LITMIR.BIZ

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      M. Daburon had been surprised at Claire’s visit.

      M. de Commarin was still more so, when his valet whispered to him that Mademoiselle d’Arlange desired a moment’s conversation with him.

      M. Daburon had broken a handsome card-plate; M. de Commarin, who was at breakfast, dropped his knife on his plate.

      Like the magistrate he exclaimed, “Claire!”

      He hesitated to receive her, fearing a painful and disagreeable scene. She could only have, as he knew, a very slight affection for him, who had for so long repulsed her with such obstinacy. What could she want with him? To inquire about Albert, of course. And what could he reply?

      She would probably have some nervous attack or other; and he would be thoroughly upset. However, he thought of how much she must have suffered; and he pitied her.

      He felt that it would be cruel, as well as unworthy of him, to keep away from her who was to have been his daughter-inlaw, the Viscountess de Commarin.

      He sent a message, asking her to wait a few minutes in one of the little drawing-rooms on the ground floor.

      He did not keep her waiting long, his appetite having been destroyed by the mere announcement of her visit. He was fully prepared for anything disagreeable.

      As soon as he appeared, Claire saluted him with one of those graceful, yet highly dignified bows, which distinguished the Marchioness d’Arlange.

      “Sir — ” she began.

      “You come, do you not, my poor child, to obtain news of the unhappy boy?” asked M. de Commarin.

      He interrupted Claire, and went straight to the point, in order to get the disagreeable business more quickly over.

      “No sir,” replied the young girl, “I come, on the contrary, to bring you news. Albert is innocent.”

      The count looked at her most attentively, persuaded that grief had affected her reason; but in that case her madness was very quiet.

      “I never doubted it,” continued Claire; “but now I have the most positive proof.”

      “Are you quite sure of what you are saying?” inquired the count, whose eyes betrayed his doubt.

      Mademoiselle d’Arlange understood his thoughts; her interview with M. Daburon had given her experience.

      “I state nothing which is not of the utmost accuracy,” she replied, “and easily proved. I have just come from M. Daburon, the investigating magistrate, who is one of my grandmother’s friends; and, after what I told him, he is convinced that Albert is innocent.”

      “He told you that, Claire!” exclaimed the count. “My child, are you sure, are you not mistaken?”

      “No, sir. I told him something, of which every one was ignorant, and of which Albert, who is a gentleman, could not speak. I told him that Albert passed with me, in my grandmother’s garden, all that evening on which the crime was committed. He had asked to see me —”

      “But your word will not be sufficient.”

      “There are proofs, and justice has them by this time.”

      “Heavens! Is it really possible?” cried the count, who was beside himself.

      “Ah, sir!” said Mademoiselle d’Arlange bitterly, “you are like the magistrate; you believed in the impossible. You are his father, and you suspected him! You do not know him, then. You were abandoning him, without trying to defend him. Ah, I did not hesitate one moment!”

      One is easily induced to believe true that which one is anxiously longing for. M. de Commarin was not difficult to convince. Without thinking, without discussion, he put faith in Claire’s assertions. He shared her convictions, without asking himself whether it were wise or prudent to do so.

      Yes, he had been overcome by the magistrate’s certitude, he had told himself that what was most unlikely was true; and he had bowed his head. One word from a young girl had upset this conviction. Albert innocent! The thought descended upon his heart like heavenly dew.

      Claire appeared to him like a bearer of happiness and hope.

      During the last three days, he had discovered how great was his affection for Albert. He had loved him tenderly, for he had never been able to discard him, in spite of his frightful suspicions as to his paternity.

      For three days, the knowledge of the crime imputed to his unhappy son, the thought of the punishment which awaited him, had nearly killed the father. And after all he was innocent!

      No more shame, no more scandalous trial, no more stains upon the escutcheon; the name of Commarin would not be heard at the assizes.

      “But, then, mademoiselle,” asked the count, “are they going to release him?”

      “Alas! sir, I demanded that they should at once set him at liberty. It is just, is it not, since he is not guilty? But the magistrate replied that it was not possible; that he was not the master; that Albert’s fate depended on many others. It was then that I resolved to come to you for aid.”

      “Can I then do something?”

      “I at least hope so. I am only a poor girl, very ignorant; and I know no one in the world. I do not know what can be done to get him released from prison. There ought, however, to be some means for obtaining justice. Will you not try all that can be done, sir, you, who are his father?”

      “Yes,” replied M. de Commarin quickly, “yes, and without losing a minute.”

      Since Albert’s arrest, the count had been plunged in a dull stupor. In his profound grief, seeing only ruin and disaster about him, he had done nothing to shake off this mental paralysis. Ordinarily very active, he now sat all day long without moving. He seemed to enjoy a condition which prevented his feeling the immensity of his misfortune. Claire’s voice sounded in his ear like the resurrection trumpet. The frightful darkness was dispelled; he saw a glimmering in the horizon; he recovered the energy of his youth.

      “Let us go,” he said.

      Suddenly the radiance in his face changed to sadness, mixed with anger.

      “But where,” he asked. “At what door shall we knock with any hope of success? In the olden times, I would have sought the king. But today! Even the emperor himself cannot interfere with the law. He will tell me to await the decision of the tribunals, that he can do nothing. Wait! And Albert is counting the minutes in mortal agony! We shall certainly have justice; but to obtain it promptly is an art taught in schools that I have not frequented.”

      “Let us try, at least, sir,” persisted Claire. “Let us seek out judges, generals, ministers, any one. Only lead me to them. I will speak; and you shall see if we do not succeed.”

      The count took Claire’s little hands between his own, and held them a moment pressing them with paternal tenderness.

      “Brave girl!” he cried, “you are a noble, courageous woman, Claire! Good blood never fails. I did not know you. Yes, you shall be my daughter; and you shall be happy together, Albert and you. But we must not rush about everywhere, like wild geese. We need some one to tell us whom we should address — some guide, lawyer, advocate. Ah!” he cried, “I have it — Noel!”

      Claire raised her eyes to the count’s in surprise.

      “He is my son,” replied M. de Commarin, evidently embarrassed, “my other son, Albert’s brother. The best and worthiest of men,” he added, repeating quite appropriately a phrase already uttered by M. Daburon. “He is a advocate; he knows all about the Palais; he will tell us what to do.”

      Noel’s name, thus thrown into the midst of this conversation so full of hope, oppressed Claire’s heart.

      The count perceived her affright.

      “Do not feel anxious, dear child,” he said. “Noel is good; and

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