“Only the person whom I accuse, by reason of her situation in your house, could know that the Jewish lamp contained that magnificent jewel.”
“I cannot believe it,” repeated the baron.
“Ask her.”
It was, really, the very thing he would not have done, blinded by the confidence the girl had inspired in him. But he could no longer refrain from doing it. He approached her and, looking into her eyes, said:
“Was it you, mademoiselle? Was it you who took the jewel? Was it you who corresponded with Arsène Lupin and committed the theft?”
“It was I, monsieur,” she replied.
She did not drop her head. Her face displayed no sign of shame or fear.
“Is it possible?” murmured Mon. d’Imblevalle. “I would never have believed it. … You are the last person in the world that I would have suspected. How did you do it?”
“I did it exactly as Monsieur Sholmes has told it. On Saturday night I came to the boudoir, took the lamp, and, in the morning I carried it … to that man.”
“No,” said the baron; “what you pretend to have done is impossible.”
“Impossible—why?”
“Because, in the morning I found the door of the boudoir bolted.”
She blushed, and looked at Sholmes as if seeking his counsel. Sholmes was astonished at her embarrassment. Had she nothing to say? Did the confessions, which had corroborated the report that he, Sholmes, had made concerning the theft of the Jewish lamp, merely serve to mask a lie? Was she misleading them by a false confession?
The baron continued:
“That door was locked. I found the door exactly as I had left it the night before. If you entered by that door, as you pretend, someone must have opened it from the interior—that is to say, from the boudoir or from our chamber. Now, there was no one inside these two rooms … there was no one except my wife and myself.”
Sholmes bowed his head and covered his face with his hands in order to conceal his emotion. A sudden light had entered his mind, that startled him and made him exceedingly uncomfortable. Everything was revealed to him, like the sudden lifting of a fog from the morning landscape. He was annoyed as well as ashamed, because his deductions were fallacious and his entire theory was wrong.
Alice Demun was innocent!
Alice Demun was innocent. That proposition explained the embarrassment he had experienced from the beginning in directing the terrible accusation against that young girl. Now, he saw the truth; he knew it. After a few seconds, he raised his head, and looked at Madame d’Imblevalle as naturally as he could. She was pale—with that unusual pallor which invades us in the relentless moments of our lives. Her hands, which she endeavored to conceal, were trembling as if stricken with palsy.
“One minute more,” thought Sholmes, “and she will betray herself.”
He placed himself between her and her husband in the desire to avert the awful danger which, through his fault, now threatened that man and woman. But, at sight of the baron, he was shocked to the very centre of his soul. The same dreadful idea had entered the mind of Monsieur d’Imblevalle. The same thought was at work in the brain of the husband. He understood, also! He saw the truth!
In desperation, Alice Demun hurled herself against the implacable truth, saying:
“You are right, monsieur. I made a mistake. I did not enter by this door. I came through the garden and the vestibule … by aid of a ladder—”
It was a supreme effort of true devotion. But a useless effort! The words rang false. The voice did not carry conviction, and the poor girl no longer displayed those clear, fearless eyes and that natural air of innocence which had served her so well. Now, she bowed her head—vanquished.
The silence became painful. Madame d’Imblevalle was waiting for her husband’s next move, overwhelmed with anxiety and fear. The baron appeared to be struggling against the dreadful suspicion, as if he would not submit to the overthrow of his happiness. Finally, he said to his wife:
“Speak! Explain!”
“I have nothing to tell you,” she replied, in a very low voice, and with features drawn by anguish.
“So, then … Mademoiselle. …”
“Mademoiselle saved me … through devotion … through affection … and accused herself. …”
“Saved you from what? From whom?”
“From that man.”
“Bresson?”
“Yes; it was I whom he held in fear by threats. … I met him at one of my friends’ … and I was foolish enough to listen to him. Oh! there was nothing that you cannot pardon. But I wrote him two letters … letters which you will see. … I had to buy them back … you know how. … Oh! have pity on me! … I have suffered so much!”
“You! You! Suzanne!”
He raised his clenched fists, ready to strike her, ready to kill her. But he dropped his arms, and murmured:
“You, Suzanne. … You! … Is it possible?”
By short detached sentences, she related the heartrending story, her dreadful awakening to the infamy of the man, her remorse, her fear, and she also told of Alice’s devotion; how the young girl divined the sorrow of her mistress, wormed a confession out of her, wrote to Lupin, and devised the scheme of the theft in order to save her from Bresson.
“You, Suzanne, you,” repeated Monsieur d’Imblevalle, bowed with grief and shame. … “How could you?”
On the same evening, the steamer City of London, which plies between Calais and Dover, was gliding slowly over the smooth sea. The night was dark; the wind was fainter than a zephyr. The majority of the passengers had retired to their cabins; but a few, more intrepid, were promenading on the deck or sleeping in large rocking-chairs, wrapped in their travelling-rugs. One could see, here and there, the light of a cigar, and one could hear, mingled with the soft murmur of the breeze, the faint sound of voices which were carefully subdued to harmonize with the deep silence of the night.
One of the passengers, who had been pacing to and fro upon the deck, stopped before a woman who was lying on a bench, scrutinized her, and, when she moved
