"Well?" he inquired with a quick glance.
Coquenil was silent, but Gibelin replied exultingly: "We have found a pair of Kittredge's boots that absolutely correspond with the plaster casts of the alleyway footprints; everything is identical, the shape of the sole, the nails in the heel, the worn places—everything."
The judge turned to Coquenil. "Is this true?"
M. Paul nodded. "It seems to be true."
There was a moment of tense silence and then Hauteville said in measured tones: "It makes a strong chain now. What do you think?"
Coquenil hesitated, and then with a frown of perplexity and exasperation he snapped out: "I—I haven't had time to think yet."
Chapter XI.
The Towers of Notre-dame
It was a distressed and sleepless night that Alice passed after the torturing scene of her lover's arrest. She would almost have preferred her haunting dreams to this pitiful reality. What had Lloyd done? Why had this woman come for him? And what would happen now? Again and again, as weariness brought slumber, the sickening fact stirred her to wakefulness—they had taken Kittredge away to prison charged with an abominable crime. And she loved him, she loved him now more than ever, she was absolutely his, as she never would have been if this trouble had not come. Ah, there was her only ray of comfort that just at the last she had made him happy. She would never forget his look of gratitude as she cried out her love and her trust in his innocence and—yes, she had kissed him, her Lloyd, before those rough men; she had kissed him, and even in the darkness of her chamber her cheeks flamed at the thought.
Soon after five she rose and dressed. This was Sunday, her busiest day, she must be in Notre-Dame for the early masses. There was a worn place in a chasuble that needed some touches of her needle; Father Anselm had asked her to see to it. And this duty done, there was the special Sunday sale of candles and rosaries and little red guidebooks of the church to keep her busy.
Alice was in the midst of all this when, shortly before ten, Mother Bonneton approached, cringing at the side of a visitor, a lady of striking beauty whose dress and general air proclaimed a lavish purse. In a first glance Alice noticed her exquisite supple figure and her full red lips. Also a delicate fragrance of violets.
"This lady wants you to show her the towers," explained the old crone with a cunning wink at the girl. "I tell her it's hard for you to leave your candles, especially now when people are coming in for high mass, but I can take your place, and," with a servile smile, "madame is generous."
"Certainly," agreed the lady, "whatever you like, five francs, ten francs."
"Five francs is quite enough," replied Alice, to Mother Bonneton's great disgust. "I love the towers on a day like this."
So they started up the winding stone stairs of the Northern tower, the lady going first with lithe, nervous steps, although Alice counseled her not to hurry.
"It's a long way to the top," cautioned the girl, "three hundred and seventy steps."
But the lady pressed on as if she had some serious purpose before her, round and round past an endless ascending surface of gloomy gray stone, scarred everywhere with names and initials of foolish sightseers, past narrow slips of fortress windows through the massive walls, round and round in narrowing circles until finally, with sighs of relief, they came out into the first gallery and stood looking down on Paris laughing under the yellow sun.
"Ouf!" panted the lady, "it is a climb."
They were standing on the graceful stone passageway that joins the two towers at the height of the bells and were looking to the west over the columned balustrade, over the Place Notre-Dame, dotted with queer little people, tinkling with bells of cab horses, clanging with gongs of yonder trolley cars curving from the Pont Neuf past old Charlemagne astride of his great bronze horse. Then on along the tree-lined river, on with widening view of towers and domes until their eyes rested on the green spreading bois and the distant heights of Saint Cloud.
And straightway Alice began to point out familiar monuments, the spire of the Sainte Chapelle, the square of the Louvre, the gilded dome of Napoleon's tomb, the crumbling Tour Saint Jacques, disfigured now with scaffolding for repairs, and the Sacré Cour, shining resplendent on the Montmartre hill.
To all of which the lady listened indifferently. She was plainly thinking of something else, and, furtively, she was watching the girl.
"Tell me," she asked abruptly, "is your name Alice?"
"Yes," answered the other in surprise.
The lady hesitated. "I thought that was what the old woman called you." Then, looking restlessly over the panorama: "Where is the conciergerie?"
Alice started at the word. Among all the points in Paris this was the one toward which her thoughts were tending, the conciergerie, the grim prison where her lover was!
"It is there," she replied, struggling with her emotion, "behind that cupola of the Chamber of Commerce. Do you see those short pointed towers? That is it."
"Is it still used as a prison?" continued the visitor with a strange insistence.
"Why, yes," stammered the girl, "I think so—that is, the depot is part of the conciergerie or just adjoins it."
"What is the depot?" questioned the other, eying Alice steadily.
The girl flushed. "Why do you ask me that? Why do you look at me so?"
The lady stepped closer, and speaking low: "Because I know who you are, I know why you are thinking about that prison."
Alice stared at her with widening eyes and heaving bosom. The woman's tone was kind, her look almost appealing, yet the girl drew back, guided by an instinct of danger.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"Don't you know who I am?" answered the other, and now her emotion broke through the mask of calm. "I am the lady who—who called for M. Kittredge last night."
"Oh!" burst out Alice scornfully. "A lady! You call yourself a lady!"
"Call me anything you like but——"
"I don't wish to speak to you; it's an outrage your coming here; I—I'm going down." And she started for the stairs.
"Wait!" cried the visitor. "You shall hear me. I have come to help the man you love."
"The man you love," blazed the girl. "The man whose life you have ruined."
"It's true I—I loved him," murmured the other.
"What right had you to love him, you a married woman?"
The lady caught her breath with a little gasp and her hands shut tight.
"He told you that?"
"Yes, because he was forced to—the thing was known. Don't be afraid, he didn't tell your name, he never would tell it. But I know enough, I know that you tortured him and—when he got free from you, after struggling and—starving and——"
"Starving?"
"Yes, starving. After all that, when he was just getting a little happy, you had to come again, and—and now he's there."
She looked fixedly at the prison, then with angry fires flashing in her dark eyes: "I hate you, I hate you," she cried.
In spite of her growing emotion the lady forced herself to speak calmly: "Hate me if you will, but hear me."