“Very well. The Court will deliberate forthwith.”
The judges gathered round the President of the Court, and held a short discussion. Then they returned to their places and the President announced their decision. It was that after consideration of the statement of the witness Juve, their opinion was that it rested merely upon hypotheses, and their decision was that there was no occasion for a supplementary enquiry.
And the President immediately called upon the Public Prosecutor to address the Court.
Neither in the lengthy address of that functionary, nor in the ensuing address of Maître Barberoux on behalf of the defendant, was the slightest allusion made to the fresh facts adduced by the detective. The theories he put forward were so unexpected and so utterly astonishing that nobody paid the least attention to them! Then the sitting was suspended while the jury considered their verdict. The judges retired and guards removed the prisoner, and Juve, who had accepted the dismissal of his application for a further enquiry with perfect equanimity, went up to the press-box and spoke to a young journalist sitting there.
“Shall we go out for a quarter of an hour, Fandor?” and when they were presently in the corridor, he smote the young fellow in a friendly way on the shoulder and enquired: “Well, my boy, what do you say to all that?”
Jérôme Fandor seemed to be overwhelmed.
“You accuse my father? You really accuse Etienne Rambert of being Gurn? Surely I am dreaming!”
“My dear young idiot,” Juve growled, “do pray understand one thing: I am not accusing your father, your real father, but only the man who represented himself to be your father! Just think: if my contention is right—that the Etienne Rambert who killed the Marquise is Curn—it is perfectly obvious that Guru is not your father, for he is only thirty-five years of age! He has merely represented himself to be your father.”
“Then who is my real father?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” said the detective. “That’s a matter we will look into one of these fine days! You take it from me that we are only just at the beginning of all these things.”
“But the Court has refused a supplementary enquiry.”
“’Gad!” said Juve, “I quite expected it would! I have not got the proofs to satisfy the legal mind; and then, too, I had to hold my tongue about the most interesting fact that I knew.”
“What was that?”
“Why, that you are not dead, Charles Rambert! I had to conceal that fact, my boy, for the melancholy reason that I am a poor man and depend on my job. If I had let out that I had known for a long time that Charles Rambert was alive when he was supposed to be dead, and that I had known him first as Jeanne and then as Paul, and yet had said nothing about it, I should have been dismissed from the service as sure as eggs are eggs—and it is equally certain that you would have been arrested; which is precisely what I do not wish to happen!”
In tense silence the foreman of the jury rose.
“In the presence of God and man, and upon my honour and my conscience, I declare that the answer of a majority of the jury is ‘yes’ to all the questions submitted to them.”
Then he sat down: he had made no mention of extenuating circumstances.
The words of the fatal verdict fell like a knell in the silent Court of Assize, and many a face went white.
“Have you anything to say before sentence is passed?”
“Nothing,” Gurn replied.
In rapid tones the President read the formal pronouncement of the Court. It seemed horribly long and unintelligible, but presently the President’s voice became slower as it reached the fatal words: there was a second’s pause, and then he reached the point:
“—the sentence on the prisoner Guru is death.”
And almost simultaneously he gave the order:
“Guards, take the condemned away!”
Juve, who had returned to court with Fandor, spoke to the young journalist.
“’Gad!” he exclaimed, “I know what pluck is. That man is a truly remarkable man: he never turned a hair!”
XXX. AN ASSIGNATION
The final curtain had fallen upon the first performance of the new drama at the Grand Treteau.
The night had been one long triumph for Valgrand, and although it was very late the Baronne de Vibray, who plumed herself on being the great tragedian’s dearest friend, had made her way behind the scenes to lavish praise and congratulations on him, and have a little triumph of her own in presenting her friends to the hero of the hour. In vain had Charlot, the old dresser, tried to prevent her invasion of his master’s dressing-room. He was not proof against her perseverance, and ere long she had swept into the room with the proud smile of a general entering a conquered town. The Comte de Baral, a tall young man with a single eyeglass, followed close in her wake.
