Le crime d'Orcival. English

by Emile Gaboriau

  X

  M. Plantat's house was small and narrow; a philosopher's house. Threelarge rooms on the ground-floor, four chambers in the first story, anattic under the roof for the servants, composed all its apartments.Everywhere the carelessness of a man who has withdrawn from the worldinto himself, for years, ceasing to have the least interest in theobjects which surround him, was apparent. The furniture was shabby,though it had been elegant; the mouldings had come off, the clocks hadceased to keep time, the chairs showed the stuffing of their cushions,the curtains, in places, were faded by the sun. The library alonebetrayed a daily care and attention.

  Long rows of books in calf and gilt were ranged on the carved oakenshelves, a movable table near the fireplace contained M. Plantat'sfavorite books, the discreet friends of his solitude. A spaciousconservatory, fitted with every accessory and convenience, was his onlyluxury. In it flourished one hundred and thirty-seven varieties ofbriars.

  Two servants, the widow Petit, cook and house-keeper, and Louis,gardener, inhabited the house. If they did not make it a noisy one, itwas because Plantat, who talked little, detested also to hear otherstalk. Silence was there a despotic law. It was very hard for Mme. Petit,especially at first. She was very talkative, so talkative that when shefound no one to chat with, she went to confession; to confess was tochat. She came near leaving the place twenty times; but the thought ofan assured pension restrained her. Gradually she became accustomed togovern her tongue, and to this cloistral silence. But she revengedherself outside for the privations of the household, and regained amongthe neighbors the time lost at home.

  She was very much wrought up on the day of the murder. At eleveno'clock, after going out for news, she had prepared monsieur's dinner;but he did not appear. She waited one, two hours, five hours, keepingher water boiling for the eggs; no monsieur. She wanted to send Louis tolook for him, but Louis being a poor talker and not curious, asked herto go herself. The house was besieged by the female neighbors, who,thinking that Mme. Petit ought to be well posted, came for news; no newsto give.

  Toward five o'clock, giving up all thought of breakfast, she began toprepare for dinner. But when the village bell struck eight o'clock,monsieur had not made his appearance. At nine, the good woman was besideherself, and began to scold Louis, who had just come in from wateringthe garden, and, seated at the kitchen table, was soberly eating a plateof soup.

  The bell rung.

  "Ah, there's monsieur, at last."

  No, it was not monsieur, but a little boy, whom M. Plantat had sent fromValfeuillu to apprise Mme. Petit that he would soon return, bringingwith him two guests who would dine and sleep at the house. The worthywoman nearly fainted. It was the first time that M. Plantat had invitedanyone to dinner for five years. There was some mystery at the bottom ofit--so thought Mme. Petit, and her anger doubled with her curiosity.

  "To order a dinner at this hour," she grumbled. "Has he gotcommon-sense, then?" But reflecting that time pressed, she continued:

  "Go along, Louis; this is not the moment for two feet to stay in oneshoe. Hurry up, and wring three chickens' heads; see if there ain't someripe grapes in the conservatory; bring on some preserves; fetch somewine from the cellar!" The dinner was well advanced when the bell rungagain. 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 yourmaster, gave me to bring here."

  "What person?"

  "How do I know? He's a spy sent down from Paris about this Valfeuilluaffair; 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 alsoburned to get back and know what was taking place at his master's--sooff he went, without having left any news behind.

  An hour or more passed, and Mme. Petit had just angrily declared toLouis that she was going to throw the dinner out the window, when hermaster at last appeared, followed by his guests. They had not exchangeda word after they left the mayor's. Aside from the fatigues of theevening, 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 himgood-humored, and rather silly. Though the party was less silent at thedinner-table, all avoided, as if by tacit consent, any allusion to theevents of the day. No one would ever have thought that they had justbeen witnesses of, almost actors in, the Valfeuillu drama, they were socalm, and talked so glibly of indifferent things. From time to time,indeed, a question remained unanswered, or a reply came tardily; butnothing of the sensations and thoughts, which were concealed beneath theuttered 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 camein thrice as often as was necessary, her ears wide open, leaving thedoor ajar as often as she dared. Poor woman! she had prepared anexcellent dinner, and nobody paid any attention to it.

