Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Lerouge Case by Emile Gaboriau (classic literature list TXT) 📖
- Author: Emile Gaboriau
Book online «The Lerouge Case by Emile Gaboriau (classic literature list TXT) 📖». Author Emile Gaboriau
“Thank you, sir,” murmured the count, “thank you!” and then he added: “What a death!”
“Yes,” murmured Claire, “she breathed her last in the idea that her son was guilty of a crime. And we were not able to undeceive her.”
“At least,” cried the count, “her son should be free to render her his last duties; yes, he must be. Noel!”
The advocate had approached his father, and heard all.
“I have promised, father,” he replied, “to save him.”
For the first time, Mademoiselle d’Arlange was face to face with Noel. Their eyes met, and she could not restrain a movement of repugnance, which the advocate perceived.
“Albert is already saved,” she said proudly. “What we ask is, that prompt justice shall be done him; that he shall be immediately set at liberty. The magistrate now knows the truth.”
“The truth?” exclaimed the advocate.
“Yes; Albert passed at my house, with me, the evening the crime was committed.”
Noel looked at her surprised; so singular a confession from such a mouth, without explanation, might well surprise him.
She drew herself up haughtily.
“I am Mademoiselle Claire d’Arlange, sir,” said she.
M. de Commarin now quickly ran over all the incidents reported by Claire.
When he had finished, Noel replied: “You see, sir, my position at this moment, to-morrow—”
“To-morrow?” interrupted the count, “you said, I believe, to-morrow! Honour demands, sir, that we act to-day, at this moment. You can show your love for this poor woman much better by delivering her son than by praying for her.”
Noel bowed low.
“To hear your wish, sir, is to obey it,” he said; “I go. This evening, at your house, I shall have the honour of giving you an account of my proceedings. Perhaps I shall be able to bring Albert with me.”
He spoke, and, again embracing the dead woman, went out.
Soon the count and Mademoiselle d’Arlange also retired.
The old soldier went to the Mayor, to give notice of the death, and to fulfil the necessary formalities.
The nun alone remained, awaiting the priest, which the cure had promised to send to watch the corpse.
The daughter of St. Vincent felt neither fear nor embarrassment, she had been so many times in a similar position. Her prayers said, she arose and went about the room, arranging everything as it should be in the presence of death. She removed all traces of the illness, put away the medicine bottles, burnt some sugar upon the fire shovel, and, on a table covered with a white cloth at the head of the bed, placed some lighted candles, a crucifix with holy water, and a branch of palm.
CHAPTER XVII.
Greatly troubled and perplexed by Mademoiselle d’Arlange’s revelations, M. Daburon was ascending the stairs that led to the offices of the investigating magistrates, when he saw old Tabaret coming towards him. The sight pleased him, and he at once called out: “M. Tabaret!”
But the old fellow, who showed signs of the most intense agitation, was scarcely disposed to stop, or to lose a single minute.
“You must excuse me, sir,” he said, bowing, “but I am expected at home.”
“I hope, however—”
“Oh, he is innocent,” interrupted old Tabaret. “I have already some proofs; and before three days—But you are going to see Gevrol’s man with the earrings. He is very cunning, Gevrol; I misjudged him.”
And without listening to another word, he hurried away, jumping down three steps at a times, at the risk of breaking his neck.
M. Daburon, greatly disappointed, also hastened on.
In the passage, on a bench of rough wood before his office door, Albert sat awaiting him, under the charge of a Garde de Paris.
“You will be summoned immediately, sir,” said the magistrate to the prisoner, as he opened his door.
In the office, Constant was talking with a skinny little man, who might have been taken, from his dress, for a well-to-do inhabitant of Batignolles, had it not been for the enormous pin in imitation gold which shone in his cravat, and betrayed the detective.
“You received my letters?” asked M. Daburon of his clerk.
“Your orders have been executed, sir; the prisoner is without, and here is M. Martin, who this moment arrived from the neighbourhood of the Invalides.”
“That is well,” said the magistrate in a satisfied tone. And, turning towards the detective, “Well, M. Martin,” he asked, “what did you see?”
“The walls had been scaled, sir.”
“Lately?”
“Five or six days ago.”
“You are sure of this?”
“As sure as I am that I see M. Constant at this moment mending his pen.”
“The marks are plain?”
“As plain as the nose on my face, sir, if I may so express myself. The thief—it was done by a thief, I imagine,” continued M. Martin, who was a great talker—“the thief entered the garden before the rain, and went away after it, as you had conjectured. This circumstance is easy to establish by examining the marks on the wall of the ascent and the descent on the side towards the street. These marks are several abrasions, evidently made by feet of some one climbing. The first are clean; the others, muddy. The scamp—he was a nimble fellow—in getting in, pulled himself up by the strength of his wrists; but when going away, he enjoyed the luxury of a ladder, which he threw down as soon as he was on the top of the wall. It is to see where he placed it, by holes made in the ground by the fellow’s weight; and also by the mortar which has been knocked away from the top of the wall.”
“Is that all?” asked the magistrate.
“Not yet, sir. Three of the pieces of glass which cover the top of the wall have been removed. Several of the acacia branches, which extend over the wall have been twisted or broken. Adhering to the thorns of one of these branches, I found this little piece of lavender kid, which appears to me to belong to a glove.”
The magistrate eagerly seized the piece of kid.
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