"This is unheard-of!" cried he. "Incredible! Would you say, now, that
this poison which he found in Sauvresy's body was stolen from his own
laboratory? Why, that body is nothing more to him than 'suspected
matter!' And he already imagines himself discussing the merits of his
sensitive paper in court!"
"He has reason to look for antagonists in court."
"And meanwhile he makes his experiments, and analyzes with the coolest
blood in the world; he continues his abominable cooking, boiling and
filtering, and preparing his arguments--!"
M. Lecoq did not share in his friend's indignation; he was not sorry at
the prospect of a bitter struggle in court, and he imagined a great
scientific duel, like that between Orfila and Raspail, the provincial
and Parisian chemists.
"If Tremorel has the face to deny his part in Sauvresy's murder," said
he, "we shall have a superb trial of it."
This word "trial" put an end to M. Plantat's long hesitation.
"We mustn't have any trial," cried he.
The old man's violence, from one who was usually so calm and
self-possessed, seemed to amaze M. Lecoq.
"Ah ha," thought he, "I'm going to know all." He added aloud:
"What, no trial?"
M. Plantat had turned whiter than a sheet; he was trembling, and his
voice was hoarse, as if broken by sobs.
"I would give my fortune," resumed he "to avoid a trial--every centime
of it, though it doesn't amount to much. But how can we secure this
wretch Tremorel from a conviction? What subterfuge shall we invent? You
alone, my friend, can advise me in the frightful extremity to which you
see me reduced, and aid me to accomplish what I wish. If there is any
way in the world, you will find it and save me--"
"But, my--"
"Pardon--hear me, and you will comprehend me. I am going to be frank
with you, as I would be with myself; and you will see the reason of my
hesitation, my silence, in short, of all my conduct since the discovery
of the crime."
"I am listening."
"It's a sad history, Lecoq. I had reached an age at which a man's career
is, as they say, finished, when I suddenly lost my wife and my two sons,
my whole joy, my whole hope in this world. I found myself alone in life,
more lost than the shipwrecked man in the midst of the sea, without a
plank to sustain me. I was a soulless body, when chance brought me to
settle down at Orcival. There I saw Laurence; she was just fifteen, and
never lived there a creature who united in herself so much intelligence,
grace, innocence, and beauty. Courtois became my friend, and soon
Laurence was like a daughter to me. I doubtless loved her then, but I
did not confess it to myself, for I did not read my heart clearly. She
was so young, and I had gray hairs! I persuaded myself that my love for
her was like that of a father, and it was as a father that she cherished
me. Ah, I passed many a delicious hour listening to her gentle prattle
and her innocent confidences; I was happy when I saw her skipping about
in my garden, picking the roses I had reared for her, and laying waste
my parterres; and I said to myself that existence is a precious gift
from God. My dream then was to follow her through life. I fancied her
wedded to some good man who made her happy, while I remained the friend
of the wife, after having been the confidant of the maiden. I took good
care of my fortune, which is considerable, because I thought of her
children, and wished to hoard up treasures for them. Poor, poor
Laurence!"
M. Lecoq fidgeted in his chair, rubbed his face with his handkerchief,
and seemed ill at ease. He was really much more touched than he wished
to appear.
"One day," pursued the old man, "my friend Courtois spoke to me of her
marriage with Tremorel; then I measured the depth of my love. I felt
terrible agonies which it is impossible to describe; it was like a
long-smothered fire which suddenly breaks forth and devours everything.
To be old, and to love a child! I thought I was going crazy; I tried to
reason, to upbraid myself, but it was of no avail. What can reason or
irony do against passion? I kept silent and suffered. To crown all,
Laurence selected me as her confidant--what torture! She came to me to
talk of Hector; she admired in him all that seemed to her superior to
other men, so that none could be compared with him. She was enchanted
with his bold horseback riding, and thought everything he said sublime."
"Did you know what a wretch Tremorel was?"
"Alas, I did not yet know it. What was this man who lived at Valfeuillu
to me? But from the day that I learned that he was going to deprive me
of my most precious treasure, I began to study him. I should have been
somewhat consoled if I had found him worthy of her; so I dogged him, as
you, Monsieur Lecoq, cling to the criminal whom you are pursuing. I went
often to Paris to learn what I could of his past life; I became a
detective, and went about questioning everybody who had known him, and
the more I heard of him the more I despised him. It was thus that I
found out his interviews with Jenny and his relations with Bertha."
"Why didn't you divulge them?"
"Honor commanded silence. Had I a right to dishonor my friend and ruin
his happiness and life, because of this ridiculous, hopeless love? I
kept my own counsel after speaking to Courtois about Jenny, at which he
only laughed. When I hinted something against Hector to Laurence, she
almost ceased coming to see me."