  M. Lecoq was fond of tit-bits; yet, when Louis placed on the table adish of superb grapes--quite out of season--his mouth did not so much asexpand into a smile. Dr. Gendron would have been puzzled to say what hehad eaten. The dinner was nearly over, when M. Plantat began to beannoyed by the constraint which the presence of the servants put uponthe party. He called to the cook:

  "You will give us our coffee in the library, and may then retire, aswell 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 theyneed anything, I shall be here."

  They went into the library. M. Plantat brought out a box of cigars andpassed 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 asleepless night. But before I go to writing, I wish to ask you a fewthings, Monsieur Plantat."

  M. Plantat bowed in token of assent.

  "We must resume our conversation," continued the detective, "and compareour inferences. All our lights are not too much to throw a littledaylight upon this affair, which is one of the darkest I have ever metwith. The situation is dangerous, and time presses. On our acutenessdepends the fate of several innocent persons, upon whom rest veryserious charges. We have a theory: but Monsieur Domini also has one, andhis, let us confess, is based upon material facts, while ours rests uponvery 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 iscomplicated and difficult--so much the better. Eh! If it were simple, Iwould go back to Paris instanter, and to-morrow I would send you one ofmy men. I leave easy riddles to infants. What I want is the inexplicableenigmas, 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 iftransfigured. It was the same yellow-haired and whiskered man, in a longovercoat: yet the voice, the physiognomy, the very features, hadchanged. His eyes shone with the fire of his enthusiasm, his voice wasmetallic and vibrating, his imperious gesture affirmed the audacity andenergy of his resolution.

  "If you think, my friends," pursued he, "that they don't manufacturedetectives like me at so much a year, you are right. When I was twentyyears old, I took service with an astronomer, as his calculator, after along course of study. He gave me my breakfasts and seventy francs amonth; by means of which I dressed well, and covered I know not how manysquare feet with figures daily."

  M. Lecoq puffed vigorously at his cigar a moment, casting a cu
riousglance at M. Plantat. Then he resumed:

  "Well, you may imagine that I wasn't the happiest of men. I forgot tomention that I had two little vices: I loved the women, and I lovedplay. All are not perfect. My salary seemed too small, and while I addedup my columns of figures, I was looking about for a way to make a rapidfortune. There is, indeed, but one means; to appropriate somebody else'smoney, shrewdly enough not to be found out. I thought about it day andnight. My mind was fertile in expedients, and I formed a hundredprojects, each more practicable than the others. I should frighten youif I were to tell you half of what I imagined in those days. If manythieves 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 inventinga little arrangement by which a man could rob any banker whatever of200,000 francs without any more danger or difficulty than I raise thiscup. So I said to myself, 'Well, my boy, if this goes on a littlelonger, a moment will come when, from the idea, you will naturallyproceed to the practice.' Having, however, been born an honest lad--amere chance--and being determined to use the talents which nature hadgiven me, eight days afterward I bid my astronomer good-morning, andwent to the prefecture. My fear of being a burglar drove me into thepolice."

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

  "I' faith, Doctor, my first regret is yet to come. I am happy, because Iam free to exercise my peculiar faculties with usefulness to my race.Existence has an enormous attraction for me, because I have still apassion which overrides all others--curiosity."

  The detective smiled, and continued:

  "There are people who have a mania for the theatre. It is like my ownmania. Only, I can't understand how people can take pleasure in thewretched display of fictions, which are to real life what a tallow dipis to the sun. It seems to me monstrous that people can be interested insentiments which, though well represented, are fictitious. What! can youlaugh at the witticisms of a comedian, whom you know to be thestruggling father of a family? Can you pity the sad fate of the pooractress who poisons herself, when you know that on going out you willmeet 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. "Imust have veritable comedies, or real dramas. My theatre is--society. Myactors laugh honestly, or weep with genuine tears. A crime iscommitted--that is the prologue; I reach the scene, the first actbegins. I seize at a glance the minutest shades of the scenery. Then Itry to penetrate the motives, I group the characters, I link theepisodes to the central fact, I bind in a bundle all the circumstances.The action soon reaches the crisis, the thread of my inductions conductsme to the guilty person; I divine him, arrest him, deliver him up. Thencomes the great scene; the accused struggles, tries tricks, splitsstraws; but the judge, armed with the arms I have forged for him,overwhelms the wretch; he does not confess, but he is confounded. Andhow many secondary personages, accomplices, friends, enemies, witnessesare grouped about the principal criminal! Some are terrible, frightful,gloomy--others grotesque. And you know not what the ludicrous in thehorrible is. My last scene is the court of assize. The prosecutorspeaks, but it is I who furnished his ideas; his phrases areembroideries set around the canvas of my report. The president submitshis questions to the jury; what emotion! The fate of my drama is beingdecided. The jury, perhaps, answers, 'Not guilty;' very well, my piecewas 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, oldfellow, I am too much for you!'"

