M. LECOQ.
The Marquis de Croisenois lived in a fine new house on the Boulevard
Malesherbes near the church of St. Augustine, and in a suite of rooms
the rental of which was four thousand francs per annum. He had collected
together sufficient relics of his former splendor to dazzle the eyes of
the superficial observer. The apartment and the furniture stood in the
name of his body-servant, while his horse and brougham were by the same
fiction supposed to be the property of his coachman, for even in the
midst of his ruin the Marquis de Croisenois could not go on foot like
common people.
The Marquis had two servants only in his modest establishment--a
coachman, who did a certain amount of indoor work, and a valet, who knew
enough of cookery to prepare a bachelor breakfast. This valet Mascarin
had seen once, and the man had then produced so unpleasant an impression
on the astute proprietor of the Servants’ Registry Office that he had
set every means at work to discover who he was and from whence he
came. Croisenois said that he had taken him into his service on the
recommendation of an English baronet of his acquaintance, a certain Sir
Richard Wakefield. The man was a Frenchman, but he had resided for some
time in England, for he spoke that language with tolerable fluency.
Andre knew nothing of these details, but he had heard of the existence
of the valet from M. de Breulh, when he had asked where the Marquis
lived.
At eight o’clock on the morning after he had surreptitiously left his
home in the manner described, Andre took up his position in a small
wine-shop not far from the abode of the Marquis de Croisenois. He had
done this designedly, for he knew enough of the manner and customs of
Parisian society to know that this was the hour usually selected by
domestics in fashionable quarters to come out for a gossip while their
masters were still in bed. Andre had more confidence in himself than
heretofore, for he had succeeded in saving Gaston; and these were
the means he had employed. After much trouble, and even by the use of
threats, he had persuaded the boy to return to his father’s house. He
had gone with him; and though it was two in the morning, he had not
hesitated to arouse M. Gandelu, senior, and tell him how his son had
been led on to commit the forgery, and how he threatened to commit
suicide.
The poor old man was much moved.
“Tell him to come to me at once,” said he, “and let him know that we two
will save him.”
Andre had not far to go, for Gaston was waiting in the next room in an
agony of suspense.
As soon as he came into the old man’s presence he fell upon his knees,
with many promises of amendment for the future.
“I do not believe,” remarked old Gandelu, “that these miscreants will
venture to carry their threats into execution and place the matter in
the hands of the police; but for all that, my son must not remain in
a state of suspense. I will file a complaint against the Mutual Loan
Society before twelve to-day, and we will see how an association will be
dealt with that lends money to minors and urges them to forge signatures
as security. It will, however, be as well for my son to leave for
Belgium by the first train this morning; but, as you will see, he will
not remain very many days.”
Andre remained for the rest of the hours of darkness at the kind old
man’s house, and it was in Gaston’s room that he renewed his “make-up”
before leaving. The future looked very bright to him as he walked gayly
up the Boulevard Malesherbes. The wine-shop in which he had taken up his
position was admirably adapted for keeping watch on De Croisenois, for
he could not avoid seeing all who came in and went out of the house;
and as there was no other wine-shop in the neighborhood, Andre felt
sure that all the servants in the vicinity, and those of the Marquis, of
course, among the number, would come there in the course of the morning;
so that here he could get into conversation with them, offer them a
glass of wine, and, perhaps, get some information from them. The
room was large and airy, and was full of customers, most of whom were
servants. Andre was racking his brain for a means of getting into
conversation with the proprietor, when two new-comers entered the room.
These men were in full livery, while all the other servants had on
morning jackets. As soon as they entered, an old man, with a calm
expression of face, who was struggling perseveringly with a tough
beefsteak at the same table as that by which Andre was seated,
observed,--
“Ah! here comes the De Croisenois’ lot.”
“If they would only sit here,” thought Andre, “by the side of this
fellow, who evidently knows them, I could hear all they said.”
By good luck they did so, begging that they might be served at once, as
they were in a tremendous hurry.
