One day early in April, the month when the lilacs flower and when women
begin to display light apparel, a cab could be seen crossing the bridge
which spans the Seine between the Faubourg St. Germain and the Louvre,
and which is known to the Parisians as the Pont des Saints Pères. The
vehicle was going at a quiet trot, and it was driven by a jovial jehu,
who hummed a song as he cracked his whip and jerked his reins. Both
windows were down, and from each of them came a cloud of bluish
smoke--the smoke of the cigars of two young fellows who were gaily
chatting inside, and who, although they came from the so-called "Latin
Quarter" of Paris, were quite unlike the students immortalised by
Gavarni's pencil. They were, indeed, dressed with careful taste, and
displayed none of the questionable manners which may be acquired in the
drinking dens of the Boulevard St. Michel. One of them, a fair-haired
young fellow with soft blue eyes, was named George Caumont, and was the
son of a Norman cattle breeder, who lived on his land, saving up his
cash, and making his only child an allowance of three thousand francs a
year, so that he might complete, in Paris, the study of law which he had
commenced at Caen. The other, a dark young man with curly moustaches and
a bold expression of face, was the son of a petty nobleman of Périgord,
who had left him a heavily mortgaged estate with a somewhat
high-sounding name. He was called Adhémar de Puymirol, and lived upon a
small allowance made him by an aunt who wished him to become a doctor.
He and George Caumont had met shortly after their arrival in Paris, and
their acquaintance had speedily become intimacy, for they had the same
ambition and much the same tastes. They both regarded their present
situation as a probationary one, hoping sooner or later to contract a
brilliant marriage; and they governed themselves accordingly, merely
attending the courts and the clinical lectures when they had nothing
better to do, and just occasionally passing an examination in order not
to discourage Papa Caumont and Aunt Bessèges. But everything comes to an
end, and with their relatives grumbling and their creditors barking
loudly, there were days when the thought of the future filled them with
dismay. Still, on this beautiful spring morning, everything seemed
tinged with a roseate hue, and they even laughed at the enforced
departure for the provinces apparently so near at hand. "Leave Paris!"
said Adhémar, gazing at the scene around him. "Never, George; I would
rather give lessons in anatomy to freshmen than go and bury myself in
Périgord to doctor my aunt's farmers."
"And I," sighed George, "would rather act as a college tutor than devote
the rest of my life to cattle breeding. We are at the end of our tether,
unfortunately, and if we don't meet two rich girls before the close of
the term, we shall be obliged to decamp, for Paris will be too hot for
us."
"Ah, well, we will go to one of the watering-places where heiresses are
met."
"You are always so confident!"
"That is the only way to succeed. If our friend Pierre Dargental had
become discouraged, we shouldn't now be going to celebrate the close of
his bachelor life at lunch. Dargental is no better than we are, and yet
he has found a widow of title worth more than a million francs."
"And all he brings her on his side will be his debts--some three hundred
thousand francs."
"Oh! in this part of the world, a man shrewd enough to obtain credit to
that amount can aspire to anything--"
"Except to the hand of an honest woman," replied George. "There are some
pretty hard stories about this Countess de Lescombat's behaviour after
her first husband's death."
"Well, they say she accepted Dargental's offer of marriage before her
period of mourning expired. She consoled herself a little too soon,
perhaps, but that is a matter of no consequence, after all."
"All the same, I should much prefer a less wealthy and more innocent
girl to a rich lady of rank, with a very doubtful reputation."
"But one can't always have one's choice in such matters. Dargental is
about to enter a very wealthy set. He will introduce us to it, and we
ought to succeed in finding what we want there. So it does not become us
to find fault with him."
"Will any of his old flames be at lunch to-day?" inquired George.
"I believe that Blanche Pornic, the actress, is the only favoured one."
"She is very amusing."
"Yes; and thoroughly good-hearted."
The vehicle had crossed over the Place du Carrousel, and was now behind
five or six others, which had formed into a line to pass through the
narrow passage conducting into the Rue de Rivoli. "Five minutes to
twelve!" exclaimed Puymirol, glancing at his watch. "They will be at
table by the time we reach the Lion d'Or. Why doesn't this idiot of a
cabman drive faster?"
"It isn't his fault. The block prevents him from doing so. There are at
least half a dozen traps ahead of us."
As George spoke, he put his head out of the window, and saw that the
passage would not be free for several minutes. Three or four
pedestrians, tired of waiting, had turned to retrace their steps; and
among them Caumont noticed a man wearing a broad-brimmed hat, pulled
down over his eyes, and a full black beard concealing the lower part of
his face. At a distance of ten paces behind him came two unprepossessing
individuals, who seemed anxious not to lose sight of this bearded
individual. Caumont rather lightly concluded that they were detectives
watching the fellow, but as he had no personal interest in the matter he
again ensconced himself in his corner and said to his friend: "Have a
little patience. We shall soon move on." As he spoke, he turned, and
failed to see that the bearded man rested his hand for an instant on the
door of the vehicle, and then without glancing at the occupants, dropped
something that fell upon Puymirol's boot.
"What is that?" cried Adhémar, "what scoundrel ventures to bombard us in
this style?"
