"It is quite characteristic of your excellent heart, Mademoiselle, that, moved by the tears of a young girl who is in love, you should credit all she says; nay, be incapable of grasping the idea of a fearful crime such as this. But it is otherwise with the Judge, who is accustomed to tear off the mask from vile and unblushing hyprocrisy and deception. It is, of course, not incumbent on me to disclose the course of a criminal process to every one who chooses to inquire. I do my duty, Mademoiselle! The world's opinion troubles me not at all. Evil-doers should tremble before the Chambre Ardente, which knows no punishments save blood and fire. But by you, Mademoiselle, I would not be looked upon as a monster of severity and barbarity; therefore, permit me to place before your eyes in few words the bloodguilt of this young criminal, upon whom, Heaven be thanked, vengeance has fallen. Your acute intelligence will then despise the generous feeling and kindliness which do honour to you, but in me would be out of place. Eh bien! this morning René Cardillac is found murdered by a dagger-thrust, no one is by him except his workman, Olivier Brusson and the daughter. In Olivier's room there is found, amongst other things, a dagger covered with fresh blood which exactly fits into the wound. Olivier says, 'Cardillac was attacked in the street before my eyes.' 'Was the intention to rob him?' 'I do not know.' 'You were walking with him and you could not drive off the murderer or detain him?' 'My master was walking fifteen or perhaps sixteen paces in front of me; I was following him.' 'Why, in all the world, so far behind?' 'My master wished it so.' 'And what had Master Cardillac to do in the streets so late?' 'That I cannot say.' 'But he was never in the habit of being out after nine o'clock at other times, was he?' At this Olivier hesitates, becomes confused, sighs, shed tears, vows by all that is sacred that Cardillac did go out that night, and met with his death. Now observe, Mademoiselle, it is proved to the most absolute certainty that Cardillac did not leave the house that night, consequently Olivier's assertion that he went with him is a barefaced falsehood. The street door of the house fastens with a heavy lock, which makes a penetrating noise in opening and closing, also the door itself creaks and groans on its hinges, so that, as experiments have proved, the noise is heard quite distinctly in the upper stories of the house. Now, there lives in the lower story, that is to say, close to the street door, old Maitre Claude Patru with his housekeeper, a person of nearly eighty years of age, but still hale and active. Both of them heard Cardillac, according to his usual custom, come down stairs at nine o'clock exactly, close and bolt the door with a great deal of noise, go upstairs again, read evening prayer, and then (as was to be presumed by the shutting of the door) go into his bedroom. Maitre Claude suffers from sleeplessness like many other old people; and on the night in question he could not close an eye, therefore, about half past nine the housekeeper struck a light in the kitchen, which she reached by crossing the passage, and sat down at the table beside her master with an old chronicle-book, from which she read aloud, whilst the old man, fixing his thoughts on the reading, sometimes sat in his arm-chair, sometimes walked slowly up and down the room to try and bring on sleepiness. All was silence in the house till nearly midnight; but then they heard overhead rapid footsteps, a heavy fall, as of something on to the floor, and immediately after that a hollow groaning. They both were struck by a peculiar alarm and anxiety, the horror of the terrible deed which had just been committed seemed to sweep past them. When day came what had been done in the darkness was brought clearly to light."
"But, in the name of all the Saints," cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, "considering all the circumstances which I have told you at such length, can you think of any motive for this diabolical deed?"
"Hm!" answered La Regnie. "Cardillac was anything but a poor man. He had valuable jewels in his possession." "But all he had would go to the daughter! You forget that Olivier was to be Cardillac's son-in-law." "Perhaps he was compelled to share with others," said La Regnie, "or to do the deed wholly for them!" "Share!--murder for others!" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, in utter amaze.
"You must learn, Mademoiselle," continued La Regnie, "that Olivier's blood would have been flowing on the Place de Grève before this time, but that his crime is connected with that deeply-hidden mystery which has so long brooded over Paris. It is clear that Olivier belongs to that formidable band which, setting at defiance every attempt at observation or discovery, carries on its nefarious practices with perfect immunity. Through him everything will, must be discovered. Cardillac's wound is precisely the same as all those of the persons who have been robbed and murdered in the streets and houses; and most conclusive of all, since Olivier's arrest, the robberies and murders have ceased; the streets are as safe by night as by day. Proof enough that Olivier was most probably the chief of the band. As yet he will not confess; but there are means of making him speak against his will."
"And Madelon!" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, "that truthful, innocent creature."
"Ah!" cried La Regnie, with one of his venomous smiles, "who answers to me that she is not in the plot, too? She does not care so very much about her father. Her tears are all for the murderer boy."
"What?" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, "not for her father?--that girl--impossible!" "Oh!" continued La Regnie, "remember the Brinvilliers! You must pardon me, if by-and-by I have to carry off your protégée, and put her in the Conciergerie."
Mademoiselle Scuderi shuddered at this grizly notion. It seemed to her that no truth or virtue could endure before this terrible man; as if he spied out murder and bloodguilt in the deepest and most hidden thoughts of people's hearts. She rose. "Be human!" was all that in her state of anxiety and oppression she was able, with difficulty, to say. As she was just going to descend the stairs, to which the President had attended her with ceremonious courtesy, a strange idea came to her--she knew not how. "Might I be allowed to see this unfortunate Olivier Brusson?" she inquired, turning round sharply. He scrutinised her face with thoughtful looks, and then his face distorted itself into the repulsive smile which was characteristic of him. "Doubtless, Mademoiselle," he said, "your idea is that, trusting your own feelings--the inward voice--more than that which happened before our eyes, you would like to examine into Olivier's guilt or innocence for yourself. If you do not fear that gloomy abode of crime--if it is not hateful to you to see those types of depravity in all their gradations--the doors of the Conciergerie shall be opened to you in two hours time. Olivier, whose fate excites your sympathy, shall be brought to you."
In truth, Mademoiselle Scuderi could not bring herself to believe in Olivier's guilt. Everything spoke against him. Indeed, no judge in the world would have thought otherwise than La Regnie, in the face of what had happened. But the picture of domestic happiness which Madelon had placed before her eyes in such vivid colours, outweighed and outshone all suspicion, so that she preferred to adopt the hypothesis of some inscrutable mystery rather than believe what her whole nature revolted against.
She thought she would hear Olivier's narrative of the events of that night of mystery, and in this manner, possibly, penetrate further into a secret which the judges, perhaps, did not see into, because they thought it unworthy of investigation.