“What subterranean passage?” asked André.
“That one which goes from the jail to the Palais de Justice. They use it for great criminals, those who might be torn to pieces by the public. Faith, captain, if I saw that fellow go by, I believe I should feel like knocking him over on the spot. Those enraged dogs do not judge, they kill. But,” he continued, “I have forgotten the morning’s letters in the salon.”
He returned in a minute, having in his hand three envelopes. André, who threw a glance at the first two, saw at once from whom they came. The third was in an unknown hand. It had been addressed to Lunéville, from Paris, then sent on to Riom. The count opened it, and read the three lines which Sixte had written before taking the train for Riom. The hands of this brave officer who did not know the meaning of the word fear, began to tremble. He became as pale as the paper which he held in his trembling hands, so pale that Pourat said to him with fear:
“My captain is ill.”
“Leave me,” said the count brusquely. “I will dress myself alone.”
He had need to recover from the sudden blow which had just struck him. There was some one in the world who knew the terrible secret, some one who knew the mystery of Charlotte’s death and who was not Robert Greslon, for he had seen some of the young man’s writing and this was quite unlike it.
This was a shock of terror such as the most courageous might feel before a fact so absolutely unexpected that it takes on a supernatural character. If the brother of Charlotte had seen his sister, alive there before him, he could not have been more prostrated with astonishment.
Some one knew of the suicide of the young girl, and of the letter written by her before her death, and possibly all the rest. And this some one, this mysterious witness of the truth, what did he think of him? The question with which the note ended told plainly enough.
Suddenly the count remembered what he had dared to do. He remembered the letter thrown into the fire, and the purple of shame rushed to his cheeks. The resolution, taken the evening before, could not be kept. That any man should have the right to say: “The Count de Jussat has committed a cowardly act,” was more than this gentleman so proud of his honor, was able to endure. The trouble of the night before, that he had believed ended, revived, and was rendered more intolerable by the return of his father who said:
“They have heard all the witnesses. I have deposed. But what was very hard was to find myself in the small hall with Greslon’s mother. It is a chance if she does not come down here. She is at the Hôtel du Commerce, where she has begged me to come to talk with her. Ah! what a scene! She has a face not to be forgotten, a severe face, with black eyes which have, as it were, a fire in their tears. She walked up to me and spoke to me. She adjured me to say that her son was innocent, that I knew it, that I had no right to depose against him. Yes, it was a terrible scene, and the gendarme interrupted it. The unhappy woman! I cannot feel hard toward her. He is her son. What a strange thing that a rascal like him can still have in the world a heart that loves him, even as I loved Charlotte, as I love you! Alas!” continued the old man. “It is one o’clock. The attorney-general is going to speak. Then the defense. Between five and six o’clock we shall have the verdict. Ah, but that will satisfy the heart to see him when the sentence is pronounced! It is only just. He has committed murder. He ought to die.”