"You shan't go" she panted struggling.
"You shan't go" she panted struggling.
"You shan't go" she panted struggling.
"Take care!"
"Don't be a fool!" he snarled. "Get out of the way or I'llmakeyou!"
And at the word he shoved her roughly against the foot of the bed. With an effort she regained her balance.
"There—then!"
The pistol flashed up and at the same instant the report rang through the house.
Laroque dropped his bag, and his right hand went up to his left side. She gazed at him fearfully and he stared back for a few moments with a look of blank amazement.
Then his eyes suddenly glazed and he pitched forward on his face at her feet, rolled over and was still.
There was a rush of footsteps up the stairs and down the hall and frightened voices calling back and forth. Then the door was thrown open and Victor, followed by a dozen guests and servants, dashed into the room.
Jacqueline was still standing with the warm pistol in her hand, looking down at the face of the dead man. She did not even lift her head when they entered. Victor took the pistol out of her limp fingers and called in a shaking voice: "She's killed him! Run for the police, somebody. Quick!"
Jacqueline did not take her eyes off Laroque's still, white face.
"There's no hurry," she said, in dull, passionless tones. "I shan't try to get away!"
It is a well-known fact that a sudden and powerful shock will have a remarkable counter-effect on a mind under the influence of alcohol and other stimulants. The shock is immediately succeeded by a numbness which in a few moments gives way to an astonishing clarity of thought.
Jacqueline went down the stairs of the Three Crowns and out into the street on the arm of a sergeant of police. She was in a trance, but before she had been taken a hundred steps from the door she had come to a full realization of her position. The officer who arrested her was a veteran, and knew full well that in the two or three minutes immediately after the commission of a great crime the criminal is more than likely to make startling admissions or give hints that lead to the discovery of the real motive. This does not, of course, apply to habitual criminals who seldom utter a syllable until their defense is totally prepared and tested.
On the way down the stairs Sergeant Fontaine asked the woman, point-blank, why she had killed her companion. In the voice of a somnambulist she replied that she had done it to prevent him from committing an "abominable act that would bring grief and shame on someone she loved." And after that she could not be induced to open her mouth.
They were followed to the police station by a curious and excited throng of men and women, the latter reviling the prisoner and threatening her with the extremity of punishment while the sergeant had to stop several times and threaten to draw his saber to keep some of the men from laying violent hands on her.
"The law's delay," upon which the high priests of jurisprudence have opened the floodgates of their wrath, generally proves a blessing in criminal cases. For, by a singular contradiction of a natural law, the laws of a civilized community rise above their source—a majority of the individuals. The commune is less cruel than its component parts. Let an ultra-civilized, hyper-refined man stand between the slayer and his victim and watch the life blood's fitful spurts from a wrecked artery, and all his Veneer of refinement and civilization is burned up in a blast of horror and rage. He does not know—does not care to know—whether there was justification for the deed. In a breath he is hurled back thousands of years, and he demands the instant and primitive justice of his tribal forefathers.
Fortunately, it is not then that laws are either made or executed. Men who have grown gray and wise in the analysis of the human brute sit far removed from scenes of violence and frame the laws, and they are executed when natural passions have cooled.
Of this latter type of man was Henri Valmorin, the public prosecutor of Bordeaux. He was remarkably able and ambitious, but his ambition did not take the form of worldly advancement. He had a comfortable income beyond his salary and enough reserve to give his daughter a handsomedot, so he did not feel the need of a higher position for the sake of money.
His office as public prosecutor appealed to him and he filled it so ably that he would have been advanced a dozen times had it not been known that he preferred this work to any other. He had a true and broad conception of his functions. His work was to protect the community and punish its enemies, but he never erred by falling into the habit of regarding every individual accused of a crime as a presumptive criminal. He was rather counsel for the defense until the police and examining magistrate placed in his hands the weapons of attack. Then he became the shrewd, skilful, uncompromising prosecutor.
M. Valmorin was in the office of his friend, M. Feverel, Examining Magistrate, when the woman of the Three Crowns was brought before him. He remained in the background and paid but little attention to the proceedings—for as much as a minute. Then his interest was keyed up to the highest pitch.
M. Feverel began with the usual questions as to name, age, place of birth, etc., which are to examiner and examined a mutual test of strength, as two pugilists dance around each other for the first round of a fight without striking a blow. To the surprise of both men the woman maintained an absolute and indifferent silence. There was nothing about her suggestive of sullen stubbornness. She looked over M. Feverel's head through an open window with an expression which indicated that she had not even heard the questions. M. Valmorin studied her face closely. Through the ravages of vice and the mask of despair his experienced eyes could see the wreck of a departed beauty and refinement of features that must have been once remarkable. M. Feverel, though less experienced, perceived also that there was apparently some deep and tragic purpose back of the silence that he had at first attributed to the sullen brutishness of her class. But how to break it down?
"Madame," he said, courteously, dropping his brusque professional manner, "you must see that your present course cannot but be prejudicial to your case. The authorities will have no difficulty in ultimately establishing your identity but you can readily save us much inconvenience by replying to these simple questions——Is your name Laroque? Was this man your husband?"
The woman gave no sign that she had heard. M. Feverel bit his lip. He had purposely used the most polished French and he was sure that she understood him. But he was apparently no nearer to making her speak.
"What did you mean by saying that you killed this man to prevent him from bringing grief and shame on someone you love?" he demanded suddenly.
The lips moved almost imperceptibly, and for a fraction of a second the eyes wavered and met the magistrate's sharp gaze. But she did not make a sound and the next moment her face was as impassive as before.
M. Valmorin, narrowly watching her, waited for the magistrate's next move. The latter had, at command, a voice as soft and persuasive as a woman's and many an evildoer had felt its spell and had been lured to confession.
"Do not think, madame," he began, his tone at once, respectful, inclusive and inviting, "that I would try to draw you into saying anything that can injure your cause! Do not consider me an enemy. I know that you shot this man Laroque in the Hotel of the Three Crowns and I am more than willing to believe that you had some good reason for this terrible act. Your words to the policeman who arrested you are an indication of that. It is not my duty to try to convict you of crime which was probably justifiable. The man that you killed was an ex-convict and society is well-rid of him. You have probably simply saved the State the expense of putting him in prison once more and keeping him there. I am more than willing to believe that your reasons for killing him were excusable, even in the eyes of the law.
"Look upon me as a friend!" he continued persuasively. "In my office there is no criminal, no judge. You are simply accused of a homicide which you undoubtedly committed. But the law holds that many forms of homicide are justifiable. Convince me that you had even a fairly good reason for shooting this man—and I won't be hard to convince—and it is likely that you may never even come to trial—that your story may be buried with the few who must know it. My stenographer and my friend, the prosecutor, will leave us here together and you can explain everything to me and to me, alone."
