"It was, perhaps, a liberty," resumed M. Lecoq, "but the end justifies
the means. Well, you have read this letter; but have you studied it,
examined the hand-writing, weighed the words, remarked the context of
the sentences?"
"Ah," cried Plantat, "I was not mistaken then--you had the same idea
strike you that occurred to me!"
And, in the energy of his excitement he seized the detective's hands and
pressed them as if he were an old friend. They were about to resume
talking when a step was heard on the staircase; and presently Dr.
Gendron appeared.
"Courtois is better," said he, "he is in a doze, and will recover."
"We have nothing more, then, to keep us here," returned M. Plantat.
"Let's be off. Monsieur Lecoq must be half dead with hunger."
As they went away, M. Lecoq slipped Laurence's letter, with the
envelope, into his pocket.
X
M. Plantat's house was small and narrow; a philosopher's house. Three
large rooms on the ground-floor, four chambers in the first story, an
attic under the roof for the servants, composed all its apartments.
Everywhere the carelessness of a man who has withdrawn from the world
into himself, for years, ceasing to have the least interest in the
objects which surround him, was apparent. The furniture was shabby,
though it had been elegant; the mouldings had come off, the clocks had
ceased to keep time, the chairs showed the stuffing of their cushions,
the curtains, in places, were faded by the sun. The library alone
betrayed a daily care and attention.
Long rows of books in calf and gilt were ranged on the carved oaken
shelves, a movable table near the fireplace contained M. Plantat's
favorite books, the discreet friends of his solitude. A spacious
conservatory, fitted with every accessory and convenience, was his only
luxury. In it flourished one hundred and thirty-seven varieties of
briars.
Two servants, the widow Petit, cook and house-keeper, and Louis,
gardener, inhabited the house. If they did not make it a noisy one, it
was because Plantat, who talked little, detested also to hear others
talk. Silence was there a despotic law. It was very hard for Mme. Petit,
especially at first. She was very talkative, so talkative that when she
found no one to chat with, she went to confession; to confess was to
chat. She came near leaving the place twenty times; but the thought of
an assured pension restrained her. Gradually she became accustomed to
govern her tongue, and to this cloistral silence. But she revenged
herself outside for the privations of the household, and regained among
the neighbors the time lost at home.
She was very much wrought up on the day of the murder. At eleven
o'clock, after going out for news, she had prepared monsieur's dinner;
but he did not appear. She waited one, two hours, five hours, keeping
her water boiling for the eggs; no monsieur. She wanted to send Louis to
look for him, but Louis being a poor talker and not curious, asked her
to go herself. The house was besieged by the female neighbors, who,
thinking that Mme. Petit ought to be well posted, came for news; no news
to give.
Toward five o'clock, giving up all thought of breakfast, she began to
prepare for dinner. But when the village bell struck eight o'clock,
monsieur had not made his appearance. At nine, the good woman was beside
herself, and began to scold Louis, who had just come in from watering
the garden, and, seated at the kitchen table, was soberly eating a plate
of soup.
The bell rung.
"Ah, there's monsieur, at last."
No, it was not monsieur, but a little boy, whom M. Plantat had sent from
Valfeuillu to apprise Mme. Petit that he would soon return, bringing
with him two guests who would dine and sleep at the house. The worthy
woman nearly fainted. It was the first time that M. Plantat had invited
anyone to dinner for five years. There was some mystery at the bottom of
it--so thought Mme. Petit, and her anger doubled with her curiosity.
"To order a dinner at this hour," she grumbled. "Has he got
common-sense, then?" But reflecting that time pressed, she continued:
"Go along, Louis; this is not the moment for two feet to stay in one
shoe. Hurry up, and wring three chickens' heads; see if there ain't some
ripe grapes in the conservatory; bring on some preserves; fetch some
wine from the cellar!" The dinner was well advanced when the bell rung
again. This time Baptiste appeared, in exceeding bad humor, bearing M.
Lecoq's night-gown.
"See here," said he to the cook, "what the person, who is with your
master, gave me to bring here."
"What person?"
"How do I know? He's a spy sent down from Paris about this Valfeuillu
affair; not much good, probably--ill-bred--a brute--and a wretch."
"But he's not alone with monsieur?"
"No; Doctor Gendron is with them."
Mme. Petit burned to get some news out of Baptiste; but Baptiste also
burned to get back and know what was taking place at his master's--so
off he went, without having left any news behind.
An hour or more passed, and Mme. Petit had just angrily declared to
Louis that she was going to throw the dinner out the window, when her
master at last appeared, followed by his guests. They had not exchanged
a word after they left the mayor's. Aside from the fatigues of the
evening, they wished to reflect, and to resume their self-command. Mme.
Petit found it useless to question their faces--they told her nothing.
But she did not agree with Baptiste about M. Lecoq: she thought him
good-humored, and rather silly. Though the party was less silent at the
dinner-table, all avoided, as if by tacit consent, any allusion to the
events of the day. No one would ever have thought that they had just
been witnesses of, almost actors in, the Valfeuillu drama, they were so
calm, and talked so glibly of indifferent things. From time to time,
indeed, a question remained unanswered, or a reply came tardily; but
nothing of the sensations and thoughts, which were concealed beneath the
uttered commonplaces, appeared on the surface.
Louis passed to and fro behind the diners, his white cloth on his arm,
carving and passing the wine. Mme. Petit brought in the dishes, and came
in thrice as often as was necessary, her ears wide open, leaving the
door ajar as often as she dared. Poor woman! she had prepared an
excellent dinner, and nobody paid any attention to it.
M. Lecoq was fond of tit-bits; yet, when Louis placed on the table a
dish of superb grapes--quite out of season--his mouth did not so much as
expand into a smile. Dr. Gendron would have been puzzled to say what he
had eaten. The dinner was nearly over, when M. Plantat began to be
annoyed by the constraint which the presence of the servants put upon
the party. He called to the cook:
"You will give us our coffee in the library, and may then retire, as
well as Louis."
"But these gentlemen do not know their rooms," insisted Mme. Petit,
whose eavesdropping projects were checked by this order. "They will,
perhaps, need something."
"I will show them their rooms," said M. Plantat, dryly. "And if they
need anything, I shall be here."
They went into the library. M. Plantat brought out a box of cigars and
passed them round:
"It will be healthful to smoke a little before retiring."