Dr. Gendron had just finished his sad task in the billiard-room. He had
taken off his long coat, and pulled up his shirt-sleeves above his
elbows. His instruments lay on a table near him; he had covered the body
with a long white sheet. Night had come, and a large lamp, with a
crystal globe, lighted up the gloomy scene. The doctor, leaning over a
water-basin, was washing his hands, when the old justice of the peace
and the detective entered.
"Ah, it's you, Plantat," said the doctor in a suppressed tone; "where is
Monsieur Domini?"
"Gone."
The doctor did not take the trouble to repress a vexed motion.
"I must speak with him, though," said he, "it's absolutely
necessary--and the sooner the better; for perhaps I am wrong--I may be
mistaken--"
M. Lecoq and M. Plantat approached him, having carefully closed the
door. The doctor was paler than the corpse which lay under the sheet.
His usually calm features betrayed great distress. This change could not
have been caused by the task in which he had been engaged. Of course it
was a painful one; but M. Gendron was one of those experienced
practitioners who have felt the pulse of every human misery, and whose
disgust had become torpid by the most hideous spectacles. He must have
discovered something extraordinary.
"I am going to ask you what you asked me a while ago," said M. Plantat.
"Are you ill or suffering?"
M. Gendron shook his head sorrowfully, and answered, slowly and
emphatically:
"I will answer you, as you did me; 'tis nothing, I am already better."
Then these two, equally profound, turned away their heads, as if fearing
to exchange their ideas; they doubted lest their looks should betray
them.