Valmorin rose with a bow and passed slowly out followed by M. Feverel's stenographer. Jacqueline's eyes met his as the door closed and he began to speak again.
"Now we are alone!" and the tone was even more inviting and confidential. "You can talk to me now without fear. I do not care to pry into the secrets of your past. You need not mention any names. But just to tell me as simply as you can the reason you killed this prison rat!"
The voice put them on the same level—made them allies against the dead. In its soft, gentle rise and fall, in the dark sympathetic eyes and clean, aquiline face there was something approaching hypnotic power, as several ladies of Bordeaux knew. She began to feel a strange sensation of rest and comfort and vaguely wished that he would go on. M. Feverel's trained eye caught the all but imperceptible relaxation of the rigid figure. A thrill of triumph ran through him. He was winning! But there was no sign of elation or impatience in his voice or words when he continued.
He begged her not to think that the machinery of the law was directed against her. Justice was not blind. She was clear-sighted. She was not sternly even-handed, but more frequently merciful. She had long since forgotten the bitter law of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. She could make allowances for the frailty of humanity. She could understand that there might be many circumstances under which an assassination might be justifiable. Nay, more—when it became a duty to kill!
Twice when he paused, Jacqueline's lips trembled and her eyes looked into his with yearning. She seemed about to speak, but her lips closed firmly and her glance sought the window, without a word uttered.
Suddenly he rang a bell and a policeman appeared at the door.
"Remove the prisoner!" he commanded in a harsh, curt tone that fell on the woman like the blow of a whip. She hesitated and half-extended her hand as if to stop him and once more the magistrate thought that he had triumphed. But the impulse was conquered and she passed out of his office without having uttered a word.
M. Valmorin returned and in reply to his questioning look, the magistrate shook his head.
"She would not speak," he said, wearily. M. Valmorin's interest as an expert was aroused, and with the magistrate he went over the examination in detail. M. Feverel told him the impression that he had made once or twice and expressed the fear that she would never be forced to tell her story.
"You can see, my friend," he said, "that she is addicted to the use of drugs. She has now been without anything of the sort for forty-eight hours. That means that her nerves must be in a bad shape, and it also means that she has an iron will to conceal the fact so determinedly and foil the examination."
M. Feverel's prophecy proved true.
In the first few hours of her arrest Jacqueline's instinct told, her she would be helpless in a verbal duel with these trained men of the law. An apparently aimless question and a careless answer might be the combination to open the locked gates of her past and then she would have killed Laroque in vain. So, as the days passed and the examinations followed each other with nerve-wracking persistency, she wept, shrieked, and groaned for hours in her cell, begging for ether or morphine, but not a word of her story could be forced from her.
She refused counsel and when the court appointed an advocate she would not see him. At last, M. Feverel abandoned hope.
"You will have to try the case as a plain homicide," he told M. Valmorin. "The testimony of the servants and the policeman is ample for conviction but—what is back of it all?"
"And you could not even find out her name!" mused the prosecutor.
"Call her Madame X!" snapped the exasperated magistrate. "She is about as thoroughly and stubbornly mysterious and elusive as any quantify in the algebra of my youth!"
M. Valmorin laughed a little and told the story in the courts that day. The mysterious woman had already attracted some attention among the journalists who frequent the halls of justice, and when brilliant M. Feverel called her "Madame X," as an acknowledgement of defeat, her case in the three days became acause célèbrein Bordeaux. In the cafés, in the courts, in the homes, nothing else was talked about for weeks. In spite of the elaborate passport system and registry, here was a woman who absolutely defied the authorities to find a clue to her identity. The police of Buenos Ayres could not help them, and beyond that city her past was a blank. Who was she? Where had she come from? Why had she killed her companion? Was he her husband? These and a hundred other questions were asked every hour of the day. Scores of rumors were set afloat. She was the daughter of a noble house who had run away from a convent. She was the wife of a marquis, had left him and married an adventurer. She was the queen of a band of kidnappers. She was the leader of a secret society of murder.
She had served a sentence for counterfeiting in an American penitentiary. She was a nihilist, escaped from Siberia. And so on.
Dozens were turned away from the prison gate every day. Morbid women and curious men pleaded with the police for a chance to look at her, assuring the chief that they would be able to identify her. A number of hysterical women started! a fund for her defense, but this was firmly suppressed.
Advocates of established reputation, who had smilingly congratulated Maître Raymond Floriot on his first brief and expressed the hope that it would lead to something worth while, now regretted that they had not been appointed by the court to defend her, though it was an unprofitable and hopeless case.
But M. Valmorin was unaffectedly pleased. He was glad that young Floriot had stumbled into a position to attract so much attention, and was almost sorry that the young man had no chance to win his case. The reason is not far to seek. For several years M. Valmorin and M. Floriot, père, had seen that M. Raymond was in love with blue-eyed, sweet-faced Helene Valmorin. There was nothing remarkable about this, as numbers of young men in Bordeaux were in precisely the same state of mind. But what was important was that it was equally plain that Mademoiselle Helene was passionately in love with the dark-eyed, curly-haired young advocate. The fathers knew that it was only a question of a very short time when they would be formally requested to sanction the marriage. Hence M. Valmorin's desire to see his prospective son-in-law rise as rapidly as possible.
That the young man would rise, he was certain. He had inherited, as has been mentioned, his father's faultlessly logical mind and love of his profession and his mother's quickly sympathetic and emotional temperament. His mind was quick to grasp a situation or an unexpected point and equally quick to give it its true value. Coupled with these gifts he had a marked facility of expression and a smooth, vibrant voice. As Mademoiselle Helene said, he made love beautifully.
M. Valmorin was prepared to do what he could financially, and he knew that Raymond's father would strain himself to establish the young people properly, but the young man must look to success in his profession to raise a family.
M. Floriot had written that he would come over from Toulouse to watch his son handle his first case, and M. Valmorin planned to talk things over with him then.
It was to be a great day for Raymond and all who were dear to him had promised to be in court when he appeared for the first time on the firing-line. Rose had promised to take charge of Helene. His father, by request of the President of the Court of Bordeaux, would sit on the bench with the judges. "Uncle" Noel and Dr. Chennel were coming from Paris.
The young man worked hard all day on his case and told Helene about it in the evening, and then worked far into the night. He read parts of his speech to her, while her father pretended to be eavesdropping in the hall "to learn the secrets of the defense." He did not have any false notions about the strength of his battle-line. He knew that he had a bad case but he was determined to do as well as could be done. As he remarked, "it is hard work defending a homicide whose conduct is the best evidence for the prosecution."
