CHAPTER XLI.
FIAT JUSTITIA
"I wonder at you!—I wonder at you!" exclaimed Chrysler, pacing the drawing-room of the Manor-house, to his friend, "What will be the result of it?"
"Cher Monsieur," Haviland replied. "I have done my duty and what have I to do with events? What is Dormillière county and a year or two of the consequences of this election? I do not live in them or of them."
The face of the far-seeing god himself, whose statue stood once more near, could scarcely show less regret than the easy, indomitable countenance of Chamilly; yet that his nerves had been strained to a severe pitch, lines of exhaustion upon it clearly told, and his restless, reckless movements from one spot and position to another made his friend anxious. A raw wind storm had risen quickly from the east and whistled without. He advanced to the window and threw both its curtains wide apart, revealing under an obscured snatch of struggling moonlight, the heavens covered with rapid-moving clouds, and the poplars opposite bending their vague shapes beneath the wind,—the beginning of one of those storms which come up from the Gulf, and overrun the whole region for days.
"I should like to be on the River now," he remarked exultingly. Madame entered at the moment and heard him.
"Be quiet, Chamilly," chided the Seigneuresse.
"Alors, Alors," he said impatiently, as if casting about for something active to do, and left the room.
"Madame de Bois-Hebert," Chrysler said, "have you news from Mademoiselle
Josephte?"
"That young person," replied she, "has descended to the plane of her condition: I have no further interest in her."
But the devout lady sighed.
The Gulf storm lowered steadily and disagreeably all next day and the visitor saw nothing of Chamilly, who kept in his room until the evening. But there was one excitement which occupied everyone else's attention:
"Who do you think struck François?" Chrysler said to Zotique at the
Circuit Court House.
"The Bonhomme has tracked Spoon through every bush and bay on the coast, and has caught him getting aboard the steamboat at Petite Argentenaye," the Registrar replied.
A crowd came down the road. All the crowd were excited. They ran about a long waggon in which were on the first seat, the Honorable and Bonhomme; on the second a constable and prisoner handcuffed. Spoon, who cowered like a captured wild beast ready to whine with fright, was clapped into a private room and a stray Bleu flew off for Libergent to act as advocate. The crowd, soon uncomfortably larger, diverted itself by taking oratorical views of his guilt or innocence: but the prevailing opinion of the prisoner personally was expressed by one in an unfastidious proverb: "Grosse crache, grosse canaille."
Libergent, accompanied by De Bleury, came over at once, for he had a good deal at stake in seeing that Spoon's trial should lead to no unpleasant revelations or consequences to the party. Closeted not more than half an hour he came out and said publicly to l'Honorable, who took seat as Magistrate upon the Bench under the great lion-and-unicorn painting. "My client makes option of opening the investigation at once. He is not guilty of the charge and can clear himself."
The Bonhomme cried excitedly,—"It's false!" His wife joined him with a wild scream of disappointment. A murmuring ran about. "Silence!" shouted the constable.
Every one involuntarily obeyed; and Chrysler absorbed himself examining the articles taken from the prisoner's person.
The evidence was as soon disposed of as Libergent could have wished. Josephte gave her testimony to the appearance and surroundings of the injured man as she had found him. She could relate no circumstances that pointed to Spoon. The Bonhomme eagerly proffered his evidence. It was torn to tatters by the advocate: he had nothing to tell but rambling suspicions, and was told to stand down. It was discovered that none in fact had anything pertinent to say. Benoit was mad; François, unconscious; and Libergent triumphantly asked for the prisoner's immediate discharge.
The great doubt on the part of justice was, clearly, why did the prisoner disappear? But this was quickly resolved by witnesses who swore that Cuiller was entrusted with secret political business which necessitated absences and journeys in different parts of the country, and this, in the state of political affairs, was an obvious enough excuse.
Libergent pressed once again for the discharge.
"I must grant it," simply pronounced Mr. Genest.
Another scream pierced their ears. "Justice, oh God;" the old wife of Le Brun shrieked in trembling syllables. "They kill without hanging. I demand JUSTICE! Hear me, great God!" and her bent frame and wrinkled face writhed pitiably.
But it was done. Spoon descended with a sudden, wild grin and found himself free. "In a few hours," he probably thought obscurely, "I can be far on my road."
"Pardon me," said Chrysler, however, standing up, to the surprise of everybody. "Your Honor, I have another charge to bring against the prisoner, and I ask his re-arrest."
The Honorable made a sign to the constable to stay Cuiller.
"These bills," Chrysler said, holding out the bank notes which were found in the purse of Spoon, "are marked with the initials of François Le Brun's name. I am ready to charge the prisoner with having committed a larceny of money from François Le Brun on his journey from Montreal. I sustain it by these initials at the corners of bills just found on the prisoner's person. I am informed—"
"I object, your Honor," fairly shouted Libergent—"I object to any hearsay."
"What can you swear to of your own knowledge?" asked l'Honorable of
Chrysler, gently.
"To seeing these marks—"
"Which might be anything!" snapped Libergent.
"To hearing—"
"No hearsay, sir!"
"To having a conviction—"
"Upon no grounds whatever!—Your Honor, I press my just application for an immediate discharge."
"I cannot see that there is yet evidence enough," l'Honorable said courteously. "There are two charges, but both of them seem founded on vague suspicions which I cannot consider sufficient to detain the prisoner."
Libergent triumphantly glanced from Spoon to the audience.
At that moment, however, the man at his side rose up:—Ross de Bleury!
"If what Monsieur says is true," he exclaimed to the Honorable, throwing out his clenched hand,—"if these letters are found upon those notes, then I understand it. I can prove that this infernal, greasy, treacherous devil,—be he friend or traitor, or whatever he chooses to be, to the Bleu party or myself,—committed that despicable larceny and has wronged that poor young man. I was on the steamboat. I saw it. I saw him do it to his friend. Talking to the purser, I saw the act, but could not believe it a reality. On the parole of all my ancestors, I would never go back on a common thief, I would keep faith inviolate with a parricide, I have a secret sympathy with every brigand, but I have no place out of l'enfer itself for a traitor, Dieu merci."
"Swear the informant," said the Magistrate.
The picture at this instant of the frightened face of Spoon who collapsed into a seat by the Bar, of the excitement of the crowd, which had been gradually brought to a climax, the disgust of Libergent, relief of Chrysler, satisfaction of the little Bonhomme and his wife, the cynical roll of Zotique's eyes round the room, and serene, judicial face of the Honorable on the bench above, would have made the reputation of the greatest painter in Paris.
After all, Spoon was remanded for trial, and in due time, the Queen's Bench Court condemned him to the fullest penalty of the law for his murderous assault and larceny.
François meanwhile recovered, and was taken, pale and weak, but indescribably happy, in a carriage one morning beside Josephte to church, where the young Curé made her his faithful bride.
As for Benoit, "il est tout en campagne," they said. In less expressive terms, "his mind was hopelessly wandering."
* * * * *
To return to our current day however; in the evening Chamilly came into the drawing room with some more manuscript, which he handed to Chrysler.
"Here is the rest of the story I have been writing," said he, "take it sir and may it amuse you a little; it is the key to the rest. I am going out on the River." And he went-out of the Manoir door into the storm.
The manuscript proceeded as follows: