Chương Chương 10 · Chapter X

M. Plantat's house was small and narrow; a philosopher's house. Three

large rooms on the ground-floor, four chambers in the first story, an

attic under the roof for the servants, composed all its apartments.

Everywhere the carelessness of a man who has withdrawn from the world

into himself, for years, ceasing to have the least interest in the

objects which surround him, was apparent. The furniture was shabby,

though it had been elegant; the mouldings had come off, the clocks had

ceased to keep time, the chairs showed the stuffing of their cushions,

the curtains, in places, were faded by the sun. The library alone

betrayed a daily care and attention.

Long rows of books in calf and gilt were ranged on the carved oaken

shelves, a movable table near the fireplace contained M. Plantat's

favorite books, the discreet friends of his solitude. A spacious

conservatory, fitted with every accessory and convenience, was his only

luxury. In it flourished one hundred and thirty-seven varieties of

briars.

Two servants, the widow Petit, cook and house-keeper, and Louis,

gardener, inhabited the house. If they did not make it a noisy one, it

was because Plantat, who talked little, detested also to hear others

talk. Silence was there a despotic law. It was very hard for Mme. Petit,

especially at first. She was very talkative, so talkative that when she

found no one to chat with, she went to confession; to confess was to

chat. She came near leaving the place twenty times; but the thought of

an assured pension restrained her. Gradually she became accustomed to

govern her tongue, and to this cloistral silence. But she revenged

herself outside for the privations of the household, and regained among

the neighbors the time lost at home.

She was very much wrought up on the day of the murder. At eleven

o'clock, after going out for news, she had prepared monsieur's dinner;

but he did not appear. She waited one, two hours, five hours, keeping

her water boiling for the eggs; no monsieur. She wanted to send Louis to

look for him, but Louis being a poor talker and not curious, asked her

to go herself. The house was besieged by the female neighbors, who,

thinking that Mme. Petit ought to be well posted, came for news; no news

to give.

Toward five o'clock, giving up all thought of breakfast, she began to

prepare for dinner. But when the village bell struck eight o'clock,

monsieur had not made his appearance. At nine, the good woman was beside

herself, and began to scold Louis, who had just come in from watering

the garden, and, seated at the kitchen table, was soberly eating a plate

of soup.

The bell rung.

"Ah, there's monsieur, at last."

No, it was not monsieur, but a little boy, whom M. Plantat had sent from

Valfeuillu to apprise Mme. Petit that he would soon return, bringing

with him two guests who would dine and sleep at the house. The worthy

woman nearly fainted. It was the first time that M. Plantat had invited

anyone to dinner for five years. There was some mystery at the bottom of

it--so thought Mme. Petit, and her anger doubled with her curiosity.

"To order a dinner at this hour," she grumbled. "Has he got

common-sense, then?" But reflecting that time pressed, she continued:

"Go along, Louis; this is not the moment for two feet to stay in one

shoe. Hurry up, and wring three chickens' heads; see if there ain't some

ripe grapes in the conservatory; bring on some preserves; fetch some

wine from the cellar!" The dinner was well advanced when the bell rung

again. This time Baptiste appeared, in exceeding bad humor, bearing M.

Lecoq's night-gown.

"See here," said he to the cook, "what the person, who is with your

master, gave me to bring here."

"What person?"

"How do I know? He's a spy sent down from Paris about this Valfeuillu

affair; not much good, probably--ill-bred--a brute--and a wretch."

"But he's not alone with monsieur?"

"No; Doctor Gendron is with them."

Mme. Petit burned to get some news out of Baptiste; but Baptiste also

burned to get back and know what was taking place at his master's--so

off he went, without having left any news behind.

An hour or more passed, and Mme. Petit had just angrily declared to

Louis that she was going to throw the dinner out the window, when her

master at last appeared, followed by his guests. They had not exchanged

a word after they left the mayor's. Aside from the fatigues of the

evening, they wished to reflect, and to resume their self-command. Mme.

Petit found it useless to question their faces--they told her nothing.

But she did not agree with Baptiste about M. Lecoq: she thought him

good-humored, and rather silly. Though the party was less silent at the

dinner-table, all avoided, as if by tacit consent, any allusion to the

events of the day. No one would ever have thought that they had just

been witnesses of, almost actors in, the Valfeuillu drama, they were so

calm, and talked so glibly of indifferent things. From time to time,

indeed, a question remained unanswered, or a reply came tardily; but

nothing of the sensations and thoughts, which were concealed beneath the

uttered commonplaces, appeared on the surface.

Louis passed to and fro behind the diners, his white cloth on his arm,

carving and passing the wine. Mme. Petit brought in the dishes, and came

in thrice as often as was necessary, her ears wide open, leaving the

door ajar as often as she dared. Poor woman! she had prepared an

excellent dinner, and nobody paid any attention to it.

