The Mystery of Orcival - Émile Gaboriau (books for 6 year olds to read themselves txt) 📗

first. Words seemed powerless to betray his sensations; he wanted to express all that he felt in a single sentence.

“What matters Trémorel to me?” said he at last. “Do you think I care about him? I don’t care whether he lives or dies, whether he succeeds in flying or ends his life some morning in the Place Roquette.”

“Then why have you such a horror of a trial?”

“Because⁠—”

“Are you a friend to his family, and anxious to preserve the great name which he has covered with mud and devoted to infamy?”

“No, but I am anxious for Laurence, my friend; the thought of her never leaves me.”

“But she is not his accomplice; she is totally ignorant⁠—there’s no doubt of it⁠—that he has killed his wife.”

“Yes,” resumed M. Plantat, “Laurence is innocent; she is only the victim of an odious villain. It is none the less true, though, that she would be more cruelly punished than he. If Trémorel is brought before the court, she will have to appear too, as a witness if not as a prisoner. And who knows that her truth will not be suspected? She will be asked whether she really had no knowledge of the project to murder Bertha, and whether she did not encourage it. Bertha was her rival; it is natural to suppose that she hated her. If I were the judge I should not hesitate to include Laurence in the indictment.”

“With our aid she will prove victoriously that she was ignorant of all, and has been outrageously deceived.”

“May be; but will she be any the less dishonored and forever lost? Must she not, in that case, appear in public, answer the judge’s questions, and narrate the story of her shame and misfortunes? Must not she say where, when, and how she fell, and repeat the villain’s words to her? Can you imagine that of her own free will she compelled herself to announce her suicide at the risk of killing her parents with grief? No. Then she must explain what menaces forced her to do this, which surely was not her own idea. And worse than all, she will be compelled to confess her love for Trémorel.”

“No,” answered the detective. “Let us not exaggerate anything. You know as well as I do that justice is most considerate with the innocent victims of affairs of this sort.”

“Consideration? Eh! Could justice protect her, even if it would, from the publicity in which trials are conducted? You might touch the magistrates’ hearts; but there are fifty journalists who, since this crime, have been cutting their pens and getting their paper ready. Do you think that, to please us, they would suppress the scandalous proceedings which I am anxious to avoid, and which the noble name of the murderer would make a great sensation? Does not this case unite every feature which gives success to judicial dramas? Oh, there’s nothing wanting, neither unworthy passion, nor poison, nor vengeance, nor murder. Laurence represents in it the romantic and sentimental element; she⁠—my darling girl⁠—will become a heroine of the assizes; it is she who will attract the readers of the Police Gazette; the reporters will tell when she blushes and when she weeps; they will rival each other in describing her toilet and bearing. Then there will be the photographers besieging her, and if she refuses to sit, portraits of some hussy of the street will be sold as hers. She will yearn to hide herself⁠—but where? Can a few locks and bars shelter her from eager curiosity? She will become famous. What shame and misery! If she is to be saved, Monsieur Lecoq, her name must not be spoken. I ask of you, is it possible? Answer me.”

The old man was very violent, yet his speech was simple, devoid of the pompous phrases of passion. Anger lit up his eyes with a strange fire; he seemed young again⁠—he loved, and defended his beloved.

M. Lecoq was silent; his companion insisted.

“Answer me.”

“Who knows?”

“Why seek to mislead me? Haven’t I as well as you had experience in these things? If Trémorel is brought to trial, all is over with Laurence! And I love her! Yes, I dare to confess it to you, and let you see the depth of my grief, I love her now as I have never loved her. She is dishonored, an object of contempt, perhaps still adores this wretch⁠—what matters it? I love her a thousand times more than before her fall, for then I loved her without hope, while now⁠—”

He stopped, shocked at what he was going to say. His eyes fell before M. Lecoq’s steady gaze, and he blushed for this shameful yet human hope that he had betrayed.

“You know all, now,” resumed he, in a calmer tone; “consent to aid me, won’t you? Ah, if you only would, I should not think I had repaid you were I to give you half my fortune⁠—and I am rich⁠—”

M. Lecoq stopped him with a haughty gesture.

“Enough, Monsieur Plantat,” said he, in a bitter tone, “I can do a service to a person whom I esteem, love and pity with all my soul; but I cannot sell such a service.”

“Believe that I did not wish⁠—”

“Yes, yes, you wished to pay me. Oh, don’t excuse yourself, don’t deny it. There are professions, I know, in which manhood and integrity seem to count for nothing. Why offer me money? What reason have you for judging me so mean as to sell my favors? You are like the rest, who can’t fancy what a man in my position is. If I wanted to be rich⁠—richer than you⁠—I could be so in a fortnight. Don’t you see that I hold in my hands the honor and lives of fifty people? Do you think I tell all I know? I have here,” added he, tapping his forehead, “twenty secrets that I could sell tomorrow, if I would, for a plump hundred thousand apiece.”

He was indignant, but beneath his anger a certain sad resignation might be perceived. He