When the prisoner had gone, M. Segmuller sank back in his armchair,
literally exhausted. He was in that state of nervous prostration which
so often follows protracted but fruitless efforts. He had scarcely
strength enough to bathe his burning forehead and gleaming eyes with
cool, refreshing water.
This frightful examination had lasted no less than seven consecutive
hours.
The smiling clerk, who had kept his place at his desk busily writing the
whole while, now rose to his feet, glad of an opportunity to stretch his
limbs and snap his fingers, cramped by holding the pen. Still, he was
not in the least degree bored. He invariably took a semi-theatrical
interest in the dramas that were daily enacted in his presence; his
excitement being all the greater owing to the uncertainty that shrouded
the finish of the final act--a finish that only too often belied the
ordinary rules and deductions of writers for the stage.
“What a knave!” he exclaimed after vainly waiting for the magistrate or
the detective to express an opinion, “what a rascal!”
M. Segmuller ordinarily put considerable confidence in his clerk’s long
experience. He sometimes even went so far as to consult him, doubtless
somewhat in the same style that Moliere consulted his servant. But, on
this occasion he did not accept his opinion.
“No,” said he in a thoughtful tone, “that man is not a knave. When I
spoke to him kindly he was really touched; he wept, he hesitated. I
could have sworn that he was about to tell me everything.”
“Ah, he’s a man of wonderful power!” observed Lecoq.
The detective was sincere in his praise. Although the prisoner had
disappointed his plans, and had even insulted him, he could not help
admiring his shrewdness and courage. He--Lecoq--had prepared himself for
a strenuous struggle with this man, and he hoped to conquer in the end.
Nevertheless in his secret soul he felt for his adversary, admiring that
sympathy which a “foeman worthy of one’s steel” always inspires.
“What coolness, what courage!” continued the young detective. “Ah!
there’s no denying it, his system of defense--of absolute denial--is a
masterpiece. It is perfect. How well he played that difficult part of
buffoon! At times I could scarcely restrain my admiration. What is a
famous comedian beside that fellow? The greatest actors need the adjunct
of stage scenery to support the illusion, whereas this man, entirely
unaided, almost convinced me even against my reason.”
“Do you know what your very appropriate criticism proves?” inquired the
magistrate.
“I am listening, sir.”
“Ah, well! I have arrived at this conclusion--either this man is really
May, the stroller, earning his living by paying compliments, as he
says--or else he belongs to the highest rank of society, and not to the
middle classes. It is only in the lowest or in the highest ranks that
you encounter such grim energy as he has displayed, such scorn of life,
as well as such remarkable presence of mind and resolution. A vulgar
tradesman attracted to the Poivriere by some shameful passion would have
confessed it long ago.”
“But, sir, this man is surely not the buffoon, May,” replied the young
detective.
“No, certainly not,” responded M. Segmuller; “we must, therefore, decide
upon some plan of action.” He smiled kindly, and added, in a friendly
voice: “It was unnecessary to tell you that, Monsieur Lecoq. Quite
unnecessary, since to you belongs the honor of having detected this
fraud. As for myself, I confess, that if I had not been warned in
advance, I should have been the dupe of this clever artist’s talent.”
The young detective bowed; a blush of modesty tinged his cheeks, but a
gleam of pleased vanity sparkled in his eyes. What a difference between
this friendly, benevolent magistrate and M. d’Escorval, so taciturn and
haughty. This man, at least, understood, appreciated, and encouraged
him; and it was with a common theory and an equal ardor that they were
about to devote themselves to a search for the truth. Scarcely had Lecoq
allowed these thoughts to flit across his mind than he reflected that
his satisfaction was, after all, a trifle premature, and that success
was still extremely doubtful. With this chilling conclusion, presence
of mind returned. Turning toward the magistrate, he exclaimed: “You will
recollect, sir, that the Widow Chupin mentioned a son of hers, a certain
Polyte--”
“Yes.”
“Why not question him? He must know all the frequenters of the
Poivriere, and might perhaps give us valuable information regarding
Gustave, Lacheneur, and the murderer himself. As he is not in solitary
confinement, he has probably heard of his mother’s arrest; but it seems
to me impossible that he should suspect our present perplexity.”
“Ah! you are a hundred times right!” exclaimed the magistrate. “I ought
to have thought of that myself. In his position he can scarcely have
been tampered with as yet, and I’ll have him up here to-morrow morning;
I will also question his wife.”
Turning to his clerk, M. Segmuller added: “Quick, Goguet, prepare a
summons in the name of the wife of Hippolyte Chupin, and address an
order to the governor of the Depot to produce her husband!”
But night was coming on. It was already too dark to see to write, and
accordingly the clerk rang the bell for lights. Just as the messenger
who brought the lamps turned to leave the room, a rap was heard at the
door. Immediately afterward the governor of the Depot entered.
During the past twenty-four hours this worthy functionary had been
greatly perplexed concerning the mysterious prisoner he had placed
in secret cell No. 3, and he now came to the magistrate for advice
regarding him. “I come to ask,” said he, “if I am still to retain the
prisoner May in solitary confinement?”
“Yes.”
“Although I fear fresh attacks of frenzy, I dislike to confine him in
the strait-jacket again.”
“Leave him free in his cell,” replied M. Segmuller; “and tell the
keepers to watch him well, but to treat him kindly.”
By the provisions of Article 613 of the Code, accused parties are placed
in the custody of the government, but the investigating magistrate is
allowed to adopt such measures concerning them as he may deem necessary
for the interest of the prosecution.
The governor bowed assent to M. Segmuller’s instructions, and then
added: “You have doubtless succeeded in establishing the prisoner’s
identity.”
“Unfortunately, I have not.”
The governor shook his head with a knowing air. “In that case,” said he,
“my conjectures were correct. It seems to me evident that this man is
a criminal of the worst description--an old offender certainly, and one
who has the strongest interest in concealing his identity. You will find
that you have to deal with a man who has been sentenced to the galleys
for life, and who has managed to escape from Cayenne.”
“Perhaps you are mistaken.”
“Hum! I shall be greatly surprised if such should prove the case. I
must admit that my opinion in this matter is identical with that of M.
Gevrol, the most experienced and the most skilful of our inspectors. I
agree with him in thinking that young detectives are often overzealous,
and run after fantoms originated in their own brains.”
Lecoq, crimson with wrath, was about to make an angry response when M.
Segmuller motioned to him to remain silent. Then with a smile on his
face the magistrate replied to the governor. “Upon my word, my dear
friend,” he said, “the more I study this affair, the more convinced I
am of the correctness of the theory advanced by the ‘overzealous’
detective. But, after all, I am not infallible, and I shall depend upon
your counsel and assistance.”
“Oh! I have means of verifying my assertion,” interrupted the governor;
“and I hope before the end of the next twenty-four hours that our
man will have been identified, either by the police or by one of his
fellow-prisoners.”
With these words he took his leave. Scarcely had he done so than Lecoq
sprang to his feet. The young detective was furious. “You see that
Gevrol already speaks ill of me; he is jealous.”
“Ah, well! what does that matter to you? If you succeed, you will have
your revenge. If you are mistaken--then I am mistaken, too.”
Then, as it was already late, M. Segmuller confided to Lecoq’s keeping
the various articles the latter had accumulated in support of his
theory. He also placed in his hands the diamond earring, the owner of
which must be discovered; and the letter signed “Lacheneur,” which had
been found in the pocket of the spurious soldier. Having given him
full instructions, he asked him to make his appearance promptly on
the morrow, and then dismissed him, saying: “Now go; and may good luck
attend you!”