M. Lecoq was fond of tit-bits; yet, when Louis placed on the table a

dish of superb grapes--quite out of season--his mouth did not so much as

expand into a smile. Dr. Gendron would have been puzzled to say what he

had eaten. The dinner was nearly over, when M. Plantat began to be

annoyed by the constraint which the presence of the servants put upon

the party. He called to the cook:

"You will give us our coffee in the library, and may then retire, as

well as Louis."

"But these gentlemen do not know their rooms," insisted Mme. Petit,

whose eavesdropping projects were checked by this order. "They will,

perhaps, need something."

"I will show them their rooms," said M. Plantat, dryly. "And if they

need anything, I shall be here."

They went into the library. M. Plantat brought out a box of cigars and

passed them round:

"It will be healthful to smoke a little before retiring."

M. Lecoq lit an aromatic weed, and remarked:

"You two may go to bed if you like; I am condemned, I see, to a

sleepless night. But before I go to writing, I wish to ask you a few

things, Monsieur Plantat."

M. Plantat bowed in token of assent.

"We must resume our conversation," continued the detective, "and compare

our inferences. All our lights are not too much to throw a little

daylight upon this affair, which is one of the darkest I have ever met

with. The situation is dangerous, and time presses. On our acuteness

depends the fate of several innocent persons, upon whom rest very

serious charges. We have a theory: but Monsieur Domini also has one, and

his, let us confess, is based upon material facts, while ours rests upon

very disputable sensations and logic."

"We have more than sensations," responded M. Plantat.

"I agree with you," said the doctor, "but we must prove it."

"And I will prove it, parbleu," cried M. Lecoq, eagerly. "The affair is

complicated and difficult--so much the better. Eh! If it were simple, I

would go back to Paris instanter, and to-morrow I would send you one of

my men. I leave easy riddles to infants. What I want is the inexplicable

enigmas, so as to unravel it; a struggle, to show my strength;

obstacles, to conquer them."

M. Plantat and the doctor looked steadily at the speaker. He was as if

transfigured. It was the same yellow-haired and whiskered man, in a long

overcoat: yet the voice, the physiognomy, the very features, had

changed. His eyes shone with the fire of his enthusiasm, his voice was

metallic and vibrating, his imperious gesture affirmed the audacity and

energy of his resolution.

"If you think, my friends," pursued he, "that they don't manufacture

detectives like me at so much a year, you are right. When I was twenty

years old, I took service with an astronomer, as his calculator, after a

long course of study. He gave me my breakfasts and seventy francs a

month; by means of which I dressed well, and covered I know not how many

square feet with figures daily."

M. Lecoq puffed vigorously at his cigar a moment, casting a curious

glance at M. Plantat. Then he resumed:

"Well, you may imagine that I wasn't the happiest of men. I forgot to

mention that I had two little vices: I loved the women, and I loved

play. All are not perfect. My salary seemed too small, and while I added

up my columns of figures, I was looking about for a way to make a rapid

fortune. There is, indeed, but one means; to appropriate somebody else's

money, shrewdly enough not to be found out. I thought about it day and

night. My mind was fertile in expedients, and I formed a hundred

projects, each more practicable than the others. I should frighten you

if I were to tell you half of what I imagined in those days. If many

thieves of my calibre existed, you'd have to blot the word 'property'

out of the dictionary. Precautions, as well as safes, would be useless.

Happily for men of property, criminals are idiots."

"What is he coming to?" thought the doctor.

"One day, I became afraid of my own thoughts. I had just been inventing

a little arrangement by which a man could rob any banker whatever of

200,000 francs without any more danger or difficulty than I raise this

cup. So I said to myself, 'Well, my boy, if this goes on a little

longer, a moment will come when, from the idea, you will naturally

proceed to the practice.' Having, however, been born an honest lad--a

mere chance--and being determined to use the talents which nature had

given me, eight days afterward I bid my astronomer good-morning, and

went to the prefecture. My fear of being a burglar drove me into the

police."

"And you are satisfied with the exchange?" asked Dr. Gendron.

"I' faith, Doctor, my first regret is yet to come. I am happy, because I

am free to exercise my peculiar faculties with usefulness to my race.

Existence has an enormous attraction for me, because I have still a

passion which overrides all others--curiosity."

The detective smiled, and continued:

"There are people who have a mania for the theatre. It is like my own

mania. Only, I can't understand how people can take pleasure in the

wretched display of fictions, which are to real life what a tallow dip

is to the sun. It seems to me monstrous that people can be interested in

sentiments which, though well represented, are fictitious. What! can you

laugh at the witticisms of a comedian, whom you know to be the

struggling father of a family? Can you pity the sad fate of the poor

actress who poisons herself, when you know that on going out you will

meet her on the boulevards? It's pitiable!"

"Let's shut up the theatres," suggested Dr. Gendron.

"I am more difficult to please than the public," returned M. Lecoq. "I

must have veritable comedies, or real dramas. My theatre is--society. My

actors laugh honestly, or weep with genuine tears. A crime is

committed--that is the prologue; I reach the scene, the first act

begins. I seize at a glance the minutest shades of the scenery. Then I

try to penetrate the motives, I group the characters, I link the

episodes to the central fact, I bind in a bundle all the circumstances.

The action soon reaches the crisis, the thread of my inductions conducts

me to the guilty person; I divine him, arrest him, deliver him up. Then

comes the great scene; the accused struggles, tries tricks, splits

straws; but the judge, armed with the arms I have forged for him,

overwhelms the wretch; he does not confess, but he is confounded. And

how many secondary personages, accomplices, friends, enemies, witnesses

are grouped about the principal criminal! Some are terrible, frightful,

gloomy--others grotesque. And you know not what the ludicrous in the

horrible is. My last scene is the court of assize. The prosecutor

speaks, but it is I who furnished his ideas; his phrases are

embroideries set around the canvas of my report. The president submits

his questions to the jury; what emotion! The fate of my drama is being

decided. The jury, perhaps, answers, 'Not guilty;' very well, my piece

was bad, I am hissed. If 'Guilty,' on the contrary, the piece was good,

I am applauded, and victorious. The next day I can go and see my hero,

and slapping him on the shoulder, say to him, 'You have lost, old

fellow, I am too much for you!'"

Was M. Lecoq in earnest now, or was he playing a part? What was the

object of this autobiography? Without appearing to notice the surprise

of his companions, he lit a fresh cigar; then, whether designedly or

not, instead of replacing the lamp with which he lit it on the table, he

put it on one corner of the mantel. Thus M. Plantat's face was in full

view, while that of M. Lecoq remained in shadow.

"I ought to confess," he continued, "without false modesty, that I have

rarely been hissed. Like every man I have my Achilles heel. I have

conquered the demon of play, but I have not triumphed over my passion

for woman."

He sighed heavily, with the resigned gesture of a man who has chosen his

path. "It's this way. There is a woman, before whom I am but an idiot.

Yes, I the detective, the terror of thieves and murderers, who have

divulged the combinations of all the sharpers of all the nations, who

for ten years have swum amid vice and crime; who wash the dirty linen of

all the corruptions, who have measured the depths of human infamy; I who

know all, who have seen and heard all; I, Lecoq, am before her, more

simple and credulous than an infant. She deceives me--I see it--and she

proves that I have seen wrongly. She lies--I know it, I prove it to

her--and I believe her. It is because this is one of those passions," he

added, in a low, mournful tone, "that age, far from extinguishing, only

fans, and to which the consciousness of shame and powerlessness adds

fire. One loves, and the certainty that he cannot be loved in return is

one of those griefs which you must have felt to know its depth. In a

moment of reason, one sees and judges himself; he says, no, it's

impossible, she is almost a child, I almost an old man. He says

this--but always, in the heart, more potent than reason, than will, than

experience, a ray of hope remains, and he says to himself, 'who

knows--perhaps!' He awaits, what--a miracle? There are none, nowadays.

No matter, he hopes on."

M. Lecoq stopped, as if his emotion prevented his going on. M. Plantat

had continued to smoke mechanically, puffing the smoke out at regular

intervals; but his face seemed troubled, his glance was unsteady, his

hands trembled. He got up, took the lamp from the mantel and replaced it

on the table, and sat down again. The significance of this scene at last

struck Dr. Gendron.

In short, M. Lecoq, without departing widely from the truth, had just

attempted one of the most daring experiments of his repertoire, and he

judged it useless to go further. He knew now what he wished to know.

After a moment's silence, he shuddered as though awaking from a dream,

and pulling out his watch, said:

"Par le Dieu! How I chat on, while time flies!"

"And Guespin is in prison," remarked the doctor.

"We will have him out," answered the detective, "if, indeed, he is

innocent; for this time I have mastered the mystery, my romance, if you

wish, and without any gap. There is, however, one fact of the utmost

importance, that I by myself cannot explain."

"What?" asked M. Plantat.

"Is it possible that Monsieur de Tremorel had a very great interest in

finding something--a deed, a letter, a paper of some sort--something of

a small size, secreted in his own house?"

"Yes--that is possible," returned the justice of the peace.

"But I must know for certain."

M. Plantat reflected a moment.

"Well then," he went on, "I am sure, perfectly sure, that if Madame de

Tremorel had died suddenly, the count would have ransacked the house to

find a certain paper, which he knew to be in his wife's possession, and

which I myself have had in my hands."

"Then," said M. Lecoq, "there's the drama complete. On reaching

Valfeuillu, I, like you, was struck with the frightful disorder of the

rooms. Like you, I thought at first that this disorder was the result of

design. I was wrong; a more careful scrutiny has convinced me of it. The

assassin, it is true, threw everything into disorder, broke the

furniture, hacked the chairs in order to make us think that some furious

villains had been there. But amid these acts of premeditated violence I

have followed up the involuntary traces of an exact, minute, and I may

say patient search. Everything seemed turned topsy-turvy by chance;

articles were broken open with the hatchet, which might have been opened

with the hands; drawers had been forced which were not shut, and the

keys of which were in the locks. Was this folly? No. For really no

corner or crevice where a letter might be hid has been neglected. The

table and bureau-drawers had been thrown here and there, but the narrow

spaces between the drawers had been examined--I saw proofs of it, for I

found the imprints of fingers on the dust which lay in these spaces. The

books had been thrown pell-mell upon the floor, but every one of them

had been handled, and some of them with such violence that the bindings

were torn off. We found the mantel-shelves in their places, but every

one had been lifted up. The chairs were not hacked with a sword, for the

mere purpose of ripping the cloth--the seats were thus examined. My

conviction of the certainty that there had been a most desperate search,

at first roused my suspicions. I said to myself, 'The villains have been

looking for the money which was concealed; therefore they did not belong

to the household.'"

"But," observed the doctor, "they might belong to the house, and yet not

know the money was hidden; for Guespin--"

"Permit me," interrupted M. Lecoq, "I will explain myself. On the other

hand, I found indications that the assassin must have been closely

connected with Madame de Tremorel--her lover, or her husband. These were

the ideas that then struck me."

"And now?"

"Now," responded the detective, "with the certainty that something

besides booty might have been the object of the search, I am not far

from thinking that the guilty man is he whose body is being searched

for--the Count Hector de Tremorel."

M. Plantat and Dr. Gendron had divined the name; but neither had as yet

dared to utter his suspicions. They awaited this name of Tremorel; and

yet, pronounced as it was in the middle of the night, in this great

sombre room, by this at least strange personage, it made them shudder

with an indescribable fright.

"Observe," resumed M. Lecoq, "what I say; I believe it to be so. In my

eyes, the count's guilt is only as yet extremely probable. Let us see if

we three can reach the certainty of it. You see, gentlemen, the inquest

of a crime is nothing more nor less than the solution of a problem.

Given the crime, proved, patent, you commence by seeking out all the

circumstances, whether serious or superficial; the details and the

particulars. When these have been carefully gathered, you classify them,

and put them in their order and date. You thus know the victim, the

crime, and the circumstances; it remains to find the third term of the

problem, that is, x, the unknown quantity--the guilty party. The task is

a difficult one, but not so difficult as is imagined. The object is to

find a man whose guilt explains all the circumstances, all the details

found--all, understand me. Find such a man, and it is probable--and in

nine cases out of ten, the probability becomes a reality--that you hold

the perpetrator of the crime."

So clear had been M. Lecoq's exposition, so logical his argument, that

his hearers could not repress an admiring exclamation:

"Very good! Very good!"

"Let us then examine together if the assumed guilt of the Count de

Tremorel explains all the circumstances of the crime at Valfeuillu."

He was about to continue when Dr. Gendron, who sat near the window, rose

abruptly.

"There is someone in the garden," said he.

All approached the window. The weather was glorious, the night very

clear, and a large open space lay before the library window; they looked

out, but saw no one.

"You are mistaken, Doctor," said Plantat, resuming his arm-chair.

M. Lecoq continued:

"Now let us suppose that, under the influence of certain events that we

will examine presently, Monsieur de Tremorel had made up his mind to get

rid of his wife. The crime once resolved upon, it was clear that the

count must have reflected, and sought out the means of committing it

with impunity; he must have weighed the circumstances, and estimated the

perils of his act. Let us admit, also, that the events which led him to

this extremity were such that he feared to be disturbed, and that he

also feared that a search would be made for certain things, even should

his wife die a natural death."

"That is true," said M. Plantat, nodding his head.

"Monsieur de Tremorel, then, determined to kill his wife, brutally, with

a knife, with the idea of so arranging everything, as to make it

believed that he too had been assassinated; and he also decided to

endeavor to thrust suspicion on an innocent person, or at least, an

accomplice infinitely less guilty than he.

