Some men are wealthy. They own a carriage drawn by a pair of high-stepping horses, and driven by a coachman in stylish livery; and as they pass by, leaning back on comfortable cushions, they become the object of many an envious glance. Sometimes, however, the coachman has taken a drop too much, and upsets the carriage; perhaps the horses run away and a general smash ensues; or, maybe, the hitherto fortunate owner, in a moment of absent-mindedness, misses the step, and fractures his leg on the curbstone. Such accidents occur every day; and their long list should make humble foot-passengers bless the lowly lot which preserves them from such peril.
On learning the misfortune that had befallen M. d’Escorval, Lecoq’s face wore such an expression of consternation that the doorkeeper could not help laughing. “What is there so very extraordinary about that I’ve told you?” he asked.
“I—oh! nothing—”
The detective did not speak the truth. The fact is, he had just been struck by the strange coincidence of two events—the supposed murderer’s attempted suicide, and the magistrate’s fall. Still, he did not allow the vague presentiment that flitted through his mind to assume any definite form. For after all, what possible connection could there be between the two occurrences? Then again, he never allowed himself to be governed by prejudice, nor had he as yet enriched his formulary with an axiom he afterward professed: “Distrust all circumstances that seem to favor your secret wishes.”
Of course, Lecoq did not rejoice at M. d’Escorval’s accident; could he have prevented it, he would have gladly done so. Still, he could not help saying to himself that this stroke of misfortune would free him from all further connection with a man whose superciliousness and disdain had been painfully disagreeable to his feelings.
This thought caused a sensation of relief—almost one of light-heartedness. “In that case,” said the young detective to the doorkeeper, “I shall have nothing to do here this morning.”
“You must be joking,” was the reply. “Does the world stop moving because one man is disabled? The news only arrived an hour ago; but all the urgent business that M. d’Escorval had in charge has already been divided among the other magistrates.”
“I came here about that terrible affair that occurred the other night just beyond the Barriere de Fontainebleau.”
“Eh! Why didn’t you say so at once? A messenger has been sent to the prefecture after you already. M. Segmuller has charge of the case, and he’s waiting for you.”
Doubt and perplexity were plainly written on Lecoq’s forehead. He was trying to remember the magistrate that bore this name, and wondered whether he was a likely man to espouse his views.
“Yes,” resumed the doorkeeper, who seemed to be in a talkative mood, “M. Segmuller—you don’t seem to know him. He is a worthy man, not quite so grim as most of our gentlemen. A prisoner he had examined said one day: ‘That devil there has pumped me so well that I shall certainly have my head chopped off; but, nevertheless, he’s a good fellow!”
His heart somewhat lightened by these favorable reports, Lecoq went and tapped at a door that was indicated to him, and which bore the number—22.
“Come in!” called out a pleasant voice.
The young detective entered, and found himself face to face with a man of some forty years of age, tall and rather corpulent, who at once exclaimed: “Ah! you are Lecoq. Very well—take a seat. I am busy just now looking over the papers of the case, but I will attend to you in five minutes.”
Lecoq obeyed, at the same time glancing furtively at the magistrate with whom he was about to work. M. Segmuller’s appearance corresponded perfectly with the description given by the doorkeeper. His plump face wore an air of frankness and benevolence, and his blue eyes had a most pleasant expression. Nevertheless, Lecoq distrusted these appearances, and in so doing he was right.
Born near Strasbourg, M. Segmuller possessed that candid physiognomy common to most of the natives of blonde Alsace—a deceitful mask, which, behind seeming simplicity, not unfrequently conceals a Gascon cunning, rendered all the more dangerous since it is allied with extreme caution. He had a wonderfully alert, penetrating mind; but his system—every magistrate has his own—was mainly good-humor. Unlike most of his colleagues, who were as stiff and cutting in manner as the sword which the statue of Justice usually holds in her hand, he made simplicity and kindness of demeanor his leading trait, though, of course, without ever losing sight of his magisterial duties.
Still, the tone of his voice was so paternal, and the subtle purport of his questions so veiled by his seeming frankness, that most of those whom he examined forgot the necessity of protecting themselves, and unawares confessed their guilt. Thus, it frequently happened that while some unsuspecting culprit was complacently congratulating himself upon getting the best of the judge, the poor wretch was really being turned inside out like a glove.
By the side of such a man as M. Segmuller a grave and slender clerk would have excited distrust; so he had chosen one who was a caricature of himself. This clerk’s name was Goguet. He was short but corpulent, and his broad, beardless face habitually wore a silly smile, not out of keeping with his intellect, which was none of the brightest.
As stated above, when Lecoq entered M. Segmuller’s room the latter was busy studying the case which had so unexpectedly fallen into his hands. All the articles which the young detective had collected, from the flakes of wool to the diamond earring, were spread out upon the magistrate’s desk. With the greatest attention, he perused the report prepared by Lecoq, and according to the different phases of the affair, he examined one or another of the objects before him, or else consulted the plan of the ground.
“A good half-hour elapsed before he had completed his inspection, when he threw himself back in his armchair. Monsieur Lecoq,” he said, slowly, “Monsieur d’Escorval has informed me by a note on the margin of this file of papers that you are an intelligent man, and that we can trust you.”
“I am willing, at all events.”
“You speak too slightingly of yourself; this is the first time that an agent has brought me a report as complete as yours. You are young, and if you persevere, I think you will be able to accomplish great things in your profession.”
Nervous with delight, Lecoq bowed and stammered his thanks.
“Your opinion in this matter coincides with mine,” continued M. Segmuller, “and the public prosecutor informs me that M. d’Escorval shares the same views. An enigma is before us; and it ought to be solved.”
