"More yet. What is this card of a hardware establishment that has been found in your pocket?"
Guespin made a sign of desperation, and stammered:
"I am innocent."
"I have not as yet accused you," said the judge of instruction, quickly. "You knew, perhaps, that the count received a considerable sum yesterday?"
A bitter smile parted Guespin's lips as he answered:
"I know well enough that everything is against me."
There was a profound silence. The doctor, the mayor, and Plantat, seized with a keen curiosity, dared not move. Perhaps nothing in the world is more thrilling than one of these merciless duels between justice and a man suspected of a crime. The questions may seem insignificant, the answers irrelevant; both questions and answers envelop terrible, hidden meanings. The smallest gesture, the most rapid movement of physiognomy may acquire deep significance, a fugitive light in the eye betray an advantage gained; an imperceptible change in the voice may be confession.
The coolness of M. Domini was disheartening.
"Let us see," said he after a pause: "where did you pass the night? How did you get this money? And what does this address mean?"
"Eh!" cried Guespin, with the rage of powerlessness, "I should tell you what you would not believe."
The judge was about to ask another question, but Guespin cut him short.
"No; you wouldn't believe me," he repeated, his eyes glistening with anger. "Do men like you believe men like me? I have a past, you know, of antecedents, as you would say. The past! They throw that in my face, as if, the future depended on the past. Well, yes; it's true, I'm a debauchee, a gambler, a drunkard, an idler, but what of it? It's true I have been before the police court, and condemned for night poaching—what does that prove? I have wasted my life, but whom have I wronged if not myself? My past! Have I not sufficiently expiated it?"
Guespin was self-possessed, and finding in himself sensations which awoke a sort of eloquence, he expressed himself with a savage energy well calculated to strike his hearers.
"I have not always served others," he continued; "my father was in easy circumstances—almost rich. He had large gardens, near Saumur, and he passed for one of the best gardeners of that region. I was educated, and when sixteen years old, began to study law. Four years later they thought me a talented youth. Unhappily for me, my father died. He left me a landed property worth a hundred thousand francs: I sold it out for sixty thousand and went to Paris. I was a fool then. I had the fever of pleasure-seeking, a thirst for all sorts of pastimes, perfect health, plenty of money. I found Paris a narrow limit for my vices; it seemed to me that the objects of my desires were wanting. I thought my sixty thousand francs would last forever."
Guespin paused; a thousand memories of those times rushed into his thoughts and he muttered:
"Those were good times."
"My sixty thousand francs," he resumed, "held out eight years. Then I hadn't a sou, yet I longed to continue my way of living. You understand, don't you? About this time, the police, one night, arrested me. I was 'detained' six months. You will find the records of the affair at the prefecture. Do you know what it will tell you? It will tell you that on leaving prison I fell into that shameful and abominable misery which exists in Paris. It will tell you that I have lived among the worst and lowest outcasts of Paris—and it is the truth."
The worthy mayor was filled with consternation.
"Good Heaven!" thought he, "what an audacious and cynical rascal! and to think that one is liable at any time to admit such servants into his house!"
The judge held his tongue. He knew that Guespin was in such a state that, under the irresistible impulse of passion, he might betray his innermost thoughts.
"But there is one thing," continued the suspected man, "that the record will not tell you; that, disgusted with this abject life, I was tempted to suicide. It will not tell you anything of my desperate attempts, my repentance, my relapses. At last, I was able in part to reform. I got work; and after being in four situations, engaged myself here. I found myself well off. I always spent my month's wages in advance, it's true—but what would you have? And ask if anyone has ever had to complain of me."
It is well known that among the most intelligent criminals, those who have had a certain degree of education, and enjoyed some good fortune, are the most redoubtable. According to this, Guespin was decidedly dangerous. So thought those who heard him. Meanwhile, exhausted by his excitement, he paused and wiped his face, covered with perspiration.
M. Domini had not lost sight of his plan of attack.
"All that is very well," said he, "we will return to your confession at the proper time and place. But just now the question is, how you spent your night, and where you got this money."
This persistency seemed to exasperate Guespin.
"Eh!" cried he, "how do you want me to answer? The truth? You wouldn't credit it. As well keep silent. It is a fatality."
"I warn you for your own sake," resumed the judge, "that if you persist in refusing to answer, the charges which weigh upon you are such that I will have you arrested as suspected of this murder."
This menace seemed to have a remarkable effect on Guespin. Great tears filled his eyes, up to that time dry and flashing, and silently rolled down his cheeks. His energy was exhausted; he fell on his knees, crying:
"Mercy! I beg you, Monsieur, not to arrest me; I swear I am innocent, I swear it!"
"Speak, then."
"You wish it," said Guespin, rising. Then he suddenly changed his tone. "No, I will not speak, I cannot! One man alone could save me; it is the count; and he is dead. I am innocent; yet if the guilty are not found, I am lost. Everything is against me. I know it too well. Now, do with me as you please; I will not say another word."
Guespin's determination, confirmed by his look, did not surprise the judge.
"You will reflect," said he, quietly, "only, when you have reflected, I shall not have the same confidence in what you say as I should have now. Possibly," and the judge spoke slowly and with emphasis, "you have only had an indirect part in this crime; if so—"
"Neither indirect nor direct," interrupted Guespin; and he added, violently, "what misery! To be innocent, and not able to defend myself."
"Since it is so," resumed M. Domini, "you should not object to be placed before Mme. de Tremorel's body?"
The accused did not seem affected by this menace. He was conducted into the hall whither they had fetched the countess. There, he examined the body with a cold and calm eye. He said, simply:
"She is happier than I; she is dead, she suffers no longer; and I, who am not guilty, am accused of her death."
M. Domini made one more effort.
"Come, Guespin; if in any way you know of this crime, I conjure you, tell me. If you know the murderers, name them. Try to merit some indulgence for your frankness and repentance."
Guespin made a gesture as if resigned to persecution. "By all that is most sacred," he answered, "I am innocent. Yet I see clearly that if the murderer is not found, I am lost."
Little by little M. Domini's conviction was formed and confirmed. An inquest of this sort is not so difficult as may be imagined. The difficulty is to seize at the beginning; in the entangled skein, the main thread, which must lead to the truth through all the mazes, the ruses, silence, falsehoods of the guilty. M. Domini was certain that he held this precious thread. Having one of the assassins, he knew well that he would secure the others. Our prisons, where good soup is eaten, and good beds are provided, have tongues, as well as the dungeons of the medieval ages.
The judge ordered the brigadier to arrest Guespin, and told him not to lose sight of him. He then sent for old Bertaud. This worthy personage was not one of the people who worry themselves. He had had so many affairs with the men of law, that one inquisition the more disturbed him little.
"This man has a bad reputation in my commune," whispered the mayor to M.Domini.
Bertaud heard it, however, and smiled.
Questioned by the judge of instruction, he recounted very clearly and exactly what had happened in the morning, his resistance, and his son's determination. He explained the reason for the falsehood they told; and here again the chapter of antecedents came up.
"Look here; I'm better than my reputation, after all," said he. "There are many folks who can't say as much. You see many things when you go about at night—enough."
He was urged to explain his allusions, but in vain.
When he was asked where and how he had passed the night, he answered, that having left the cabaret at ten o'clock, he went to put down some traps in Mauprevoir wood; and had gone home and to bed about one o'clock.
"By the bye," added he, "there ought to be some game in those traps by this time."
"Can you bring a witness to prove that you went home at one?" asked the mayor, who bethought him of the count's clock, stopped at twenty minutes past three.
"Don't know, I'm sure," carelessly responded the poacher, "it's quite likely that my son didn't wake up when I went to bed."
He added, seeing the judge reflect:
"I suspect that you are going to imprison me until the murderers are discovered. If it was winter, I wouldn't complain much; a fellow is well off in prison then, for it's warm there. But just at the time for hunting, it's provoking. It will be a good lesson for that Philippe; it'll teach him what it costs to render a service to gentlefolks."
"Enough!" interrupted M. Domini, sternly. "Do you know Guespin?"
This name suddenly subdued the careless insolence of the marauder; his little gray eyes experienced a singular restlessness.
"Certainly," he answered in an embarrassed tone, "we have often made a party at cards, you understand, while sipping our 'gloria.'"*
[* Coffee and brandy.]
The man's inquietude struck the four who heard him. Plantat, especially, betrayed profound surprise. The old vagabond was too shrewd not to perceive the effect which he produced.
"Faith, so much the worse!" cried he: "I'll tell you everything. Every man for himself, isn't it? If Guespin has done the deed, it will not blacken him any more, nor make him any the worse off. I know him, simply because he used to sell me the grapes and strawberries from the count's conservatories; I suppose he stole them; we divided the money, and I left."
Plantat could not refrain from an exclamation of satisfaction, as if to say, "Good luck! I knew it well enough!"
When he said he would be sent to prison, Bertaud was not wrong. The judge ordered his arrest.
It was now Philippe's turn.
The poor fellow was in a pitiable state; he was crying bitterly.
"To accuse me of such a crime, me!" he kept repeating.
On being questioned he told the pure and simple truth, excusing himself, however, for having dared to penetrate into the park. When he was asked at what hour his father reached home, he said he knew nothing about it; he had gone to bed about nine, and had not awoke until morning. He knew Guespin, from having seen him at his father's several times. He knew that the old man had some transactions with the gardener, but he was ignorant as to what they were. He had never spoken four times to Guespin. The judge ordered Philippe to be set at liberty, not that he was wholly convinced of his innocence, but because if the crime had been committed by several persons, it was well to have one of them free; he could be watched, and he would betray the whereabouts of the rest.
Meanwhile the count's body was nowhere to be found. The park had been rigidly searched, but in vain. The mayor suggested that he had been thrown into the river, which was also M. Domini's opinion; and some fishermen were sent to drag the Seine, commencing their search a little above the place where the countess was found.
It was then nearly three o'clock. M. Plantat remarked that probably no one had eaten anything during the day. Would it not be wise to take something, he suggested, if the investigations were to be pursued till night? This appeal to the trivial necessities of our frail humanity highly displeased the worthy mayor; but the rest readily assented to the suggestion, and M. Courtois, though not in the least hungry, followed the general example. Around the table which was yet wet with the wine spilt by the assassins, the judge, M. Plantat, the mayor, and the doctor sat down, and partook of an improvised collation.
The staircase had been put under guard, but the vestibule had remained free. People were heard coming and going, tramping and coughing; then rising above this continuous noise, the oaths of the gendarmes trying to keep back the crowd. From time to time, a scared face passed by the dining-room door, which was ajar. These were curious folks who, more daring than the rest, wished to see the "men of justice" eating, and tried to hear a word or two, to report them, and so become important in the eyes of the others. But the "men of justice"—as they said at Orcival—took care to say nothing of moment while the doors were open, and while a servant was passing to and fro. Greatly moved by this frightful crime, disturbed by the mystery which surrounded it, they hid their impressions. Each, on his part, studied the probability of his suspicions, and kept his opinion to himself.
M. Domini, as he ate, put his notes in order, numbering the leaves, marking certain peculiarly significant answers of the suspected persons with a cross. He was, perhaps, the least tormented of the four companions at this funereal repast. The crime did not seem to him one of those which keep judges of instruction sleepless through the night; he saw clearly the motive of it; and he had Bertaud and Guespin, two of the assassins, or at least accomplices, secure.
M. Plantat and Dr. Gendron, seated next each other, were talking of the illness which carried off Sauvresy. M. Courtois listened to the hubbub without.
The news of the double murder was soon noised about the neighborhood, and the crowd increased every minute. It filled the court, and became bolder and bolder; the gendarmes were overwhelmed. Then or never was the time for the mayor to show his authority. "I am going to make these people listen to reason," said he, "and make them retire." And at once, wiping his mouth, he threw his tumbled napkin on the table, and went out.
It was time. The brigadier's injunctions were no longer heeded. Some curious people, more eager than the rest, had flanked the position and were forcing an entrance through the gate leading to the garden. The mayor's presence did not perhaps intimidate the crowd much, but it redoubled the energy of the gendarmes; the vestibule was cleared, amid murmurings against the arm of the law. What a chance for a speech! M. Courtois was not wanting to the occasion. He believed that his eloquence, endowed with the virtues of a cold showerbath, would calm this unwonted effervescence of his constituency. He stepped forward upon the steps, his left hand resting in the opening of his vest, gesturing with his right in the proud and impassible attitude which the sculptor lends to great orators. It was thus that he posed before his council when, finding unexpected opposition, he undertook to impose his will upon them, and recall the recalcitrant members to their duty.
His speech, in fragments, penetrated to the dining-room. According as he turned to the right or to the left, his voice was clear and distinct, or was lost in space. He said:
"Fellow-citizens, an atrocious crime, unheard of before in our commune, has shocked our peaceable and honest neighborhood. I understand and excuse your feverish emotion, your natural indignation. As well as you, my friends, more than you—I cherished and esteemed the noble Count de Tremorel, and his virtuous wife. We mourn them together—"
"I assure you," said Dr. Gendron to M. Plantat, "that the symptoms you describe are not uncommon after pleurisy. From the acute state, the inflammation passes to the chronic state, and becomes complicated with pneumonia."
"But nothing," pursued the mayor, "can justify a curiosity, which by its importunate attempts to be satisfied, embarrasses the investigation, and is, at all events, a punishable interference with the cause of justice. Why this unwonted gathering? Why these rumors and noises? These premature conjectures?"
"There were several consultations," said M. Plantat, "which did not have favorable results. Sauvresy suffered altogether strange and unaccountable tortures. He complained of troubles so unwonted, so absurd, if you'll excuse the word, that he discouraged all the conjectures of the most experienced physicians."
"Was it not R—-, of Paris, who attended him?"
"Exactly. He came daily, and often remained overnight. Many times I have seen him ascending the principal street of the village, with troubled countenance, as he went to give his prescription to the apothecary.
"Be wise enough," cried M. Courtois, "to moderate your just anger; be calm; be dignified."
"Surely," continued Dr. Gendron, "your apothecary is an intelligent man; but you have at Orcival a fellow who quite outdoes him, a fellow who knows how to make money; one Robelot—"
"Robelot, the bone-setter?"
"That's the man. I suspect him of giving consultations, and prescribing sub rosa. He is very clever. In fact I educated him. Five or six years ago, he was my laboratory boy, and even now I employ him when I have a delicate operation on hand—"
The doctor stopped, struck by the alteration in the impassible Plantat's features.
"What is the matter, my friend?" he asked. "Are you ill?"
The judge left his notes, to look at him. "Why," said he, "MonsieurPlantat is very pale—"
But M. Plantat speedily resumed his habitual expression.
"'Tis nothing," he answered, "really nothing. With my abominable stomach, as soon as I change my hour of eating—"
Having reached his peroration, M. Courtois raised his voice.
"Return," said he, "to your peaceable homes, your quiet avocations. Rest assured the law protects you. Already justice has begun its work; two of the criminals are in its power, and we are on the track of their accomplices."
"Of all the servants of the chateau," remarked M. Plantat, "there remains not one who knew Sauvresy. The domestics have one by one been replaced."
"No doubt," answered the doctor, "the sight of the old servants would be disagreeable to Monsieur de Tremorel."
He was interrupted by the mayor, who re-entered, his eyes glowing, his face animated, wiping his forehead.
"I have let the people know," said he, "the indecency of their curiosity. They have all gone away. They were anxious to get at Philippe Bertaud, the brigadier says; public opinion has a sharp scent."
Hearing the door open, he turned, and found himself face to face with a man whose features were scarcely visible, so profoundly did he bow, his hat pressed against his breast.
"What do you wish?" sternly asked M. Courtois. "By what right have you come in here?—Who are you?"
The man drew himself up.
"I am Monsieur Lecoq," he replied, with a gracious smile. "Monsieur Lecoq of the detective force, sent by the prefect of police in reply to a telegram, for this affair."
This declaration clearly surprised all present, even the judge of instruction.
In France, each profession has its special externals, as it were, insignia, which betray it at first view. Each profession has its conventional type, and when public opinion has adopted a type, it does not admit it possible that the type should be departed from. What is a doctor? A grave man, all in black, with a white cravat. A gentleman with a capacious stomach, adorned with heavy gold seals, can only be a banker. Everybody knows that the artist is a merry liver, with a peaked hat, a velvet vest, and enormous ruffles. By virtue of this rule, the detective of the prefecture ought to have an eye full of mystery, something suspicious about him, a negligence of dress, and imitation jewelry. The most obtuse shopkeeper is sure that he can scent a detective at twenty paces a big man with mustaches, and a shining felt hat, his throat imprisoned by a collar of hair, dressed in a black, threadbare surtout, carefully buttoned up on account of the entire absence of linen. Such is the type. But, according to this, M. Lecoq, as he entered the dining-room at Valfeuillu, had by no means the air of a detective. True, M. Lecoq can assume whatever air he pleases. His friends declare that he has a physiognomy peculiar to himself, which he resumes when he enters his own house, and which he retains by his own fireside, with his slippers on; but the fact is not well proved. What is certain, is that his mobile face lends itself to strange metamorphoses; that he moulds his features according to his will, as the sculptor moulds clay for modelling. He changes everything, even his look.
"So," said the judge of instruction, "the prefect has sent you to me, in case certain investigations become necessary."
"Yes, Monsieur, quite at your service."
M. Lecoq had on this day assumed a handsome wig of lank hair, of that vague color called Paris blonde, parted on the side by a line pretentiously fanciful; whiskers of the same color puffed out with bad pomade, encircled a pallid face. His big eyes seemed congealed within their red border, an open smile rested on his thick lips, which, in parting, discovered a range of long yellow teeth. His face, otherwise, expressed nothing in particular. It was a nearly equal mixture of timidity, self-sufficiency, and contentment. It was quite impossible to concede the least intelligence to the possessor of such a phiz. One involuntarily looked for a goitre. The retail haberdashers, who, having cheated for thirty years in their threads and needles, retire with large incomes, should have such heads as this. His apparel was as dull as his person. His coat resembled all coats, his trousers all trousers. A hair chain, the same color as his whiskers, was attached to a large silver watch, which bulged out his left waistcoat pocket. While speaking, he fumbled with a confection-box made of transparent horn, full of little square lozenges, and adorned by a portrait of a very homely, well-dressed woman—"the defunct," no doubt. As the conversation proceeded, according as he was satisfied or disturbed, M. Lecoq munched a lozenge, or directed glances toward the portrait which were quite a poem in themselves.
Having examined the man a long time, the judge of instruction shrugged his shoulders. "Well," said M. Domini, finally, "now that you are here, we will explain to you what has occurred."
"Oh, that's quite useless," responded Lecoq, with a satisfied air, "perfectly useless, sir."
"Nevertheless, it is necessary that you should know—"
"What? that which monsieur the judge knows?" interrupted the detective, "for that I already know. Let us agree there has been a murder, with theft as its motive; and start from that point. The countess's body has been found—not so that of the count. What else? Bertaud, an acknowledged rogue, is arrested; he merits a little punishment, doubtless. Guespin came back drunk; ah, there are sad charges against this Guespin! His past is deplorable; it is not known where he passed the night, he refuses to answer, he brings no alibi—this is indeed grave!"
M. Plantat gazed at the detective with visible pleasure.
"Who has told you about these things?" asked M. Domini.
"Well—everybody has told me a little."
"But where?"
"Here: I've already been here two hours, and even heard the mayor's speech."
And, satisfied with the effect he had produced, M. Lecoq munched a lozenge.
"You were not aware, then," resumed the judge, "that I was waiting for you?"
"Pardon me," said the detective; "I hope you will be kind enough to hear me. You see, it is indispensable to study the ground; one must look about, establish his batteries. I am anxious to catch the general rumor—public opinion, as they say, so as to distrust it."
"All this," answered M. Domini, severely, "does not justify your delay."
M. Lecoq glanced tenderly at the portrait.
"Monsieur the judge," said he, "has only to inquire at the prefecture, and he will learn that I know my profession. The great thing requisite, in order to make an effective search, is to remain unknown. The police are not popular. Now, if they knew who I was, and why I was here, I might go out, but nobody would tell me anything; I might ask questions—they'd serve me a hundred lies; they would distrust me, and hold their tongues."
"Quite true—quite true," murmured Plantat, coming to the support of the detective.
M. Lecoq went on:
"So that when I was told that I was going into the country, I put on my country face and clothes. I arrive here and everybody, on seeing me, says to himself, 'Here's a curious bumpkin, but not a bad fellow.' Then I slip about, listen, talk, make the rest talk! I ask this question and that, and am answered frankly; I inform myself, gather hints, no one troubles himself about me. These Orcival folks are positively charming; why, I've already made several friends, and am invited to dine this very evening."
M. Domini did not like the police, and scarcely concealed it. He rather submitted to their co-operation than accepted it, solely because he could not do without them. While listening to M. Lecoq, he could not but approve of what he said; yet he looked at him with an eye by no means friendly.
"Since you know so much about the matter," observed he, dryly, "we will proceed to examine the scene of the crime."
"I am quite at Monsieur the judge's orders," returned the detective, laconically. As everyone was getting up, he took the opportunity to offer M. Plantat his lozenge-box.
"Monsieur perhaps uses them?"
Plantat, unwilling to decline, appropriated a lozenge, and the detective's face became again serene. Public sympathy was necessary to him, as it is to all great comedians.
M. Lecoq was the first to reach the staircase, and the spots of blood at once caught his eye.
"Oh," cried he, at each spot he saw, "oh, oh, the wretches!"
M. Courtois was much moved to find so much sensibility in a detective.The latter, as he continued to ascend, went on:
"The wretches! They don't often leave traces like this everywhere—or at least they wipe them out."
On gaining the first landing, and the door of the boudoir which led into the chamber, he stopped, eagerly scanning, before he entered, the position of the rooms.
Then he entered the boudoir, saying:
"Come; I don't see my way clear yet."
"But it seems to me," remarked the judge, "that we have already important materials to aid your task. It is clear that Guespin, if he is not an accomplice, at least knew something about the crime."
M. Lecoq had recourse to the portrait in the lozenge-box. It was more than a glance, it was a confidence. He evidently said something to the dear defunct, which he dared not say aloud.
"I see that Guespin is seriously compromised," resumed he. "Why didn't he want to tell where he passed the night? But, then, public opinion is against him, and I naturally distrust that."
The detective stood alone in the middle of the room, the rest, at his request, remained at the threshold, and looking keenly about him, searched for some explanation of the frightful disorder of the apartment.
"Fools!" cried he, in an irritated tone, "double brutes! Because they murder people so as to rob them, is no reason why they should break everything in the house. Sharp folks don't smash up furniture; they carry pretty picklocks, which work well and make no noise. Idiots! one would say—"
He stopped with his mouth wide open.
"Eh! Not so bungling, after all, perhaps."
The witnesses of this scene remained motionless at the door, following, with an interest mingled with surprise, the detective's movements.
Kneeling down, he passed his flat palm over the thick carpet, among the broken porcelain.
"It's damp; very damp. The tea was not all drunk, it seems, when the cups were broken."
"Some tea might have remained in the teapot," suggested Plantat.
"I know it," answered M. Lecoq, "just what I was going to say. So that this dampness cannot tell us the exact moment when the crime was committed."
"But the clock does, and very exactly," interrupted the mayor.
"The mayor," said M. Domini, "in his notes, well explains that the movements of the clock stopped when it fell."
"But see here," said M. Plantat, "it was the odd hour marked by that clock that struck me. The hands point to twenty minutes past three; yet we know that the countess was fully dressed, when she was struck. Was she up taking tea at three in the morning? It's hardly probable."
"I, too, was struck with that circumstance," returned M. Lecoq, "and that's why I said, 'not so stupid!' Well, let's see."
He lifted the clock with great care, and replaced it on the mantel, being cautious to set it exactly upright. The hands continued to point to twenty minutes past three.
"Twenty past three!" muttered he, while slipping a little wedge under the stand. "People don't take tea at that hour. Still less common is it that people are murdered at daylight."
He opened the clock-case with some difficulty, and pushed the longer hand to the figure of half-past three.
The clock struck eleven!
"Good," cried M. Lecoq, triumphantly. "That is the truth!" and drawing the lozenge-box from his pocket, he excitedly crushed a lozenge between his teeth.
The simplicity of this discovery surprised the spectators; the idea of trying the clock in this way had occurred to no one. M. Courtois, especially, was bewildered.
"There's a fellow," whispered he to the doctor, "who knows what he's about."
"Ergo," resumed M. Lecoq (who knew Latin), "we have here, not brutes, as I thought at first, but rascals who looked beyond the end of their knife. They intended to put us off the scent, by deceiving us as to the hour."
"I don't see their object very clearly," said M. Courtois, timidly.
"Yet it is easy to see it," answered M. Domini. "Was it not for their interest to make it appear that the crime was committed after the last train for Paris had left? Guespin, leaving his companions at the Lyons station at nine, might have reached here at ten, murdered the count and countess, seized the money which he knew to be in the count's possession, and returned to Paris by the last train."
"These conjectures are very shrewd," interposed M. Plantat; "but how is it that Guespin did not rejoin his comrades in the Batignolles? For in that way, to a certain degree, he might have provided a kind of alibi."
Dr. Gendron had been sitting on the only unbroken chair in the chamber, reflecting on Plantat's sudden embarrassment, when he had spoken of Robelot the bone-setter. The remarks of the judge drew him from his revery; he got up, and said:
"There is another point; putting forward the time was perhaps useful toGuespin, but it would greatly damage Bertaud, his accomplice."
"But," answered M. Domini, "it might be that Bertaud was not consulted. As to Guespin, he had no doubt good reasons for not returning to the wedding. His restlessness, after such a deed, would possibly have betrayed him."
M. Lecoq had not thought fit to speak as yet. Like a doctor at a sick bedside, he wanted to be sure of his diagnosis. He had returned to the mantel, and again pushed forward the hands of the clock. It sounded, successively, half-past eleven, then twelve, then half-past twelve, then one.
As he moved the hands, he kept muttering:
"Apprentices—chance brigands! You are malicious, parbleu, but you don't think of everything. You give a push to the hands, but don't remember to put the striking in harmony with them. Then comes along a detective, an old rat who knows things, and the dodge is discovered."
M. Domini and Plantat held their tongues. M. Lecoq walked up to them.
"Monsieur the Judge," said he, "is perhaps now convinced that the deed was done at half-past ten."
"Unless," interrupted M. Plantat, "the machinery of the clock has been out of order."
"That often happens," added M. Courtois. "The clock in my drawing-room is in such a state that I never know the time of day."
M. Lecoq reflected.
"It is possible," said he, "that Monsieur Plantat is right. The probability is in favor of my theory; but probability, in such an affair, is not sufficient; we must have certainty. There happily remains a mode of testing the matter—the bed; I'll wager it is rumpled up." Then addressing the mayor, "I shall need a servant to lend me a hand."
"I'll help you," said Plantat, "that will be a quicker way."
They lifted the top of the bed and set it on the floor, at the same time raising the curtains.
"Hum!" cried M. Lecoq, "was I right?"
"True," said M. Domini, surprised, "the bed is rumpled."
"Yes; and yet no one has lain in it."
"But—" objected M. Courtois.
"I am sure of what I say," interrupted the detective. "The sheets, it is true, have been thrown back, perhaps someone has rolled about in the bed; the pillows have been tumbled, the quilts and curtains ruffled, but this bed has not the appearance of having been slept in. It is, perhaps, more difficult to rumple up a bed than to put it in order again. To make it up, the coverings must be taken off, and the mattresses turned. To disarrange it, one must actually lie down in it, and warm it with the body. A bed is one of those terrible witnesses which never misguide, and against which no counter testimony can be given. Nobody has gone to bed in this—"
"The countess," remarked Plantat, "was dressed; but the count might have gone to bed first."
"No," answered M. Lecoq, "I'll prove to the contrary. The proof is easy, indeed, and a child of ten, having heard it, wouldn't think of being deceived by this intentional disorder of the bedclothes."
M. Lecoq's auditors drew up to him. He put the coverings back upon the middle of the bed, and went on:
"Both of the pillows are much rumpled, are they not? But look under the bolster—it is all smooth, and you find none of those wrinkles which are made by the weight of the head and the moving about of the arms. That's not all; look at the bed from the middle to the foot. The sheets being laid carefully, the upper and under lie close together everywhere. Slip your hand underneath—there—you see there is a resistance to your hand which would not occur if the legs had been stretched in that place. Now Monsieur de Tremorel was tall enough to extend the full length of the bed."
This demonstration was so clear, its proof so palpable, that it could not be gainsaid.
"This is nothing," continued M. Lecoq. "Let us examine the second mattress. When a person purposely disarranges a bed, he does not think of the second mattress."
He lifted up the upper mattress, and observed that the covering of the under one was perfectly even.
"H'm, the second mattress," muttered M. Lecoq, as if some memory crossed his mind.
"It appears to be proved," observed the judge, "that Monsieur deTremorel had not gone to bed."
"Besides," added the doctor, "if he had been murdered in his bed, his clothes would be lying here somewhere."
"Without considering," suggested M. Lecoq, "that some blood must have been found on the sheets. Decidedly, these criminals were not shrewd."
"What seems to me surprising," M. Plantat observed to the judge, "is that anybody would succeed in killing, except in his sleep, a young man so vigorous as Count Hector."
"And in a house full of weapons," added Dr. Gendron; "for the count's cabinet is full of guns, swords and hunting knives; it's a perfect arsenal."
"Alas!" sighed M. Courtois, "we know of worse catastrophes. There is not a week that the papers don't—"
He stopped, chagrined, for nobody was listening to him. Plantat claimed the general attention, and continued:
"The confusion in the house seems to you surprising; well now, I'm surprised that it is not worse than it is. I am, so to speak, an old man; I haven't the energy of a young man of thirty-five; yet it seems to me that if assassins should get into my house, when I was there, and up, it would go hard with them. I don't know what I would do; probably I should be killed; but surely I would give the alarm. I would defend myself, and cry out, and open the windows, and set the house afire."
"Let us add," insisted the doctor, "that it is not easy to surprise a man who is awake. There is always an unexpected noise which puts one on his guard. Perhaps it is a creaking door, or a cracking stair. However cautious the murderer, he does not surprise his victim."
"They may have used fire-arms;" struck in the worthy mayor, "that has been done. You are quietly sitting in your chamber; it is summer, and your windows are open; you are chatting with your wife, and sipping a cup of tea; outside, the assassins are supplied with a short ladder; one ascends to a level with the window, sights you at his ease, presses the trigger, the bullet speeds—"
"And," continued the doctor, "the whole neighborhood, aroused by it, hastens to the spot."
"Permit me, pardon, permit me," said M. Courtois, testily, "that would be so in a populous town. Here, in the midst of a vast park, no. Think, doctor, of the isolation of this house. The nearest neighbor is a long way off, and between there are many large trees, intercepting the sound. Let us test it by experience. I will fire a pistol in this room, and I'll wager that you will not hear the echo in the road."
"In the daytime, perhaps, but not in the night."
"Well," said M. Domini, who had been reflecting while M. Courtois was talking, "if against all hope, Guespin does not decide to speak to-night, or to-morrow, the count's body will afford us a key to the mystery."
