Part 3

'The rascal laid his plans well,' said the gardener, as he trudged along; 'he must have thought that the ladder would be too heavy to drag over the wall, and this is why he has brought along this rope-ladder; a true robber's instrument. A strong-wristed rascal to climb up such a machine as that!'

'Is Monsieur Gorsay dead?' asked d'Aubian, with a thoughtful air.

'The poor old gentleman cannot be far from it,' replied the gardener, quickening his pace.

The place where the crime had been committed was the bed-chamber in which the old man had had the interview with the galley-slave a few hours before. The assassin had effected his entrance through the window, by raising the inner hook which fastened the Venetian blind. Surprised in bed, and probably asleep, M. Gorsay had to all appearance been stabbed instantly. At any rate his resistance must have been short and feeble, for he was found lying in his natural position. The covering was scarcely deranged, and were it not that the bed-clothes were deluged in blood, one might have supposed him to be sleeping. After the commission of the deed the assassin had endeavored to break open the secretary. During this attempt a vase which stood on the chimney-piece was disturbed by him, and fell with a loud noise; and it was not until then that the domestic, who slept in an adjoining room, was aroused and gave the alarm.

The spectacle which met the eyes of Arthur on entering this fatal place redoubled the emotion by which he was already agitated. By the light of a number of torches placed hap-hazard around the room, might be seen a group in whose visages and attitudes extreme consternation was displayed. The bed on which the victim was lying had been dragged into the middle of the room, in order to facilitate the remedies which the physician was beginning to apply. At the pillow knelt an old priest, watching for some sign of life which might permit him to commence the performance of his office. These two individuals, invested with an office equally stern and almost equally sacred, had arrived at the same moment. Accustomed to meet at the bedside of the dying, they scarcely exchanged words. Without losing time the physician had commenced his work; the priest was awaiting the fitting moment for his.

At the foot of the bed, motionless as a statue, sat the wife of the wounded man, her hands tightly clasping the edge of the couch, which she had seized with convulsive energy when they had tried to draw her away from the bloody spectacle. Not a tear, not a groan escaped her; pale as if at the point of death herself, with fixed eyes and set teeth, she gazed upon her husband in mute stupefaction; and now and then, as if the better to see him, she dashed aside with frantic gesture the black locks which fell in disorder over her forehead and shoulders.

At sight of her lover, Lucia testified neither perturbation nor surprise: it seemed as if excess of emotion had dried up all the sources of ordinary feelings. With a look of profound sadness she pointed to the lifeless body of her husband, and then resumed her stone-like aspect, which might remind the beholder of one of the ancient victims of destiny.

However conscience may be lulled and put to sleep by passion, it is always sure to awake at the sight of death. As Arthur gazed upon the man whose hospitality he had abused, now lying bathed in his blood, he felt a portion of that remorse which racked the heart of the guilty wife steal over his soul. At such a moment to direct toward her a single word, a look, even a thought, seemed to him an odious profanation. Instead of approaching her he seated himself beside the priest, and said in a low voice: 'Is there any hope of saving him?'

'GOD knows!' replied the old man, raising his eyes to heaven

For many hours the efforts of art seemed unavailing; consciousness was not restored to Monsieur Gorsay; and every moment respiration seemed on the point of ceasing. The physician, who on the first examination of the wounds did not think them mortal, began to lose hopes. The absolute insensibility which prevailed, and which he had at first attributed to loss of blood, and the feebleness of old age, made him now suspect that some vital organ had been reached by the poniard of the assassin. From time to time he bent over the wounded man, and listened with anxiety to the faint breathing which with difficulty made its way from his breast. At length some nervous contractions disturbed the sepulchral rigidity which the form and features of the patient had hitherto assumed; the respiration became stronger, and after a painful effort, the eye-lids half unclosed; he tried to raise himself, but had not sufficient strength; and he now lay for some time with mouth and eyes open, but evidently unable to see or speak.

