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 prepared? No, most decidedly no! But she might have been herself deceived, might have been the dupe of some skillful trick.
In that case old Tabaret’s prediction was now realised.
Tabaret had said: “Look out for an indisputable alibi.”
How could he show the falsity of this one, planned in advance, affirmed by Claire, who was herself deceived?
How could he expose a plan, so well laid that the prisoner had been able without danger to await certain results, with his arms folded, and without himself moving in the matter?
And yet, if Claire’s story were true, and Albert innocent!
The magistrate struggled in the midst of inextricable difficulties, without a plan, without an idea.
He arose.
“Oh!” he said in a loud voice, as though encouraging himself, “at the Palais, all will be unravelled.”
Chapter XVI.
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