“What is the haste this morning?” asked the old man who had recognized
them.
“I have to drive the master to his office, for he has one now. He is
chairman of a Copper Mining Company, and a fine thing it is, too. If you
have any money laid by, M. Benoit, this is a grand chance for you.”
Benoit shook his head gravely.
“All is not gold that glitters,” said he sententiously; “nor, on the
other hand, are things as bad as they are painted.”
Benoit was evidently a prudent man, and was not likely to commit
himself.
“But if your master is going out, you, M. Mouret, will be free, and we
can have a game at cards together.”
“No, sir,” answered the valet.
“What! are you engaged too?”
“Yes; I have to carry a bouquet of flowers to the young lady my master
is engaged to. I have seen the young lady; she seems to be rather
haughty.”
The man, who wore an enormously high and stiff collar, was absolutely
speaking of Sabine, and Andre could have twisted his neck with pleasure.
“Let us hope,” remarked the coachman, as he hastily swallowed his
breakfast, “that the Marquis does not intend to invest his wife’s dowry
in this new venture of his.”
The men then ceased to speak of their master, and began to busy
themselves with their own affairs, and went out again without alluding
to him any further, leaving Andre to reflect what a difficult business
the detective line was.
The customers looked upon him with distrustful eyes, for it must be
confessed that his appearance was decidedly against him, and he had not
yet acquired the necessary art of seeing and hearing while affecting to
be doing neither; and it was easy for the dullest observer to be certain
that it was not for the sake of obtaining a breakfast that he had
entered the establishment. Andre had penetration enough to see the
effect he had produced, and he became more and more embarrassed. He had
finished his meal now and had lighted a cigar, and had ordered a small
glass of brandy. Nearly all the customers had withdrawn, leaving only
five or six, who were playing cards at a table near the door. Andre
was anxious to see Croisenois enter his carriage, and so he lingered,
ordering another glass of brandy as an excuse.
He had just been served, when a man, whose dress very much resembled his
own, lounged into the wine-shop. He was a tall, clumsily built fellow,
with an insolent expression upon his beardless face. His coat and cap
were in an equally dilapidated condition; and in the squeaky voice of
the rough, he ordered a plate of beef and half a bottle of wine, and,
as he brushed past Andre, upset his glass of brandy. The artist made no
remark, though he felt quite sure that this act was intentional, as the
fellow laughed impudently when he saw the damage that he had done. When
his breakfast was served, he carelessly spit upon Andre’s boots. The
insult was so apparent that Andre began to reflect.
“Had he not succeeded in eluding his spies, as he thought that he had
done? And was it not quite possible that this man had been sent to pick
a quarrel with him, and deal him a disabling, or even a fatal blow?”
Prudence counselled him to leave the place at once, but he felt that he
could not go until he had found out the real truth. There seemed to be
but little doubt on the matter, however; for as the fellow cut up his
meat, he jerked every bit of skin and gristle into his neighbor’s lap;
then, after finishing up his wine, he managed to upset the few drops
remaining on to Andre’s arm and shoulder. This was the finishing stroke.
“Please, remember,” remarked Andre calmly, “that there is some one at
the table besides yourself.”
“Do you think I’m blind, mate?” returned the fellow brutally. “Mind your
own business, or----” And to conclude the sentence, he shook his fist
threateningly in the young man’s face.
Andre started to his feet, and, with a well-directed blow in the chest,
sent the fellow rolling under the table.
At the sound of the scuffle, the card-players turned round, and saw
Andre standing erect, with quivering lips and eyes flashing with rage,
while his antagonist was lying on the floor among the overturned chairs.
“Come, come! No squabbling here!” remarked one of the players.
The fellow scrambled to his feet, and made a savage rush at the young
man, who, using his right foot skilfully, tripped his antagonist up,
and sent him again rolling on the ground. It was most adroitly done, and
secured the applause of the lookers-on, who now complained no longer,
and were evidently interested in the scene.
