“Tell him,” he finally said, “that you persuaded her, in the interest
of Prosper, to live in a house where she can watch someone whom you
suspect.”
Fanferlot was joyously picking up his hat to go, when M. Lecoq checked
him by waving his hand, and said:
“I have not finished. Do you know how to drive a carriage and manage
horses?”
“Why, patron, can you ask this of a man who used to be a rider in the
Bouthor Circus?”
“Very well. As soon as the judge dismisses you, return home immediately,
make yourself a wig and the complete dress of a valet; and, having
dressed yourself, take this letter to the Agency on Delorme Street.”
“But, patron--”
“There must be no but, my friend; the agent will send you to M.
de Clameran, who is looking for a valet, his man having left him
yesterday.”
“Excuse me if I venture to suggest that you are making a mistake. This
Clameran is not the cashier’s friend.”
“Why do you always interrupt me?” said M. Lecoq imperiously. “Do what I
tell you, and don’t disturb your mind about the rest. Clameran is not a
friend of Prosper’s, I know; but he is the friend and protector of
Raoul de Lagors. Why so? Whence the intimacy of these two men of such
different ages? That is what I must find out. I must also find out who
this forge-master is who lives in Paris, and never goes to attend to
his furnaces. A jolly fellow, who takes it into his head to live at the
Hotel du Louvre, in the midst of a tumultuous, ever-changing crowd, is
a fellow difficult to watch. Through you I will have an eye upon him. He
has a carriage, you are to drive it; and you will soon be able to give
me an account of his manner of life, and of the sort of people with whom
he associates.”
“You shall be obeyed, patron.”
“Another thing. M. de Clameran is irritable and suspicious. You will be
presented to him under the name of Joseph Dubois. He will demand your
certificate of good character. Here are three, which state that you have
lived with the Marquis de Sairmeuse and the Count de Commarin, and that
you have just left the Baron de Wortschen, who went to Germany the other
day. Now keep your eyes open; be careful of your dress and manners.
Be polite, but not excessively so. And, above all things, don’t be
obsequious; it might arouse suspicion.”
“I understand, patron. Where shall I report to you?”
“I will call on you every day. Until I tell you differently, don’t step
foot in this house; you might be followed. If anything important should
happen, send a note to your wife, and she will inform me. Go, and be
prudent.”
The door closed on Fanferlot as M. Lecoq passed into his bedroom.
In the twinkling of an eye he had divested himself of the appearance of
a police officer. He took off his stiff cravat and gold spectacles, and
removed the close wig from his thick black hair. The official Lecoq had
disappeared, leaving in his place the genuine Lecoq whom nobody knew--a
handsome young man, with a bold, determined manner, and brilliant,
piercing eyes.
But he only remained himself for an instant. Seated before a
dressing-table covered with more cosmetics, paints, perfumes, false
hair, and other unmentionable shams, than are to be found on the
toilet-tables of our modern belles, he began to undo the work of nature,
and make himself a new face.
He worked slowly, handling his brushes with great care. But in an hour
he had accomplished one of his daily masterpieces. When he had finished,
he was no longer Lecoq: he was the large gentleman with red whiskers,
whom Fanferlot had failed to recognize.
“Well,” he said, casting a last look in the mirror, “I have forgotten
nothing: I have left nothing to chance. All my plans are fixed; and I
shall make some progress to-day, provided the Squirrel does not waste
time.”
But Fanferlot was too happy to waste a minute. He did not run, he flew,
toward the Palais de Justice.
At last he was now able to convince someone that he, Fanferlot, was a
man of wonderful perspicacity.
As to acknowledging that he was about to obtain a triumph with the ideas
of another man, he never thought of it. It is generally in perfect good
faith that the jackdaw struts in the peacock’s feathers.
His hopes were not deceived. If the judge was not absolutely and
fully convinced, he admired the ingenuity and shrewdness of the whole
proceeding, and complimented the proud jackdaw upon his brilliancy.
“This decides me,” he said, as he dismissed Fanferlot. “I will make out
a favorable report to-day; and it is highly probable that the accused
will be released to-morrow.”
He began at once to write out one of these terrible decisions of “Not
proven,” which restores liberty, but not honor, to the accused man;
which says that he is not guilty, but does not say he is innocent.
“Whereas there do not exist sufficient charges against the accused,
Prosper Bertomy, in pursuance of Article 128 of the Criminal Code,
we hereby declare that we find no grounds for prosecution against the
aforesaid prisoner at this present time; and we order that he shall be
released from the prison where he is confined, and set at liberty by the
jailer,” etc.
“Well,” he said to the clerk, “here is another one of those crimes
which justice cannot clear up. The mystery remains to be solved. This is
another file to be stowed away among the archives of the record-office.”
And with his own hand he wrote on the cover of the bundle of papers
relating to Prosper’s case, the number of the package, File No. 113.