"You will say to him," he said finally, "that you have decided, in the
interest of Prosper, to place her in a house where she can watch some
one whom you suspect."
The joyous Fanferlot rolled the photograph, took his hat, and prepared
to leave. M. Lecoq detained him by a gesture:--"I have not finished,"
he said. "Do you know how to drive a carriage and take care of a
horse?"
"Why, patron, you ask me that--an old rider of the Bouthor Circus?"
"Very well. As soon as the judge has dismissed you, return home, and
prepare a wig and livery of a _valet de chambre_ of the first class;
and having dressed, go with this letter to the Agency on the Rue
Delorme."
"But, patron--"
"There are no 'buts,' my boy; for this agent will send you to M. Louis
de Clameran, who needs a new _valet de chambre_, his own having left
yesterday evening."
"Excuse me if I dare say that you are deceived. Clameran will not
agree to the conditions: he is no friend of the cashier."
"How you always interrupt me," said M. Lecoq, in his most imperative
tones. "Do only what I tell you, and let everything else alone. M.
Clameran is not a friend to Prosper. I know that. But he is the friend
and protector of Raoul de Lagors. Why? Who can explain the intimacy of
these two men of such different ages? We must know this. We must also
know who _is_ M. Louis de Clameran--this forge-master who lives in
Paris and never goes to his own factories! A jolly dog who has taken
it into his head to live at the Hotel du Louvre and who mingles in
the whirling crowd, is difficult to watch. Through you, I shall have
my eye on him. He has a carriage; you will drive it; and in the
easiest way you will know his acquaintances, and be able to give me an
account of his slightest proceedings."
"You shall be obeyed, patron."
"Still another word. M. De Clameran is very irritable and suspicious.
You will be introduced to him as Joseph Dubois. He will ask for your
recommendations. Here are three, showing that you have served the
Marquis de Sairmeuse, the Count de Commarin, and your last place--the
house of the Baron de Wortschen, who has just gone to Germany. Keep
your eyes open, be correct, and watch his movements. Serve well, but
without excess of manner. But don't be too cringing, for that would
arouse suspicion."
"Make yourself easy, patron: now, where shall I report?"
"I will come to see you every day. Until you have an order, don't step
inside of this house: you might be followed. If anything unforeseen
occurs, send a dispatch to your wife, and she will advise me. Now go;
and be prudent."
The door shut behind Fanferlot, and M. Lecoq passed quickly into his
bedroom.
In the twinkling of an eye he stripped off all traces of the official
detective chief,--the starched cravat, the gold spectacles, and the
wig, which when removed released the thick black hair.
The official Lecoq disappeared; the true Lecoq remained, a person that
no one knew,--a handsome young man with brilliant eyes and a resolute
manner.
Only a moment was he visible. Seated before a dressing-table, on which
were spread a greater array of paints, essences, rouge, cosmetics, and
false hair than is required for a modern belle, he began to substitute
a new face for the one accorded him by nature.
He worked slowly, handling his little brushes with extreme care, and
in about an hour had achieved one of his periodical masterpieces. When
he had finished, he was no longer Lecoq: he was the stout gentleman
with the red whiskers, not recognized by Fanferlot.
"There," he exclaimed, giving a last glance in the mirror, "I have
forgotten nothing; I have left nothing to chance. All my threads are
tied, and I can progress. I hope the Squirrel will not lose time."
But Fanferlot was too joyous to squander a moment. He did not run,--he
flew along the way toward the Palais de Justice and M. Patrigent the
judge.
At last he had the opportunity of demonstrating his own superior
perspicacity.
It never occurred to him that he was striving to triumph through the
ideas of another man. The greater part of the world is content to
strut, like the jackdaw, in peacock's feathers.
The result did not blight his hopes. If M. Patrigent was not
altogether convinced, he at least admired the ingenuity of the
proceeding.
"This is what I will do," he said in dismissing Fanferlot: "I will
present a favorable report to the council chamber, and to-morrow,
most likely, the cashier will be released."
Immediately he began to write one of those terrible decisions of "Not
Proven," which restores liberty to the accused man, but not honor;
which says that he is not guilty, but which does not declare him
innocent:--
"Whereas, against the prisoner Prosper Bertomy sufficient charges do
not exist, in accordance with Article 128 of the Criminal Code, we
declare there are no grounds at present for prosecution against the
aforesaid prisoner: we therefore order that he be released from the
prison where he is now detained, and set at liberty by the jailer,"
etc.
When this was finished, M. Patrigent remarked to his registrar
Sigault:--"Here is one of those mysterious crimes which baffle
justice! This is another file to be added to the archives of the
record office." And with his own hand he wrote upon the outside the
official number, "_File No. 113_."