"Come, Guespin; if in any way you know of this crime, I conjure you,
tell me. If you know the murderers, name them. Try to merit some
indulgence for your frankness and repentance."
Guespin made a gesture as if resigned to persecution. "By all that is
most sacred," he answered, "I am innocent. Yet I see clearly that if the
murderer is not found, I am lost."
Little by little M. Domini's conviction was formed and confirmed. An
inquest of this sort is not so difficult as may be imagined. The
difficulty is to seize at the beginning; in the entangled skein, the
main thread, which must lead to the truth through all the mazes, the
ruses, silence, falsehoods of the guilty. M. Domini was certain that he
held this precious thread. Having one of the assassins, he knew well
that he would secure the others. Our prisons, where good soup is eaten,
and good beds are provided, have tongues, as well as the dungeons of the
medieval ages.
The judge ordered the brigadier to arrest Guespin, and told him not to
lose sight of him. He then sent for old Bertaud. This worthy personage
was not one of the people who worry themselves. He had had so many
affairs with the men of law, that one inquisition the more disturbed him
little.
"This man has a bad reputation in my commune," whispered the mayor to M.
Domini.
Bertaud heard it, however, and smiled.
Questioned by the judge of instruction, he recounted very clearly and
exactly what had happened in the morning, his resistance, and his son's
determination. He explained the reason for the falsehood they told; and
here again the chapter of antecedents came up.
"Look here; I'm better than my reputation, after all," said he. "There
are many folks who can't say as much. You see many things when you go
about at night--enough."
He was urged to explain his allusions, but in vain.
When he was asked where and how he had passed the night, he answered,
that having left the cabaret at ten o'clock, he went to put down some
traps in Mauprevoir wood; and had gone home and to bed about one
o'clock.
"By the bye," added he, "there ought to be some game in those traps by
this time."
"Can you bring a witness to prove that you went home at one?" asked the
mayor, who bethought him of the count's clock, stopped at twenty minutes
past three.
"Don't know, I'm sure," carelessly responded the poacher, "it's quite
likely that my son didn't wake up when I went to bed."
He added, seeing the judge reflect:
"I suspect that you are going to imprison me until the murderers are
discovered. If it was winter, I wouldn't complain much; a fellow is well
off in prison then, for it's warm there. But just at the time for
hunting, it's provoking. It will be a good lesson for that Philippe;
it'll teach him what it costs to render a service to gentlefolks."
"Enough!" interrupted M. Domini, sternly. "Do you know Guespin?"
This name suddenly subdued the careless insolence of the marauder; his
little gray eyes experienced a singular restlessness.
"Certainly," he answered in an embarrassed tone, "we have often made a
party at cards, you understand, while sipping our 'gloria.'"*
[* Coffee and brandy.]
The man's inquietude struck the four who heard him. Plantat, especially,
betrayed profound surprise. The old vagabond was too shrewd not to
perceive the effect which he produced.
"Faith, so much the worse!" cried he: "I'll tell you everything. Every
man for himself, isn't it? If Guespin has done the deed, it will not
blacken him any more, nor make him any the worse off. I know him, simply
because he used to sell me the grapes and strawberries from the count's
conservatories; I suppose he stole them; we divided the money, and I
left."
Plantat could not refrain from an exclamation of satisfaction, as if to
say, "Good luck! I knew it well enough!"
When he said he would be sent to prison, Bertaud was not wrong. The
judge ordered his arrest.
It was now Philippe's turn.
The poor fellow was in a pitiable state; he was crying bitterly.
"To accuse me of such a crime, me!" he kept repeating.
On being questioned he told the pure and simple truth, excusing himself,
however, for having dared to penetrate into the park. When he was asked
at what hour his father reached home, he said he knew nothing about it;
he had gone to bed about nine, and had not awoke until morning. He knew
Guespin, from having seen him at his father's several times. He knew
that the old man had some transactions with the gardener, but he was
ignorant as to what they were. He had never spoken four times to
Guespin. The judge ordered Philippe to be set at liberty, not that he
was wholly convinced of his innocence, but because if the crime had been
committed by several persons, it was well to have one of them free; he
could be watched, and he would betray the whereabouts of the rest.
Meanwhile the count's body was nowhere to be found. The park had been
rigidly searched, but in vain. The mayor suggested that he had been
thrown into the river, which was also M. Domini's opinion; and some
fishermen were sent to drag the Seine, commencing their search a little
above the place where the countess was found.
It was then nearly three o'clock. M. Plantat remarked that probably no
one had eaten anything during the day. Would it not be wise to take
something, he suggested, if the investigations were to be pursued till
night? This appeal to the trivial necessities of our frail humanity
highly displeased the worthy mayor; but the rest readily assented to the
suggestion, and M. Courtois, though not in the least hungry, followed
the general example. Around the table which was yet wet with the wine
spilt by the assassins, the judge, M. Plantat, the mayor, and the doctor
sat down, and partook of an improvised collation.