"I have no idea," replied George, and on hastily turning again, he
caught a fresh glimpse of the bearded man, whose back only was now
visible, for he had passed them, and was slowing proceeding across the
Place du Carrousel. Just then the cab moved on, and in an instant the
pedestrians were left far behind. "Whatever the article is it must have
been thrown in by a man who just passed us," resumed George; "and he
must have done so with extraordinary swiftness and dexterity, for his
movement escaped my notice entirely."
Meanwhile Puymirol had picked up from the bottom of the cab a handsome
pocket-book, which, with his friend's assent, he now began to open. "The
man who threw that in here," said George, "must be a thief, who in his
anxiety to escape arrest, and to get rid of the stolen article, dropped
it into our cab. When pickpockets find themselves in danger of capture,
they very often resort to that device."
"Well," rejoined Puymirol, "at least there isn't the slightest vestige
of a bank-note inside, as you can see for yourself. Nor are there any
visiting-cards, nothing but papers, and not many of them. In this
compartment there are some lottery tickets, just look: The Tunisian
Lottery, the Amiens Lottery, and the Lottery of the Decorative Art
Society. And here on the other side there are some letters."
"Letters!" repeated George. "So much the better. We shall perhaps find
in them some clue that will enable us to discover the person from whom
the pocket-book was stolen."
"You don't know whether it was stolen," remarked Adhémar. "Besides, who
would think of stealing lottery tickets?"
"True, but it perhaps contained money, which the thief extracted before
throwing away; besides, a letter is sometimes of great value to its
writer."
"Hum, these ones were written by women. There are three of them--each in
a different handwriting, and, strange to say, not one of them signed,
not even with a Christian name. The owner of the pocket-book must have
had uncommonly prudent sweethearts. I wonder why he kept these notes in
this case?"
"Because he intended to make use of them at some future time."
"You think he was a blackmailer, eh? That's quite possible."
"That theory would at least explain the robbery. If the women in
question knew that these specimens of their handwriting had fallen into
our hands, they would be more easy in mind, for we don't know them, and
it is not likely that we ever shall."
"We are not sure of that. Stranger things than that happen in Paris. But
do you think it advisable for us to take the pocket-book to the lost
property office at the Prefecture of Police?"
"No, I think it would be better to burn it with its contents."
"Why? I feel strongly inclined to preserve it. One never knows what may
happen, and it would afford me infinite satisfaction to discover one of
these unknown correspondents."
"Do so if you like, but I don't want to mix myself up in any such
affair. I shall forget the matter, and I beg that you will never remind
me of it."
"Agreed, on conditions that you say nothing about it to any one at
lunch. There will be a parcel of chatterers present."
"You need have no fears of that. I will be as silent as a fish."
"All right, then. Here we are! I must put these letters out of sight,"
said Puymirol, and he stowed the Russian leather-case away in his coat
pocket.
The cab had drawn up in front of the Lion d'Or restaurant in the Rue du
Helder, and the two friends alighted, and asked for the room reserved
for M. Dargental's party. The head-waiter replied that the gentleman
referred to had not yet arrived, though he had ordered lunch to be
served at twelve o'clock precisely; and he then led the friends to an
apartment where they found two people waiting. One of them was a pale
young man, about twenty-eight years of age, as phlegmatic as a
Scandinavian, and as dissipated as a Russian. Although always ready to
drink, to play cards, and to spend his nights in bad company, he never
laughed and rarely smiled. A good-hearted fellow, however, and popular
in the set he mingled with. His name was Charles Balmer, and he was
afflicted with the belief that he was dying from consumption. Beside him
in the private room sat Blanche Pornic, the actress, Dargental's old
flame. Tall, and lithe of form to a degree that had won her the surname
of the Reed, she was very charming, with her pale golden hair, her brown
eyes, sparkling with mischief, her regular features, her graceful
movements, and her silvery voice--a voice that went straight to one's
heart. When Puymirol and Caumont arrived she and Balmer were complaining
of Dargental's non-arrival, and after some comments had been exchanged
concerning his delay, Blanche exclaimed: "We have given him quite
enough grace. Come, Balmer, ring, and tell them to serve us."
"Nothing would please me better," exclaimed Balmer. "I am as hungry as a
dog."
"That is a good sign for a sick man," remarked Puymirol.
"By no means. What, can it be that you, a medical man, are ignorant of
the fact that consumptives eat like ogres?"
"That is all bosh; besides, you are no more a consumptive than I am."
"I haven't more than two years to live, as I know perfectly well. If you
wish to satisfy yourself on the point, you only have to examine my
lungs."
"No, no," cried Blanche. "This is no hospital, and you disgust me with
your medical talk. To table, gentlemen! I will sit opposite Dargental.
He isn't here, but I will imagine that he is. Caumont may take a seat on
my right, and Puymirol on my left. And now let us partake of the
funereal repast."
"Funereal is the very word," said Adhémar. "The invitations we received
had mourning borders."
"And the bill of fare also," chimed in George.
"Pierre made a great mistake," remarked Blanche; "such jokes always
bring bad luck."
"The fact that he hasn't come is sufficient proof of that. I wonder if
he has broken a leg."
