IT was eight o'clock—the clock was striking in the kitchen—as Raymond entered the presbytère again. He stepped briskly to the door of the front room, opened it, and paused—no, before going in there to wait, it would be well first to let Madame Lafleur know that he was back, to establish the fact that it was after his return that the man had escaped, that his evening walk could in no way be connected with what would set all St. Marleau by the ears in the morning. And so he passed on to the dining room, which Madame Lafleur used as a sitting room as well. She was sewing beside the table lamp.
“Always busy, Madame Lafleur!” he called out cheerily, from the threshold. “Well, and has Mademoiselle Valérie returned?”
“Ah, it is you, Monsieur le Curé!” she exclaimed, dropping her work on her knees. “And did you enjoy your walk? No, Valérie has not come back here yet, though I am sure she must have got back to her uncle's by now. Did you want her for anything, Monsieur le Curé—to write letters? I can go over and tell her.”
“But, no—not at all!” said Raymond hastily. He indicated the rear room with an inclination of his head. “And our pauvre there?”
Madame Lafleur's sweet, motherly face grew instantly troubled.
“You can hear him tossing on the bed yourself, Monsieur le Curé. I have just been in to see him. He has one of his bad moods. He said he wanted nothing except to be left alone. But I think he will soon be quiet. Poor man, he is so weak he will be altogether exhausted—it is only his mind that keeps him restless.”
Raymond nodded.
“It is a very sad affair,” he said slowly, “a very sad affair!” He lifted a finger and shook it playfully at Madame Lafleur. “But we must think of you too—eh? Do not work too late, Madame Lafleur!”
She answered him seriously.
“Only to finish this, Monsieur le Curé. See, it is an altar cloth—for next Sunday.” She held it up. “It is you who work too hard and too late.”
It was a cross on a satin background. He stared at it. It had been hidden on her lap before. He had not been thinking of—a cross. For the moment, assured of Henri Mentone's escape, he had been more light of heart than at any time since he had come to St. Mar-leau; and, for the moment, he had forgotten that he was a meddler with holy things, that he was—a priest of God! It seemed as though this were being flaunted suddenly now as a jeering reminder before his eyes; and with it he seemed as suddenly to see the chancel, the altar of the church where the cloth was to play its part—and himself kneeling there—and, curse the vividness of it! he heard his own lips at their sacrilegious work: “Lavabo inter innocentes manus meas: et circumdabo altare tuum, Domine.... I will wash my hands among the innocent: and I will compass Thine altar, O Lord.” And so he stared at this cross she held before him, fighting to bring a pleased and approving smile to the lips that fought in turn for their right to snarl a defiant mockery.
“Ah, you like it, Monsieur le Curé!” cried Madame Lafleur happily. “I am so glad.”
And Raymond smiled for answer, and went from the room.
And in the front room he lighted the lamp upon his desk, and stood there looking down at the two letters that still awaited the signature of—Francois Aubert. “I will wash my hands among the innocent”—he raised his hands, and they were clenched into hard and knotted fists. Words! Words! They were only words. And what did their damnable insinuations matter to him! Others might listen devoutly and believe, as he mouthed them in his surplice and stole—but for himself they were no more than the mimicry of sounds issuing from a parrot's beak! It was absurd then that they should affect him at all. He would better laugh and jeer at them, and all this holy entourage with which he cloaked himself, for these things were being made to serve his own ends, were being turned to his own account, and—it was Three-Ace Artie now, and he laughed hoarsely under his breath—for once they were proving of some real and tangible value! Madame Lafleur, and her cross, and her altar cloth! He laughed again. Well, while she was busy with her churchly task, that she no doubt fondly believed would hurry her exit through the purgatory to come, he would busy himself a little in getting as speedily as possible out of the purgatory of the present. These letters now. While he was waiting, and there was an opportunity, he would sign them. It would be easier to say that he had decided not to make any changes in them after all, than to have new ones written and then have to find another opportunity for signing the latter. He reached for the prayer-book to make a tracing of the signature that was on the fly-leaf—and suddenly drew back his hand, and stood motionless, listening.
From the road came the rumble of wheels. The sound grew louder. The vehicle passed by the presbytère, going in the direction of Tournayville. The sound died away. Still Raymond listened—even more intently than before. Jacques Bourget did not own the only horse and wagon in St. Marleau, but Bourget was to turn around a little way down the road, and return to the church. A minute, two passed, another; and then Raymond caught the sound of a wheel-tire rasping and grinding against the body of a wagon, as though the latter were being turned in a narrow space—then presently the rattle of wheels again, coming back now toward the church. And now by the church he heard the wagon turn in from the road.
Raymond relaxed from his strained attitude of attention. Jacques Bourget, it was quite evident, intended to earn the balance of his money! Well, for a word then between Pierre Desforges and Jacques Bourget—pending the time that Madame Lafleur and her altar cloth should go to bed. The letters could wait.
He moved stealthily and very slowly across the room. Madame Lafleur must not hear him leaving the house. He would be gone only a minute—just to warn Bourget to keep very quiet, and to satisfy the man that everything was going well. He could strip off his soutane and leave it under the porch.
Cautiously he opened the door, an inch at a time that it might not creak, and stepped out into the hall on tiptoe—and listened. Madame Lafleur's rocking chair squeaked back and forth reassuringly. She had perhaps had enough of her altar cloth for a while! How could one do fine needle work—and rock! And why that fanciful detail to flash across his mind! And—his face was suddenly set, his lips tight-drawn together—what was this! These footsteps that had made no sound in crossing the green, but were quick and heavy upon the porch outside! He drew back upon the threshold of his room. And then the front door was thrust open. And in the doorway was Dupont, Monsieur Dupont, the assistant chief of the Tournayville police, and behind Dupont was another man, and behind the man was—yes—it was Valerie.
“Tiens! 'Cré nom d'un chien!” clucked Monsieur Dupont. “Ha, Monsieur le Curé, you heard us—eh? But you did not hear us until we were at the door—and a man posted at the back of the house by that window there, eh? No, you did not hear us. Well, we have nipped the little scheme in the bud, eh?”
Dupont knew! Raymond's hand tightened on the door jamb—and, as once before, his other hand crept in under his crucifix, and under the breast of his soutane to his revolver.
“I do not understand”—he spoke deliberately, gravely. “You speak of a scheme, Monsieur Dupont? I do not understand.”
“Ah, you do not understand!”—Monsieur Duponts face screwed up into a cryptic smile. “No, of course, you do not understand! Well, you will in a moment! But first we will attend to Monsieur Henri Mentone! Now then, Marchand”—he addressed his companion, and pointed to the rear room—“that room in there, and handcuff him to you. You had better stay where you are, Monsieur le Curé. Come along, Marchand!”