V
The staircase had been put under guard, but the vestibule had remained
free. People were heard coming and going, tramping and coughing; then
rising above this continuous noise, the oaths of the gendarmes trying to
keep back the crowd. From time to time, a scared face passed by the
dining-room door, which was ajar. These were curious folks who, more
daring than the rest, wished to see the "men of justice" eating, and
tried to hear a word or two, to report them, and so become important in
the eyes of the others. But the "men of justice"--as they said at
Orcival--took care to say nothing of moment while the doors were open,
and while a servant was passing to and fro. Greatly moved by this
frightful crime, disturbed by the mystery which surrounded it, they hid
their impressions. Each, on his part, studied the probability of his
suspicions, and kept his opinion to himself.
M. Domini, as he ate, put his notes in order, numbering the leaves,
marking certain peculiarly significant answers of the suspected persons
with a cross. He was, perhaps, the least tormented of the four
companions at this funereal repast. The crime did not seem to him one of
those which keep judges of instruction sleepless through the night; he
saw clearly the motive of it; and he had Bertaud and Guespin, two of the
assassins, or at least accomplices, secure.
M. Plantat and Dr. Gendron, seated next each other, were talking of the
illness which carried off Sauvresy. M. Courtois listened to the hubbub
without.
The news of the double murder was soon noised about the neighborhood,
and the crowd increased every minute. It filled the court, and became
bolder and bolder; the gendarmes were overwhelmed. Then or never was the
time for the mayor to show his authority. "I am going to make these
people listen to reason," said he, "and make them retire." And at once,
wiping his mouth, he threw his tumbled napkin on the table, and went
out.
It was time. The brigadier's injunctions were no longer heeded. Some
curious people, more eager than the rest, had flanked the position and
were forcing an entrance through the gate leading to the garden. The
mayor's presence did not perhaps intimidate the crowd much, but it
redoubled the energy of the gendarmes; the vestibule was cleared, amid
murmurings against the arm of the law. What a chance for a speech! M.
Courtois was not wanting to the occasion. He believed that his
eloquence, endowed with the virtues of a cold showerbath, would calm
this unwonted effervescence of his constituency. He stepped forward upon
the steps, his left hand resting in the opening of his vest, gesturing
with his right in the proud and impassible attitude which the sculptor
lends to great orators. It was thus that he posed before his council
when, finding unexpected opposition, he undertook to impose his will
upon them, and recall the recalcitrant members to their duty.
His speech, in fragments, penetrated to the dining-room. According as he
turned to the right or to the left, his voice was clear and distinct, or
was lost in space. He said:
"Fellow-citizens, an atrocious crime, unheard of before in our commune,
has shocked our peaceable and honest neighborhood. I understand and
excuse your feverish emotion, your natural indignation. As well as you,
my friends, more than you--I cherished and esteemed the noble Count de
Tremorel, and his virtuous wife. We mourn them together--"
"I assure you," said Dr. Gendron to M. Plantat, "that the symptoms you
describe are not uncommon after pleurisy. From the acute state, the
inflammation passes to the chronic state, and becomes complicated with
pneumonia."
"But nothing," pursued the mayor, "can justify a curiosity, which by its
importunate attempts to be satisfied, embarrasses the investigation, and
is, at all events, a punishable interference with the cause of justice.
Why this unwonted gathering? Why these rumors and noises? These
premature conjectures?"
"There were several consultations," said M. Plantat, "which did not have
favorable results. Sauvresy suffered altogether strange and
unaccountable tortures. He complained of troubles so unwonted, so
absurd, if you'll excuse the word, that he discouraged all the
conjectures of the most experienced physicians."
"Was it not R---, of Paris, who attended him?"
"Exactly. He came daily, and often remained overnight. Many times I have
seen him ascending the principal street of the village, with troubled
countenance, as he went to give his prescription to the apothecary.
"Be wise enough," cried M. Courtois, "to moderate your just anger; be
calm; be dignified."
"Surely," continued Dr. Gendron, "your apothecary is an intelligent man;
but you have at Orcival a fellow who quite outdoes him, a fellow who
knows how to make money; one Robelot--"
"Robelot, the bone-setter?"
"That's the man. I suspect him of giving consultations, and prescribing
sub rosa. He is very clever. In fact I educated him. Five or six years
ago, he was my laboratory boy, and even now I employ him when I have a
delicate operation on hand--"
The doctor stopped, struck by the alteration in the impassible Plantat's
features.
"What is the matter, my friend?" he asked. "Are you ill?"
The judge left his notes, to look at him. "Why," said he, "Monsieur
Plantat is very pale--"
But M. Plantat speedily resumed his habitual expression.