"No, indeed! Dargental is too lucky to meet with any such accident. His
noble betrothed must have got wind of this breakfast, and have forbidden
him to attend it."
"In that case, he would, at least, have warned you."
"Do you regret his absence?" asked Blanche, with a glance at Puymirol.
"How can I when I am near you?"
"Nonsense! you always will be a provincial. Confine your attention to
these oysters. They are delicious, and this Sauterne is of the best
quality."
This preliminary chat was soon interrupted by the lively clatter of
knives and forks, and the tinkling of glasses. All the gentlemen of the
party ate and drank heartily, but Blanche, despite her commendatory
words, did not seem inclined to finish her oysters, and only just
moistened her lips in the Château Yquem. "What is the matter with you,
Blanche?" cried Balmer, between two mouthfuls. "I have seen you eat with
a much better appetite. Is Pierre's marriage the cause of this falling
off? You must have been expecting it for several months, however."
"I was so well prepared for it that I myself urged him to take the step.
And as for being angry, that can hardly be, as I came expressly to lunch
with him. He no longer cares for me; well, no matter, I can only rely on
his wife to avenge me. She has already given conclusive proofs of her
ability in that direction."
"Indeed?" inquired Balmer, with an air of pretended innocence.
"If you don't know her story, I will tell it you," rejoined Blanche
abruptly.
"I know only what Dargental has seen fit to tell us," said Balmer.
"Well then, once upon a time, as they say in fairy tales, there lived in
Lyons a silk-worker, who had an illegitimate daughter. She was very
beautiful, but she was no better than her mother. Her father vainly
tried to repress her evil tendency, but at the age of fifteen, tired of
being whipped and scolded, she eloped with a mountebank, under whose
tuition she learned a host of things--circus-riding, trapeze-performing,
and so forth."
"All the elegant accomplishments!" sneered Balmer.
"Two years afterwards, Octavia Crochard, as she was called, appeared in
a new character. A respectable old gentleman who had fallen in love with
her sent her to a boarding school at Saint Mandé, where she passed as
his niece, every one being ignorant of her antecedents. She was so
clever naturally that she soon made up for lost time, and speedily
became a very accomplished young woman. She even learned how to conceal
her proclivities, but she was none the better for that. Not long
afterwards the old gentleman died, leaving her, in his will, an income
of twelve thousand francs, on conditions that she took his name."
"A nice condition! What an idiot he must have been!"
"Octavia was shrewd enough to behave herself after she left the
boarding-school. She engaged a companion or chaperon, and, thanks to the
recommendation of the lady-principal of the school which she had just
left, she succeeded in securing an acquaintance with people of position,
and before many months had elapsed, she made a conquest of another old
simpleton, a _blasé_ millionaire, who married her shortly afterwards."
"This is a very interesting story," said Balmer, as he emptied his fifth
glass of champagne; "but what has it to do with the countess?"
"What! haven't you guessed that this same Crochard girl is now known as
the Countess de Lescombat, and will soon take the name of Madame
d'Argental?--Dargental with an apostrophe, be it understood, for she has
insisted that Pierre should make this change in his name. In fact, to
please her, he has purchased the title of marquis somewhere in Italy.
Octavia does not wish to marry beneath her station."
"Have you communicated all this information to your friend Dargental?"
"No, I have taken good care not to do that. He would imagine I had
invented the story, and slandered the countess, from jealousy. But he
will hear it from plenty of others, by and by. He already knows that
Lescombat bequeathed his entire fortune to his wife only about a month
before his death, and he will learn, sooner or later on, that the
pretended attack of apoplexy that killed the count was a plain case of
suicide. The old nobleman felt so much regret at having despoiled his
natural heirs that he poisoned himself with prussic acid."
"But why didn't he alter his will?" inquired George Caumont.
"He couldn't; Octavia watched him too closely. Besides, she is a perfect
Circe, in her power to bewitch men. She has poor Dargental completely
under her control, for it is evident she has confiscated him this
morning."
Adhémar and George could not repress a smile. They plainly realised that
Blanche would never forgive Dargental for deserting her. As for the
story about Madame de Lescombat, they thought it advisable to believe
merely half of it; but even that was quite enough to make them pity the
imprudent man who was about to place himself at the mercy of this wily
widow. However, after all, why should she want to marry him, as he was
not worth a copper?
"Are you sure that he is at her house now?" inquired Balmer. "Remember,
he may be ill."
"He lives but a short distance from here, on the Boulevard Haussmann. We
might send a messenger there to inquire after him," suggested George.
"I object to that proposal," said Blanche. "He would imagine that I
could not get on without him. Balmer, fill my glass. Gentlemen, I drink
to your sweethearts."
The toast met with no response, for, at that moment, a waiter entered,
bearing a salver upon which a blue envelope was lying. "Here is a
telegram which has just arrived for Monsieur Dargental," said the
attendant. "Shall I lay it beside his plate?"
"Hand it here!" cried Balmer, seizing hold of the missive. "A telegram
is not a letter, and it will certainly do no harm for me to open this
one. It will perhaps explain why Pierre has left us in the lurch, after
inviting us here." He tore open the envelope as he spoke, and he had
scarcely glanced at the contents, than he exclaimed triumphantly: "It is
from the countess! You see that he is not at her house."