Dupont and his companion ran into Henri Mentone's room. Raymond heard Madame Lafleur cry out in sudden consternation. It was echoed by a cry in Henri Mentone's voice. But he was looking at Valérie, who had stepped into the hall. She was very pale. What had she to do with this? What did it mean? Had she discovered that he—no, Dupont would not have rushed away in that case, but then—His lips moved: “You—Valérie!” How very pale she was—and how those dark eyes, deep with something he could not fathom, sought his face, only to be quickly veiled by their long lashes.
“Do not look like that, Monsieur le Curé—as though I had done wrong.” she said in a low, hurried tone. “I am sorry for the man too; but the police were to have taken him away to-morrow morning in any case. And if I went for Monsieur Dupont to-night, it was——”
“You went for Monsieur Dupont?”—he repeated her words dazedly, as though he had not heard aright. “It was you who brought Monsieur Dupont here just now—from Tournayville! But—but, I do not understand at all!”
“Valérie! Valérie!”—it was Madame Lafleur, pale and excited, who had rushed to her daughter's side. “Valérie, speak quickly! What are they doing? What does all this mean?”
Valérie's arm stole around her mother's shoulder.
“I—I was just telling Father Aubert, mother,” she said, a little tremulously. “You—you must not be nervous. See, it was like this. You had just taken the man for a little walk about the green this afternoon—you remember? When I came out of the house a few minutes later to join you, I saw what I thought looked like some money sticking out from one end of a folded-up piece of paper that was lying on the grass just at the bottom of the porch steps. I was sure, of course, that it was only a trick my imagination was playing on me, but I stooped down and picked it up. It was money, a great deal of money, and there was writing on the paper. I read it, and then I was afraid. It was from some friend of that man's in there, and was a plan for him to make his escape to-night.”
“Escape!”—Madame Lafleur drew closer to her daughter, as she glanced apprehensively toward the rear room.
Dupont's voice floated menacingly out into the hall—came a gruff oath from his companion—the sound of a chair over-turned—and Henri Mentone's cry, pitched high.
In a curiously futile way Raymond's hand dropped from the breast of his soutane to his side. Valérie and her mother seemed to be swirling around in circles in the hall before him. He forced himself to speak naturally:
“And then?”
Valérie's eyes were on her mother.
“I did not want to alarm you, mother,” she went on rapidly; “and so I told you I was going for a drive. I ran to uncle's house. He was out somewhere. I could go as well as any one, and if Henri Mentone had a friend lurking somewhere in the village there would be nothing to arouse suspicion in a girl driving alone; and, besides, I did not know who this friend might be, and I did not know who to trust. I told old Adèle that I wanted to go for a drive, and she helped me to harness the horse.”
And now, as Raymond listened, those devils, that had chuckled and screeched as the lumpy earth had thudded down on the lid of Théophile Blondin's coffin, were at their hell-carols again. It was not just luck, just the unfortunate turn of a card that the man had dropped the money and the note. It was more than that. It seemed to hold a grim, significant premonition—for the future. Those devils did well to chuckle! Struggle as he would, they had woven their net too cunningly for his escape. It was those devils who had torn his coat that night in the storm, as he had tried to force his way through the woods. It was his coat that Henri Mentone was wearing. He remembered now that the lining of the pocket on the inside had been ripped across. It was those devils who had seen to that—for this—knowing what was to come. A finger seemed to wag with hideous jocularity before his eyes—the finger of fate. He looked at Valerie. It was nothing for her to have driven to Tournayville, she had probably done it a hundred times before, but it seemed a little strange that Henri Mentone's possible escape should have been, apparently, so intimate and personal a matter to her.
“You were afraid, you said, Mademoiselle Valerie,” he said slowly. “Afraid—that he would escape?”
She shook her head—and the colour mounted suddenly in her face.
“Of what then?” he asked.
“Of what was in the note,” she said, in a low voice. “I knew I had time, for nothing was to be done until the presbytère was quiet for the night; but the plan then was to—to put you out of the way, and——”
His voice was suddenly hoarse.
“And you were afraid—for me? It was for me that you have done this?”
She did not answer. The colour was still in her cheeks—her eyes were lowered.
“The blessed saints!” cried Madame Lafleur, crossing herself. “The devils! They would do harm to Father Aubert! Well, I am sorry for that man no longer! He——”
They were coming along the hall—Henri Mentone handcuffed to Monsieur Dupont's companion, and Monsieur Dupont himself in the rear.
“Monsieur le Curé!” Henri Mentone called out wildly. “Monsieur le Curé, do not——”
“Enough! Hold your tongue!” snapped Monsieur Dupont, giving the man a push past Raymond toward the front door. “Do you appeal to Monsieur le Curé because he has been good to you—or because you intended to knock Monsieur le Curé on the head to-night! Bah! Hurry him along, Marchand!” Monsieur Dupont paused before Valérie and her mother. “You will do me a favour, mesdames? A very great favour—yes? You will retire instantly to bed—instantly. I have my reasons. Yes, that is right—go at once.” He turned to Raymond. “And you, Monsieur le Curé, you will wait for me here, eh? Yes, you will wait. I will be back on the instant.”
The hall was empty. In a subconscious sort of way Raymond stepped back into his room, and, reaching the desk, stood leaning heavily against it. His brain would tolerate no single coherent thought. Valérie had done this for fear of harm to him, Valérie had... there was Jacques Bourget who if he attempted now to... it was no wonder that Henri Mentone had been restless all evening, knowing that he had lost the note, and not daring to question... the day after to-morrow there was to be a trial at the criminal assizes... Valérie had not met his eyes, but there had been the crimson colour in her face, and she had done this to save him... were they still laughing, those hell-devils... were they now engaged in making Valérie love him, and making her torture her soul because she was so pure that no thought could strike her more cruelly than that love should come to her for a priest? Ah, his brain was logical now! His hands clenched, and unclenched, and clenched again. Impotent fury was upon him. If it were true! Damn them to the everlasting place from whence they came! But it was not true! It was but another trick of theirs to make him writhe the more—to make him believe she cared!
A footstep! He looked up. Monsieur Dupont was back.
“Tiens!” cried Monsieur Dupont. “Well, you have had an escape, Monsieur le Curé! An escape! Yes, you have! But I do not take all the credit. No, I do not. She is a fine girl, that Valérie Lafleur. If she were a man she would have a career—with the police. I would see to it! But you do not know yet what it is all about, Monsieur le Curé, eh?”
