Chapter Twenty Seven.
The Last Witness.
Maître Barraud had, by little and little, built up a theory for his defence which, thanks to his keen observation and brilliant intuition, was not far from the truth. He was satisfied that the young baron had repaid the money, and that M. de Cadanet, though he punished him with silence, had no intention of making the matter public. What the advocate thought probable was, however, that by one of those unlucky forgetfulnesses to which all men are liable, the old count had never destroyed the letter of confession, and that Charles Lemaire had found it among his other papers after his death. He believed that it was highly probable M. de Cadanet had given some hint beforehand which was sufficient to enable a sharp and unscrupulous man to put two and two together, and arrive at his accusation. The world with whom he dined was of no more use to him than the wet towel might have been. Mme. de Pontharmin, it is true, said: “Do not disappoint us. I do not know whether he is guilty, but I shall break my heart if you do not prove him innocent,”—but this was a command and not a suggestion, which would have been a hundred times more valuable. When the time arrived for his speech he wore so confident an air that the Procureur rubbed his hands.
“We are safe,” he said. “Barraud is hopeless.”
One thing was certain—he had never taken more pains. Eloquence and masterly appeals to sentiment held the court breathless. Lemaire dug his nails into his palms and turned livid as he heard his own life presented in the most ignoble colours, his gambling, his follies, and side by side with them the mask he wore before M. de Cadanet. He was scourged with scorn as Maître Barraud’s magnificent voice described him—not content with winning M. de Beaudrillart’s money, also calumniating his victim to the old man who, bound to the Poissy family by ties of gratitude to the father, might have come to the rescue of the son had his mind not been poisoned against him. Lemaire, listening, felt that his cause was lost, but Maître Miron’s face wore its most contented air.
It was an unusually long speech, going into very minute details. He insisted upon the absolute probability of the young man’s story, and the readiness with which he had admitted the points which told against himself. He touched pathetically on the life at Poissy—the happy family life, mother and sisters, child, and wife—the heroic wife who was present, suffering the pangs of suspense, and refusing to desert her husband. At another time Nathalie would have crimsoned under the curious looks turned in her direction by those who knew where she eat; but now she was absolutely unconscious of them, her eyes being fixed upon Léon, and her one thought to meet his with hopefulness. He entered fully into the particulars of Léon’s interview with M. de Cadanet. What could be more probable than the description given by the accused; what more tantalising than to have the means of extrication from his difficulties dangled before his eyes, and to hear that though they might have been his, they were now to go to the man who had slandered him? He was not defending the action of the prisoner in the street, but he left it to the jury to say whether the sudden temptation was not almost irresistible! And what could have been more straightforward than his action immediately afterwards? They had heard his letter, avowing everything, placing himself at the disposal of M. de Cadanet. Surely, if ever the count thought of taking action, he would have taken it then. Was it probable that a man—a man, especially, who was under so great obligations to the De Beaudrillart family as M. de Cadanet—would have nursed such a terrible, such a savage revenge, as to keep silence for years in order that the bolt might fall when it was least expected, and when his own death might have relieved them from the last vestige of uneasiness? Supposing, even, that the debt had remained unpaid, he refused to think so meanly of human nature.
Charles Lemaire moistened his dry lips, the Procureur’s face expressed nothing but contented indifference.
After a momentary pause, Maître Barraud proceeded. But, he said, what made it actually impossible was that the debt had been wholly repaid, first by an instalment of five hundred francs, a small sum certainly, but one which in the then condition of the estate, represented the most honourable economies, and, directly his marriage gave him the means of discharging it in full, by the entire sum of principal and interest. M. Bourget, the father-in-law of M. de Beaudrillart, had proved that at the time of the marriage, he, being desirous to clear off all debts on the estate, was told by M. de Beaudrillart that the sum of two hundred thousand francs was necessary for this object, and agreed to its being thus used. What suggestion, even, had been offered by the prosecution as to any other destination for this large sum? Had they brought forward a single creditor who could account for so much as a part of it? The explanation given by the accused was perfectly simple and straightforward. He had redeemed the promise in his letter and had despatched it at once to M. de Cadanet, who, owing to a natural indignation at what, no doubt, had been a forced loan, took no notice of the repayment and left M. de Beaudrillart to draw his own conclusions.
Here he paused for an instant again, and glanced at the spot where sat Charles Lemaire, from whose face he drew what small encouragement he felt. To his astonishment it was empty. Maître Miron, however, had not moved, so that it did not seem as if he were connected with the disappearance. Maître Barraud went on, his voice more slow and impressive as he reached the point of M. de Cadanet’s last illness, his mind busily engaged in revolving why Lemaire had gone. He spoke of the influence which, by his own showing, Lemaire must have exercised upon the old count, who saw no one except the prosecutor and his wife. Only connected with him by marriage, he said, he had become his chief heir, his executor, apparently the receiver of his secrets. You were asked to believe that this dying old man, grasping revenge with palsied hands, had put into his possession an instrument powerful enough to ruin a noble family, and bidden him use it. Was it likely? The heart of every man and woman in that building he believed would cry out against such a shameful possibility. What really happened it was not difficult to conceive—
At this point a piece of paper with a few lines scrawled upon it was handed up to the counsel. He read it mechanically without pausing in his speech, and the only thing the closest observer could have noticed was a slight change of manner. His voice became slower, almost drawling, and it might have been thought that at this moment he had yielded to the hopelessness of the case, and given up his efforts. The change surprised the listeners, and one person was affected by it, for all the Procureur’s keen attention revived, his eyelids contracting, and his mouth tightening. Maître Barraud went so languidly on that Nathalie, for a moment, covered her eyes with her hand in despair. He touched upon the old man’s death-bed, but with an entire absence of emotion. He could imagine, he said, that M. Lemaire would receive instructions for the future, perhaps be called upon to destroy certain documents, which M. de Cadanet never intended should survive him.