Again the rough came up, but Andre contented himself with standing on
the defensive. Some tables, a stool, and a glass were injured, and at
last the proprietor came upon the scene of action.
“Get out of this,” cried he, “and take care that I don’t see your faces
here again.”
At these words, the rough burst out into a torrent of foul language.
“Don’t put up with his cheek,” said one of the customers; “give him in
charge at once.”
Hardly, however, had the manager started to summon the police, than, as
if by magic, a body of them appeared; and Andre found himself walking
down the boulevard between a couple, while his late antagonist followed
in the safe custody of two more. To have attempted any resistance would
have been utter folly, and the young man resigned himself to what he
felt he could not help. But as he went on, he reflected on the strange
scene through which he had just passed. All had gone on so rapidly that
he could hardly recall the events to his memory. He was, however, quite
sure that this unprovoked assault concealed some motive with which at
present he was unacquainted.
The police led their prisoners through the doorway of a dingy-looking
old house, and then Andre saw that he was not at the regular
police-station. The whole party entered an office, where a
superintendent and two clerks were at work. The ruffian who had
assaulted Andre changed his manner directly he entered the office; he
threw his tattered cap upon a bench, passed his fingers through his
hair, and shook hands with the superintendent; he then turned to Andre.
“Permit me, sir,” said he, “to compliment you on being so handy with
your fists. You precious nearly did for me, I can tell you.”
At that moment a door opened at the other end of the room, and a voice
was heard to say, “Send them in.”
Andre and his late antagonist soon found themselves in an office
evidently sacred to some one high up in the police. At a desk near the
window was seated a man, with a rather distinguished air, wearing a
white necktie and a pair of gold glasses.
“Have the goodness to take a seat,” said this gentleman, addressing
Andre with the most perfect urbanity.
He took a chair, half stupefied by the strangeness of the whole affair,
and waited. Could he be awake, or was he dreaming? He could hardly tell.
“Before I say anything,” remarked the gentleman in the gold spectacles,
“I ought to apologize for a proceeding which is--well, what shall I call
it?--a little rough, perhaps; but it was necessary to make use of it to
obtain this interview with you. Really, however, I had no choice. You
are closely watched, and I did not wish the persons who had set spies on
you to have any knowledge of this conference.”
“Do you say I am watched?” stammered Andre.
“Yes, by a certain La Candele, as sharp a fellow at that kind of work as
you could find in Paris. Are you surprised at this?”
“Yes, for I had thought----”
The gentleman’s features softened into a benevolent smile.
“You thought,” he said, “that you had succeeded in throwing them off the
scent. So I had imagined this morning, when I saw you in your present
disguise. But permit me, my dear M. Andre, to assure you that there is
great room for improvement in it. I admit that a first attempt is always
to be looked on leniently; but it did not deceive La Candele, and even
at this distance I can plainly see your whole makeup; and what I can
see, of course, is patent to others.”
He rose from his seat, and came closer to Andre.
“Why on earth,” asked he, “should you daub all this color on your face,
which makes you look like an Indian warrior in his war-paint? Only two
colors are necessary to change the whole face--red and black--at the
eyebrows, the nostrils, and the corners of the mouth. Look here;” and
taking from his pocket a gold pencil-case, he corrected the faults in
the young artist’s work.
As soon as he had finished, Andre went up to the mirror over the
chimney-piece, and was surprised at the result.
“Now,” said the strange gentleman, “you see the futility of your
attempts. La Candele knew you at once. I wished to speak to you; so I
sent for Palot, one of my men, and instructed him to pick a quarrel with
you. The policemen arrested you, and we have met without any one being
at all the wiser. Be kind enough to efface my little corrections, as
they will be noticed in the street.”
Andre obeyed, and as he rubbed away with the corner of his handkerchief,
he vainly sought for some elucidation of this mystery.
The man with the gold spectacles had resumed his seat, and was
refreshing himself with a pinch of snuff.
