“Then,” she continued in a sweet voice, “I can only beseech you,” she clasped her hands, “conjure you,” her eyes implored, “to let Albert out of prison.”
“He shall be liberated as soon as possible; I give you my word.”
“Oh, to-day, dear M. Daburon, to-day, I beg of you, now, at once! Since he is innocent, be kind, for you are our friend. Do you wish me to go down on my knees?”
The magistrate had only just time to extend his arms, and prevent her.
He was choking with emotion, the unhappy man! Ah! how much he envied the prisoner’s lot!
“That which you ask of me is impossible, mademoiselle,” said he in an almost inaudible voice, “impracticable, upon my honour. Ah! if it depended upon me alone, I could not, even were he guilty, see you weep, and resist.”
Mademoiselle d’Arlange, hitherto so firm, could no longer restrain her sobs.
“Miserable girl that I am!” she cried, “he is suffering, he is in prison; I am free, and yet I can do nothing for him! Great heaven! inspire me with accents to touch the hearts of men! At whose feet must I cast myself to obtain his pardon?”
She suddenly stopped, surprised at having uttered such a word.
“Pardon!” she repeated fiercely; “he has no need of pardon. Why am I only a woman? Can I not find one man who will help me? Yes,” she said after a moment’s reflection, “there is one man who owes himself to Albert; since he it was who put him in this position,—the Count de Commarin. He is his father, and yet he has abandoned him. Ah, well! I will remind him that he still has a son.”