Sauvresy’s package of papers.”
“And you did not use them?”
“I was dismayed at my abuse of confidence. Besides, had I the right to deprive poor Sauvresy, who was dying in order to avenge himself, of his vengeance?”
“But you gave the papers to Madame de Tremorel?”
“True; but Bertha had a vague presentiment of the fate that was in store for her. About a fortnight before her death she came and confided to me her husband’s manuscript, which she had taken care to complete. I broke the seals and read it, to see if he had died a violent death.”
“Why, then, didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me hunt, hesitate, grope about – “
“I love Laurence, Monsieur Lecoq, and to deliver up Tremorel was to open an abyss between her and me.”
The detective bowed. “The deuce,” thought he, “the old justice is shrewd – as shrewd as I am. Well, I like him, and I’m going to give him a surprise.”
M. Plantat yearned to question his host and to know what the sole means of which he spoke were, which might be successful in preventing a trial and saving Laurence, but he did not dare to do so.
The detective bent over his desk lost in thought. He held a pencil in his hand and mechanically drew fantastic figures on a large sheet of white paper which lay before him. He suddenly came out of his revery. He had just solved a last difficulty; his plan was now entire and complete. He glanced at the clock.
“Two o’clock,” cried he, “and I have an appointment between three and four with Madame Charman about Jenny.”
“I am at your disposal,” returned his guest.
“All right. When Jenny is disposed of we must look after Tremorel; so let’s take our measures to finish it up to-day.”
“What! do you hope to do everything to-day – “
“Certainly. Rapidity is above all necessary in our profession. It often takes a month to regain an hour lost. We’ve a chance now of catching Hector by surprise; to-morrow it will be too late. Either we shall have him within four-and-twenty hours or we must change our batteries. Each of my three men has a carriage and a good horse; they may be able to finish with the upholsterers within an hour from now. If I calculate aright, we shall have the address in an hour, or at most in two hours, and then we will act.”
Lecoq, as he spoke, took a sheet of paper surmounted by his arms out of his portfolio, and rapidly wrote several lines.
“See here,” said he, “what I’ve written to one of my lieutenants.”
“MONSIEUR JOB-
“Get together six or eight of our men at once and take them to the wine merchant’s at the corner of the Rue des Martyrs and the Rue Lamartine; await my orders there.”
“Why there and not here?”
“Because we must avoid needless excursions. At the place I have designated we are only two steps from Madame Charman’s and near Tremorel’s retreat; for the, wretch has hired his rooms in the quarter of Notre Dame de Lorette.”
M. Plantat gave an exclamation of surprise.
“What makes you think that?”
The detective smiled, as if the question seemed foolish to him.
“Don’t you recollect that the envelope of the letter addressed by Mademoiselle Courtois to her family to announce her suicide bore the Paris postmark, and that of the branch office of Rue St. Lazare? Now listen to this: On leaving her aunt’s house, Laurence must have gone directly to Tremorel’s apartments, the address of which he had given her, and where he had promised to meet her on Thursday morning. She wrote the letter, then, in his apartments. Can we admit that she had the presence of mind to post the letter in another quarter than that in which she was? It is at least probable that she was ignorant of the terrible reasons which Tremorel had to fear a search and pursuit. Had Hector foresight enough to suggest this trick to her? No, for if he wasn’t a fool he would have told her to post the letter somewhere outside of Paris. It is therefore scarcely possible that it was posted anywhere else than at the nearest branch office.”
These suppositions were so simple that M. Plantat wondered he had not thought of them before. But men do not see clearly in affairs in which they are deeply interested; passion dims the eyes, as heat in a room dims a pair of spectacles. He had lost, with his coolness, a part of his clearsightedness. His anxiety was very great; for he thought M. Lecoq had a singular mode of keeping his promise.
“It seems to me,” he could not help remarking, “that if you wish to keep Hector from trial, the men you have summoned together will be more embarrassing than useful.”
M. Lecoq thought that his guest’s tone and look betrayed a certain doubt, and was irritated by it.
“Do you distrust me, Monsieur Plantat?”
The old man tried to protest.
“Believe me – “
“You have my word,” resumed M. Lecoq, “and if you knew me better you would know that I always keep it when I have given it. I have told you that I would do my best to save Mademoiselle Laurence; but remember that I have promised you my assistance, not absolute success. Let me, then, take such measures as I think best.”
So saying, he rang for Janouille.
“Here’s a letter,” said he when she appeared, “which must be sent to Job at once.”
“I will carry it.”
“By no means. You will be pleased to remain here and wait for the men that I sent out this morning. As they come in, send them to the wine merchant’s at the corner of the Rue des Martyrs; you know it – opposite the church. They’ll find a numerous company there.”
As he gave his orders, he took off his gown, assumed a long black coat, and carefully adjusted his wig.
“Will Monsieur be back this evening?” asked Janouille.
“I don’t know.”
“And if anybody comes from over yonder?”
“Over yonder” with a detective, always means “the house” – otherwise the prefecture of police.
“Say that I am out on the Corbeil affair.”
M. Lecoq was soon ready. He had the air, physiognomy, and manners of a highly respectable chief clerk of fifty. Gold spectacles, an umbrella, everything about him exhaled an odor of the ledger.
“Now,” said he to M. Plantat. “Let’s hurry away.” Goulard, who had made a hearty breakfast, was waiting for his hero in the dining-room.
“Ah ha, old fellow,” said M. Lecoq. “So you’ve had a few words with my wine. How do you find it?”
“Delicious, my chief; perfect – that is to say, a true nectar.”
“It’s cheered you up, I hope.”
“Oh, yes, my chief.”
“Then you may follow us a few steps and mount guard at the door of the house where you see us go in. I shall probably have to confide a pretty little girl to your care whom you will carry to Monsieur Domini. And open your eyes; for she’s a sly creature, and very apt to inveigle you on the way and slip through your fingers.”
They went out, and Janouille stoutly barricaded herself behind them.
XXV
Whosoever needs a loan of money, or a complete suit of clothes in the top of the fashion, a pair of ladies’ boots, or an Indian cashmere; a porcelain table service or a good picture; whosoever desires diamonds, curtains, laces, a house in the country, or a provision of wood for winter fires – may procure all these, and many other things besides, at Mme. Charman’s.
Mme. Charman lives at 136, Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, on the first story above the ground-floor. Her customers must give madame some guarantee of their credit; a woman, if she be young and pretty, may be accommodated at madame’s at the reasonable rate of two hundred per cent interest. Madame has, at these rates, considerable custom, and yet has not made a large fortune. She must necessarily risk a great deal, and bears heavy losses as well as receives large profits. Then she is, as she is pleased to say, too honest; and true enough, she is honest – she would rather sell her dress off her back than let her signature go to protest.