As the day approached he was nervous, anxious, restless—but ready.
It was a day of excitement in the house of Floriot the morning before the trial. M. Floriot arrived from Toulouse on the preceding evening and M. Valmorin planned to call on him that morning if he could find time. Helene was at the house before ten o'clock eager to see Raymond. He had gone to the prison early to make a last attempt to see his client, and she put in the time of waiting by chatting with Rose and lamenting the fact that Raymond's father could not be the judge in the case so he would have a reasonably certain chance of winning!
"It's hard enough to get cases, isn't it?" she complained.
"I don't know anything about it," replied Rose cheerfully, "but I guess the law is like anything else—you have to make a beginning!"
"And Raymond is beginning to-morrow!" murmured the girl, as if it had just occurred to her. "To-morrow he is pleading his first case!"
"And a capital case to begin with it is!" declared Rose. "Everyone is talking about it!"
"Oh, I hope he'll win!" exclaimed the girl, almost tearfully. "I haven't thought of anything else for weeks!"
"Oh, I'm not anxious about that!" returned Rose, with the confidence of an old and loyal servant. "M. Raymond is clever, I tell you! He'll convince them!"
"Do you think he'll be back soon?" asked Helene, anxiously.
"That depends!" smiled Rose. "Does he know you're here?"
"I—I don't think so—-No!" Helene replied, turning hastily to the window of the study where they were talking. "I only told him that my father would probably call on M. Floriot this morning at eleven o'clock, and that I might come and meet him. Rose, what are you laughing at?"
"Oh, nothing in particular."
"Don't tease me!" she pleaded.
"Well, I was laughing," chuckled the housekeeper, "because you came here in such a hurry at half-past nine to meet your father, who won't be here until eleven!"
Helene blushed.
"I suppose you think I'm an awfully silly girl?"
"Oh, dear, no!" Rose assured her with a grave little smile. "I'm only too glad to see that you and Raymond love each other."
The girl's face lit up with a quick little gleam of pleasure.
"Really, does that please you?" she asked softly.
"Very much!" nodded Rose. And the next moment the girl kissed her withered cheek.
"I brought the young man up, you know," she continued, slipping her arm affectionately around Helene's waist. "And I feel as if he belonged to me a little. I am very happy that he has made such a good choice."
"He is going to talk to his father about it this morning," said the girl, timidly. Rose smiled.
"I don't think he'll surprise him much."
Helene gave her a startled look.
"You don't think M. Floriot suspects?" she gasped.
"That you and Raymond are in love with each other? Oh, of course, not!" laughed Rose. "He would have to be blind not to see it. Everyone in the neighborhood knows it!"
With a gasp of consternation the girl hid her face in her hands.
"The baker asked me yesterday when the wedding was to be celebrated," went on the housekeeper, wickedly. "And day before yesterday it was the butcher. A few days ago the grocer made some inquiries about it, and——"
She was apparently prepared to continue indefinitely when a joyous voice from the doorway interrupted her.
"There you are!"
And Maître Raymond Floriot hurried in.
"Yes, there she is—quite by accident! You didn't expect to see her, did you?" They heard her laughing as she went down the hall.
Helene managed to recover a semblance of her prim dignity as she gave him both her hands and looked up into his dancing eyes.
"You did not expect to see me this early, did you?" she asked.
"No, I didn't expect you in the least!" he laughed. "I shouldn't wonder if that was why I came so early myself!"
"But seriously, aren't you surprised to find me here?"
He bent over and kissed her lightly on the lips.
"No, I'm not surprised," he replied, gravely. "I like to think that you are as impatient as I am,—and it seems weeks since I saw you!"
"Twelve hours!" she laughed happily.
"Twelve years!"
"Have you thought of me since then?"
He answered that question in a manner that the custom of some thousands of years has proved to be the best.
"Did you dream of me?"
"Not at all!" he shook his head and smiled. She moved away in mock offense.
"Reality is too sweet a dream, dearest, for us to need dreams!" he added, tenderly. This little speech was followed by a silence of several minutes, in which occurred the performance considered proper under the circumstances.
Helene drew gently away.
"Have you been working hard?" she asked.
"Yes, I was up at five o'clock this morning finishing my brief. I'm quite ready now."
"And the case comes off to-morrow!" she exclaimed, softly.
"To-morrow is the great day!" nodded Raymond.
"And I'm to hear you!"
"Of course! But I'll have to find a place where I can't see you. I'd forget what I was talking about if I caught sight of you; and just think what it would mean if I should stutter and stammer and break down with you in court! Why, I'd never get over it!" He shivered with a dread that was not all feigned.
"And you've made up your mind to speak to your father to-day?" she asked timidly, after a little pause.
"Yes, I'm going to speak to him as soon as he comes in," declared her lover with an air of hardihood that was far from real.
"Well, you must be careful not to stutter and stammer and break down then!" she smiled. Rose put her head in the door an instant.
"M. the President is here!" she whispered and was gone.
"Now, then, shoulder arms!" ordered Helene, in an eager undertone as they heard the step of the father in the hall outside. She was bubbling with inward laughter as her panic-stricken love hastily fell back out of the direct line of vision from the door. So when M. Floriot walked up and kissed her he did not at first see that his son was present.
"Good morning, my child!" he said with a ten der smile.
Raymond edged forward and cleared his throat. "You might say, 'good morning, my children,' father," he suggested in an uncertain voice.
"If you like!" was the smiling reply. And taking a hand of each he said: "Good morning, my two dear children!"
Helene ran over to his desk and returned with an enormous bunch of roses in a slender vase.
"I brought you these this morning, monsieur," she said, looking up at him shyly.
M. the President took them with both hands and buried his face in their fragrance.
"They are only less charming than the donor!" he declared with a stately bow.
"Oh, M. Floriot!" she protested with a blush, and smile. Then as he turned to replace the' bouquet on his desk she added in a whisper to Raymond:
"I think you might speak to him now."
"So do I!" he agreed in the same tone.
"My father told me to tell you that he would be over to see you about eleven o'clock, M. Floriot," she remarked as he turned to them again.
"I shall be charmed to see him!"
"I'll go and bring him—if you don't mind!" she offered eagerly. M. the President smiled.
"I'll try not to be very angry!" he assured her. The three walked slowly out into the garden where the older man found a seat in a little rustic house while the lovers moved slowly toward the gate. He pretended to be much absorbed in the morning paper, but watched them slyly out of the corner of his eye. Instead of going outside, Helene stopped behind a big shrub that totally concealed her, and Raymond came back with not exactly eager strides.