"Let me see it," said Blanche, holding out her hand; and, glancing at
the missive, she added: "It is from her. Listen, gentlemen: 'My dear
Pierre--I should be very sorry to curtail your farewells to your friends
of both sexes, but I should be greatly obliged to you if you would come
to my house immediately after the lunch.' Both sexes! that is a dig at
me. This countess has a very easy style, and she is as prudent as a
serpent, for she has merely signed her christian name, Octavia, for fear
of compromising herself, I suppose."
As the actress spoke, she passed the telegram to her left-hand
neighbour. Puymirol, on examining it, at once perceived that it was not
a genuine telegram, but one of those communications, the sender of which
pens as many words as he pleases upon a slip of paper; he then seals the
latter up, and it is despatched by the pneumatic tube service to any
part of Paris. The handwriting of this particular "telegraphic-note" was
therefore the countess's, not a clerk's, and Adhémar noted that it was
peculiarly firm and decided in character.
"Well," said Blanche, "as the countess hasn't kept Pierre a prisoner, I
begin to think that he must be playing a trick on us."
"Unless some misfortune has befallen him," suggested Puymirol.
"A misfortune will befall him when he marries, there is no doubt of
that; but Dargental has no business to treat us like nobodies. If you
take my advice, we will each pay a share of the bill and decamp."
"Speak for yourself, I am still thirsty," growled Balmer. "You can go if
you like, but I intend to have my coffee and season it with a few
glasses of cognac."
"Then you can settle the bill, and I will send you my share of it as
soon as I learn the amount. I am going. Who loves me, follows me!" said
Blanche, rising from table.
Adhémar and George followed her example. "I shall pass Dargental's door
on leaving here, and I will hand his doorkeeper that pneumatic
telegram," remarked Adhémar, placing the missive in his pocket beside
the pocket-book thrown into the cab.
Balmer declining to move, the three others now went downstairs together.
Blanche then sprang into a cab which stood outside the restaurant and
drove off, saying, "Come and see me one of these days. I should like to
hear the end of this affair."
"What do you think of it all?" said Caumont to Adhémar, as soon as the
actress had gone.
"I think," replied Puymirol, "that the countess is an adventuress,
Blanche a viper, and Dargental a fool."
"Why, not long ago, you proclaimed him to be shrewdness personified!"
"I must confess that that opinion seems erroneous. But let us go to
Dargental's place; we shall, perhaps, find the solution of the enigma
there. It isn't far off."
The house in which Dargental lived stood on the Boulevard Haussmann.
They soon reached the door, and the house-porter, on being questioned by
Adhémar, replied that he believed that M. Dargental was at home. At all
events, he had not seen him pass out. Dargental's rooms were situated on
the second floor, to which the two friends duly climbed. Puymirol rang,
but no one answered the summons, and the bell was pulled three times
more, but without any better success. The two friends were, indeed,
about to go off disappointed, when a servant in livery, carrying a
package under his arm, appeared upon the landing. This servant was
Dargental's valet, and he knew Puymirol and Caumont by sight. "I fear
that the marquis has gone out," he remarked. On hearing this title,
which Dargental had never borne before, the two friends exchanged a
smile. "He was to lunch out to-day," continued the valet, "and he was
already dressed when he sent me off on an errand at about eleven
o'clock."
"It was with us that he meant to lunch, and we haven't seen anything of
him," said Caumont.
"If you gentlemen would like to come in, I have the key," now suggested
the servant.
"Very well, open the door, then."
The valet thereupon ushered them into an ante-chamber which they had
traversed more than once. "Is there a fire in the house?" inquired
Puymirol. "There is a strong smell of smoke here."
"Of powder, rather," muttered Caumont.
The valet, apparently quite as surprised by the smell as they were,
opened the dining-room door, crossed the threshold, looked in, and then
suddenly recoiled, exclaiming, in evident terror: "My God! my master is
dead! Monsieur le marquis has killed himself!"
Puymirol pushed the valet aside, and rushed into the room. It was but
dimly lighted by stained glass windows, and Puymirol did not at first
perceive Dargental, upon whom the valet's eyes had chanced to fall just
as he crossed the threshold. Madame de Lescombat's unfortunate lover was
sitting, or rather reclining, in a large arm-chair. Seen from a
distance, he seemed to be asleep. Puymirol hastened forward, took hold
of his hand, found that it was icy cold, and then perceived that his
face was livid, his eyes half closed, and his mouth distorted. "Open the
window, quick, quick!" he cried, and Caumont, forestalling the valet,
instantly obeyed the order.
In the full light it was seen that stains of blood tinged Dargental's
shirt front, which was torn and scorched by a bullet in the vicinity of
the heart; his waistcoat was unbuttoned, the lapels of his coat were
pushed back and creased, while on the floor at his feet gleamed the
shining barrel of a revolver. "My master! my poor master!" groaned the
valet.
"You can not restore him to life, my lad," said Puymirol, who never lost
his presence of mind. "This is no time for weeping. The commissary of
police must be warned. Fetch him immediately, and, on your way out, tell
the doorkeeper what has happened, and ask him to come up. We don't care
to remain alone with the body. Upon the whole, it will be best for us to
go down with you, I think. Our unfortunate friend is beyond all human
aid, and the suicide must be established at once."
