XI

A long silence followed the detective's discourse. Perhaps his hearers

were casting about for objections. At last Dr. Gendron spoke:

"I don't see Guespin's part in all this."

"Nor I, very clearly," answered M. Lecoq. "And here I ought to confess

to you not only the strength, but the weakness also, of the theory I

have adopted. By this method, which consists of reconstructing the crime

before discovering the criminal, I can be neither right nor wrong by

halves. Either all my inferences are correct, or not one of them is.

It's all, or nothing. If I am right, Guespin has not been mixed up with

this crime, at least directly; for there isn't a single circumstance

which suggests outside aid. If, on the other hand, I am wrong--"

M. Lecoq paused. He seemed to have heard some unexpected noise in the

garden.

"But I am not wrong. I have still another charge against the count, of

which I haven't spoken, but which seems to be conclusive."

"Oh," cried the doctor, "what now?"

"Two certainties are better than one, and I always doubt. When I was

left alone a moment with Francois, the valet, I asked him if he knew

exactly the number of the count's shoes; he said yes, and took me to a

closet where the shoes are kept. A pair of boots, with green Russia

leather tops, which Francois was sure the count had put on the previous

morning, was missing. I looked for them carefully everywhere, but could

not find them. Again, the blue cravat with white stripes which the count

wore on the 8th, had also disappeared."

"There," cried M. Plantat, "that is indisputable proof that your

supposition about the slippers and handkerchief was right."

"I think that the facts are sufficiently established to enable us to go

forward. Let's now consider the events which must have decided--"

M. Lecoq again stopped, and seemed to be listening. All of a sudden,

without a word he jumped on the window-sill and from thence into the

garden, with the bound of a cat which pounces on a mouse. The noise of a

fall, a stifled cry, an oath, were heard, and then a stamping as if a

struggle were going on. The doctor and M. Plantat hastened to the

window. Day was breaking, the trees shivered in the fresh wind of the

early morning,--objects were vaguely visible without distinct forms

across the white mist which hangs, on summer nights, over the valley of

the Seine. In the middle of the lawn, at rapid intervals, they heard the

blunt noise of a clinched fist striking a living body, and saw two men,

or rather two phantoms, furiously swinging their arms. Presently the two

shapes formed but one, then they separated, again to unite; one of the

two fell, rose at once, and fell again.

"Don't disturb yourselves," cried M. Lecoq's voice. "I've got the

rogue."

The shadow of the detective, which was upright, bent over, and the

conflict was recommenced. The shadow stretched on the ground defended

itself with the dangerous strength of despair; his body formed a large

brown spot in the middle of the lawn, and his legs, kicking furiously,

convulsively stretched and contracted. Then there was a moment when the

lookers-on could not make out which was the detective. They rose again

and struggled; suddenly a cry of pain escaped, with a ferocious oath.

"Ah, wretch!"

And almost immediately a loud shout rent the air, and the detective's

mocking tones were heard:

"There he is! I've persuaded him to pay his respects to us--light me up

a little."

The doctor and his host hastened to the lamp; their zeal caused a delay,

and at the moment that the doctor raised the lamp, the door was rudely

pushed open.

"I beg to present to you," said M. Lecoq, "Master Robelot, bone-setter

of Orcival, herborist by prudence, and poisoner by vocation."

The stupefaction of the others was such that neither could speak.

It was really the bone-setter, working his jaws nervously. His adversary

had thrown him down by the famous knee-stroke which is the last resort

of the worst prowlers about the Parisian barriers. But it was not so

much Robelot's presence which surprised M. Plantat and his friend. Their

stupor was caused by the detective's appearance; who, with his wrist of

steel--as rigid as handcuffs--held the doctor's ex-assistant, and pushed

him forward. The voice was certainly Lecoq's; there was his costume, his

big-knotted cravat, his yellow-haired watch-chain--still it was no

longer Lecoq. He was blond, with highly cultivated whiskers, when he

jumped out the window; he returned, brown, with a smooth face. The man

who had jumped out was a middle-aged person, with an expressive face

which was in turn idiotic and intelligent; the man who returned by the

door was a fine young fellow of thirty-five, with a beaming eye and a

sensitive lip; a splendid head of curly black hair, brought out vividly

the pallor of his complexion, and the firm outline of his head and face.

A wound appeared on his neck, just below the chin.

"Monsieur Lecoq!" cried M. Plantat, recovering his voice.

"Himself," answered the detective, "and this time the true Lecoq."

Turning to Robelot, he slapped him on the shoulder and added:

"Go on, you."

Robelot fell upon a sofa, but the detective continued to hold him fast.

"Yes," he continued, "this rascal has robbed me of my blond locks.