  Was M. Lecoq in earnest now, or was he playing a part? What was theobject of this autobiography? Without appearing to notice the surpriseof his companions, he lit a fresh cigar; then, whether designedly ornot, instead of replacing the lamp with which he lit it on the table, heput it on one corner of the mantel. Thus M. Plantat's face was in fullview, while that of M. Lecoq remained in shadow.

  "I ought to confess," he continued, "without false modesty, that I haverarely been hissed. Like every man I have my Achilles heel. I haveconquered the demon of play, but I have not triumphed over my passionfor woman."

  He sighed heavily, with the resigned gesture of a man who has chosen hispath. "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 havedivulged the combinations of all the sharpers of all the nations, whofor ten years have swum amid vice and crime; who wash the dirty linen ofall the corruptions, who have measured the depths of human infamy; I whoknow all, who have seen and heard all; I, Lecoq, am before her, moresimple and credulous than an infant. She deceives me--I see it--and sheproves that I have seen wrongly. She lies--I know it, I prove it toher--and I believe her. It is because this is one of those passions," headded, in a low, mournful tone, "that age, far from extinguishing, onlyfans, and to which the consciousness of shame and powerlessness addsfire. One loves, and the certainty that he cannot be loved in return isone of those griefs which you must have felt to know its depth. In amoment of reason, one sees and judges himself; he says, no, it'simpossible, she is almost a child, I almost an old man. He saysthis--but always, in the heart, more potent than reason, than will, thanexperience, a ray of hope remains, and he says to himself, 'whoknows--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. Plantathad continued to smoke mechanically, puffing the smoke out at regularintervals; but his face seemed troubled, his glance was unsteady, hishands trembled. He got up, took the lamp from the mantel and replaced iton the table, and sat down again. The significance of this scene at laststruck Dr. Gendron.

  In short, M. Lecoq, without departing widely from the truth, had justattempted one of the most daring experiments of his repertoire, and hejudged 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 isinnocent; for this time I have mastered the mystery, my romance, if youwish, and without any gap. There is, however, one fact of the utmostimportance, that I by myself cannot explain."

  "What?" asked M. Plantat.

  "Is it possible that Monsieur de Tremorel had a very great interest infinding something--a deed, a letter, a paper of some sort--something ofa 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 deTremorel had died suddenly, the count would have ransacked the house tofind a certain paper, which he knew to be in his wife's possession, andwhich I myself have had in my hands."

  "Then," said M. Lecoq, "there's the drama complete. On reachingValfeuillu, I, like you, was struck with the frightful disorder of therooms. Like you, I thought at first that this disorder was the result ofdesign. I was wrong; a more careful scrutiny has convinced me of it. Theassassin, it is true, threw everything into disorder, broke thefurniture, hacked the chairs in order to make us think that some furiousvillains had been there. But amid these acts of premeditated violence Ihave followed up the involuntary traces of an exact, minute, and I maysay patient search. Everything seemed turned topsy-turvy by chance;articles were broken open with the hatchet, which might have been openedwith the hands; drawers had been forced which were not shut, and thekeys of which were in the locks. Was this folly? No. For really nocorner or crevice where a lette
r might be hid has been neglected. Thetable and bureau-drawers had been thrown here and there, but the narrowspaces between the drawers had been examined--I saw proofs of it, for Ifound the imprints of fingers on the dust which lay in these spaces. Thebooks had been thrown pell-mell upon the floor, but every one of themhad been handled, and some of them with such violence that the bindingswere torn off. We found the mantel-shelves in their places, but everyone had been lifted up. The chairs were not hacked with a sword, for themere purpose of ripping the cloth--the seats were thus examined. Myconviction of the certainty that there had been a most desperate search,at first roused my suspicions. I said to myself, 'The villains have beenlooking for the money which was concealed; therefore they did not belongto the household.'"

  "But," observed the doctor, "they might belong to the house, and yet notknow the money was hidden; for Guespin--"

  "Permit me," interrupted M. Lecoq, "I will explain myself. On the otherhand, I found indications that the assassin must have been closelyconnected with Madame de Tremorel--her lover, or her husband. These werethe ideas that then struck me."