Neither Caumont nor the valet made any objections, and the trio hastened
downstairs. "My master has shot himself," cried the valet to the
doorkeeper. "These gentlemen can testify that I was not present when the
accident occurred! On returning home, a few moments ago, I found them
ringing at the door, so I opened it for them with my key."
"It is really impossible," said the doorkeeper in alarm. "I saw him this
morning, and he seemed to be in the best of spirits. He even warned me
that he meant to give up his apartments on account of his approaching
marriage."
"We didn't come here to talk," interrupted Puymirol. "This fellow is
going for the commissary of police; you had better come upstairs with
us, and remain until he brings some official back with him."
The doorkeeper assented; the valet hastened off; and the two friends,
having again ascended the stairs, this time with the cerberus of the
house, re-entered the apartments where nothing had been disturbed during
their absence. Not caring to approach the body, they all three of them
remained in the ante-chamber. "Are you well acquainted with this valet?"
Puymirol inquired of the doorkeeper.
"Yes, sir. He has been in Monsieur Dargental's employ for three years. I
assure you that he is quite incapable of a crime, and fully deserves all
the confidence my unfortunate tenant placed in him. This very morning,
Monsieur Dargental gave him a letter for the Countess de Lescombat, his
intended wife. I was standing at my door as he passed out, and Jean
stopped for a moment to chat with me. While we were talking, he said:
'Ah! Monsieur Pinchon, I am so attached to my master that--'"
The sound of footsteps upon the stairs cut M. Pinchon short. The valet
was returning, bringing with him in lieu of the commissary, who was
absent from his office, that functionary's secretary, an intelligent,
wide-awake-looking young man. Having been enlightened on the way by the
servant, the secretary walked straight to the body, examined it
carefully but without touching it, and said curtly: "This chair is not
in its accustomed place."
The other chairs were, in fact, arranged in lines along the walls, but
this one stood in the middle of the room, and almost directly opposite
the door. "This is the first time I ever heard of a man sitting down to
shoot himself," continued the official.
"Do you suspect a crime, then?" inquired Puymirol.
"I have formed no opinion as yet. A doctor will come with the
commissary, and make a report. In the meantime, gentlemen, will you have
the kindness to give me your names and addresses, for it does not seem
necessary that you should be present at the investigation. You will be
questioned later on, if needful."
"I am named Adhémar de Puymirol; my friend's name is George Caumont, and
we live together, at No. 14, in the Rue de Medicis."
"Very well," said the secretary, as he entered the names in his
note-book. "You were very intimate, I believe, with this Monsieur--"
"Monsieur Pierre Dargental," concluded Puymirol. "We certainly knew him
very well; I especially. He had invited us to lunch with him this
morning in company with Monsieur Charles Balmer, who resides, I believe,
in the Rue Auber, and an actress named Blanche Pornic, who lives in the
Avenue de Messine."
"Was the lunch ordered by Monsieur Dargental?"
"Yes, and we ate it without him. Afterwards we called here, my friend
and myself, to ascertain what had become of him, and we were ringing at
his door when the valet, who happened to come upstairs, opened it for
us."
"I am aware of that. You must have been greatly surprised on entering.
To what cause do you attribute this suicide?"
"I know no cause for it. Dargental was about to be married; besides, it
seems to me very strange that he should have killed himself just as we
were expecting him to celebrate the close of his bachelor life."
"Yes, and all the stranger as he was quite ready to go out. See, his hat
has rolled behind the chair, and his cane has fallen upon the floor. All
this does not seem to harmonize with the care he appears to have taken
in seating himself."
"That is true. The whole affair is incomprehensible. Dargental must have
momentarily lost his mind."
"In that case he must have had a revolver in his pocket at the time; but
that weapon there is not one of the sort a man usually carries upon his
person. It is too large and too heavy for that."
"All I can say is that the weapon belonged to him. I have often seen it
hanging, with others, against the wall of his bedroom. I am certain that
it must bear the name of the dealer who sold it to him--Galland."
"That point will be verified by the commissary, and the doctor will tell
us if the blood could have spouted a distance of two yards from the
arm-chair. See, here is a pool of it upon the floor, almost at my very
feet." Puymirol hastily recoiled, for he perceived, for the first time,
that he was almost stepping in it. "One more question, sir," said the
'secretary.' "Had Monsieur Dargental any enemies?"
"Not to my knowledge. On the contrary, he had many friends. Besides, no
one could have anything to gain by his death, for he had no fortune."
"Oh, no," sighed the doorkeeper. "An execution was put in only the other
day by one of his creditors."
"Nevertheless, he lived in handsome style," replied the secretary, "and
it is very probable that he had more or less money in the house or about
his person; in fact, judging from the apparent disorder of his clothing,
it seems more than likely that his pockets were searched after his
death. But I will detain you no longer, gentlemen. You will hold
yourselves, of course, at the disposal of the authorities--I have your
address."