Within ten feet of the seated figure in the rustic house he stopped and twice opened his mouth, but could not get out a word. His father did not seem to have the slightest idea that he was there. He took another timid step; and then, as the paper rustled, he bolted in the direction of the bush that concealed his ally.
Helene stepped out, shaking with silent laughter, and waved him back with imperious gestures. He returned once more to the attack, but again gave way to panic at the critical moment. At last he edged up to within conversational ear-shot and asked with a mock solemnity that did not conceal his nervousness:
"Is M. the President extremely busy?"
"Extremely!" replied his father, without looking up from the paper. Raymond winced slightly; and, then, raising his eyes to the sky, murmured dolefully:
"What a beastly nuisance!"
M. the President glanced up in surprise.
"Did you want to speak to me?" he inquired, politely.
"Yes—and quite seriously!"
His father rose with a laugh and folded his paper.
"For how long?" he demanded, with a mischievous smile.
"Not very long!" Raymond hastily assured him. "At least, I don't think it will take long to say it."
"Try it in four words!"
"I love Helene Valmorin!" he blurted out, desperately.
M. the President fell back a step, his face expressing the utmost astonishment, but his eyes were laughing.
"Do you!" he exclaimed. Raymond gazed at him doubtfully a moment and then saw it all.
"Did—did you know it?" he asked, sheepishly. His father burst into a hearty laugh.
"What an old fool you must think I am!"
The lover's instinct told Raymond to strike quickly.
"And I want to marry her," he went on. M. the President nodded.
"I can quite understand that," he smiled. "Well, God bless you both and make you happy! Is that all you want to say?"
"Yes, that's all!" breathed his son, with a deep sigh of relief. M. Floriot gazed into the eyes that were so like the lost woman's, and all the love and yearning that he had ever felt for mother and son shone in his own. He stepped up to the boy and laid a hand affectionately on his shoulder. Raymond felt the grip of the fingers as his father began to speak.
"My boy," he said, in grave, gentle tones, "you're a good fellow, and you've been the one joy of my life. I think Helene is worthy of you. Love her, my lad! And love her always—whatever happens! Be her friend, her guide, her mainstay—as well as her husband.
"Above all—do your best to understand her! Women are not always easy to understand; but don't leave your wife out of your own life!
"Share everyone of your joys and everyone of your sorrows with her. You will have hours of gloomy thought and bitterness, perhaps—most men do. But never forget in those unhappy hours that a husband has a heavy responsibility. Always remember, Raymond, my boy, that you are responsible for the life and soul and happiness of the woman who gives herself to you!"
The young man listened gravely with bowed head. As his father paused he looked up with a tender smile.
"I don't think the responsibility will be a very heavy one in my case, father," he said.
"Life sometimes proves to be exceedingly cruel, my boy," replied his father, shaking his head.
"Valmorin will be here presently and I will have a talk with him. I must tell him a secret before I ask him to give you his daughter's hand."
"A secret!" exclaimed the young man, startled.
"Yes," nodded his father. "I'll tell you what it is afterwards." Raymond felt a growing uneasiness and dread. Lovers are easily-alarmed.
"Your secret—won't—won't prevent him——?" he stammered.
"No!" replied his father with a light laugh, "ii don't think so."
For a time the two were silent in that close communion which is possible only to father and son, who are all in all to each other. Then the father's face lit up with a whimsical smile.
"Mind you, I don't expect that Helene will be very rich," he said. Raymond laughed.
"I don't either!" he replied.
"You have the 125,000 francs of your mother's fortune and I will add as much as I can myself."
"Oh, we'll get along all right," his son assured him with a smile. "You seem to forget my briefs."
"Impossible!" laughed his father. "You haven't any."
"I have one that isn't bringing in anything in the way of money but it is giving me advertisement that will lead to profitable cases."
M. the President, being of the old school of lawyers, shook his head at this value set on publicity; but he made no comment.
"Are you ready for to-morrow?" he asked. Raymond nodded.
"I saw the presiding judge this morning and he was full of praise for you," went on his father with a fond gleam in his eyes. "They are going to make a place for me to-morrow."
"So you told me. But you'll make me terribly nervous!" protested Raymond.
"Not a bit of it! Have you really an interesting case?"
"Well, yes and no," replied the young advocate. "A wretched woman who has killed her lover for no reason that anyone can find out—and she won't speak. For the last three months she has not uttered a word in the prison that can be of any interest to anybody. We don't know who she is, where she comes from or what her name is. I haven't even seen her or heard the sound of her voice; and when the names of the judges, the public prosecutor and her defending lawyer were sent in to her, she tore up the paper without looking at it."
"And couldn't the Examining Magistrate get anything out of her?"
"Nothing! He dubbed her Madame X," added Raymond with a smile.
"What sort of a woman is she?"
"Oh, like all women of her kind. She is, I understand, addicted to the use of drugs, and her supply being cut off she naturally turns from stupidity to hysteria all the time. I'm afraid it's one of the cases that are worked out before they come to trial. I don't see how the court proceedings can last much longer than five minutes. But I'll do my best."
"Try pathos," suggested his father. "Try to work on the sympathies of the judge and jury."
"That's what I'm going to do," smiled Raymond. "I've been practising tears in my voice for the last three days, but I'm not going to have an easy time of it. It's rather hard to find excuses for a woman when you don't know why the crime was committed." And he shook his head dubiously.
"On the contrary, that gives you every chance," declared his father. "See here! Your client won't speak and so she can't contradict. This gives you a fine opportunity to invent a host of reasons. Make the jury respect her silence! Throw a veil of mystery over the whole crime and give your imagination play. Say that she is the victim of heredity—say anything you can think of that will work on the jury's feelings and you have a good chance to win."
Raymond listened with eager attention.
"I had something of that in mind," he said, "but I'll work it up stronger than I intended. I didn't——"
He was interrupted by a cheery shout from the house-door and both turned quickly to see M. Noel hurrying across the garden. The elder men greeted each other with hearty affection.
"And how is the young disciple of St. Yves?" asked Noel.
"St. Yves?" questioned Raymond with a puzzled smile as he shook hands.
"Why, certainly! St. Yves of Brittany! Don't you know——? How does the Latin go, Louis?"
M. the President threw up his hands and laughed.
"Let me see! 'Advocatus sed non latro—latro'—I can't remember it. Anyway, it fits your case, Maître Raymond. He was an advocate but not a thief, and devoted his life to the service of the poor. So he is supposed to be the patron saint of the lawyers—though more of them to-day are rather inclined to lay votive offerings on the shrine of Mammon. So to-morrow is the great day, eh?"
