Etienne Rambert shook with emotion and answered in ringing tones.
“If you are of opinion, sir, that that was an act of complicity on my part, I will not only not deny it, I will proclaim it from the housetops! I became the accomplice of a murderer by inducing him to run away, did I? You forget, sir, that at the moment when I first believed my son was the culprit—I was not his accomplice then, I suppose?—there was a bond between him and me already that I could not possibly break: he was my son! Sir, the duty of a father—and I attach the very loftiest meaning to the word ‘duty’—can never entail his giving up his son!”
A fresh murmur of sympathy through the court annoyed the judge, who shrugged his shoulders.
“Let us leave empty rhetoric alone,” he said. “You have plenty of fine phrases with which to defend your action; that, indeed, is your concern, as the jury will doubtless appreciate; but I think it will be more advantageous to clear up the facts a little—not more advantageous to you, perhaps, but that is what I am here to do. So will you please tell me whether your son confessed to having murdered Mme. de Langrune, either during that night when you persuaded him to run away, or afterwards? Yes or no, please.”
“I can’t answer, sir. My son was mad! I will not believe my son was a criminal! There was absolutely no motive to prompt him to the deed, and his mother is in an asylum! That is the whole explanation of the crime! If he committed murder, it was in a fit of temporary insanity! He is dead; I refuse to cover his memory with the stain of infamy!”
“In other words, according to you Charles Rambert did confess, but you don’t want to say so.”
“I do not say he did confess.”
“You leave it to be inferred.”
Etienne Rambert made no reply, and the judge passed on to another point.
“What exactly did you do after you left the château?”
“What anyone does, I suppose, when he runs away. We wandered miserably about, going through fields and woods, I accusing him and he defending himself. We avoided the villages, scarcely venturing even in the early morning to go and buy food, and walked quickly, wishing to get as far away as possible. We spent the most frightful time it is possible to conceive.”
“How long was all this?”
“I was with my son for four days, sir.”
“So it was on the fourth day that you killed him?”
“Have pity, sir! I did not kill my son. It was a murderer that I had with me, a murderer for whom the police were hunting and for whom the guillotine was waiting!”
“A murderer, if you prefer it so,” said the judge, entirely heedless of the unhappy man’s protests. “But you had no right to assume the functions of executioner. Come, you admit you did kill him?”
“I do not admit it.”
“Do you deny that you killed him?”
“I did what my duty told me to do!”
“Still the same story!” said the judge, angrily drumming his fingers on the desk. “You refuse to answer. But even in your own interests you must have the courage to adopt some definite theory. Well, would you have been glad if your son had taken his own life?”
“May I entreat you to remember that my son is dead!” Etienne Rambert said once more. “I can only remember the one fact that he was my son. I can’t say that I desired his death. I don’t even know now if he was guilty. Whatever horror I may feel for a crime, I can only remember now that Charles was not in his right mind, and that he was the son of my loins!”
Again a tremor of emotion passed through the court, and again the judge made an angry gesture ordering silence.
“So you decline to answer any of the principal points of the indictment? The jury will no doubt appreciate the reason. Well, can you let us know any of the advice you gave your son? If you did not desire him to take his own life, and if you had no intention of killing him, what did you want?”
“Oblivion,” said Etienne Rambert, more calmly this time. “It was not for me to give my son up, and I could only desire for him oblivion, and if that was impossible, then death. I implored him to think of the life that was before him, and the future of shame, and I urged him to disappear forever.”
“Ah, you admit you did recommend him to commit suicide?”
“I mean I wanted him to go abroad.”
The president feigned to be occupied with his notes, purposely giving time for the importance of the last admission he had wrung from Etienne Rambert to sink into the minds of the jury. Then, without raising his head, he asked abruptly:
“You were very surprised to hear of his death?”
“No,” said Rambert dully.
“How did you part from each other?”
“The last night we slept out of doors, under a stack; we were both worn out and heartsick; I prayed God