Madame is a blonde, slight, gentle, and not wanting in a certain distinction of manner; she invariably wears, whether it be summer or winter, a black silk dress. They say she has a husband, but no one has ever seen him, which does not prevent his reputation for good conduct from being above suspicion. However, honorable as may be Mme. Charman’s profession, she has more than once had business with M. Lecoq; she has need of him and fears him as she does fire. She, therefore, welcomed the detective and his companion – whom she took for one of his colleagues – somewhat as the supernumerary of a theatre would greet his manager if the latter chanced to pay him a visit in his humble lodgings.
She was expecting them. When they rang, she advanced to meet them in the ante-chamber, and greeted M. Lecoq graciously and smilingly. She conducted them into her drawing-room, invited them to sit in her best arm-chairs, and pressed some refreshments upon them.
“I see, dear Madame,” began M. Lecoq, “that you have received my little note.”
“Yes, Monsieur Lecoq, early this morning; I was not up.”
“Very good. And have you been so kind as to do the service I asked?”
“How can you ask me, when you know that I would go through the fire for you? I set about it at once, getting up expressly for the purpose.”
“Then you’ve got the address of Pelagie Taponnet, called Jenny?”
“Yes, I have,” returned Mme. Charman, with an obsequious bow. “If I were the kind of woman to magnify my services, I would tell you what trouble it cost me to find this address, and how I ran all over Paris and spent ten francs in cab hire.”
“Well, let’s come to the point.”
“The truth is, I had the pleasure of seeing Miss Jenny day before yesterday.”
“You are joking!”
“Not the least in the world. And let me tell you that she is a very courageous and honest girl.”
“Really!”
“She is, indeed. Why, she has owed me four hundred and eighty francs for two years. I hardly thought the debt worth much, as you may imagine. But Jenny came to me day before yesterday all out of breath and told me that she had inherited some money, and had brought me what she owed me. And she was not joking, either; for her purse was full of bank notes, and she paid me the whole of my bill. She’s a good girl!” added Mme. Charman, as if profoundly convinced of the truth of her encomium.
M. Lecoq exchanged a significant glance with the old justice; the same idea struck them both at the same moment. These bank-notes could only be the payment for some important service rendered by Jenny to Tremorel. M. Lecoq, however, wished for more precise information.
“What was Jenny’s condition before this windfall?” asked he.
“Ah, Monsieur Lecoq, she was in a dreadful condition. Since the count deserted her she has been constantly falling lower and lower. She sold all she had piece by piece. At last, she mixed with the worst kind of people, drank absinthe, they say, and had nothing to put to her back. When she got any money she spent it on a parcel of hussies instead of buying clothes.”
“And where is she living?”
“Right by, in a house in the Rue Vintimille.”
“If that is so,” replied M. Lecoq, severely, “I am astonished that she is not here.”
“It’s not my fault, dear Monsieur Lecoq; I know where the nest is, but not where the bird is. She was away this morning when I sent for her.”
“The deuce! But then – it’s very annoying; I must hunt her up at once.
“You needn’t disturb yourself. Jenny ought to return before four o’clock, and one of my girls is waiting for her with orders to bring her here as soon as she comes in, without even letting her go up to her room.”
“We’ll wait for her then.”
M. Lecoq and his friend waited about a quarter of an hour, when Mme. Charman suddenly got up.
I hear my girl’s step on the stairs,” said she.
“Listen to me,” answered M. Lecoq, “if it is she, manage to make Jenny think that it was you who sent for her; we will seem to have come in by the merest chance.”
Mme. Charman responded by a gesture of assents. She was going towards the door when the detective detained her by the arm.
“One word more. When you see me fairly engaged in conversation with her, please be so good as to go and overlook your work-people in the shops. What I have to say will not interest you in the least.”
“I understand.”
“But no trickery, you know. I know where the closet of your bedroom is, well enough to be sure that everything that is said here may be overheard in it.”
Mme. Charman’s emissary opened the door; there was a loud rustling of silks along the corridor; and Jenny appeared in all her glory. She was no longer the fresh and pretty minx whom Hector had known – the provoking large-eyed Parisian deinoiselle, with haughty head and petulant grace. A single year had withered her, as a too hot summer does the roses, and had destroyed her fragile beauty beyond recall. She was not twenty, and still it was hard to discern that she had been charming, and was yet young. For she had grown old like vice; her worn features and hollow cheeks betrayed the dissipations of her life; her eyes had lost their long, languishing lids; her mouth had a pitiful expression of stupefaction; and absinthe had broken the clear tone of her voice. She was richly dressed in a new robe, with a great deal of lace and a jaunty hat; yet she had a wretched expression; she was all besineared with rouge and paint.
When she came in she seemed very angry.
“What an idea!” she cried, without taking the trouble to bow to anyone; “what sense is there in sending for me to come here in this way, almost by force, and by a very impudent young woman?”
Mme. Charman hastened to meet her old customer, embraced her in spite of herself, and pressed her to her heart.
“Why, don’t be so angry, dear – I thought you would be delighted and overwhelm me with thanks.”
“I? What for?”
“Because, my dear girl, I had a surprise in store for you. Ah, I’m not ungrateful; you came here yesterday and settled your account with me, and to-day I mean to reward you for it. Come, cheer up; you’re going to have a splendid chance, because just at this moment I happen to have a piece of exquisite velvet – “
“A pretty thing to bring me here for!”
“All silk, my dear, at thirty francs the yard. Ha, ’tis wonderfully cheap, the best – “
“Eh! What care I for your ‘chance?’ Velvet in July – are you making fun of me?”
“Let me show it to you, now.”
“Never! I am expected to dinner at Asnieres, and so – “
She was about to go away despite Mme. Charman’s attempts to detain her, when M. Lecoq thought it was time to interfere.
“Why, am I mistaken?” cried he, as if amazed; “is it really Miss Jenny whom I have the honor of seeing?”
She scanned him with a half-angry, half-surprised air, and said:
“Yes, it is I; hat of it?”
“What! Are you so forgetful? Don’t you recognize me?”
“No, not at all.”
“Yet I was one of your admirers once, my dear, and used to breakfast with you when you lived near the Madeleine; in the count’s time, you know.”
He took off his spectacles as if to wipe them, but really to launch a furious look at Mme. Charman, who, not daring to resist, beat a hasty retreat.