"Yes, to-morrow is the day."
"Feel frightened?"
"A little excited," the young man admitted. "Have you really come all the way from Paris to be here to-morrow?"
"Of course I have!" The lined face softened. "I'd have come from Kamschatka to see you fight your first battle!"
"Chennel is coming, too," remarked Floriot.
"Good! You were not particularly blooming the day I met the worthy doctor, young man," said Noel, turning to Raymond.
"No, so I've been told," smiled Raymond; "Dr. Chennel is going to take a practice at Biarritz. He often comes here to see me. Now, I think I'll go over my brief again, father, and see if I can't work in some of the things you suggested."
"Yes, that's it! Shake them up, my lad!" nodded his father. "After all she may be more sinned against than sinning—or you can make them think so, anyway. Well, what do you think of the boy?" he demanded, as Raymond disappeared in the direction of the large bush near the gate.
"You ought to be proud of him."
"I am! Very proud!" said Floriot, softly. There was a long pause. Floriot motioned his friend to a seat on the bench in the rustic house and sat beside him. He felt the need of comfort and counsel; for the hour that he had dreaded for years was upon him at last. He must tell Raymond the truth about his mother.
Twenty years of tireless searching had, indeed, proved utterly vain. There was every reason to believe that Jacqueline was dead and that the true story of the boy's mother might be buried with the three men and one woman who knew it. But this loophole of escape from the ordeal did not even present itself to a man with Floriot's stem sense of honor.
How would he take it? Floriot had no idea of defending himself or trying to distort the facts in the least degree. If anything, he would take more than his share of the blame for the wreck of his home. It would be terrible enough to tell Raymond that his mother had fallen, but what would he say when he was told that she had repented and pressed her forehead against her husband's shoes only to be hurled out, friendless, on the world—condemned to death, or worse than death?
Would the boy—at last knowing why he had grown up without a mother's love, and all the million priceless and nameless joys the phrase contains—rise in the wrath of his outraged youth and denounce the father who had robbed him? What would he say to the neglect that had driven his mother to shame and placed the brand on his own pure life? And now, whatever the cost, he must tell him....
In the twenty years they had pursued a common quest, these long silences were not unusual when the two friends met. Noel divined a little—but only a very little—of what was passing in the Other's mind. He had not foreseen this crisis.
"I never look at him without thinking of his mother!" he said, softly. "Louis, it's awful to think that in all these years we have never been able to find a trace."
Floriot's only reply was a somber shake of the head.
"God knows we've hunted!"
"I've done all I can—we've done all we can!" returned the husband in bitter hopelessness. "Detectives, advertising—everything! I haven't told you that I went to Monte Carlo a few days ago to see a woman that seemed to answer the description. The usual result!" And he gazed out across the garden.
"And last week I thought I had come to the end of the hunt," returned Noel. "The first night that I reached Paris I dropped into a music hall and thought that I recognized her on the stage. I got an introduction to the woman. She had Jacqueline's eyes to a line almost, but that was all. I was sure from the front of the house! You remember those eyes?"
"If I could only forget them!" groaned the other, burying his face in his hands. There was a long silence. In the last few years growing despair and the inaction that is the inevitable outgrowth of the conviction of failure had succeeded the constantly reviving hope that had fed the energy of the search. Their talks, recently, had been bitter reminiscences instead of optimistic plans. At last Floriot raised his head and spoke in a low voice.
"I think sometimes that she must be dead or we should have found her!" he said. Noel, staring at the ground between his feet, did not answer at once; then:
"Perhaps!" he said in the same low tone. "And perhaps that is the best thing that could have happened!"
The other understood his meaning and shuddered. There was another pause and then Floriot spoke of the matter that lay heaviest on his mind.
"I have never—dared yet—to tell Raymond—the truth about his mother," he said, unsteadily; "but I have to now!"
Noel stared at his friend in amazement.
"Tell Raymond!" he exclaimed, "Why?"
"He wants to marry and—and—I must tell him the truth!"
There was a smothered exclamation from Noel as he grasped the situation. He was silent a few moments and then he asked with meaning emphasis:
"Will you tell him thewholetruth?"
Floriot straightened up with a determined expression.
"Yes!" he declared, "I am going to tell him everything! He must know the whole unvarnished truth and—God knows what he'll think of me!"
Noel confusedly murmured something meant to be reassuring but Floriot interrupted.
"Oh, I have no illusions!" he cried bitterly. "Youth doesn't make allowances! It is possible that he may love me a little after he has heard all of it but he will never forgive me for having robbed him of his mother!"
Noel pulled himself together and replied with a heartiness that he did not feel.
"Why, of course, he will!" he declared. "He knows what kind of a man you are—what a father you have been to him—and he will not need to be told how you have suffered and repented."
The other shook his head hopelessly.
"The boy is in love!" he groaned. "If it were not for that there might be some hope. But, don't you see?—He is madly in love with a pure, beautiful girl. He will try to put himself in my place and fail! He will try to imagine himself throwing Helene out into the street in the rain after she has grovelled at his feet—and he will think I am a monster!"
Before Noel could think of a counter-argument Rose hurried out from the house with a visiting card in her hand. Composing himself, Floriot looked up and asked:
"What is it, Rose?"
She handed him the card with:
"It's the two gentlemen who were here before and wanted to see you, M. the President."
"Perissard! Perissard!" mused the President, studying the bit of pasteboard. "I don't know the name. However, Rose, show them in and take M. Noel up to his room."
The friends silently gripped hands as a mute promise that they would renew the conversation later and Noel went in with the housekeeper.
Messrs. Perissard and Merivel were not hopelessly shocked and grief-stricken over the death of Laroque. They were grateful to his memory, inasmuch as he had put them in the way of making 125,000 francs with more ease and less risk than they had expected to incur in collecting, at the outside, three-fifths of that amount in Bordeaux. They were doubly grateful when they reflected that his timely death had saved them ten per cent of that amount.
While he would have been useful in the matter of the public official of Bordeaux, they felt that they would eventually find as trustworthy an agent. On the whole, from the viewpoint of the partners in Confidential Missions, nothing in his life became him as the leaving it. The fact that he had been murdered by the wife of the President of the Court of Toulouse put that gentleman in position where he could not possibly refuse to pay for "discretion."
