"Do you know," asked he, "to whom Sauvresy confided them for keeping?"
"Ah," cried the detective, as if a sudden idea had enlightened him, "it
was you."
He added to himself, "Now, my good man, I begin to see where all your
information comes from."
"Yes, it was I," resumed M. Plantat. "On the day of the marriage of
Madame Sauvresy and Count Hector, in conformity with the last wishes of
my dying friend, I went to Valfeuillu and asked to see Monsieur and
Madame de Tremorel. Although they were full of company, they received me
at once in the little room on the ground-floor where Sauvresy was
murdered. They were both very pale and terribly troubled. They evidently
guessed the purpose of my visit, for they lost no time in admitting me
to an interview. After saluting them I addressed myself to Bertha, being
enjoined to do so by the written instructions I had received; this was
another instance of Sauvresy's foresight. 'Madame,' said I, 'I was
charged by your late husband to hand to you, on the day of your second
marriage, this package, which he confided to my care.' She took the
package, in which the bottle and the manuscript were enclosed, with a
smiling, even joyous air, thanked me warmly, and went out. The count's
expression instantly changed; he appeared very restless and agitated; he
seemed to be on coals. I saw well enough that he burned to rush after
his wife, but dared not; I was going to retire; but he stopped me.
'Pardon me,' said he, abruptly, 'you will permit me, will you not? I
will return immediately,' with which he ran out. When I saw him and his
wife a few minutes afterward, they were both very red; their eyes had a
strange expression and their voices trembled, as they accompanied me to
the door. They had certainly been having a violent altercation."
"The rest may be conjectured," interrupted M. Lecoq. "She had gone to
secrete the manuscript in some safe place; and when her new husband
asked her to give it up to him, she replied, 'Look for it.'"
"Sauvresy had enjoined on me to give it only into her hands."
"Oh, he knew how to work his revenge. He had it given to his wife so
that she might hold a terrible arm against Tremorel, all ready to crush
him. If he revolted, she always had this instrument of torture at hand.
Ah, the man was a miserable wretch, and she must have made him suffer
terribly."
"Yes," said Dr. Gendron, "up to the very day he killed her."
The detective had resumed his promenade up and down the library.
"The question as to the poison," said he, "remains. It is a simple one
to resolve, because we've got the man who sold it to her in that
closet."
"Besides," returned the doctor, "I can tell something about the poison.
This rascal of a Robelot stole it from my laboratory, and I know only
too well what it is, even if the symptoms, so well described by our
friend Plantat, had not indicated its name to me. I was at work upon
aconite when Sauvresy died; and he was poisoned with aconitine."
"Ah, with aconitine," said M. Lecoq, surprised. "It's the first time
that I ever met with that poison. Is it a new thing?"
"Not exactly. Medea is said to have extracted her deadliest poisons from
aconite, and it was employed in Rome and Greece in criminal executions."
"And I did not know of it! But I have very little time to study.
Besides, this poison of Medea's was perhaps lost, as was that of the
Borgias; so many of these things are!"
"No, it was not lost, be assured. But we only know of it nowadays by
Mathiole's experiments on felons sentenced to death, in the sixteenth
century; by Hers, who isolated the active principle, the alkaloid, in
1833 and lastly by certain experiments made by Bouchardat, who
pretends--"
Unfortunately, when Dr. Gendron was set agoing on poisons, it was
difficult to stop him; but M. Lecoq, on the other hand, never lost sight
of the end he had in view.
"Pardon me for interrupting you, Doctor," said he. "But would traces of
aconitine be found in a body which had been two years buried? For
Monsieur Domini is going to order the exhumation of Sauvresy."
"The tests of aconitine are not sufficiently well known to permit of the
isolation of it in a body. Bouchardat tried ioduret of potassium, but
his experiment was not successful."
"The deuce!" said M. Lecoq. "That's annoying."
The doctor smiled benignly.
"Reassure yourself," said he. "No such process was in existence--so I
invented one."
"Ah," cried Plantat. "Your sensitive paper!"
"Precisely."
"And could you find aconitine in Sauvresy's body?"
"Undoubtedly."
M. Lecoq was radiant, as if he were now certain of fulfilling what had
seemed to him a very difficult task.