"Certainly, sir," said Puymirol, who had had quite enough of this covert
examination. George Caumont was also anxious to get away, for this talk
in the presence of his friend's lifeless body made him sick at heart.
The valet was about to beat a retreat with them, but the dismissal was
not for him, for the secretary remarked drily: "Remain. The commissary
will want to talk with you."
"I hope you have no further need of me," now said the doorkeeper.
"Yes, I have, but I shall not keep you long."
M. Pinchon's dismay was pitiful to behold, and the two friends hastily
availed themselves of the permission to depart. "What do you think of
this catastrophe?" inquired Puymirol, as soon as they reached the
street.
"I really don't know what to think of it, and I must admit that I shall
make no attempt to solve the mystery. The authorities will take charge
of that."
"Well, Dargental did me many good turns, and I should like to avenge his
death, for I really believe he was murdered."
"Indeed! But whom do you suspect? And what do you suppose was the object
of the crime? Robbery?"
"No, he had nothing but debts. The porter, you recollect, told us that
his furniture had been attached. Some woman committed the murder. A
woman who was or who had been in love with him."
"Then she killed him from jealousy, you think?"
"Jealousy or revenge, which amounts to about the same thing. It must
have been one of his recent flames, probably the last one."
"What, Blanche Pornic? But she lunched with us."
"It is just because she lunched with us that I suspect her. She came to
the restaurant merely to prove an _alibi_. She may very well have killed
Dargental at eleven o'clock and yet have reached the Lion d'Or before
noon. Balmer can tell us at what hour she arrived. Besides, she may have
hired some other person to commit the crime in her stead. By the way,
have you forgotten what she said during lunch? Despite her sweet words
one could guess that she hated Dargental."
"Indeed! why should she hate him?"
"Because he was going to marry Madame de Lescombat. She could not
forgive him for preferring the countess to herself. And by the way, if
the inquiry proves that Dargental has really been murdered, Blanche
would be delighted should her rival be accused of the crime."
"Well, she certainly didn't act in the right way to divert suspicion
from herself. It is strange that she should have treated us to that
narrative of the countess's career quite unsolicited; and if she is as
shrewd as you pretend--"
"Did you notice her strange manner during the repast, and her abrupt
departure afterwards? She heard us say that we were going to Dargental's
to find out what had become of him, and she did not care to await the
result. She knew the cause of his absence only too well."
"You may call these indications, if you like," replied George, "still
they hardly prove that Mademoiselle Pornic instigated the murder, and I
don't think her capable of such baseness. Dargental must have committed
suicide."
"Oh, a man doesn't kill himself like that with his hat on his head and a
cane in his hand. It occurs to me now that his shirt was not scorched as
much as it would have been if the pistol had been placed against it. The
shot must have been fired from a distance of a few yards, and Dargental
probably fell just where we saw the pool of blood. The murderer
afterwards raised him up and seated him in the arm-chair."
"That's possible," muttered George, somewhat shaken in his convictions.
"Ah, you are coming round to my way of thinking, at last. Well, I return
to my first injunction. Look for the woman. Where is the woman?"
"Well, if you feel so positive that a woman is mixed up in the affair,"
said Caumont, after a long pause, "I am surprised that you don't think
of that countess whose first husband ended so badly."
"That's absurd!" exclaimed Puymirol. "The first husband committed
suicide, and his widow certainly had no reason to make away with the man
she meant to take as his successor."
"You know nothing about that."
"Mademoiselle Pornic's inuendoes will rankle in your mind, I see. You
certainly place a deal of confidence in that venomous creature."
"I might retort that you seem to feel a great deal of confidence in the
countess. Do you think of offering yourself as a substitute for
Dargental?"
"No, but the countess is no worse than many other women, and your
suspicions are too ridiculous to be entertained for a moment. Don't you
recollect that telegram in which Madame de Lescombat said: 'I don't wish
to interfere with your farewell entertainment to your friends of both
sexes, but come and see me immediately afterwards.' So she must have
known that Dargental was breakfasting with one or more of his old
flames, and feeling no jealousy on that account, she had no grievance
against him."
"Did she really say 'your friends of both sexes?'"
"Those were the very words, my dear fellow, as you shall see for
yourself. I put the telegram in my pocket, you recollect, with the
intention of giving it to Dargental. Here it is." And Adhémar, after
rummaging in his pocket, drew from it not only the telegram, but also
the mysterious pocket-book. Then, turning suddenly, he dragged George
behind one of the newspaper kiosks on the boulevard, along which they
were now walking. "Didn't Blanche say that Dargental had just been
invested with the title of marquis?" he asked.
"Yes, and she must have told the truth, for the valet said, 'Monsieur le
Marquis,' in speaking of his master."
"Blanche also said, did she not, that Dargental had altered his name to
D'Argental?"
"To please the Countess de Lescombat. The news did not surprise me. For
ennobling one's self by means of an apostrophe is a very common thing in
these days."
"Well, look at this pocket-book. Here is a marquis's cornet, and a
capital A; that is to say, Marquis d'Argental."
"What! you think that this case belonged--"
"To our friend Pierre. And now I understand his death. He was killed by
some one who wished to regain possession of the letters he kept in this
case. So the crime was committed, or at least instigated, by a woman."