“I knew Tremorel well in other days,” resumed the detective. “And – by the bye, have you heard any news of him lately?”
“I saw him about a week ago.”
“Stop, though-haven’t you heard of that horrible affair?”
“No. What was it?”
“Really, now, haven’t you heard? Don’t you read the papers? It was a dreadful thing, and has been the talk of all Paris for the past forty-eight hours.”
“Tell me about it, quick!”
“You know that he married the widow of one of his friends. He was thought to be very happy at home; not at all; he has murdered his wife with a knife.”
Jenny grew pale under her paint.
“Is it possible?” stammered she. She seemed much affected, but not very greatly surprised, which M. Lecoq did not fail to remark.
It is so possible,” he resumed, “that he is at this moment in prison, will soon be tried, and without a doubt will be convicted.”
M. Plantat narrowly observed Jenny; be looked for an explosion of despair, screams, tears, at least a light nervous attack; he was mistaken.
Jenny now detested Tremorel. Sometimes she felt the weight of her degradation, and she accused Hector of her present ignominy. She heartily hated him, though she smiled when she saw him, got as much money out of him as she could, and cursed him behind his back. Instead of bursting into tears, she therefore laughed aloud.
“Well done for Tremorel,” said she. “Why did he leave me? Good for her too.”
“Why so?”
“What did she deceive her husband for? It was she who took Hector from me – she, a rich, married woman! But I’ve always said Hector was a poor wretch.”
“Frankly, that’s my notion too. When a man acts as Tremorel has toward you, he’s a villain.”
It’s so, isn’t it?”
“Parbleu! But I’m not surprised at his conduct. For his wife’s murder is the least of his crimes; why, he tried to put it off upon somebody else!”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“He accused a poor devil as innocent as you or I, who might have been condemned to death if he hadn’t been able to tell where he was on Wednesday night.”
M. Lecoq said this lightly, with intended deliberation, so as to watch the impression he produced on Jenny.
“Do you know who the man was?” asked she in a tremulous voice.
“The papers said it was a poor lad who was his gardener.”
“A little man, wasn’t he, thin, very dark, with black hair?”
“Just so.”
“And whose name was – wait now – was – Guespin.”
“Ah ha, you know him then?”
Jenny hesitated. She was trembling very much, and evidently regretted that she had gone so far.
“Bah!” said she at last. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell what I know. I’m an honest girl, if Tremorel is a rogue; and I don’t want them to condemn a poor wretch who is innocent.”
“You know something about it, then?”
“Well, I know nearly all about it – that’s honest, ain’t it? About a week ago Hector wrote to me to meet him at Melun; I went, found him, and we breakfasted together. Then he told me that he was very much annoyed about his cook’s marriage; for one of his servants was deeply in love with her, and might go and raise a rumpus at the wedding.”
“Ah, he spoke to you about the wedding, then?”
“Wait a minute. Hector seemed very much embarrassed, not knowing how to avoid the disturbance he feared. Then I advised him to send the servant off out of the way on the wedding-day. He thought a moment, and said that my advice was good. He added that he had found a means of doing this; on the evening of the marriage he would send the man on an errand for me, telling him that the affair was to be concealed from the countess. I was to dress up – as a chambermaid, and wait for the man at the cafe in the Place du Chatelet, between half-past nine and ten that evening; I was to sit at the table nearest the entrance on the right, with a bouquet in my hand, so that he should recognize me. He would come in and give me a package; then I was to ask him to take something, and so get him tipsy if possible, and then walk about Paris with him till morning.”
Jenny expressed herself with difficulty, hesitating, choosing her words, and trying to remember exactly what Tremorel said.
“And you,” interrupted M. Lecoq, “did you believe all this story about a jealous servant?”
“Not quite; but I fancied that he had some intrigue on foot, and I wasn’t sorry to help him deceive a woman whom I detested, and who had wronged me.”
“So you did as he told you?”
“Exactly, from beginning to end; everything happened just as Hector had foreseen. The man came along at just ten o’clock, took me for a maid, and gave me the package. I naturally offered him a glass of beer; he took it and proposed another, which I also accepted. He is a very nice fellow, this gardener, and I passed a very pleasant evening with him. He knew lots of queer things, and – “
“Never mind that. What did you do then?”
“After the beer we had some wine, then some beer again, then some punch, then some more wine – the gardener had his pockets full of money. He was very tipsy by eleven and invited me to go and have a dance with him at the Batignolles. I refused, and asked him to escort me back to my mistress at the upper end of the Champs Elysees. We went out of the cafe and walked up the Rue de Rivoli, stopping every now and then for more wine and beer. By two o’clock the fellow was so far gone that he fell like a lump on a bench near the Arc de Triomphe, where he went to sleep; and there I left him.”
“Well, where did you go?”
“Home.”
“What has become of the package?”
“Oh, I intended to throw it into the Seine, as Hector wished, but I forgot it; you see, I had drunk almost as much as the gardener – so I carried it back home with me, and it is in my room now.
“Have you opened it?”
“Well – what do you think?”
“What did it contain?”
“A hammer, two other tools and a large knife.”
Guespin’s innocence was now evident, and the detective’s foresight was realized.
“Guespin’s all right,” said M. Plantat. “But we must know – “
M. Lecoq interrupted him; he knew now all he wished. Jenny could tell him nothing more, so he suddenly changed his tone from a wheedling one to abrupt severity.
“My fine young woman,” said he, “you have saved an innocent man, but you must repeat what you have just said to the judge of instruction at Corbeil. And as you might lose yourself on the way, I’ll give you a guide.”
He went to the window and opened it; perceiving Goulard on the sidewalk, he cried out to him:
“Goulard, come up here.”
He turned to the astonished Jenny, who was so frightened that she dared not either question him or get angry, and said:
“Tell me how much Tremorel paid you for the service you rendered him.”
“Ten thousand francs; but it is my due, I swear to you; for he promised it to me long ago, and owed it to me.”
“Very good; it can’t be taken away from you.” He added, pointing out Goulard who entered just then: “Go with this man to your room, take the package which Guespin brought you, and set out at once for Corbeil. Above all, no tricks, Miss – or beware of me!”
Mme. Charman came in just in time to see Jenny leave the room with Goulard.
“Lord, what’s the matter?” she asked M. Lecoq.
“Nothing, my dear Madame, nothing that concerns you in the least. And so, thank you and good-evening; we are in a great hurry.”