“And in this softened moment,” he proceeded, “the first thing to be put out of the way would be Monsieur de Beaudrillart’s frank confession. You ask me what really happened. I am now in a position to tell you. The document was given to Monsieur Lemaire to destroy on the spot. For it he substituted another paper, kept back this, and allowed Monsieur de Cadanet to die in the belief that Monsieur de Beaudrillart’s safety was assured.”
With one of those sudden changes of tone which he knew how to use so effectively, he allowed his last sentences to ring out like a trumpet. The next moment the Procureur was on his feet, protesting against such a charge being made; the crowd, stirred to its depths, broke into an inarticulate murmur, promptly hushed; Nathalie, the tears raining down her cheeks, kissed her hand impulsively to her husband; Maître Barraud, remarking quietly that an important though late witness had arrived who would prove what was said, merely appealed to the Court to hear her, and sat down without troubling himself to carry his speech any further; presently, and before the agitation had subsided, and after a consultation with the judges, it was seen that a plain woman, dressed in black, her eyes fixed on the ground, was in the witness-box, and a whisper went round the court that this was M. Lemaire’s wife.
Her answers were at first mechanical, and throughout scarcely audible. As she was sworn, those who were near saw a tremor pass over her, and compassion made the judge cease to request her to speak more plainly, as soon as he discovered that to do so was beyond her powers. Maître Barraud, in place of his junior, examined her himself, and very briefly. After the necessary particulars as to who she was, he went direct to M. de Cadanet’s last illness, and inquired whether the name of De Beaudrillart had been mentioned to her by him.
She replied that it had, more than once.
In what manner?
He gave her the impression of having a yearning towards them; particularly, here her voice shook, towards the boy.
Did she suggest his sending for them?
Yes.
He refused?
Yes.
Did he speak of the prisoner? She looked uncomprehending, and he added, “Of Monsieur de Beaudrillart?”
“He said he had behaved very ill.”
“And you tried to soften your uncle?”
“I thought he was very desolate, and that it was a pity some one should not come.”
“Did your husband approve of this attempt of yours?”
She hesitated, and then said that her husband feared it might excite M. de Cadanet.
“Do you remember the 12th of August, 188-?”
“Yes.”
“Give an account of what happened.”
She lifted her face, and looked imploringly round the court. Meeting only the gaze of countless eyes riveted upon hers, she looked on the floor again quickly, locking her hands together. Her voice trembled so exceedingly that the writers taking down the evidence could scarcely hear, and more than once she stopped altogether, and Maître Barraud had to ask a question or two to induce her to go on. But the gist of the evidence was to the effect that M. de Cadanet was very ill, and she watched anxiously for an opportunity to send for a priest. He was desirous to speak alone to her husband; she hoped when that interview was over to succeed in persuading him.
“Where were you during the interview?”
“In the anteroom. It was necessary that some one should be at hand in case of need.”
“Were you needed?”
“Not actually—I heard my husband’s voice raised once as if in alarm.”
“Not anger?”
“Oh, no, no! I ran to the door and found I was not wanted.”
“Was all as usual?”
“A candle was lighted.”
“Did you go away!”
“Not instantly. I wish now I had!” she cried, involuntarily.
“Repeat what you heard,” said the judge, gently, “and saw.”
“Something was burnt. I had half closed the door, and could not hear what my husband said, but Monsieur de Cadanet—”
“Yes?”
“He said: ‘You will remember that Monsieur de Beaudrillart has paid everything, and that I have nothing against him.’”
The words died away. The silence in the court had become profound. Poor Mme. Lemaire buried her face in her hands.
“Have you,” said the judge at last, “ever mentioned what you overheard to your husband!”
“No. I was afraid it would vex him.”
“But when you heard that he was bringing this trial!”
“I never heard it. I live very much out of the world—too much, perhaps.”
“And what induced you to come forward to-day!”
“Madame de Beaudrillart came and implored me. They have a child who would have been disgraced. I—am more fortunate,” she murmured.
Maître Barraud had meanwhile been examining the letter written by Léon, of which one corner had been torn off—no doubt where the old man’s attempt to burn it had left a blackened edge. He had relapsed into his most tranquil and uninterested air, and sat down.
The Procureur attempted to cross-examine Mme. Lemaire, but it was useless. He asked how it was that she could hear so clearly the words of a dying and feeble old man, when by her own account the door was half closed, and she had failed to catch her husband’s words.
She replied simply that she could not tell.
Was it not possible that she had been mistaken.
“I heard what I have repeated.”
“And you have come here to give evidence against your husband without so much as telling him what you were going to do!”
“I—I tried—I sent—” She looked wildly round, and, before any one could reach her, dropped unconscious on the floor.