he inquired.
“I suggested that they should remain,” replied M. Casimir, “because—”
“You are—suspicious,” interrupted the magistrate.
His clerk had already drawn a pen and some paper from his portfolio, and was engaged in reading the decision, rendered by the magistrate at the request of one Bourigeau, and in virtue of which, seals were about to be affixed to the deceased nobleman’s personal effects. Since the magistrate had entered the room, his eyes had not once wandered from Mademoiselle Marguerite, who was standing near the fireplace, looking pale but composed. At last he approached her, and in a tone of deep sympathy: “Are you Mademoiselle Marguerite?” he asked.
She raised her clear eyes, rendered more beautiful than ever, by the tears that trembled on her lashes, and in a faltering voice, replied: “Yes, monsieur.”
“Are you a relative? Are you connected in any way with the Count de Chalusse? Have you any right to his property?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Excuse me, mademoiselle, but these questions are indispensable. Who intrusted you to the care of M. de Chalusse, and by what right? Was it your father or your mother?”
“I have neither father nor mother, monsieur. I am alone in the world—utterly alone.”
The magistrate glanced keenly round the room. “Ah! I understand,” said he, at last; “advantage has been taken of your isolation to treat you with disrespect, to insult you, perhaps.”
Every head drooped, and M. Casimir bitterly regretted that he had not remained below in the courtyard. Mademoiselle Marguerite looked at the magistrate in astonishment, for she was amazed by his penetration. She was ignorant of his conversation with Bourigeau on the road, and did not know that through the concierge’s ridiculous statements and accusations, the magistrate had succeeded in discovering at least a portion of the truth.
“I shall have the honor of asking for a few moments’ conversation with you presently, mademoiselle,” he said. “But first, one question. I am told that the Count de Chalusse entertained a very lively affection for you. Are you sure that he has not taken care to provide for your future? Are you sure that he has not left a will?”
The girl shook her head. “He made one in my favor some time ago,” she replied. “I saw it; he gave it to me to read; but it was destroyed a fortnight after my arrival here, and in compliance with my request.”
Madame Leon had hitherto been dumb with fear, but, conquering her weakness, she now decided to draw near and take part in the conversation. “How can you say that, my dear young lady?” she exclaimed. “You know that the count—God rest his soul!—was an extremely cautious man. I am certain that there is a will somewhere.”
The magistrate’s eyes were fixed on his ring. “It would be well to look, perhaps, before affixing the seals. You have a right to require this; so, if you wish——”
But she made no reply.
“Oh, yes!” insisted Madame Leon; “pray look, monsieur.”
“But where should we be likely to find a will?”
“Certainly in this room—in this escritoire, or in one of the deceased count’s cabinets.”
The magistrate had learnt the story of the key from Bourigeau, but all the same he asked: “Where is the key to this escritoire?”
“Alas! monsieur,” replied Mademoiselle Marguerite, “I broke it last night when M. de Chalusse was brought home unconscious. I hoped to avert what has, nevertheless, happened. Besides, I knew that his escritoire contained something over two millions in gold and bank-notes.”
Two millions—there! The occupants of the room stood aghast. Even the clerk was so startled that he let a blot fall upon his paper. Two millions! The magistrate was evidently reflecting. “Hum!” he murmured, meditatively. Then, as if deciding on his course, he exclaimed:
“Let a locksmith be sent for.”
A servant went in search of one; and while they were waiting for his return, the magistrate sat down beside his clerk and talked to him in a low voice. At last the locksmith appeared, with his bag of tools hanging over his shoulder, and set to work at once. He found his task a difficult one. His pick-locks would not catch, and he was talking of filing the bolt, when, by chance, he found the joint, and the door flew open. But the escritoire was empty. There were only a few papers, and a bottle about three-quarters full of a crimson liquid on the shelf. Had M. de Chalusse rose and shook off his winding sheet, the consternation would not have been greater. The same instinctive fear thrilled the hearts of everybody present. An enormous fortune had disappeared. The same suspicions would rest upon them all. And each servant already saw himself arrested, imprisoned, and dragged before a law court.
However, anger speedily followed bewilderment, and a furious clamor arose. “A robbery has been committed!” cried the servants, in concert. “Mademoiselle had the key. It is wrong to suspect the innocent!”
Revolting as this exhibition was, it did not modify the magistrate’s calmness. He had witnessed too many such scenes in the course of his career, and, at least, a score of times he had been compelled to interpose between children who had come to blows over their inheritance before their father’s body was even cold. “Silence!” he commanded sternly. And as the tumult did not cease, as the servants continued to cry, “The thief must be found. We shall have no difficulty in discovering the culprit,” the magistrate exclaimed, still more imperiously: “Another word, and you all leave the room.”
They were silenced; but there was a mute eloquence about their looks and gestures which it was impossible to misunderstand. Every eye was fixed upon Mademoiselle Marguerite with an almost ferocious expression. She knew it only too well; but, sublime in her energy, she stood, with her head proudly erect, facing the storm, and disdaining to answer these vile imputations. However she had a protector near by—the magistrate in person. “If this treasure has been diverted from the inheritance,” said he, “the thief will be discovered and punished. But I wish to have one point explained—who said that Mademoiselle Marguerite had the key of the escritoire?”
“I did,” replied a footman. “I was in the dining-room yesterday morning when the count gave it to her.”
“For what purpose did he give it to her?”
“That she might obtain this vial—I recognized it at once. She brought it down to him.”
“Did she return the key?”
“Yes; she gave it to him when she handed him the vial, and I saw him put it in his pocket.”
The magistrate pointed to the bottle which was standing on the shelf. “Then the count himself must have put the vial back in its place,” said he. “Further comment is unnecessary; for, if the money had then been missing, he could not have failed to discover the fact.” No one had any reply to make to this quiet defence, which was, at the same time, a complete vindication. “And, besides,” continued the magistrate, “who told you that this immense sum would be found here? Did you know it? Which one of you knew it?” And as nobody still ventured any remark, he added in an even more severe tone, and without seeming to notice Mademoiselle Marguerite’s look of gratitude, “It is by no means a proof of honesty to be so extremely suspicious. Would it not have been easier to suppose that the deceased had placed