"He made up his mind in advance, in adopting this course, to disappear,

fly, conceal himself, change his personality; to suppress, in short,

Count Hector de Tremorel, and make for himself, under another name, a

new position and identity. These hypotheses, easily admitted, suffice to

explain the whole series of otherwise inconsistent circumstances. They

explain to us in the first place, how it was that on the very night of

the murder, there was a large fortune in ready money at Valfeuillu; and

this seems to me decisive. Why, when a man receives sums like this,

which he proposes to keep by him, he conceals the fact as carefully as

possible. Monsieur de Tremorel had not this common prudence. He shows

his bundles of bank-notes freely, handles them, parades them; the

servants see them, almost touch them. He wants everybody to know and

repeat that there is a large sum in the house, easy to take, carry off,

and conceal. And what time of all times, does he choose for this

display? Exactly the moment when he knows, and everyone in the

neighborhood knows, that he is going to pass the night at the chateau,

alone with Madame de Tremorel.

"For he is aware that all his servants are invited, on the evening of

July 8th to the wedding of the former cook. So well aware of it is he,

that he defrays the wedding expenses, and himself names the day. You

will perhaps say that it was by chance that this money was sent to

Valfeuillu on the very night of the crime. At the worst that might be

admitted. But believe me, there was no chance about it, and I will prove

it. We will go to-morrow to the count's banker, and will inquire whether

the count did not ask him, by letter or verbally, to send him these

funds precisely on July 8th. Well, if he says yes, if he shows us such a

letter, or if he declares that the money was called for in person, you

will confess, no doubt, that I have more than a probability in favor of

my theory."

Both his hearers bowed in token of assent.

"So far, then, there is no objection."

"Not the least," said M. Plantat.

"My conjectures have also the advantage of shedding light on Guespin's

position. Honestly, his appearance is against him, and justifies his

arrest. Was he an accomplice or entirely innocent? We certainly cannot

yet decide. But it is a fact that he has fallen into an admirably

well-laid trap. The count, in selecting him for his victim, took all

care that every doubt possible should weigh upon him. I would wager that

Monsieur de Tremorel, who knew this fellow's history, thought that his

antecedents would add probability to the suspicions against him, and

would weigh with a terrible weight in the scales of justice. Perhaps,

too, he said to himself that Guespin would be sure to prove his

innocence in the end, and he only wished to gain time to elude the first

search. It is impossible that we can be deceived. We know that the

countess died of the first blow, as if thunderstruck. She did not

struggle; therefore she could not have torn a piece of cloth off the

assassin's vest. If you admit Guespin's guilt, you admit that he was

idiot enough to put a piece of his vest in his victim's hand; you admit

that he was such a fool as to go and throw this torn and bloody vest

into the Seine, from a bridge, in a place where he might know search

would be made--and all this, without taking the common precaution of

attaching it to a stone to carry it to the bottom. That would be absurd.

"To me, then, this piece of cloth, this smeared vest, indicate at once

Guespin's innocence and the count's guilt."

"But," objected Dr. Gendron, "if Guespin is innocent, why don't he talk?

Why don't he prove an alibi? How was it he had his purse full of money?"

"Observe," resumed the detective, "that I don't say he is innocent; we

are still among the probabilities. Can't you suppose that the count,

perfidious enough to set a trap for his servant, was shrewd enough to

deprive him of every means of proving an alibi?"

"But you yourself deny the count's shrewdness."

"I beg your pardon; please hear me. The count's plan was excellent, and

shows a superior kind of perversity; the execution alone was defective.

This is because the plan was conceived and perfected in safety, while

when the crime had been committed, the murderer, distressed, frightened

at his danger, lost his coolness and only half executed his project. But

there are other suppositions. It might be asked whether, while Madame de

Tremorel was being murdered, Guespin might not have been committing some

other crime elsewhere."

This conjecture seemed so improbable to the doctor that he could not

avoid objecting to it. "Oh!" muttered he.

"Don't forget," replied Lecoq, "that the field of conjectures has no

bounds. Imagine whatever complication of events you may, I am ready to

maintain that such a complication has occurred or will present itself.

Lieuben, a German lunatic, bet that he would succeed in turning up a

pack of cards in the order stated in the written agreement. He turned

and turned ten hours per day for twenty years. He had repeated the

operation 4,246,028 times, when he succeeded."

M. Lecoq was about to proceed with another illustration, when M. Plantat

interrupted him by a gesture.

"I admit your hypotheses; I think they are more than probable--they are

true."

M. Lecoq, as he spoke, paced up and down between the window and the

book-shelves, stopping at emphatic words, like a general who dictates to

his aides the plan of the morrow's battle. To his auditors, he seemed a

new man, with serious features, an eye bright with intelligence, his

sentences clear and concise--the Lecoq, in short, which the magistrates

who have employed his talents, would recognize.

"Now," he resumed, "hear me. It is ten o'clock at night. No noise

without, the road deserted, the village lights extinguished, the chateau

servants away at Paris. The count and countess are alone at Valfeuillu.

"They have gone to their bedroom.

"The countess has seated herself at the table where tea has been served.

The count, as he talks with her, paces up and down the chamber.

"Madame de Tremorel has no ill presentiment; her husband, the past few

days, has been more amiable, more attentive than ever. She mistrusts

nothing, and so the count can approach her from behind, without her

thinking of turning her head.

"When she hears him coming up softly, she imagines that he is going to

surprise her with a kiss. He, meanwhile, armed with a long dagger,

stands beside his wife. He knows where to strike that the wound may be

mortal. He chooses the place at a glance; takes aim; strikes a terrible

blow--so terrible that the handle of the dagger imprints itself on both

sides of the wound. The countess falls without a sound, bruising her

forehead on the edge of the table, which is overturned. Is not the

position of the terrible wound below the left shoulder thus explained--a

wound almost vertical, its direction being from right to left?"

The doctor made a motion of assent.

"And who, besides a woman's lover or her husband is admitted to her

chamber, or can approach her when she is seated without her turning

round?"

"That's clear," muttered M. Plantat.

"The countess is now dead," pursued M. Lecoq. "The assassin's first

emotion is one of triumph. He is at last rid of her who was his wife,

whom he hated enough to murder her, and to change his happy, splendid,

envied existence for a frightful life, henceforth without country,

friend, or refuge, proscribed by all nations, tracked by all the police,

punishable by the laws of all the world! His second thought is of this

letter or paper, this object of small size which he knows to be in his

wife's keeping, which he has demanded a hundred times, which she would

not give up to him, and which he must have."

"Add," interrupted M. Plantat, "that this paper was one of the motives

of the crime."

"The count thinks he knows where it is. He imagines that he can put his

hand on it at once. He is mistaken. He looks into all the drawers and

bureaus used by his wife--and finds nothing. He searches every corner,

he lifts up the shelves, overturns everything in the chamber--nothing.

An idea strikes him. Is this letter under the mantel-shelf? By a turn of

the arm he lifts it--down the clock tumbles and stops. It is not yet

half-past ten."

"Yes," murmured the doctor, "the clock betrays that."

"The count finds nothing under the mantel-shelf except the dust, which

has retained traces of his fingers. Then he begins to be anxious. Where

can this paper be, for which he has risked his life? He grows angry. How

search the locked drawers? The keys are on the carpet--I found them

among the debris of the tea service--but he does not see them. He must

have some implement with which to break open everything. He goes

downstairs for a hatchet. The drunkenness of blood and vengeance is

dissipated on the staircase; his terrors begin. All the dark corners are

peopled, now, with those spectres which form the cortege of assassins;

he is frightened, and hurries on. He soon goes up again, armed with a

large hatchet--that found on the second story--and makes the pieces of

wood fly about him. He goes about like a maniac, rips up the furniture

at hazard; but he pursues a desperate search, the traces of which I have

followed, among the debris. Nothing, always nothing! Everything in the

room is topsy-turvy; he goes into his cabinet and continues the

destruction; the hatchet rises and falls without rest. He breaks his own

bureau, since he may find something concealed there of which he is

ignorant. This bureau belonged to the first husband--to Sauvresy. He

takes out all the books in the library, one by one, shakes them

furiously, and throws them about the floor. The infernal paper is

undiscoverable. His distress is now too great for him to pursue the

search with the least method. His wandering reason no longer guides him.

He staggers, without calculation, from one thing to another, fumbling a

dozen times in the same drawer, while he completely forgets others just

by him. Then he thinks that this paper may have been hid in the stuffing

of a chair. He seizes a sword, and to be certain, he slashes up the

drawing-room chairs and sofas and those in the other rooms."

M. Lecoq's voice, accent, gestures, gave a vivid character to his

recital. The hearer might imagine that he saw the crime committed, and

was present at the terrible scenes which he described. His companions

held their breath, unwilling by a movement to distract his attention.

"At this moment," pursued he, "the count's rage and terror were at their

height. He had said to himself, when he planned the murder, that he

would kill his wife, get possession of the letter, execute his plan

quickly, and fly. And now all his projects were baffled! How much time

was being lost, when each minute diminished the chances of escape! Then

the probability of a thousand dangers which had not occurred to him,

entered his mind. What if some friend should suddenly arrive, expecting

his hospitality, as had occurred twenty times? What if a passer-by on

the road should notice a light flying from room to room? Might not one

of the servants return? When he is in the drawing-room, he thinks he

hears someone ring at the gate; such is his terror, that he lets his

candle fall--for I have found the marks of it on the carpet. He hears

strange noises, such as never before assailed his ears; he thinks he

hears walking in the next room; the floor creaks. Is his wife really

dead; will she not suddenly rise up, run to the window, and scream for

help? Beset by these terrors, he returns to the bedroom, seizes his

dagger, and again strikes the poor countess. But his hand is so unsteady

that the wounds are light. You have observed, doctor, that all these

wounds take the same direction. They form right angles with the body,

proving that the victim was lying down when they were inflicted. Then,

in the excess of his frenzy, he strikes the body with his feet, and his

heels form the contusions discovered by the autopsy."