“Oh!—we’ll solve it, I am certain, sir,” exclaimed Lecoq, who at this moment felt capable of the most extraordinary achievements. Indeed, he would have gone through fire and water for the magistrate who had received him so kindly, and his enthusiasm sparkled so plainly in his eyes that M. Segmuller could not restrain a smile.
“I have strong hopes of it myself,” he responded; “but we are far from the end. Now, what have you been doing since yesterday? Did M. d’Escorval give you any orders? Have you obtained any fresh information?”
“I don’t think I have wasted my time,” replied Lecoq, who at once proceeded to relate the various facts that had come to his knowledge since his departure from the Poivriere.
With rare precision and that happiness of expression which seldom fails a man well acquainted with his subject, he recounted the daring feats of the presumed accomplice, the points he had noted in the supposed murderer’s conduct, the latter’s unsuccessful attempt at self-destruction. He repeated the testimony given by the cab-driver, and by the concierge in the Rue de Bourgogne, and then read the letter he had received from Father Absinthe.
In conclusion, he placed on the magistrate’s desk some of the dirt he had scraped from the prisoner’s feet; at the same time depositing beside it a similar parcel of dust collected on the floor of the cell in which the murderer was confined at the Barriere d’Italie.
When Lecoq had explained the reasons that had led him to collect this soil, and the conclusions that might be drawn from a comparison of the two parcels, M. Segmuller, who had been listening attentively, at once exclaimed: “You are right. It may be that you have discovered a means to confound all the prisoner’s denials. At all events, this is certainly a proof of surprising sagacity on your part.”
So it must have been, for Goguet, the clerk, nodded approvingly. “Capital!” he murmured. “I should never have thought of that.”
While he was talking, M. Segmuller had carefully placed all the so-called “articles of conviction” in a large drawer, from which they would not emerge until the trial. “Now,” said he, “I understand the case well enough to examine the Widow Chupin. We may gain some information from her.”
He was laying his hand upon the bell, when Lecoq stopped him with an almost supplicating gesture. “I have one great favor to ask you, sir,” he observed.
“What is it?—speak.”
“I should very much like to be present at this examination. It takes so little, sometimes, to awaken a happy inspiration.”
Although the law says that the accused shall first of all be privately examined by the investigating magistrate assisted by his clerk, it also allows the presence of police agents. Accordingly, M. Segmuller told Lecoq that he might remain. At the same time he rang his bell; which was speedily answered by a messenger.
“Has the Widow Chupin been brought here, in compliance with my orders?” asked M. Segmuller.
“Yes, sir; she is in the gallery outside.”
“Let her come in then.”
An instant later the hostess of the Poivriere entered the room, bowing to the right and to the left. This was not her first appearance before a magistrate, and she was not ignorant of the respect that is due to justice. Accordingly, she had arrayed herself for her examination with the utmost care. She had arranged her rebellious gray locks in smooth bandeaux, and her garments, although of common material, looked positively neat. She had even persuaded one of the prison warders to buy her—with the money she had about her at the time of her arrest—a black crape cap, and a couple of white pocket-handkerchiefs, intending to deluge the latter with her tears, should the situation call for a pathetic display.
She was indeed far too knowing to rely solely on the mere artifices of dress; hence, she had also drawn upon her repertoire of grimaces for an innocent, sad, and yet resigned expression, well fitted, in her opinion, to win the sympathy and indulgence of the magistrate upon whom her fate would depend.
Thus disguised, with downcast eyes and honeyed voice, she looked so unlike the terrible termagant of the Poivriere, that her customers would scarcely have recognized her. Indeed, an honest old bachelor might have offered her twenty francs a month to take charge of his chambers—solely on the strength of her good looks. But M. Segmuller had unmasked so many hypocrites that he was not deceived for a moment. “What an old actress!” he muttered to himself, and, glancing at Lecoq, he perceived the same thought sparkling in the young detective’s eyes. It is true that the magistrate’s penetration may have been due to some notes he had just perused—notes containing an abstract of the woman’s former life, and furnished by the chief of police at the magistrate’s request.
With a gesture of authority M. Segmuller warned Goguet, the clerk with the silly smile, to get his writing materials ready. He then turned toward the Widow Chupin. “Your name?” he asked in a sharp tone.
“Aspasie Claperdty, my maiden name,” replied the old woman, “and to-day, the Widow Chupin, at your service, sir;” so saying, she made a low courtesy, and then added: “A lawful widow, you understand, sir; I have my marriage papers safe in my chest at home; and if you wish to send any one—”
“Your age?” interrupted the magistrate.
“Fifty-four.”
“Your profession?”
“Dealer in wines and spirits outside of Paris, near the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers, just beyond the fortifications.”
A prisoner’s examination always begins with these questions as to individuality, which gives both the magistrate and the culprit time to study each other, to try, as it were, each other’s strength, before joining in a serious struggle; just as two duelists, about to engage in mortal combat, first try a few passes with the foils.
“Now,” resumed M. Segmuller, “we will note your antecedents. Have you not already been found guilty of several offenses?”
The Widow Chupin was too well versed in criminal procedure to be ignorant of those famous records which render the denial of identity such a difficult matter in France. “I have been unfortunate, my good judge,” she whined.
“Yes, several times. First of all, you were arrested on a charge of receiving stolen goods.”
“But it was proved that I was innocent, that my character was whiter than snow. My poor, dear husband had been deceived by his comrades; that was all.”
“Possibly. But while your husband was undergoing his sentence, you were condemned, first to one month’s and then to three months’ imprisonment for stealing.”
“Oh, I had some enemies who did their best to ruin me.”
“Next you were imprisoned for having led some young girls astray.”
“They were good-for-nothing hussies, my kind sir, heartless, unprincipled creatures. I did them many favors, and then they went and related a batch of falsehoods to ruin me. I have always been too kind and considerate toward others.”
