“What a revelation!” he murmured.
It was not to the present circumstance that he applied that word.
But the commissary naturally mistook him.
“Yes,” he went on, “it was a revelation. To me these two thousand
francs were worth a confession: they could only be the wages of a
crime. So, without losing a moment, I jump into a cab, and drive to
Brion’s. Everybody was upside down, because the horses had just
been brought back. I question; and, from the very first words, the
correctness of my presumption is demonstrated to me. The wretch who
had just died was not one of Brion’s coachmen. This is what had
happened. At two o’clock, when the carriage ordered by M. Van
Klopen was ready to go for Mlle. Lucienne, they had been compelled
to send for the driver and the footman, who had forgotten themselves
drinking in a neighboring wine-shop, with a man who had called to
see them in the morning. They were slightly under the influence of
wine, but not enough so to make it imprudent to trust them with
horses; and it was even probable that the fresh air would sober them
completely. They had then started; but, they had not gone very far,
for one of their comrades had seen them stop the carriage in front
of a wine-shop, and join there the same individual with whom they
had been drinking all the morning.”
“And who was no other than the man who was killed?”
“Wait. Having obtained this information, I get some one to take me
to the wine-shop; and I ask for the coachman and the footman from
Brion’s. They were there still; and they are shown to me in a
private room, lying on the floor, fast asleep. I try to wake them
up, but in vain. I order to water them freely; but a pitcher of
water thrown on their faces has no effect, save to make them utter
an inarticulate groan. I guess at once what they have taken. I
send for a physician, and I call on the wine-merchant for
explanations. It is his wife and his barkeeper who answer me.
They tell me, that, at about two o’clock, a man came in the shop,
who stated that he was employed at Brion’s, and who ordered three
glasses for himself and two comrades, whom he was expecting.
“A few moments later, a carriage stops at the door; and the driver
and the footman leave it to come in. They were in a great hurry,
they said, and only wished to take one glass. They do take three,
one after another; then they order a bottle. They were evidently
forgetting their horses, which they had given to hold to a
commissionaire. Soon the man proposes a game. The others accept;
and here they are, settled in the back-room, knocking on the table
for sealed wine. The game must have lasted at least twenty minutes.
At the end of that time, the man who had come in first appeared,
looking very much annoyed, saying that it was very unpleasant, that
his comrades were dead drunk, that they will miss their work, and
that the boss, who is anxious to please his customers, will
certainly dismiss them. Although he had taken as much, and more
than the rest, he was perfectly steady; and, after reflecting for
a moment,--‘I have an idea,’ he says. ‘Friends should help each
other, shouldn’t they? I am going to take the coachman’s livery,
and drive in his stead. I happen to know the customer they were
going after. She is a very kind old lady, and I’ll tell her a
story to explain the absence of the footman.’
“Convinced that the man is in Brion’s employment, they have no
objection to offer to this fine project.
“The brigand puts on the livery of the sleeping coachman, gets up
on the box, and starts off, after stating that he will return for
his comrades as soon as he has got through the job, and that
doubtless they will be sober by that time.”
M. de Tregars knew well enough the savoir-faire of the commissary
not to be surprised at his promptness in obtaining precise information.
Already he was going on,
“Just as I was closing my examination, the doctor arrived. I show
him my drunkards; and at once he recognizes that I have guessed
correctly, and that these men have been put asleep by means of one
of those narcotics of which certain thieves make use to rob their
victims. A potion, which he administers to them by forcing their
teeth open with a knife, draws them from this lethargy. They open
their eyes, and soon are in condition to reply to my questions.
They are furious at the trick that has been played upon them; but
they do not know the man. They saw him, they swear to me, for the
first time that very morning; and they are ignorant even of his
name.”
There was no doubt possible after such complete explanations. The
commissary had seen correctly, and he proved it.
It was not of a vulgar accident that Mlle. Lucienne had just been
the victim, but of a crime laboriously conceived, and executed with
unheard-of audacity,--of one of those crimes such as too many are
committed, whose combinations, nine times out of ten, set aside
even a suspicion, and foil all the efforts of human justice.
M. de Tregars knew now what had taken place, as clearly as if he
had himself received the confession of the guilty parties.
A man had been found to execute that perilous programme,--to make
the horses run away, and then to run into some heavy wagon. The
wretch was staking his life on that game; it being evident that
the light carriage must be smashed in a thousand pieces. But he
must have relied upon his skill and his presence of mind, to avoid
the shock, to jump off safe and sound; whilst Mlle. Lucienne,
thrown upon the pavement, would probably be killed on the spot.
The event had deceived his expectations, and he had been the victim
of his rascality; but his death was a misfortune.
“Because now,” resumed the commissary, “the thread is broken in our
hands which would infallibly have led us to the truth. Who is it
that ordered the crime, and paid for it? We know it, since we know
who benefits by the crime. But that is not sufficient. Justice
requires something more than moral proofs. Living, this bandit
would have spoken. His death insures the impunity of the wretches
of whom he was but the instrument.”
“Perhaps,” said M. Tregars.
And at the same time he took out of his pocket, and showed the note
found in Vincent Favoral’s pocket-book,--that note, so obscure the
day before, now so terribly clear.
“I cannot understand your negligence. You should get through with
that Van Klopen affair: there is the danger.”
The commissary of police cast but a glance upon it, and, replying
to the objections of his old experience rather more than addressing
himself to M. de Tregars,
“There can be no doubt about it,” he murmured. “It is to the crime
committed to-day that these pressing recommendations relate; and,
directed as they are to Vincent Favoral, they attest his complicity.
It was he who had charge of finishing the Van Klopen affair; in other
words, to get rid of Lucienne. It was he, I’d wager my head, who
had treated with the false coachman.”
He remained for over a minute absorbed in his own thoughts, then,
“But who is the author of these recommendations to Vincent Favoral?
Do you know that, M. le Marquis?” he said.
They looked at each other; and the same name rose to their lips,
“The Baroness de Thaller!”
This name, however, they did not utter.
The commissary had placed himself under the gasburner which gave
light to the Fortin’s office; and, adjusting his glasses, he was
scrutinizing the note with the most minute attention, studying the
grain and the transparency of the paper, the ink, and the
handwriting. And at last,
“This note,” he declared, “cannot constitute a proof against its
author: I mean an evident, material proof, such as we require to
obtain from a judge an order of arrest.”
And, as Marius was protesting,
“This note,” he insisted, “is written with the left hand, with
common ink, on ordinary foolscap paper, such as is found everywhere.
Now all left-hand writings look alike. Draw your own conclusions.”
But M. de Tregars did not give it up yet.
“Wait a moment,” he interrupted.
And briefly, though with the utmost exactness, he began telling his
visit to the Thaller mansion, his conversation with Mlle. Cesarine,
then with the baroness, and finally with the baron himself.
He described in the most graphic manner the scene which had taken
place in the grand parlor between Mme. de Thaller and a worse than
suspicious-looking man,--that scene, the secret of which had been
revealed to him in its minutest details by the looking-glass. Its
meaning was now as clear as day.
This suspicious-looking man had been one of the agents in arranging
the intended murder: hence the agitation of the baroness when she
had received his card, and her haste to join him. If she had
started when he first spoke to her, it was because he was telling
her of the successful execution of the crime. If she had afterwards
made a gesture of joy, it was because he had just informed her that
the coachman had been killed at the same time, and that she found
herself thus rid of a dangerous accomplice.
The commissary of police shook his head.
“All this is quite probable,” he murmured; “but that’s all.”
Again M. de Tregars stopped him.
“I have not done yet,” he said.
And he went on saying how he had been suddenly and brutally
assaulted by an unknown man in a restaurant; how he had collared
this abject scoundrel, and taken out of his pocket a crushing letter,
which left no doubt as to the nature of his mission.
The commissary’s eyes were sparkling,
“That letter!” he exclaimed, “that letter!” And, as soon as he had
looked over it,
“Ah! This time,” he resumed, “I think that we have something
tangible. ‘A troublesome gentleman to keep quiet,’--the Marquis
de Tregars, of course, who is on the right track. ‘It will be for
you the matter of a sword-thrust.’ Naturally, dead men tell no
tales. ‘It will be for us the occasion of dividing a round amount.’
An honest trade, indeed!”
The good man was rubbing his hand with all his might.
“At last we have a positive fact,” he went on,--“a foundation upon
which to base our accusations. Don’t be uneasy. That letter is
going to place into our hands the scoundrel who assaulted you,--who
will make known the go-between, who himself will not fail to
surrender the Baroness de Thaller. Lucienne shall be avenged. If
we could only now lay our hands on Vincent Favoral! But we’ll find
him yet. I set two fellows after him this afternoon, who have a
superior scent, and understand their business.”
He was here interrupted by Maxence, who was returning all out of
breath, holding in his hand the medicines which he had gone after.
“I thought that druggist would never get through,” he said.
And regretting to have remained away so long, feeling uneasy, and
anxious to return up stairs,
“Don’t you wish to see Lucienne?” he added, addressing himself to M.
de Tregars rather more than to the commissary.
For all answer, they followed him at once.
A cheerless-looking place was Mlle. Lucienne’s room, without any
furniture but a narrow iron bedstead, a dilapidated bureau, four
straw-bottomed chairs, and a small table. Over the bed, and at
the windows, were white muslin curtains, with an edging that had
once been blue, but had become yellow from repeated washings.
Often Maxence had begged his friend to take a more comfortable
lodging, and always she had refused.
“We must economize,” she would say. “This room does well enough
for me; and, besides, I am accustomed to it.”
When M. de Tregars and the commissary walked in, the estimable
hostess of the Hotel des Folies was kneeling in front of the fire,
preparing some medicine.
Hearing the footsteps, she got up, and, with a finger upon her
lips,
“Hush!” she said. “Take care not to wake her up!” The precaution
was useless.
“I am not asleep,” said Mlle. Lucienne in a feeble voice. “Who
is there?”
“I,” replied Maxence, advancing towards the bed.
It was only necessary to see the poor girl in order to understand
Maxence’s frightful anxiety. She was whiter than the sheet; and
fever, that horrible fever which follows severe wounds, gave to her
eyes a sinister lustre.
“But you are not alone,” she said again.
“I am with him, my child,” replied the commissary. “I come to beg
your pardon for having so badly protected you.”
She shook her head with a sad and gentle motion.
“It was myself who lacked prudence,” she said; “for to-day, while
out, I thought I noticed something wrong; but it looked so foolish
to be afraid! If it had not happened to-day, it would have happened
some other day. The villains who have been pursuing me for years
must be satisfied now. They will soon be rid of me.”
“Lucienne,” said Maxence in a sorrowful tone.