“There was a note and money that Mademoiselle Valérie said she found”—Raymond's voice was steady, composed.
“Zut!” Monsieur Dupont laid his forefinger along the side of his nose impressively. “That is the least of it! There is an accomplice—two of them in it! You would not have thought that, eh, Monsieur le Curé? No, you would not. Very well, then—listen! I have this Mentone safe, and now I, Dupont, will give this accomplice a little surprise. There will be the two of them at the trial for the murder of Théophile Blondin! The grand jury is still sitting. You understand, Monsieur le Curé? Yes, you understand. You are listening?”...
“I am listening,” said Raymond gravely—and instinctively glanced toward the window. It might still have been Jacques Bourget who had turned down there on the road; or, if not, then the man would be along at any minute. In either case, he must find some way to warn Bourget. “I am listening, Monsieur Dupont,” he said again. “You propose to lay a trap for this accomplice?”
“It is already laid,” announced Monsieur Dupont complacently. “They will discover with whom they are dealing! I returned at once with Mademoiselle Valérie. I brought two men with me; but you will observe, Monsieur le Curé, that I did not bring two teams—nothing to arouse suspicion—nothing to indicate that I was about to remove our friend Mentone to-night. It would be a very simple matter to secure a team here when I was ready for it. You see, Monsieur le Curé? Yes, you see. Very well! My plans worked without a hitch. Just as we approached the church, we met a man named Jacques Bourget driving alone in a buckboard. Nothing could be better. It was excellent. I stopped him. I requisitioned him and his horse and his wagon in the name of the law. I made him turn around, and told him to follow us back here after a few minutes. You see, Monsieur le Curé? Yes, you see. Monsieur Jacques Bourget is now on his way to Tournayville with one of my officers and the prisoner.”
Raymond's fingers were playing nonchalantly with the chain of his crucifix. Raymond's face was unmoved. It was really funny, was it not! No wonder those denizens of hell were shrieking with abandoned glee in his ears. This time they had a right to be amused. It was really very funny—that Jacques Bourget should be driving Henri Mentone away from St. Marleau! Well, and now—what?
“You are to be congratulated, Monsieur Dupont,” he murmured. “But the accomplice—the other one, who is still at large?”
“Ah, the other one!” said Monsieur Dupont, and laid his hand confidentially on Raymond's arm. “The other—heh, mon Dieu, Monsieur le Curé, but you wear heavy clothes for the summertime!”
It was the bulk of the sacristan's old coat! There was a smile in Raymond's eyes, a curious smile, as he searched the other's face. One could never be sure of Monsieur Dupont.
“A coat always under my soutane in the evenings”—Raymond's voice was tranquil, and he did not withdraw his arm.
“A coat—yes—of course!” Monsieur Dupont nodded his head. “Why not! Well then, the other—listen. All has been done very quietly. No alarm raised. None at all! I have sent Madame Lafleur and her daughter to bed. The plan was that the accomplice should come to the back window for Mentone. But they would not make the attempt until late—until all in the village was quiet. That is evident, is it not? Yes, it is evident. Very good! You sleep here in this room, Monsieur le Curé? Yes? Well, you too will put out your light and retire at once. I will go into Mentone's room, and wait there in the dark for our other friend to come to the window. I will be Henri Mentone. You see? Yes, you see. It is simple, is it not? Yes, it is simple. Before morning I will have the man in a cell alongside of Henri Mentone. Do you see any objections to the plan, Monsieur le Curé?”
“Only that it might prove very dangerous—for you,” said Raymond soberly. “If the man, who is certain to be a desperate character, attacked you before you——”
“Dangerous! Bah!” exclaimed Monsieur Dupont. “That is part of my business. I do not consider that! I have my other officer outside there now by the shed. As soon as the man we are after approaches the window, the officer will leap upon him and overpower him. And now, Monsieur le Curé, to bed—eh? And the light out!”
“At once!” agreed Raymond. “And I wish you every success, Monsieur Dupont! If you need help you have only to call; or, if you like, I will go in there and stay with you.”
“No, no—not at all!” Monsieur Dupont moved toward the door. “It is not necessary. Nothing can go wrong. We may have to wait well through the night, and there is no reason why you should remain up too. Tiens! Fancy! Imagine! Did I not tell you that Mentone was a hardened rascal? Two of them! Well, we will see if the second one can remember any better than the first? The light, Monsieur le Curé—do not forget! He will not come while there is a sound or a light about the house!” Monsieur Dupont waved his hand, and the door closed on Monsieur Dupont.
Raymond, still leaning against the desk, heard the other walk along the hall, and enter the rear room—and then all was quiet. He leaned over and blew out the lamp. Nothing must be allowed to frustrate Monsieur Dupont's plans!
And then, in the darkness, for a long time Raymond stood there. And thinking of Monsieur Dupont's dangerous vigil in the other room, he laughed; and thinking of Valérie, he knew a bitter joy; and thinking of Henri Mentone, his hands knotted at his sides, and his face grew strained and drawn. And after that long time was past, he fumbled with his hands outstretched before him like a blind man feeling his way, and flung himself down upon the couch.
THEY sat on two benches by themselves, the witnesses in the trial of Henri Mentone for the murder of Théophile Blondin. On one side of Raymond was Valérie, on the other was Mother Blondin; and there was Labbée, the station agent, and Monsieur Dupont, and Doctor Arnaud. And on the other bench were several of the villagers, and two men Raymond did not know, and another man, a crown surveyor, who had just testified to the difference in time and distance from the station to Madame Blondin's as between the road and the path—thus establishing for the prosecution the fact that by following the path there had been ample opportunity for the crime to have been committed by one who had left the station after the curé had already started toward the village and yet still be discovered by the curé on the road near the tavern. The counsel appointed by the court for the defence had allowed the testimony to go unchallenged. It was obvious. It did not require a crown surveyor to announce the fact—even an urchin from St. Marleau was already aware of it. The villagers too had testified. They had testified that Madame Blondin had come running into the village screaming out that her son had been murdered; and that they had gone back with her to her house and had found the dead body of her son lying on the floor.
It was stiflingly hot in the courtroom; and the courtroom was crowded to its last available inch of space.