“And now,” resumed he, “we will, if you please, have a little talk
together. As you see, I know you. Doctor Loulleux tells me that he knows
no one so high-minded and amiable as yourself. He declares that your
honor is without a stain, and your courage undoubted.”
“Ah! my dear sir!” interposed the painter, with a deep blush.
“Pray let me go on. M. Gandelu says that he would trust you with all he
possessed, while all your comrades, with Vignol at their head, have the
greatest respect and regard for you. So much for the present. As for
your future, two of the greatest ornaments of the artistic world say
that you will one day occupy a very high place in the profession. You
gain now about fifteen francs a day. Am I correct?”
“Certainly,” answered Andre, more bewildered than ever.
The gentleman smiled.
“Unfortunately,” he went on, “my information ends here, for the means of
inquiry possessed by the police are, of course, very limited. They can
only act upon facts, not on intentions, and so long as these are not
displayed in open acts, the hands of the police are tied. It is only
forty-eight hours since I heard of you for the first time, and I
have already your biography in my pocket. I hear that the day before
yesterday you were dining with M. de Breulh-Faverlay, and that this
morning you were walking with young Gandelu, and that La Candele was
following you like a shadow. These are all facts, but----”
He paused, and cast a keen glance upon Andre, then, in a slow and
measured voice, he continued,--
“But no one has been able to tell me why you dogged Verminet’s
footsteps, or why you went to Mascarin’s house, or why, finally,
you disguised yourself to keep a watch on the movements of the most
honorable the Marquis de Croisenois. It is the motive that we cannot
arrive at, for the facts are perfectly clear.”
Andre fidgeted uneasily in his chair beneath the spell of those magnetic
glasses, which seemed to draw the truth from him.
“I cannot tell you, sir,” faltered he at last, “for the secret is not
mine to divulge.”
“You will not trust me? Well, then, I must speak. Remember, all that
I have told you was the account of what I knew positively; but, in
addition to this, I have drawn my own inferences. You are watching De
Croisenois because he is going to marry a wealthy heiress.”
Andre blushed crimson.
“We assume, therefore, that you wish to prevent this marriage; and why,
pray? I have heard that Mademoiselle de Mussidan was formerly engaged
to M. de Breulh-Faverlay. How comes it that the Count and Countess de
Mussidan prefer a ruined spendthrift to a wealthy and strictly honorable
man? It is for you to answer this question. It is perfectly plain to me
that they hand over their daughter to De Croisenois under pressure
of some kind, and that means that a terrible secret exists with which
Croisenois threatens them.”
“Your deduction is wrong, sir,” exclaimed Andre eagerly, “and you are
quite wrong.”
“Very good,” was the calm reply. “Your emphatic denial shows that I am
in the right. I want no further proofs. M. de Mussidan paid you a visit
yesterday, and one of my agents reported that his face was much happier
on leaving you than when he was on his way to your house. I therefore
infer that you promised to release him from Croisenois’ persecutions,
and in return he promised you his daughter’s hand in marriage. This, of
course, explains your present disguise, and now tell me again that I am
wrong, if you dare.”
Andre would not lie, and therefore kept silence.
“And now,” continued the gentleman, “how about the secret? Did not the
Count tell it you? I do not know it; and yet I think that if I were to
search for it, I could find it. I can call to my mind certain crimes
which three generations of detective have striven to find out. Did you
ever hear that De Croisenois had an elder brother named George, who
disappeared in a most wonderful manner? What became of him? This very
George, twenty-three years back, was a friend of Madame de Mussidan’s.
Might not his disappearance have something to do with this marriage?”
“Are you the fiend himself?” cried the young man.
“I am M. Lecoq.”
Andre started back in absolute dread at the name of this celebrated
detective.
“M. Lecoq!” repeated he.
The vanity of the great detective was much flattered when he saw the
impression that his name had produced.
“And now, my dear M. Andre,” said he blandly, “now that you know who I
am, may I not hope that you will be more communicative?”
M. de Mussidan had not told his secret to the young artist, but he
had said enough for him to feel that the detective was correct in his
inference.