XXVI
When M. Lecoq was in a hurry he walked fast. He almost ran down the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, so that Plantat had great difficulty in keeping up with him; and as he went along he pursued his train of reflection, half aloud, so that his companion caught here and there a snatch of it.
“All goes well,” he muttered, “and we shall succeed. It’s seldom that a campaign which commences so well ends badly. If Job is at the wine merchant’s, and if one of my men has succeeded in his search, the crime of Valfeuillu is solved, and in a week people will have forgotten it.”
He stopped short on reaching the foot of the street opposite the church.
“I must ask you to pardon me,” said he to the old justice, “for hurrying you on so and making you one of my trade; but your assistance might have been very useful at Madame Charman’s, and will be indispensable when we get fairly on Tremorel’s track.”
They went across the square and into the wine shop at the corner of the Rue des Martyrs. Its keeper was standing behind his counter turning wine out of a large jug into some litres, and did not seem much astonished at seeing his new visitors. M. Lecoq was quite at home (as he was everywhere), and spoke to the man with an air of easy familiarity.
“Aren’t there six or eight men waiting for somebody here?” he asked.
“Yes, they came about an hour ago.”
“Are they in the big back room?”
“Just so, Monsieur,” responded the wine merchant, obsequiously.
He didn’t exactly know who was talking to him, but he suspected him to be some superior officer from the prefecture; and he was not surprised to see that this distinguished personage knew the ins and outs of his house. He opened the door of the room referred to without hesitation. Ten men in various guises were drinking there and playing cards. On M. Lecoq’s entrance with M. Plantat, they respectfully got up and took off their hats.
“Good for you, Job,” said M. Lecoq to him who seemed to be their chief, “you are prompt, and it pleases me. Your ten men will be quite enough, for I shall have the three besides whom I sent out this morning.”
M. Job bowed, happy at having pleased a master who was not very prodigal in his praises.
“I want you to wait here a while longer,” resumed M. Lecoq, “for my orders will depend on a report which I am expecting.” He turned to the men whom he had sent out among the upholsterers:
“Which of you was successful?”
“I, Monsieur,” replied a big white-faced fellow, with insignificant mustaches.
“What, you again, Palot? really, my lad, you are lucky. Step into this side room – first, though, order a bottle of wine, and ask the proprietor to see to it that we are not disturbed.”
These orders were soon executed, and M. Plantat being duly ensconced with them in the little room, the detective turned the key.
“Speak up now,” said he to Palot, “and be brief.”
“I showed the photograph to at least a dozen upholsterers without any result; but at last a merchant in the Faubourg St. Germain, named Rech, recognized it.”
“Tell me just what he said, if you can.”
“He told me that it was the portrait of one of his customers. A month ago this customer came to him to buy a complete set of furniture – drawing-room, dining-room, bed-room, and the rest – for a little house which he had just rented. He did not beat him down at all, and only made one condition to the purchase, and that was, that everything should be ready and in place, and the curtains and carpets put in, within three weeks from that time; that is a week ago last Monday.”
“And what was the sum-total of the purchase?”
“Eighteen thousand francs, half paid down in advance, and half on the day of delivery.”
“And who carried the last half of the money to the upholsterer?”
“A servant.”
“What name did this customer give?”
“He called himself Monsieur James Wilson; but Monsieur Rech said he did not seem like an English-man.”
“Where does he live?”
“The furniture was carried to a small house, No. 34 Rue St. Lazare, near the Havre station.”
M. Lecoq.’s face, which had up to that moment worn an anxious expression, beamed with joy. He felt the natural pride of a captain who has succeeded in his plans for the enemy’s destruction. He tapped the old justice of the peace familiarly on the shoulder, and pronounced a single word:
“Nipped!”
Palot shook his head.
“It isn’t certain,” said he.
“Why?”
“You may imagine, Monsieur Lecoq, that when I got the address, having some time on my hands, I went to reconnoitre the house.”
“Well?”
“The tenant’sname is really Wilson, but it’s not the man of the photograph, I’m certain.”
M. Plantat gave a groan of disappointment, but M. Lecoq was not so easily discouraged.
“Hpw did you find out?”
“I pumped one of the servants.”
“Confound you!” cried M. Plantat. “Perhaps you roused suspicions.”
“Oh, no,” answered M. Lecoq. “I’ll answer for him. Palot is a pupil of Mme. Explain yourself, Palot.”
“Recognizing the house – an elegant affair it is, too – I said to myself: ‘I’ faith, here’s the cage; let’s see if the bird is in it.’ I luckily happened to have a napoleon in my pocket; and I slipped it without hesitation into the drain which led from the house to the street-gutter.”
“Then you rang?”
“Exactly. The porter – there is a porter – opened the door, and with my most vexed air I told him how, in pulling out my handkerchief, I had dropped a twenty-franc piece in the drain, and begged him to lend me something to try to get it out. He lent me a poker and took another himself, and we got the money out with no difficulty; I began to jump about as if I were delighted, and begged him to let me treat him to a glass of wine.”
“Not bad.”
“Oh, Monsieur Lecoq, it is one of your tricks, you know. My porter accepted my invitation, and we soon got to be the best friends in the world over some wine in a shop just across the street from the house. We were having a jolly talk together when, all of a sudden, I leaned over as if I had just espied something on the floor, and picked up – the photograph, which I had dropped and soiled a little with my foot. ‘What,’ cried I, ‘a portrait?’ My new friend took it, looked at it, and didn’t seem to recognize it. Then, to be certain, I said, ‘He’s a very good-looking fellow, ain’t he now? Your master must be some such a man.’ But he said no, that the photograph was of a man who was bearded, while his master was as clean-faced as an abbe. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘my master is an American; he gives us our orders in French, but Madame and he always talk English together.'”
M. Lecoq’s eye glistened as Palot proceeded.
“Tremorel speaks English, doesn’t he?” asked he of M. Plantat.
“Quite well; and Laurence too.”
“If that is so, we are on the right track, for we know that Tremorel shaved his beard off on the night of the murder. We can go on – “
Palot meanwhile seemed a little uneasy at not receiving the praise he expected.
“My lad,” said M. Lecoq, turning to him, “I think you have done admirably, and a good reward shall prove it to you. Being ignorant of what we know, your conclusions were perfectly right. But let’s go to the house at once; have you got a plan of the ground-floor?”
“Yes, and also of the first floor above. The porter was not dumb, and so he gave me a good deal of information about his master and mistress, though he has only been there two days. The lady is dreadfully melancholy, and cries all the time.”