During this discussion, M. Lecoq had continued his investigations, lifting the furniture, studying the fractures, examining the smallest pieces, as if they might betray the truth. Now and then, he took out an instrument-case, from which he produced a shank, which he introduced and turned in the locks. He found several keys on the carpet, and on a rack, a towel, which he carefully put one side, as if he deemed it important. He came and went from the bedroom to the count's cabinet, without losing a word that was said; noting in his memory, not so much the phrases uttered, as the diverse accents and intonations with which they were spoken. In an inquest such as that of the crime of Orcival, when several officials find themselves face to face, they hold a certain reserve toward each other. They know each other to have nearly equal experience, to be shrewd, clear-headed, equally interested in discovering the truth, not disposed to confide in appearances, difficult to surprise. Each one, likely enough, gives a different interpretation to the facts revealed; each may have a different theory of the deed; but a superficial observer would not note these differences. Each, while dissimulating his real thoughts, tries to penetrate those of his neighbor, and if they are opposed to his own, to convert him to his opinion. The great importance of a single word justifies this caution. Men who hold the liberty and lives of others in their hands, a scratch of whose pen condemns to death, are apt to feel heavily the burden of their responsibility. It is an ineffable solace, to feel that this burden is shared by others. This is, why no one dares take the initiative, or express himself openly; but each awaits other opinions, to adopt or oppose them. They exchange fewer affirmations than suggestions. They proceed by insinuation; then they utter commonplaces, ridiculous suppositions, asides, provocative, as it were, of other explanations.
In this instance, the judge of instruction and Plantat were far from being of the same opinion; they knew it before speaking a word. But M. Domini, whose opinion rested on material and palpable facts, which appeared to him indisputable, was not disposed to provoke contradiction. Plantat, on the contrary, whose system seemed to rest on impressions, on a series of logical deductions, would not clearly express himself, without a positive and pressing invitation. His last speech, impressively uttered, had not been replied to; he judged that he had advanced far enough to sound the detective.
"Well, Monsieur Lecoq," asked he, "have you found any new traces?"
M. Lecoq was at that moment curiously examining a large portrait of the Count Hector, which hung opposite the bed. Hearing M. Plantat's question, he turned.
"I have found nothing decisive," answered he, "and I have found nothing to refute my conjectures. But—"
He did not finish; perhaps he too, recoiled before his share of the responsibility.
"What?" insisted M. Domini, sternly.
"I was going to say," resumed M. Lecoq, "that I am not yet satisfied. I have my lantern and a candle in it; I only need a match—"
"Please preserve your decorum," interrupted the judge severely.
"Very well, then," continued M. Lecoq, in a tone too humble to be serious, "I still hesitate. If the doctor, now, would kindly proceed to examine the countess's body, he would do me a great service."
"I was just going to ask the same favor, Doctor," said M. Domini.
The doctor answering, "Willingly," directed his steps toward the door.
M. Lecoq caught him by the arm.
"If you please," said he, in a tone totally unlike that he had used up to this time, "I would like to call your attention to the wounds on the head, made by a blunt instrument, which I suppose to be a hammer. I have studied these wounds, and though I am no doctor, they seem to me suspicious."
"And to me," M. Plantat quickly added. "It seemed to me, that in the places struck, there was no emission of blood in the cutaneous vessels."
"The nature of these wounds," continued M. Lecoq, "will be a valuable indication, which will fix my opinion." And, as he felt keenly the brusque manner of the judge, he added:
"It is you, Doctor, who hold the match."
M. Gendron was about to leave the room, when Baptiste, the mayor's servant—the man who wouldn't be scolded—appeared. He bowed and said:
"I have come for Monsieur the Mayor."
"For me? why?" asked M. Courtois. "What's the matter? They don't give me a minute's rest! Answer that I am busy."
"It's on account of madame," resumed the placid Baptiste; "she isn't at all well." The excellent mayor grew slightly pale.
"My wife!" cried he, alarmed. "What do you mean? Explain yourself."
"The postman arrived just now," returned Baptiste with a most tranquil air, "and I carried the letters to madame, who was in the drawing-room. Hardly had I turned on my heels when I heard a shriek, and the noise of someone falling to the floor." Baptiste spoke slowly, taking artful pains to prolong his master's anguish.
"Speak! go on!" cried the mayor, exasperated. "Speak, won't you?"
"I naturally opened the drawing-room door again. What did I see? madame, at full length on the floor. I called for help; the chambermaid, cook, and others came hastening up, and we carried madame to her bed. Justine said that it was a letter from Mademoiselle Laurence which overcame my mistress—"
At each word Baptiste hesitated, reflected; his eyes, giving the lie to his solemn face, betrayed the great satisfaction he felt in relating his master's misfortunes.
His master was full of consternation. As it is with all of us, when we know not exactly what ill is about to befall us, he dared not ask any questions. He stood still, crushed; lamenting, instead of hastening home. M. Plantat profited by the pause to question the servant, with a look which Baptiste dared not disobey.
"What, a letter from Mademoiselle Laurence? Isn't she here, then?"
"No, sir: she went away a week ago, to pass a month with one of her aunts."
"And how is madame?"
"Better, sir; only she cries piteously."
The unfortunate mayor had now somewhat recovered his presence of mind.He seized Baptiste by the arm.
"Come along," cried he, "come along!"
They hastened off.
"Poor man!" said the judge of instruction. "Perhaps his daughter is dead."
M. Plantat shook his head.
"If it were only that!" muttered he. He added, turning to M. Domini:
"Do you recall the allusions of Bertaud, monsieur?"
The judge of instruction, the doctor, and M. Plantat exchanged a significant look. What misfortune had befallen M. Courtois, this worthy, and despite his faults, excellent person? Decidedly, this was an ill-omened day!
"If we are to speak of Bertaud's allusions," said M. Lecoq, "I have heard two very curious stories, though I have been here but a few hours. It seems that this Mademoiselle Laurence—"
M. Plantat abruptly interrupted the detective.
"Calumnies! odious calumnies! The lower classes, to annoy the rich, do not hesitate to say all sorts of things against them. Don't you know it? Is it not always so? The gentry, above all, those of a provincial town, live in glass houses. The lynx eyes of envy watch them steadily night and day, spy on them, surprise what they regard as their most secret actions to arm themselves against them. The bourgeois goes on, proud and content; his business prospers; he possesses the esteem and friendship of his own class; all this while, he is vilified by the lower classes, his name dragged in the dust, soiled by suppositions the most mischievous. Envy, Monsieur, respects nothing, no one."
"If Laurence has been slandered," observed Dr. Gendron, smiling, "she has a good advocate to defend her."
The old justice of the peace (the man of bronze, as M. Courtois called him) blushed slightly, a little embarrassed.
"There are causes," said he, quietly, "which defend themselves. Mademoiselle Courtois is one of those young girls who has a right to all respect. But there are evils which no laws can cure, and which revolt me. Think of it, monsieurs, our reputations, the honor of our wives and daughters, are at the mercy of the first petty rascal who has imagination enough to invent a slander. It is not believed, perhaps; but it is repeated, and spreads. What can be done? How can we know what is secretly said against us; will we ever know it?"
"Eh!" replied the doctor, "what matters it? There is only one voice, to my mind, worth listening to—that of conscience. As to what is called 'public opinion,' as it is the aggregate opinion of thousands of fools and rogues, I only despise it."
This discussion might have been prolonged, if the judge of instruction had not pulled out his watch, and made an impatient gesture.
"While we are talking, time is flying," said he. "We must hasten to the work that still remains."
It was then agreed that while the doctor proceeded to his autopsy, the judge should draw up his report of the case. M. Plantat was charged with watching Lecoq's investigations.
As soon as the detective found himself alone with M. Plantat:
"Well," he said, drawing a long breath, as if relieved of a heavy burden, "now we can get on."
Plantat smiled; the detective munched a lozenge, and added:
"It was very annoying to find the investigation already going on when I reached here. Those who were here before me have had time to get up a theory, and if I don't adopt it at once, there is the deuce to pay!"
M. Domini's voice was heard in the entry, calling out to his clerk.
"Now there's the judge of instruction," continued Lecoq, "who thinks this a very simple affair; while I, Lecoq, the equal at least of Gevrol, the favorite pupil of Papa Tabaret—I do not see it at all clearly yet."
He stopped; and after apparently going over in his mind the result of his discoveries, went on: "No; I'm off the track, and have almost lost my way. I see something underneath all this—but what? what?"
M. Plantat's face remained placid, but his eyes shone.
"Perhaps you are right," said he, carelessly; "perhaps there is something underneath." The detective looked at him; he didn't stir. His face seemed the most undisturbed in the world. There was a long silence, by which M. Lecoq profited to confide to the portrait of the defunct the reflections which burdened his brain.
"See here, my dear darling," said he, "this worthy person seems a shrewd old customer, and I must watch his actions and gestures carefully. He does not argue with the judge; he's got an idea that he doesn't dare to tell, and we must find it out. At the very first he guessed me out, despite these pretty blond locks. As long as he thought he could, by misleading me, make me follow M. Domini's tack, he followed and aided me showing me the way. Now that he sees me on the scent, he crosses his arms and retires. He wants to leave me the honor of the discovery. Why? He lives here—perhaps he is afraid of making enemies. No. He isn't a man to fear much of anything. What then? He shrinks from his own thoughts. He has found something so amazing, that he dares not explain himself."
A sudden reflection changed the course of M. Lecoq's confidences.
"A thousand imps!" thought he. "Suppose I'm wrong! Suppose this old fellow is not shrewd at all! Suppose he hasn't discovered anything, and only obeys the inspirations of chance! I've seen stranger things. I've known so many of these folks whose eyes seem so very mysterious, and announce such wonders; after all, I found nothing, and was cheated. But I intend to sound this old fellow well."
And, assuming his most idiotic manner, he said aloud:
"On reflection, Monsieur, little remains to be done. Two of the principals are in custody, and when they make up their minds to talk—they'll do it, sooner or later, if the judge is determined they shall—we shall know all."
A bucket of ice-water falling on M. Plantat's head could not have surprised him more, or more disagreeably, than this speech.
"What!" stammered he, with an air of frank amazement, "do you, a man of experience, who—"
Delighted with the success of his ruse, Lecoq could not keep his countenance, and Plantat, who perceived that he had been caught in the snare, laughed heartily. Not a word, however, was exchanged between these two men, both subtle in the science of life, and equally cunning in its mysteries. They quite understood each other.
"My worthy old buck," said the detective to himself, "you've got something in your sack; only it's so big, so monstrous, that you won't exhibit it, not for a cannon-ball. You wish your hand forced, do you? Ve-ry well!"
"He's sly," thought M. Plantat. "He knows that I've got an idea; he's trying to get at it—and I believe he will."
M. Lecoq had restored his lozenge-box to his pocket, as he always did when he went seriously to work. His amour-propre was enlisted; he played a part—and he was a rare comedian.
"Now," cried he, "let's to horse. According to the mayor's account, the instrument with which all these things were broken has been found."
"In the room in the second story," answered M. Plantat, "overlooking the garden, we found a hatchet on the floor, near a piece of furniture which had been assailed, but not broken open; I forbade anyone to touch it."
"And you did well. Is it a heavy hatchet?"
"It weighs about two pounds."
"Good. Let's see it."
They ascended to the room in question, and M. Lecoq, forgetting his part of a haberdasher, and regardless of his clothes, went down flat on his stomach, alternately scrutinizing the hatchet—which was a heavy, terrible weapon—and the slippery and well-waxed oaken floor.
"I suppose," observed M. Plantat, "that the assassins brought this hatchet up here and assailed this cupboard, for the sole purpose of putting us off our scent, and to complicate the mystery. This weapon, you see, was by no means necessary for breaking open the cupboard, which I could smash with my fist. They gave one blow—only one—and quietly put the hatchet down."
The detective got up and brushed himself.
"I think you are mistaken," said he. "This hatchet wasn't put on the floor gently; it was thrown with a violence betraying either great terror or great anger. Look here; do you see these three marks, near each other, on the floor? When the assassin threw the hatchet, it first fell on the edge—hence this sharp cut; then it fell over on one side; and the flat, or hammer end left this mark here, under my finger. Therefore, it was thrown with such violence that it turned over itself and that its edge a second time cut in the floor, where you see it now."
"True," answered M. Plantat. The detective's conjectures doubtless refuted his own theory, for he added, with a perplexed air:
"I don't understand anything about it."
M. Lecoq went on:
"Were the windows open this morning as they are now?"
"Yes."
"Ah! The wretches heard some noise or other in the garden, and they went and looked out. What did they see? I can't tell. But I do know that what they saw terrified them, that they threw down the hatchet furiously, and made off. Look at the position of these cuts—they are slanting of course—and you will see that the hatchet was thrown by a man who was standing, not by the cupboard, but close by the open window."
Plantat in his turn knelt down, and looked long and carefully. The detective was right. He got up confused, and after meditating a moment, said:
"This perplexes me a little; however—"
He stopped, motionless, in a revery, with one of his hands on his forehead.
"All might yet be explained," he muttered, mentally searching for a solution of the mystery, "and in that case the time indicated by the clock would be true."
M. Lecoq did not think of questioning his companion. He knew that he would not answer, for pride's sake.
"This matter of the hatchet puzzles me, too," said he. "I thought that these assassins had worked leisurely; but that can't be so. I see they were surprised and interrupted."
Plantat was all ears.
"True," pursued M. Lecoq, slowly, "we ought to divide these indications into two classes. There are the traces left on purpose to mislead us—the jumbled-up bed, for instance; then there are the real traces, undesigned, as are these hatchet cuts. But here I hesitate. Is the trace of the hatchet true or false, good or bad? I thought myself sure of the character of these assassins: but now—" He paused; the wrinkles on his face, the contraction of his mouth, betrayed his mental effort.
"But now?" asked M. Plantat.
M. Lecoq, at this question, seemed like a man just roused from sleep.
"I beg your pardon," said he. "I forgot myself. I've a bad habit of reflecting aloud. That's why I almost always insist on working alone. My uncertainty, hesitation, the vacillation of my suspicions, lose me the credit of being an astute detective—of being an agent for whom there's no such thing as a mystery."
Worthy M. Plantat gave the detective an indulgent smile.
"I don't usually open my mouth," pursued M. Lecoq, "until my mind is satisfied; then I speak in a peremptory tone, and say—this is thus, or this is so. But to-day I am acting without too much restraint, in the company of a man who knows that a problem such as this seems to me to be, is not solved at the first attempt. So I permit my gropings to be seen without shame. You cannot always reach the truth at a bound, but by a series of diverse calculations, by deductions and inductions. Well, just now my logic is at fault."
"How so?"
"Oh, it's very simple. I thought I understood the rascals, and knew them by heart; and yet I have only recognized imaginary adversaries. Are they fools, or are they mighty sly? That's what I ask myself. The tricks played with the bed and clock had, I supposed, given me the measure and extent of their intelligence and invention. Making deductions from the known to the unknown, I arrived, by a series of very simple consequences, at the point of foreseeing all that they could have imagined, to throw us off the scent. My point of departure admitted, I had only, in order to reach the truth, to take the contrary of that which appearances indicated. I said to myself:
"A hatchet has been found in the second story; therefore the assassins carried it there, and designedly forgot it.
"They left five glasses on the dining-room table; therefore they were more or less than five, but they were not five.
"There were the remains of a supper on the table; therefore they neither drank nor ate.
"The countess's body was on the river-bank; therefore it was placed there deliberately. A piece of cloth was found in the victim's hand; therefore it was put there by the murderers themselves.
"Madame de Tremorel's body is disfigured by many dagger-strokes, and horribly mutilated; therefore she was killed by a single blow—"
"Bravo, yes, bravo," cried M. Plantat, visibly charmed.
"Eh! no, not bravo yet," returned M. Lecoq. "For here my thread is broken; I have reached a gap. If my deductions were sound, this hatchet would have been very carefully placed on the floor."
"Once more, bravo," added the other, "for this does not at all affect our general theory. It is clear, nay certain, that the assassins intended to act as you say. An unlooked-for event interrupted them."
"Perhaps; perhaps that's true. But I see something else—"
"What?"
"Nothing—at least, for the moment. Before all, I must see the dining-room and the garden."
They descended at once, and Plantat pointed out the glasses and bottles, which he had put one side. The detective took the glasses, one after another, held them level with his eye, toward the light, and scrutinized the moist places left on them.
"No one has drank from these glasses," said he, firmly.
"What, from neither one of them?"
The detective fixed a penetrating look upon his companion, and in a measured tone, said:
"From neither one."
M. Plantat only answered by a movement of the lips, as if to say, "You are going too far."
The other smiled, opened the door, and called:
"Francois!"
The valet hastened to obey the call. His face was suffused with tears; he actually bewailed the loss of his master.
"Hear what I've got to say, my lad," said M. Lecoq, with true detective-like familiarity. "And be sure and answer me exactly, frankly, and briefly."
"I will, sir."
"Was it customary here at the chateau, to bring up the wine before it was wanted?"
"No, sir; before each meal, I myself went down to the cellar for it."
"Then no full bottles were ever kept in the dining-room?"
"Never."
"But some of the wine might sometimes remain in draught?"
"No; the count permitted me to carry the dessert wine to the servants' table."
"And where were the empty bottles put?"
"I put them in this corner cupboard, and when they amounted to a certain number, I carried them down cellar."
"When did you last do so?"
"Oh"—Francois reflected—"at least five or six days ago."
"Good. Now, what liqueurs did the count drink?"
"The count scarcely ever drank liqueurs. If, by chance, he took a notion to have a small glass of eau-de-vie, he got it from the liqueur closet, there, over the stove."
"There were no decanters of rum or cognac in any of the cupboards?"
"No."
"Thanks; you may retire."
As Francois was going out, M. Lecoq called him back.
"While we are about it, look in the bottom of the closet, and see if you find the right number of empty bottles."
The valet obeyed, and looked into the closet.
"There isn't one there."
"Just so," returned M. Lecoq. "This time, show us your heels for good."
As soon as Francois had shut the door, M. Lecoq turned to Plantat and asked:
"What do you think now?"
"You were perfectly right."
The detective then smelt successively each glass and bottle.
"Good again! Another proof in aid of my guess."
"What more?"
"It was not wine that was at the bottom of these glasses. Among all the empty bottles put away in the bottom of that closet, there was one—here it is—which contained vinegar; and it was from this bottle that they turned what they thought to be wine into the glasses."
Seizing a glass, he put it to M. Plantat's nose, adding:
"See for yourself."
There was no disputing it; the vinegar was good, its odor of the strongest; the villains, in their haste, had left behind them an incontestable proof of their intention to mislead the officers of justice. While they were capable of shrewd inventions, they did not have the art to perform them well. All their oversights could, however, be accounted for by their sudden haste, caused by the occurrence of an unlooked-for incident. "The floors of a house where a crime has just been committed," said a famous detective, "burn the feet." M. Lecoq seemed exasperated, like a true artist, before the gross, pretentious, and ridiculous work of some green and bungling scholar.
"These are a parcel of vulgar ruffians, truly! able ones, certainly; but they don't know their trade yet, the wretches."
M. Lecoq, indignant, ate three or four lozenges at a mouthful.
"Come, now," said Plantat, in a paternally severe tone. "Don't let's get angry. The people have failed in address, no doubt; but reflect that they could not, in their calculations, take account of the craft of a man like you."