"'Tis nothing," he answered, "really nothing. With my abominable
stomach, as soon as I change my hour of eating--"
Having reached his peroration, M. Courtois raised his voice.
"Return," said he, "to your peaceable homes, your quiet avocations. Rest
assured the law protects you. Already justice has begun its work; two of
the criminals are in its power, and we are on the track of their
accomplices."
"Of all the servants of the chateau," remarked M. Plantat, "there
remains not one who knew Sauvresy. The domestics have one by one been
replaced."
"No doubt," answered the doctor, "the sight of the old servants would be
disagreeable to Monsieur de Tremorel."
He was interrupted by the mayor, who re-entered, his eyes glowing, his
face animated, wiping his forehead.
"I have let the people know," said he, "the indecency of their
curiosity. They have all gone away. They were anxious to get at Philippe
Bertaud, the brigadier says; public opinion has a sharp scent."
Hearing the door open, he turned, and found himself face to face with a
man whose features were scarcely visible, so profoundly did he bow, his
hat pressed against his breast.
"What do you wish?" sternly asked M. Courtois. "By what right have you
come in here?--Who are you?"
The man drew himself up.
"I am Monsieur Lecoq," he replied, with a gracious smile. "Monsieur
Lecoq of the detective force, sent by the prefect of police in reply to
a telegram, for this affair."
This declaration clearly surprised all present, even the judge of
instruction.
In France, each profession has its special externals, as it were,
insignia, which betray it at first view. Each profession has its
conventional type, and when public opinion has adopted a type, it does
not admit it possible that the type should be departed from. What is a
doctor? A grave man, all in black, with a white cravat. A gentleman with
a capacious stomach, adorned with heavy gold seals, can only be a
banker. Everybody knows that the artist is a merry liver, with a peaked
hat, a velvet vest, and enormous ruffles. By virtue of this rule, the
detective of the prefecture ought to have an eye full of mystery,
something suspicious about him, a negligence of dress, and imitation
jewelry. The most obtuse shopkeeper is sure that he can scent a
detective at twenty paces a big man with mustaches, and a shining felt
hat, his throat imprisoned by a collar of hair, dressed in a black,
threadbare surtout, carefully buttoned up on account of the entire
absence of linen. Such is the type. But, according to this, M. Lecoq, as
he entered the dining-room at Valfeuillu, had by no means the air of a
detective. True, M. Lecoq can assume whatever air he pleases. His
friends declare that he has a physiognomy peculiar to himself, which he
resumes when he enters his own house, and which he retains by his own
fireside, with his slippers on; but the fact is not well proved. What is
certain, is that his mobile face lends itself to strange metamorphoses;
that he moulds his features according to his will, as the sculptor
moulds clay for modelling. He changes everything, even his look.
"So," said the judge of instruction, "the prefect has sent you to me, in
case certain investigations become necessary."
"Yes, Monsieur, quite at your service."
M. Lecoq had on this day assumed a handsome wig of lank hair, of that
vague color called Paris blonde, parted on the side by a line
pretentiously fanciful; whiskers of the same color puffed out with bad
pomade, encircled a pallid face. His big eyes seemed congealed within
their red border, an open smile rested on his thick lips, which, in
parting, discovered a range of long yellow teeth. His face, otherwise,
expressed nothing in particular. It was a nearly equal mixture of
timidity, self-sufficiency, and contentment. It was quite impossible to
concede the least intelligence to the possessor of such a phiz. One
involuntarily looked for a goitre. The retail haberdashers, who, having
cheated for thirty years in their threads and needles, retire with large
incomes, should have such heads as this. His apparel was as dull as his
person. His coat resembled all coats, his trousers all trousers. A hair
chain, the same color as his whiskers, was attached to a large silver
watch, which bulged out his left waistcoat pocket. While speaking, he
fumbled with a confection-box made of transparent horn, full of little
square lozenges, and adorned by a portrait of a very homely,
well-dressed woman--"the defunct," no doubt. As the conversation
proceeded, according as he was satisfied or disturbed, M. Lecoq munched
a lozenge, or directed glances toward the portrait which were quite a
poem in themselves.
Having examined the man a long time, the judge of instruction shrugged
his shoulders. "Well," said M. Domini, finally, "now that you are here,
we will explain to you what has occurred."
"Oh, that's quite useless," responded Lecoq, with a satisfied air,
"perfectly useless, sir."
"Nevertheless, it is necessary that you should know--"
"What? that which monsieur the judge knows?" interrupted the detective,
"for that I already know. Let us agree there has been a murder, with
theft as its motive; and start from that point. The countess's body has
been found--not so that of the count. What else? Bertaud, an
acknowledged rogue, is arrested; he merits a little punishment,
doubtless. Guespin came back drunk; ah, there are sad charges against
this Guespin! His past is deplorable; it is not known where he passed
the night, he refuses to answer, he brings no alibi--this is indeed
grave!"