The list of the woman’s offenses was not exhausted, but M. Segmuller thought it useless to continue. “Such is your past,” he resumed. “At the present time your wine-shop is the resort of rogues and criminals. Your son is undergoing his fourth term of imprisonment; and it has been clearly proved that you abetted and assisted him in his evil deeds. Your daughter-in-law, by some miracle, has remained honest and industrious, hence you have tormented and abused her to such an extent that the authorities have been obliged to interfere. When she left your house you tried to keep her child—no doubt meaning to bring it up after the same fashion as its father.”
“This,” thought the Widow Chupin, “is the right moment to try and soften the magistrate’s heart.” Accordingly, she drew one of her new handkerchiefs from her pocket, and, by dint of rubbing her eyes, endeavored to extract a tear. “Oh, unhappy me,” she groaned. “How can any one imagine that I would harm my grandson, my poor little Toto! Why, I should be worse than a wild beast to try and bring my own flesh and blood to perdition.”
She soon perceived, however, that her lamentations did not much affect M. Segmuller, hence, suddenly changing both her tone and manner, she began her justification. She did not positively deny her past; but she threw all the blame on the injustice of destiny, which, while favoring a few, generally the less deserving, showed no mercy to others. Alas! she was one of those who had had no luck in life, having always been persecuted, despite her innocence. In this last affair, for instance, how was she to blame? A triple murder had stained her shop with blood; but the most respectable establishments are not exempt from similar catastrophes. During her solitary confinement, she had, said she, dived down into the deepest recesses of her conscience, and she was still unable to discover what blame could justly be laid at her door.
“I can tell you,” interrupted the magistrate. “You are accused of impeding the action of the law.”
“Good heavens! Is it possible?”
“And of seeking to defeat justice. This is equivalent to complicity, Widow Chupin; take care. When the police entered your cabin, after this crime had been committed, you refused to answer their questions.”
“I told them all that I knew.”
“Very well, then, you must repeat what you told them to me.”
M. Segmuller had reason to feel satisfied. He had conducted the examination in such a way that the Widow Chupin would now have to initiate a narrative of the tragedy. This excellent point gained; for this shrewd old woman, possessed of all her coolness, would naturally have been on her guard against any direct questions. Now, it was essential that she should not suspect either what the magistrate knew of the affair, or what he was ignorant of. By leaving her to her own devices she might, in the course of the version which she proposed to substitute for the truth, not merely strengthen Lecoq’s theories, but also let fall some remark calculated to facilitate the task of future investigation. Both M. Segmuller and Lecoq were of opinion that the version of the crime which they were about to hear had been concocted at the station-house of the Place d’Italie while the murderer and the spurious drunkard were left together, and that it had been transmitted by the accomplice to the widow during the brief conversation they were allowed to have through the wicket of the latter’s cell.
Invited by the magistrate to recount the circumstances of the tragedy, Mother Chupin did not hesitate for a moment. “Oh, it was a very simple affair, my good sir,” she began. “I was sitting by my fireside on Sunday evening, when suddenly the door opened, and three men and two women came in.”
M. Segmuller and the young detective exchanged glances. The accomplice had evidently seen Lecoq and his comrade examining the footprints, and accordingly the presence of the two women was not to be denied.
“What time was this?” asked the magistrate.
“About eleven o’clock.”
“Go on.”
“As soon as they sat down they ordered a bowl of wine, a la Frangaise. Without boasting, I may say that I haven’t an equal in preparing that drink. Of course, I waited on them, and afterward, having a blouse to mend for my boy, I went upstairs to my room, which is just over the shop.”
“Leaving the people alone?”
“Yes, my judge.”
“That showed a great deal of confidence on your part.”
The widow sadly shook her head. “People as poor as I am don’t fear the thieves,” she sighed.
“Go on—go on.”
“Well, I had been upstairs about half an hour, when I heard some one below call out: ‘Eh! old woman!’ So I went down, and found a tall, big-bearded man, who had just come in. He asked for a glass of brandy, which I brought to a table where he had sat down by himself.”
“And then did you go upstairs again?” interrupted the magistrate.
The exclamation was ironical, of course, but no one could have told from the Widow Chupin’s placid countenance whether she was aware that such was the case.
“Precisely, my good sir,” she replied in the most composed manner. “Only this time I had scarcely taken up my needle when I heard a terrible uproar in the shop. I hurried downstairs to put a stop to it—but heaven knows my interference would have been of little use. The three men who had come in first of all had fallen upon the newcomer, and they were beating him, my good sir, they were killing him. I screamed. Just then the man who had come in alone drew a revolver from his pocket; he fired and killed one of his assailants, who fell to the ground. I was so frightened that I crouched on the staircase and threw my apron over my head that I might not see the blood run. An instant later Monsieur Gevrol arrived with his men; they forced open the door, and behold—”
The Widow Chupin here stopped short. These wretched old women, who have trafficked in every sort of vice, and who have tasted every disgrace, at times attain a perfection of hypocrisy calculated to deceive the most subtle penetration. Any one unacquainted with the antecedents of the landlady of the Poivriere would certainly have been impressed by her apparent candor, so skillfully did she affect a display of frankness, surprise, and fear. Her expression would have been simply perfect, had it not been for her eyes, her small gray eyes, as restless as those of a caged animal, and gleaming at intervals with craftiness and cunning.
There she stood, mentally rejoicing at the success of her narrative, for she was convinced that the magistrate placed implicit confidence in her revelations, although during her recital, delivered, by the way, with conjurer-like volubility, not a muscle of M. Segmuller’s face had betrayed what was passing in his mind. When she paused, out of breath, he rose from his seat, and without a word approached his clerk to inspect the notes taken during the earlier part of the examination.
From the corner where he was quietly seated, Lecoq did not cease watching the prisoner. “She thinks that it’s all over,” he muttered to himself; “she fancies that her deposition is accepted without question.”