They went over all this as they sat in a café not far from the Floriot house in Bordeaux and waited for M. Floriot's return. It had taken them nearly three months to finally fix upon him as the husband of the homicide of the Three Crowns. They went to Toulouse to interview him and found that he had just gone to Bordeaux to attend the trial in which his son was to appear for the defense. They fairly hugged themselves with pious joy when they saw the shocking corruption of the whole proceedings.
"We have got him, my dear Merivel," declared M. Perissard. "And he has actually come to Bordeaux to see the trial!"
"A most shrewd man!" rumbled his colleague.
"I should say so!" returned M. Perissard. "He has his own son chosen for the defense, and according to gossip, his son is to marry the daughter of the Public Prosecutor!"
"Amostclever man!" insisted M. Merivel in a voice like the roar of the surf.
"And they tell me that Floriot's wife refused to say a word to the Examining Magistrate."
"Of course! The husband has been telling her what to do!"
"Obviously! Obviously!" agreed the senior partner with a vigorous nod. "In this way, you see, her name won't even be mentioned, and as nobody knows her in Bordeaux——" A two-handed gesture and a shrug of the shoulders filled the hiatus.
"None of the trouble will get out of the family," concluded M. Merivel heavily.
"The jury will find her guilty or acquit her—that is of no interest whatever. But no one will ever know the inner interest!"
"Excepting ourselves, my dear Perissard," corrected the ex-schoolmaster.
"Exactly! Exactly! It ismostprovidential!"
It was with the situation thus reasoned out that the defenders of society presented themselves for the second time at the house of M. Floriot, when they were conducted to the garden. M. the President received them with grave courtesy and invited them to take seats. With all three comfortably settled, M. Merivel being a little in the background, he asked:
"What can I do for you, gentlemen?"
"Have I the honor of speaking to President Floriot?" inquired M. Perissard in his most polished manner.
"Yes, monsieur. And your name is——?"
"Perissard! This is M. Merivel, my associate," he added, rising with a bow to that gentleman who also rose and saluted M. the President with a profound obeisance.
"And what business brings you to Bordeaux?" M. Floriot inquired once more when they had all resumed their seats.
"A—a matter of some delicacy, M. the President," began the senior partner, clearing his throat impressively. "A matter which interests you personally."
M. Floriot raised his eyebrows a trifle.
"Well?"
M. Perissard fidgeted slightly. When he spoke again it was in his most "inspiring" manner.
"Every man has, at one time or another in his life, reason to regret the past, and these regrets—however secretly we may hide them—remain open wounds," he began, heavily.
"Alas!" exclaimed M. Merivel in gloomy thunder. M. Floriot stirred impatiently.
"Probably true. But kindly explain yourself!" he commanded, shortly.
M. Perissard at once decided that nothing was to be gained by moralizing, so he went directly to business.
"M. the President, you were Deputy Attorney in Paris twenty years ago, were you not?"
"Yes."
"And if I am correctly informed you married a lady named Jacqueline Lefevre, at the Town Hall in the Rue Drouot. She brought you a dot of 125,000 francs."
Floriot's glance was troubled and uneasy.
"Your information is perfectly correct," he said. "But why all these questions?"
"Because they are indispensable," M. Perissard assured him, and he was backed up by a ponderous nod from his colleague. "In family matters of this kind one cannot take too many precautions. In matters of honor, I have always said——"
Floriot half-rose. His face had paled slightly and his manner was nervous.
"My time is limited!" he broke in, abruptly.
"I beg your pardon, monsieur! I beg your pardon!"
And four fat hands motioned him back to his seat.
"I will be brief!" M. Perissard assured him. "Your marriage was not altogether as happy as it might have been, and one day you had a violent scene. You turned out of your house the lady who had the honor of bearing your name!"
"How do you know this? Who told you?" demanded Floriot. His voice was low and menacing.
"Ah, it is true, then!" exclaimed M. Perissard. The other gave no sign and Perissard took the silence as an assent.
"Very good! After this incident," he continued, hastily. "Madame Floriot traveled. She traveled very far and was more or less—happy. More or less!"
Floriot sprang up, white-faced and trembling.
"She is dead!" he cried. "You have come to tell me she is dead!"
M. Perissard smiled cunningly. He could appreciate good acting.
"Oh, no, I haven't!" he replied.
"She isalive?"
"Undoubtedly!"
"Mostcertainly!" thundered M. Merivel.
"And where is she? In Paris! In France! Where?" cried Floriot, almost too excited for coherency.
M. Perissard was beginning to be really puzzled. Was it possible that this man did not know who the woman of the Three Crowns was? Was it possible that he had not arranged the whole defense?
"Do you really mean that you don't know where your wife is now?" he demanded.
"No! No! But you've come to tell me, haven't you?" He was feverishly eager. He walked up and down before them with quick nervous strides? and looked from one to the other with burning eyes.
"This is really most extraordinary!" declared M. Perissard. "I should have thought with all your means of getting information——"
"I have never heard from her or of her since the day she disappeared!"
"Never?" insisted the other, wonderingly.
"Never! I thought she was dead!"
"Extraordinary! Isn't it?" M. Perissard appealed to his partner.
"Mostextraordinary!" was the prompt response.
Floriot was fairly dancing with excitement and impatience.
"You know where she is and where I can see her?" he demanded.
"Indeed, I do!" declared M. Perissard.
"Tell me, man! Tell me!" he cried.
M. Perissard stroked his chin a moment. All this excitement indicated excellent opportunities for financial advancement and he did not want to spoil anything through unwary haste.
"I have not been instructed to tell you," he said, guardedly.
"Good God, man! You don't mean to say you refuse?"
"My—my client has so instructed me——" began M. Perissard in his most professional tone.
"You come from her?" interrupted the other. "She's your client? What does she want? What can I do?"
M. Perissard drew a quick breath.
"She wants the money she brought with her on her marriage!" he plumped out.
"Her dot? Her 125,000 francs?"
"She wants that sum refunded to her!" affirmed M. Perissard, pursing up his lips impressively.
"She would have had it long ago if I had known where to find her!" cried Floriot.
"Then you will raise no objections?" There was a triumphant gleam in M. Perissard's pig-like I eyes.
"None whatever! The money is here!"
The two partners rose as one and held out their hands.
"I will tell her what you say—word for word!" declared the senior.
"Give me her address so I can go and see her at once!" pleaded Floriot, eagerly.
"M. the President," replied M. Perissard in his heaviest manner. "I must beg you to excuse me: I have no authority from my client to give you her address."
"But——"
"I am only acting on instructions!"
"But what reason can she have for refusing to see me?" he protested, wildly.
"I don't know that she has any reason, but before giving you her address I must ask her permission!" was the firm response.
"Then you are going to see her?"