M. Lecoq paused to take breath. He not only narrated the drama, he acted

it, adding gesture to word; and each of his phrases made a scene,

explained a fact, and dissipated a doubt. Like all true artists who wrap

themselves up in the character they represent, the detective really felt

something of the sensations which he interpreted, and his expressive

face was terrible in its contortions.

"That," he resumed, "is the first act of the drama. An irresistible

prostration succeeds the count's furious passion. The various

circumstances which I am describing to you are to be noticed in nearly

all great crimes. The assassin is always seized, after the murder, with

a horrible and singular hatred against his victim, and he often

mutilates the body. Then comes the period of a prostration so great, of

torpor so irresistible, that murderers have been known literally to go

to sleep in the blood, that they have been surprised sleeping, and that

it was with great difficulty that they were awakened. The count, when he

has frightfully disfigured the poor lady, falls into an arm-chair;

indeed, the cloth of one of the chairs has retained some wrinkles, which

shows that someone had sat in it. What are then the count's thoughts? He

reflects on the long hours which have elapsed, upon the few hours which

remain to him. He reflects that he has found nothing; that he will

hardly have time, before day, to execute his plans for turning suspicion

from him, and assure his safety, by creating an impression that he, too,

has been murdered. And he must fly at once--fly, without that accursed

paper. He summons up his energies, rises, and do you know what he does?

He seizes a pair of scissors and cuts off his long, carefully cultivated

beard."

"Ah!" interrupted M. Plantat, "that's why you examined the portrait so

closely."

M. Lecoq was too intent on following the thread of his deductions to

note the interruption.

"This is one of those vulgar details," pursued he, "whose very

insignificance makes them terrible, when they are attended by certain

circumstances. Now imagine the Count de Tremorel, pale, covered with his

wife's blood, shaving himself before his glass; rubbing the soap over

his face, in that room all topsy-turvy, while three steps off lies the

still warm and palpitating body! It was an act of terrible courage,

believe me, to look at himself in the glass after a murder--one of which

few criminals are capable. The count's hands, however, trembled so

violently that he could scarcely hold his razor, and his face must have

been cut several times."

"What!" said Dr. Gendron, "do you imagine that the count spared the time

to shave?"

"I am positively sure of it, pos-i-tive-ly. A towel on which I have

found one of those marks which a razor leaves when it is wiped--and one

only--has put me on the track of this fact. I looked about, and found a

box of razors, one of which had recently been used, for it was still

moist; and I have carefully preserved both the towel and the box. And if

these proofs are not enough, I will send to Paris for two of my men, who

will find, somewhere in the house or the garden, both the count's beard

and the cloth with which he wiped his razor. As to the fact which

surprises you, Doctor, it seems to me very natural; more, it is the

necessary result of the plan he adopted. Monsieur de Tremorel has always

worn his full beard: he cuts it off, and his appearance is so entirely

altered, that if he met anyone in his flight, he would not be

recognized."

The doctor was apparently convinced, for he cried:

"It's clear--it's evident,"

"Once thus disguised, the count hastens to carry out the rest of his

plan, to arrange everything to throw the law off the scent, and to make

it appear that he, as well as his wife, has been murdered. He hunts up

Guespin's vest, tears it out at the pocket, and puts a piece of it in

the countess's hand. Then taking the body in his arms, crosswise, he

goes downstairs. The wounds bleed frightfully--hence the numerous stains

discovered all along his path. Reaching the foot of the staircase he is

obliged to put the countess down, in order to open the garden-door. This

explains the large stain in the vestibule. The count, having opened the

door, returns for the body and carries it in his arms as far as the edge

of the lawn; there he stops carrying it, and drags it by the shoulders,

walking backward, trying thus to create the impression that his own body

has been dragged across there and thrown into the Seine. But the wretch

forgot two things which betray him to us. He did not reflect that the

countess's skirts, in being dragged along the grass, pressing it down

and breaking it for a considerable space, spoiled his trick. Nor did he

think that her elegant and well-curved feet, encased in small

high-heeled boots, would mould themselves in the damp earth of the lawn,

and thus leave against him a proof clearer than the day."

M. Plantat rose abruptly.

"Ah," said he, "you said nothing of this before."

"Nor of several other things, either. But I was before ignorant of some

facts which I now know; and as I had reason to suppose that you were

better informed than I, I was not sorry to avenge myself for a caution

which seemed to me mysterious."

"Well, you are avenged," remarked the doctor, smiling.

"On the other side of the lawn," continued M. Lecoq, "the count again

took up the countess's body. But forgetting the effect of water when it

spirts, or--who knows?--disliking to soil himself, instead of throwing

her violently in the river, he put her down softly, with great

precaution. That's not all. He wished it to appear that there had been a

terrible struggle. What does he do? Stirs up the sand with the end of

his foot. And he thinks that will deceive the police!"

"Yes, yes," muttered Plantat, "exactly so--I saw it."

"Having got rid of the body, the count returns to the house. Time

presses, but he is still anxious to find the paper. He hastens to take

the last measures to assure his safety. He smears his slippers and

handkerchief with blood. He throws his handkerchief and one of his

slippers on the sward, and the other slipper into the river. His haste

explains the incomplete execution of his manoeuvres. He hurries--and

commits blunder after blunder. He does not reflect that his valet will

explain about the empty bottles which he puts on the table. He thinks he

is turning wine into the five glasses--it is vinegar, which will prove

that no one has drunk out of them. He ascends, puts forward the hands of

the clock, but forgets to put the hands and the striking bell in

harmony. He rumples up the bed, but he does it awkwardly--and it is

impossible to reconcile these three facts, the bed crumpled, the clock

showing twenty minutes past three, and the countess dressed as if it

were mid-day. He adds as much as he can to the disorder of the room. He

smears a sheet with blood; also the bed-curtains and furniture. Then he

marks the door with the imprint of a bloody hand, too distinct and

precise not to be done designedly. Is there so far a circumstance or

detail of the crime, which does not explain the count's guilt?"

"There's the hatchet," answered M. Plantat, "found on the second story,

the position of which seemed so strange to you."

"I am coming to that. There is one point in this mysterious affair,

which, thanks to you, is now clear. We know that Madame de Tremorel,

known to her husband, possessed and concealed a paper or a letter, which

he wanted, and which she obstinately refused to give up in spite of all

his entreaties. You have told us that the anxiety--perhaps the

necessity--to have this paper, was a powerful motive of the crime. We

will not be rash then in supposing that the importance of this paper was

immense--entirely beyond an ordinary affair. It must have been, somehow,

very damaging to one or the other. To whom? To both, or only the count?

Here I am reduced to conjectures. It is certain that it was a

menace--capable of being executed at any moment--suspended over the head

of him or them concerned by it. Madame de Tremorel surely regarded this

paper either as a security, or as a terrible arm which put her husband

at her mercy. It was surely to deliver himself from this perpetual

menace that the count killed his wife."

The logic was so clear, the last words brought the evidence out so

lucidly and forcibly, that his hearers were struck with admiration. They

both cried:

"Very good!"

"Now," resumed M. Lecoq, "from the various elements which have served to

form our conviction, we must conclude that the contents of this letter,

if it can be found, will clear away our last doubts, will explain the

crime, and will render the assassin's precautions wholly useless. The

count, therefore, must do everything in the world, must attempt the

impossible, not to leave this danger behind him. His preparations for

flight ended, Hector, in spite of his deadly peril, of the speeding

time, of the coming day, instead of flying recommences with more

desperation than ever his useless search. Again he goes through all the

furniture, the books, the papers--in vain. Then he determines to search

the second story, and armed with his hatchet, goes up to it. He has

already attacked a bureau, when he hears a cry in the garden. He runs to

the window--what does he see? Philippe and old Bertaud are standing on

the river-bank under the willows, near the corpse. Can you imagine his

immense terror? Now, there's not a second to lose--he has already

delayed too long. The danger is near, terrible. Daylight has come, the

crime is discovered, they are coming, he sees himself lost beyond hope.

He must fly, fly at once, at the peril of being seen, met, arrested. He

throws the hatchet down violently--it cuts the floor. He rushes down,

slips the bank-notes in his pocket, seizes Guespin's torn and smeared

vest, which he will throw into the river from the bridge, and saves

himself by the garden. Forgetting all caution, confused, beside himself,

covered with blood, he runs, clears the ditch, and it is he whom old

Bertaud sees making for the forest of Mauprevoir, where he intends to

arrange the disorder of his clothes. For the moment he is safe. But he

leaves behind him this letter, which is, believe me, a formidable

witness, which will enlighten justice and will betray his guilt and the

perfidy of his projects. For he has not found it, but we will find it;

it is necessary for us to have it to defeat Monsieur Domini, and to

change our doubts into certainty."