There was another person at the recollection of whom she trembled, and whose name she dared not utter. This was Jean Lacheneur, Marie-Anne’s brother. He had disappeared, and so completely that it might have been fancied he was dead, but an inward voice, more powerful than reason, told Blanche that this enemy was still alive, watching for his hour of vengeance. More troubled by her presentiments now, than she had been by Chupin’s persecutions in days gone by, Madame de Sairmeuse decided to apply to Chefteux in order to ascertain, if possible, what she had to expect. Fouche’s former agent had not wavered in his devotion to the duchess. Every three months he presented his bill, which was paid without discussion; and to ease his conscience, he sent one of his men two or three times a year to prowl round Sairmeuse for awhile. Animated by the hope of a magnificent reward, the spy promised his client, and—what was more to the purpose—promised himself, that he would discover this dreaded enemy. He started in quest of him, and had already begun to collectproofs of Jean’s existence, when his investigations abruptly came to a close. One morning a man’s body, literally hacked to pieces, was found in an old well not far from Sairmeuse. It was Chefteux who had been murdered by some one who remained unknown. When Blanche read this news in a local journal she felt as a culprit might feel on hearing his death-warrant read. “The end is near,” she murmured. “Lacheneur is coming.”
The duchess was not mistaken. Jean had told the truth when he declared that he was not disposing of his sister’s estate for his own benefit. In his opinion, Marie-Anne’s fortune must be consecrated to one sacred purpose; and he would not divert the slightest portion of it to his personal requirements. He was absolutely penniless when the manager of a travelling theatrical company sojourning at Montaignac engaged him for a consideration of forty-five francs a month. From that day he lived the precarious life of a strolling player. He was poorly paid, and often reduced to abject poverty by lack of engagements, or the impecuniosity of managers. His hatred had lost none of its virulence; but to wreak the vengeance he wished to wreak, he must have time and money at his disposal. But how could he accumulate money when he was often too poor even to appease his hunger. Still he did not renounce his hopes. His was a rancour which was only intensified by years. He was biding his time while he watched from the depths of his misery the brilliant fortunes of the house of Sairmeuse. He had waited sixteen years, when one of his friends procured him an engagement in Russia. The engagement was nothing; but during his stay at St. Petersburg the poor comedian was fortunate enough to obtain an interest in a theatrical enterprise, from which he realized a clear profit of a hundred thousand francs in less than six years. “Now,” said he, “I can give up this life, for I have money enough to begin the struggle.” And six weeks later he arrived at his native village.
Before carrying any of his designs into execution, he went to Sairmeuse to visit Marie-Anne’s grave, the sight of which he felt would fan his smouldering animosity, and give him all the determination he needed as the cold stern avenger of crime. This was his only motive in going, but, on the very evening of his arrival, he learntthrough a garrulous old peasant woman that ever since his departure—that is to say, for a period of twenty years—two parties had been making persistent inquiries for a child which had been placed somewhere in the neighbourhood. Jean knew that it was Marie-Anne’s child they were seeking, and why they had not succeeded in finding it. But why were there two persons prosecuting these investigations? One was Maurice d’Escorval, of course, but who was the other? This information induced Jean to prolong his stay at Sairmeuse, where he tarried a whole month. By the expiration of that time he had traced the inquiries, which he could not at first comprehend, to one of Chefteux’s agents. Through the latter, he reached Fouche’s former spy himself; and finally succeeded in discovering that the second search had been instituted by no less a person than the Duchess de Sairmeuse. This discovery bewildered him. How could Blanche have known that Marie-Anne had given birth to a child; and, knowing it, what possible interest could she have had in finding this abandoned babe, now grown to manhood. These two questions puzzled Jean considerably, and he could give them no satisfactory answer. “Chupin’s son could tell me perhaps,” he thought, “but to obtain information from that quarter, I must pretend to be reconciled to the sons of the wretch who betrayed my father.”
However, the traitor’s children had been dead for several years, and after a long search, Jean only found the Widow Chupin,neeAspasie Clapard, and her son Polyte. They were keeping a drinking-den not far from the Rue des Chateau-des-Rentiers; and their establishment, known as the Poivriere, enjoyed anything but an enviable reputation. Lacheneur cautiously questioned the widow and her son. He asked them if they knew of the crime at the Borderie—if they had heard that grandfather Chupin had committed murder and had been assassinated in his turn—if they had ever been told of an abandoned child, and of searches prosecuted to find it. But neither of these two had ever been at Sairmeuse in their lives, and when Lacheneur mentioned his name in hopes it might recall some recollection, they declared they had never heard it before. Jean was about to take his departure, despondently enough, when Mother Chupin, probably in the hope of pocketing a few pence, began to deplore her present misery, whichwas, she declared, all the harder to bear as she had wanted for nothing during her poor husband’s lifetime, for he had always obtained as much money as he wanted from a lady of high degree, called the Duchess de Sairmeuse.
Lacheneur uttered such a frightful oath that the old woman and her son started back in astonishment. He saw at once the close connection between Blanche’s search for the child and her generosity to Chupin. “It was she who poisoned Marie-Anne,” he said to himself. “It must have been through my sister herself that she became aware of the child’s existence. She loaded the younger Chupin with favours because he knew the crime she had committed—that crime in which his father had been only an accomplice.”
He remembered Martial’s oath at the murdered girl’s bedside, and his heart overflowed with savage exultation. For he could already see his two enemies, the last of the Sairmeuses and the last of the Courtornieus consummating his work of vengeance themselves. However, after all, this was mere conjecture: he must at any price ascertain whether his suppositions were correct. Drawing from his pocket several pieces of gold, and, throwing them on the table, he said: “I am rich; if you will obey me and keep my secret, your fortune is made.”
