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The King, carried away by the vividness with which Mademoiselle Scuderi told the tale, did not notice that the Brusson case, which he so abominated, was in question, listened breathlessly, occasionally expressing his interest by an ejaculation. And ere he was well aware, still amazed by the marvels which he was hearing, not yet able to arrange them all in his mind, behold!
When the first feeling of shuddering left her, she forgot that Cardillac's murderer was kneeling before her, and, speaking in the pleasant tone of quiet goodwill which was natural to her, said "Now, Brusson, what have you to say to me?" He still on his knees sighed deeply, from profound sorrow, and then said
Brusson, much pained by her words, rose quickly, and stepped backwards a pace, with his gloomy glance fixed on the ground. Then, in a hollow voice, he said "Have you quite forgotten Anne Guiot? Her son, Olivier, the boy whom you used to dandle on your knee, is he who is now before you." "Oh!
I know you think otherwise, and, it is said, your opinion rests on what he himself has told you. With me the case is different. Nobody can be more certain than I that Brusson is innocent of Cardillac's death." "Speak! Oh, speak!" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi. "I was the man who stabbed the old goldsmith, in the Rue St. Honoré, close to your door," said the Colonel.
Crowds of people, in threatening temper, often collected before La Regnie's Palais, crying, "Give us out Olivier Brusson! he is innocent!" even throwing stones at the windows, so that La Regnie had to seek the protection of the Marechaussée. Many days elapsed without Mademoiselle Scuderi's hearing anything on the subject of Olivier Brusson.
Your acute intelligence will then despise the generous feeling and kindliness which do honour to you, but in me would be out of place. Eh bien! this morning René Cardillac is found murdered by a dagger-thrust, no one is by him except his workman, Olivier Brusson and the daughter.
It seemed to her that she could not but obey that Higher Power which demanded of her the clearing up of this mystery as if there were no escape for her from the wondrous meshes in which she had become inwound without her will. Coming to a rapid decision, she said with solemnity, "God will give me self-command and firm resolution. Bring Brusson here; I will see him."
I will only recall to your recollection the holy father Brusson, who gloriously won the crown of martyrdom at Montpellier, the pious man, who preached the gospel to us poor abandoned flocks in the wilderness, and then took leave of us, drew no sword, lighted no torch, lived and died in the spirit of peace, and who only came once more to take a last farewell of the old mountains, and of the brethren, whom the faith had collected around him as his own children, with the gospel in his pocket, and with the bread of tears he wished to return to the strange land, which had become to him as his native country; and when they caught him, of what avail was his quiet, peaceable spirit to him?
At length the door opened, Desgrais came in, and after him, Olivier Brusson, without irons, and respectably dressed. "Here is Brusson, Mademoiselle," said Desgrais, bowing courteously; he then departed at once. Brusson sank down on both knees before Mademoiselle Scuderi.
A year after Brusson left Paris, a public proclamation, signed by Harloy de Chauvalon, Archbishop of Paris, and by Pierre Arnaud d'Andilly, Advocate of the Parliament, appeared, stating that a repentant sinner had, under seal of confession, made over to the Church a valuable stolen treasure of gold and jewels.
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