The Lieutenant of Police.
When misfortune falls upon a house in the midst of feasting and revelry,
the guests, of late so friendly and familiar, shun the presence of their
entertainers as if there were contagion in the very air. It is as if the
plague had broken out within the walls, and as if the black flag were
alone needed to complete the resemblance.
So it was in the Chateau de Peyrelade after the arrival of the body of
the Baron de Pradines. Some few of the guests who lived in the immediate
neighbourhood, mounted their horses and hastened home that very night.
Others, not caring for the night-journey through a mountain-country in
fast-falling snow, waited courageously for the dawn. All, however, rose
so early next morning and contrived so well that, by the time the sun
poured his full radiance into the disordered apartments, not a soul
remained in the chateau beyond its usual inhabitants. The kitchens that
had been so busy with cooks and servants, the _salon_ that had been
thronged with visitors, the supper-room that had of late been the scene
of festivity and mirth--all were deserted; and on the supper-table lay
the body of the murdered man, covered with a sheet.
We have said that all the guests were gone; but this was not strictly
true, for two remained at the chateau--the Commandeur de Fontane, cousin
to the prisoner, and the Lieutenant of Police. The former had stayed to
stand by his kinsman; the latter, in the prosecution of his duties.
Determined to investigate the matter to the utmost, he had already
despatched two of his servants to the town of St. Flour, to command the
instant attendance of a detachment of _gendarmerie_. Father Jacques, and
the unfortunate _boutillier_, who had (through sheer terror and
excitement) betrayed the hostility existing between the Baron and the
Chevalier, were placed with loaded muskets before the door of the
wretched bridegroom's chamber. The public crier was sent round the
parish of St. Saturnin to proclaim rewards for information tending to
throw light upon the murder of the high and puissant George, Baron de
Pradines, and, during life, Captain of the Auvergne Light Dragoons.
In short, Monsieur the Lieutenant of Police was an active and
intelligent officer, and before noon on the day following the event, had
done all that was in the power of man towards discovering the
particulars of the dreadful deed, and securing the person of the
supposed offender.
Having discharged these duties, the worthy Lieutenant found himself
altogether unemployed. Nothing more could be done till the arrival of
the _gendarmerie_ from St. Flour; so he resolved to go into the
supper-room and examine the body of the Baron de Pradines.
The Countess de Peyrelade, veiled and in deep mourning, was kneeling at
the foot of the table, absorbed in prayer. He signified by a gesture
that he had no intention of disturbing her orisons; and as she once more
resumed her attitude of devotion, he turned down the sheet, and
attentively contemplated the body. M. le Lieutenant was a man eminently
skilful in his profession, and he was not ignorant of the importance of
slight indications. He knew how frequently the weightiest discoveries
lie concealed beneath a veil of the commonest circumstances.
George de Pradines was yet dressed in the clothes which he had worn at
the moment of his fall. His features, even in death, preserved their
habitually proud and sarcastic expression; nay, it even seemed as if the
haughty lip were curved more mockingly than ever. The bullet-hole on his
temple proved that he was face to face with the murderer when attacked.
This circumstance precluded, at least, all suspicion of a cowardly
ambush. What if he could be shown to have fallen in a duel!
The Lieutenant of Police took up the musket lying beside the body. It
was loaded. He then examined the pistols which were in the belt around
the dead man's waist. They were loaded likewise. Strange! Had he not
even defended himself, though facing his murderer's weapon? And then had
not Madame de Peyrelade, returning to the _salon_ pale and terrified,
told the assembled company in evident terror that she had distinctly
heard _two_ reports of a gun in the direction of the mountains?
Presently Madame de Peyrelade rose from her knees, and burst into tears.
"He is not guilty, Monsieur le Lieutenant!" she cried, sobbing. "Eugene
is not guilty! Why have you accused him of this fearful crime? Why have
you brought this misery upon us? Was it not enough," she said, pointing
to the body, "was it not enough that my brother should be assassinated,
but that _you_--the guest under my roof--should seek to fix the guilt
upon my betrothed husband?"
"Madame la Comtesse," replied the Lieutenant, with severe courtesy, "you
forget that I am but fulfilling my duty to the state. It is not I who
act, but the law in my person. I do not say that Monsieur de Fontane is
guilty. It is for the Judge to decide that point. Appearances are
strongly against him: public opinion accused him before I did: the
suspicions of your friends and dependents were directed to him at once.
Madame, be just."
Marguerite's gentle heart was touched.
"Monsieur le Lieutenant," she said, "I was in the wrong. Forgive me."
"Madame," replied the gentleman, kindly, as he held the door for her to
pass, "retire now to your chamber, and take some rest. I fear that it
will be our painful duty, ere night, to remove the body of the Baron de
Pradines to St. Flour. Should such commands arrive from the judicial
authorities, I regret to say that it will be imperative upon me to
include yourself, some of your people, and the Chevalier de Fontane
among our party. Fear nothing, Madame, and hope for the best.
Perseverance alone can aid us now; and the stricter are our
investigations, the more completely shall we, I hope, prove the
innocence of Monsieur de Fontane."
The lady retired, and the Lieutenant of Police returned to his
contemplation of the corpse.
He was not wrong. Before night a party of soldiers arrived, bringing
with them a paper of instructions from the authorities both military and
civil. Before daybreak on the following morning the gloomy
procession--including the Countess, two of her women-servants, the
Chevalier de Fontane, Father Jacques, and his assistants--set off for
St. Flour. The body of the murdered officer, in a plain black coffin
borne upon the shoulders of six _gendarmes_, brought up the rear.
From the moment of his arrest the Chevalier had scarcely spoken, except
to utter broken ejaculations of grief and horror. The mountaineers who
guarded the door of his chamber had heard him restlessly pacing to and
fro all that dreadful night.
Food had been twice or thrice brought to him, but there it still lay
untouched, untasted. Being summoned to the carriage that was to convey
him to St. Flour, he went quite silently and submissively, between a
couple of guards.
In the hall they passed the coffin. For a moment the young man paused.
He turned very pale, took off his hat, crossed himself devoutly, and
passed on.
Only once he was seen to give way to emotion. It was when the Lieutenant
of Police stepped into the carriage and took his seat opposite to him.
"Monsieur," he exclaimed, passionately, "one word, for mercy's sake!
Does she believe that I am guilty?"
"Monsieur de Fontane," replied the Lieutenant, briefly but kindly,
"Madame la Comtesse entertains no doubt of your innocence."
The prisoner's whole countenance brightened. He bent his head
gratefully, and spoke no more during the rest of the journey.