“But, in the name of all the Saints,” cried Mademoiselle de Scudéri, “considering all the circumstances which I have told you at such length, can you think of any motive for this diabolical deed?”
“Hm!” answered La Regnie. “Cardillac was anything but a poor man. He had valuable jewels in his possession.”
“But all he had would go to the daughter! You forget that Olivier was to be Cardillac’s son-in-law.”
“Perhaps he was compelled to share with others,” said La Regnie, “or to do the deed wholly for them!”
“Share!—murder for others,” cried Mademoiselle de Scudéri, in utter amazement.
“You must learn, Mademoiselle,” continued La Regnie, “that Olivier’s blood would have been flowing on the Place de la Grève before this time, but that his crime is connected with that deeply-hidden mystery which has so long brooded over Paris. It is clear that Olivier belongs to that infamous band which, baffling all our attempts at observation or discovery, carries on its nefarious practices with perfect immunity. Through him everything will, must be, discovered. Cardillac’s wound is precisely the same as those of all the persons who have been robbed and murdered in the streets and houses; and most conclusive of all since Olivier’s arrest, the robberies and murders have ceased, the streets are as safe by night as by day. Proof enough that Olivier was most probably the chief of the band. As yet he will not confess, but there are means of making him speak against his will.”
“And Madelon!” cried Mademoiselle de Scudéri, “that truthful innocent creature.”
“Ah!” cried La Regnie, with one of his venomous smiles, “who will answer to me that she is not in the plot, too? She does not care so very much about her father. Her tears are all for the young murderer—”
“What?” cried Mademoiselle de Scudéri, “not for her father?—that girl—impossible!”
“Oh!” continued La Regnie, “remember la Brinvilliers! You must pardon me, if by-and-by I have to carry off your protégée, and put her in the Conciergerie.”
Mademoiselle de Scudéri shuddered at this grisly notion. It seemed to her that no truth or virtue could endure before this terrible man; as if he spied out murder and dark-guilt in the deepest and most hidden thoughts of people’s hearts. She rose. “Be human!” was all that she was able, with difficulty, to say in her state of anxiety and oppression. As she was just going to descend the stairs, to which the President had attended her with ceremonious courtesy, a strange idea came to her—she knew not how.
“Might I be allowed to see this unfortunate Olivier Brusson?” she inquired, turning round sharply.
He scrutinised her face thoughtfully, and then distorted his features into the repulsive smile which was characteristic of him.
“Doubtless, Mademoiselle,” he said, your idea is that, trusting your own feelings—the inward voice more than what happened before our eyes, you would like to examine into Olivier’s guilt or innocence for yourself. If you do not fear that gloomy abode of crime if it is not hateful to you to see those types of depravity in all their gradations—the doors of the Conciergerie shall be opened to you in two hours” time. Olivier, whose fate excites your sympathy, shall be brought to you.”
In truth, Mademoiselle de Scudéri could not bring herself to believe in Olivier’s guilt. Everything spoke against him. Indeed, no judge in the world would have thought otherwise than La Regnie, in the face of what had happened. But the picture of domestic happiness which Madelon had called before her eyes in such vivid colours, outweighed and outshone all suspicion, so that she preferred to adopt the hypothesis of some inscrutable mystery rather than believe what her whole nature revolted against.