  "And now?"

  "Now," responded the detective, "with the certainty that somethingbesides booty might have been the object of the search, I am not farfrom thinking that the guilty man is he whose body is being searchedfor--the Count Hector de Tremorel."

  M. Plantat and Dr. Gendron had divined the name; but neither had as yetdared to utter his suspicions. They awaited this name of Tremorel; andyet, pronounced as it was in the middle of the night, in this greatsombre room, by this at least strange personage, it made them shudderwith an indescribable fright.

  "Observe," resumed M. Lecoq, "what I say; I believe it to be so. In myeyes, the count's guilt is only as yet extremely probable. Let us see ifwe three can reach the certainty of it. You see, gentlemen, the inquestof a crime is nothing more nor less than the solution of a problem.Given the crime, proved, patent, you commence by seeking out all thecircumstances, whether serious or superficial; the details and theparticulars. When these have been carefully gathered, you classify them,and put them in their order and date. You thus know the victim, thecrime, and the circumstances; it remains to find the third term of theproblem, that is, x, the unknown quantity--the guilty party. The task isa difficult one, but not so difficult as is imagined. The object is tofind a man whose guilt explains all the circumstances, all the detailsfound--all, understand me. Find such a man, and it is probable--and innine cases out of ten, the probability becomes a reality--that you holdthe perpetrator of the crime."

  So clear had been M. Lecoq's exposition, so logical his argument, thathis hearers could not repress an admiring exclamation:

  "Very good! Very good!"

  "Let us then examine together if the assumed guilt of the Count deTremorel explains all the circumstances of the crime at Valfeuillu."

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

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

  All approached the window. The weather was glorious, the night veryclear, and a large open space lay before the library window; they lookedout, 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 wewill examine presently, Monsieur de Tremorel had made up his mind to getrid of his wife. The crime once resolved upon, it was clear that thecount must have reflected, and sought out the means of committing itwith impunity; he must have weighed the circumstances, and estimated theperils of his act. Let us admit, also, that the events which led him tothis extremity were such that he feared to be disturbed, and that healso feared that a search would be made for certain things, even shouldhis wife die a natural death."

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

  "Monsieur de Tremorel, then, determined to kill his wife, brutally, witha knife, with the idea of so arranging everything, as to make itbelieved that he too had been assassinated; and he also decided toendeavor to thrust suspicion on an innocent person, or at least, anaccomplice 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, anew position and identity. These hypotheses, easily admitted, suffice toexplain the whole series of otherwise inconsistent circumstances. Theyexplain to us in the first place, how it was that on the very night ofthe murder, there was a large fortune in ready money at Valfeuillu; andthis 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 aspossible. Monsieur de Tremorel had not this common prudence. He showshis bundles of bank-notes freely, handles them, parades them; theservants see them, almost touch them. He wants everybody to know andrepeat 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 thisdisplay? Exactly the moment when he knows, and everyone in theneighborhood 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 ofJuly 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. Youwill perhaps say that it was by chance that this money was sent toValfeuillu on the very night of the crime. At the worst that might beadmitted. But believe me, there was no chance about it, and I will proveit. We will go to-morrow to the count's banker, and will inquire whetherthe count did not ask him, by letter or verbally, to send him thesefunds precisely on July 8th. Well, if he says yes, if he shows us such aletter, or if he declares that the money was called for in person, youwill confess, no doubt, that I have more than a probability in favor ofmy 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'sposition. Honestly, his appearance is against him, and justifies hisarrest. Was he an accomplice or entirely innocent? We certainly cannotyet decide. But it is a fact that he has fallen into an admirablywell-laid trap. The count, in selecting him for his victim, took allcare that every doubt possible should weigh upon him. I would wager thatMonsieur de Tremorel, who knew this fellow's history, thought that hisantecedents would add probability to the suspicions against him, andwould weigh with a terrible weight in the scales of justice. Perhaps,too, he said to himself that Guespin would be sure to prove hisinnocence in the end, and he only wished to gain time to elude the firstsearch. It is impossible that we can be deceived. We know that thecountess died of the first blow, as if thunderstruck. She did notstruggle; therefore she could not have torn a piece of cloth off theassassin's vest. If you admit Guespin's guilt, you admit that he wasidiot enough to put a piece of his vest in his victim's hand; you admitthat he was such a fool as to go and throw this torn and bloody vestinto the Seine, from a bridge, in a place where he might know searchwould be made--and all this, without taking the common precaution ofattaching 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 onceGuespin'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; weare still among the probabilities. Can't you suppose that the count,perfidious enough to set a trap for his servant, was shrewd enough todeprive 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, andshows a superior kind of perversity; the execution alone was defective.This is
because the plan was conceived and perfected in safety, whilewhen the crime had been committed, the murderer, distressed, frightenedat his danger, lost his coolness and only half executed his project. Butthere are other suppositions. It might be asked whether, while Madame deTremorel was being murdered, Guespin might not have been committing someother crime elsewhere."