There were many there from Tournayville—but there was all of St. Marleau. It was St. Marleau's own and particular affair. Since early morning, since very early morning, Raymond had seen and heard the vehicles of all descriptions rattling past the presbytère, the occupants dressed in their Sunday clothes. It was a jour de fête. St. Marleau did not every day have a murder of its own! The fields were deserted; only the very old and the children had not come. They were not all in the room, for there was not place for them all—those who had not been on hand at the opening of the doors had been obliged to content themselves with gathering outside to derive what satisfaction they could from their proximity to the fateful events that were transpiring within; and they had at least seen the prisoner led handcuffed from the jail that adjoined the courthouse, and had been rewarded to the extent of being able to view with intense and bated interest people they had known all their lives, such as Valérie, and Mother Blondin, and the more privileged of their fellows who had been chosen as witnesses, as these latter disappeared inside the building!
Raymond's eyes roved around the courtroom, and rested upon the judge upon the bench. His first glance at the judge, taken at the moment the other had entered the room, had brought a certain, quick relief. Far from severity, the white-haired man sitting there in his black gown had a kindly, genial face. He found his first impressions even strengthened now. His eyes passed on to the crown prosecutor; and here, too, he found cause for reassurance. The man was middle-aged, shrewd-faced, and somewhat domineering. He was crisp, incisive, and had been even unnecessarily blunt and curt in his speech and manner so far—he was not one who would enlist the sympathy of a jury. On the other hand—Raymond's eyes shifted again, to hold on the clean-cut, smiling face of the prisoner's counsel—Lemoyne, that was the lawyer's name he had been told, was young, pleasant-voiced, magnetic. Raymond experienced a sort of grim admiration, as he looked at this man. No man in the courtroom knew better than Lemoyne the hopelessness of his case, and yet he sat there confident, smiling, undisturbed.
Raymond's eyes sought the floor. It was a foregone conclusion that the verdict would be guilty. There was not a loophole for defence. But they would not hang the man. He clung to that. Lemoyne could at least fight for the man's life. They would not hang a man who could not remember. They had beaten him, Raymond, the night before last; and at first he had been like a man stunned with the knowledge that his all was on the table and that the cards in his hand were worthless—and then had come a sort of philosophical calm, the gambler's optimism—the hand was still to be played. They would sentence the man for life, and—well, there was time enough in a lifetime for another chance. Somehow—in some way—he did not know now—but in some way he would see that there was another chance. He would not desert the man.
Again he raised his eyes, but this time as though against his will, as though they were impelled and drawn in spite of himself across the room. That was Raymond Chapelle, alias Arthur Leroy, alias Three-Ace Artie, alias Henri Mentone, sitting there in the prisoner's box; at least, that gaunt, thin-faced, haggard man there was dressed in Raymond Chapelle's clothes—and he, François Aubert, the priest, the curé, in his soutane, with his crucifix around his neck, sat here amongst the witnesses at the trial of Raymond Chapelle, who had killed Théophile Blondin in the fight that night. One would almost think the man knew! How the man's eyes burned into him, how they tormented and plagued him! They were sad, those eyes, pitiful—they were helpless—they seemed to seek him out as the only friend amongst all these bobbing heads, and these staring, gaping faces.
“Marcien Labbée!”—the clerk's voice snapped through the courtroom. “Marcien Labbée!” The clerk was a very fussy and important short little man, who puffed his cheeks in and out, and clawed at his white side-whiskers. “Marcien Labbée!”
The station agent rose from the bench, entered the witness box, and was sworn.
With a few crisp questions, the crown prosecutor established the time of the train's arrival, and the fact that the curé and another man had got off at the station. The witness explained that the curé had started to walk toward the village before the other man appeared on the platform.
“And this other man”—the crown prosecutor whirled sharply around, and pointed toward Henri Mentone—“do you recognise him as the prisoner at the bar?”
Labbée shook his head.
“It was very dark,” he said. “I could not swear to it.”
“His general appearance then? His clothes? They correspond with what you remember of the man?”
“Yes,” Labbée answered. “There is no doubt of that.”
“And as I understand it, you told the man that Monsieur le Curé had just started a moment before, and that if he went at once he would have company on the walk to the village?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that he was not looking for that kind of company.”
There was a sudden, curious, restrained movement through the courtroom; and, here and there, a villager, with pursed lips, nodded his head. It was quite evident to those from St. Marleau at least that such as Henri Mentone would not care for the company of their curé.
“You gave the man directions as to the short cut to the village?”
“Yes.”
“You may tell the court and the gentlemen of the jury what was said then.”
Labbée, who had at first appeared a little nervous, now pulled down his vest, and looked around him with an air of importance.
“I told him that the path came out at the tavern. When I said 'tavern,' he was at once very interested. I thought then it was because he was glad to know there was a place to stay—it was such a terrible night, you understand? So I told him it was only a name we gave it, and that it was no place for one to go. I told him it was kept by an old woman, who was an excommuniée, and who made whisky on the sly, and that her son was——”
“Misérable!”—it was Mother Blondin, in a furious scream. Her eyes, under her matted gray hair, glared fiercely at Labbée.
“Silence!” roared the clerk of the court, leaping to his feet.
Raymond's hand closed over the clenched, bony fist that Mother Blondin had raised, and gently lowered it to her lap.
“He will do you no harm, Madame Blondin,” he whispered reassuringly. “And see, you must be careful, or you will get into serious trouble.”
Her hand trembled with passion in his, but she did not draw it away. It was strange that she did not! It was strange that he felt pity for her when so much was at stake, when pity was such a trivial and inconsequent thing! This was a murder trial, a trial for the killing of this woman's son. It was strange that he should be holding the mother's hand, and—it was Raymond who drew his hand away. He clasped it over his other one until the knuckles grew white.
“And then?” prompted the crown prosecutor.
“And then, I do not remember how it came about,” Labbée continued, “he spoke of Madame Blondin having money—enough to buy out any one around there. I said it was true that it was the gossip that she had made a lot, and that she had a well-filled stocking hidden away somewhere.”
“Crapule!”—Mother Blondin's voice, if scarcely audible this time, had lost none of its fury.
The clerk contented himself with a menacing gesture toward his own side-whiskers. The crown prosecutor paid no attention to the interruption.
“Did the man give any reason for coming to St. Marleau?”
“None.”
“Did you ask him how long he intended to remain?”
“Yes; he said he didn't know.”
“He had a travelling bag with him?”
“Yes.”
“This one?”—the crown prosecutor held up Raymond's travelling bag from the table beside him.
“I cannot say,” Labbée replied. “It was too dark on the platform.”
“Quite so! But it was of a size sufficient, in your opinion, to cause the man inconvenience in carrying it in such a storm, so you offered to have it sent over with Monsieur le Curé's trunk in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he could carry it all right.”
“He started off then with the bag along the road toward St. Marleau?”
“Yes.”
The crown prosecutor glanced inquiringly toward the prisoner's counsel. The latter shook his head.
“You may step down, Monsieur Labbée,” directed the crown prosecutor. “Call Madame Blondin!” There was a stir in the courtroom now. Heads craned forward as the old woman shuffled across the floor to the witness box—Mother Blondin was quite capable of anything—even of throwing to the ground the Holy Book upon which the clerk would swear her! Mother Blondin, however, did nothing of the sort. She gripped at the edge of the witness box, mumbling at the clerk, and all the while straining her eyes through her steel-bowed spectacles at the prisoner across the room. And then her lips began to work curiously, her face to grow contorted—and suddenly the courtroom was in an uproar. She was shaking both scranny fists at Henri Mentone, and screaming at the top of her voice.
“That is the man! That is the man!”—her voice became ungovernable, insensate, it rose shrilly, it broke, it rose piercingly again. “That is the man! The law! The law! I demand the law on him! He killed my son! He did it! I tell you, he did it! He——”
Chairs and benches were scraping on the floor. Little cries of nervous terror came from the women; involuntarily men stood up the better to look at both Mother Blondin and the accused. It was a sensation! It was something to talk about in St. Marleau over the stoves in the coming winter. It was something of which nothing was to be missed.
“Order! Silence! Order!” bawled the clerk.
Valérie had caught Raymond's sleeve. He did not look at her. He was looking at Henri Mentone—at the look of dumb horror on the man's face—and then at a quite different figure in the prisoner's dock, whose head was bent down until it could scarcely be seen, and whose face was covered by his hands. He tried to force a grim complacence into his soul. It was absolutely certain that he had nothing to fear from the trial. Nothing! The other Henri Mentone, the other priest, was answering for the killing of that night, and—who was this speaking? The crown prosecutor? He had not thought the man could be so suave and gentle.
“Try and calm yourself, Madame Blondin. You have a perfect right to demand the punishment of the law upon the murderer of your son, and that is what we are here for now, and that is why I want you to tell us just as quietly as possible what happened that night.”
She stared truculently.
“Everybody knows what happened!” she snarled at him. “He killed my son!”
“How did he kill your son?” inquired the crown prosecutor, with a sudden, crafty note of scepticism in his voice. “How do you know he did?”
“I saw him! I tell you, I saw him! I heard my son shout 'voleur' and cry for help”—Mother Blon-din's words would not come fast enough now. “I was in the back room. When I opened the door he was fighting my son. He tried to steal my money. Some of it was on the floor. My son cried for help again. I ran and got a stick of wood. My son tried to get his revolver from the armoire. This man got it away from him. I struck the man on the head with the wood, then he shot my son, and I ran out for help.”
“And you positively identify the prisoner as the man who shot your son?”
“Yes, yes! Have I not told you so often enough!”
“And this”—the crown prosecutor handed her a revolver—“do you identify this?”
“Yes; it was my son's.”
“You kept your money in a hiding place, Madame Blondin, I understand—in a hollow between two of the logs in the wall of the room? Is that so?”
“Yes; it is so!”—Mother Blondin's voice grew shrill again. “But I will find a better place for it, if I ever get it back again! The police are as great thieves as that man! They took it from him, and now they keep it from me!”
“It is here, Madame Blondin,” said the lawyer soothingly, opening a large envelope. “It will be returned to you after the trial. How much was there?”
“I know very well how much!” she shrilled out suspiciously. “You cannot cheat me! I know! There were all my savings, years of savings—there was more than five hundred dollars.”
A little gasp went around the courtroom. Five hundred dollars! It was a fortune! Gossip then had not lied—it had been outdone!
“Now this hiding place, Madame Blondin—you had never told any one about it? Not even your son?”
“No.”
“It would seem then that this man must have known about it in some way. Had you been near it a short time previous to the fight?”
“I told you I had, didn't I? I told Monsieur Dupont all that once.” Mother Blondin was growing unmanageable again. “I went there to put some money in not five minutes before I heard my son call for help.”
“Your son then was not in the room when you went to put this money away?”
“No; of course, he wasn't! I have told that to Monsieur Dupont, too. I heard him coming downstairs just as I left the room.”
“That is all, Madame Blondin, thank you, unless——” The crown prosecutor turned again toward the counsel for the defence.
Lemoyne rose, and, standing by his chair without approaching the witness box, took a small penknife from his pocket, and held it up.
“Madame Blondin,” he said gently, “will you tell me what I am holding in my hand?”
Mother Blondin squinted, set her glasses further on her nose, and shook her head.
“I do not know,” she said.
“You do not see very well, Madame Blondin?”—sympathetically.
“What is it you have got there—eh? What is it?” she demanded sharply.
Lemoyne glanced at the jury—and smiled. He restored the penknife to his pocket.
“It is a penknife, Madame Blondin—one of my own. An object that any one would recognise—unless one did not see very well. Are you quite sure, Madame Blondin—quite sure on second thoughts—that you see well enough to identify the prisoner so positively as the man who was fighting with your son?”
The jury, with quick meaning glances at one another, with a new interest, leaned forward in their seats. There was a tense moment—a sort of bated silence in the courtroom. And then, as Mother Blondin answered, some one tittered audibly, the spell was broken, the point made by the defence swept away, turned even into a weapon against itself.
“If you will give me a stick of wood and come closer, close enough so that I can hit you over the head with it,” said Mother Blondin, and cackled viciously, “you will see how well I can see!”
Madame Blondin stepped down.
And then there came upon Raymond a thrill, a weakness, a quick tightening of his muscles. The clerk had called his name. He walked mechanically to the witness stand. It was coming now. He must be on his guard. But he had thought out everything very carefully, and—no, almost before he knew it, he was back in his seat again. He had been asked only if he had followed the road all the way from the station, to describe how he had found the man, and to identify the prisoner as that man. He was to be recalled. Le-moyne had not asked him a single question.
“Mademoiselle Valérie Lafleur!” called the clerk.
“Oh, Monsieur le Curé!” she whispered tremulously. “I—I do not want to go. It—it is such a terrible thing to have to say anything that would help to send a man to death—I—-”
“Mademoiselle Valérie Lafleur!” snapped the clerk. “Will the witness have the goodness to——”
Raymond did not hear her testimony; he knew only that she, too, identified the man as the one she had seen lying unconscious in the road, and that the note she had found was read and placed in evidence—in his ears, like a dull, constant dirge, were those words of hers with which she had left him—“it is such a terrible thing to have to say anything that would help to send a man to death.” Who was it that was sending the man to death? Not he! He had tried to save the man. It wasn't death, anyway. The man's guilt would appear obvious, of course—Lemoyne, the lawyer, could not alter that; but he had still faith in Lemoyne. Lemoyne would make his defence on the man's condition. Lemoyne would come to that.