"I shall write to her," replied M. Perissard. "I may confide one thing in you, I think, without exceeding my professional duty."
"Yes?" questioned Floriot eagerly.
"May I count on your discretion?"
"Absolutely! You have my word for it!"
M. Perissard appeared to hesitate.
"Madame Floriot is just now in—ah—er—tight place," he said.
"A very tight place!" echoed his partner.
"She is absolutely penniless!"
"Great heavens!" gasped Floriot, horror-stricken. He dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
"Are—are you willing to send her some money?" inquired the senior partner. Floriot sprang up, his face flushed.
"By all means!" he cried, his hand darting into his coat pocket. "Will you see that she gets it?Immediately?"
"Without a moment's delay!" M. Perissard assured him, heartily. Floriot bowed his head as he worked with the leather tongue of his pocket-book, and when he looked up his eyes were misty with tears.
"Gentlemen," he said, brokenly, "you must excuse my emotion—when I think that—she—is without a penny——! Here are 300 francs—all I have with me. Send it to her at once and——"
"She shall receive the money to-day!" M. Perissard broke in. "Allow me to give you a receipt. And when can I see you again, M. the President? Will the day after to-morrow suit you?"
"Can you have an answer by then?"
"I hope so!"
"I'll expect you in the morning then." He smiled almost joyously and held out his hands to the visitors. "We can go and see her together! I need not ask you to be discreet, need I? Nobody must know!" he added anxiously. M. Perissard drew himself up haughtily.
"M. the President!" he said stiffly, "I have not the honor of being known to you, but remember these words: Whatever may happen, we are engaged by our word of honor to remain silent—my partner, you and I!"
"Silent as the tomb!" echoed M. Merivel.
"And you may always reckon—always, I repeat—on our entire discretion!"
Floriot put out a hand which was eagerly gripped.
"Gentlemen, I thank you!" he said in a grave, unsteady voice. And with many a scrape and hand-shake and assurance of their perfect discretion the firm of Perissard and Merivel bowed itself out.
For a moment, after they had gone, Floriot stood with head raised and fists clenched.
"Oh, Jacqueline! Jacqueline!" he murmured aloud, as if he felt that the cry from his heart must reach her ears. "Forgive—forgive me!"
Then he darted across the garden and into the house like a boy. Up the steps he raced, three at a time, and burst into Noel's room with tears streaming down his face, speechless with emotion. Noel started up from the suit-case he was unpacking and stared at his friend in alarm.
"For God's sake, Louis!" he cried. "What's the matter?"
"Jacqueline—Jacqueline is alive!"
In a bound Noel was across the room, with a grip on his friend's shoulder.
"What do you mean?" he cried, shaking him fiercely. "Alive! Who told you?"
In broken, gasping phrases Floriot told the story; and as Noel finally grasped the details, he clutched his friend's arms, and with a shout of joy hurled him on to the bed. Floriot bounded back to his feet and swung his fist into the other's back. Then these two gray-haired men threw each other around the room, rolled over together on the bed, knocked chairs over and tables upside down, shouting and laughing at the top of their lungs.
"Day after to-morrow! Twenty years, old man! I knew we'd win out at last!"
The uproar reached Raymond in his studio at the other end of the house and he ran up to see what was the matter. As he threw open the door of the disordered room he saw his father and M. Noel shaking hands as enthusiastically as if they had not met for years.
"Why, father, what's the matter?" he cried.
Floriot ran over and threw an arm across his son's shoulders.
"Raymond, my boy!" he shouted, "A wonderful—an unbelievable happiness has come to your father! I can't tell you anything yet but, my God! I'm happy!"
Although he had been up most of the night at work on his speech, Maître Raymond Floriot was among the early arrivals at court the next morning. His unlined, youthful face wore an expression of grave responsibility as incongruous as his black advocate's gown when he took his seat at his desk.
The more he had hammered at his appeal to the jury the more he realized that in the strength of his speech lay his one hope of victory. All the evidence would be against him. He did not expect to profit much by cross-examination. The affair was too simple. He must move the jury to pity. There was not even a chance to instil a doubt into the minds of the men who would judge his case. That is usually the chief aim of a defending lawyer in a bad murder trial. He does not have to convince twelve men of conscience that his client is innocent If he can work one drop of the poison of uncertainty into their minds he is usually safe. For the man of average imagination would rather violate his duty to the state a dozen times and let a dozen murderers go free than send one to the gallows and risk the punishment of remorse. "Certainty beyond reasonable doubt," which is the formula of the law, is a farce with most jurors. If there exists, to them, any doubt at all, nothing can convince them that that doubt is unreasonable.
With this powerful weapon taken from him, the young advocate had but one left—an appeal to the emotions. Had he had to face a jury of cold, law-worshipping Anglo-Saxons or stolid, virtue-loving Teutons his best move would have been a plea of guilty and an invocation to Mercy. On these a lawyer might wear out an oratorical rod of Moses without producing a drop of moisture in the way of a tear. But here were volatile, easily moved Latins, and Louis Floriot knew his people when he told his son to "shake them up." So the young man decided to ignore the evidence and build his whole speech on the statement that the woman made to the sergeant of gendarmes on her way to the prison after the shooting—that she had killed Laroque to prevent him from "doing an abominable act."
He was very nervous when he took his seat at the table reserved for counsel for the defense, just in front of the dock. He felt himself growing more uneasy when the judges in their robes of red and black marched in from their room at the rear and the clerk solemnly proclaimed that court was in session.
The great hall was crowded to the doors with men and women from every plane of the social scale. Dozens of lawyers came to watch their new brother break his first spear. A number of seats were reserved for municipal officers. Veiled society women sat among them. Banker, butcher and baker rubbed elbows and craned necks in the general throng, and women of all descriptions squeezed and jostled their way through them.
Raymond ran his eye hurriedly over the first rows and caught a smile of pride on Helene's lovely face, gazing at him over the railing that cut off the spectators from the attorneys and court officials. M. Noel and Dr. Chennel gave him reassuring nods as they met his glance and Rose waved her hand. He turned hastily away and began busying himself with his papers as the prisoner was led in between two gendarmes. She was crying and held her handkerchief to her eyes as she took her seat in the dock. Raymond watched her nervously and tried to say a few encouraging words but he could only stammer. M. Valmorin, from his desk on the opposite side of the "bank," smiled at his future son-in-law's symptoms of panic and gave him a friendly nod.
Raymond had watched court proceedings in criminal cases so often that he was as familiar with the routine as a practised lawyer but now that he was for the first time an actor it all seemed strange and overwhelming. He was conscious only that Helene and his father never took their eyes off him but he never looked their way again. The voice of the clerk reading the charge sounded far away and seemed to be no part of the present scene.