If such were, indeed, the widow’s opinion, she was soon to be undeceived; for, after addressing a few low-spoken words to the smiling Goguet, M. Segmuller took a seat near the fireplace, convinced that the moment had now come to abandon defensive tactics, and open fire on the enemy’s position.
“So, Widow Chupin,” he began, “you tell us that you didn’t remain for a single moment with the people who came into your shop that evening!”
“Not a moment.”
“They came in and ordered what they wanted; you waited on them, and then left them to themselves?”
“Yes, my good sir.”
“It seems to me impossible that you didn’t overhear some words of their conversation. What were they talking about?”
“I am not in the habit of playing spy over my customers.”
“Didn’t you hear anything?”
“Nothing at all.”
The magistrate shrugged his shoulders with an air of commiseration. “In other words,” he remarked, “you refuse to inform justice—”
“Oh, my good sir!”
“Allow me to finish. All these improbable stories about leaving the shop and mending your son’s clothes in your bedroom are so many inventions. You have concocted them so as to be able to say to me: ‘I didn’t see anything; I didn’t hear anything.’ If such is your system of defense, I warn you that it will be impossible for you to maintain it, and I may add that it would not be admitted by any tribunal.”
“It is not a system of defense; it is the truth.”
M. Segmuller seemed to reflect for a moment; then, suddenly, he exclaimed: “Then you have nothing to tell me about this miserable assassin?”
“But he is not an assassin, my good sir.”
“What do you mean by such an assertion?”
“I mean that he only killed the others in protecting himself. They picked a quarrel with him; he was alone against three, and saw very plainly that he could expect no mercy from brigands who—”
The color rose to the Widow Chupin’s cheeks, and she suddenly checked herself, greatly embarrassed, and evidently regretting that she had not bridled her tongue. It is true she might reasonably hope, that the magistrate had imperfectly heard her words, and had failed to seize their full purport, for two or three red-hot coals having fallen from the grate on the hearth, he had taken up the tongs, and seemed to be engrossed in the task of artistically arranging the fire.
“Who can tell me—who can prove to me that, on the contrary, it was not this man who first attacked the others?” he murmured, thoughtfully.
“I can,” stoutly declared the widow, already forgetful of her prudent hesitation, “I can swear it.”
M. Segmuller looked up, intense astonishment written upon his face. “How can you know that?” he said slowly. “How can you swear it? You were in your bedroom when the quarrel began.”
Silent and motionless in his corner, Lecoq was inwardly jubilant. This was a most happy result, he thought, but a few questions more, and the old woman would be obliged to contradict herself. What she had already said sufficed to show that she must have a secret interest in the matter, or else she would never have been so imprudently earnest in defending the prisoner.
“However, you have probably been led to this conclusion by your knowledge of the murderer’s character,” remarked M. Segmuller, “you are apparently well acquainted with him.”
“Oh, I had never set eyes on him before that evening.”
“But he must have been in your establishment before?”
“Never in his life.”
“Oh, oh! Then how do you explain that on entering the shop while you were upstairs, this unknown person—this stranger—should have called out: ‘Here, old woman!’ Did he merely guess that the establishment was kept by a woman; and that this woman was no longer young?”
“He did not say that.”
“Reflect a moment; you, yourself just told me so.”
“Oh, I didn’t say that, I’m sure, my good sir.”
“Yes, you did, and I will prove it by having your evidence read. Goguet, read the passage, if you please.”
The smiling clerk looked back through his minutes and then, in his clearest voice, he read these words, taken down as they fell from the Widow Chupin’s lips: “I had been upstairs about half an hour, when I heard some one below call out ‘Eh! old woman.’ So I went down,” etc., etc.
“Are you convinced?” asked M. Segmuller.
The old offender’s assurance was sensibly diminished by this proof of her prevarication. However, instead of discussing the subject any further, the magistrate glided over it as if he did not attach much importance to the incident.
“And the other men,” he resumed, “those who were killed: did you know them?”
“No, good sir, no more than I knew Adam and Eve.”
“And were you not surprised to see three men utterly unknown to you, and accompanied by two women, enter your establishment?”
“Sometimes chance—”
“Come! you do not think of what you are saying. It was not chance that brought these customers, in the middle of the night, to a wine-shop with a reputation like yours—an establishment situated far from any frequented route in the midst of a desolate waste.”
“I’m not a sorceress; I say what I think.”
“Then you did not even know the youngest of the victims, the man who was attired as a soldier, he who was named Gustave?”
“Not at all.”
M. Segmuller noted the intonation of this response, and then slowly added: “But you must have heard of one of Gustave’s friends, a man called Lacheneur?”
On hearing this name, the landlady of the Poivriere became visibly embarrassed, and it was in an altered voice that she stammered: “Lacheneur! Lacheneur! no, I have never heard that name mentioned.”
Still despite her denial, the effect of M. Segmuller’s remark was evident, and Lecoq secretly vowed that he would find this Lacheneur, at any cost. Did not the “articles of conviction” comprise a letter sent by this man to Gustave, and written, so Lecoq had reason to believe, in a cafe on the Boulevard Beaumarchais? With such a clue and a little patience, the mysterious Lacheneur might yet be discovered.
“Now,” continued M. Segmuller, “let us speak of the women who accompanied these unfortunate men. What sort of women were they?”
“Oh! women of no account whatever!”
“Were they well dressed?”
“On the contrary, very miserably.”
“Well, give me a description of them.”
“They were tall and powerfully built, and indeed, as it was Shrove Sunday, I first of all took them for men in disguise. They had hands like shoulders of mutton, gruff voices, and very black hair. They were as dark as mulattoes—”
“Enough!” interrupted the magistrate, “I require no further proof of your mendacity. These women were short, and one of them was remarkably fair.”