A shrill cry of delight from mother and son outweighed any protestations of obedience. The Widow Chupin knew how to write, and Lacheneur then dictated this letter to her: “Madame la Duchesse—I shall expect you at my establishment to-morrow between twelve and four o’clock. It is on business connected with the Borderie. If at five o’clock I have not seen you, I shall carry to the post a letter for the duke.”
“And if she comes, what am I to say to her?” asked the astonished widow.
“Nothing; you will merely ask her for money.”
“If she comes, it is as I have guessed,” he reflected.
She came. Hidden in the loft of the Poivriere, Jean, through an opening in the floor, saw the duchess hand Mother Chupin a bank note. “Now, she is in my power!” he thought exultantly. “And I will drag her through sloughs of degradation before I deliver her up to her husband’s vengeance!”
AFEWlines of the article consecrated to Martial in the “General Biography of Men of the Time,” fittingly epitomize the history of his public life. “Martial de Sairmeuse,” says the writer, “placed at the service of his party a highly cultivated intellect, unusual penetration, and extraordinary abilities. A leader at the time when political passion was raging highest, he had the courage to assume the sole responsibility of the most unpopular measures. But the hostility he encountered, the danger in which he placed the throne, compelled him to retire from office, leaving behind him animosities which will only be extinguished with his life.” In thus summing up Martial’s public career, his biographer omits to say that if the Duke de Sairmeuse was wrong in his policy—and that depends entirely on the point of view from which his conduct is regarded—he was doubly wrong, since he was not possessed of that ardent conviction verging on fanaticism which makes men, fools, heroes, and martyrs. He was not even truly ambitious. When those associated with him witnessed his passionate struggles and unceasing activity, they thought him actuated by an insatiable thirst for power. But, in reality, he cared little or nothing for it. He considered its burdens heavy; its compensations slight. His pride was too lofty to feel any satisfaction in applause; and flattery disgusted him. Often, during some brilliant fete, his acquaintances and subordinates, finding him thoughtful and pre-occupied, respectfully refrained from disturbing him. “His mind is occupied with momentous questions,” they fancied. “Who can tell what important decisions may result from his reverie.” But in this surmise they were mistaken. And, indeed, at the very moment when royal favour filled his rivals’ hearts with envy, when occupying the highest position a subject can aspire to, and it seemed he could have nothing left to wish for in this world, Martial was saying to himself, “What an empty life! What weariness and vexation of spirit! To live for others—what a mockery!”
He looked at his wife, radiant in her beauty, worshipped like a queen, and sighed. He thought of her who was dead—Marie-Anne—the only woman he had ever loved. She was never absent from his mind, and after all theseyears he saw her yet, stretched cold, rigid, lifeless, on the canopied bedstead, in that luxurious room at the Borderie. Time, far from effacing from his heart the image of the fair girl whose beauty unwittingly had wrought such woe—had only intensified youthful impressions, endowing the lost idol with almost superhuman grace of person and character. Ah! if fate had but given him Marie-Anne for his wife! Thus said Martial, again and again, picturing the happiness which then would have been his. They would have remained at Sairmeuse. They would have had children playing round them! And he would not be condemned to this continual warfare—to this hollow, unsatisfying restless life. The truly happy are not those who parade their dignities and opulence before the eyes of the multitude. They rather hide themselves from the curious gaze, and they are right; for here on earth happiness is almost a crime. So thought Martial; and he, the envied statesman, often said to himself, with a feeling of vexation: “To love, and to be loved—that is everything! All else is vanity.”
He had really tried to love his wife; he had done his best to resuscitate the feeling of admiration with which she had inspired him at their first meeting; but he had not succeeded. It seemed as if there was between them a wall of ice which nothing could melt, and which only grew and expanded as time went on. “Why is it?” he wondered, again and again. “It is incomprehensible. There are days when I could swear she loves me. Her character, formerly so irritable, is entirely changed; she is gentleness itself.” But still he could not conquer his aversion; it was stronger than his own will.
These unavailing regrets, the disappointment and sorrow that preyed upon his mind undoubtedly aggravated the bitterness and severity of Martial’s policy. At least he knew how to fall nobly. He passed, even without a change of countenance, from all but omnipotence to a position so compromising that his very life was endangered. On perceiving his ante-chambers, formerly thronged with flatterers and place-hunters, now empty and deserted, he laughed—naturally, sincerely, without the least affectation. “The ship is sinking,” said he: “the rats have deserted it.” He did not even turn pale when the mob gathered outside his house, hurling stones at his windows,and hooting and cursing the fallen statesman; and when Otto, his faithful valet de chambre, entreated him to assume a disguise, and make his escape through the gardens, he quietly replied, “By no means! I am simply odious; I don’t wish to become ridiculous!” They could not even dissuade him from going to a window and looking down on the rabble in the street below. A singular idea had just occurred to him. “If Jean Lacheneur is still alive,” he thought, “how much he would enjoy this! And if he is alive, no doubt he is there in the foremost rank, urging on the crowd.” And he wished to see. But Jean Lacheneur was in Russia at that epoch.
The excitement eventually subsided; and the Hotel de Sairmeuse was not seriously threatened. However, Martial realized that it would be better for him to go away for awhile, and allow people to forget him. He did not ask the duchess to accompany him. “The fault has been mine entirely,” he said to her, “and it would be most unjust to make you suffer for it by condemning you to exile. Remain here; I think it will be much better for you to remain.” She did not offer to go with him, although she longed to do so, but then she dared not leave Paris. She knew that she must remain in order to secure her persecutor’s silence. On the two occasions when she had left Paris before, everything was near being discovered, and yet then she had had Aunt Medea to take her place. Martial went away, accompanied only by his servant, Otto. In intelligence, this man was decidedly superior to his position; he was indeed decently off, and he had a hundred reasons—one, by the way, was a very pretty one—for desiring to remain in Paris; but his master was in trouble, and so he did not hesitate. During four years the Duke de Sairmeuse wandered through Europe, always chafing beneath the burden of a life no longer animated by interest or sustained by hope. He remained for a time in London, then he went to Vienna, and afterwards to Venice. One day he was seized by an irresistible desire to see Paris again, and he returned. It was not a very prudent step, perhaps, for his bitterest enemies—personal enemies, whom he had mortally offended and persecuted—were in power; but still he did not hesitate. Besides, how could they injure him, since he had no favours to ask, no cravings of ambition to satisfy?
The exile which had weighed so heavily on him, the loneliness he had endured had softened his nature and inclined his heart to tenderness: and he returned firmly resolved to overcome his aversion to his wife, and seek a reconciliation. “Old age is coming,” he thought. “If I have not the love of youth by my fireside, I may at least have a friend.” Blanche was astonished by his manner towards her when he returned. She almost believed she had found again the Martial of the old days at Courtornieu, but the realisation of the dream, so fondly cherished and so long deferred, now proved only another torture added to all the others. Still, Martial was striving to carry his plan into execution, when one day the following brief note came to him through the post: “Monsieur le Duc—If I were in your place, I would watch my wife.”
It was only an anonymous letter, and yet on perusing it Martial’s blood mounted to his forehead. “Can she have a lover?” he thought. Then reflecting on his own conduct towards his wife since their marriage, he said to himself: “And if she has, what right have I to complain? Did I not tacitly give her back her liberty?” However, he was greatly troubled; and yet he did not once think of playing the spy.
A few mornings afterwards, at about eleven o’clock, he was returning from a ride on horseback, and was not thirty paces from the Hotel de Sairmeuse when he suddenly perceived a lady hurriedly emerge from the house. She was very plainly dressed—entirely in black—but her whole appearance recalled that of the duchess in a striking fashion. “That’s certainly my wife,” thought Martial, “but why is she dressed in that fashion?” Then, yielding to a sudden impulse, he walked his horse up the Rue de Grenelle behind the woman in black. Blanche it was. She was tripping swiftly over the pavement, keeping her face shrouded by a thick veil and she never once turned her head. On reaching the Rue Taranne, she spoke hurriedly to a cab-driver on the stand, and then sprung into his vehicle. The Jehu was already on his box and he at once gave his bony horse such a vigorous cut of the whip that it was evident he had just been promised a princely gratuity. The cab had already turned into the Rue du Dragon, and Martial, ashamed of what he had already done and irresolute as to what he should do now was still tarrying at thecorner of the Rue des Saints-Peres, where he had originally stopped his horse. Scarcely daring to entertain the suspicions that flitted across his mind, he tried to deceive himself. “After all,” he muttered, “it is of no use advancing. The cab’s a long way off by now, and I couldn’t overtake it.” Still he mechanically gave his horse the rein and when he reached the Croix Rouge he espied Blanche’s vehicle among a crowd of others. He recognized it by its green body and wheels striped with white. This decided him. The cab-driver had just managed to extricate himself from the block which traffic so frequently causes hereabouts, and whipping up his horse once more turned literally at a gallop up the Rue du Vieux Colombier—leading into the Place St. Sulpice. Thence he took the shortest cut to gain the outer boulevards.
Martial’s thoughts were busy as he trotted along a hundred yards or so behind the vehicle. “She’s in a terrible hurry,” he said to himself. “But this is scarcely the quarter for a lover’s rendezvous.” The cab had indeed now reached the squalid region extending beyond the Place d’Italie. It turned into the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers and soon drew up before a tract of waste ground. The Duchess de Sairmeuse then hastily alighted, and, without stopping to look to the right or to the left, hurried across the open space. Martial had prudently paused in the rear. Not far from him he espied a man sitting on a block of stone and apparently immersed in the task of colouring a clay-pipe. “Will you hold my horse a moment?” inquired Martial.
“Certainly,” answered the man, rising to his feet. He wore a workman’s blouse and a long beard, and his aspect altogether was scarcely prepossessing. Had Martial been less pre-occupied, his suspicions might have been aroused by the malicious smile that curved the fellow’s lips; and had he scrutinized him closely, he would perhaps have recognized him. For the seeming vagrant was Jean Lacheneur. Since forwarding that anonymous letter to the Duke de Sairmeuse, he had compelled the Duchess to multiply her visits to the Widow Chupin’s den, and on each occasion he had watched for her arrival. “So, if her husband decides to follow her I shall know it,” he thought. It was indispensable for the success of his plans that Blanche should be watched by her husband. For fromamong a thousand schemes of revenge, Jean had chosen the most frightful his fevered brain could conceive. He longed to see the haughty Duchess de Sairmeuse subjected to the vilest ignominy, and Martial in the hands of the lowest of the low. He pictured a bloody struggle in this miserable den; the sudden arrival of the police, summoned by himself, and the indiscriminate arrest of all the parties present. He gloated over the thought of a trial in which the crime committed at the Borderie would be brought to light; he saw the duke and the duchess in prison, and the great names of Sairmeuse and Courtornieu shrouded in eternal disgrace. And he believed that nothing was wanting to ensure the success of his plans. He had two miserable wretches who were capable of any crime at his disposal; and an unfortunate youth named Gustave, whom poverty and cowardice had made his willing slave, was intended to play the part of Marie-Anne’s son. These three accomplices had no suspicions of Lacheneur’s real intentions, while, as for the Widow Chupin and her son, if they suspected some infamous plot all they really knew in regard to it was the duchess’s name. Moreover, Jean held Polyte and his mother completely under his control by the wealth he had promised them if they served them faithfully. If Martial decided to follow his wife into the Poivriere the first time he watched her, Jean had, moreover, so arranged matters that the duke would at first suppose that Blanche had been led there by charity. “But he will not go in,” thought the seeming vagrant, as, holding Martial’s horse some little distance off, he looked in the direction of the hovel. “Monsieur le Duc is too cunning for that.”
And Martial did not go in. Though he was horrified when he saw his wife enter so vile a den, as if she were at home there, he said to himself that he should learn nothing by following her. He, therefore, contented himself by making a thorough examination of the hovel from outside, and then remounting his horse and throwing Lacheneur a silver coin he started back home at a gallop. He was completely mystified: he did not know what to think, what to imagine, what to believe. But, at the same time, he was fully resolved to fathom the mystery; and as soon as he returned home he sent Otto out in search of information. He could confide everything to this devoted servantfrom whom he had no secrets. At four o’clock in the afternoon, the faithful valet de chambre returned with an expression of consternation on his face. “What is it?” asked Martial, divining some great misfortune.
“Ah, sir, the mistress of that wretched den is the widow of Chupin’s son—”
Martial’s face turned ghastly pale. He knew life well enough to understand that since the duchess had been compelled to submit to these peoples’ power, they must be masters of some secret which she was anxious at any price to keep unrevealed. But what secret could it be? The years which had furrowed Martial’s brow, had not cooled the ardour of his blood. He was, as he had always been, a man of impulse, and so, without pausing he rushed to his wife’s apartments.
“Madame has just gone downstairs to receive the Countess de Mussidan and the Marchioness d’Arlange,” said the maid whom he met on the landing.
“Very well; I will wait for her here. You may retire.”
So saying, Martial entered Blanche’s dressing-room. It was in disorder for, after returning from the Poivriere, the duchess was still engaged at her toilette when visitors were announced. The wardrobe-doors stood open, two or three chairs were encumbered with wearing apparel, and Blanche’s watch, her purse, and several bunches of keys were lying on the dressing-table and the mantel-piece. Martial did not sit down. His self-possession was returning. “I will commit no act of folly,” he thought, “if I question her, I shall learn nothing. I must be silent and watchful.”
He was about to retire, when, on glancing round the room, he noticed a large casket, inlaid with silver, which had belonged to his wife ever since she was a girl, and which accompanied her everywhere. “That, no doubt, contains the solution of the mystery,” he said to himself. This was one of those moments when a man obeys the dictates of passion without pausing to reflect. Seeing the keys on the mantelpiece, he seized them, and endeavoured to find one that would fit the lock of the casket. The fourth key opened it. It was full of papers. With feverish haste, Martial examined their contents. He had thrown aside several unimportant letters, when he came to a bill that read as follows: “Search made for Madamede Sairmeuse’s child. Expenses for the third quarter of the year 18—.” Martial’s brain reeled. A child! His wife had a child! But he read on: “For the services of two agents at Sairmeuse, ——. For expenses attending my own journey, ——. Divers gratuities, ——. Etc., etc.” The total amounted to six thousand francs; and it was receipted “Chefteux.” With a sort of cold rage, Martial continued his examination of the casket’s contents, and found a miserably-written note, which said; “Two thousand francs this evening, or I will tell the duke the history of the affair at the Borderie.” Then there were several more of Chefteux’s bills; next, a letter from Aunt Medea, in which she spoke of prison and remorse; and, finally, at the bottom of the casket, he found the marriage certificate of Marie-Anne Lacheneur and Maurice d’Escorval, drawn up by the cure of Vigano and signed by the old physician and Corporal Bavois.
The truth was as clear as daylight. Stunned, frozen with horror, Martial scarcely had strength enough to place the letters in the casket again, and restore it to its place. Then he tottered back to his own room, clinging to the walls for support. “It was she who murdered Marie-Anne,” he murmured. He was confounded, terror-stricken, by the perfidy of this woman who was his wife—by her criminal audacity, cool calculation and assurance, and her marvellous powers of dissimulation.
Still he swore he would discover everything, either through the duchess or through the Widow Chupin; and he ordered Otto to procure him a costume such as was generally worn by the frequenters of the Poivriere. He did not know how soon he might have need of it. This happened early in February, and from that moment Blanche did not take a single step without being watched. Not a letter reached her that her husband had not previously read. And she had not the slightest suspicion of the constant supervision to which she was subjected. Martial did not leave his room; he pretended to be ill. He felt he could not meet his wife and remain silent. He remembered the oath of vengeance which he had sworn over Marie-Anne’s lifeless form only too well. However, the watch which Otto kept over the duchess, and the perusal of the letters addressed to her, did not yield any fresh information, and for this reason: Polyte Chupin had beenarrested on a charge of theft, and this accident caused a delay in the execution of Lacheneur’s plans.
But at last the latter prepared everything for Shrove Sunday, the 20th of February. On the previous day, in accordance with her instructions, the Widow Chupin wrote to the duchess that she must come to the Poivriere on Sunday night at eleven o’clock. On that same evening, Jean was to meet his accomplices at a ball at the Rainbow—a wine-shop bearing a very unenviable reputation—and give them their final instructions. These accomplices were to open the scene; he was only to appear at thedenouement. “All is well arranged; the mechanism will work of its own accord,” he said to himself. But, as is already known, the “mechanism,” as he styled it, failed to act.
On receiving the Widow Chupin’s summons, Blanche revolted for a moment. The lateness of the hour, the distance, the isolation of the appointed meeting place, frightened her. Still, she was obliged to submit, and on Sunday evening she furtively left the house, accompanied by Camille, the same maid who had been present when Aunt Medea died. The duchess and Camille were attired like women of the lowest order, and felt no fear of being recognized. And yet a man was watching who quickly followed them. This was Martial. He had perused the note appointing this rendezvous even before his wife, and had disguised himself in the costume Otto had procured for him—that of a labourer about the quays. Then, in hope of making himself absolutely unrecognizable, he had soiled and matted his hair and beard; his hands were grimed with dirt; and he really seemed to belong to the class of which he wore the attire. Otto had begged to be allowed to accompany his master; but the duke refused, remarking that his revolver would prove quite sufficient protection. He knew Otto well enough, however, to feel certain he would disobey him.
Ten o’clock was striking when Blanche and Camille left the house, and it did not take them five minutes to reach the Rue Taranne. There was only one cab on the stand, which they at once hired. This circumstance drew from Martial an oath worthy of his costume. But he reflected that, since he knew where to find his wife, a slight delay in obtaining a vehicle would not matter. He soon found one, and, thanks to a gratuity of ten francs, the driverstarted off to the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers as fast as his horse could go. However, the duke had scarcely alighted before he heard the rumbling of another vehicle which pulled up abruptly a little distance behind. “Otto is evidently following me,” he thought. And he then started across the open space in the direction of the Poivriere. The prevailing silence and absence of life were rendered still more oppressive by a chill fog which heralded an approaching thaw. Martial stumbled and slipped at almost every step he took over the rough, snow-covered ground; but at last through the mist he distinguished a building in the distance. This was the Poivriere. The light burning inside, filtered through the heart-shaped apertures cut in the upper part of the shutters, and it almost seemed as if a pair of lurid eyes were striving to peer through the fog.
Could it really be possible that the Duchess de Sairmeuse was there! Martial cautiously approached the window, and clinging to the hinges of the shutters, raised himself up so that he could glance through one of the apertures. Yes, there was no mistake. His wife and Camille were seated at a table before a large punch-bowl, in the company of two ragged, leering scoundrels, and a soldier of youthful appearance. In the centre of the room stood the Widow Chupin, with a small glass in her hand. She was talking with great volubility, and punctuating her sentences with occasional sips of brandy. The impression this scene produced on Martial was so acute that his hold relaxed and he dropped to the ground. A ray of pity stole into his soul, for he vaguely realized the frightful suffering which had been the murderess’s chastisement. But he wished for another glance, and so once more he lifted himself up to the opening and looked in. The old woman had disappeared; the young soldier had risen from the table, and was talking and gesticulating earnestly. Blanche and Camille were listening to him with the closest attention. The two men who were sitting face to face, with their elbows on the table, were looking at each other; and Martial saw them exchange a significant glance. He was not wrong. The scoundrels were plotting “a rich haul.” Blanche, who had dressed herself with much care, and to render her disguise perfect had encased her feet in large coarse shoes, that werecausing her well nigh intolerable agony—Blanche had neglected to remove her superb diamond ear-rings. She had forgotten them, but Lacheneur’s accomplices had noticed them, and were now glancing at them with eyes that glittered more brilliantly than the diamonds themselves. While awaiting Lacheneur’s coming, these wretches as had been agreed upon, were playing the part which he had imposed upon them. For this, and their assistance afterwards, they were to receive a certain sum of money. But they were thinking that this sum did not represent a quarter of the value of these jewels, and their looks only too plainly said: “What if we could secure them and go off before Lacheneur comes!” The temptation was too strong to be resisted. One of the scoundrels suddenly rose, and, seizing the duchess by the back of the neck, forced her head down on the table. The diamonds would have been at once torn from her ears if it had not been for Camille, who bravely came to her mistress’s assistance. Martial could endure no more. He sprang to the door of the hovel, opened it, and entered, bolting it behind him.
“Martial!” “Monsieur le Duc!” cried Blanche and Camille in the same breath, for, despite his disguise, they had both recognised him. Their exclamations turned the momentary stupor of their assailants into fury; and both ruffians precipitated themselves on Martial, determined to kill him. But, springing on one side, the duke avoided them. He had his revolver in his hand; he fired twice, and both the scoundrels fell. However, he was not yet safe, for the young soldier rushed forward and attempted to disarm him. Then began a furious struggle, in the midst of which Martial did not leave off crying, in a panting voice, “Fly! Blanche, fly! Otto is not far off. The name—save the honour of the name!”
The two women obeyed him, making their escape through the back door, which opened into the garden; and they had scarcely done so, before a violent knocking was heard at the front entry. The police were coming! This increased Martial’s frenzy; and in a supreme effort to free himself from his assailant, he hurled him backwards so violently, that, striking his head against a corner of the table, the young soldier fell on to the floor, and lay there to all appearance dead. In the meanwhile,the Widow Chupin, who had hastened from the room above on hearing the uproar, was shrieking on the staircase, while at the front door a voice was crying: “Open in the name of the law!” Martial might have fled; but if he fled, the duchess might be captured, for he would certainly be pursued. He saw the peril at a glance, and determined to remain. Shaking the Widow Chupin by the arm, he said to her, in an imperious voice: “If you know how to hold your tongue you shall have a hundred thousand francs.” Then, drawing a table before the door opening into the back room, he intrenched himself behind it as behind a rampart, and awaited the enemy’s approach.
The next moment the door was forced open, and a squad of police agents, headed by Inspector Gevrol, entered the room. “Surrender!” cried the inspector.
Martial did not move; his revolver was turned towards the intruders. “If I can parley with them and hold them in check only two minutes, all may yet be saved,” he thought. He obtained the required delay; then throwing his weapon to the ground, he was about to bound through the back door, when a police agent, who had gone round to the rear of the house, seized him about the body, and threw him to the floor. From this side he expected only assistance, hence he exclaimed: “Lost! It is the Prussians who are coming!”
In the twinkling of an eye he was bound; and two hours later he was an inmate of the station-house at the Place d’Italie. He had played his part so perfectly, that he had deceived even Gevrol. His assailants were dead, and he could rely upon the Widow Chupin. But he knew that the trap had been set for him by Jean Lacheneur; and he read a whole volume of suspicion in the eyes of the young officer who had cut off his retreat, and who was called Lecoq by his companions.
THEDuke de Sairmeuse was one of those men who remain superior to circumstances. He was possessed of vast experience, and great natural shrewdness. His mindwas quick to act, and fertile in resources. But when he found himself immured in the damp and loathsome station-house at the Place d’Italie, after the terrible scene we have just recalled, he felt inclined to relinquish all hope. He knew that justice does not trust to appearances, and that when an investigating magistrate finds himself in presence of a mystery, he does not rest until he has fathomed it. He knew only too well, moreover, that if his identity was established, the authorities would endeavour to discover the reason that had led him to the Poivriere; now he could scarcely doubt but what this reason would soon be discovered, and, in that case, the crime at the Borderie, and the duchess’s guilt, would undoubtedly be made public. This meant the Assize Court for the woman who bore his name—imprisonment, perhaps execution, at all events, a frightful scandal, dishonour, eternal disgrace! And the power he had wielded in former days was a positive disadvantage to him now, when his past position was filled by his political adversaries. Among them were two personal enemies, whose vanity he once had wounded, and who had never forgiven him. They would certainly not neglect the present opportunity for revenge. At the thought of such an ineffaceable stain on the great name of Sairmeuse, which was his pride and glory, reason almost forsook him. “My God, inspire me,” he murmured. “How shall I save the honour of the name?”
He saw but one chance of salvation—death. They now believed him to be one of the miserable loafers who haunt the suburbs of Paris; if he were dead they would not trouble themselves about his identity. “It is the only way!” he thought, and he was indeed endeavouring to find some means of committing suicide, when suddenly he heard a bustle outside his cell. A few moments afterwards the door was opened and a man was thrust in—a man who staggered a few steps, fell heavily on to the floor, and then began to snore. The new arrival was apparently only some vulgar drunkard.
A minute or so elapsed, and then a vague, strange hope touched Martial’s heart—no, he must be mistaken—and yet—yes, certainly this drunkard was Otto—Otto in disguise, and almost unrecognizable! It was a bold ruse and no time must be lost in profiting by it. Martial stretched himself on a bench, as if to sleep, and in such a way thathis head was close to Otto’s. “The duchess is out of danger,” murmured the faithful servant.
“For to-day, perhaps. But to-morrow, through me everything will be discovered.”
“Have you told them who you are?”
“No; all the police agents but one took me for a vagabond.”
“You must continue to personate that character.”
“What good will it do? Jean Lacheneur will betray me.” But Martial, though he little knew it, had no need to fear Lacheneur for the present, at least. A few hours previously, on his way in the dark from the Rainbow to to the Poivriere, Jean had fallen to the bottom of a stone quarry, and fractured his skull. The labourers, on returning to their work early in the morning, found him lying there senseless; and that very moment they were carrying him to the hospital.
Although Otto also was ignorant of this circumstances, he did not seem discouraged. “There will be some way of getting rid of Lacheneur,” said he, “if you will only sustain your present character. An escape is an easy matter when a man has millions at his command.”
“They will ask me who I am, where I’ve come from, and how I’ve lived.”
“You speak English and German, don’t you; tell them that you have just returned from foreign parts; that you were a foundling, and that you have always lived a roving life.”
“How can I prove that?”
Otto drew a little nearer his master, and said, impressively: “We must agree on our plans, for success depends on a perfect understanding between us. I have a sweetheart in Paris—and no one knows of our connection. She is as sharp as steel. Her name is Milner, and she keeps the Hotel de Mariembourg, in the Rue Saint-Quentin. You can say that you arrived here from Leipsic on Sunday; that you went to that hotel, that you left your trunk there, and that it has a card nailed to the top with your name—say May, foreign artist.”
“Capital!” said Martial, approvingly. And then, with extraordinary quickness and precision, they agreed, point by point, on their plan of defense. When everything had been arranged, Otto pretended to awake from the heavysleep of intoxication; he clamoured to be released, and the keeper finally opened the door and set him at liberty. Before leaving the station-house, however, he succeeded in throwing a note to the Widow Chupin, who was imprisoned in the opposite cell. So, when Lecoq, after his skilful investigations at the Poivriere, rushed to the Place d’Italie, panting with hope and ambition, he found himself outwitted by these men, who were inferior to him in penetration, but whose tact was superior to his own.
Martial’s plans being fully formed, he intended to carry them out with absolute perfection of detail, and, after his removal to the Depot, he was preparing himself for the investigating magistrate’s visit, when Maurice d’Escorval entered his cell. They recognized each other. They were both terribly agitated, and the examination was an examination only in name. After Maurice’s departure Martial attempted to destroy himself; for he had no faith in his former enemy’s generosity. But when he found M. Segmuller occupying Maurice’s place the next morning, he really believed that he was saved.
Then began that struggle between the magistrate and Lecoq on one side, and the prisoner on the other—a struggle in which neither conquered. Martial knew that Lecoq was the only person he had to fear, still he bore him no ill-will. Faithful to his nature, which compelled him to be just even to his enemies, he could not help admiring the astonishing penetration and perseverance of this young police agent, who, undismayed by the obstacles surrounding him, struggled on, unassisted, to reach the truth. But Lecoq was always outwitted by Otto, the mysterious accomplice, who seemed to know his every movement in advance. At the Morgue, at the Hotel de Mariembourg, with Toinon, the wife of Polyte Chupin, as well as with Polyte himself Lecoq was always just a little too late. He detected the secret correspondence between the prisoner and his accomplice, and he was even ingenious enough to discover the key to it, but this served no purpose. A man, who had seen a rival, or rather a future master in Lecoq—in short, Gevrol—had betrayed him. If his efforts to arrive at the truth through the jeweller and the Marchioness d’Arlange had failed, it was only because Blanche had not purchased the diamond ear-rings she wore at the Poivriere at any shop, but from one of her friends, the Baroness deWatchau. And finally, if no one in Paris had missed the Duke de Sairmeuse, it was because—thanks to an understanding between the duchess, Otto, and Camille—no other inmates of the Hotel de Sairmeuse suspected his absence. All the servants supposed that the duke was confined to his room by illness. His breakfast and dinner were taken up to his private apartments every day; and soups and tisanes were prepared ostensibly for his benefit.
So the weeks went by, and Martial was expecting to be summoned before the Assize Court and condemned under the name of May, when he was afforded an opportunity to escape. Too shrewd not to discern the trap that had been set for him, it was only after horrible hesitation that he decided to alight from the prison-van, determined to run the risk, and commending himself for protection to his lucky star. And he decided wisely, for that same night he leaped over his own garden wall, leaving an escaped convict, Joseph Couturier by name, whom he had picked up in a low eating-house, as a hostage in Lecoq’s hands. Warned by Madame Milner, thanks to a blunder which Lecoq committed, Otto was waiting for his master. In the twinkling of an eye Martial’s beard fell under the razor; he plunged into the bath which was already prepared, and his clothes were burned. And he it was who, during the search a few minutes later, had the hardihood to call out: “Otto, by all means allow these men to do their duty.” But he did not breathe freely until the police-agents had departed. “At last,” he exclaimed, “honour is saved! We have outwitted Lecoq!”
He had just left his bath, and assumed a dressing-gown, when Otto handed him a letter from the duchess. He hastily opened the envelope and read: “You are safe. You know everything. I am dying. Farewell. I loved you.”
With two bounds he reached his wife’s apartments. The outer door was locked: he burst it open; but he came to late. Blanche was dead—poisoned, like Marie-Anne; but she had procured a drug having an instantaneous effect, and extended on her couch, clad in her wonted apparel, her hands folded over her breast, she seemed only asleep. A tear glistened in Martial’s eye. “Poor, unhappy woman!” he murmured; “may God forgive youas I forgive you—you whose crime has been so frightfully expiated here below!”
Safe, in his own princely mansion, and surrounded by an army of retainers, the Duke de Sairmeuse had triumphantly exclaimed: “We have outwitted Lecoq!”
In this he was right; for the young detective was certainly nonplussed for the time being; but when his grace fancied himself for ever beyond this wily, keen-witted, aspiring agent’s reach, he was most decidedly wrong. Lecoq was not the man to sit down with folded hands and brood over the humiliation of defeat. Before he went to old Tabaret, he was beginning to recover from his despondency; and when he left that experienced detective’s presence, he had regained his courage, energy, and command over his faculties. “Well, my worthy friend,” he remarked to Father Absinthe, who was trotting along by his side, “you heard what the great Monsieur Tabaret said, didn’t you? So you see I was right.”
But his companion evinced no enthusiasm. “Yes, you were right,” he responded, in woe-begone tones.
“Do you think we are ruined by two or three mistakes? Nonsense! I will soon turn to-day’s defeat into a glorious victory.”
“Ah! you might do so perhaps, if—they don’t dismiss us from the force.”
This doleful remark recalled Lecoq to a sense of his present position. He and Absinthe had allowed a prisoner to slip through their fingers. That was vexatious, it is true; but, on the other hand, they had captured a most notorious criminal—Joseph Couturier. Surely there was some comfort in that. Still, of course, they both might be dismissed—and yet Lecoq could have borne the prospect, dismal as it was, if it had not been for the thought that dismissal would for ever prevent him from following up the Poivriere affair. What would his superiors say when he told them that May and the Duke de Sairmeuse were one and the same person. They would, no doubt, shrug their shoulders and turn up their noses. “Still, M. Segmuller will believe me,” he thought. “But will he dare to takeany action in the matter without patent evidence before him?”
This was very unlikely, as Lecoq fully realized, and for a moment he asked himself if he and his fellows could not make a descent on the Hotel de Sairmeuse, and, on some pretext or other, compel the duke to show himself. It would then be easy to identify him as the prisoner May. However, after a little thought he dismissed the idea. “It would be a stupid expedient!” he exclaimed. “Two such men as the duke and his accomplice are not likely to be caught napping. They are prepared for such a visit, and we should only have our labour for our pains.”
He made these reflections in a low tone of voice; and Father Absinthe’s curiosity was aroused. “Excuse me,” said the old veteran, “I don’t quite understand you.”
“I say that we must find some tangible proof before asking permission to proceed further—” Lecoq paused with knitted brows. An idea had occurred to him. He fancied he could prove complicity between at least one of the witnesses summoned to give evidence, and some member of the duke’s household. He was indeed thinking of Madame Milner, the landlady of the Hotel de Mariembourg, and of his first meeting with her. He saw her again, in his mind’s eye, standing on a chair, her face on a level with a cage, covered with a large piece of black silk, while she persistently repeated three or four German words to a starling, who with equal persistency retorted: “Camille! Where is Camille?” “One thing is certain,” exclaimed Lecoq aloud, “if Madame Milner—who is a German, and who speaks French with the strongest possible German accent—had reared this bird, it would either have spoken in German or else in French, and in the latter case with the same accent as its mistress. So it can’t have been in her possession long; but then who can have given it to her?”
Father Absinthe was beginning to grow impatient “In sober earnest, what are you talking about?” he asked, petulantly.
“I say that if there is any one at the Hotel de Sairmeuse named Camille, I have the proof I wish for. Come, Papa Absinthe, let us hurry on.” And without another word of explanation, he dragged his companion rapidly towards the Seine.
When they reached the Rue de Grenelle, Lecoq perceived a commissionaire leaning against the door of a wine-shop. He walked straight towards him. “Come, my good fellow,” said he. “I want you to go to the Hotel de Sairmeuse and ask for Camille. Tell her that her uncle is waiting for her here.”
“But, sir——”
“What, you haven’t gone yet?”
The messenger started off, and the two police agents entered the wine-shop, Father Absinthe scarcely having time to swallow a glass of brandy before the envoy returned. “I was unable to see Mademoiselle Camille,” said he. “The house is closed from top to bottom. The duchess died very suddenly this morning.”
“Ah! the wretch!” exclaimed the young police agent. Then controlling himself, he mentally added: “He must have killed his wife on returning home, but his fate is sealed. Now, I shall be allowed to continue my investigations.”
In less than twenty minutes they arrived at the Palais de Justice. M. Segmuller did not seem to be immoderately surprised by Lecoq’s revelations, though he listened with evident doubt to the young police agent’s ingenious deductions; it was the circumstance of the starling which at last decided him. “Perhaps you are right, my dear Lecoq,” he said, “and to tell the truth, I quite agree with you. But I can take no further action in the matter until you can furnish proof so convincing in its nature that the Duke de Sairmeuse will be unable to think of denying it.”
“Ah! sir, my superiors won’t allow me—”
“On the contrary,” interrupted the magistrate, “they will allow you the fullest liberty after I have spoken to them.” Such action on M. Segmuller’s part, required no little courage; for in official circles there had been considerable merriment over the magistrate’s mysterious man with the iron mask, disguised as a mountebank; and the former by his persistent support of the young detective’s theories, had almost become an object of ridicule.
“And when will you speak to them?” timidly inquired Lecoq.
“At once.”
The magistrate had already turned towards the doorwhen the young police agent stopped him. “I have one more favour to ask you, sir,” he said, entreatingly. “You are so kind, you are the first person who has given me any encouragement—who has had any faith in me.”
“Speak, my good fellow.”
“Ah! sir, will you give me a message for M. d’Escorval? Any insignificant message—inform him of the prisoner’s escape. I will take it myself, and then—Oh! fear nothing, sir; I will be very prudent.”
“Very well!” replied the magistrate, “I will write him a note.”
When he finally left the office, Lecoq was fully authorized to proceed with his investigations, and he carried in his pocket M. Segmuller’s letter to M. d’Escorval. His satisfaction was so intense that he did not deign to notice the sneers bestowed upon him as he passed along the corridors; but on the threshold downstairs he encountered Gevrol the general, who was evidently watching for him. “Ah ha!” laughed the inspector, as Lecoq passed out, “here’s one of those simpletons who fish for whales and don’t even catch a gudgeon.”
For an instant Lecoq felt angry. He turned round abruptly and looked Gevrol full in the face. “At all events,” retorted he in the tone of a manwhoknows what he’s saying. “That’s better than assisting prisoners to carry on a surreptitious correspondence with people outside.”
In his surprise, Gevrol almost lost countenance, and his blush was equivalent to a confession. But Lecoq did not add another word. What did it matter to him now if Gevrol had betrayed him! Was he not about to win a glorious revenge!
He spent the remainder of the day in preparing his plan of action, and in thinking what he should say when he took M. Segmuller’s note to Maurice d’Escorval. The next morning at about eleven o’clock he presented himself at the latter’s house. “M. d’Escorval is in his study with a young man,” replied the servant to the young detective’s inquiry, “but, as he gave me no orders to the contrary, you may go in.”
Lecoq entered, but found the study unoccupied. From the adjoining room, however, only separated from the study by velvet hangings, came a sound of stifled exclamations,of sobs mingled with kisses. Not knowing whether to remain or to retire, the young police-agent stood for a moment undecided; when suddenly he perceived an open letter lying on the carpet. Impelled by an impulse stronger than his will, Lecoq picked the letter up, and his eyes meeting the signature, he started back in surprise. He could not now refrain from reading this missive which ran as follows: