The Duc de Sairmeuse was one of those men who remain superior to all
fortuitous circumstances, good or bad. He was a man of vast experience,
and great natural shrewdness. His mind was quick to act, and fertile in
resources. But when he found himself immured in the damp and loathsome
station-house, after the terrible scenes at the Poivriere, he
relinquished all hope.
Martial knew that Justice does not trust to appearances, and that when
she finds herself confronted by a mystery, she does not rest until she
has fathomed it.
Martial knew, only too well, that if his identity was established, the
authorities would endeavor to discover the reason of his presence at
the Poivriere. That this reason would soon be discovered, he could not
doubt, and, in that case, the crime at the Borderie, and the guilt of
the duchess, would undoubtedly be made public.
This meant the Court of Assizes, prison, a frightful scandal, dishonor,
eternal disgrace!
And the power he had wielded in former days was a positive disadvantage
to him now. His place was now filled by his political adversaries. Among
them were two personal enemies upon whom he had inflicted those terrible
wounds of vanity which are never healed. What an opportunity for revenge
this would afford them!
At the thought of this ineffaceable stain upon the great name of
Sairmeuse, which was his pride and his glory, reason almost forsook him.
“My God, inspire me,” he murmured. “How shall I save the honor of the
name?”
He saw but one chance of salvation--death. They now believed him one of
the miserable wretches that haunt the suburbs of Paris; if he were dead
they would not trouble themselves about his identity.
“It is the only way!” he thought.
He was endeavoring to find some means of accomplishing his plan of
self-destruction, when he heard a bustle and confusion outside. In a few
moments the door was opened and a man was thrust into the same cell--a
man who staggered a few steps, fell heavily to the floor, and began to
snore loudly. It was only a drunken man.
But a gleam of hope illumined Martial’s heart, for in the drunken man he
recognized Otto--disguised, almost unrecognizable.
It was a bold ruse and no time must be lost in profiting by it. Martial
stretched himself upon a bench, as if to sleep, in such a way that his
head was scarcely a yard from that of Otto.
“The duchess is out of danger,” murmured the faithful servant.
“For to-day, perhaps. But to-morrow, through me, all will be known.”
“Have you told them who you are?”
“No; all the policemen but one took me for a vagabond.”
“You must continue to personate this character.”
“What good will it do? Lacheneur will betray me.”
But Martial, though he little knew it, had no need to fear Lacheneur for
the present, at least. A few hours before, on his way from the Rainbow
to the Poivriere, Jean had been precipitated to the bottom of a stone
quarry, and had fractured his skull. The laborers, on returning to their
work early in the morning, found him lying there senseless; and at that
very moment they were carrying him to the hospital.
Although Otto was ignorant of this circumstance, he did not seem
discouraged.
“There will be some way of getting rid of Lacheneur,” said he, “if you
will only sustain your present character. An escape is an easy matter
when a man has millions at his command.”
“They will ask me who I am, whence I came, how I have lived.”
“You speak English and German; tell them that you have just returned
from foreign lands; that you were a foundling and that you have always
lived a roving life.”
“How can I prove this?”
Otto drew a little nearer his master, and said, impressively:
“We must agree upon our plans, for our success depends upon a perfect
understanding between us. I have a sweetheart in Paris--and no one knows
our relations. She is as sharp as steel. Her name is Milner, and she
keeps the Hotel de Mariembourg, on the Saint-Quentin. You can say that
you arrived here from Leipsic on Sunday; that you went to this hotel;
that you left your trunk there, and that this trunk is marked with the
name of May, foreign artist.”
“Capital!” said Martial, approvingly.
And then, with extraordinary quickness and precision, they agreed, point
by point, upon their plan of defence.
When all had been arranged, Otto pretended to awake from the heavy sleep
of intoxication; he clamored to be released, and the keeper finally
opened the door and set him at liberty.
Before leaving the station-house, however, he succeeded in throwing a
note to the Widow Chupin, who was imprisoned in the other compartment.
So, when Lecoq, after his skilful investigations at the Poivriere,
rushed to the Place d’Italie, panting with hope and ambition, he found
himself outwitted by these men, who were inferior to him in penetration,
but whose _finesse_ was superior to his own.
Martial’s plans being fully formed, he intended to carry them out with
absolute perfection of detail, and, after his removal to prison, the
Duc de Sairmeuse was preparing himself for the visit of the judge of
instruction, when Maurice d’Escorval entered.
They recognized each other. They were both terribly agitated, and the
examination was an examination only in name. After the departure of
Maurice, Martial attempted to destroy himself. He had no faith in the
generosity of his former enemy.
But when he found M. Segmuller occupying Maurice’s place the next
morning, Martial believed that he was saved.