"Ah! I shouldn't have had either your patience or your generosity."
"Because you are not as old as I, Monsieur Lecoq. Oh, I cruelly hated
this Tremorel! I said to myself, when I saw three women of such
different characters smitten with him, 'what is there in him to be so
loved?'"
"Yes," answered M. Lecoq, responding to a secret thought, "women often
err; they don't judge men as we do."
"Many a time," resumed the justice of the peace, "I thought of provoking
him to fight with me, that I might kill him; but then Laurence would not
have looked at me any more. However, I should perhaps have spoken at
last, had not Sauvresy fallen ill and died. I knew that he had made his
wife and Tremorel swear to marry each other; I knew that a terrible
reason forced them to keep their oath; and I thought Laurence saved.
Alas, on the contrary she was lost! One evening, as I was passing the
mayor's house, I saw a man getting over the wall into the garden; it was
Tremorel. I recognized him perfectly. I was beside myself with rage, and
swore that I would wait and murder him. I did wait, but he did not come
out that night."
M. Plantat hid his face in his hands; his heart bled at the recollection
of that night of anguish, the whole of which he had passed in waiting
for a man in order to kill him. M. Lecoq trembled with indignation.
"This Tremorel," cried he, "is the most abominable of scoundrels. There
is no excuse for his infamies and crimes. And yet you want to save him
from trial, the galleys, the scaffold which await him."
The old man paused a moment before replying. Of the thoughts which now
crowded tumultuously in his mind, he did not know which to utter first.
Words seemed powerless to betray his sensations; he wanted to express
all that he felt in a single sentence.
"What matters Tremorel to me?" said he at last. "Do you think I care
about him? I don't care whether he lives or dies, whether he succeeds in
flying or ends his life some morning in the Place Roquette."
"Then why have you such a horror of a trial?"
"Because--"
"Are you a friend to his family, and anxious to preserve the great name
which he has covered with mud and devoted to infamy?"
"No, but I am anxious for Laurence, my friend; the thought of her never
leaves me."
"But she is not his accomplice; she is totally ignorant--there's no
doubt of it--that he has killed his wife."
"Yes," resumed M. Plantat, "Laurence is innocent; she is only the victim
of an odious villain. It is none the less true, though, that she would
be more cruelly punished than he. If Tremorel is brought before the
court, she will have to appear too, as a witness if not as a prisoner.
And who knows that her truth will not be suspected? She will be asked
whether she really had no knowledge of the project to murder Bertha, and
whether she did not encourage it. Bertha was her rival; it is natural to
suppose that she hated her. If I were the judge I should not hesitate to
include Laurence in the indictment."
"With our aid she will prove victoriously that she was ignorant of all,
and has been outrageously deceived."
"May be; but will she be any the less dishonored and forever lost? Must
she not, in that case, appear in public, answer the judge's questions,
and narrate the story of her shame and misfortunes? Must not she say
where, when, and how she fell, and repeat the villain's words to her?
Can you imagine that of her own free will she compelled herself to
announce her suicide at the risk of killing her parents with grief? No.
Then she must explain what menaces forced her to do this, which surely
was not her own idea. And worse than all, she will be compelled to
confess her love for Tremorel."
"No," answered the detective. "Let us not exaggerate anything. You know
as well as I do that justice is most considerate with the innocent
victims of affairs of this sort."
"Consideration? Eh! Could justice protect her, even if it would, from
the publicity in which trials are conducted? You might touch the
magistrates' hearts; but there are fifty journalists who, since this
crime, have been cutting their pens and getting their paper ready. Do
you think that, to please us, they would suppress the scandalous
proceedings which I am anxious to avoid, and which the noble name of the
murderer would make a great sensation? Does not this case unite every
feature which gives success to judicial dramas? Oh, there's nothing
wanting, neither unworthy passion, nor poison, nor vengeance, nor
murder. Laurence represents in it the romantic and sentimental element;
she--my darling girl--will become a heroine of the assizes; it is she
who will attract the readers of the Police Gazette; the reporters will
tell when she blushes and when she weeps; they will rival each other in
describing her toilet and bearing. Then there will be the photographers
besieging her, and if she refuses to sit, portraits of some hussy of the
street will be sold as hers. She will yearn to hide herself--but where?
Can a few locks and bars shelter her from eager curiosity? She will
become famous. What shame and misery! If she is to be saved, Monsieur
Lecoq, her name must not be spoken. I ask of you, is it possible? Answer
me."
The old man was very violent, yet his speech was simple, devoid of the
pompous phrases of passion. Anger lit up his eyes with a strange fire;
he seemed young again--he loved, and defended his beloved.