The Duke de Sairmeuse was one of those men who remain superior to
circumstances. He was possessed 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 at
the Place d’Italie, after the terrible scene we have just recalled, he
felt inclined to relinquish all hope. He knew that justice does not
trust to appearances, and that when an investigating magistrate finds
himself in presence of a mystery, he does not rest until he has fathomed
it. He knew only too well, moreover, that if his identity was
established, the authorities would endeavour to discover the reason that
had led him to the Poivriere; now he could scarcely doubt but what this
reason would soon be discovered, and, in that case, the crime at the
Borderie, and the duchess’s guilt, would undoubtedly be made public.
This meant the Assize Court for the woman who bore his name--imprisonment,
perhaps execution, at all events, a frightful scandal, dishonour,
eternal disgrace! And the power he had wielded in former days was a
positive disadvantage to him now, when his past position was filled by
his political adversaries. Among them were two personal enemies, whose
vanity he once had wounded, and who had never forgiven him. They would
certainly not neglect the present opportunity for revenge. At the
thought of such an ineffaceable stain on the great name of Sairmeuse,
which was his pride and glory, reason almost forsook him. “My God,
inspire me,” he murmured. “How shall I save the honour of the name?”
He saw but one chance of salvation--death. They now believed him to be
one of the miserable loafers who haunt the suburbs of Paris; if he were
dead they would not trouble themselves about his identity. “It is the
only way!” he thought, and he was indeed endeavouring to find some means
of committing suicide, when suddenly he heard a bustle outside his cell.
A few moments afterwards the door was opened and a man was thrust in--a
man who staggered a few steps, fell heavily on to the floor, and then
began to snore. The new arrival was apparently only some vulgar
drunkard.
A minute or so elapsed, and then a vague, strange hope touched Martial’s
heart--no, he must be mistaken--and yet--yes, certainly this drunkard
was Otto--Otto in disguise, and almost unrecognizable! It was a bold
ruse and no time must be lost in profiting by it. Martial stretched
himself on a bench, as if to sleep, and in such a way that his head was
close to Otto’s. “The duchess is out of danger,” murmured the faithful
servant.
“For to-day, perhaps. But to-morrow, through me everything will be
discovered.”
“Have you told them who you are?”
“No; all the police agents but one took me for a vagabond.”
“You must continue to personate that character.”
“What good will it do? Jean 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 previously, on his way in the dark from the
Rainbow to to the Poivriere, Jean had fallen to the bottom of a stone
quarry, and fractured his skull. The labourers, on returning to their
work early in the morning, found him lying there senseless; and that
very moment they were carrying him to the hospital.
Although Otto also was ignorant of this circumstances, 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, where I’ve come from, and how I’ve lived.”
“You speak English and German, don’t you; tell them that you have just
returned from foreign parts; that you were a foundling, and that you
have always lived a roving life.”
“How can I prove that?”
Otto drew a little nearer his master, and said, impressively: “We must
agree on our plans, for success depends on a perfect understanding
between us. I have a sweetheart in Paris--and no one knows of our
connection. She is as sharp as steel. Her name is Milner, and she keeps
the Hotel de Mariembourg, in the Rue Saint-Quentin. You can say that you
arrived here from Leipsic on Sunday; that you went to that hotel, that
you left your trunk there, and that it has a card nailed to the top with
your name--say May, foreign artist.”
“Capital!” said Martial, approvingly. And then, with extraordinary
quickness and precision, they agreed, point by point, on their plan of
defense. When everything had been arranged, Otto pretended to awake from
the heavy sleep of intoxication; he clamoured 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 opposite cell. 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 tact 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 the Depot, he
was preparing himself for the investigating magistrate’s visit, when
Maurice d’Escorval entered his cell. They recognized each other. They
were both terribly agitated, and the examination was an examination only
in name. After Maurice’s departure Martial attempted to destroy himself;
for he had no faith in his former enemy’s generosity. But when he found
M. Segmuller occupying Maurice’s place the next morning, he really
believed that he was saved.
Then began that struggle between the magistrate and Lecoq on one side,
and the prisoner on the other--a struggle in which neither conquered.
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 police agent, who, undismayed
by the obstacles surrounding 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 himself Lecoq was always just a little
too late. He detected the secret correspondence between the prisoner and
his accomplice, and 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--in short, Gevrol--had betrayed him. If his
efforts to arrive at the truth through the jeweller and the Marchioness
d’Arlange had failed, it was only because 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 finally, if no one in Paris
had missed the Duke de Sairmeuse, it was because--thanks to an
understanding between the duchess, Otto, and Camille--no other inmates
of the Hotel de Sairmeuse suspected his absence. All the servants
supposed that the duke was confined to his room by illness. His
breakfast and dinner were taken up to his private apartments every day;
and soups and tisanes were prepared ostensibly for his benefit.
So the weeks went by, and Martial was expecting to be summoned before
the Assize Court 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, it was only after horrible hesitation that he
decided to alight from the prison-van, determined to run the risk, and
commending himself for protection to his lucky star. And he decided
wisely, for that same night he leaped over his own garden wall, leaving
an escaped convict, Joseph Couturier by name, whom he had picked up in a
low eating-house, as a hostage in Lecoq’s hands. Warned by Madame
Milner, thanks to a blunder which Lecoq committed, Otto was waiting for
his master. In the twinkling of an eye Martial’s beard fell under the
razor; he plunged into the bath which was already prepared, and his
clothes were burned. And he it was 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
police-agents had departed. “At last,” he exclaimed, “honour is saved!
We have outwitted Lecoq!”
He had just left his bath, and assumed a dressing-gown, when Otto handed
him a letter from the duchess. He hastily opened the envelope and read:
“You are safe. You know everything. I am dying. Farewell. I loved you.”
With two bounds he reached his wife’s apartments. The outer door was
locked: he burst it open; but he came to late. Blanche was
dead--poisoned, like Marie-Anne; but she had procured a drug having an
instantaneous effect, and extended on her couch, clad in her wonted
apparel, her hands folded over her breast, she seemed only asleep. A
tear glistened 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!”