The Lerouge Case - Émile Gaboriau (e book reader for pc txt) 📗

“Never!”

“Then I will deliver myself up to justice, and you will see what will happen to the name you hold so dear!”

The count, mad with rage, rushed to his table for a pistol. Noel placed himself before him. “Oh, do not let us have any struggle,” said he coldly; “I am the strongest.”

M. de Commarin recoiled. By thus speaking of the trial, of the scandal and of the disgrace, the barrister had made an impression upon him. For a moment hesitating between love for his name and his burning desire to see this wretch punished, the old nobleman stood undecided. Finally his feeling for his rank triumphed.

“Let us end this,” he said in a tremulous voice, filled with the utmost contempt; “let us end this disgraceful scene. What do you demand of me?”

“I have already told you, money, all that you have here. But make up your mind quickly.”

On the previous Saturday the count had withdrawn from his bankers the sum he had destined for fitting up the apartments of him whom he thought was his legitimate child.

“I have eighty thousand francs here,” he replied.

“That’s very little,” said the barrister; “but give them to me. I will tell you though that I had counted on you for five hundred thousand francs. If I succeed in escaping my pursuers, you must hold at my disposal the balance, four hundred and twenty thousand francs. Will you pledge yourself to give them to me at the first demand? I will find some means of sending for them, without any risk to myself. At that price, you need never fear hearing of me again.”

By way of reply, the count opened a little iron chest imbedded in the wall, and took out a roll of bank notes, which he threw at Noel’s feet.

An angry look flashed in the barrister’s eyes, as he took one step towards his father. “Oh! take care!” he said threateningly; “people who, like me, have nothing to lose are dangerous. I can yet give myself up, and⁠—” He stooped down, however, and picked up the notes. “Will you give me your word,” he continued, “to let me have the rest whenever I ask for them?”

“Yes.”

“Then I am going. Do not fear, I will be faithful to our compact, they shall not take me alive. Adieu, my father! in all this you are the true criminal, but you alone will go unpunished. Ah, heaven is not just. I curse you!”

When, an hour later, the servants entered the count’s room, they found him stretched on the floor with his face against the carpet, and showing scarcely a sign of life.

On leaving the Commarin house, Noel staggered up the Rue de l’Universite. It seemed to him that the pavement oscillated beneath his feet, and that everything about him was turning round. His mouth was parched, his eyes were burning, and every now and then a sudden fit of sickness overcame him. But, at the same time, strange to relate, he felt an incredible relief, almost delight. It was ended then, all was over; the game was lost. No more anguish now, no more useless fright and foolish terrors, no more dissembling, no more struggles. Henceforth he had nothing more to fear. His horrible part being played to the bitter end, he could now lay aside his mask and breathe freely. An irresistible weariness succeeded the desperate energy which, in the presence of the count, had sustained his impudent arrogance. All the springs of his organization, stretched for more than a week past far beyond their ordinary limits, now relaxed and gave way. The fever which for the last few days had kept him up failed him now; and, with the weariness, he felt an imperative need of rest. He experienced a great void, an utter indifference for everything.

His insensibility bore a striking resemblance to that felt by persons afflicted with seasickness, who care for nothing, whom no sensations are capable of moving, who have neither strength nor courage to think, and who could not be aroused from their lethargy by the presence of any great danger, not even of death itself. Had anyone come to him then he would never have thought of resisting, nor of defending himself; he would not have taken a step to hide himself, to fly, to save his head. For a moment he had serious thoughts of giving himself up, in order to secure peace, to gain quiet, to free himself from the anxiety about his safety. But he struggled against this dull stupor, and at last the reaction came, shaking off this weakness of mind and body. The consciousness of his position, and of his danger, returned to him. He foresaw, with horror, the scaffold, as one sees the depth of the abyss by the lightning flashes.

“I must save my life,” he thought; “but how?”

That mortal terror which deprives the assassin of even ordinary common sense seized him. He looked eagerly about him, and thought he noticed three or four passersby look at him curiously. His terror increased. He began running in the direction of the Latin quarter without purpose, without aim, running for the sake of running, to get away, like Crime, as represented in paintings, fleeing under the lashes of the Furies. He very soon stopped, however, for it occurred to him that this extraordinary behaviour would attract attention. It seemed to him that everything in him betokened the murderer; he thought he read contempt and horror upon every face, and suspicion in every eye. He walked along, instinctively repeating to himself: “I must do something.”

But he was so agitated that he was incapable of thinking or of planning anything. When he still hesitated to commit the crime, he had said to himself; “I may be discovered.” And with that possibility in view, he had perfected a plan which should put him beyond all fear of pursuit. He would do this and that; he would have recourse to