“Will you please announce us,” he said to the dresser.
Charlot hesitated a moment in surprise, then broke into voluble explanations.
“M. Valgrand is not here yet. What, didn’t you know? Why, at the end of the performance the Minister of Public Instruction sent for him to congratulate him! That’s a tremendous honour, and it’s the second time it has been paid to M. Valgrand.”
Meanwhile the other two ladies in the party were roaming about the dressing-room: Mme. Simone Holbord, wife of a colonel of the Marines who had just covered himself with distinction in the Congo, and the Comtesse Marcelline de Baral.
“How thrilling an actor’s dressing-room is!” exclaimed Mme. Holbord, inspecting everything in the room through her glass. “Just look at these darling little brushes! I suppose he uses those in making up? And, oh, my dear! There are actually three kinds of rouge!”
The Comtesse de Baral was fascinated by the photographs adorning the walls.
“‘To the admirable Valgrand from a comrade,’” she read in awe-struck tones. “Come and look, dear, it is signed by Sarah Bernhardt! And listen to this one: ‘At Buenos Ayres, at Melbourne, and New York, wherever I am I hear the praises of my friend Valgrand!’”
“Something like a globe-trotter!” said Mme. Holbord. “I expect he belongs to the Comédie Française.”
Colonel Holbord interrupted, calling to his wife.
“Simone, come and listen to what our friend de Baral is telling me: it is really very curious.”
The young woman approached, and the Comte began again for her benefit.
“You have come back too recently from the Congo to be up to date with all our Paris happenings, and so you will not have noticed this little touch, but in the part that he created to-night Valgrand made himself up exactly like Gurn, the man who murdered Lord Beltham!”
“Gurn?” said Mme. Holbord, to whom the name did not convey much. “Oh, yes, I think I read about that: the murderer escaped, didn’t he?”
“Well, they took a long time to find him,” the Comte de Baral replied. “As usual, the police were giving up all hope of finding him, when one day, or rather one night, they did find him and arrested him; and where do you suppose that was? Why, with Lady Beltham! Yes, really: in her own house at Neuilly!”
“Impossible!” cried Simone Holbord. “Poor woman! What an awful shock for her!”
“Lady Beltham is a brave, dignified, and truly charitable woman,” said the Comtesse de Baral. “She simply worshipped her husband. And yet, she pleaded warmly for mercy for the murderer—though she did not succeed in getting it.”
“What a dreadful thing!” said Simone Holbord perfunctorily; her attention was wandering to all the other attractions in this attractive room. A pile of letters was lying on a writing-table, and the reckless young woman began to look at the envelopes. “Just look at this pile of letters!” she cried. “How funny! Every one of them in a woman’s hand! I suppose Valgrand gets all sorts of offers?”
Colonel Holbord went on talking to the Comte de Baral in a corner of the room.
“I am enormously interested in what you tell me. What happened then?”
&nbs
p; “Well, this wretch, Gurn, was recognised by the police as he was leaving Lady Beltham’s, and was arrested and put in prison. The trial came on at the Court of Assize about six weeks ago. All Paris went to it, of course including myself! This man Guru is a brute, but a strange brute, rather difficult to define; he swore that he had killed Lord Beltham after a quarrel, practically for the sake of robbing him, but I had a strong impression that he was lying.”
“But why else should he have committed the murder?”
The Comte de Baral shrugged his shoulders.
“Nobody knows,” he said: “politics, perhaps, nihilism, or perhaps again—love. There was one fact, or coincidence, worth noting: when Lady Beltham came home from the Transvaal after the war, during which, by the way, she did splendid work among the sick and wounded, she sailed by the same boat that was taking Guru to England. Gurn also was a bit of a popular hero just then: he had volunteered at the beginning of the war, and came back with a sergeant’s stripes and a medal for distinguished conduct. Can Gurn and Lady Beltham have met and got to know each other? It is certain that the lady’s behaviour during the trial lent itself to comment, if not exactly to scandal. She had odd collapses in the presence of the murderer, collapses which were accounted for in very various ways. Some people said that she was half out of her mind with grief at the loss of her husband; others said that if she was mad, it was over someone, over this vulgar criminal—martyr or accomplice, perhaps. They even went so far as to allege that Lady Beltham had an intrigue with Gurn!”