“I swear to you, my good sir—”
“Do not declare it upon oath. I shall be forced to confront you with an honest man, who will tell you to your face that you are a liar!”
The widow did not reply, and there was a moment’s silence. M. Segmuller determined to deal a decisive blow. “Do you also affirm that you had nothing of a compromising character in the pocket of your apron?” he asked.
“Nothing—you may have it examined; it was left in the house.”
“Then you still persist in your system,” resumed M. Segmuller. “Believe me, you are wrong. Reflect—it rests with you to go to the Assize Court as a witness, or an accomplice.”
Although the widow seemed crushed by this unexpected blow, the magistrate did not add another word. Her deposition was read over to her, she signed it, and was then led away.
M. Segmuller immediately seated himself at his desk, filled up a blank form and handed it to his clerk, saying: “This is an order for the governor of the Depot. Tell him to send the supposed murderer here at once.”
If it is difficult to extort a confession from a man interested in preserving silence and persuaded that no proofs can be produced against him, it is a yet more arduous task to make a woman, similarly situated, speak the truth. As they say at the Palais de Justice, one might as well try to make the devil confess.
The examination of the Widow Chupin had been conducted with the greatest possible care by M. Segmuller, who was as skilful in managing his questions as a tried general in maneuvering his troops.
However, all that he had discovered was that the landlady of the Poivriere was conniving with the murderer. The motive of her connivance was yet unknown, and the murderer’s identity still a mystery. Both M. Segmuller and Lecoq were nevertheless of the opinion that the old hag knew everything. “It is almost certain,” remarked the magistrate, “that she was acquainted with the people who came to her house—with the women, the victims, the murderer—with all of them, in fact. I am positive as regards that fellow Gustave—I read it in her eyes. I am also convinced that she knows Lacheneur—the man upon whom the dying soldier breathed vengeance—the mysterious personage who evidently possesses the key to the enigma. That man must be found.”
“Ah!” replied Lecoq, “and I will find him even if I have to question every one of the eleven hundred thousand men who constantly walk the streets of Paris!”
This was promising so much that the magistrate, despite his preoccupation, could not repress a smile.
“If this old woman would only decide to make a clean breast of it at her next examination!” remarked Lecoq.
“Yes. But she won’t.”
The young detective shook his head despondently. Such was his own opinion. He did not delude himself with false hopes, and he had noticed between the Widow Chupin’s eyebrows those furrows which, according to physiognomists, indicate a senseless, brutish obstinacy.
“Women never confess,” resumed the magistrate; “and even when they seemingly resign themselves to such a course they are not sincere. They fancy they have discovered some means of misleading their examiner. On the contrary, evidence will crush the most obstinate man; he gives up the struggle, and confesses. Now, a woman scoffs at evidence. Show her the sun; tell her it’s daytime; at once she will close her eyes and say to you, ‘No, it’s night.’ Male prisoners plan and combine different systems of defense according to their social positions; the women, on the contrary, have but one system, no matter what may be their condition in life. They deny everything, persist in their denials even when the proof against them is overwhelming, and then they cry. When I worry the Chupin with disagreeable questions, at her next examination, you may be sure she will turn her eyes into a fountain of tears.”
In his impatience, M. Segmuller angrily stamped his foot. He had many weapons in his arsenal; but none strong enough to break a woman’s dogged resistance.
“If I only understood the motive that guides this old hag!” he continued. “But not a clue! Who can tell me what powerful interest induces her to remain silent? Is it her own cause that she is defending? Is she an accomplice? Is it certain that she did not aid the murderer in planning an ambuscade?”
“Yes,” responded Lecoq, slowly, “yes; this supposition very naturally presents itself to the mind. But think a moment, sir, such a theory would prove that the idea we entertained a short time since is altogether false. If the Widow Chupin is an accomplice, the murderer is not the person we have supposed him to be; he is simply the man he seems to be.”
This argument apparently convinced M. Segmuller. “What is your opinion?” he asked.
The young detective had formed his opinion a long while ago. But how could he, a humble police agent, venture to express any decided views when the magistrate hesitated? He understood well enough that his position necessitated extreme reserve; hence, it was in the most modest tone that he replied: “Might not the pretended drunkard have dazzled Mother Chupin’s eyes with the prospect of a brilliant reward? Might he not have promised her a considerable sum of money?”
He paused; Goguet, the smiling clerk, had just returned.
Behind him stood a private of the Garde de Paris who remained respectfully on the threshold, his heels in a straight line, his right hand raised to the peak of his shako, and his elbow on a level with his eyes, in accordance with the regulations.
“The governor of the Depot,” said the soldier, “sends me to inquire if he is to keep the Widow Chupin in solitary confinement; she complains bitterly about it.”
M. Segmuller reflected for a moment. “Certainly,” he murmured, as if replying to an objection made by his own conscience; “certainly, it is an undoubted aggravation of suffering; but if I allow this woman to associate with the other prisoners, she will certainly find some opportunity to communicate with parties outside. This must not be; the interests of justice and truth must be considered first.” The thought embodied in these last words decided him. “Despite her complaints the prisoner must be kept in solitary confinement until further orders,” he said.
The soldier allowed his right hand to fall to his side, he carried his right foot three inches behind his left heel, and wheeled around. Goguet, the smiling clerk, then closed the door, and, drawing a large envelope from his pocket, handed it to the magistrate. “Here is a communication from the governor of the Depot,” said he.
The magistrate broke the seal, and read aloud, as follows:
“I feel compelled to advise M. Segmuller to take every precaution with the view of assuring his own safety before proceeding with the examination of the prisoner, May. Since his unsuccessful attempt at suicide, this prisoner has been in such a state of excitement that we have been obliged to keep him in a strait-waistcoat. He did not close his eyes all last night, and the guards who watched him expected every moment that he would become delirious. However, he did not utter a word. When food was offered him this morning, he resolutely rejected it, and I should not be surprised if it were his intention to starve himself to death. I have rarely seen a more determined criminal. I think him capable of any desperate act.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the clerk, whose smile had disappeared, “If I were in your place, sir, I would only let him in here with an escort of soldiers.”