  This conjecture seemed so improbable to the doctor that he could notavoid objecting to it. "Oh!" muttered he.

  "Don't forget," replied Lecoq, "that the field of conjectures has nobounds. Imagine whatever complication of events you may, I am ready tomaintain that such a complication has occurred or will present itself.Lieuben, a German lunatic, bet that he would succeed in turning up apack of cards in the order stated in the written agreement. He turnedand turned ten hours per day for twenty years. He had repeated theoperation 4,246,028 times, when he succeeded."

  M. Lecoq was about to proceed with another illustration, when M. Plantatinterrupted him by a gesture.

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

  M. Lecoq, as he spoke, paced up and down between the window and thebook-shelves, stopping at emphatic words, like a general who dictates tohis aides the plan of the morrow's battle. To his auditors, he seemed anew man, with serious features, an eye bright with intelligence, hissentences clear and concise--the Lecoq, in short, which the magistrateswho have employed his talents, would recognize.

  "Now," he resumed, "hear me. It is ten o'clock at night. No noisewithout, the road deserted, the village lights extinguished, the chateauservants 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 fewdays, has been more amiable, more attentive than ever. She mistrustsnothing, and so the count can approach her from behind, without herthinking of turning her head.

  "When she hears him coming up softly, she imagines that he is going tosurprise her with a kiss. He, meanwhile, armed with a long dagger,stands beside his wife. He knows where to strike that the wound may bemortal. He chooses the place at a glance; takes aim; strikes a terribleblow--so terrible that the handle of the dagger imprints itself on bothsides of the wound. The countess falls without a sound, bruising herforehead on the edge of the table, which is overturned. Is not theposition of the terrible wound below the left shoulder thus explained--awound 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 herchamber, or can approach her when she is seated without her turninground?"

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

  "The countess is now dead," pursued M. Lecoq. "The assassin's firstemotion 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 thisletter or paper, this object of small size which he knows to be in hiswife's keeping, which he has demanded a hundred times, which she wouldnot give up to him, and which he must have."

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

  "The count thinks he knows where it is. He imagines that he can put hishand on it at once. He is mistaken. He looks into all the drawers andbureaus 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 ofthe arm he lifts it--down the clock tumbles and stops. It is not yethalf-past ten."

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

  "The count finds nothing under the mantel-shelf except the dust, whichhas retained traces of his fingers. Then he begins to be anxious. Wherecan this paper be, for which he has risked his life? He grows angry. Howsearch the locked drawers? The keys are on the carpet--I found themamong the debris of the tea service--but he does not see them. He musthave some implement with which to break open everything. He goesdownstairs for a hatchet. The drunkenness of blood and vengeance isdissipated on the staircase; his terrors begin. All the dark corners arepeopled, now, with those spectres which form the cortege of assassins;he is frightened, and hurries on. He soon goes up again, armed with alarge hatchet--that found on the second story--and makes the pieces ofwood fly about him. He goes about like a maniac, rips up the furnitureat hazard; but he pursues a desperate search, the traces of which I havefollowed, among the debris. Nothing, always nothing! Everything in theroom is topsy-turvy; he goes into his cabinet and continues thedestruction; the hatchet rises and falls without rest. He breaks his ownbureau, since he may find something concealed there of which he isignorant. This bureau belonged to the first husband--to Sauvresy. Hetakes out all the books in the library, one by one, shakes themfuriously, and throws them about the floor. The infernal paper isundiscoverable. His distress is now too great for him to pursue thesearch with the least method. His wandering reason no longer guides him.He staggers, without calculation, from one thing to another, fumbling adozen times in the same drawer, while he completely forgets others justby him. Then he thinks that this paper may have been hid in the stuffingof a chair. He seizes a sword, and to be certain, he slashes up thedrawing-room chairs and sofas and those in the other rooms."