“My son!” croaked old Mother Blondin fiercely, at his side. “My son! What I know, I know! But the law—the law on the man who killed my son!”
“Pull yourself together, you fool!” rasped that inner voice. “Do you want everybody in the courtroom staring at you. Listen to the incomparable Dupont telling how clever he was!”
Yes, Dupont was on the stand now. Dupont was testifying to finding the revolver and money in the prisoner's pockets. He verified the amount. Dupont had his case at his fingers' tips, and he sketched it, with an amazing conciseness for Monsieur Dupont, from the moment he had been notified of the crime up to the time of the attempted escape. He was convinced that, in spite of all precautions, the prisoner's accomplice had taken alarm—since he, Dupont, had sat the night in the room waiting for the unknown's appearance, and neither he nor his deputy, who had remained until daylight hiding in the shed where he could watch the prisoner's window, had seen or heard anything. On cross-examination he admitted that pressure had been brought to bear upon the prisoner in an effort to trip the man up in his story, but that the prisoner had unswervingly held to the statement that he could remember nothing.
The voices droned through the courtroom. It was Doctor Arnaud now identifying the man. They were always identifying the man! Why did not he, the saintly curé of St. Marleau—no, it was Three-Ace Artie—why did not he, Three-Ace Artie, laugh outright in all their faces! It was not hard to identify the man. He had seen to that very thoroughly, more thoroughly than even he had imagined that night in the storm when all the devils of hell were loosed to shriek around him, and he had changed clothes with a dead man. A dead man—yes, that was the way it should have been! Did he not remember how limply the man's neck and head wagged on the shoulders, and how the body kept falling all over in grotesque attitudes instead of helping him to get its clothes off! Only the dead man had come to life! That was the man over there inside that box with the little wood-turned decorations all around the railing—no, he wouldn't look—but that man there who was the colour of soiled chalk, and whose eyes, with the hurt of a dumb beast in them, kept turning constantly in this direction, over here, here where the witnesses sat.
“Doctor Arnaud”—it was the counsel for the defence speaking, and suddenly Raymond was listening with strained attention—“you have attended the prisoner from the night he was found unconscious in the road until the present time?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“You have heard me in cross-examination ask Mademoiselle Lafleur and Monsieur Dupont if at any time during this period the prisoner, by act, manner or word, swerved from his statement that he could remember nothing, either of the events of that night, or of prior events in his life. You have heard both of these witness testify that he had not done so. I will ask you now if you are in a position to corroborate their testimony?”
“I am,” replied Doctor Arnaud. “He has said nothing else to my knowledge.”
“Then, doctor, in your professional capacity, will you kindly tell the court and the gentlemen of the jury whether or not loss of memory could result from a blow upon the head.”
“It could—certainly,” stated Doctor Arnaud. “There is no doubt of that, but it depends on the——”
“Just a moment, doctor, if you please; we will come to that”—Lemoyne, as Raymond knew well that Le-moyne himself was fully aware, was treading on thin and perilous ice, but on Lemoyne's lips, as he interrupted, was an engaging smile. “This loss of memory now. Will you please help us to understand just what it means? Take a hypothetical case. Could a man, for example, read and write, do arithmetic, say, appear normal in all other ways, and still have lost the memory of his name, his parents, his friends, his home, his previous state?”
“Yes,” said Doctor Arnaud. “That is quite true. He might lose the memory of all those things, and still retain everything he has acquired by education.”
“That is a medical fact?”
“Yes, certainly, it is a medical fact.”
“And is it not also a medical fact, doctor, that this condition has been known to have been caused by a blow—I will not say so slight, for that would be misleading—but by a blow that did not even cause a wound, and I mean by wound a gash, a cut, or the tearing of the flesh?”
“Yes; that, too, is so.”
Lemoyne paused. He looked at Henri Mentone, and suddenly it seemed as though a world of sympathy and pity were in his face. He turned and looked at the jury—at each one of the twelve men, but almost as though he did not see them. There was a mist in his eyes. It was silent again in the courtroom. His voice was low and grave as he spoke again.
“Doctor Arnaud, are you prepared to state professionally under oath that it is impossible that the blow received by the prisoner at the bar should have caused him to lose his memory?”
“No.” Doctor Arnaud shook his head. “No; I would not say that.”
Lemoyne's voice was still grave.
“You admit then, Doctor Arnaud, that it is possible?”
Doctor Arnaud hesitated. “Yes,” he said. “It is possible, of course.”
“That is all, doctor”—Lemoyne sat down.
“One moment!”—the crown prosecutor, crisp, curt, incisive, was on his feet. “Loss of memory is not insanity, doctor?”
“No.”
“Is the prisoner in your professional judgment insane?”
“No,” declared Doctor Arnaud emphatically. “Most certainly not!”
With a nod, the crown prosecutor dismissed the witness.
A buzz, whisperings, ran around the room. Raymond's eyes were fixed sombrely on the floor. Relief had come with Lemoyne's climax, but now in Doctor Arnaud's reply to the crown prosecutor he sensed catastrophe. A sentence for life was the best that could be hoped for, but suppose—suppose Lemoyne should fail to secure even that! No, no—they would not hang the man! Even Doctor Arnaud had been forced to admit that he might have lost his memory. That would be strong enough for any jury, and—they were calling his name again, and he was rising, and walking a second time to the witness stand. Surely all these people knew. Was not his face set, and white, and drawn! See that ray of sunlight coming in through that far window, and how it did not deviate, but came straight toward him, and lay upon the crucifix on his breast, to draw all eyes upon it, upon that Figure on the Cross, the Man Betrayed. God, he had not meant this! He had thought the priest already dead that night. It was a dead man he had meant should answer for the killing of that ugly, scarred-faced, drunken blackguard, Théophile Blondin. That couldn't do a dead man any harm! It was a dead man, a dead man, a dead man—not this living, breathing one who——
“Monsieur le Curé,” said the crown prosecutor, “you were present in the prisoner's room with Monsieur Dupont and Doctor Arnaud, when Monsieur Dupont made a search of the accused's clothing?”
“Yes,” Raymond answered.
“Do you identify this revolver as the one taken from the prisoner's pocket?”
What was it Valérie had said—that it was such a terrible thing to have to say anything that would help to send a man to death? But the man was not going to death. It was to be a life sentence—and afterwards, after the trial, there would be time to think, and plot, and plan.
“It is the same one,” said Raymond in a low voice.
“You also saw Monsieur Dupont take a large number of loose bills from the prisoner's pocket?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know their amount?”