“What! you—Goguet, you, an old clerk—make such a proposition! Can it be that you’re frightened?”
“Frightened! No, certainly not; but—”
“Nonsense!” interrupted Lecoq, in a tone that betrayed superlative confidence in his own muscles; “Am I not here?”
If M. Segmuller had seated himself at his desk, that article of furniture would naturally have served as a rampart between the prisoner and himself. For purposes of convenience he usually did place himself behind it; but after Goguet’s display of fear, he would have blushed to have taken the slightest measure of self-protection. Accordingly, he went and sat down by the fireplace—as he had done a few moments previously while questioning the Widow Chupin—and then ordered his door-keeper to admit the prisoner alone. He emphasized this word “alone.”
A moment later the door was flung open with a violent jerk, and the prisoner entered, or rather precipitated himself into the room. Goguet turned pale behind his table, and Lecoq advanced a step forward, ready to spring upon the prisoner and pinion him should it be requisite. But when the latter reached the centre of the room, he paused and looked around him. “Where is the magistrate?” he inquired, in a hoarse voice.
“I am the magistrate,” replied M. Segmuller.
“No, the other one.”
“What other one?”
“The one who came to question me last evening.”
“He has met with an accident. Yesterday, after leaving you, he fell down and broke his leg.”
“Oh!”
“And I am to take his place.”
The prisoner was apparently deaf to the explanation. Excitement had seemingly given way to stupor. His features, hitherto contracted with anger, now relaxed. He grew pale and tottered, as if about to fall.
“Compose yourself,” said the magistrate in a benevolent tone; “if you are too weak to remain standing, take a seat.”
Already, with a powerful effort, the man had recovered his self-possession. A momentary gleam flashed from his eyes. “Many thanks for your kindness,” he replied, “but this is nothing. I felt a slight sensation of dizziness, but it is over now.”
“Is it long since you have eaten anything?”
“I have eaten nothing since that man”—and so saying he pointed to Lecoq—“brought me some bread and wine at the station house.”
“Wouldn’t you like to take something?”
“No—and yet—if you would be so kind—I should like a glass of water.”
“Will you not have some wine with it?”
“I should prefer pure water.”
His request was at once complied with. He drained a first glassful at a single draft; the glass was then replenished and he drank again, this time, however, more slowly. One might have supposed that he was drinking in life itself. Certainly, when he laid down the empty glass, he seemed quite another man.
Eighteen out of every twenty criminals who appear before our investigating magistrates come prepared with a more or less complete plan of defense, which they have conceived during their preliminary confinement. Innocent or guilty, they have resolved, on playing some part or other, which they begin to act as soon as they cross the threshold of the room where the magistrate awaits them.
The moment they enter his presence, the magistrate needs to bring all his powers of penetration into play; for such a culprit’s first attitude as surely betrays his plan of defense as an index reveals a book’s contents. In this case, however, M. Segmuller did not think that appearances were deceitful. It seemed evident to him that the prisoner was not feigning, but that the excited frenzy which marked his entrance was as real as his after stupor.
At all events, there seemed no fear of the danger the governor of the Depot had spoken of, and accordingly M. Segmuller seated himself at his desk. Here he felt stronger and more at ease for his back being turned to the window, his face was half hidden in shadow; and in case of need, he could, by bending over his papers, conceal any sign of surprise or discomfiture.
The prisoner, on the contrary, stood in the full light, and not a movement of his features, not the fluttering of an eyelid could escape the magistrate’s attention. He seemed to have completely recovered from his indisposition; and his features assumed an expression which indicated either careless indifference, or complete resignation.
“Do you feel better?” asked M. Segmuller.
“I feel very well.”
“I hope,” continued the magistrate, paternally, “that in future you will know how to moderate your excitement. Yesterday you tried to destroy yourself. It would have been another great crime added to many others—a crime which—”
With a hasty movement of the hand, the prisoner interrupted him. “I have committed no crime,” said he, in a rough, but no longer threatening voice. “I was attacked, and I defended myself. Any one has a right to do that. There were three men against me. It was a great misfortune; and I would give my right hand to repair it; but my conscience does not reproach me—that much!”
The prisoner’s “that much,” was a contemptuous snap of his finger and thumb.
“And yet I’ve been arrested and treated like an assassin,” he continued. “When I saw myself interred in that living tomb which you call a secret cell, I grew afraid; I lost my senses. I said to myself: ‘My boy, they’ve buried you alive; and it is better to die—to die quickly, if you don’t wish to suffer.’ So I tried to strangle myself. My death wouldn’t have caused the slightest sorrow to any one. I have neither wife nor child depending upon me for support. However, my attempt was frustrated. I was bled; and then placed in a strait-waistcoat, as if I were a madman. Mad! I really believed I should become so. All night long the jailors sat around me, like children amusing themselves by tormenting a chained animal. They watched me, talked about me, and passed the candle to and fro before my eyes.”
The prisoner talked forcibly, but without any attempt at oratorical display; there was bitterness but not anger in his tone; in short, he spoke with all the seeming sincerity of a man giving expression to some deep emotion or conviction. As the magistrate and the detective heard him speak, they were seized with the same idea. “This man,” they thought, “is very clever; it won’t be easy to get the better of him.”
Then, after a moment’s reflection, M. Segmuller added aloud: “This explains your first act of despair; but later on, for instance, even this morning, you refused to eat the food that was offered you.”
As the prisoner heard this remark, his lowering face suddenly brightened, he gave a comical wink, and finally burst into a hearty laugh, gay, frank, and sonorous.