Thanks to him and in spite of myself, you see me as I am, with the head

the Creator gave me, and which is really my own." He gave a careless

gesture, half angry, half good-humored. "I am the true Lecoq; and to

tell the truth, only three persons besides yourselves really know

him--two trusted friends, and one who is infinitely less so--she of whom

I spoke a while ago."

The eyes of the other two met as if to question each other, and M. Lecoq

continued:

"What can a fellow do? All is not rose color in my trade. We run such

dangers, in protecting society, as should entitle us to the esteem, if

not the affection of our fellow-men: Why, I am condemned to death, at

this moment, by seven of the most dangerous criminals in France. I have

caught them, you see, and they have sworn--they are men of their word,

too--that I should only die by their hands. Where are these wretches?

Four at Cayenne, one at Brest; I've had news of them. But the other two?

I've lost their track. Who knows whether one of them hasn't followed me

here, and whether to-morrow, at the turning of some obscure road, I

shall not get six inches of cold steel in my stomach?"

He smiled sadly.

"And no reward," pursued he, "for the perils which we brave. If I should

fall to-morrow, they would take up my body, carry it to my house, and

that would be the end." The detective's tone had become bitter, the

irritation of his voice betrayed his rancor. "My precautions happily are

taken. While I am performing my duties, I suspect everything, and when I

am on my guard I fear no one. But there are days when one is tired of

being on his guard, and would like to be able to turn a street corner

without looking for a dagger. On such days I again become myself; I take

off my false beard, throw down my mask, and my real self emerges from

the hundred disguises which I assume in turn. I have been a detective

fifteen years, and no one at the prefecture knows either my true face or

the color of my hair."

Master Robelot, ill at ease on his lounge, attempted to move.

"Ah, look out!" cried M. Lecoq, suddenly changing his tone. "Now get up

here, and tell us what you were about in the garden?"

"But you are wounded!" exclaimed Plantat, observing stains of blood on

M. Lecoq's shirt.

"Oh, that's nothing--only a scratch that this fellow gave me with a big

cutlass he had."

M. Plantat insisted on examining the wound, and was not satisfied until

the doctor declared it to be a very slight one.

"Come, Master Robelot," said the old man, "what were you doing here?"

The bone-setter did not reply.

"Take care," insisted M. Plantat, "your silence will confirm us in the

idea that you came with the worst designs."

But it was in vain that M. Plantat wasted his persuasive eloquence.

Robelot shut himself up in a ferocious and dogged silence. M. Gendron,

hoping, not without reason, that he might have some influence over his

former assistant, spoke:

"Answer us; what did you come for?"

Robelot made an effort; it was painful, with his broken jaw, to speak.

"I came to rob; I confess it."

"To rob--what?"

"I don't know."

"But you didn't scale a wall and risk the jail without a definite

object?"

"Well, then, I wanted--"

He stopped.

"What? Go on."

"To get some rare flowers in the conservatory."

"With your cutlass, hey?" said M. Lecoq. Robelot gave him a terrible

look; the detective continued:

"You needn't look at me that way--you don't scare me. And don't talk

like a fool, either. If you think we are duller than you, you are

mistaken--I warn you of it."

"I wanted the flower-pots," stammered the man.

"Oh, come now," cried M. Lecoq, shrugging his shoulders, "don't repeat

such nonsense. You, a man that buys large estates for cash, steal

flower-pots! Tell that to somebody else. You've been turned over

to-night, my boy, like an old glove. You've let out in spite of yourself

a secret that tormented you furiously, and you came here to get it back

again. You thought that perhaps Monsieur Plantat had not told it to

anybody, and you wanted to prevent him from speaking again forever."

Robelot made a sign of protesting.

"Shut up now," said M. Lecoq. "And your cutlass?"

While this conversation was going on, M. Plantat reflected.

"Perhaps," he murmured, "I've spoken too soon."

"Why so?" asked M. Lecoq. "I wanted a palpable proof for Monsieur

Domini; we'll give him this rascal, and if he isn't satisfied, he's

difficult to please."

"But what shall we do with him?"

"Shut him up somewhere in the house; if necessary, I'll tie him up."

"Here's a dark closet."

"Is it secure?"

"There are thick walls on three sides of it, and the fourth is closed

with a double door; no openings, no windows, nothing."

"Just the place."

M. Plantat opened the closet, a black-looking hole, damp, narrow, and

full of old books and papers.

"There," said M. Lecoq to his prisoner, "in here you'll be like a little

king," and he pushed him into the closet. Robelot did not resist, but he

asked for some water and a light. They gave him a bottle of water and a

glass.

"As for a light," said M. Lecoq, "you may dispense with it. You'll be

playing us some dirty trick."