"—In consequence of which the woman, Laraque, is accused of having, on April 3rd, 19—, at half-past five in the afternoon, committed an act of voluntary homicide in Room 24 of the Hotel of the Three Crowns in Bordeaux, on the person of her lover, Frederick Laroque, a crime punishable by Articles 295 and 304 of the Penal Code."
The voice stopped amid absolute silence, and then Raymond heard the grave, gentle tones of the kindly old President of the Court.
"Woman Laroque, you have heard the charge against you. You are accused of having committed an act of voluntary homicide on the person of your lover, Frederick Laroque. What have you to say in your defense? Do you admit that you are guilty of this crime?"
He paused and Raymond, turning in his chair, locked up at his client. Every eye in the room was on her. She was dressed entirely in black and wore a black cloth shawl over her head that almost entirely concealed her face, excepting from those directly in front of her. Her profile was toward the judges. The black background made her pallor almost ghastly. Her features were set and hard—a hopeless mask of chalk. She gave no sign that she had heard the President's words.
"You refuse to reply?" he went on. "You persist in keeping silent as you kept silent under examination? Let me beg of you, in your own interests, to speak. Your silence can only be harmful to your case. You refuse to speak?"—He paused again.
"The matter is in the hands of the jury. You shall hear the evidence against you. Clerk of the court, call the first witness!"
A stir and a murmur ran through the court as the President settled back in his chair and the clerk called, "Victor Chouquet! Victor Chouquet!"
Perissard and Merivel had managed to secure seats well forward and watched the proceedings with the interest of experts.
"What did I tell you, my dear Merivel!" whispered the senior partner.
"It has all been arranged!"
"Of course it has!"
While they were awaiting the appearance of the boots of the Three Crowns, Raymond gazed curiously at his client. It was the first time he had ever seen her, and he was wondering what tragic story was masked behind her stony, inscrutable face. She did not seem to be aware that he was alive, and turning her head, glanced over the row of judges. Suddenly Raymond saw her eyes widen with horror and amazement Her bosom heaved and her lips worked as if she were trying to speaks He rose hastily and leaned over the dock.
"What is the matter, madame? Are you ill?" he asked in quick undertone.
She turned to him with the jerky, uncertain movements of an automaton, but kept her eyes fastened on the bench.
"What—who—who is that gentleman—talking to the judges?" she whispered. The words could barely be heard.
"President Floriot, from Toulouse," answered Raymond. He supposed that she had asked this apparently idle question to conceal the real thought that had caused her agitation, and so went on earnestly:
"Believe me, madame, your silence may lose your case for you. I beg you to speak!"
She drew the cloth more closely about her face and stared out over his head with wild eyes. With a shrug of his shoulders Raymond dropped back into his chair and turned to listen to the examination of Chouquet. He was beginning to feel more master of himself and more certain that his case was hopeless.
"State your name, age, and profession!" commanded the President as Victor took his stand behind the witness railing.
"Victor Emmanuel Chouquet, twenty-nine years of age, boots of the Hotel of the Three Crowns," replied Victor in his high-pitched drawl.
"Where do you live?"
"At the hotel, M. the President."
"You are no relation of the prisoner, are you, or in any way connected with her service?"
"No, M. the President."
"Raise your right hand!—Do you swear to speak without hatred or fear, to tell the whole truth? Say, 'I swear it.'"
"I swear it!" repeated the witness.
"Put down your hand. Give your evidence!"
Victor shuffled uneasily up against the railing and turned to the jury.
"On April 3d," he began, "a man and woman came to the hotel——"
"What time was it?" interrupted the President.
"It was a short time after lunch."
"Go on!"
"They had a trunk and a bag. I took them up to Room 24 on the top floor, and the man said, as he went into the room, 'Not a palace, is it?' And the woman said, 'Oh, what does it matter—this room or another one!' to which the man replied, 'Well, I don't suppose we will be here long.' Then they asked me for absinthe and cigarettes which I got for them, and the man asked me to leave the bottle."
"Did they drink much?" interrupted the President.
"I didn't notice."
"What was the attitude of the woman?"
"She didn't have any," replied Victor, and a titter ran over the benches. The court usher frowned and rapped on his desk.
"Did she look happy, sad, calm or nervous?" explained the President, irritably. Victor considered for several moments.
"She looked very tired," he replied.
"Go on!"
"Some time afterward my wife went up to their room for the police form and took down their names—M. and Mme. Laroque, from Buenos Ayres on their way to Paris."
"Your wife was at the hotel?"
"Yes, she was chambermaid there."
"Why has she not been called as a witness?" the judge demanded with a frown. Victor rubbed his hand across his eyes and snuffled.
"Because she's not there any longer. On the evening after the murder she left me and I haven't seen her since. A few days after she had gone she wrote me a note, saying, 'Don't worry about me. I am very happy. Take care of the child.'"
There was a quick shuffling of feet and exclamations of pity and sympathy swept across the court. The usher frowned and pounded his desk again. The President's face softened as he watched Victor wiping away his tears, and he gave him time to recover before requesting him to go on.
"At about half-past five, as I was taking water to a room on the same floor," said Victor at last, "I heard a shot fired and a shriek in Room 24. I rushed in and found M. Laroque lying on the floor in front of his wife, who held a smoking revolver in her hand. I took the revolver away from her and held her tight."
"Did she say anything?"
"She said, 'There's no hurry. I shan't try to get away.' Then the police came and took her off."
"That's all you know?"
"Yes, M. the President."
"The prisoner is the woman you call Madame Laroque, is she?"
Victor gazed at the white face above Raymond's head.
"Yes, M. the President," he said. The President looked in the same direction.
"Prisoner, you have heard the evidence of this witness? Have you anything to say?" he asked, solemnly.
Jacqueline had not heard the evidence. From the moment she recognized her husband a thousand mad thoughts had stormed through her mind in a bewildering phantasmagoria. Her fierce hatred had given birth to a hundred fantastic schemes of vengeance that the situation made possible. Should she wait until her character and her shame had been painted their blackest and then tell the crowded court that he was her husband? Should she go to the place of execution and denounce him from the scaffold? No! She could not do that because of her boy. She had killed Laroque to hide her shame from her son. How could she proclaim it now and make that terrible crime useless? But couldn't she tell just enough to showhim—God! how she hated him! who she was and to what he had driven her? She could picture his face as he recognized her and listened to the horrible story of her degradation. She was glad that there was no vice so low that it had not soiled her; for thus the greater would be his anguish when she proclaimed it....