2
THE WORKS
OF
GABORIAU
One Volume Edition
%
FOUR COMPLETE NOVELS
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Copyright, 1908,
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MONSIEUR LECOQ^
PR EF ACE
rHREE names stand otd above all others in the Held
of detective stories: Edgar Allan Foe, an American;
Cona?i Doyle, an Englishman who was a close student
of Foe's tales, and Emile Gaboriau, a Frenchman. The
names of the detectives whose characters they created are
almost better known, if anything, than the names of the
writers themselves, and for the general public, at the word
"detective" three figures appear before the mind's eye,
Monsieur Dupin, Monsieur Lecoq, a?id Sherlock Holmes.
Gaboriau was born at Saujon, in the Departme?it of Charente-
Inferieure, November 9, 1835. To show his chro?w logical
connection in this famous trio of ?iames it will suffice to say
that Foe's "Murders in the Fue Morgue" was first published
in English in 184-5. Charles Baudelaire, the French poet,
translated Foe's tales into French in 1857 , at which time
Gaboriau, a young lawyer s clerk, was thinking of becoming
a writer. Later while a member of a cavalry regiment he
made his literary debut with two volumes of hiimorous
observations in no wise remarkable. These were succeeded
by several novels, none of which gave indication of the strong
dramatic quality that was afterward to make his name so
well known wherever French or English is read.
About this time he became a member of the staff of one of
the well-known Parisian papers, Le Pays," and it was in
this paper, in 1866, that he published " ' L 'Affaire Lerouge" as
a serial. Thus we see that nine years after the appeararice of
a French translation of Foe's "Murders in the Rue Morgue,"
the first notable American detective story, the first notable
\ — Vol. I— Gab. I
2 PREFACE
detective story by a Frenchman was published in Paris. Seven
years before the latter appeared, Conan Doyle was born, and
his first conspicuous achievement as a writer of detective
stories, "A Shidy i?i Scarlet," was published in 1887.
It has been pointed out by more than one writer that,
tmdeniably clever and fascinating as they are, Conan Doyle 's
stories show rtnmistakable Poe influence, as though the writer
had been a close student of Poe 's zvork. Gaboriau' s method of
work is quite unlike that of either Poe or Doyle. By closely
following the exact form of judicial procedure i?i France, and
by making the reader a sharer, step by step, in the investiga-
tion of a mysterious cri7ne, he succeeded by the very novelty
and relent less?iess of the method in considerably stimulating
interest in a story the details of which were already highly
dramatic.
"Young man,'' said the late Mr. Justice Willes to the Ho?i.
A. E. Gat home Hardy, ' you mean to practise at the Bar,
a?id you will find it 2iseful to know the French criminal
practise; you had better read Gaboriau s ?wvels, and they will
give you a thorough insight into it."
MONSIEUR LECOQ
AT about eleven o'clock in the evening of the 20th of Feb-
/"A ruary, 186—, which chanced to be Shrove Sunday, a
party of detectives left the police station near the old
Barriere d'ltalie to the direct south of Paris. Their mission
was to explore the district extending on the one hand between
the highroad to Fontainebleau and the Seine, and on the other
between the outer boulevards and the fortifications.
This quarter of the city had at that time anything but an en-
viable reputation. To venture there at night was considered
so dangerous that the soldiers from the outlying forts who
came in to Paris with permission to go to the theatre, were
ordered to halt at the barriere, and not to pass through the
perilous district excepting in parties of three or four.
After midnight, these gloomy, narrow streets became the
haunt of numerous homeless vagabonds, and escaped criminals
and malefactors, moreover, made the quarter their rendezvous.
If the day had been a lucky one, they made merry over their
spoils, and when sleep overtook them, hid in doorways or
among the rubbish in deserted houses. Every effort had been
made to dislodge these dangerous guests, but the most ener-
getic measures had failed to prove successful. Watched,
hunted, and in imminent danger of arrest though they were,
they always returned with idiotic obstinacy, obeying, as one
might suppose, some mysterious law of attraction. Hence, the
district was for the police an immense trap, constantly baited,
and to which the game came of their own accord to be caught
The result of a tour of inspection of this locality was so
certain, that the officer in charge of the police post called to
the squad as they departed: "I will prepare lodgings for our
guests. Good luck to you and much pleasure I"
This last wish was pure irony, for the weather was the most
disagreeable that could be imagined. A very heavy snow storm
had prevailed for several days. It was now beginning to thaw,
3
4 MONSIEUR LECOQ
and on all the frequented thoroughfares the slush was ankle-
deep. It was still cold, however; a damp chill filled the air,
and penetrated to the very marrow of one's bones. Besides,
there was a dense fog, so dense that one could not see one's
hands before one's face.