  M. Lecoq's voice, accent, gestures, gave a vivid character to hisrecital. The hearer might imagine that he saw the crime committed, andwas present at the terrible scenes which he described. His companionsheld their breath, unwilling by a movement to distract his attention.

  "At this moment," pursued he, "the count's rage and terror were at theirheight. He had said to himself, when he planned the murder, that hewould kill his wife, get possession of the letter, execute his planquickly, and fly. And now all his projects were baffled! How much timewas being lost, when each minute diminished the chances of escape! Thenthe probability of a thousand dangers which had not occurred to him,entered his mind. What if some friend should suddenly arrive, expectinghis hospitality, as had occurred twenty times? What if a passer-by onthe road should notice a light flying from room to room? Might not oneof the servants return? When he is in the drawing-room, he thinks hehears someone ring at the gate; such is his terror, that he lets hiscandle fall--for I have found the marks of it on the carpet. He hearsstrange noises, such as never before assailed his ears; he thinks hehears walking in the next room; the floor creaks. Is his wife reallydead; will she not suddenly rise up, run to the window, and scream forhelp? Beset by these terrors, he returns to the bedroom, seizes hisdagger, and again strikes the poor countess. But his hand is so unsteadythat the wounds are light. You have observed, doctor, that all thesewounds 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 hisheels form the contusions discovered by the autopsy."

  M. Lecoq paused to take breath. He not only narrated the drama, he actedit, adding gesture to word; and each of his phrases made a scene,explained a fact, and dissipated a doubt. Like all true artists who wrapthemselves up in the character they represent, the detective really feltsomething of the sensations which he interpreted, and his expressiveface was terrible in its contortions.

  "That," he resumed, "is the first act of the drama. An irresistibleprostration succeeds the count's furious passion. The variouscircumstances which I am describing to you are to be noticed in nearlyall great crimes. The assassin is always seized, after the murder, witha horrible and singular hatred against his victim, and he oftenmutilates the body. Then comes the period of a prostration so great, oftorpor so irresistib
le, that murderers have been known literally to goto sleep in the blood, that they have been surprised sleeping, and thatit was with great difficulty that they were awakened. The count, when hehas frightfully disfigured the poor lady, falls into an arm-chair;indeed, the cloth of one of the chairs has retained some wrinkles, whichshows that someone had sat in it. What are then the count's thoughts? Hereflects on the long hours which have elapsed, upon the few hours whichremain to him. He reflects that he has found nothing; that he willhardly have time, before day, to execute his plans for turning suspicionfrom him, and assure his safety, by creating an impression that he, too,has been murdered. And he must fly at once--fly, without that accursedpaper. 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 cultivatedbeard."

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

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

  "This is one of those vulgar details," pursued he, "whose veryinsignificance makes them terrible, when they are attended by certaincircumstances. Now imagine the Count de Tremorel, pale, covered with hiswife's blood, shaving himself before his glass; rubbing the soap overhis face, in that room all topsy-turvy, while three steps off lies thestill 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 whichfew criminals are capable. The count's hands, however, trembled soviolently that he could scarcely hold his razor, and his face must havebeen cut several times."

  "What!" said Dr. Gendron, "do you imagine that the count spared the timeto shave?"

  "I am positively sure of it, pos-i-tive-ly. A towel on which I havefound one of those marks which a razor leaves when it is wiped--and oneonly--has put me on the track of this fact. I looked about, and found abox of razors, one of which had recently been used, for it was stillmoist; and I have carefully preserved both the towel and the box. And ifthese proofs are not enough, I will send to Paris for two of my men, whowill find, somewhere in the house or the garden, both the count's beardand the cloth with which he wiped his razor. As to the fact whichsurprises you, Doctor, it seems to me very natural; more, it is thenecessary result of the plan he adopted. Monsieur de Tremorel has alwaysworn his full beard: he cuts it off, and his appearance is so entirelyaltered, that if he met anyone in his flight, he would not berecognized."

  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 hisplan, to arrange everything to throw the law off the scent, and to makeit appear that he, as well as his wife, has been murdered. He hunts upGuespin's vest, tears it out at the pocket, and puts a piece of it inthe countess's hand. Then taking the body in his arms, crosswise, hegoes downstairs. The wounds bleed frightfully--hence the numerous stainsdiscovered all along his path. Reaching the foot of the staircase he isobliged to put the countess down, in order to open the garden-door. Thisexplains the large stain in the vestibule. The count, having opened thedoor, returns for the body and carries it in his arms as far as the edgeof the lawn; there he stops carrying it, and drags it by the shoulders,walking backward, trying thus to create the impression that his own bodyhas been dragged across there and thrown into the Seine. But the wretchforgot two things which betray him to us. He did not reflect that thecountess's skirts, in being dragged along the grass, pressing it downand breaking it for a considerable space, spoiled his trick. Nor did hethink that her elegant and well-curved feet, encased in smallhigh-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 somefacts which I now know; and as I had reason to suppose that you werebetter informed than I, I was not sorry to avenge myself for a cautionwhich seemed to me mysterious."

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

  "On the other side of the lawn," continued M. Lecoq, "the count againtook up the countess's body. But forgetting the effect of water when itspirts, or--who knows?--disliking to soil himself, instead of throwingher violently in the river, he put her down softly, with greatprecaution. That's not all. He wished it to appear that there had been aterrible struggle. What does he do? Stirs up the sand with the end ofhis 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. Timepresses, but he is still anxious to find the paper. He hastens to takethe last measures to assure his safety. He smears his slippers andhandkerchief with blood. He throws his handkerchief and one of hisslippers on the sward, and the other slipper into the river. His hasteexplains the incomplete execution of his manoeuvres. He hurries--andcommits blunder after blunder. He does not reflect that his valet willexplain about the empty bottles which he puts on the table. He thinks heis turning wine into the five glasses--it is vinegar, which will provethat no one has drunk out of them. He ascends, puts forward the hands ofthe clock, but forgets to put the hands and the striking bell inharmony. He rumples up the bed, but he does it awkwardly--and it isimpossible to reconcile these three facts, the bed crumpled, the clockshowing twenty minutes past three, and the countess dressed as if itwere mid-day. He adds as much as he can to the disorder of the room. Hesmears a sheet with blood; also the bed-curtains and furniture. Then hemarks the door with the imprint of a bloody hand, too distinct andprecise not to be done designedly. Is there so far a circumstance ordetail 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, whichhe wanted, and which she obstinately refused to give up in spite of allhis entreaties. You have told us that the anxiety--perhaps thenecessity--to have this paper, was a powerful motive of the crime. Wewill not be rash then in supposing that the importance of this paper wasimmense--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 amenace--capable of being executed at any moment--suspended over the headof him or them concerned by it. Madame de Tremorel surely regarded thispaper either as a security, or as a terrible arm which put her husbandat her mercy. It was surely to deliver himself from this perpetualmenace that the count killed his wife."

  The logic was so clear, the last words brought the evidence out solucidly and forcibly, that his hearers were struck with admiration. Theyboth cried:

  "Very good!"

  "Now," resumed M. Lecoq, "from the various elements which have served toform our conviction, we must conclude that the contents of this letter,if it can be found, will clear away our last doubts, will explain thecrime, and will render the assassin's precautions wholly useless. Thecount, therefore, must do everything in the world, must attempt theimpossible, not to leave this danger behind him. His preparations forflight ended, Hector, in spite of his deadly peril, of the speedingtime, of the coming day, instead of flying recommences with moredesperation than ever his useless search. Again he goes through all thefurniture, the books, the papers--in vain. Then he determines to searchthe second story, and armed with his hatchet, goes up to it. He hasalready attacked a bureau, when he hears a cry in the garden. He runs tothe window--what does he see? Philippe and old Bertaud are standing onthe river-bank under the willows, near the corpse. Can you imagine hisimmense terror? Now, there's not a second to lose--he has alreadydelayed too long. The danger is near, terrible. Daylight has come, t
hecrime 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. Hethrows the hatchet down violently--it cuts the floor. He rushes down,slips the bank-notes in his pocket, seizes Guespin's torn and smearedvest, which he will throw into the river from the bridge, and saveshimself by the garden. Forgetting all caution, confused, beside himself,covered with blood, he runs, clears the ditch, and it is he whom oldBertaud sees making for the forest of Mauprevoir, where he intends toarrange the disorder of his clothes. For the moment he is safe. But heleaves behind him this letter, which is, believe me, a formidablewitness, which will enlighten justice and will betray his guilt and theperfidy 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 tochange our doubts into certainty."