“We know it; the plan – “
“Below, there is a large and high paved arch for the carriages to pass through; on the other side is a good-sized courtyard, at the end of which are the stable and carriage-house. The porter’s lodge is on the left of the arch; on the right a glass door opens on a staircase with six steps, which conducts to a vestibule into which the drawing-room, dining-room, and two other little rooms open. The chambers are on the first floor, a study, a – “
“Enough,” M. Lecoq said, “my plan is made.”
And rising abruptly, he opened the door, and followed by M. Plantat and Palot, went into the large room. All the men rose at his approach as before.
“Monsieur Job,” said the detective, “listen attentively to what I have to say. As soon as I am gone, pay up what you owe here, and then, as I must have you all within reach, go and install yourselves in the first wine-shop on the right as you go up the Rue d’Amsterdam. Take your dinner there, for you will have time – but soberly, you understand.”
He took two napoleons out of his pocket and placed them on the table, adding:
“That’s for the dinner.”
M. Lecoq and the old justice went into the street, followed closely by Palot. The detective was anxious above all to see for himself the house inhabited by Tremorel. He saw at a glance that the interior must be as Palot had described.
“That’s it, undoubtedly,” said he to M. Plantat; “we’ve got the game in our hands. Our chances at this moment are ninety to ten.”
“What are you going to do?” asked the justice, whose emotion increased as the decisive moment approached.
“Nothing, just yet, I must wait for night before I act. As it is two hours yet before dark, let’s imitate my men; I know a restaurant just by here where you can dine capitally; we’ll patronize it.”
And without awaiting a reply, he led M. Plantat to a restaurant in the Passage du Havre. But at the moment he was about to open the door, he stopped and made a signal. Palot immediately appeared.
“I give you two hours to get yourself up so that the porter won’t recognize you, and to have some dinner. You are an upholsterer’s apprentice. Now clear out; I shall wait for you here.”
M. Lecoq was right when he said that a capital dinner was to be had in the Passage du Havre; unfortunately M. Plantat was not in a state to appreciate it. As in the morning, he found it difficult to swallow anything, he was so anxious and depressed. He longed to know the detective’s plans; but M. Lecoq remained impenetrable, answering all inquiries with:
“Let me act, and trust me.
M. Plantat’s confidence was indeed very great; but the more he reflected, the more perilous and difficult seemed the attempt to save Tremorel from a trial. The most poignant doubts troubled and tortured his mind. His own life was at stake; for he had sworn to himself that he would not survive the ruin of Laurence in being forced to confess in full court her dishonor and her love for Hector.
M. Lecoq tried hard to make his companion eat something, to take at least some soup and a glass of old Bordeaux; but he soon saw the uselessness of his efforts and went on with his dinner as if he were alone. He was very thoughtful, but any uncertainty of the result of his plans never entered his head. He drank much and often, and soon emptied his bottle of Leoville. Night having now come on the waiters began to light the chandeliers, and the two friends found themselves almost alone.
“Isn’t it time to begin?” asked the old justice, timidly.
“We have still nearly an hour,” replied M. Lecoq, consulting his watch; “but I shall make my preparations now.”
He called a waiter, and ordered a cup of coffee and writing materials.
“You see,” said he, while they were waiting to be served, “we must try to get at Laurence without Tremorel’s knowing it. We must have a ten minutes’ talk with her alone, and in the house. That is a condition absolutely necessary to our success.”
M. Plantat had evidently been expecting some immediate and decisive action, for M. Lecoq’s remark filled him with alarm.
“If that’s so,” said he mournfully, ” it’s all over with our project.”
“How so?”
“Because Tremorel will not leave Laurence by herself for a moment.”
“Then I’ll try to entice him out.”
“And you, you who are usually so clear-sighted, really think that he will let himself be taken in by a trick! You don’t consider his situation at this moment. He must be a prey to boundless terrors. We know that Sauvresy’s declaration will not be found, but he does not; he thinks that perhaps it has been found, that suspicions have been aroused, and that he is already being searched for and pursued by the police.”
“I’ve considered all that,” responded M. Lecoq with a triumphant smile, “and many other things besides. Well, it isn’t easy to decoy Tremorel out of the house. I’ve been cudgelling my brain about it a good deal, and have found a way at last. The idea occurred to me just as we were coming in here. The Count de Tremorel, in an hour from now, will be in the Faubourg St. Germain. It’s true it will cost me a forgery, but you will forgive me under the circumstances. Besides, he who seeks the end must use the means.”
He took up a pen, and as he smoked his cigar, rapidly wrote the following:
“MONSIEUR WILSON:
“Four of the thousand-franc notes which you paid me are counterfeits; I have just found it out by sending them to my banker’s. If you are not here to explain the matter before ten o’clock, I shall be obliged to put in a complaint this evening before the procureur.
“RECH.”
“Now,” said M. Lecoq, passing the letter to his companion. “Do you comprehend?”
The old justice read itat a glance and could not repress a joyful exclamation, which caused the waiters to turn around and stare at him.
Yes,” said he, “this letter will catch him; it’ll frighten him out of all his other terrors. He will say to himself that he might have slipped some counterfeit notes among those paid to the upholsterer, that a complaint against him will provoke an inquiry, and that he will have to prove that he is really Monsieur Wilson or he is lost.”
“So you think he’ll come out?”
“I’m sure of it, unless he has become a fool.”
“I tell you we shall succeed then, for this is the only serious obstacle – “
He suddenly interrupted himself. The restaurant door opened ajar, and a man passed his head in and withdrew it immediately.
“That’s my man,” said M. Lecoq, calling the waiter to pay for the dinner, “he is waiting for us in the passage; let us go.”
A young man dressed like a journeyman upholsterer was standing in the passage looking in at the shop-windows. He had long brown locks, and his mustache and eyebrows were coal-black. M. Plantat certainly did not recognize him as Palot, but M. Lecoq did, and even seemed dissatisfied with his get-up.
“Bad,” growled he, “pitiable. Do you think it is enough, in order to disguise yourself, to change the color of your beard? Look in that glass, and tell me if the expression of your face is not just what it was before? Aren’t your eye and smile the same? Then your cap is too much on one side, it is not natural; and your hand is put in your pocket awkwardly.”
“I’ll try to do better another time, Monsieur Lecoq,” Palot modestly replied.
“I hope so; but I guess your porter won’t recognize you to-night, and that is all we want.”
“And now what must I do?”