“Come! come!” the Colonel protested: “a great lady like Lady Beltham, so religious and so austere? Absurd!”
“People say all sorts of things,” said the Comte de Baral vaguely. He turned to another subject. “Anyhow, the case caused a tremendous sensation; Gurn’s condemnation to death was very popular, and the case was so typically Parisian that our friend Valgrand, knowing that he was going to create the part of the murderer in this tragedy to-night, followed every phase of the Gurn trial closely, studied the man in detail, and literally identified himself with him in this character. It was a shrewd idea. You noticed the sensation when he came on the stage?”
“Yes, I did,” said the Colonel; “I wondered what the exclamations from all over the house meant.”
“Try to find a portrait of Gurn in some one of the illustrated papers,” said the Comte, “and compare it with——Ah, I think this is Valgrand coming!”
The Baronne de Vibray had tired of her conversation with the old dresser, Charlot, and had left him to take up her stand outside the dressing-room, where she greeted with nods and smiles the other actors and actresses as they hurried by on their way home, and listened to the sounds at the end of the passage. Presently a voice became distinguishable, the voice of Valgrand singing a refrain from a musical comedy. The Baronne de Vibray hurried to meet him, with both hands outstretched, and led him into his dressing-room.
“Let me present M. Valgrand!” she exclaimed, and then presented the two young women to the bowing actor: “Comtesse Marcelline de Baral, Mme. Holbord.”
“Pardon me, ladies, for keeping you waiting,” the actor said. “I was deep in conversation with the Minister. He was so charming, so kind!” He turned to the Baronne de Vibray. “He did me the honour to offer me a cigarette! A relic! Charlot! Charlot! You must put this cigarette in the little box where all my treasures are!”
“It is very full already, M. Valgrand,” said Charlot deprecatingly.
“We must not keep you long,” the Baronne de Vibray murmured. “You must be very tired.”
Valgrand passed a weary hand across his brow.
“Positively exhausted!” Then he raised his head and looked at the company. “What did you think of me?”
A chorus of eulogy sprang from every lip.
“Splendid!” “Wonderful!” “The very perfection of art!”
“No, but really?” protested Valgrand, swelling with satisfied vanity. “Tell me candidly: was it really good?”
“You really were wonderful: could not have been better,” the Baronne de Vibray exclaimed enthusiastically, and the crowd of worshippers endorsed every word, until the artist was convinced that their praise was quite sincere.
“How I have worked!” he exclaimed: “do you know, when rehearsals began—ask Charlot if this isn’t true—the piece simply didn’t exist!”
“Simply didn’t exist!” Charlot corroborated him, like an echo.
“Didn’t exist,” Valgrand repeated: “not even my part. It was insignificant, flat! So I took the author aside and I said: ‘Frantz, my boy, I’ll tell you what you must do: you know the lawyer’s speech? Absurd! What am I to do while he is delivering it? I’ll make the speech for my own defence, and I’ll get something out of it!’ And the prison scene! Just fancy, he had shoved a parson into that! I said to Frantz: ‘Cut the parson out, my boy: what the dickens am I to do while he is preaching? Simply nothing at all: it’s absurd. Give his speech to me! I’ll preach to myself!’ And there you are: I don’t want to boast, but really I did it all! And it was a success, eh?”
Again the chorus broke out, to be stopped by Valgrand, who was contemplating his reflection in a mirror.
“And my make-up, Colonel? Do you know the story of my make-up? I hear they were talking about it all over the house. Am I like Gum? What do you think? You saw him quite close at the trial, Comte: what do you think?”
“The resemblance is perfectly amazing,” said the Comte de Baral with perfect truth.
The actor stroked his face mechanically: a new idea struck him.
