did you go?”
“I walked about.”
“Alone, without any object, all the evening?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now trace out your wanderings for me very carefully.”
“Ah, sir, that is very difficult to do! I went out simply to walk about, for the sake of exercise, to drive away the torpor which had depressed me for three days. I don’t know whether you can picture to yourself my exact condition. I was half out of my mind. I walked about at hazard along the quays. I wandered through the streets — ”
“All that is very improbable,” interrupted the magistrate. M. Daburon, however, knew that it was at least possible. Had not he himself, one night, in a similar condition, traversed all Paris? What reply could he have made, had some one asked him next morning where he had been, except that he had not paid attention, and did not know? But he had forgotten this; and his previous hesitations, too, had all vanished.
As the inquiry advanced, the fever of investigation took possession of him. He enjoyed the emotions of the struggle, his passion for his calling became stronger than ever.
He was again an investigating magistrate, like the fencing master, who, once practising with his dearest friend, became excited by the clash of the weapons, and, forgetting himself, killed him.
“So,” resumed M. Daburon, “you met absolutely no one who can affirm that he saw you? You did not speak to a living soul? You entered no place, not even a cafe or a theatre, or a tobacconist’s to light one of your favourite trabucos?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, it is a great misfortune for you, yes, a very great misfortune; for I must inform you, that it was precisely during this Tuesday evening, between eight o’clock and midnight, that Widow Lerouge was assassinated. Justice can point out the exact hour. Again, sir, in your own interest, I recommend you to reflect — to make a strong appeal to your memory.”
This pointing out of the exact day and hour of the murder seemed to astound Albert. He raised his hand to his forehead with a despairing gesture. However he replied in a calm voice — “I am very unfortunate, sir: but I can recollect nothing.”
M. Daburon’s surprise was immense. What, not an alibi? Nothing? This could be no snare nor system of defence. Was, then, this man as cunning as he had imagined? Doubtless. Only he had been taken unawares. He had never imagined it possible for the accusation to fall upon him; and it was almost by a miracle it had done so.
The magistrate slowly raised, one by one, the large pieces of paper that covered the articles seized in Albert’s rooms.
“We will pass,” he continued, “to the examination of the charges which weigh against you. Will you please come nearer? Do you recognize these articles as belonging to yourself?”
“Yes, sir, they are all mine.”
“Well, take this foil. Who broke it?”
“I, sir, in fencing with M. de Courtivois, who can bear witness to it.”
“He will be heard. Where is the broken end?”
“I do not know. You must ask Lubin, my valet.”
“Exactly. He declares that he has hunted for it, and cannot find it. I must tell you that the victim received the fatal blow from the sharpened end of a broken foil. This piece of stuff, on which the assassin wiped his weapon, is a proof of what I state.”
“I beseech you, sir, to order a most minute search to be made. It is impossible that the other half of the foil is not to be found.”
“Orders shall be given to that effect. Look, here is the exact imprint of the murderer’s foot traced on this sheet of paper. I will place one of your boots upon it and the sole, as you perceive, fits the tracing with the utmost precision. This plaster was poured into the hollow left by the heel: you observe that it is, in all respects, similar in shape to the heels of your own boots. I perceive, too, the mark of a peg, which appears in both.”
Albert followed with marked anxiety every movement of the magistrate. It was plain that he was struggling against a growing terror. Was he attacked by that fright which overpowers the guilty when they see themselves on the point of being confounded. To all the magistrate’s remarks, he answered in a low voice — “It is true — perfectly true.”
“That is so,” continued M. Daburon; “yet listen further, before attempting to defend yourself. The criminal had an umbrella. The end of this umbrella sank in the clayey soil; the round of wood which is placed at the end of the silk, was found moulded in the clay. Look at this clod of clay, raised with the utmost care; and now look at your umbrella. Compare the rounds. Are they alike, or not?”
“These things, sir,” attempted Albert, “are manufactured in large quantities.”
“Well, we will pass over that proof. Look at this cigar end, found on the scene of the crime, and tell me of what brand it is, and how it was smoked.”
“It is a trabucos, and was smoked in a cigar-holder.”
“Like these?” persisted the magistrate, pointing to the cigars and the amber and meerschaum-holders found in the viscount’s library.
“Yes!” murmured Albert, “it is a fatality — a strange coincidence.”
“Patience, that is nothing, as yet. The assassin wore gloves. The victim, in the death struggle, seized his hands; and some pieces of kid remained in her nails. These have been preserved, and are here. They are of a lavender colour, are they not? Now, here are the gloves which you wore on Tuesday. They, too, are lavender, and they are frayed. Compare these pieces of kid with your own gloves. Do they not correspond? Are they not of the same colour, the same skin?”
It was useless to deny it, equivocate, or seek subterfuges. The evidence was there, and it was irrefutable. While appearing to occupy himself solely with the objects lying upon his table, M. Daburon did not lose sight of the prisoner. Albert was terrified. A cold perspiration bathed his temples, and glided drop by drop down his cheeks. His hands trembled so much that they were of no use to him. In a chilling voice he kept repeating: “It is horrible, horrible!”
“Finally,” pursued the inexorable magistrate, “here are the trousers you wore on the evening of the murder. It is plain that not long ago they were very wet; and, besides the mud on them, there are traces of earth. Besides that they are torn at the knees. We will admit, for the moment that you might not remember where you went on that evening; but who would believe that you do not know when you tore your trousers and how you frayed your gloves?”
What courage could resist such assaults? Albert’s firmness and energy were at an end. His brain whirled. He fell heavily into a chair, exclaiming — “It is enough to drive me mad!”
“Do you admit,” insisted the magistrate, whose gaze had become firmly fixed upon the prisoner, “do you admit that Widow Lerouge could only have been stabbed by you?”
“I admit,” protested Albert, “that I am the victim of one of those terrible fatalities which make men doubt the evidence of their reason. I am innocent.”
“Then tell me