Then began that struggle between the judge and Lecoq on one side, and
the accused on the other--a struggle from which neither party came out
conqueror.
Martial knew that Lecoq was the only person he had to fear, still he
bore him no ill-will. Faithful to his nature, which compelled him to
be just even to his enemies, he could not help admiring the astonishing
penetration and perseverance of this young policeman who, undismayed
by the obstacles and discouragements that surrounded him, struggled on,
unassisted, to reach the truth.
But Lecoq was always outwitted by Otto, the mysterious accomplice, who
seemed to know his every movement in advance.
At the morgue, at the Hotel de Mariembourg, with Toinon, the wife of
Polyte Chupin, as well as with Polyte Chupin himself, Lecoq was just a
little too late.
Lecoq detected the secret correspondence between the prisoner and his
accomplice. He was even ingenious enough to discover the key to it, but
this served no purpose. A man, who had seen a rival, or rather, a future
master, in Lecoq had betrayed him.
If his efforts to arrive at the truth through the jeweller and the
Marquis d’Arlange had failed, it was only because Mme. Blanche had not
purchased the diamond ear-rings she wore at the Poivriere at any shop,
but from one of her friends, the Baroness de Watchau.
And lastly, if no one at Paris had missed the Duc de Sairmeuse, it
was because--thanks to an understanding between the duchess, Otto,
and Camille--no other inmate of the Hotel de Sairmeuse suspected his
absence. All the servants supposed their master confined to his room by
illness. They prepared all sorts of gruels and broths for him, and his
breakfast and dinner were taken to his apartments every day.
So the weeks went by, and Martial was expecting to be summoned before
the Court of Assizes and condemned under the name of May, when he was
afforded an opportunity to escape.
Too shrewd not to discern the trap that had been set for him, he endured
some moments of horrible hesitation in the prison-van.
He decided to accept the risk, however, commending himself to his lucky
star.
And he decided wisely, for that same night he leaped his own
garden-wall, leaving, as a hostage, in the hands of Lecoq, an escaped
convict, Joseph Conturier by name, whom he had picked up in a low
drinking-saloon.
Warned by Mme. Milner, thanks to a blunder on the part of Lecoq, Otto
was awaiting his master.
In the twinkling of an eye Martial’s beard fell under the razor; he
plunged into the bath that was awaiting him, and his clothing was
burned.
And it was he who, during the search a few minutes later, had the
hardihood to call out:
“Otto, by all means allow these men to do their duty.”
But he did not breathe freely until the agents of police had departed.
“At last,” he exclaimed, “honor is saved! We have outwitted Lecoq!”
He had just left the bath, and enveloped himself in a _robe de chambre_,
when Otto handed him a letter from the duchess.
He hastily broke the seal and read:
“You are safe. You know all. I am dying. Farewell. I loved you.”
With two bounds he reached his wife’s apartments. The door was locked;
he burst it open. Too late!
Mme. Blanche was dead--poisoned, like Marie-Anne; but she had procured
a drug whose effect was instantaneous; and extended upon her couch, clad
in her wonted apparel, her hands folded upon her breast, she seemed only
asleep.
A tear glittered in Martial’s eye.
“Poor, unhappy woman!” he murmured; “may God forgive you as I forgive
you--you whose crime has been so frightfully expiated here below!”
EPILOGUE
THE FIRST SUCCESS
Safe, in his own princely mansion, and surrounded by an army of
retainers, the Duc de Sairmeuse triumphantly exclaimed:
“We have outwitted Lecoq.”
In this he was right.
But he thought himself forever beyond the reach of the wily, keen-witted
detective; and in this he was wrong.
Lecoq was not the man to sit down with folded hands and brood over the
humiliation of his defeat.
Before he went to Father Tabaret, he was beginning to recover from his
stupor and despondency; and when he left that experienced detective’s
presence, he had regained his courage, his command over his faculties,
and sufficient energy to move the world, if necessary.
“Well, my good man,” he remarked to Father Absinthe, who was trotting
along by his side, “you have heard what the great Monsieur Tabaret said,
did you not? So you see I was right.”
But his companion evinced no enthusiasm.
“Yes, you were right,” he responded, in woebegone tones.
“Do you think we are ruined by two or three mistakes? Nonsense! I will
soon turn our defeat of today into a glorious victory.”
“Ah! you might do so perhaps, if--they do not dismiss us from the
force.”
This doleful remark recalled Lecoq to a realizing sense of the present
situation.
They had allowed a prisoner to slip through their fingers. That was
vexatious, it is true; but they had captured one of the most notorious
of criminals--Joseph Conturier. Surely there was some comfort in that.