"I admire your bold reasoning, though I think it decidedly paradoxical.
The scoundrel who stole this pocket-book would not have thrown it into
our cab."
"You told me yourself that he was closely followed by two persons who
seemed to be watching him. He perhaps feared that he would be arrested
and searched; and he did not know that we were intimate with Dargental.
He thought that we should keep the pocket-book, and burn the letters
which could be of no possible interest to us, and which he was anxious
to get rid of at any cost."
"Then, according to you, that man intended to return these letters to
the various women they compromised. You must admit that this supposition
is absurd in the extreme."
"Oh! he was only acting on behalf of _one_ of the women."
"Which one? There are three letters, but each of them is written in a
different hand. You said so yourself."
"I may have been mistaken. I think I will examine them more closely. Let
us take a seat in front of that café. I see a table in a corner where we
shall be comparatively alone."
George Caumont assented to the proposal, and as soon as the friends were
seated in a little niche in front of the Café Américain, Puymirol opened
the pocket-book. "Let us proceed systematically," he remarked. "Here is
the first letter. It is not long, but it is expressive. 'My adored one,'
it says, 'I am ready to leave everything to follow you, and to
sacrifice, for your sake, all that I prize most in this world, my
children and my good name. When shall we start? Say the word, and I will
join you. Take me to the end of the world, and make me your slave. I
shall be only too happy, for I cannot live apart from you.' I have
skipped the kisses. There are too many of them," concluded Adhémar,
sneering.
"My children!" repeated George, ironically. "Then Blanche certainly did
not write that letter. She has no children."
"Nor has Madame de Lescombat any. But let us examine the next missive:
'My friend, I have loved you, I love you still; but if you go on in this
way, I shall no longer love you. I shall even hate you, and I do not
conceal from you that there lurks in my heart a feeling that you would
do well not to arouse. Have you ever seen Sardou's "Hatred" played?
Well, I am a Florentine Parisienne, and I should know how to avenge my
wrongs, as Italian women revenged theirs in the middle ages. These are
no meaningless threats, my dear. To extricate you from a terrible
predicament I once committed an act that might have sent me straight to
the Assizes, and I mean to be rewarded by your devotion. You must choose
between her and me. You understand me, do you not? I await in reply, not
words, but acts. I shall expect you to-morrow, you bad fellow, whom I
love so much. Bring me what you swore to return to me, or there will be
bitter war.'"
"The deuce!" exclaimed George, "that woman doesn't bandy words. I
should think her quite capable of conniving at Dargental's murder to
regain possession of a letter in which she owns that she had committed a
crime. She does not state what crime, but she may have committed
forgery; and if Dargental profited by the deed, as she says clearly
enough, he certainly had good reason to fear her vengeance."
"Then, if this letter came from Blanche Pornic, you would be inclined to
think that the murder was committed by her orders, and for her benefit?"
"I would not swear that such was the case; but it would seem very
probable."
"Well, I know her; and I am sure that she was the writer of this
threatening missive. 'You must choose between her and me.' 'Her' is
Madame de Lescombat, her rival; and I would wager almost any amount that
the letter is not a week old. A day or two after it was written,
Dargental's intended marriage was announced. He had refused to fulfil
his promise, and Blanche avenged herself accordingly."
"But if they had quarrelled to that point, he would not have invited her
to lunch with us this morning."
"There is nothing to prove that she did not invite herself, in order to
throw us off the track. But let us pass on to the third letter." So
saying, Puymirol drew it from the pocket-book, unfolded it, and uttered
an exclamation of astonishment. "What is the matter?" asked George.
Puymirol, instead of replying, proceeded to unfold the telegram, which
he had drawn from his pocket, with the Russian leather case, and spread
it out upon the table beside the third letter, which he had not yet
read. "This last missive certainly comes from Madame de Lescombat," he
grunted. "The handwriting is precisely the same as that of the
telegraphic note."
"Then Madame de Lescombat was probably as deeply interested as her
rivals in regaining possession of her correspondence. You must admit
that."
"Yes; but as Dargental was about to marry her, he would have returned
her the letter, had she desired it."
"Who knows? Read it, and let me know your opinion afterwards."
Puymirol complied, though somewhat reluctantly, for he was afraid he
would be obliged to change his first opinion. He read as follows: "'My
king, my love, my life, I am intoxicated with happiness. What blissful
hours I have spent with you! When will they return? Why did I allow you
to depart? I feel a mad desire to hasten after you, and throw myself in
the arms that clasped me so fondly. Before I met you I never knew what
it was to love. Now, however, my happiness is perfect, and I have proved
to you how ardent is my affection. I have placed myself in your power by
confiding my great secret to you. In a word, you might ruin me. And if I
write this, it is in order that you may have in your possession a
proof, a confession. If I deceived you, if I ceased to love you--But I
am blaspheming! I shall love you until my latest breath. But if I ever
give you any cause of complaint, show me no mercy, crush me, deliver me
up; I shall have deserved my fate. Oh, when will the day come when I
shall be able to acknowledge you as my lord and master before all the
world? When shall I bear your name? It seems to me that day will never
come. Eight months longer to wait! Eight months during which we must
conceal our love, and pretend to mourn a being I loathed. And what if
you learned to love another in the meantime? What if your infatuation
should return for the woman I hate the most because it was she whom you
most loved. Ah! I should die. It would kill me; but I should not die
without being avenged upon that creature.'"