“I’ll give you your orders; and be very careful not to blunder. First, hire a carriage, with a good horse; then go to the wine-shop for one of our men, who will accompany you to Monsieur Wilson’s house. When you get there ring, enter alone and give the porter this letter, saying that it is of the utmost importance. This done, put yourself with your companion in ambuscade before the house. If Monsieur Wilson goes out – and he will go out or I am not Lecoq – send your comrade to me at once. As for you, you will follow Monsieur Wilson and not lose sight of him. He will take a carriage, and you will follow him with yours, getting up on the hackman’s seat and keeping a lookout from there. Have your eyes open, for he is a rascal who may feel inclined to jump out of his cab and leave you in pursuit of an empty vehicle.”
“Yes, and the moment I am informed – “
“Silence, please, when I am speaking. He will probably go to the upholsterer’s in the Rue des Saints-Peres, but I may be mistaken. He may order himself to be carried to one of the railway stations, and may take the first train which leaves. In this case, you must get into the same railway carriage that he does, and follow him everywhere he goes; and be sure and send me a despatch as soon as you can.”
“Very well, Monsieur Lecoq; only if I have to take a train – “
“What, haven’t you any money?”
“Well – no, my chief.”
“Then take this five-hundred-franc note; that’s more than is necessary to make the tour of the world. Do you comprehend everything?”
“I beg your pardon – what shall I do if Monsieur Wilson simply returns to his house?”
“In that case I will finish with him. If he returns, you will come back with him, and the moment his cab stops before the house give two loud whistles, you know. Then wait for me in the street, taking care to retain your cab, which you will lend to Monsieur Plantat if he needs it.”
“All right,” said Palot, who hastened off without more ado.
M. Plantat and the detective, left alone, began to walk up and down the gallery; both were grave and silent, as men are at a decisive moment; there is no chatting about a gaming-table. M. Lecoq suddenly started; he had just seen his agent at the end of the gallery. His impatience was so great that he ran toward him, saying:
“Well?”
“Monsieur, the game has flown, and Palot after him!”
“On foot or in a cab?”
“In a cab.”
“Enough. Return to your comrades, and tell them to hold themselves ready.”
Everything was going as Lecoq wished, and he grasped the old justice’s hand, when he was struck by the alteration in his features.
“What, are you ill?” asked he, anxiously.
“No, but I am fifty-five years old, Monsieur Lecoq, and at that age there are emotions which kill one. Look, I am trembling at the moment when I see my wishes being realized, and I feel as if a disappointment would be the death of me. I’m afraid, yes, I’m afraid. Ah, why can’t I dispense with following you?”
“But your presence is indispensable; without your help I can do nothing:”
“What could I do?”
“Save Laurence, Monsieur Plantat.”
This name restored a part of his courage.
“If that is so – ” said he. He began to walk firmly toward the street, but M. Lecoq stopped him.
“Not yet,” said the detective, “not yet; the battle now depends on the precision of our movements. A single fault miserably upsets all my combinations, and then I shall be forced to arrest and deliver up the criminal. We must have a ten minutes’ interview with Mademoiselle Laurence, but not much more, and it is absolutely necessary that this interview should be suddenly interrupted by Tremorel’s return. Let’s make our calculations. It will take the rascal half an hour to go to the Rue des Saints-Peres, where he will find nobody; as long to get back; let us throw in fifteen minutes as a margin; in all, an hour and a quarter. There are forty minutes left us.”
M. Plantat did not reply, but his companion said that he could not stay so long on his feet after the fatigues of the day, agitated as he was, and having eaten nothing since the evening before. He ed him into a neighboring cafe, and forced him to eat a biscuit and drink a glass of wine. Then seeing that conversation would be annoying to the unhappy old man, he took up an evening paper and soon seemed to be absorbed in the latest news from Germany. The old justice, his head leaning on the back of his chair and his eyes wandering over the ceiling, passed in mental review the events of the past four years. It seemed to him but yesterday that Laurence, still a child, ran up his garden-path and picked his roses and honeysuckles. How pretty she was, and how divine were her great eyes! Then, as it seemed, between dusk and dawn, as a rose blooms on a June night, the pretty child had become a sweet and radiant young girl. She was timid and reserved with all but him – was he not her old friend, the confidant of all her little griefs and her innocent hopes? How frank and pure she was then; what a heavenly ignorance of evil!
Nine o’clock struck; M. Lecoq laid down his paper.
“Let us go,” said he.
M. Plantat followed him with a firmer step, and they soon reached M. Wilson’s house, accompanied by Job and his men.
“You men,” said M. Lecoq, “wait till I call before you go in; I will leave the door ajar.”
He rang; the door swung open; and M. Plantat and the detective went in under the arch. The porter was on the threshold of his lodge.
“Monsieur Wilson?” asked M. Lecoq.
“He is out.”
“I will speak to Madame, then.”
“She is also out.”
“Very well. Only, as I must positively speak with Madame Wilson, I’m going upstairs.”
The porter seemed about to resist him by force; but, as Lecoq now called in his men, he thought better of it and kept quiet.
M. Lecoq posted six of his men in the court, in such a position that they could be easily seen from the windows on the first floor, and instructed the others to place themselves on the opposite sidewalk, telling them to look ostentatiously at the house. These measures taken, he returned to the porter.
“Attend to me, my man. When your master, who has gone out, comes in again, beware that you don’t tell him that we are upstairs; a single word would get you into terribly hot water – “
“I am blind,” he answered, “and deaf.”
“How many servants are there in the house?”
“Three; but they have all gone out.”
The detective then took M. Plantat by the arm, and holding him firmly:
“You see, my dear friend,” said he, “the game is ours. Come along – and in Laurence’s name, have courage!”
XXVII
All M. Lecoq’s anticipations were realized. Laurence was not dead, and her letter to her parents was an odious trick. It was really she who lived in the house as Mme. Wilson. How had the lovely young girl, so much beloved by the old justice, come to such a dreadful extremity? The logic of life, alas, fatally enchains all our determinations to each other. Often an indifferent action, little wrongful in itself, is the beginning of an atrocious crime. Each of our new resolutions depends upon those which have preceded it, and is their logical sequence just as the sum-total is the product of the added figures. Woe to him who, being seized with a dizziness at the brink of the abyss, does not fly as fast as possible, without turning his head; for soon, yielding to an irresistible attraction, he approaches, braves the danger, slips, and is lost. Whatever thereafter he does or attempts he will roll down the faster, until he reaches the very bottom of the gulf.