'Curate,' said the physician, wiping his forehead, 'I think you may go to bed; I have now good hopes that we shall save him.'

For the first time d'Aubian now sought the eyes of Lucia, but he caught them not. On hearing the words of the physician she had fallen upon her knees, and seemed to be praying fervently.

It was now broad day-light. A group of peasants and workmen had collected before the house, whose eager conversation showed what an impression the news of the attempt made on the person of a man rich and universally esteemed had produced in the neighborhood. The excitement of this assemblage increased every moment, and broke forth in loud expressions of rage at the sight of Bonnemain, with hands tied behind his back, whom two sturdy peasants under the guidance of Piquet were dragging along with an air of triumph. Curses, menaces, threats of death, of which in such cases the populace, especially those of the south, are always prodigal, overwhelmed with frightful concert the presumed author of the assassination. From threats they were proceeding to stones, and from stones would probably have come to knives, when the mob was on a sudden roughly broken in upon by a carriage which drove up at a brisk trot, and from which leaped a personage clad in black, of grave demeanor and stern countenance.

'In the name of the law,' cried he in a tone of authority, 'let none of you raise a hand against this man.'

On recognizing the King's Attorney of the Court of Reole, the most violent desisted from their process of summary justice, and ceasing their vociferations, fell back some paces. After interrogating Piquet, the magistrate ordered the cords to be taken from the prisoner, whose mud-soiled clothes and bruised visage showed that he had only yielded after a desperate resistance. The king's attorney committed him to the care of the two volunteers who had effected his capture; he then entered the house for the purpose of holding the inquest, for which an express had been sent to him at day-break.

Thanks to the skilful succors which were incessantly employed, Monsieur Gorsay by degrees recovered strength and consciousness, but not the power of speech. In the mean time, and while waiting until the patient should be in a fitting condition to sustain an examination, the king's attorney employed himself in viewing the localities, and collecting with scrupulous attention every fact which might have a bearing upon the proceedings which were subsequently to be instituted. Of all the persons collected in the house, one only had declared that he had seen the assassin escape; this was Arthur d'Aubian, who found himself obliged to repeat his partially fabricated story, of which Piquet had already given some details.

'And so, Sir,' said the magistrate to him, 'the gardener was mistaken when he affirmed that you believed that you recognized in the man who scaled the wall the individual named Bonnemain?'

'As I did not see his face, I could not have recognized him,' replied Arthur, who signed his deposition with a steady hand; resolved to preserve the reputation of the woman he loved, even at the expense of a false oath.

These preliminaries finished, the king's attorney, who was in haste to reach the main point of his inquest, the confronting the accused with the victim, returned to the chamber of Monsieur Gorsay. He approached the bed of the old man, who in spite of his feebleness made an effort to raise himself, and seemed to thank him for his coming, by a look of intelligence.

'He is not yet in a condition to speak,' said the physician in a low tone to the magistrate; 'but he hears and comprehends what is said to him.'

'Monsieur,' said the king's attorney, bending over the bed, 'I hope that you will soon be able to give us in your own words the information which justice requires, to punish the attempt of which you have been the victim. Meanwhile, until you recover your speech, will you please to answer me by signs? An overturned lamp which was found upon the secretary, leads us to suppose that the assassin made use of a light while attempting to commit the robbery. It is possible that at this moment you might have seen him; is this conjecture true? Did you see the murderer?'

Monsieur Gorsay with some difficulty made a sign in the affirmative.

'If he were brought before you, would you recognize him?'

The old man repeated the same gesture with more energy, while an expression of horror was manifested in his countenance.

'Monsieur,' said the physician, drawing aside the officer of justice, 'I must declare to you that a confronting of the parties at this moment would be attended with danger. The situation of the wounded man is still very precarious, and the sight of the assassin would necessarily produce an excitement which it would be prudent to avoid.'

