Detective Lecoq - Complete Murder Mysteries. Emile Gaboriau

      Chapter XV.

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      On the Monday morning, at nine o’clock, M. Daburon was preparing to start for the Palais de Justice, where he expected to find Gevrol and his man, and perhaps old Tabaret. His preparations were nearly made, when his servant announced that a young lady, accompanied by another considerably older, asked to speak with him. She declined giving her name, saying, however, that she would not refuse it, if it was absolutely necessary in order to be received.

      “Show them in,” said the magistrate.

      He thought it must be a relation of one or other of the prisoners, whose case he had had in hand when this fresh crime occurred. He determined to send her away quickly. He was standing before the fireplace, seeking for an address in a small china plate filled with visiting cards. At the sound of the opening of the door, at the rustling of a silk dress gliding by the window, he did not take the trouble to move, nor deign even to turn his head. He contented himself with merely casting a careless glance into the mirror.

      But he immediately started with a movement of dismay, as if he had seen a ghost. In his confusion, he dropped the card-plate, which fell noisily on to the hearth, and broke into a thousand pieces.

      “Claire!” he stammered, “Claire!”

      And as if he feared equally either being deceived by an illusion or actually seeing her whose name he had uttered, he turned slowly round.

      It was truly Mademoiselle d’Arlange. This young girl, usually so proud and reserved, had had the courage to come to his house alone, or almost so, for her governess, whom she had left in the ante-room, could hardly count. She was evidently obeying some powerful emotion, since it made her forget her habitual timidity.

      Never, even in the time when a sight of her was his greatest happiness, had she appeared to him more fascinating. Her beauty, ordinarily veiled by a sweet sadness, was bright and shining. Her features had an animation which he had never seen in them before. In her eyes, rendered more brilliant by recent tears but partly wiped away, shone the noblest resolution. One could see that she was conscious of performing a great duty, and that she performed it, if not with pleasure, at least with that simplicity which in itself is heroism.

      She advanced calm and dignified, and held out her hand to the magistrate in that English style that some ladies can render so gracefully.

      “We are always friends, are we not?” asked she, with a sad smile.

      The magistrate did not dare take the ungloved hand she held out to him. He scarcely touched it with the tips of his fingers, as though he feared too great an emotion.

      “Yes,” he replied indistinctly, “I am always devoted to you.”

      Mademoiselle d’Arlange sat down in the large armchair, where, two nights previously, old Tabaret had planned Albert’s arrest. M. Daburon remained standing leaning against his writing-table.

      “You know why I have come?” asked the young girl.

      With a nod, he replied in the affirmative.

      He divined her object only too easily; and he was asking himself whether he would be able to resist prayers from such a mouth. What was she about to ask of him? What could he refuse her? Ah, if he had but foreseen this? He had not yet got over his surprise.

      “I only knew of this dreadful event yesterday,” pursued Claire; “my grandmother considered it best to hide it from me, and, but for my devoted Schmidt, I should still be ignorant of it all. What a night I have passed! At first I was terrified; but, when they told me that all depended upon you, my fears were dispelled. It is for my sake, is it not, that you have undertaken this investigation? Oh, you are good, I know it! How can I ever express my gratitude?”

      What humiliation for the worthy magistrate were these heartfelt thanks! Yes, he had at first thought of Mademoiselle d’Arlange, but since — He bowed his head to avoid Claire’s glance, so pure and so daring.

      “Do not thank me, mademoiselle,” he stammered, “I have not the claim that you think upon your gratitude.”

      Claire had been too troubled herself, at first, to notice the magistrate’s agitation. The trembling of his voice attracted her attention; but she did not suspect the cause. She thought that her presence recalled sad memories, that he doubtless still loved her, and that he suffered. This idea saddened her, and filled her with self-reproach.

      “And yet, sir,” she continued, “I thank you all the same. I might never have dared go to another magistrate, to speak to a stranger! Besides, what value would another attach to my words, not knowing me? While you, so generous, will re-assure me, will tell me by what awful mistake he has been arrested like a villain and thrown into prison.”

      “Alas!” sighed the magistrate, so low that Claire scarcely heard him, and did not understand the terrible meaning of the exclamation.

      “With you,” she continued, “I am not afraid. You are my friend, you told me so; you will not refuse my prayers. Give him his liberty quickly. I do not know exactly of what he is accused, but I swear to you that he is innocent.”

      Claire spoke in the positive manner of one who saw no obstacle in the way of the very simple and natural desire which she had expressed. A formal assurance given by her ought to be amply sufficient; with a word, M. Daburon would repair everything. The magistrate was silent. He admired that saint-like ignorance of everything, that artless and frank confidence which doubted nothing. She had commenced by wounding him, unconsciously, it is true, but he had quite forgotten that.

      He was really an upright man, as good as the best, as is proved from the fact that he trembled at the moment of unveiling the fatal truth. He hesitated to pronounce the words which, like a whirlwind, would overturn the fragile edifice of this young girl’s happiness. He who had been so humiliated, so despised, he was going to have his revenge; and yet he did not experience the least feeling of a shameful, though easily understood, satisfaction.

      “And if I should tell you, mademoiselle,” he commenced, “that M. Albert is not innocent?”

      She half-raised herself with a protesting gesture.

      He continued, “If I should tell you that he is guilty?”

      “Oh, sir!” interrupted Claire, “you cannot think so!”

      “I do think so, mademoiselle,” exclaimed the magistrate in a sad voice, “and I must add that I am morally certain of it.”

      Claire looked at the investigating magistrate with profound amazement. Could it be really he who was speaking thus. Had she heard him aright? Did she understand? She was far from sure. Had he answered seriously? Was he not deluding her by a cruel unworthy jest? She asked herself this scarcely knowing what she did: for to her everything appeared possible, probable, rather than that which he had said.

      Not daring to raise his eyes, he continued in a tone, expressive of the sincerest pity, “I suffer cruelly for you at this moment, mademoiselle; but I have the sad courage to tell you the truth, and you must summon yours to hear it. It is far better that you should know everything from the mouth of a friend. Summon, then, all your fortitude; strengthen your noble soul