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He enjoined upon the detective to proceed with the utmost caution, and to invent a plausible pretext which would explain his investigations.
Having finished writing, the magistrate rang for his servant, who soon appeared.
“Here,” said he, “are two letters, which you must take to my clerk, Constant. Tell him to read them, and to have the orders they contain executed at once — at once, you understand. Run, take a cab, and be quick! Ah! one word. If Constant is not in my office, have him sought for; he will not be far off, as he is waiting for me. Go quickly!”
M. Daburon then turned and said to Claire: “Have you kept the letter, mademoiselle, in which M. Albert asked for this interview?”
“Yes, sir, I even think I have it with me.”
She arose, felt in her pocket, and drew out a much crumpled piece of paper.
“Here it is!”
The investigating magistrate took it. A suspicion crossed his mind. This compromising letter happened to be very conveniently in Claire’s pocket; and yet young girls do not usually carry about with them requests for secret interviews. At a glance, he read the ten lines of the note.
“No date,” he murmured, “no stamp, nothing at all.”
Claire did not hear him; she was racking her brain to find other proofs of the interview.
“Sir,” said she suddenly, “it often happens, that when we wish to be, and believe ourselves alone, we are nevertheless observed. Summon, I beseech you, all of my grandmother’s servants, and inquire if any of them saw Albert that night.”
“Inquire of your servants! Can you dream of such a thing, mademoiselle?”
“What, sir? You fear that I shall be compromised. What of that, if he is only freed?”
M. Daburon could not help admiring her. What sublime devotion in this young girl, whether she spoke the truth or not! He could understand the violence she had been doing to her feelings during the past hour, he who knew her character so well.
“That is not all,” she added; “the key which I threw to Albert, he did not return it to me; he must have forgotten to do so. If it is found in his possession, it will well prove that he was in the garden.”
“I will give orders respecting it, mademoiselle.”
“There is still another thing,” continued Claire; “while I am here, send some one to examine the wall.”
She seemed to think of everything.
“That is already done, mademoiselle,” replied M. Daburon. “I will not hide from you that one of the letters which I have just sent off ordered an examination of your grandmother’s wall, a secret examination, though, be assured.”
Claire rose joyfully, and for the second time held out her hand to the magistrate.
“Oh, thanks!” she said, “a thousand thanks! Now I can well see that you are with me. But I have still another idea: Albert ought to have the note I wrote on Tuesday.”
“No, mademoiselle, he burnt it.”
Claire drew back. She imagined she felt a touch of irony in the magistrate’s reply. There was none, however. M. Daburon remembered the letter thrown into the fire by Albert on the Tuesday afternoon. It could only been the one Claire had sent him. It was to her, then, that the words, “She cannot resist me,” applied. He understood, now, the action and the remark.
“Can you understand, mademoiselle,” he next asked, “how M. de Commarin could lead justice astray, and expose me to committing a most deplorable error, when it would have been so easy to have told me all this?”
“It seems to me, sir, that an honourable man cannot confess that he has obtained a secret interview from a lady, until he has full permission from her to do so. He ought to risk his life sooner than the honour of her who has trusted in him; but be assured Albert relied on me.”
There was nothing to reply to this; and the sentiments expressed by Mademoiselle d’Arlange gave a meaning to one of Albert’s replies in the examination.
“This is not all yet, mademoiselle,” continued the magistrate; “all that you have told me here, you must repeat in my office, at the Palais de Justice. My clerk will take down your testimony, and you must sign it. This proceeding will be painful to you; but it is a necessary formality.”
“Ah, sir, I will do so with pleasure. What can I refuse, when I know that he is in prison? I was determined to do everything. If he had been tried at the assizes, I would have gone there. Yes, I would have presented myself, and there before all I would have told the truth. Doubtless,” she added sadly, “I should have been greatly compromised. I should have been looked upon as a heroine of romance; but what matters public opinion, the blame or approval of the world, since I am sure of his love?”
She rose from her seat, readjusting her cloak and the strings of her bonnet.
“Is it necessary,” she asked, “that I should await the return of the police agents who are examining the wall?”
“It is needless, mademoiselle.”
“Then,” she continued in a sweet voice, “I can only beseech you,” she clasped her hands, “conjure you,” her eyes implored, “to let Albert out of prison.”
“He shall be liberated as soon as possible; I give you my word.”
“Oh, today, dear M. Daburon, today, I beg of you, now, at once! Since he is innocent, be kind, for you are our friend. Do you wish me to go down on my knees?”
The magistrate had only just time to extend his arms, and prevent her.
He was choking with emotion, the unhappy man! Ah! how much he envied the prisoner’s lot!
“That which you ask of me is impossible, mademoiselle,” said he in an almost inaudible voice, “impracticable, upon my honour. Ah! if it depended upon me alone, I could not, even were he guilty, see you weep, and resist.”
Mademoiselle d’Arlange, hitherto so firm, could no longer restrain her sobs.
“Miserable girl that I am!” she cried, “he is suffering, he is in prison; I am free, and yet I can do nothing for him! Great heaven! inspire me with accents to touch the hearts of men! At whose feet must I cast myself to obtain his pardon?”
She suddenly stopped, surprised at having uttered such a word.
“Pardon!” she repeated fiercely; “he has no need of pardon. Why am I only a woman? Can I not find one man who will help me? Yes,” she said after a moment’s reflection, “there is one man who owes himself to Albert; since he it was who put him in this position — the Count de Commarin. He is his father, and yet he has abandoned him. Ah, well! I will remind him that he still has a son.”
The magistrate rose to see her to the door; but she had already disappeared, taking the kind-hearted Schmidt with her.
M. Daburon, more dead than alive, sank back again in his chair. His eyes filled with tears.
“And that is what she is!” he murmured. “Ah! I made no vulgar choice! I had divined and understood all her good qualities.”
He had never loved her so much; and he felt that he would never be consoled for not having won her love in return. But, in the midst of his meditations, a sudden thought passed like a flash across his brain.
Had Claire spoken the truth? Had she not been playing a part previously