For the first few moments after Picot's startling confession had
fallen like a thunderbolt among those assembled in the justice-room of
Cummerhays, the silence was so intense that, to use a common phrase, a
pin might have been heard to drop. Every eye was focused on the
mountebank, who stood on the spot where he had risen, erect and very
pale, his eyes glowing in their deep orbits like live coals, and
pressing his soft felt hat with both hands to his breast. Suddenly
there was a slight commotion close to where the magistrates were
sitting; the strained silence was broken, and all eyes turned as with
one accord. The lady in black, she who was said to be the wife of the
accused man, had fainted. But Margery's strong arms had caught her ere
she fell. Another woman in the body of the court at once hurried to
her help, and between them the unconscious young wife was carried out.
"Place that man in the dock," said the red-faced magistrate, "and allow
the other prisoner to be seated."
Picot stepped quietly forward of his own accord, the people near
making way for him with wonderful alacrity, and placed himself on the
spot the magistrate had indicated, a couple of constables stationing
themselves behind him as he did so. Then the clerk put certain
questions to him, which Picot answered without a moment's hesitation.
When these came to an end the entry on the charge-sheet stood as
follows: "Jules Picot. Age, forty-three. Native of France. Profession,
acrobat. No fixed place of residence."
Then the magistrate, clasping the fingers of one hand in those of the
other, and resting them on the table in front of him as he leaned
forward a little, said: "Jules Picot, you have confessed openly and in
public to the commission of a most heinous and terrible crime. Such
being the case, we have no option but to detain you in custody while
inquiries are being made as to the truth or falsehood of the
extraordinary statement just volunteered by you. Any further
statement you may choose to make we will of course listen to; but at
the same time we must caution you that anything you may say will be
taken down and used as evidence against you elsewhere. Is it your wish
to make any further statement, or is it not?"
"Ma foi, monsieur," answered Picot, with a slight shrug, "that is what
I am here for--to make what you call statements, to tell the truth, to
prove that this gentleman is innocent, and that I, Jules Picot, and I
alone, killed Otto von Rosenberg." He paused, and in the hush that
followed, the rapid scratching of the clerk's pen as it raced over the
paper was clearly audible. The pencils of the two reporters who sat in
a little box below the clerk moved at a more deliberate pace. One of
them even found time to make a furtive sketch of Picot on a blank page
of his note-book.
It was so evident the prisoner had something more to say that no one
broke the silence.
"Eight years ago, monsieur," he began in a low clear voice, "I had a
wife, a daughter, and a son. Now I am alone. I was living in Paris. No
man could have been more happy than I was. Stephanie, my daughter, had
an engagement at the Cirque de l'Hiver. She was beautiful, she was
good. In an evil hour she attracted the attention of the Baron von
Rosenberg. He followed her everywhere; he gave her rich presents; he
even went so far as to promise to make her his wife--_scélérat_ that
he was! Of all this I knew nothing till afterwards. One day Stephanie
does not come home. I make inquiry for her. She has fled. Von
Rosenberg, too, has disappeared. They have fled together. From that
day I never saw Stephanie more." Again he paused, and although there
was no trace of emotion in his voice, it may be that the hidden depths
of his being were profoundly moved.
"A little while later, ma pauvre Marie died. She had been ill a long
time; but what killed her was the loss of Stephanie. Ah yes! After
that, Henri and I set out, wandering from place to place, not caring
much where we went, but always looking and asking for Von Rosenberg,
because I want to demand of him what has he done with my child. All at
once I discover him. It was at the house of this gentleman, Monsieur
Brooke. Next day they tell me that he has gone away back to his own
country, and they know not when he will return. But I wait and wait
while one week go away after another, and at length he comes back. I
hide myself in the wood. I climb into the thick branches of a tree,
and stay there hour after hour till he shall be alone. At length I see
him coming down the path that leads from the house to the châlet near
the wood. He whistles as he comes, and he is alone. I wait a little
while, then I come down from the tree and walk up to the châlet. The
Baron is standing up, examining a pistol--a pistol with inlay of ivory
and gold, and with strange figures marked on it. On the table close by
is a heavy riding-whip. He has not heard my footsteps. I enter, and he
starts and stares. I make him a profound bow, and say: 'Bonjour,
Monsieur le Baron. My name is Jules Picot, and I come to demand from
you what you have done with my daughter Stephanie.' He still stares,
and seems to be thinking to himself how he shall answer me. At last he
says: 'I know nothing whatever of your daughter; and if I did I should
decline to tell you.' 'She left Paris in your company,' I reply.
