LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

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 against a most dreadful misfortune. No, there is no mistake. Justice has not been deceived. The Viscount de Commarin is accused of an assassination; and everything, you understand me, proves that he committed it.”

      Like a doctor, who pours out drop by drop a dangerous medicine, M. Daburon pronounced this last sentence slowly, word by word. He watched carefully the result, ready to cease speaking, if the shock was too great. He did not suppose that this young girl, timid to excess, with a sensitiveness almost a disease, would be able to hear without flinching such a terrible revelation. He expected a burst of despair, tears, distressing cries. She might perhaps faint away; and he stood ready to call in the worthy Schmidt.

      He was mistaken. Claire drew herself up full of energy and courage. The flame of indignation flushed her cheeks, and dried her tears.

      “It is false,” she cried, “and those who say it are liars! He cannot be-no, he cannot be an assassin. If he were here, sir, and should himself say, ‘It is true,’ I would refuse to believe it; I would still cry out, ‘It is false!’”

      “He has not yet admitted it,” continued the magistrate, “but he will confess. Even if he should not, there are more proofs than are needed to convict him. The charges against him are as impossible to deny as is the sun which shines upon us.”

      “Ah! well,” interrupted Mademoiselle d’Arlange, in a voice filled with emotion, “I assert, I repeat, that justice is deceived. Yes,” she persisted, in answer to the magistrate’s gesture of denial, “yes, he is innocent. I am sure of it; and I would proclaim it, even were the whole world to join with you in accusing him. Do you not see that I know him better even than he can know himself, that my faith in him is absolute, as is my faith in God, that I would doubt myself before doubting him?”

      The investigating magistrate attempted timidly to make an objection; Claire quickly interrupted him.

      “Must I then, sir,” said she, “in order to convince you, forget that I am a young girl, and that I am not talking to my mother, but to a man! For his sake I will do so. It is four years, sir, since we first loved each other. Since that time, I have not kept a single one of my thoughts from him, nor has he hid one of his from me. For four years, there has never been a secret between us; he lived in me, as I lived in him. I alone can say how worthy he is to be loved; I alone know all that grandeur of soul, nobleness of thought, generosity of feelings, out of which you have so easily made an assassin. And I have seen him, oh! so unhappy, while all the world envied his lot. He is, like me, alone in the world; his father never loved him. Sustained one by the other, we have passed through many unhappy days; and it is at the very moment our trials are ending that he has become a criminal? Why? tell me, why?”

      “Neither the name nor the fortune of the Count de Commarin would descend to him, mademoiselle; and the knowledge of it came upon him with a sudden shock. One old woman alone was able to prove this. To maintain his position, he killed her.”

      “What infamy,” cried the young girl, “what a shameful, wicked, calumny! I know, sir, that story of fallen greatness; he himself told me of it. It is true, that for three days this misfortune unmanned him; but, if he was dismayed, it was on my account more than his own. He was distressed at thinking that perhaps I should be grieved, when he confessed to me that he could no longer give me all that his love dreamed of. I grieved? Ah! what to me are that great name, that immense wealth? I owe to them the only unhappiness I have ever known. Was it, then, for such things that I loved him? It was thus that I replied to him; and he, so sad, immediately recovered his gaiety. He thanked me, saying, ‘You love me; the rest is of no consequence.’ I chided him, then, for having doubted me; and after that, you pretend that he cowardly assassinated an old woman? You would not dare repeat it.”

      Mademoiselle d’Arlange ceased speaking, a smile of victory on her lips. That smile meant, “At last I have attained my end: you are conquered; what can you reply to all that I have said?”

      The investigating magistrate did not long leave this smiling illusion to the unhappy child. He did not perceive how cruel and offensive was his persistence. Always the same predominant idea! In persuading Claire, he would justify his own conduct to himself.

      “You do not know, mademoiselle,” he resumed, “how a sudden calamity may effect a good man’s reason. It is only at the time a thing escapes us that we feel the greatness of the loss. God preserve me from doubting all that you have said; but picture to yourself the immensity of the blow which struck M. de Commarin. Can you say that on leaving you he did not give way to despair? Think of the extremities to which it may have led him. He may have been for a time bewildered, and have acted unconsciously. Perhaps this is the way the crime should be explained.”

      Mademoiselle d’Arlange’s face grew deathly pale, and betrayed the utmost terror. The magistrate thought that at last doubt had begun to effect her pure and noble belief.

      “He must, then, have been mad,” she murmured.

      “Possibly,” replied the magistrate; “and yet the circumstances of the crime denote a well-laid plan. Believe me, then, mademoiselle, and do not be too confident. Pray, and wait patiently for the issue of this terrible trial. Listen to my voice, it is that of a friend. You used to have in me the confidence a daughter gives to her father, you told me so; do not, then, refuse my advice. Remain silent and wait. Hide your grief to all; you might hereafter regret having exposed it. Young, inexperienced, without a guide, without a mother, alas! you sadly misplaced your first affections.”

      “No, sir, no,” stammered Claire. “Ah!” she added, “you talk like the rest of the world, that prudent and egotistical world, which I despise and hate.”

      “Poor child,” continued M. Daburon, pitiless even in his compassion, “unhappy young girl! This is your first deception! Nothing more terrible could be imagined; few women would know how to bear it. But you are young; you are brave; your life will not be ruined. Hereafter you will feel horrified at this crime. There is no wound, I know by experience, which time does not heal.”

      Claire tried to grasp what the magistrate was saying, but his words reached her only as confused sounds, their meaning entirely escaped her.

      “I do not understand you, sir,” she said. “What advice, then, do you give me?”

      “The only advice that reason dictates, and that my affection for you can suggest, mademoiselle. I speak to you as a kind and devoted brother. I say to you: ‘Courage, Claire, resign yourself to the saddest, the greatest sacrifice which honour can ask of a young girl. Weep, yes, weep for your deceived love; but forget it. Pray heaven to help you do so. He whom you have loved is no longer worthy of you.’”

      The magistrate stopped slightly frightened. Mademoiselle d’Arlange had become livid.

      But though the body was weak, the soul still remained firm.

      “You said, just now,” she murmured, “that he could only have committed this crime in a moment of distraction, in a fit of madness?”

      “Yes, it is possible.”

      “Then, sir, not knowing what he did, he can not be guilty.”

      The investigating

Скачать книгу