew from my pocket a long Spanish knife, which I always carried, andseizing the cursed bastard, I thrust the blade through his arm, crying,'This way, at least, he can't be changed without my knowing it; he ismarked for life!'"

  Lerouge could scarcely utter another word. Great drops of sweat stoodout upon his brow, then, trickling down his cheeks, lodged in the deepwrinkles of his face. He panted; but the magistrate's stern glanceharassed him, and urged him on, like the whip which flogs the negroslave overcome with fatigue.

  "The little fellow's wound," he resumed, "was terrible. It bleddreadfully, and he might have died; but I didn't think of that. I wasonly troubled about the future, about what might happen afterwards. Ideclared that I would write out all that had occurred, and that everyoneshould sign it. This was done; we could all four write. Germain didn'tdare resist; for I spoke with knife in hand. He wrote his name first,begging me to say nothing about it to the count, swearing that, for hispart, he would never breathe a word of it, and pledging the other nurseto a like secrecy."

  "And have you kept this paper?" asked M. Daburon.

  "Yes, sir, and as the detective to whom I confessed all, advised me tobring it with me, I went to take it from the place where I always keptit, and I have it here."

  "Give it to me."

  Lerouge took from his coat pocket an old parchment pocket-book, fastenedwith a leather thong, and withdrew from it a paper yellowed by age andcarefully sealed.

  "Here it is," said he. "The paper hasn't been opened since that accursednight."

  And, in fact, when the magistrate unfolded it, some dust fell out, whichhad been used to keep the writing, when wet, from blotting.

  It was really a brief description of the scene, described by the oldsailor. The four signatures were there.

  "What has become of the witnesses who signed this declaration?" murmuredthe magistrate, speaking to himself.

  Lerouge, who thought the question was put to him, replied, "Germain isdead. I have been told that he was drowned when out rowing. Claudinehas just been assassinated; but the other nurse still lives. I even knowthat she spoke of the affair to her husband, for he hinted as muchto me. His name is Brosette, and she lives in the village of Commarinitself."

  "And what next?" asked the magistrate, after having taken down the nameand address.

  "The next day, sir, Claudine managed to pacify me, and extorted apromise of secrecy. The child was scarcely ill at all; but he retainedan enormous scar on his arm."

  "Was Madame Gerdy informed of what took place?"

  "I do not think so, sir. But I would rather say that I do not know."

  "What! you do not know?"

  "Yes, sir, I swear it. You see my ignorance comes from what happenedafterwards."

  "What happened, then?"

  The sailor hesitated.

  "That, sir, concerns only myself, and--"

  "My friend," interrupted the magistrate, "you are an honest man, Ibelieve; in fact, I am sure of it. But once in your life, influenced bya wicked woman, you did wrong, you became an accomplice in a very guiltyaction. Repair that error by speaking truly now. All that is said here,and which is not directly connected with the crime, will remain secret;even I will forget it immediately. Fear nothing, therefore; and, if youexperience some humiliation, think that it is your punishment for thepast."

  "Alas, sir," answered the sailor, "I have been already greatly punished;and it is a long time since my troubles began. Money, wickedly acquired,brings no good. On arriving home, I bought the wretched meadow for muchmore than it was worth; and the day I walked over it, feeling that iswas actually mine, closed my happiness. Claudine was a coquette; but shehad a great many other vices. When she realised how much money we hadthese vices showed themselves, just like a fire, smouldering at thebottom of the hold, bursts forth when you open the hatches. Fromslightly greedy as she had been, she became a regular glutton. In ourhouse there was feasting without end. Whenever I went to sea, she wouldentertain the worst women in the place; and there was nothing too goodor too expensive for them. She would get so drunk that she would have tobe put to bed. Well, one night, when she thought me at Rouen, I returnedunexpectedly. I entered, and found her with a man. And such a man, sir!A miserable looking wretch, ugly, dirty, stinking; shunned by everyone;in a word the bailiff's clerk. I should have killed him, like the verminthat he was; it was my right, but he was such a pitiful object. I tookhim by the neck and pitched him out of the window, without opening it!It didn't kill him. Then I fell upon my wife, and beat her until shecouldn't stir."