“Surely,” continued Lecoq, “we ought to be able to come to a more
definite understanding, and I think that my openness should elicit some
frankness on your side. I saw that you were watched by the very person
that I was watching. For three days my men have followed you, and to-day
I made up my mind that you could furnish me with the clue I am seeking.”
“I, sir?”
“For many years,” continued Lecoq, “I have been certain that an
organized association of blackmailers exists in Paris; family
differences, sin, shame, and sorrow are worked by these wretches like
veritable gold mines, and bring them in enormous annual revenues.”
“Ah,” returned Andre, “I expected something of this kind.”
“Of course, when I was quite sure of these facts,” continued Lecoq, “I
said to myself, ‘I will break up this gang;’ but it was easier said than
done. There is one very peculiar thing about blackmailing. Those who
carry it on are almost certain of doing so with impunity, for the
victims will pay and not complain. Yes, I tell you that I have often
found out these unhappy pigeons, but never could get one to speak.”
The detective was so indignant and acrimonious withal in his
indignation, that Andre could not repress a smile.
“Very soon,” continued Lecoq, “I recognized the futility of my attempts,
and the impossibility of reaching these scoundrels through their
victims, and then I determined to strike at the plunderers themselves,
but this was a scheme that took patience and time. I have waited my
chance for three years, and for eighteen months one of my men has been
in the service of the Marquis de Croisenois, and up to now this band
of villains has cost the government over ten thousand francs. That
superlative scoundrel, Mascarin, has put several white threads in my
hair. I believe him to be Tantaine; yes, and Martin Rigal too. The idea
of there being a means of communication between the banker’s house
in the Rue Montmartre and the Servants’ Registry Office in the Rue
Montorgueil only came into my head this morning. But this time they
have gone too far, and I have them. I know them all, from the chief,
Mascarin-Tantaine-Rigal, down to their lowest agent, Toto Chupin, and
Paul Violaine, the docile puppet of their will. We will get hold of the
whole gang, and neither Van Klopen nor Catenac will escape. Just now the
latter is travelling about with the Duke de Champdoce and a fellow named
Perpignan, and two of my sweet lads are close upon them, and send in
almost hourly reports of what is going on. My trap has a tempting bait,
the spring is strong, and we shall catch every one of them. And now do
you still hesitate to confide all you know to me? I swear on my honor
that I will respect as sacred what you tell me, no matter what may
occur.”
Andre yielded, as did every person who came under the influence of this
remarkable man and his strange and inexplicable fascination. If he
hid anything from him to-day, would not Lecoq be acquainted with it
to-morrow? And so, with the most perfect frankness, he told his story
and everything that he knew.
“Now,” cried Lecoq, “I see it all clearly. Aha, they want to force young
Gandelu to disappear with Rose, do they?”
Beneath his gold-rimmed spectacles his eyes flashed fiercely. He seemed
to be occupied in drawing out his plan of campaign.
“From this moment,” said he, “be at ease. In another month Mademoiselle
de Mussidan shall be your wife; this I promise you, and the promises of
Lecoq are never broken.”
He paused for an instant, as though to collect his thoughts, and then
continued,--
“I can answer for all, except for your life. So many are interested in
your disappearance from this world, that every effort will be made to
get rid of you. Do not cease your caution for an instant. Never eat
twice running at the same restaurant, throw away food that has the
slightest strange taste. Avoid crowds in the street; do not get into a
cab; never lean from a window before ascertaining that its supports are
solid; in a word, fear and suspect everything.”
For a moment longer Lecoq detained the young artist.
“Tell me,” said he, “have you the mark of a wound on your shoulder or
arm?”
“I have, sir; the scar of a very severe scald.”
“I thought so; yes, I was almost certain of it,” said Lecoq
thoughtfully; and as he conducted the young man to the door, he took
leave of him with the same words that Mascarin had often used to Paul,--
“Farewell for the present, Duke de Champdoce.”