"Well, what do you think of that?" asked George.
"I think that the lady was desperately in love with Dargental, and that
she was out of her mind when she wrote that letter."
"It was evidently written just two months after her husband's death, for
she deplores the fact that her happiness must be deferred eight months
longer, and the law does not allow a woman to marry again until ten
months of widowhood have expired."
"But it is at the least two years since Lescombat died of apoplexy."
"Or of something else. Well, the marriage was deferred for some reason
or other, which is conclusive proof that the courtship was stormy. The
countess has had plenty of time to change her mind."
"She did not change it, as she meant to marry Dargental next week."
"I admit that; but perhaps she was not so much in earnest as formerly.
Dargental, in spite of his promises, had not severed his connection with
Blanche Pornic, and Madame de Lescombat may have regretted saying, and
above all, writing, so much; she herself could not break the engagement,
as he had her completely in his power."
"And you fancy that she could devise no other means but murder to escape
him. That is absurd, my dear fellow."
"Less absurd than your suspicions respecting Blanche, for this letter is
certainly from the countess; and we are by no means sure that the other
comes from the actress." Puymirol hung his head. He was obliged to
confess that George was right, though it cost him a struggle to admit
it. "However, I don't see," added Caumont, "why we should devote our
attention to this mystery. The authorities will take charge of that. You
have only to hand the letters to the commissary of police, and state how
you came into possession of them."
"I shall not do that," said Adhémar quickly. "I don't want to inform on
any one."
"But you talk about avenging Dargental's death."
"Quite so, and when I learn who the guilty party is, I will decide on my
course. I shall begin my search after the truth to-morrow. Before doing
so, however, I want to know the result of the inquiry now in progress."
"How will you learn that result?"
"We shall be summoned as witnesses; and the questions put to us will
indicate how the magistrate views the affair. But we can not stay here
forever. Shall we go to the club? Balmer will be there by about four
o'clock; and there are some questions that I should like to ask him. He
was very intimate with Dargental, so he may be able to enlighten me
respecting certain circumstances."
The two friends thereupon rose up and repaired to their club, a
second-rate establishment in the Avenue de l'Opéra hard by. They had
been elected members, thanks to Dargental. On arriving, they found that
Balmer had not yet put in an appearance, so they sat down in a corner to
wait for him. Their thoughts followed very different channels. Puymirol,
while regretting Dargental, to whom he was indebted for many little
services, hoped to profit by his death, without knowing exactly how. He
had, however, more ambition than scruples, and though he would not have
stooped to blackmailing, he did not hesitate about fishing in muddy
waters. He said to himself that Madame de Lescombat, whether innocent or
guilty of the murder, would give almost anything to regain possession of
her letter, and that she would be disposed to assist any man who might
restore it to her; now, why should he not be the man? These intentions
were certainly not very laudable; but when a fellow wishes to succeed at
any cost, he must not be over fastidious. Caumont, on his side, did not
feel the slightest interest in the countess, and had only undertaken
Blanche Pornic's defence from a sense of justice. He had never liked
Dargental, though he had seen a good deal of him, having been dragged
into his society by Puymirol. He regretted his untimely death, but felt
no desire to avenge it; indeed, he was sorry that he had become mixed up
in the affair of the pocket-book and the letters. In point of fact, he
had other thoughts in his mind. He had recently met a young lady whom he
greatly admired, and whom he wished to marry.
While the two friends thus sat side by side on a sofa, smoking in
silence, Charles Balmer suddenly appeared looking considerably excited.
"Do you know what has happened?" he asked, in a husky voice. "I have
just come from Dargental's."
"We went there in advance of you. He is dead," said Adhémar.
"He was murdered, my dear fellow. I fell into a nest of detectives,
magistrates, and physicians, and I thought for a while that they were
going to arrest me. They confined themselves to questioning me,
however."
"Have they discovered the culprit?" asked Adhémar.
"Well, they have arrested the valet, who stoutly denies any knowledge of
the crime. I know him, and I would stake my life upon his innocence.
Besides, Dargental's pocket-book was stolen, and it certainly was not
Jean who took it, for he was searched, and only thirty-seven sous were
found upon him. They are going to keep him in jail, all the same, but I
am convinced that his innocence will be established sooner or later on."
"But how do they know that the pocket-book was stolen?"
"Dargental always carried it in his breast-pocket. Jean himself told the
commissary so, and the pocket was empty. Poor Pierre! when I think how
we blamed him for keeping us waiting! He was just starting off to lunch
with us when he was killed--by whom, no one can tell." With these words
Balmer left the two friends to approach the card tables and inform the
other members present of the violent death which had befallen one of the
boldest players of the club.
"Well," said George to Puymirol, "after what you have just heard, do you
still persist in your determination to usurp the functions of the
police?"
"I not only persist in my determination, but I shall begin work this
very evening," replied Adhémar, taking up his hat. "You can return home
if you like; I mean to call on the countess."