I
On Thursday, the 9th of July, 186-, Jean Bertaud and his son, well known
at Orcival as living by poaching and marauding, rose at three o'clock in
the morning, just at daybreak, to go fishing.
Taking their tackle, they descended the charming pathway, shaded by
acacias, which you see from the station at Evry, and which leads from
the burg of Orcival to the Seine.
They made their way to their boat, moored as usual some fifty yards
above the wire bridge, across a field adjoining Valfeuillu, the imposing
estate of the Count de Tremorel.
Having reached the river-bank, they laid down their tackle, and Jean
jumped into the boat to bail out the water in the bottom.
While he was skilfully using the scoop, he perceived that one of the
oar-pins of the old craft, worn by the oar, was on the point of
breaking.
"Philippe," cried he, to his son, who was occupied in unravelling a net,
"bring me a bit of wood to make a new oar-pin."
"All right," answered Philippe.
There was no tree in the field. The young man bent his steps toward the
park of Valfeuillu, a few rods distant; and, neglectful of Article 391
of the Penal Code, jumped across the wide ditch which surrounds M. de
Tremorel's domain. He thought he would cut off a branch of one of the
old willows, which at this place touch the water with their drooping
branches.
He had scarcely drawn his knife from his pocket, while looking about him
with the poacher's unquiet glance, when he uttered a low cry, "Father!
Here! Father!"
"What's the matter?" responded the old marauder, without pausing from
his work.
"Father, come here!" continued Philippe. "In Heaven's name, come here,
quick!"
Jean knew by the tone of his son's voice that something unusual had
happened. He threw down his scoop, and, anxiety quickening him, in three
leaps was in the park. He also stood still, horror-struck, before the
spectacle which had terrified Philippe.
On the bank of the river, among the stumps and flags, was stretched a
woman's body. Her long, dishevelled locks lay among the water-shrubs;
her dress--of gray silk--was soiled with mire and blood. All the upper
part of the body lay in shallow water, and her face had sunk in the mud.
"A murder!" muttered Philippe, whose voice trembled.
"That's certain," responded Jean, in an indifferent tone. "But who can
this woman be? Really one would say, the countess."
"We'll see," said the young man. He stepped toward the body; his father
caught him by the arm.
"What would you do, fool?" said he. "You ought never to touch the body
of a murdered person without legal authority."
"You think so?"
"Certainly. There are penalties for it."
"Then, come along and let's inform the Mayor."
"Why? as if people hereabouts were not against us enough already! Who
knows that they would not accuse us--"
"But, father--"
"If we go and inform Monsieur Courtois, he will ask us how and why we
came to be in Monsieur de Tremorel's park to find this out. What is it
to you, that the countess has been killed? They'll find her body without
you. Come, let's go away."
But Philippe did not budge. Hanging his head, his chin resting upon his
palm, he reflected.
"We must make this known," said he, firmly. "We are not savages; we will
tell Monsieur Courtois that in passing along by the park in our boat, we
perceived the body."
Old Jean resisted at first; then, seeing that his son would, if need be,
go without him, yielded.
They re-crossed the ditch, and leaving their fishing-tackle in the
field, directed their steps hastily toward the mayor's house.
Orcival, situated a mile or more from Corbeil, on the right bank of the
Seine, is one of the most charming villages in the environs of Paris,
despite the infernal etymology of its name. The gay and thoughtless
Parisian, who, on Sunday, wanders about the fields, more destructive
than the rook, has not yet discovered this smiling country. The
distressing odor of the frying from coffee-gardens does not there stifle
the perfume of the honeysuckles. The refrains of bargemen, the brazen
voices of boat-horns, have never awakened echoes there. Lazily situated
on the gentle slopes of a bank washed by the Seine, the houses of
Orcival are white, and there are delicious shades, and a bell-tower
which is the pride of the place. On all sides vast pleasure domains,
kept up at great cost, surround it. From the upper part, the
weathercocks of twenty chateaux may be seen. On the right is the forest
of Mauprevoir, and the pretty country-house of the Countess de la
Breche; opposite, on the other side of the river, is Mousseaux and
Petit-Bourg, the ancient domain of Aguado, now the property of a famous
coach-maker; on the left, those beautiful copses belong to the Count de
Tremorel, that large park is d'Etiolles, and in the distance beyond is
Corbeil; that vast building, whose roofs are higher than the oaks, is
the Darblay mill.
The mayor of Orcival occupies a handsome, pleasant mansion, at the upper
end of the village. Formerly a manufacturer of dry goods, M. Courtois
entered business without a penny, and after thirty years of absorbing
toil, he retired with four round millions of francs.
Then he proposed to live tranquilly with his wife and children, passing
the winter at Paris and the summer at his country-house.
But all of a sudden he was observed to be disturbed and agitated.
