I give you all the blessing of my woes.
Even in the grave I am your Esther.
“It is striking eleven.
I have said my last prayers. I am going to bed to die.
Once more, farewell!
I wish that the warmth of my hand could leave my soul there where I press a last kiss — and once more I must call you my dearest love, though you are the cause of the death of your Esther.”
A vague feeling of jealousy tightened on the magistrate’s heart as he read this letter, the only letter from a suicide he had ever found written with such lightness, though it was a feverish lightness, and the last effort of a blind affection.
“What is there in the man that he should be loved so well?” thought he, saying what every man says who has not the gift of attracting women.
“If you can prove not merely that you are not Jacques Collin and an escaped convict, but that you are in fact Don Carlos Herrera, canon of Toledo, and secret envoy of this Majesty Ferdinand VII.,” said he, addressing the prisoner “you will be released; for the impartiality demanded by my office requires me to tell you that I have this moment received a letter, written by Mademoiselle Esther Gobseck, in which she declares her intention of killing herself, and expresses suspicions as to her servants, which would seem to point to them as the thieves who have made off with the seven hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
As he spoke Monsieur Camusot was comparing the writing of the letter with that of the will; and it seemed to him self-evident that the same person had written both.
“Monsieur, you were in too great a hurry to believe in a murder; do not be too hasty in believing in a theft.”
“Heh!” said Camusot, scrutinizing the prisoner with a piercing eye.
“Do not suppose that I am compromising myself by telling you that the sum may possibly be recovered,” said Jacques Collin, making the judge understand that he saw his suspicions. “That poor girl was much loved by those about her; and if I were free, I would undertake to search for this money, which no doubt belongs to the being I love best in the world — to Lucien!
— Will you allow me to read that letter; it will not take long?
It is evidence of my dear boy’s innocence — you cannot fear that I shall destroy it — nor that I shall talk about it; I am in solitary confinement.”
“In confinement! You will be so no longer,” cried the magistrate.
“It is I who must beg you to get well as soon as possible. Refer to your ambassador if you choose ——”
And he handed the letter to Jacques Collin.
Camusot was glad to be out of a difficulty, to be able to satisfy the public prosecutor, Mesdames de Maufrigneuse and de Serizy.
Nevertheless, he studied his prisoner’s face with cold curiosity while Collin read Esther’s letter; in spite of the apparent genuineness of the feelings it expressed, he said to himself:
“But it is a face worthy of the hulks, all the same!”
“That is the way to love!” said Jacques Collin, returning the letter. And he showed Camusot a face bathed in tears. “If only you knew him,” he went on, “so youthful, so innocent a soul, so splendidly handsome, a child, a poet! — The impulse to sacrifice oneself to him is irresistible, to satisfy his lightest wish.
That dear boy is so fascinating when he chooses ——”
“And so,” said the magistrate, making a final effort to discover the truth, “you cannot possibly be Jacques Collin ——”
“No, monsieur,” replied the convict.
And Jacques Collin was more entirely Don Carlos Herrera than ever.
In his anxiety to complete his work he went up to the judge, led him to the window, and gave himself the airs of a prince of the Church, assuming a confidential tone:
“I am so fond of that boy, monsieur, that if it were needful, to spare that idol of my heart a mere discomfort even, that I should be the criminal you take me for, I would surrender,” said he in an undertone. “I would follow the example of the poor girl who has killed herself for his benefit.
And I beg you, monsieur, to grant me a favor — namely, to set Lucien at liberty forthwith.”
“My duty forbids it,” said Camusot very good-naturedly; “but if a sinner may make a compromise with heaven, justice too has its softer side, and if you can give me sufficient reasons — speak; your words will not be taken down.”
“Well, then,” Jacques Collin went on, taken in by Camusot’s apparent goodwill, “I know what that poor boy is suffering at this moment; he is capable of trying to kill himself when he finds himself a prisoner ——”
“Oh! as to that!” said Camusot with a shrug.
“You do not know whom you will oblige by obliging me,” added Jacques Collin, trying to harp on another string. “You will be doing a service to others more powerful than any Comtesse de Serizy or Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, who will never forgive you for having had their letters in your chambers ——” and he pointed to two packets of perfumed papers. “My Order has a good memory.”
“Monsieur,” said Camusot, “that is enough.
You must find better reasons to give me.
I am as much interested in the prisoner as in public vengeance.”
“Believe me, then, I know Lucien; he has a soul of a woman, of a poet, and a southerner, without persistency or will,” said Jacques Collin, who fancied that he saw that he had won the judge over. “You are convinced of the young man’s innocence, do not torture him, do not question him. Give him that letter, tell him that he is Esther’s heir, and restore him to freedom. If you act otherwise, you will bring despair on yourself; whereas, if you simply release him, I will explain to you — keep me still in solitary confinement — to-morrow or this evening, everything that may strike you as mysterious in the case, and the reasons for the persecution of which I am the object. But it will be at the risk of my life, a price has been set on my head these six years past. . . . Lucien free, rich, and married to Clotilde de Grandlieu, and my task on earth will be done; I shall no longer try to save my skin. — My persecutor was a spy under your late King.”
“What, Corentin?”
“Ah! Is his name Corentin?
Thank you, monsieur. Well, will you promise to do as I ask you?”
“A magistrate can make no promises. — Coquart, tell the usher and the gendarmes to take the prisoner back to the Conciergerie.
— I will give orders that you are to have a private room,” he added pleasantly, with a slight nod to the convict.
Struck by Jacques Collin’s request, and remembering how he had insisted that he wished to be examined first as a privilege to his state of health, Camusot’s suspicions were aroused once more.
Allowing his vague doubts to make themselves heard, he noticed that the self-styled dying man was walking off with the strength of a Hercules, having abandoned all the tricks he had aped so well on appearing before the magistrate.
“Monsieur!”
Jacques Collin turned round.
“Notwithstanding your refusal to sign the document, my clerk will read you the minutes of your examination.”
The prisoner was evidently in excellent health; the readiness with which he came back, and sat down by the clerk, was a fresh light to the magistrate’s mind.
“You have got well very suddenly!” said Camusot.
“Caught!” thought Jacques Collin; and he replied: