As soon as he was alone, the doctor threw himself on his bed; but he
could not sleep. He had never in his life been so much puzzled. He
felt as if this crime was the result of some terrible but mysterious
intrigue; and the very fact of having, as he fancied, raised a corner of
the veil, made him burn with the desire to draw it aside altogether.
“Why,” he said to himself, “why might not the scamp whom we hold be the
author of the other two attempts likewise? There is nothing improbable
in that supposition. The man, once engaged, might easily have been put
on board ‘The Conquest;’ and he might have left France saying to himself
that it would be odd indeed, if during a long voyage, or in a land like
this, he did not find a chance to earn his money without running much
risk.”
The result of his meditations was, that the chief surgeon appeared, at
nine o’clock, at the office of the state attorney. He placed the matter
before him very fully and plainly; and, an hour afterwards, he crossed
the yard on his way to the prison, accompanied by a magistrate and his
clerk.
“How is the man the sailors brought here last night?” he asked the
jailer.
“Badly, sir. He would not eat.”
“What did he say when he got here?”
“Nothing. He seemed to be stupefied.”
“You did not try to make him talk?”
“Why, yes, a little. He answered that he had done some mischief; that he
was in despair, and wished he were dead.”
The magistrate looked at the surgeon as if he meant to say, “Just as I
expected from what you told me!” Then, turning again to the jailer, he
said,--
“Show us to the prisoner’s cell.”
The murderer had been put into a small but tidy cell in the first story.
When they entered, they found him seated on his bed, his heels on the
bars, and his chin in the palm of his hands. As soon as he saw the
surgeon, he jumped up, and with outstretched arms and rolling eyes,
exclaimed,--
“The officer has died!”
“No,” replied the surgeon, “no! Calm yourself. The wound is a very bad
one; but in a fortnight he will be up again.”
These words fell like a heavy blow upon the murderer. He turned pale;
his lips quivered; and he trembled in all his limbs. Still he promptly
mastered this weakness of the flesh; and falling on his knees, with
folded hands, he murmured in the most dramatic manner,--
“Then I am not a murderer! O Great God, I thank thee!”
And his lips moved as if he were uttering a fervent prayer.
It was evidently a case of coarsest hypocrisy; for his looks
contradicted his words and his voice. The magistrate, however, seemed to
be taken in.
“You show proper feelings,” he said. “Now get up and answer me. What is
your name?”
“Evariste Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet.”
“What age?”
“Thirty-five years.”
“Where were you born?”
“At Bagnolet, near Paris. And on that account, my friend”--
“Never mind. Your profession?”