“No. Monsieur Dupont did not count them at the time.”
“There were a great many, however, crumpled in the pocket, as though they had been hastily thrust there?”
“Yes.”
Why did that man in the prisoner's dock look at him like that—not in accusation—it was worse than that—it was in a sorrowful sort of wonder, and a numbed despair. Those devils were laughing in his ears—he was telling the truth!
“That is all, I think, Monsieur le Curé,” said the crown prosecutor abruptly.
All! There came a bitter and abysmal irony. Puppets! All were puppets upon a set stage—from the judge on the bench to that dismayed thing yonder who wrung his hands before the imposing majesty of the law! All! That was all, was it—the few words he had said? Who then was the author of every word that had been uttered in the room, who then had pulled the strings that jerked these automatons about in their every movement! Ah, here was Lemoyne this time, the prisoner's counsel. This time there was to be a cross-examination. Yes, certainly, he would like to help Lemoyne, but Lemoyne must not try to trap him. Lemoyne, too, was a puppet, and therefore Lemoyne could not be expected to know how very true it was that “Henri Mentone” was on trial for his life, and that “Henri Mentone” would fight for that life with any weapon he could grasp, and that Lemoyne would do the prisoner an ill turn to put “Henri Mentone” on the defensive! Well—he brushed his hand across his forehead, and fixed his eyes steadily on Lemoyne—he was ready for the man.
“Monsieur le Curé”—Lemoyne had come very close to the witness stand, and Lemoyne's voice was soberly modulated—“Monsieur le Curé, I have only one question to ask you. You have been with this unfortunate man since the night you found him on the road, you have nursed him night and day as a mother would a child, you have not been long in St. Marleau, but in that time, so I am told, and I can very readily see why, you have come to be called the good, young Father Aubert by all your parish. Monsieur le Curé, you have been constantly with this man, for days and nights you have scarcely left his side, and so I come to the question that, it seems to me, you, of all others, are best qualified to answer.” Lemoyne paused. He had placed his two hands on the edge of the witness box, and was looking earnestly into Raymond's face. “Monsieur le Curé, do you believe that when the prisoner says that he remembers nothing of the events of that night, that he has no recollection of the crime of which he is accused—do you believe, Monsieur le Curé, that he is telling the truth?”
There had been silence in the courtroom before—it was a silence now that seemed to palpitate and throb, a living silence. Instinctively the crown prosecutor had made as though to rise from his chair; and then, as if indifferent, had changed his mind. No one else in the room had moved. Raymond glanced around him. They were waiting—for his answer. The word of the good, young Father Aubert would go far. Lemoyne's eyes were pleading mutely—for the one ground of defence, the one chance for his client's life. But Lemoyne did not need to plead—for that! They must not hang the man! They were waiting—for his answer. Still the silence held. And then Raymond raised his right hand solemnly.
“As God is my judge,” he said, “I firmly believe that the man is telling the truth.”
Benches creaked, there was the rustle of garments, a sort of unanimous and involuntary long-drawn sigh; and it seemed to Raymond that, as all eyes turned on the prisoner, they held a kindlier and more tolerant light. And then, as he walked back to the other witnesses and took his seat, he heard the crown prosecutor speak—as though disposing of the matter in blunt disdain:
“The prosecution rests.”
Valérie laid her hand over his.
“I am so glad—so glad you said that,” she whispered.
Monsieur Dupont leaned forward, and clucked his tongue very softly.
“Hah, Monsieur le Curé!” He wagged his head indulgently. “Well, I suppose you could not help it—eh? No, you could not. I have told you before that you are too soft-hearted.”
There were two witnesses for the defence—Doctor Arnaud's two fellow-practitioners in Tournayville. Their testimony was virtually that of Doctor Arnaud in cross-examination. To each of them the crown prosecutor put the same question—and only one. Was the prisoner insane? Each answered in the negative.
And then, a moment later, Lemoyne, rising to sum up for the defence, walked soberly forward to the jury-box, and halted before the twelve men.
“Gentlemen of the jury,” he began quietly, “you have heard the professional testimony of three doctors, one of them a witness for the prosecution, who all agree that the wound received by the prisoner might result in loss of memory. You have heard the testimony of that good man, the curé of St. Marleau, who gave his days and nights to the care and nursing of the one whose life, gentlemen, now lies in your hands; you have heard him declare in the most solemn and impressive manner that he believed the prisoner had no remembrance, no recollection of the night on which the crime was committed. Who should be better able to form an opinion as to whether, as the prosecution pretends, the prisoner is playing a part, or as to whether he is telling the truth, than the one who has been with him from that day to this, and been with him in the most intimate way, more than any one else? And I ask you, too, to weigh well and remember the character of the man, whom his people call the good, young Father Aubert, who has so emphatically testified to this effect. His words were not lightly spoken, and they were pure in motive. You have heard other witnesses—all witnesses for the defence, gentlemen—assert that they have seen nothing, heard nothing, that would indicate that the prisoner was playing a part. Gentlemen, every scrap of evidence that has been introduced but goes to substantiate the prisoner's story. Is it possible, do you believe for an instant, that a man could with his first conscious breath assume such a part, and, sick and wounded and physically weak, play it through without a slip, or sign, or word, or act that would so much as hint at duplicity? But that is not all. Gentlemen, I will ask you to come with me in thought to a scene that occurred this morning an hour before this trial began, and I would that the gift of words were mine to make you see that scene as I saw it.” He turned and swept out his hand toward the prisoner. “That man was in his cell, on his knees beside his cot. He did not look up as I entered, and I did not disturb him. We were alone together there. After a few minutes he raised his head. There was agony in his face such as I have never seen before on a human countenance. I spoke to him then. I told him that professional confidence was sacred, I warned him of the peril in which he stood, I pleaded with him to help me save his life, to tell me all, everything, not to tie my hands. Gentlemen of the jury, do you know his answer? It was a simple one—and spoken as simply. 'When you came in I was asking God to give me back my memory before it was too late.' That is what he said, gentlemen.”
There were tears in Lemoyne's eyes—there were tears in other eyes throughout the courtroom. There was a cry in Raymond's heart that went out to Le-moyne. He had not failed! He had not failed! Le-moyne had not failed!
“Gentlemen, he did not know.” Lemoyne's voice rose now in impassioned pleading—and he spoke on with that eloquence that is born only of conviction and in the soul. It was the picture of the man's helplessness he drew; the horror of an innocent man entangled in seemingly incontrovertible evidence, and doomed to a frightful death. He played upon the emotions with a master touch—and as the minutes passed sobs echoed back from every quarter of the room—and in the jury box men brushed their hands across their eyes. And at the end he was very quiet again, and his words were very low.