Ambition stirred his heart. He took vigorous measures to be forced to
accept the mayoralty of Orcival. And he accepted it, quite in
self-defence, as he will himself tell you. This office was at once his
happiness and his despair; apparent despair, interior and real
happiness.
It quite befits him, with clouded brow, to rail at the cares of power;
he appears yet better when, his waist encircled with the gold-laced
scarf, he goes in triumph at the head of the municipal body.
Everybody was sound asleep at the mayor's when the two Bertauds rapped
the heavy knocker of the door. After a moment, a servant, half asleep,
appeared at one of the ground-floor windows.
"What's the matter, you rascals?" asked he, growling.
Jean did not think it best to revenge an insult which his reputation in
the village too well justified.
"We want to speak to Monsieur the Mayor," he answered. "There is
terrible need of it. Go call him, Monsieur Baptiste; he won't blame
you."
"I'd like to see anybody blame me," snapped out Baptiste.
It took ten minutes of talking and explaining to persuade the servant.
Finally, the Bertauds were admitted to a little man, fat and red, very
much annoyed at being dragged from his bed so early. It was M. Courtois.
They had decided that Philippe should speak.
"Monsieur Mayor," he said, "we have come to announce to you a great
misfortune. A crime has been committed at Monsieur de Tremorel's."
M. Courtois was a friend of the count's; he became whiter than his shirt
at this sudden news.
"My God!" stammered he, unable to control his emotion, "what do you
say--a crime!"
"Yes; we have just discovered a body; and as sure as you are here, I
believe it to be that of the countess."
The worthy man raised his arms heavenward, with a wandering air.
"But where, when?"
"Just now, at the foot of the park, as we were going to take up our
nets."
"It is horrible!" exclaimed the good M. Courtois; "what a calamity! So
worthy a lady! But it is not possible--you must be mistaken; I should
have been informed--"
"We saw it distinctly, Monsieur Mayor."
"Such a crime in my village! Well, you have done wisely to come here. I
will dress at once, and will hasten off--no, wait." He reflected a
moment, then called:
"Baptiste!"
The valet was not far off. With ear and eye alternately pressed against
the key-hole, he heard and looked with all his might. At the sound of
his master's voice he had only to stretch out his hand and open the
door.
"Monsieur called me?"
"Run to the justice of the peace," said the mayor. "There is not a
moment to lose. A crime has been committed--perhaps a murder--you must
go quickly. And you," addressing the poachers, "await me here while I
slip on my coat."
The justice of the peace at Orcival, M. Plantat--"Papa Plantat," as he
was called--was formerly an attorney at Melun. At fifty, Mr. Plantat,
whose career had been one of unbroken prosperity, lost in the same
month, his wife, whom he adored, and his two sons, charming youths, one
eighteen, the other twenty-two years old. These successive losses
crushed a man whom thirty years of happiness left without defence
against misfortune. For a long time his reason was despaired of. Even
the sight of a client, coming to trouble his grief, to recount stupid
tales of self-interest, exasperated him. It was not surprising that he
sold out his professional effects and good-will at half price. He wished
to establish himself at his ease in his grief, with the certainty of not
being disturbed in its indulgence.
But the intensity of his mourning diminished, and the ills of idleness
came. The justiceship of the peace at Orcival was vacant, and M. Plantat
applied for and obtained it. Once installed in this office, he suffered
less from ennui. This man, who saw his life drawing to an end, undertook
to interest himself in the thousand diverse cases which came before him.
He applied to these all the forces of a superior intelligence, the
resources of a mind admirably fitted to separate the false from the true
among the lies he was forced to hear. He persisted, besides, in living
alone, despite the urging of M. Courtois; pretending that society
fatigued him, and that an unhappy man is a bore in company.
Misfortune, which modifies characters, for good or bad, had made him,
apparently, a great egotist. He declared that he was only interested in
the affairs of life as a critic tired of its active scenes. He loved to
make a parade of his profound indifference for everything, swearing that
a rain of fire descending upon Paris, would not even make him turn his
head. To move him seemed impossible. "What's that to me?" was his
invariable exclamation.
Such was the man who, a quarter of an hour after Baptiste's departure,
entered the mayor's house.
M. Plantat was tall, thin, and nervous. His physiognomy was not
striking. His hair was short, his restless eyes seemed always to be
seeking something, his very long nose was narrow and sharp. After his
affliction, his mouth, formerly well shaped, became deformed; his lower
lip had sunk, and gave him a deceptive look of simplicity.
"They tell me," said he, at the threshold, "that Madame de Tremorel has
been murdered."
"These men here, at least, pretend so," answered the mayor, who had just
reappeared.
M. Courtois was no longer the same man. He had had time to make his
toilet a little. His face attempted to express a haughty coldness. He
had been reproaching himself for having been wanting in dignity, in
showing his grief before the Bertauds. "Nothing ought to agitate a man
in my position," said he to himself. And, being terribly agitated, he
forced himself to be calm, cold, and impassible.