Through the Wall Part 78

It was the prisoner who had spoken, it was the lover who had come to the rescue and whose loyal cry broke the spell of horror. Instantly the girl turned to Lloyd with a look of infinite love and grat.i.tude, and before the outraged clerk of the court had finished his warning to the young American, Alice had conquered her distress and was ready once more for the ordeal.

"Tell us in your own words," said the judge kindly, "how it was that you nearly lost your life a second time in a fire."

In a low voice, but steadily, Alice began her story. She spoke briefly of her humble life with the Bonnetons, of her work at Notre-Dame, of the occasional visits of her supposed cousin, the wood carver; then she came to the recent tragic happenings, to her flight from Groener, to the kindness of M. Pougeot, to the trick of the ring that lured her from the commissary's home, and finally to the moment when, half dead with fright, she was thrust into that cruel chamber and left there with M. Coquenil--to perish.

As she described their desperate struggle for life in that living furnace and their final miraculous escape, the effect on the audience was indescribable. Women screamed and fainted, men broke down and wept, even the judges wiped pitying eyes as Alice told how Paul Coquenil built the last barricade with fire roaring all about him, and then how he dashed among leaping flames and, barehanded, all but naked, cleared a way to safety.

Through the tense silence that followed her recital came the judge's voice: "And you accuse a certain person of committing this crime?"

"I do," she answered firmly.

"You make this accusation deliberately, realizing the gravity of what you say?"

"I do."

"Whom do you accuse?"

The audience literally held its breath as the girl paused before replying.

Her hands shut hard at her sides, her body seemed to stiffen and rise, then she turned formidably with the fires of slumbering vengeance burning in her wonderful eyes--vengeance for her mother, for her lover, for her rescuer, for herself--she turned slowly toward the cowering n.o.bleman and said distinctly: "I accuse the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck."

So monstrous, so unthinkable was the charge, that the audience sat stupidly staring at the witness as if they doubted their own ears, and some whispered that the thing had never happened, the girl was mad.

Then all eyes turned to the accused. He struggled to speak but the words choked in his throat. If ever a great man was guilty in appearance, the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck was that guilty great man!

"I insist on saying--" he burst out finally, but the judge cut him short.

"You will be heard presently, sir. Call the next witness."

The girl withdrew, casting a last fond look at her lover, and the clerk's voice was heard summoning M. Pougeot.

The commissary appeared forthwith and, with all the authority of his office, testified in confirmation of Alice's story. There was no possible doubt that the girl would have perished in the flames but for the heroism of Paul Coquenil.

Pougeot was followed by Dr. Duprat, who gave evidence as to the return of Alice's memory. He regarded her case as one of the most remarkable psychological phenomena that had come under his observation, and he declared, as an expert, that the girl's statements were absolutely worthy of belief.

"Call the next witness," directed the judge, and the clerk of the court sang out:

"_Paul Coquenil!_"

A murmur of sympathy and surprise ran through the room as the small door opened, just under the painting of justice, and a gaunt, pallid figure appeared, a tall man, wasted and weakened. He came forward leaning on a cane and his right hand was bandaged.

"I would like to add, your Honor," said Dr. Duprat, "that M. Coquenil has risen from a sick bed to come here; in fact, he has come against medical advice to testify in favor of this young prisoner."

The audience was like a powder mine waiting for a spark. Only a word was needed to set off their quivering, pent-up enthusiasm.

"What is your name?" asked the judge as the witness took the stand.

"Paul Coquenil," was the quiet answer.

It was the needed word, the spark to fire the train. Paul Coquenil! Never in modern times had a Paris courtroom witnessed a scene like that which followed. p.u.s.s.y Wilmott, who spent her life looking for new sensations, had one now. And Kittredge manacled in the dock, yet wildly happy! And Alice outside, almost fainting between hope and fear! And De Heidelmann-Bruck with his brave eyegla.s.s and groveling soul! They _all_ had new sensations!

As Coquenil spoke, there went up a great cry from the audience, an irresistible tribute to his splendid bravery. It was spontaneous, it was hysterical, it was tremendous. Men and women sprang to their feet, shouting and waving and weeping. The crowd, crushed in the corridor, caught the cry and pa.s.sed it along.

"Coquenil! Coquenil!"

The down in the courtyard it sounded, and out into the street, where a group of students started the old snappy refrain:

"Oh, oh! Il nous faut-o!

Beau, beau! Beau Cocono-o!"

In vain the judge thundered admonitions and the clerk shouted for order.

That white-faced, silent witness leaning on his cane, stood for the moment to these frantic people as the symbol of what they most admired in a man--resourcefulness before danger and physical courage and the readiness to die for a friend. For these three they seldom had a chance to shout and weep, so they wept and shouted now!

"Coquenil! Coquenil!"

There had been bitter moments in the great detective's life, but this made up for them; there had been proud, intoxicating moments, but this surpa.s.sed them. Coquenil, too, had a new sensation!

When at length the tumult was stilled and the panting, sobbing audience had settled back in their seats, the presiding judge, lenient at heart to the disorder, proceeded gravely with his examination.

"Please state what you know about this case," he said, and again the audience waited in deathlike stillness.

"There is no need of many words," answered M. Paul; then pointing an accusing arm at De Heidelmann-Bruck, "I know that this man shot Enrico Martinez on the night of July 4th, at the Ansonia Hotel."

The audience gave a long-troubled sigh, the n.o.bleman sat rigid on his chair, the judge went on with his questions.

"You say you _know_ this?" he demanded sharply.

"I know it," declared Coquenil, "I have absolute proof of it--here." He drew from his inner coat the baron's diary and handed it to the judge.

"What is this?" asked the latter.

"His own confession, written by himself and--Quick!" he cried, and sprang toward the rich man, but Papa Tignol was there before him. With a bound the old fox had leaped forward from the audience and reached the accused in time to seize and stay his hand.

"Excuse me, your Honor," apologized the detective, "the man was going to kill himself."

"It's false!" screamed the baron. "I was getting my handkerchief."

"Here's the handkerchief," said Tignol, holding up a pistol.

At this there was fresh tumult in the audience, with men cursing and women shrieking.

The judge turned gravely to De Heidelmann-Bruck. "I have a painful duty to perform, sir. Take this man out--_under arrest_, and--clear the room."

M. Paul sank weakly into a chair and watched idly while the attendants led away the unresisting millionaire, watched keenly as the judge opened the baron's diary and began to read. He noted the magistrate's start of amazement, the eager turning of pages and the increasingly absorbed attention.

"Astounding! Incredible!" muttered the judge. "A great achievement! I congratulate you, M. Coquenil. It's the most brilliant coup I have ever known. It will stir Paris to the depths and make you a--a hero."

"Thank you, thank you," murmured the sick man.

At this moment an awe-struck attendant came forward to say that the baron wished a word with M. Paul.