"Very well," said he. "Our inquest seems to be complete. The history of
the victims imparted to us by Monsieur Plantat gives us the key to all
the events which have followed the unhappy Sauvresy's death. Thus, the
hatred of this pair, who were in appearance so united, is explained; and
it is also clear why Hector has ruined a charming young girl with a
splendid dowry, instead of making her his wife. There is nothing
surprising in Tremorel's casting aside his name and personality to
reappear under another guise; he killed his wife because he was
constrained to do so by the logic of events. He could not fly while she
was alive, and yet he could not continue to live at Valfeuillu. And
above all, the paper for which he searched with such desperation, when
every moment was an affair of life and death to him, was none other than
Sauvresy's manuscript, his condemnation and the proof of his first
crime."
M. Lecoq talked eagerly, as if he had a personal animosity against the
Count de Tremorel; such was his nature; and he always avowed laughingly
that he could not help having a grudge against the criminals whom he
pursued. There was an account to settle between him and them; hence the
ardor of his pursuit. Perhaps it was a simple matter of instinct with
him, like that which impels the hunting hound on the track of his game.
"It is clear enough now," he went on, "that it was Mademoiselle Courtois
who put an end to his hesitation and eternal delay. His passion for her,
irritated by obstacles, goaded him to delirium. On learning her
condition, he lost his head and forgot all prudence and reason. He was
wearied, too, of a punishment which began anew each morning; he saw
himself lost, and his wife sacrificing herself for the malignant
pleasure of sacrificing him. Terrified, he took the resolution to commit
this murder."
Many of the circumstances which had established M. Lecoq's conviction
had escaped Dr. Gendron.
"What!" cried he, stupefied. "Do you believe in Mademoiselle Laurence's
complicity?"
The detective earnestly protested by a gesture.
"No, Doctor, certainly not; heaven forbid that I should have such an
idea. Mademoiselle Courtois was and is still ignorant of this crime. But
she knew that Tremorel would abandon his wife for her. This flight had
been discussed, planned, and agreed upon between them; they made an
appointment to meet at a certain place, on a certain day."
"But this letter," said the doctor.
M. Plantat could scarcely conceal his emotion when Laurence was being
talked about.
"This letter," cried he, "which has plunged her family into the deepest
grief, and which will perhaps kill poor Courtois, is only one more scene
of the infamous drama which the count has planned."
"Oh," said the doctor, "is it possible?"
"I am firmly of Monsieur Plantat's opinion," said the detective. "Last
evening we had the same suspicion at the same moment at the mayor's. I
read and re-read her letter, and could have sworn that it did not
emanate from herself. The count gave her a rough draft from which she
copied it. We mustn't deceive ourselves; this letter was meditated,
pondered on, and composed at leisure. Those were not the expressions of
an unhappy young girl of twenty who was going to kill herself to escape
dishonor."
"Perhaps you are right," remarked the doctor visibly moved. "But how can
you imagine that Tremorel succeeded in persuading her to do this
wretched act?"
"How? See here, Doctor, I am not much experienced in such things, having
seldom had occasion to study the characters of well-brought-up young
girls; yet it seems to me very simple. Mademoiselle Courtois saw the
time coming when her disgrace would be public, and so prepared for it,
and was even ready to die if necessary."
M. Plantat shuddered; a conversation which he had had with Laurence
occurred to him. She had asked him, he remembered, about certain
poisonous plants which he was cultivating, and had been anxious to know
how the poisonous juices could be extracted from them.
"Yes," said he, "she has thought of dying."
"Well," resumed the detective, "the count took her in one of the moods
when these sad thoughts haunted the poor girl, and was easily able to
complete his work of ruin. She undoubtedly told him that she preferred
death to shame, and he proved to her that, being in the condition in
which she was, she had no right to kill herself. He said that he was
very unhappy; and that not being free, he could not repair his fault;
but he offered to sacrifice his life for her. What should she do to save
both of them? Abandon her parents, make them believe that she had
committed suicide, while he, on his side, would desert his house and his
wife. Doubtless she resisted for awhile; but she finally consented to
everything; she fled, and copied and posted the infamous letter dictated
by her lover."
The doctor was convinced.
"Yes," he muttered, "those are doubtless the means he employed."
"But what an idiot he was," resumed M. Lecoq, "not to perceive that the
strange coincidence between his disappearance and Laurence's suicide
would be remarked! He said to himself, 'Probably people will think that
I, as well as my wife, have been murdered; and the law, having its
victim in Guespin, will not look for any other.'"