“My beard is a real one,” he exclaimed. “I let it grow on purpose. I hardly had to make myself up at all; I am the same build, the same type, same profile; it was ridiculously easy!”
“Give me a lock of hair from your beard for a locket,” said the Baronne de Vibray impudently.
Valgrand looked at her, and heaved a profound sigh.
“Not yet, not yet, dear lady: I am infinitely sorry, but not yet: a little later on, perhaps; wait for the hundredth performance.”
“I must have one too,” said Simone Holbord, and Valgrand with great dignity replied:
“I will put your name down for one, madame!”
But the Comte de Baral had looked furtively at his watch, and uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“My good people, it is most horribly late! And our great artiste must be overcome with sleep!”
Forthwith they all prepared to depart, in spite of the actor’s courteous protests that he could not hear of letting them go so soon. They lingered at the door for a few minutes in eager, animated conversation, shaking hands and exchanging farewells and thanks and congratulations. Then the sound of their footsteps died away along the corridors, and the Baronne de Vibray and her friends left the theatre. Valgrand turned back into his dressing-room and locked the door, then dropped into the low and comfortable chair that was set before his dressing-table.
He remained there resting for a few minutes, and then sat up and threw a whimsical glance at his dresser who was putting out his ordinary clothes.
“Hang it all, Charlot! What’s exhaustion? The mere sight of such jewels as those enchanting women would wake one from the dead!”
Charlot shrugged his shoulders.
“Will you never be serious, M. Valgrand?”
“Heavens, I hope not!” exclaimed the actor. “I hope not, for if there is one thing of which one never tires here below, it is Woman, the peerless rainbow that illuminates this vale of tears!”
“You are very poetical to-night,” the dresser remarked.
“I am a lover—in love with love! Oh, Love, Love! And in my time, you know——” He made a sweeping, comprehensive gesture, and came back abruptly to mundane affairs. “Come, help me to dress.”
Charlot offered him a bundle of letters, which Valgrand took with careless hand. He looked at the envelopes one after another, hugely amused.
“Violet ink, and monograms, and coronets, and
—perfume. Say, Charlot, is this a proposal? What do you bet?”
“You never have anything else,” the dresser grumbled “—except bills.”
“Do you bet?”
“If you insist, I bet it is a bill; then you will win,” said Charlot.
“Done!” cried Valgrand. “Listen,” and he began to declaim the letter aloud: “‘Oh, wondrous genius, a flower but now unclosing’ ——Got it, Charlot? Another of them!” He tore open another envelope. “Ah-ha! Photograph enclosed, and will I send it back if the original is not to my fancy!” He flung himself back in his chair to laugh. “Where is my collar?” He picked up a third envelope. “What will you bet that this violet envelope does not contain another tribute to my fatal beauty?”
“I bet it is another bill,” said the dresser; “but you are sure to win.”
“I have,” Valgrand replied, and again declaimed the written words: “‘if you promise to be discreet, and true, you shall never regret it.’ Does one ever regret it—even if one does not keep one’s promises?”
“At lovers’ perjuries——” Charlot quoted.
“Drunken promises!” Valgrand retorted. “By the way, I am dying for a drink. Give me a whisky and soda.” He got up and moved to the table on which Charlot had set decanters and glasses, and was about to take the glass the dresser offered him when a tap on the door brought the conversation to a sudden stop. The actor frowned: he did not want to be bothered by more visitors. But curiosity got the better of his annoyance and he told Charlot to see who it was.
Charlot went to the door and peered through a narrow opening at the thoughtless intruder.
“Fancy making all this bother over a letter!” he growled. “Urgent? Of course: they always are urgent,” and he shut the door on the messenger and gave the letter to Valgrand. “A woman brought it,” he said.
Valgrand looked at it.
“H’m! Mourning! Will you bet, Charlot?”
“Deep mourning,” said Charlot: “then I bet it is a declaration. I expect you will win again, for very likely it is a begging letter. Black edges stir compassion.”
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