supposing he were of bronze,” said M. Daburon, “and did not fall at your feet, what would you do next?”
The question evidently embarrassed the old fellow.
“Pshaw!” stammered he; “I don’t know; I would see; I would search; but he would confess.”
After a prolonged silence, M. Daburon took a pen, and hurriedly wrote a few lines.
“I surrender,” said he. “M. Albert de Commarin shall be arrested; that is settled. The different formalities to be gone through and the perquisitions will occupy some time, which I wish to employ in interrogating the Count de Commarin, the young man’s father, and your friend M. Noel Gerdy, the young advocate. The letters he possesses are indispensable to me.”
At the name of Gerdy, M. Tabaret’s face assumed a most comical expression of uneasiness.
“Confound it,” cried he, “the very thing I most dreaded.”
“What?” asked M. Daburon.
“The necessity for the examination of those letters. Noel will discover my interference. He will despise me: he will fly from me, when he knows that Tabaret and Tirauclair sleep in the same nightcap. Before eight days are past, my oldest friends will refuse to shake hands with me, as if it were not an honour to serve justice. I shall be obliged to change my residence, and assume a false name.”
He almost wept, so great was his annoyance. M. Daburon was touched.
“Reassure yourself, my dear M. Tabaret,” said he. “I will manage that your adopted son, your Benjamin, shall know nothing. I will lead him to believe I have reached him by means of the widow’s papers.”
The old fellow seized the magistrate’s hand in a transport of gratitude, and carried it to his lips. Oh! thanks, sir, a thousand thanks! I should like to be permitted to witness the arrest; and I shall be glad to assist at the perquisitions.”
“I intended to ask you to do so, M. Tabaret,” answered the magistrate.
The lamps paled in the gray dawn of the morning; already the rumbling of vehicles was heard; Paris was awaking.
“I have no time to lose,” continued M. Daburon, “if I would have all my measures well taken. I must at once see the public prosecutor, whether he is up or not. I shall go direct from his house to the Palais de Justice, and be there before eight o’clock; and I desire, M. Tabaret, that you will there await my orders.”
The old fellow bowed his thanks and was about to leave, when the magistrate’s servant appeared.
“Here is a note, sir,” said he, “which a gendarme has just brought from Bougival. He waits an answer.”
“Very well,” replied M. Daburon. “Ask the man to have some refreshment; at least offer him a glass of wine.”
He opened the envelope. “Ah!” he cried, “a letter from Gevrol;” and he read:
“‘To the investigating magistrate. Sir, I have the honour to inform you, that I am on the track of the man with the earrings. I heard of him at a wine shop, which he entered on Sunday morning, before going to Widow Lerouge’s cottage. He bought, and paid for two litres of wine; then, suddenly striking his forehead, he cried, “Old fool! to forget that tomorrow is the boat’s fete day!” and immediately called for three more litres. According to the almanac the boat must be called the Saint–Martin. I have also learned that she was laden with grain. I write to the Prefecture at the same time as I write to you, that inquiries may be made at Paris and Rouen. He will be found at one of those places. I am in waiting, sir, etc.’”
“Poor Gevrol!” cried old Tabaret, bursting with laughter. “He sharpens his sabre, and the battle is over. Are you not going to put a stop to his inquiries, sir?”
“No; certainly not,” answered M. Daburon; “to neglect the slightest clue often leads one into error. Who can tell what light we may receive from this mariner?”
Chapter VIII.
On the same day that the crime of La Jonchere was discovered, and precisely at the hour that M. Tabaret made his memorable examination in the victim’s chamber, the Viscount Albert de Commarin entered his carriage, and proceeded to the Northern railway station, to meet his father.
The young man was very pale: his pinched features, his dull eyes, his blanched lips, in fact his whole appearance denoted either overwhelming fatigue or unusual sorrow. All the servants had observed, that, during the past five days, their young master had not been in his ordinary condition: he spoke but little, ate almost nothing, and refused to see any visitors. His valet noticed that this singular change dated from the visit, on Sunday morning, of a certain M. Noel Gerdy, who had been closeted with him for three hours in the library.
The Viscount, gay as a lark until the arrival of this person, had, from the moment of his departure, the appearance of a man at the point of death. When setting forth to meet his father, the viscount appeared to suffer so acutely that M. Lubin, his valet, entreated him not to go out; suggesting that it would be more prudent to retire to his room, and call in the doctor.
But the Count de Commarin was exacting on the score of filial duty, and would overlook the worst of youthful indiscretions sooner than what he termed a want of reverence. He had announced his intended arrival by telegraph, twenty-four hours in advance; therefore the house was expected to be in perfect readiness to receive him, and the absence of Albert at the railway station would have been resented as a flagrant omission of duty.
The viscount had been but five minutes in the waiting-room, when the bell announced the arrival of the train. Soon the doors leading on to the platform were opened, and the travelers crowded in. The throng beginning to thin a little, the count appeared, followed by a servant, who carried a travelling pelisse lined with rare and valuable fur.
The Count de Commarin looked a good ten years less than his age. His beard and hair, yet abundant, were scarcely gray. He was tall and muscular, held himself upright, and carried his head high. His appearance was noble, his movements easy. His regular features presented a study to the physiognomist, all expressing easy, careless good nature, even to the handsome, smiling mouth; but in his eyes flashed the fiercest and the most arrogant pride. This contrast revealed the secret of his character. Imbued quite as deeply with aristocratic prejudice as the Marchioness d’Arlange, he had progressed with his century or at least appeared to have done so. As fully as the marchioness, he held in contempt all who were not noble; but his disdain expressed itself in a different fashion. The marchioness proclaimed her contempt loudly and coarsely; the count had kept eyes and ears open and had seen and heard a good deal. She was stupid, and without a shade of common sense. He was witty and sensible, and possessed enlarged views of life and politics. She dreamed of the return of the absurd traditions of a former age; he hoped for things within the power of events to bring forth. He was sincerely persuaded that the nobles of France would yet recover slowly and silently, but surely, all their lost power, with its prestige and influence.
In a word, the count was the flattered portrait of his class; the marchioness its caricature. It should be added, that M. de Commarin knew how to divest himself of his crushing urbanity in the company of his equals. There he recovered his true character, haughty, self-sufficient,
