SAFE, in his own princely mansion, and surrounded by an army of
retainers, the Duke de Sairmeuse had triumphantly exclaimed: “We have
outwitted Lecoq!”
In this he was right; for the young detective was certainly nonplussed
for the time being; but when his grace fancied himself for ever beyond
this wily, keen-witted, aspiring agent’s reach, he was most decidedly
wrong. Lecoq was not the man to sit down with folded hands and brood
over the humiliation of defeat. Before he went to old Tabaret, he was
beginning to recover from his despondency; and when he left that
experienced detective’s presence, he had regained his courage, energy,
and command over his faculties. “Well, my worthy friend,” he remarked to
Father Absinthe, who was trotting along by his side, “you heard what the
great Monsieur Tabaret said, didn’t you? So you see I was right.”
But his companion evinced no enthusiasm. “Yes, you were right,” he
responded, in woe-begone tones.
“Do you think we are ruined by two or three mistakes? Nonsense! I will
soon turn to-day’s defeat into a glorious victory.”
“Ah! you might do so perhaps, if--they don’t dismiss us from the force.”
This doleful remark recalled Lecoq to a sense of his present position.
He and Absinthe had allowed a prisoner to slip through their fingers.
That was vexatious, it is true; but, on the other hand, they had
captured a most notorious criminal--Joseph Couturier. Surely there was
some comfort in that. Still, of course, they both might be
dismissed--and yet Lecoq could have borne the prospect, dismal as it
was, if it had not been for the thought that dismissal would for ever
prevent him from following up the Poivriere affair. What would his
superiors say when he told them that May and the Duke de Sairmeuse were
one and the same person. They would, no doubt, shrug their shoulders and
turn up their noses. “Still, M. Segmuller will believe me,” he thought.
“But will he dare to take any action in the matter without patent
evidence before him?”
This was very unlikely, as Lecoq fully realized, and for a moment he
asked himself if he and his fellows could not make a descent on the
Hotel de Sairmeuse, and, on some pretext or other, compel the duke to
show himself. It would then be easy to identify him as the prisoner May.
However, after a little thought he dismissed the idea. “It would be a
stupid expedient!” he exclaimed. “Two such men as the duke and his
accomplice are not likely to be caught napping. They are prepared for
such a visit, and we should only have our labour for our pains.”
He made these reflections in a low tone of voice; and Father Absinthe’s
curiosity was aroused. “Excuse me,” said the old veteran, “I don’t quite
understand you.”
“I say that we must find some tangible proof before asking permission to
proceed further--” Lecoq paused with knitted brows. An idea had occurred
to him. He fancied he could prove complicity between at least one of the
witnesses summoned to give evidence, and some member of the duke’s
household. He was indeed thinking of Madame Milner, the landlady of the
Hotel de Mariembourg, and of his first meeting with her. He saw her
again, in his mind’s eye, standing on a chair, her face on a level with
a cage, covered with a large piece of black silk, while she persistently
repeated three or four German words to a starling, who with equal
persistency retorted: “Camille! Where is Camille?” “One thing is
certain,” exclaimed Lecoq aloud, “if Madame Milner--who is a German, and
who speaks French with the strongest possible German accent--had reared
this bird, it would either have spoken in German or else in French, and
in the latter case with the same accent as its mistress. So it can’t
have been in her possession long; but then who can have given it to
her?”
Father Absinthe was beginning to grow impatient “In sober earnest, what
are you talking about?” he asked, petulantly.
“I say that if there is any one at the Hotel de Sairmeuse named Camille,
I have the proof I wish for. Come, Papa Absinthe, let us hurry on.” And
without another word of explanation, he dragged his companion rapidly
towards the Seine.
When they reached the Rue de Grenelle, Lecoq perceived a commissionaire
leaning against the door of a wine-shop. He walked straight towards him.
“Come, my good fellow,” said he. “I want you to go to the Hotel de
Sairmeuse and ask for Camille. Tell her that her uncle is waiting for
her here.”
“But, sir----”
“What, you haven’t gone yet?”
The messenger started off, and the two police agents entered the
wine-shop, Father Absinthe scarcely having time to swallow a glass of
brandy before the envoy returned. “I was unable to see Mademoiselle
Camille,” said he. “The house is closed from top to bottom. The duchess
died very suddenly this morning.”
“Ah! the wretch!” exclaimed the young police agent. 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 by Lecoq’s
revelations, though he listened with evident doubt to the young police
agent’s ingenious deductions; it was the circumstance of the starling
which at last decided him. “Perhaps you are right, my dear Lecoq,” he
said, “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 Duke de Sairmeuse will be unable to think of
denying it.”
“Ah! sir, my superiors won’t allow me--”
“On the contrary,” interrupted the magistrate, “they will allow you the
fullest liberty after I have spoken to them.” Such action on M.
Segmuller’s part, required no little courage; for in official circles
there had been considerable merriment over the magistrate’s mysterious
man with the iron mask, disguised as a mountebank; and the former by his
persistent support of the young detective’s theories, had almost become
an object of ridicule.
“And when will you speak to them?” timidly inquired Lecoq.
“At once.”