“That,” said he, “is quite another matter. Certainly, I refused all they offered me, and now I will tell you why. As I had my hands confined in the strait-waistcoat, the jailor tried to feed me just as a nurse tries to feed a baby with pap. Now I wasn’t going to submit to that, so I closed my lips as tightly as I could. Then he tried to force my mouth open and push the spoon in, just as one might force a sick dog’s jaws apart and pour some medicine down its throat. The deuce take his impertinence! I tried to bite him: that’s the truth, and if I had succeeded in getting his finger between my teeth, it would have stayed there. However, because I wouldn’t be fed like a baby, all the prison officials raised their hands to heaven in holy horror, and pointed at me, saying: ‘What a terrible man! What an awful rascal!’”
The prisoner seemed to thoroughly enjoy the recollection of the scene he had described, for he now burst into another hearty laugh, to the great amazement of Lecoq, and the scandal of Goguet, the smiling clerk.
M. Segmuller also found it difficult to conceal his surprise. “You are too reasonable, I hope,” he said, at last, “to attach any blame to these men, who, in confining you in a strait-waistcoat, were merely obeying the orders of their superior officers with the view of protecting you from your own violent passions.”
“Hum!” responded the prisoner, suddenly growing serious. “I do blame them, however, and if I had one of them in a corner—But, never mind, I shall get over it. If I know myself aright, I have no more spite in my composition than a chicken.”
“Your treatment depends on your own conduct,” rejoined M. Segmuller, “If you will only remain calm, you shan’t be put in a strait-waistcoat again. But you must promise me that you will be quiet and conduct yourself properly.”
The murderer sadly shook his head. “I shall be very prudent hereafter,” said he, “but it is terribly hard to stay in prison with nothing to do. If I had some comrades with me, we could laugh and chat, and the time would slip by; but it is positively horrible to have to remain alone, entirely alone, in that cold, damp cell, where not a sound can be heard.”
The magistrate bent over his desk to make a note. The word “comrades” had attracted his attention, and he proposed to ask the prisoner to explain it at a later stage of the inquiry.
“If you are innocent,” he remarked, “you will soon be released: but it is necessary to prove your innocence.”
“What must I do to prove it?”
“Tell the truth, the whole truth: answer my questions honestly without reserve.”
“As for that, you may depend upon me.” As he spoke the prisoner lifted his hand, as if to call upon God to witness his sincerity.
But M. Segmuller immediately intervened: “Prisoners do not take the oath,” said he.
“Indeed!” ejaculated the man with an astonished air, “that’s strange!”
Although the magistrate had apparently paid but little attention to the prisoner, he had in point of fact carefully noted his attitude, his tone of voice, his looks and gestures. M. Segmuller had, moreover, done his utmost to set the culprit’s mind at ease, to quiet all possible suspicion of a trap, and his inspection of the prisoner’s person led him to believe that this result had been attained.
“Now,” said he, “you will give me your attention; and do not forget that your liberty depends upon your frankness. What is your name?”
“May.”
“What is your Christian name?”
“I have none.”
“That is impossible.”
“I have been told that already three times since yesterday,” rejoined the prisoner impatiently. “And yet it’s the truth. If I were a liar, I could easily tell you that my name was Peter, James, or John. But lying is not in my line. Really, I have no Christian name. If it were a question of surnames, it would be quite another thing. I have had plenty of them.”
“What were they?”
“Let me see—to commence with, when I was with Father Fougasse, I was called Affiloir, because you see—”
“Who was this Father Fougasse?”
“The great wild beast tamer, sir. Ah! he could boast of a menagerie and no mistake! Lions, tigers, and bears, serpents as big round as your thigh, parrakeets of every color under the sun. Ah! it was a wonderful collection. But unfortunately—”
Was the man jesting, or was he in earnest? It was so hard to decide, that M. Segmuller and Lecoq were equally in doubt. As for Goguet, the smiling clerk, he chuckled to himself as his pen ran over the paper.
“Enough,” interrupted the magistrate. “How old are you?”
“Forty-four or forty-five years of age.”
“Where were you born?”
“In Brittany, probably.”
M. Segmuller thought he could detect a hidden vein of irony in this reply.
“I warn you,” said he, severely, “that if you go on in this way your chances of recovering your liberty will be greatly compromised. Each of your answers is a breach of propriety.”
As the supposed murderer heard these words, an expression of mingled distress and anxiety was apparent in his face. “Ah! I meant no offense, sir,” he sighed. “You questioned me, and I replied. You will see that I have spoken the truth, if you will allow me to recount the history of the whole affair.”
“When the prisoner speaks, the prosecution is enlightened,” so runs an old proverb frequently quoted at the Palais de Justice. It does, indeed, seem almost impossible for a culprit to say more than a few words in an investigating magistrate’s presence, without betraying his intentions or his thoughts; without, in short, revealing more or less of the secret he is endeavoring to conceal. All criminals, even the most simple-minded, understand this, and those who are shrewd prove remarkably reticent. Confining themselves to the few facts upon which they have founded their defense, they are careful not to travel any further unless absolutely compelled to do so, and even then they only speak with the utmost caution. When questioned, they reply, of course, but always briefly; and they are very sparing of details.
In the present instance, however, the prisoner was prodigal of words. He did not seem to think that there was any danger of his being the medium of accomplishing his own decapitation. He did not hesitate like those who are afraid of misplacing a word of the romance they are substituting for the truth. Under other circumstances, this fact would have been a strong argument in his favor.
“You may tell your own story, then,” said M. Segmuller in answer to the prisoner’s indirect request.