Tremorel had by no means the implacable character of an assassin; he was only feeble and cowardly; yet he had committed abominable crimes. All his guilt came from the first feeling of envy with which he regarded Sauvresy, and which he had not taken the pains to subdue. Laurence, when, on the day that she became enamoured of Tremorel, she permitted him to press her hand, and kept it from her mother, was lost. The hand-pressure led to the pretence of suicide in order to fly with her lover. It might also lead to infanticide.
Poor Laurence, when she was left alone by Hector’s departure to the Faubourg St. Germain, on receiving M. Lecoq’s letter, began to reflect upon the events of the past year. How unlooked-for and rapidly succeeding they had been! It seemed to her that she had been whirled along in a tempest, without a second to think or act freely. She asked herself if she were not a prey to some hideous nightmare, and if she should not presently awake in her pretty maidenly chamber at Orcival. Was it really she who was there in a strange house, dead to everyone, leaving behind a withered memory, reduced to live under a false name, without family or friends henceforth, or anyone in the world to help her feebleness, at the mercy of a fugitive like herself, who was free to break to-morrow the bonds of caprice which to-day bound him to her? Was it she, too, who was about to become a mother, and found herself suffering from the excessive misery of blushing for that maternity which is the pride of pure young wives? A thousand memories of her past life flocked through her brain and cruelly revived her despair. Her heart sank as she thought of her old friendships, of her mother, her sister, the pride of her innocence, and the pure joys of the home fireside.
As she half reclined on a divan in Hector’s library, she wept freely. She bewailed her life, broken at twenty, her lost youth, her vanished, once radiant hopes, the world’s esteem, and her own self-respect, which she should never recover.
Of a sudden the door was abruptly opened.
Laurence thought it was Hector returned, and she hastily rose, passing her handkerchief across her face to try to conceal her tears.
A man whom she did not know stood upon the threshold, respectfully bowing. She was afraid, for Tremorel had said to her many times within the past two days, “We are pursued; let us hide well ;” and though it seemed to her that she had nothing to fear, she trembled without knowing why.
“Who are you?” she asked, haughtily, “and who has admitted you here? What do you want?”
M. Lecoq left nothing to chance or inspiration; he foresaw everything, and regulated affairs in real life as he would the scenes in a theatre. He expected this very natural indignation and these questions, and was prepared for them. The only reply he made was to step one side, thus revealing M. Plantat behind him.
Laurence was so much overcome on recognizing her old friend, that, in spite of her resolution, she came near falling.
“You!” she stammered; “you!”
The old justice was, if possible, more agitated than Laurence. Was that really his Laurence there before him? Grief had done its work so well that she seemed old.
“Why did you seek for me?” she resumed. “Why add another grief to my life? Ah, I told Hector that the letter he dictated to me would not be believed. There are misfortunes for which death is the only refuge.”
M. Plantat was about to reply, but Lecoq was determined to take the lead in the interview.
“It is not you, Madame, that we seek,” said he, “but Monsieur de Tremorel.”
“Hector! And why, if you please? Is he not free?”
M. Lecoq hesitated before shocking the poor girl, who had been but too credulous in trusting to a scoundrel’s oaths of fidelity. But he thought that the cruel truth is less harrowing than the suspense of intimations.
“Monsieur de Tremorel,” he answered, “has committed a great crime.”
“He! You lie, sir.”
The detective sorrowfully shook his head.
“Unhappily I have told you the truth. Monsieur de Tremorel murdered his wife on Wednesday night. I am a detective and I have a warrant to arrest him.”
He thought this terrible charge would overwhelm Laurence; he was mistaken. She was thunderstruck, but she stood firm. The crime horrified her, but it did not seem to her entirely improbable, knowing as she did the hatred with which Hector was inspired by Bertha.
Well, perhaps he did,” cried she, sublime in her energy and despair; “I am his accomplice, then – arrest me.”
This cry, which seemed to proceed from the most senseless passion, amazed the old justice, but did not surprise M. Lecoq.
“No, Madame,” he resumed, “you are not this man’s accomplice. Besides, the murder of his wife is the least of his crimes. Do you know why he did not marry you? Because in concert with Bertha, he poisoned Monsieur Sauvresy, who saved his life and was his best friend. We have the proof of it.”
This was more than poor Laurence could bear; she staggered and fell upon a sofa. But she did not doubt the truth of what M. Lecoq said. This terrible revelation tore away the veil which, till then, had hidden the past from her. The poisoning of Sauvresy explained all Hector’s conduct, his position, his fears, his promises, his lies, his hate, his recklessness, his marriage, his flight. Still she tried not to defend him, but to share the odium of his crimes.
“I knew it,” she stammered, in a voice broken by sobs, “I knew it all.”
The old justice was in despair.
“How you love him, poor child!” murmured he.
This mournful exclamation restored to Laurence all her energy; she made an effort and rose, her eyes glittering with indignation:
“I love him!” cried she. “I! Ah, I can explain my conduct to you, my old friend, for you are worthy of hearing it. Yes, I did love him, it is true – loved him to the forgetfulness of duty, to self-abandonment. But one day he showed himself to me as he was; I judged him, and my love did not survive my contempt. I was ignorant of Sauvresy’s horrible death. Hector confessed to me that his life and honor were in Bertha’s hands – and that she loved him. I left him free to abandon me, to marry, thus sacrificing more than my life to what I thought was his happiness; yet I was not deceived. When I fled with him I once more sacrificed myself, when I saw that it was impossible to conceal my shame. I wanted to die. I lived, and wrote an infamous letter to my mother, and yielded to Hector’s prayers, because he pleaded with me in the name of my – of our child!”
M. Lecoq, impatient at the loss of time, tried to say something; but Laurence would not listen to him.
“But what matter?” she continued. “I loved him, followed him, and am his: Constancy at all hazards is the only excuse for a fault like mine. I will do my duty. I cannot be innocent when Hector has committed a crime; I desire to suffer half the punishment.”
She spoke with such remarkable animation that the detective despaired of calming her, when two whistles in the street struck his ear. Tremorel was returning and there was not a moment to be lost. He suddenly seized Laurence by the arm.
“You will tell all this to the judges, Madame,” said he, sternly. “My orders are only for M. de Tremorel. Here is the warrant to arrest him.”
He took out the warrant and laid it upon the table. Laurence, by the force of her will, had become almost calm.
“You will let me speak five minutes with the Count de Tremorel, will you not?” she asked.
M. Lecoq was delighted; he had looked for this request, and expected it.
“Five minutes? Yes,” he replied. “But abandon all hope, Madame, of saving the prisoner; the house is watched; if you look in the court and in the street you will see my men in ambuscade. Besides, I am going to stay here in the next room.”