'Possibly so,' he answers with an evil sneer. 'Monsieur, I repeat that
I am her father. I seek for her everywhere, but cannot find her. You,
monsieur, if you choose, can give me some clue by which I may be able
to trace her. Her mother is dead, and I have no other daughter. Think,
monsieur--think.' He laughs a laugh that makes me long to spring at
his throat and strangle him. 'I. altogether refuse to give you any
information whatever about your daughter,' he says. 'How, monsieur,
you refuse!' I say as I draw a step or two nearer. He has laid the
pistol on the table by this time, and his fingers now shut on the
handle of the riding-whip. 'Then you are a coward and a villain,' I
continue; 'and I spit in your face, as I will do again and again
whenever I meet you. I have found you now, and I will follow you
wherever you go.' He replies only by seizing the whip, hissing it
quickly through the air, and bringing it down with all his strength
round my head and shoulders. Strange lights dance before my eyes;
there is a noise in my ears as of falling waters. The pistol is close
to my hand; I grasp it; I fire. Von Rosenberg falls without a cry or a
word. I fling the pistol away and walk quietly back through the woods.
As I reach the village, where my boy is awaiting me, the church clock
strikes seven. The evening is that of the 28th of June."
He ceased speaking as quietly and impassively as he had begun: he
might have been reading something from a newspaper referring to some
other man, so little apparent emotion did he display; yet his hearers
felt instinctively that he was speaking the truth.
"What you have just told us," said the magistrate, "will be taken down
in writing; it will afterwards be read over to you, in order that you
may make any additions or corrections that you may deem necessary; and
you will then be asked to affix your name to the document. You will
have no objection to do so, I presume?"
"To write my name on the paper, is that what monsieur means?"
"That is what I mean."
"Certainement, monsieur, I will write my name. Why not?"
"Then for the present you are remanded."
Picot looked round with a puzzled air; but one of the constables
touched him on the shoulder and whispered, "Come this way."
He turned to obey, and as he passed Gerald the eyes of the two men
met. Gerald's hand went out and gripped that of the mountebank. "O
Picot!" was all his lips could utter. The mountebank stroked the back
of Gerald's hand caressingly for a moment while a strangely soft smile
flitted across his haggard features. "Ah, monsieur, you and la belle
madame will be happy again," was all he said. Next moment he had
passed out of sight.
Gerald was now replaced in the dock; and one of the magistrates,
addressing him, said that although, on the face of it there seemed
little reason to doubt the truth of the singular narrative to which
they had just listened, it would have to be confirmed by ample inquiry
before it could be accepted and acted upon. Meanwhile, he regretted
to say Mr. Brooke would have to remain in custody. But on the morrow,
or next day at the latest, both prisoners would be transferred to
King's Harold, when the amplest investigation would doubtless at once
take place. With that the prisoner was removed.
Before going back to his cell, Gerald was allowed to see his wife for
a few minutes. The meeting was almost a silent one; words would come
after a time; just now their hearts overflowed with a solemn
thankfulness, the roots of which struck deeper than speech could
fathom.
As soon as Picot reached the cell allotted to him, he asked to be
supplied with a cup of coffee, after which he lay down on his pallet
with the air of a man thoroughly wearied out, and in a few
minutes was fast asleep. He slept soundly till aroused some three
hours later, when he was conducted to a room where he found one of the
magistrates, the clerk, the governor of the jail, and two other
officials. Here a paper, which had been drawn up from notes taken in
the justice-room, was read over to him. After having caused it to be
corrected in one or two minor particulars, he affixed his name to it;
and his signature having been duly witnessed, he was reconducted to
his cell.
About eight o'clock, after the gas had been lighted, he asked for pen,
ink, and paper, and a small table to write on. These having been
supplied him, he sat and wrote, slowly and laboriously, for nearly a
couple of hours, finally putting what he had written inside an
envelope and sealing and directing it. Then, after having taken off
his shoes and coat, he wrapped himself in the blanket which had been
supplied him and lay down to sleep. The gas was lowered, and silence
reigned throughout the prison. Once every hour during the night a
warder went the round of the cells and peered into each of them that
was occupied through a grating in the door. All through the night
Picot apparently slept an unbroken sleep. When the warder visited him
at one o'clock he found that he had turned over and was now lying with
his face to the wall, after which he seemed never to have stirred
between one visit and another. At seven o'clock another
warder, who had just come on duty, went into his cell to rouse him. To
his dismay, he could not succeed in doing so. He turned the
unconscious man over on his back, and then the drawn, ghastly
face told its own tale.
"Ah," remarked the doctor, who was quickly on the spot, as he held up
to the light a tiny phial only about half the size of a man's little
finger and smelt at its contents, "five drops of this would kill the
strongest man in three seconds."