'It is precisely,' replied the magistrate, 'because I, as well as yourself, regard the situation of the wounded man very precarious, that it seems to me improper to defer a confrontation, which alone can throw satisfactory light upon this affair. For the sake of the public, as well as that of the individual in custody, I must not neglect the only means of decisively ascertaining the truth. In case of the death of Monsieur Gorsay, what will remain? Strong proofs, presumptive evidence, more or less weighty, but not ocular testimony; since Monsieur d'Aubian declares that he did not recognize the fugitive. We must therefore take advantage without delay of the lucid interval of the wounded man, who may become worse in a moment.'

'Who will most certainly become worse, if you bring the assassin into this room,' replied the doctor in a quick tone.

'Will you assure me, upon your honor,' asked the king's attorney, 'that Monsieur Gorsay will be still alive to-morrow morning?'

'Nobody is sure of living until to-morrow,' replied the physician, avoiding a direct answer; 'but do as you please, Sir. In protesting against a measure which may prove fatal to a man committed to my care, I have performed my duty.'

'As I shall perform mine, by taking every measure to develope crime, no matter at what cost.'

'Though this cost should be the death of an old man?' demanded the doctor, with generous warmth.

'Sir,' replied the magistrate, with a grave air, 'you speak as an apostle of humanity, and I shall not take offence at your language. I for my part am the representative of society; and you must understand in your turn that it is impossible for me to shrink from my mission, whatever may sometimes be its rigor. I regret that a discussion like this should have arisen between us, although in fact it is honorable to both, as it proves that each of us is sensible of his duty. Were I in your place, I should perhaps take the course that you have taken; permit me to believe that were you in mine you would act as I do.'

These two men separated with a mutual gravity. As the king's attorney left the room for the purpose of having the prisoner brought in, the physician approached d'Aubian and the curate, who since Monsieur Gorsay had recovered his consciousness kept themselves withdrawn from view, in a corner of the room; the priest, that the patient might not perceive that his situation was of sufficient danger to render spiritual succor necessary; and Arthur, from one of those compunctious visitings of conscience which the conviction of having irrevocably injured a man whom one respects never fails to awaken in honorable minds.

'Curate,' said the doctor, with an air of dissatisfaction, 'human justice is scarcely humane. You might preach a sermon from this text. While you are considerately concealing your cassock in order not to alarm this poor man, the king's attorney here is giving us a fine specimen of the morals of his trade. Provided he can complete his _procès verbal_, every thing else is of little moment. He has now gone to bring the assassin into this chamber. I have told him that I would not answer for the consequences, and he still persists. But let him do as he pleases; I wash my hands of it.'

'Madame Gorsay should be removed from the room,' said Arthur, whom the situation of Lucia at this moment inspired with pity as much as love.

'That is what I was on the point of suggesting,' replied the physician. 'You alone, curate, are capable of doing it: lead her out, and do not permit her to return. Should we need your services I will send for you, but do not let her come here again. Her nervous organization is extremely irritable, and I dread a rush of blood to the brain. There are those who have become confirmed lunatics with slighter indications of insanity than she sometimes exhibits when under great nervous excitement. Keep her in her chamber; I will go up to her as soon as I can get away from here. It may perhaps be necessary to take some blood from her.'

Making use of the double authority of his age and profession, the curate succeeded in leading Lucia from the apartment. As they left the room the king's attorney returned, followed by Bonnemain, in custody of two peasants, his volunteer guard. At sight of the assassin of her husband, Madame Gorsay turned away her head, and leaned heavily upon the arm of the priest, who quickened his pace, saying to himself in a low tone, 'In this great calamity I thank thee, O my GOD! that this is not a child of our parish!'

The prisoner and escort stopped at the threshold of the chamber, while the magistrate advanced singly toward the wounded man, to prepare him for the interview.

'This is the critical moment,' said the physician to d'Aubian; 'lend me your aid, for these domestics are so awkward they can afford no assistance. Pass your arm under the pillow, and support Monsieur Gorsay: in his present posture he cannot see the man they are bringing in, and we must try and abridge this ceremony.'

