After long reflection, the barrister thought of a diabolical stratagem. He burnt all the count’s letters establishing the substitution, and he preserved only those which made it probable. These last he went and showed to Albert, feeling sure, that, should justice ever discover the reason of Claudine’s death, it would naturally suspect he who appeared to have most interest in it. Not that he really wished Albert to be suspected of the crime, it was simply a precaution. He thought that he could so arrange matters that the police would waste their time in the pursuit of an imaginary criminal. Nor did he think of ousting the Viscount de Commarin and putting himself in his place. His plan was simply this; the crime once committed, he would wait; things would take their own course, there would be negotiations, and ultimately he would compromise the matter at the price of a fortune.
He felt sure of his mother’s silence, should she ever suspect him guilty of the assassination. His plan settled, he decided to strike the fatal blow on the Shrove Tuesday. To neglect no precaution, he, that very same evening, took Juliette to the theatre, and afterwards to the masked ball at the opera. In case things went against him, he thus secured an unanswerable alibi. The loss of his overcoat only troubled him for a moment. On reflection, he reassured himself, saying: “Pshaw! who will ever know?” Everything had resulted in accordance with his calculations; it was, in his opinion, a matter of patience.
But when Madame Gerdy read the account of the murder, the unhappy woman divined her son’s work, and, in the first paroxysms of her grief, she declared that she would denounce him. He was terrified. A frightful delirium had taken possession of his mother. One word from her might destroy him. Putting a bold face on it, however, he acted at once and staked his all. To put the police on Albert’s track was to guarantee his own safety, to insure to himself, in the event of a probable success, Count de Commarin’s name and fortune. Circumstances, as well as his own terror, increased his boldness and his ingenuity. Old Tabaret’s visit occurred just at the right moment. Noel knew of his connection with the police, and guessed that the old fellow would make a most valuable confidant. So long as Madame Gerdy lived, Noel trembled. In her delirium she might betray him at any moment. But when she had breathed her last, he believed himself safe. He thought it all over, he could see no further obstacle in his way; he was sure he had triumphed.
And now all was discovered, just as he was about to reach the goal of his ambition. But how? By whom? What fatality had resuscitated a secret which he had believed buried with Madame Gerdy? But where is the use, when one is at the bottom of an abyss, of knowing which stone gave way, or of asking down what side one fell?
The cab stopped in the Rue de Provence. Noel leaned out of the door, his eyes exploring the neighbourhood and throwing a searching glance into the depths of the hall of the house. Seeing no one, he paid the fare through the front window, before getting out of the cab, and, crossing the pavement with a bound, he rushed upstairs. Charlotte, at sight of him, gave a shout of joy.
“At last it is you, sir!” she cried. “Ah, madame has been expecting you with the greatest impatience! She has been very anxious.”
Juliette expecting him! Juliette anxious!
The barrister did not stop to ask questions. On reaching this spot, he seemed suddenly to recover all his composure. He understood his imprudence; he knew the exact value of every minute he delayed here. “If anyone rings,” said he to Charlotte, “don’t open the door. No matter what may be said or done, don’t open the door!”
On hearing Noel’s voice, Juliette ran out to meet him. He pushed her gently into the salon, and followed, closing the door. There for the first time she saw his face. He was so changed; his look was so haggard that she could not keep from crying out, “What is the matter?”
Noel made no reply; he advanced towards her and took her hand. “Juliette,” he demanded in a hollow voice, fastening his flashing eyes upon her—“Juliette, be sincere; do you love me?”
She guessed, she instinctively felt that something dreadful had occurred: she seemed to breathe an atmosphere of evil; but she, as usual, affected indifference. “You ill-natured fellow,” she replied, pouting her lips most provokingly, “do you deserve—”
“Oh, enough!” broke in Noel, stamping his feet fiercely. “Answer me,” he continued, bruising her pretty hands in his grasp, “yes, or no—do you love me?”
A hundred times had she played with her lover’s anger, delighting to excite him into a fury, to enjoy the pleasure of appeasing him with a word; but she had never seen him like this before. She had wronged him greatly; and she dared not complain of this his first harshness.
“Yes, I love you,” she stammered, “do you not know it? Why do you ask me?”
“Why?” replied the barrister, releasing her hands; “why? Because, if you love me you must prove it; if you love me, you must follow me at once—abandon everything. Come, fly with me. Time presses—”
The young girl was terrified. “Great heavens! what has happened?”
“Nothing, except that I have loved you too much, Juliette. When I found I had no more money for your luxury, your caprices, I became wild. To procure money, I—I committed a crime—a crime; do you understand? They are pursuing me now. I must fly: will you follow me?”
Juliette’s eyes grew wide with astonishment; but she doubted Noel. “A crime? You?” she began.
“Yes, me! Would you