But while Lecoq could have borne dismissal, he could not endure the
thought that he would not be allowed to follow up this affair of the
Poivriere.
What would his superior officers say when he told them that May and the
Duc de Sairmeuse were one and the same person?
They would, undoubtedly, shrug their shoulders and turn up their noses.
“Still, Monsieur Segmuller will believe me,” he thought. “But will
he dare to take any action in the matter without incontrovertible
evidence?”
This was very unlikely. Lecoq realized it all too well.
“Could we not make a descent upon the Hotel de Sairmeuse, and, on some
pretext or other, compel the duke to show himself, and identify him as
the prisoner May?”
He entertained this idea only for an instant, then abruptly dismissed
it.
“A stupid expedient!” he exclaimed. “Are two such men as the duke and
his accomplice likely to be caught napping? They are prepared for such a
visit, and we should only have our labor for our pains.”
He made these reflections _sotto voce_; and Father Absinthe’s curiosity
was aroused.
“Excuse me,” said he, “I did not quite understand you.”
“I say that we must find some tangible proof before asking permission to
proceed further.”
He paused with knitted brows.
In seeking a circumstance which would establish the complicity between
some member of the duke’s household and the witnesses who had been
called upon to give their testimony, Lecoq thought of Mme. Milner, the
owner of the Hotel de Mariembourg, and his first meeting with her.
He saw her again, standing upon a chair, her face on a level with a
cage, covered with a large piece of black silk, persistently repeating
three or four German words to a starling, who as persistently retorted:
“Camille! Where is Camille?”
“One thing is certain,” resumed Lecoq; “if Madame Milner--who is a
German and who speaks with the strongest possible German accent--had
raised this bird, it would either have spoken German or with the same
accent as its mistress. Therefore it cannot have been in her possession
long, and who gave it to her?”
Father Absinthe began to grow impatient.
“In sober earnest, what are you talking about?” he asked, petulantly.
“I say that if there is someone at the Hotel de Sairmeuse named Camille,
I have the proof I desire. Come, Papa Absinthe, let us hurry on.”
And without another word of explanation, he dragged his companion
rapidly along.
When they reached the Rue de Grenelle, Lecoq saw a messenger leaning
against the door of a wine-shop. Lecoq called him.
“Come, my boy,” said he; “I wish you to go to the Hotel de Sairmeuse and
ask for Camille. Tell her that her uncle is waiting her here.”
“But, sir----”
“What, you have not gone yet?”
The messenger departed; the two policemen entered the wine-shop, and
Father Absinthe had scarcely had time to swallow a glass of brandy when
the lad returned.
“Monsieur, I was unable to see Mademoiselle Camille. The house is closed
from top to bottom. The duchess died very suddenly this morning.”
“Ah! the wretch!” exclaimed the young policeman.
Then, controlling himself, he mentally added:
“He must have killed his wife on returning home, but his fate is sealed.
Now, I shall be allowed to continue my investigations.”
In less than twenty minutes they arrived at the Palais de Justice.
M. Segmuller did not seem to be immoderately surprised at Lecoq’s
revelations. Still he listened with evident doubt to the young
policeman’s ingenious deductions; it was the circumstance of the
starling that seemed to decide him.
“Perhaps you are right, my dear Lecoq,” he said, at last; “and to tell
the truth, I quite agree with you. But I can take no further action in
the matter until you can furnish proof so convincing in its nature that
the Duc de Sairmeuse will be unable to think of denying it.”
“Ah! sir, my superior officers will not allow me----”
“On the contrary,” interrupted the judge, “they will allow you the
fullest liberty after I have spoken to them.”
Such action on the part of M. Segmuller required not a little courage.
There had been so much laughter about M. Segmuller’s _grand seigneur_,
disguised as a clown, that many men would have sacrificed their
convictions to the fear of ridicule.
“And when will you speak to them?” inquired Lecoq, timidly.
“At once.”
The judge had already turned toward the door when the young policeman
stopped him.
“I have one more favor to ask, Monsieur,” he said, entreatingly. “You
are so good; you are the first person who gave me any encouragement--who
had faith in me.”
“Speak, my brave fellow.”
“Ah! Monsieur, will you not give me a message for Monsieur d’Escorval?
Any insignificant message--inform him of the prisoner’s escape. I will
be the bearer of the message, and then--Oh! fear nothing, Monsieur; I
will be prudent.”
“Very well!” replied the judge.
When he left the office of his chief, Lecoq was fully authorized to
proceed with his investigations, and in his pocket was a note for M.
d’Escorval from M. Segmuller. His joy was so intense that he did not
deign to notice the sneers which were bestowed upon him as he passed
through the corridors. On the threshold his enemy Gevrol, the so-called
general, was watching for him.
“Ah, ha!” he laughed, as Lecoq passed out, “here is one of those
simpletons who fish for whales and do not catch even a gudgeon.”
For an instant Lecoq was angry. He turned abruptly and looked Gevrol
full in the face.
“That is better than assisting prisoners to carry on a surreptitious
correspondence with people outside,” he retorted, in the tone of a man
who knows what he is saying.
In his surprise, Gevrol almost lost countenance, and his blush was
equivalent to a confession.
But Lecoq said no more. What did it matter to him now if Gevrol had
betrayed him! Was he not about to win a glorious revenge?
He spent the remainder of the day in preparing his plan of action,
and in thinking what he should say when he took M. Segmuller’s note to
Maurice d’Escorval.
The next morning about eleven o’clock he presented himself at the house
of M. d’Escorval.
“Monsieur is in his study with a young man,” replied the servant; “but,
as he gave me no orders to the contrary, you may go in.”
Lecoq entered.
The study was unoccupied. But from the adjoining room, separated
from the study only by a velvet _portiere_, came a sound of stifled
exclamations, and of sobs mingled with kisses.
Not knowing whether to remain or retire, the young policeman stood for a
moment undecided; then he observed an open letter lying upon the carpet.
Impelled to do it by an impulse stronger than his own will, Lecoq picked
up the letter. It read as follows:
“The bearer of this letter is Marie-Anne’s son, Maurice--your son. I
have given him all the proofs necessary to establish his identity.
It was to his education that I consecrated the heritage of my poor
Marie-Anne.
“Those to whose care I confided him have made a noble man of him. If I
restore him to you, it is only because the life I lead is not a fitting
life for him. Yesterday, the miserable woman who murdered my sister died
from poison administered by her own hand. Poor Marie-Anne! she would
have been far more terribly avenged had not an accident which happened
to me, saved the Duc and the Duchesse de Sairmeuse from the snare into
which I had drawn them.
“Jean Lacheneur.”
Lecoq stood as if petrified.
Now he understood the terrible drama which had been enacted in the Widow
Chupin’s cabin.
“I must go to Sairmeuse at once,” he said to himself; “there I can
discover all.”
He departed without seeing M. d’Escorval. He resisted the temptation to
take the letter with him.
It was exactly one month to a day after the death of Mme. Blanche.
Reclining upon a divan in his library the Duc de Sairmeuse was engaged
in reading, when Otto, his _valet de chambre_, came to inform him that a
messenger was below, charged with delivering into the duke’s own hands a
letter from M. Maurice d’Escorval.
With a bound, Martial was on his feet.
“Is it possible?” he exclaimed.
Then he added, quickly:
“Let the messenger enter.”
A large man, with a very florid complexion, and red hair and beard,
timidly handed the duke a letter, he broke the seal, and read:
“I saved you, Monsieur, by not recognizing the prisoner, May. In your
turn, aid me! By noon, day after to-morrow, I must have two hundred and
sixty thousand francs.
“I have sufficient confidence in your honor to apply to you.
“Maurice d’Escorval.”
For a moment Martial stood bewildered, then, springing to a table, he
began writing, without noticing that the messenger was looking over his
shoulder:
“Monsieur--Not day after to-morrow, but this evening. My fortune and my
life are at your disposal. It is but a slight return for the generosity
you showed in retiring, when, beneath the rags of May, you recognized
your former enemy, now your devoted friend,
“Martial de Sairmeuse.”
He folded this letter with a feverish hand, and giving it to the
messenger with a louis, he said:
“Here is the answer, make haste!”
But the messenger did not go.
He slipped the letter into his pocket, then with a hasty movement he
cast his red beard and wig upon the floor.
“Lecoq!” exclaimed Martial, paler than death.
“Lecoq, yes, Monsieur,” replied the young detective. “I was obliged to
take my revenge; my future depended upon it, and I ventured to imitate
Monsieur d’Escorval’s writing.”
And as Martial made no response:
“I must also say to Monsieur le Duc,” he continued, “that on
transmitting to the judge the confession written by the Duke’s own hand,
of his presence at the Poivriere, I can and shall, at the same time,
furnish proofs of his entire innocence.”
And to show that he was ignorant of nothing, he added:
“As madame is dead, there will be nothing said in regard to what took
place at the Borderie.”
A week later a verdict of not guilty was rendered by M. Segmuller in the
case of the Duc de Sairmeuse.
Appointed to the position he coveted, Lecoq had the good taste, or
perhaps the shrewdness, to wear his honors modestly.
But on the day of his promotion, he ordered a seal, upon which was
engraved the exultant rooster, which he had chosen as his armorial
design, and a motto to which he ever remained faithful: _Semper
Vigilan_.