Having satisfied himself that the wounded man, although still speechless, was capable of comprehending the scene which was about to take place, and seemed to be in a condition to support it, the attorney made a sign for Bonnemain to approach. The galley-slave cast around him a ferocious look, and seemed to be calculating the chances of escape; these appearing hopeless, he resigned himself to his situation, and slowly advancing, remained motionless a few paces from his victim, with head hanging down, face livid and contorted, and his whole frame agitated by a trembling which seemed strongly characteristic of guilt.

'This old fellow is a tough one!' thought he, as he beheld the eyes of Monsieur Gorsay, which he had believed closed for ever, now wide open and glaring upon him.

The crisis anticipated by the physician now took place. At sight of the murderer the old man, in spite of all his efforts to nerve himself, experienced a feeling of terror, the violence of which was manifested by a sudden change in his countenance. Already pale, his face became still more death-like, his eyes closed, and his head sunk upon the pillow, as if the sight of the assassin had completed the work of the poniard. As the doctor hastened to prepare a cordial, Arthur, who with one arm supported the wounded man, bent forward to apply to his nostrils a vial of salts. At this moment Monsieur Gorsay reöpened his eyes, and saw immediately before him the countenance of the man for whom Lucia had betrayed him. He stared at him for some moments with an air of stupefaction, as if contemplating an apparition to which reason will not allow us to give credence; but suddenly a supernatural fire lighted up the features which death seemed already to have stiffened with his icy hand. Hatred, indignation, fury, vengeance, all the deadly passions which since the preceding evening had been busy at his heart, now seemed to flash from his eyes in one appalling glance. Unaided, and by an effort of incredible vehemence, the old man raised himself, and stretching his hand toward Arthur, whom this movement struck with a sort of superstitious awe, he made convulsive efforts to speak, which at length burst the bands by which his tongue had until now been enchained:

'The assassin! the assassin!' cried he, with a voice which seemed to issue from a sepulchre.

A clap of thunder falling in the chamber could not have produced a greater impression than that caused by this terrible and vindictive exclamation. D'Aubian stood speechless and aghast, as if indeed guilty. A sullen smile of malice played on the lips of the galley-slave. The magistrate and physician exchanged a significant glance: the latter, approaching the wounded man, took his arm and felt his pulse.

'Ægri somnia!' said he, addressing the magistrate.

Monsieur Gorsay repulsed the doctor, with an expression of anger. 'No! it is not the dream of a sick man!' said he, in a hoarse but distinct voice; the blood which I have lost has not taken away my reason. I have my senses; I see you all. You are Monsieur Mallet; you, you are Monsieur Carigniez, the king's attorney of Reole; the curate has just left the room with my wife; these are the workmen who work in my garden; and this,' continued he, pointing to Arthur with a furious gesture, 'this is the man who has just attempted to kill me!'

'Your sight, still feeble, deceives you,' said the magistrate, who as well as Monsieur Mallet continued to think that the wounded man was not in full possession of his senses. 'Look this way; do you not recognize this man here on your right as the assassin?'

'No nonsense, Monsieur Magistrate!' cried Bonnemain; 'you see well enough that he recognizes the other one. I call every one here present to witness!'

The old man by a strong effort overcame the horror which the sight of the galley-slave caused him, and gazed on him for an instant with affected composure.

'This man,' said he, 'is called Bonnemain; he is employed by my gardener. It was not he who attempted to assassinate me. It was that one, I tell you; it was Arthur d'Aubian. Do your duty, Monsieur Attorney. I have perhaps but a short time to live; let my declaration be written down. If I die, I adjure you all to repeat to the jury my last words; write----No, give me the pen; I have sufficient strength to write myself.'

'Bravo!' said Bonnemain to himself, drawing a longer breath than he had yet done; 'this will do bravely! If all customers were as plain-spoken, there would be some pleasure in doing business. It seems the old crab has not yet digested the rope-ladder of my tall gentleman here. This does finely!'