The presumed murderer did not try to hide the satisfaction he experienced at thus being allowed to plead his own cause, in his own way. His eyes sparkled and his nostrils dilated as if with pleasure. He sat himself dawn, threw his head back, passed his tongue over his lips as if to moisten them, and said: “Am I to understand that you wish to hear my history?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must know that one day about forty-five years ago, Father Tringlot, the manager of a traveling acrobatic company, was going from Guingamp to Saint Brieuc, in Brittany. He had with him two large vehicles containing his wife, the necessary theatrical paraphernalia, and the members of the company. Well, soon after passing Chatelaudren, he perceived something white lying by the roadside, near the edge of a ditch. ‘I must go and see what that is,’ he said to his wife. He stopped the horses, alighted from the vehicle he was in, went to the ditch, picked up the object he had noticed, and uttered a cry of surprise. You will ask me what he had found? Ah! good heavens! A mere trifle. He had found your humble servant, then about six months old.”
With these last words, the prisoner made a low bow to his audience.
“Naturally, Father Tringlot carried me to his wife. She was a kind-hearted woman. She took me, examined me, fed me, and said: ‘He’s a strong, healthy child; and we’ll keep him since his mother has been so wicked as to abandon him by the roadside. I will teach him; and in five or six years he will be a credit to us.’ They then asked each other what name they should give me, and as it happened to be the first day of May, they decided to call me after the month, and so it happens that May has been my name from that day to this.”
The prisoner paused again and looked from one to another of his listeners, as if seeking some sign of approval. None being forthcoming, he proceeded with his story.
“Father Tringlot was an uneducated man, entirely ignorant of the law. He did not inform the authorities that he had found a child, and, for this reason, although I was living, I did not legally exist, for, to have a legal existence it is necessary that one’s name, parentage, and birthplace should figure upon a municipal register.
“When I grew older, I rather congratulated myself on Father Tringlot’s neglect. ‘May, my boy,’ said I, ‘you are not put down on any government register, consequently there’s no fear of your ever being drawn as a soldier.’ I had a horror of military service, and a positive dread of bullets and cannon balls. Later on, when I had passed the proper age for the conscription, a lawyer told me that I should get into all kinds of trouble if I sought a place on the civil register so late in the day; and so I decided to exist surreptitiously. And this is why I have no Christian name, and why I can’t exactly say where I was born.”
If truth has any particular accent of its own, as moralists have asserted, the murderer had found that accent. Voice, gesture, glance, expression, all were in accord; not a word of his long story had rung false.
“Now,” said M. Segmuller, coldly, “what are your means of subsistence?”
By the prisoner’s discomfited mien one might have supposed that he had expected to see the prison doors fly open at the conclusion of his narrative. “I have a profession,” he replied plaintively. “The one that Mother Tringlot taught me. I subsist by its practise; and I have lived by it in France and other countries.”
The magistrate thought he had found a flaw in the prisoner’s armor. “You say you have lived in foreign countries?” he inquired.
“Yes; during the seventeen years that I was with M. Simpson’s company, I traveled most of the time in England and Germany.”
“Then you are a gymnast and an athlete. How is it that your hands are so white and soft?”
Far from being embarrassed, the prisoner raised his hands from his lap and examined them with evident complacency. “It is true they are pretty,” said he, “but this is because I take good care of them and scarcely use them.”
“Do they pay you, then, for doing nothing?”
“Ah, no, indeed! But, sir, my duty consists in speaking to the public, in turning a compliment, in making things pass off pleasantly, as the saying is; and, without boasting, I flatter myself that I have a certain knack—”
M. Segmuller stroked his chin, according to his habit whenever he considered that a prisoner had committed some grave blunder. “In that case,” said he, “will you give me a specimen of your talent?”
“Ah, ha!” laughed the prisoner, evidently supposing this to be a jest on the part of the magistrate. “Ah, ha!”
“Obey me, if you please,” insisted M. Segmuller.
The supposed murderer made no objection. His face at once assumed a different expression, his features wearing a mingled air of impudence, conceit, and irony. He caught up a ruler that was lying on the magistrate’s desk, and, flourishing it wildly, began as follows, in a shrill falsetto voice: “Silence, music! And you, big drum, hold your peace! Now is the hour, now is the moment, ladies and gentlemen, to witness the grand, unique performance of these great artists, unequaled in the world for their feats upon the trapeze and the tight-rope, and in innumerable other exercises of grace, suppleness, and strength!”
“That is sufficient,” interrupted the magistrate. “You can speak like that in France; but what do you say in Germany?”
“Of course, I use the language of that country.”
“Let me hear, then!” retorted M. Segmuller, whose mother-tongue was German.
The prisoner ceased his mocking manner, assumed an air of comical importance, and without the slightest hesitation began to speak as follows, in very emphatic tones: “Mit Be-willigung der hochloeblichen Obrigkeit, wird heute, vor hiesiger ehrenwerthen Burgerschaft, zum erstenmal aufgefuhrt—Genovesa, oder—”
This opening of the prisoner’s German harangue may be thus rendered: “With the permission of the local authorities there will now be presented before the honorable citizens, for the first time—Genevieve, or the—”
“Enough,” said the magistrate, harshly. He rose, perhaps to conceal his chagrin, and added: “We will send for an interpreter to tell us whether you speak English as fluently.”
On hearing these words, Lecoq modestly stepped forward. “I understand English,” said he.
“Very well. You hear, prisoner?”
But the man was already transformed. British gravity and apathy were written upon his features; his gestures were stiff and constrained, and in the most ponderous tones he exclaimed: “Walk up! ladies and gentlemen, walk up! Long life to the queen and to the honorable mayor of this town! No country, England excepted—our glorious England!—could produce such a marvel, such a paragon—” For a minute or two longer he continued in the same strain.
M. Segmuller was leaning upon his desk, his face hidden by his hands. Lecoq, standing in front of the prisoner, could not conceal his astonishment. Goguet, the smiling clerk, alone found the scene amusing.