“I never doubted it,” continued Claire; “but now I have the most positive proof.”
“Are you quite sure of what you are saying?” inquired the count, whose eyes betrayed his doubt.
Mademoiselle d’Arlange understood his thoughts; her interview with M. Daburon had given her experience.
“I state nothing which is not of the utmost accuracy,” she replied, “and easily proved. I have just come from M. Daburon, the investigating magistrate, who is one of my grandmother’s friends; and, after what I told him, he is convinced that Albert is innocent.”
“He told you that, Claire!” exclaimed the count. “My child, are you sure, are you not mistaken?”
“No, sir. I told him something, of which every one was ignorant, and of which Albert, who is a gentleman, could not speak. I told him that Albert passed with me, in my grandmother’s garden, all that evening on which the crime was committed. He had asked to see me—”
“But your word will not be sufficient.”
“There are proofs, and justice has them by this time.”
“Heavens! Is it really possible?” cried the count, who was beside himself.
“Ah, sir!” said Mademoiselle d’Arlange bitterly, “you are like the magistrate; you believed in the impossible. You are his father, and you suspected him! You do not know him, then. You were abandoning him, without trying to defend him. Ah, I did not hesitate one moment!”