D'Aubian had not spoken a single word: the victim of a vengeance whose stroke he could not avert without publicly casting dishonor upon the woman he loved, he enveloped himself in silent resignation and disdain.

'Monsieur!' said the magistrate to him, with an embarrassment to which gentlemen of the legal profession are rarely subject, 'however strange the declaration of Monsieur Gorsay may appear to all of us, it is impossible for me not to include it literally in my _procès verbal_.'

'Do your duty, Sir,' replied Arthur, gravely.

At the request of Monsieur Carigniez, the old man recapitulated the details of the attempted assassination, of which he had been the victim; he adhered to the truth in every particular save one. In spite of all the objections which were raised by the interrogator, he invariably substituted the name of the lover of Lucia for that of the real assassin. At the moment he took the pen to sign the declaration which would probably send an innocent man to the scaffold, the priest reëntered the room. At sight of the minister of that religion which enjoins forgiveness of injuries, Monsieur Gorsay experienced a moment's hesitation. Vengeance, however, soon gained the ascendancy; with a hand still steady, he signed the _procès verbal_, and immediately fell back on the pillow, exhausted by the tremendous efforts he had just made to assure himself of revenge by committing it to the strong arm of the law.

'Have you finished?' asked the doctor of the magistrate; 'you see he is almost lifeless; methinks this should suffice you. Have you not learned all you wished to know?'

'I have learned more than I desired,' replied Monsieur Carigniez, with a troubled air. 'What is your opinion of the situation of Monsieur Gorsay? Do you still believe that the delirium of fever has any thing to do with this strange declaration?'

'Were my life at stake,' answered the physician, 'I could not speak an untruth against my conscience. Monsieur Gorsay is at present free from fever, and knows very well what he says: whether he speaks the truth or not, that I cannot tell.'

'And you, reverend Sir, cannot you aid us with your lights?' said the solicitor to the curate, who on learning the declaration of the old man, remained absorbed in silent consternation.

'A true christian would have forgiven,' replied the old priest, to whom Lucia had made a full and detailed confession of her faults.

'Forgiven what?' demanded the magistrate.

The curate felt that to pronounce a single word more would be to betray the secrets of the confessional.

'GOD reads the heart,' answered he in an agitated voice; 'HE alone can cause light to descend upon men, whose mission it is to dispense justice. He alone can proclaim innocence, and amend the guilty by leading him to repentance.'

'I wish to know your opinion,' said the attorney, still persisting in his inquiry; 'do you believe Monsieur d'Aubian guilty of the crime of which he stands accused?'

'I believe him innocent, Sir;' replied the priest with warmth.

'How then do you explain the conduct of Monsieur Gorsay?'

The priest cast down his eyes and remained silent. Monsieur Carigniez, who was sitting at a writing-table, engaged in the re-perusal of the _procès verbal_, leaned his head upon his hands, and remained for some time in an attitude of deep thought.

'It is the attempt at robbery which perplexes me,' said he at length, speaking to himself; 'murders are committed by all classes; but this robbery! this is what seems inexplicable. A man of wealth may become an assassin from jealousy, or revenge, but not from cupidity. Passion engenders murder; need begets theft; in this case passion may perhaps exist as a cause, but where is the plea of poverty? Monsieur d'Aubian is wealthy, is he not?' asked he in a half-voice, addressing the physician.

'He is so reputed, if play has not impaired his means,' replied the latter in the same tone.

'Ah! is he a gambler?' responded the magistrate.

'A gambler not a little ruined, I suspect,' replied Monsieur Mallet; 'he has been seen to lose at Bordeaux twelve thousand francs at a single sitting.'

'This changes the whole aspect of the affair,' said the king's attorney, upon whom the words of the physician seemed to make a deep impression: 'I was saying to myself just now that we cannot imagine an effect without a cause; but play is a cause. You remember the old adage: 'One begins by being a dupe, but ends by becoming a knave.' Sometimes one ends by becoming something worse. We all remember the Count Horn, who assassinated an old money-lender for his gold.'