  Lerouge spoke in a hoarse voice, every now and then thrusting his fistsinto his eyes.

  "I pardoned her," he continued; "but the man who beats his wife and thenpardons her is lost. In the future, she took better precautions, becamea greater hypocrite, and that was all. In the meanwhile, Madame Gerdytook back her child; and Claudine had nothing more to restrain her.Protected and counselled by her mother, whom she had taken to live withus, on the pretence of looking after Jacques, she managed to deceive mefor more than a year. I thought she had given up her bad habits, but notat all; she lived a most disgraceful life. My house became the resort ofall the good-for-nothing rogues in the country, for whom my wife broughtout bottles of wine and brandy, whenever I was away at sea, and they gotdrunk promiscuously. When money failed, she wrote to the count or hismistress, and the orgies continued. Occasionally I had doubts whichdisturbed me; and then without reason, for a simple yes or no, I wouldbeat her until I was tired, and then I would forgive her, like a coward,like a fool. It was a cursed life. I don't know which gave me the mostpleasure, embracing her or beating her. My neighbors despised me, andturned their backs on me; they believed me an accomplice or a willingdupe. I heard, afterwards, that they believed I profited by my wife'smisconduct; while in reality she paid her lovers. At all events, peoplewondered where all the money came from that was spent in my house. Todistinguish me from a cousin of mine, also named Lerouge, they tackedan infamous word on to my name. What disgrace! And I knew nothing of allthe scandal, no, nothing. Was I not the husband? Fortunately, though, mypoor father was dead."

  M. Daburon pitied the speaker sincerely.

  "Rest a while, my friend," he said; "compose yourself."

  "No," replied the sailor, "I would rather get through with it quickly.One man, the priest, had the charity to tell me of it. If ever he shouldwant Lerouge! Without losing a minute, I went and saw a lawyer, andasked him how an honest sailor who had had the misfortune to marry ahussy ought to act. He said that nothing could be done. To go to law wassimply to publish abroad one's own dishonour, while a separation wouldaccomplish nothing. When once a man has given his name to a woman, hetold me, he cannot take it back; it belongs to her for the rest of herdays, and she
has a right to dispose of it. She may sully it, cover itwith mire, drag it from wine shop to wine shop, and her husband can donothing. That being the case, my course was soon taken. That same day, Isold the fatal meadow, and sent the proceeds of it to Claudine, wishingto keep nothing of the price of shame. I then had a document drawn up,authorising her to administer our property, but not allowing her eitherto sell or mortgage it. Then I wrote her a letter in which I told herthat she need never expect to hear of me again, that I was nothing moreto her, and that she might look upon herself as a widow. That same nightI went away with my son."

  "And what became of your wife after your departure?"

  "I cannot say, sir; I only know that she quitted the neighbourhood ayear after I did."

  "You have never lived with her since?"

  "Never."

  "But you were at her house three days before the crime was committed."

  "That is true, but it was absolutely necessary. I had had much troubleto find her, no one knew what had become of her. Fortunately my notarywas able to procure Madame Gerdy's address; he wrote to her, and thatis how I learnt that Claudine was living at La Jonchere. I was then atRome. Captain Gervais, who is a friend of mine, offered to take me toParis on his boat, and I accepted. Ah, sir, what a shock I experiencedwhen I entered her house! My wife did not know me! By constantly tellingeveryone that I was dead, she had without a doubt ended by believingit herself. When I told her my name, she fell back in her chair. Thewretched woman had not changed in the least; she had by her side a glassand a bottle of brandy--"

  "All this doesn't explain why you went to seek your wife."

  "It was on Jacques's account, sir, that I went. The youngster has grownto be a man; and he wants to marry. For that, his mother's consent wasnecessary; and I was taking to Claudine a document which the notary haddrawn up, and which she signed. This is it."

  M. Daburon took the paper, and appeared to read it attentively. Aftera moment he asked: "Have you thought who could have assassinated yourwife?"