The magistrate had already turned towards the door when the young
police agent stopped him. “I have one more favour to ask you, sir,” he
said, entreatingly. “You are so kind, you are the first person who has
given me any encouragement--who has had any faith in me.”
“Speak, my good fellow.”
“Ah! sir, will you give me a message for M. d’Escorval? Any
insignificant message--inform him of the prisoner’s escape. I will take
it myself, and then--Oh! fear nothing, sir; I will be very prudent.”
“Very well!” replied the magistrate, “I will write him a note.”
When he finally left the office, Lecoq was fully authorized to proceed
with his investigations, and he carried in his pocket M. Segmuller’s
letter to M. d’Escorval. His satisfaction was so intense that he did not
deign to notice the sneers bestowed upon him as he passed along the
corridors; but on the threshold downstairs he encountered Gevrol the
general, who was evidently watching for him. “Ah ha!” laughed the
inspector, as Lecoq passed out, “here’s one of those simpletons who fish
for whales and don’t even catch a gudgeon.”
For an instant Lecoq felt angry. He turned round abruptly and looked
Gevrol full in the face. “At all events,” retorted he in the tone of a
man _who_ knows what he’s saying. “That’s better than assisting
prisoners to carry on a surreptitious correspondence with people
outside.”
In his surprise, Gevrol almost lost countenance, and his blush was
equivalent to a confession. But Lecoq did not add another word. 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 at about eleven o’clock he
presented himself at the latter’s house. “M. d’Escorval is in his study
with a young man,” replied the servant to the young detective’s inquiry,
“but, as he gave me no orders to the contrary, you may go in.”
Lecoq entered, but found the study unoccupied. From the adjoining room,
however, only separated from the study by velvet hangings, came a sound
of stifled exclamations, of sobs mingled with kisses. Not knowing
whether to remain or to retire, the young police-agent stood for a
moment undecided; when suddenly he perceived an open letter lying on the
carpet. Impelled by an impulse stronger than his will, Lecoq picked the
letter up, and his eyes meeting the signature, he started back in
surprise. He could not now refrain from reading this missive which ran
as follows:
“The bearer of this letter is Marie-Anne’s son--your son, Maurice.
I have given him all the proofs necessary to establish his
identity. It was to his education that I consecrated poor
Marie-Anne’s inheritance. 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 Duke and the Duchess de Sairmeuse from the snare into
which I had drawn them.
“JEAN LACHENEUR.”
Lecoq stood as if petrified. Now he understood the terrible drama
enacted in the Widow Chupin’s cabin. “I must go to Sairmeuse at once,”
he said to himself; “there I can discover everything.” He left the room
without seeing M. d’Escorval, and even successfully resisted the
temptation to take Lacheneur’s letter with him.
Exactly a month had transpired since Blanche’s death. His grace the Duke
de Sairmeuse was reclining on a divan in his library, reading one of his
favourite authors, when Otto his valet de chambre came in to inform him
that a messenger was below, charged with delivering into his grace’s own
hands a letter from M. d’Escorval.
Martial sprang to his feet. “It is impossible,” he exclaimed; and then
he quickly added: “Let the messenger come up.”
A tall man, with florid complexion, and red hair and beard, timidly
handed the duke a letter. Martial instantly broke the seal, and read:
“I saved you, monsieur, by not recognizing the prisoner.
[Illustration: “He began writing without noticing that the messenger was
looking over his shoulder.”]
May. In your turn assist me. By noon on the day after to-morrow, I
must have two hundred and sixty thousand francs. I have sufficient
confidence in your honour 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 the day after to-morrow, but this
evening, what you ask will be at your service. My fortune and my
life are at your disposal. It is but a slight return for the
generosity shown by you in withdrawing, when, under the rags of
May, you recognized your former enemy, but now your devoted friend.
“MARTIAL DE SAIRMEUSE.”
The duke 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 stir. He slipped the letter into his pocket,
and then hastily cast his red beard and wig on the floor.
“Lecoq!” exclaimed Martial, paler than death.
“Lecoq, yes, sir,” replied the young detective. “I was obliged to take
my revenge; my future depended on it, and so I ventured to imitate M.
d’Escorval’s writing.” And as Martial offered no remark: “I must also
say to Monsieur le Duc,” he continued, “that if your grace will transmit
a confession of your presence at the Poivriere in your own hand-writing
to the investigating magistrate I can and will at the same time furnish
proofs of your grace’s innocence--that you were dragged into a snare,
and that you only acted in self-defense.”
Martial looked up in fair astonishment, but to show that he was
acquainted with everything, Lecoq slowly added: “As madame is dead,
there will be nothing said concerning what took place at the Borderie.”
A week later a private report setting forth that there were no grounds
to proceed against the Duke de Sairmeuse was forwarded by M. Segmuller
to the public prosecutor.
Appointed to the position of inspector, which he coveted. Lecoq had the
good taste, or perhaps, the shrewdness, to wear his honours modestly.
But on the day of his promotion, he ordered a seal, on which was
engraved the exultant rooster, his chosen armorial design, with a motto
to which he ever remained faithful: “_Semper Vigilans_.”