“Gentlemen of the jury, I believe in my soul that this man is innocent. I ask you to believe that he is innocent. I ask you to believe that if he could tell of the events of that night he would stand before you a martyr to a cruel chain of circumstance. And I ask you to remember the terrible responsibility that rests upon you of passing judgment upon a man, helpless, impotent, and alone, and who, deprived of all means of self-defence, has only you to look to—for his life.”
There was buoyancy in Raymond's heart. Lemoyne had not failed! He had been magnificent—triumphant! Even the judge was fumbling awkwardly with the papers on his desk. What did it matter now what the crown prosecutor might say? No one doubted perhaps that the man was guilty, but the spell that Lemoyne had cast would remain, and there would be mercy. A chill came, a chill like death—if it were not so, what would he have to face!
“Gentlemen of the jury”—the crown prosecutor was speaking now—“I should do less than justice to my learned friend if I did not admit that I was affected by his words; but I should also do less than justice to the laws of this land, to you, and to myself if I did not tell you that emotion has no place in the consideration of this case, and that fact alone must be the basis of your verdict. I shall not keep you long. I have only a few words to say. The court will instruct you that if the prisoner is sane he is accountable to the law for his crime. We are concerned, not with his loss of memory, though my learned friend has made much of that, but with his sanity. The court will also instruct you on that point. I shall not, therefore, discuss the question of the prisoner's mental condition, except to recall to your minds that the medical testimony has been unanimous in declaring that the accused is not insane; and except to say that, in so far as loss of memory is concerned, it is plainly evident that he was in full possession of all his faculties at the time the murder was committed, and that I am personally inclined to share the opinion of his accomplice in crime—a man, gentlemen, whom we may safely presume is even a better judge of the prisoner's character than is the curé of St. Marleau—who, from the note you have heard read, has certainly no doubt that the prisoner is not only quite capable of attempting such a deception, but is actually engaged in practising it at the present moment.
“I pass on to the facts' brought out by the evidence. On the night of the crime, a man answering the general description of the prisoner arrived at the St. Marleau station. It was a night when one, and especially a stranger, would naturally be glad of company on the three-mile walk to the village. The man refused the company of the curé. Why? He, as it later appears, had very good reasons of his own! It was such a night that it would be all one would care to do to battle against the wind without being hampered by a travelling bag. He refused the station agent's offer to keep the bag until morning and send it over with the curé's trunk. Why? It is quite evident, in view of what followed, that he did not expect to be there the next morning! He drew from the station agent, corroborating presumably the information previously obtained either by himself or this unknown accomplice, the statement that Madame Blondin was believed to have a large sum of money hidden away somewhere in her house. That was the man, gentlemen, who answers the general description of the prisoner. Within approximately half an hour later Madame Blondin's house is robbed, and, in an effort to protect his mother's property, Théophile Blondin is shot and killed. The question perhaps arises as to how the author of this crime knew the exact hiding place where the money was kept. But it is not material, in as much as we know that he was in a position to be in possession of that knowledge. He might have been peering in through the window when Madame Blondin, as she testified, was at the hiding place a few minutes before he broke into her house—or his accomplice, still unapprehended, may, as I have previously intimated, already have discovered it.
“And now we pass entirely out of the realm of conjecture. You have heard the testimony of the murdered man's mother, who both saw and participated in the struggle. The man who murdered Théophile Blondin, who was actually seen to commit the act, is identified as the prisoner at the bar. He was struck over the head by Madame Blondin with a stick of wood, which inflicted a serious wound. We can picture him running from the house, after Madame Blondin rushed out toward the village to give the alarm. He did not, however, get very far—he was himself too badly hurt. He was found lying unconscious on the road a short distance away. Again the identification is complete—and in his pocket is found the motive for the crime, Madame Blondin's savings—and in his pocket is found the weapon, Théophile Blondin's revolver, with which the murder was committed. Gentlemen, I shall not take up your time, or the time of this court needlessly. No logical human being could doubt the prisoner's guilt for an instant. I ask you, gentlemen of the jury, to return a verdict in accordance with the evidence.”
Raymond did not look up, as the crown prosecutor sat down. “No logical human being could doubt the prisoner's guilt for an instant.” That was true, wasn't it? No human being—save only one. Well, he had expected that—it was even a tribute to his own quick wit. Puppets! Yes, puppets—they were all puppets—all but himself. But if there was guilt, there was also mercy. They would show mercy to a man who could not remember. How many times had he said that to himself! Well, he had been right, hadn't he? He had more reason to believe it now than he had had to believe it before. Lemoyne had, beyond the shadow of a doubt, convinced every one in the courtroom that the man could not remember.
“Order! Attention! Silence!” rapped out the clerk pompously.
The judge had turned in his seat to face the jury.
“Gentlemen of the jury,” he said impassively, “it is my province to instruct you in the law as it applies to this case, and as it applies to the interpretation of the evidence before you. There must be no confusion in your minds as to the question of the prisoner's mental condition. The law does not hold accountable, nor does it bring to trial any person who is insane. The law, however, does not recognise loss of memory as insanity. There has been no testimony to indicate that the prisoner is insane, or even that he was not in an entirely normal condition of mind at the time the crime was committed; there has been the testimony of three physicians that he is not insane. You have therefore but one thing to consider. If, from the evidence, you believe that the prisoner killed Théophile Blondin, it is your duty to bring in a verdict of guilty; on the other hand, the prisoner is entitled to the benefit of any reasonable doubt as to his guilt that may exist in your minds. You may retire, gentlemen, for your deliberations.”
There was a hurried, whispered consultation amongst the twelve men in the jury box. It brought Raymond no surprise that the jury did not leave the room. It brought him no surprise that the figure with the thin, pale face, who was dressed in Raymond Chapelle's clothes, should be ordered to stand and face those twelve men, and hear the word “guilty” fall from the foreman's lips. He had known it, every one had known it—it was the judge now, that white-haired, kindly-faced man, upon whom he riveted his attention. A sentence for life... yes, that was terrible enough... but there was a way... there would be some way in the days to come... he had fastened this crime upon a dead man to save his own life... not on this living one whose eyes now he could not meet across the room, though he could feel them upon him, feel them staring, staring at his naked soul... he would find some way... there would be time, there was all of time in a sentence for life... he would not desert the man, he would——-
“Henri Mentone”—the judge was speaking again—“you have been found guilty by a jury of your peers of the murder of one Théophile Blondin. Have you anything to say why the sentence of this court should not be passed upon you?”