  Lerouge made no reply.

  "Do you suspect any one?" persisted the magistrate.

  "Well, sir," replied the sailor, "what can I say? I thought thatClaudine had wearied out the people from whom she drew money, like waterfrom a well; or else getting drunk one day, she had blabbed too freely."

  The testimony being as complete as possible, M. Daburon dismissedLerouge, at the same time telling him to wait for Gevrol, who would takehim to a hotel, where he might wait, at the disposal of justice, untilfurther orders.

  "All your expenses will be paid you," added the magistrate.

  Lerouge had scarcely left, when an extraordinary, unheard of,unprecedented event took place in the magistrate's office. Constant, theserious, impressive, immovable, deaf and dumb Constant, rose from hisseat and spoke.

  He broke a silence of fifteen years. He forgot himself so far as tooffer an opinion.

  "This, sir," said he, "is a most extraordinary affair."

  Very extraordinary, truly, thought M. Daburon, and calculated to routall predictions, all preconceived opinions.

  Why had he, the magistrate, moved with such deplorable haste? Why beforerisking anything, had he not waited to possess all the elements of thisimportant case, to hold all the threads of this complicated drama?

  Justice is accused of slowness; but it is this very slowness thatconstitutes its strength and surety, its almost infallibility. Onescarcely knows what a time evidence takes to produce itself. There is noknowing what important testimony investigations apparently useless mayreveal.

  When the entanglement of the various passions and motives seemshopeless, an unknown personage presents himself, coming from no oneknows where, and it is he who explains everything.

  M. Daburon, usually the most prudent of men, had considered as simpleone of the most complex of cases. He had acted in a mysterious crime,which demanded the utmost caution, as carelessly as though it were acase of simple misdemeanour. Why? Because his memory had not left himhis free deliberation, judgment, and discernment. He had feared equallyappearing weak and being revengeful. Thinking himself sure of his facts,he had been carried away by his animosity. And yet how often had henot asked himself: Where is duty? But then, when one is at all doubtfulabout duty, one is on the wrong road.

  The singular part of it all was that the magistrate's faults sprang fromhis very honesty. He had been led astray by a too great refinement ofconscience. The scruples which troubled him had filled his mind withphantoms, and had prompted in him the passionate animosity he haddisplayed at a certain moment.

  Calmer now, he examined the case more soundly. As a whole, thank heaven!there was nothing done which could not be repaired. He accused himself,however, none the less harshly. Chance alone had stopped him. At thatmoment he resolved that he would never undertake another investigation.His profession henceforth inspired him with an unconquerable loathing.Then his interview with Claire had re-opened all the old wounds in hisheart, and they bled more painfully than ever. He felt, in despair, thathis life was broken, ruined. A man may well feel so, when all women areas nothing to him except one, whom he may never dare hope to possess.Too pious a man to think of suicide, he asked himself with anguish whatwould become of him when he threw aside his magistrate's robes.

  Then he turned again to the business in hand. In any case, innocentor guilty, Albert was really the Viscount de Commarin, the count'slegitimate son. But was he guilty? Evidently he was not.

  "I think," exclaimed M. Daburon suddenly, "I must speak to the Count deCommarin. Constant, send to his house a message for him to come here atonce; if he is not at home, he must be sought for."

  M. Daburon felt that an unpleasant duty was before him. He would beobliged to say to the old nobleman: "Sir, your legitimate son is notNoel, but Albert." What a position, not only painful, but bordering onthe ridiculous! As a compensation, though, he could tell him that Albertwas innocent.

  To Noel he would also have to tell the truth: hurl him to earth, afterhaving raised him among the clouds. What a blow it would be! But,without a doubt, the count would make him some compensation; at least,he ought to.

  "Now," murmured the magistrate, "who can be the criminal?"

  An idea crossed his mind, at first it seemed to him absurd. He rejectedit, then thought of it again. He examined it in all its various aspects.He had almost adopted it, when M. de Commarin entered. M. Daburon'smessenger had arrived just as the count was alighting from his carriage,on returning with Claire from Madame Gerdy's.