The count was heard ascending the stairs.
“There’s Hector!” cried Laurence, “quick, quick! conceal yourselves!”
She added, as they were retiring, in a low tone, but not so low as to prevent the detective from hearing her:
“Be sure, we will not try to escape.”
She let the door-curtain drop; it was time. Hector entered. He was paler than death, and his eyes had a fearful, wandering expression.
“We are lost!” said he, “they are pursuing us. See, this letter which I received just now is not from the man whose signature it professes to bear; he told me so himself. Come, let us go, let us leave this house – “
Laurence overwhelmed him with a look full of hate and contempt, and said:
“It is too late.”
Her countenance and voice were so strange that Tremorel, despite his distress, was struck by it, and asked:
“What is the matter?”
“Everything is known; it is known that you killed your wife.”
“It’s false!”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Well, then, it is true,” he added, “for I loved you so – “
“Really! And it was for love of me that you poisoned Sauvresy?”
He saw that he was discovered, that he bad been caught in a trap, that they had come, in his absence, and told Laurence all. He did not attempt to deny anything.
“What shall I do?” cried he, “what shall I do?”
Laurence drew him to her, and muttered in a shuddering voice:
“Save the name of Tremorel; there are pistols here.”
He recoiled, as if he had seen death itself.
“No,” said he. “I can yet fly and conceal myself; I will go alone, and you can rejoin me afterward.”
“I have already told you that it is too late. The police have surrounded the house. And – you know – it is the galleys, or – the scaffold!”
“I can get away by the courtyard.”
“It is guarded; look.”
He ran to the window, saw M. Lecoq’s men, and returned half mad and hideous with terror.
“I can at least try,” said he, “by disguising myself – “
“Fool! A detective is in there, and it was he who left that warrant to arrest you on the table.”
He saw that he was lost beyond hope.
“Must I die, then?” he muttered.
“Yes, you must; but before you die write a confession of your crimes, for the innocent may be suspected – “
He sat down mechanically, took the pen which Laurence held out to him, and wrote:
“Being about to appear before God, I declare that I alone, and without accomplices, poisoned Sauvresy and murdered the Countess de Tremorel, my wife.”
When he had signed and dated this, Laurence opened a bureau drawer; Hector seized one of the brace of pistols which were lying in it, and she took the other. But Tremorel, as before at the hotel, and then in the dying Sauvresy’s chamber, felt his heart fail him as he placed the pistol against his forehead. He was livid, his teeth chattered, and he trembled so violently that he let the pistol drop.
“Laurence, my love,” he stammered, “what will – become of you?”
“Me! I have sworn that I will follow you always and everywhere. Do you understand?”
“Ah, ’tis horrible!” said he. “It was not I who poisoned Sauvresy – it was she – there are proofs of it; perhaps, with a good advocate – “
M. Lecoq did not lose a word or a gesture of this tragical scene. Either purposely or by accident, he pushed the door-curtain, which made a slight noise.
Laurence thought the door was being opened, that the detective was returning, and that Hector would fall alive into their hands.
“Miserable coward!” she cried, pointing her pistol at him, “shoot, or else – “
He hesitated; there was another rustle at the door; she fired.
Tremorel fell dead.
Laurence, with a rapid movement, took up the other pistol, and was turning it against herself, when M. Lecoq sprung upon her and tore the weapon from her grasp.
“Unhappy girl!” cried he, “what would you do?”
“Die. Can I live now?”
“Yes, you can live,” responded M. Lecoq. “And more, you ought to live.”
“I am a lost woman – “
“No, you are a poor: child lured away by a wretch. You say you are very guilty; perhaps so; live to repent of it. Great sorrows like yours have their missions in this world, one of devotion and charity. Live, and the good you do will attach you once more to life. You have yielded to the deceitful promises of a villain remember, when you are rich, that there are poor innocent girls forced to lead a life of miserable shame for a morsel of bread. Go to these unhappy creatures, rescue them from debauchery, and their honor will be yours.”
M. Lecoq narrowly watched Laurence as he spoke, and perceived that he had touched her. Still, her eyes were dry, and were lit up with a strange light.
“Besides, your life is not your own – you know.”
“Ah,” she returned, “I must die now, even for my child, if I would not die of shame when he asks for his father – “
“You will reply, Madame, by showing him an honest man and an old friend, who is ready to give him his name – Monsieur Plantat.”
The old justice was broken with grief; yet he had the strength to say:
“Laurence, my beloved child, I beg you accept me – “
These simple words, pronounced with infinite gentleness and sweetness, at last melted the unhappy young girl, and determined her. She burst into tears.
She was saved.
M. Lecoq hastened to throw a shawl which he saw on a chair about her shoulders, and passed her arm through M. Plantat’s, saying to the latter:
“Go, lead her away; my men have orders to let you pass, and Palot will lend you his carriage.”
“But where shall we go?”
“To Orcival; Monsieur Courtois has been informed by a letter from me that his daughter is living, and he is expecting her. Come, lose no time.”
M. Lecoq, when he was left alone, listened to the departure of the carriage which took M. Plantat and Laurence away; then he returned to Tremorel’s body.
“There,” said he to himself, “lies a wretch whom I have killed instead of arresting and delivering him up to justice. Have I done my duty? No; but my conscience will not reproach me, because I have acted rightly.”
And running to the staircase, he called his men.
XXVIII
The day after Tremorel’s death, old Bertaud and Guespin were set at liberty, and received, the former four thousand francs to buy a boat and new tackle, and the latter ten thousand francs, with a promise of a like sum at the end of the year, if he would go and live in his own province. Fifteen days later, to the great surprise of the Orcival gossips, who had never learned the details of these events, M. Plantat wedded Mlle. Laurence Courtois; and the groom and bride departed that very evening for Italy, where it was announced they would linger at least a year.
As for Papa Courtois, he has offered his beautiful domain at Orcival for sale; he proposes to settle in the middle of France, and is on the lookout for a commune in need of a good mayor.
M. Lecoq, like everybody else, would, doubtless, have forgotten the Valfeuillu affair, had it not been that a notary called on him personally the other morning with a very gracious letter from Laurence, and an enormous sheet of stamped paper. This was no other than a title deed to M. Plantat’s pretty estate at Orcival, “with furniture, stable, carriage-house, garden, and other dependencies and appurtenances thereunto belonging,” and some neighboring acres of pleasant fields.
“Prodigious!” cried M. Lecoq. “I didn’t help ingrates, after all! I am willing to become a landed proprietor, just for the rarity of the thing.”