"What a beastly job !" growled one of the agents.
"Yes," replied the inspector who commanded the squad ; "if
you had an income of thirty thousand francs, I don't suppose
you'd be here." The laugh that greeted this common-place joke
was not so much flattery as homage to a recognized and estab-
lished superiority.
The inspector was, in fact, one of the most esteemed members
of the force, a man who had proved his worth. His powers of
penetration were not, perhaps, very great; but he thoroughly
understood his profession, its resources, its labyrinths, and its
artifices. Long practise had given him imperturbable cool-
ness, a great confidence in himself, and a sort of coarse diplo-
macy that supplied the place of shrewdness. To his failings
and his virtues he added incontestable courage, and he would
lay his hand upon the collar of the most dangerous criminal
as tranquilly as a devotee dips his fingers in a basin of holy
water.
He was a man about forty-six years of age, strongly built,
with rugged features, a heavy mustache, and rather small, gray
eyes, hidden by bushy eyebrows. His name was Gevrol, but he
was universally known as "the General." This sobriquet was
pleasing to his vanity, which was not slight, as his subordinates
well knew ; and, doubtless, he felt that he ought to receive from
them the same consideration as was due to a person of that ex-
alted rank.
"If you begin to complain already," he added, gruffly, what
will you do by and by?"
In fact, it was too soon to complain. The little party were
then passing along the Rue de Choisy. The people on the
footways were orderly ; and the lights of the wine-shops illu-
minated the street. All these places were open. There is
no fog or thaw that is potent enough to dismay lovers of
pleasure. And a boisterous crowd of maskers filled each
tavern, and public ballroom. Through the open windows came
alternately the sounds of loud voices and bursts of noisy music.
Occasionally, a drunken man staggered along the pavement, or
a masked figure crept by in the shadow cast by the houses.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 5
Before certain establishments Gevrol commanded a halt. He
gave a peculiar whistle, and almost immediately a man came
out. This was another member of the force. His report was
listened to. and then the squad passed on.
"To the left, boys !" ordered Gevrol ; "we will take the Rue
d'lvry, and then cut through the shortest way to the Rue de
Chevaleret."
From this point the expedition became really disagreeable.
The way led through an unfinished, unnamed street, full of
puddles and deep holes, and obstructed with all sorts of rubbish.
There were no longer any lights or crowded wine-shops. No
footsteps, no voices were heard; solitude, gloom, and an almost
perfect silence prevailed ; and one might have supposed one-
self a hundred leagues from Paris, had it not been for the deep
and continuous murmur that always arises from a large city,
resembling the hollow roar of a torrent in some cavern depth.
All the men had turned up their trousers and were advancing
slowly, picking their way as carefully as an Indian when he is
stealing upon his prey. They had just passed the Rue du
Chateau-des-Rentiers when suddenly a wild shriek rent the air.
At this place, and at this hour, such a cry was so frightfully
significant, that all the men paused as if by common impulse.
"Did you hear that, General?" asked one of the detectives,
in a low voice.
"Yes, there is murder going on not far from here — but
where? Silence! let us listen."
They all stood motionless, holding their breath, and anxiously
listening. Soon a second cry, or rather a wild howl, resounded.
"Ah !" exclaimed the inspector, "it is at the Poivriere."
This peculiar appellation "Poivriere" or "pepper-box" was
derived from the term "peppered" which in French slang is
applied to a man who has left his good sense at the bottom of
his glass. Hence, also, the sobriquet of "pepper thieves" given
to the rascals whose specialty it is to plunder helpless, inoffen-
sive drunkards.
"What!" added Gevrol to his companions, "don't you know
Mother Chupin's drinking-shop there on the right. Run."
And, setting the example, he dashed off in the direction in-
dicated. His men followed, and in less than a minute they
reached a hovel of sinister aspect, standing alone, in a tract of
waste ground. It was indeed from this den that the cries had
proceeded. They were now repeated, and were immediately
6 MONSIEUR LECOQ
followed by two pistol shots. The house was hermetically
closed, but through the cracks in the window-shutters, gleamed
a reddish light like that of a fire. One of the police agents
darted to one of these windows, and raising himself up by
clinging to the shutters with his hands, endeavored to peer
through the cracks, and to see what was passing within.
Gevrol himself ran to the door. "Open!" he commanded,
striking it heavily. No response came. But they could hear
plainly enough the sound of a terrible struggle — of fierce im-
precations, hollow groans, and occasionally the sobs of a
woman.
"Horrible !" cried the police agent, who was peering through
the shutters; "it is horrible!"
This exclamation decided Gevrol. "Open, in the name of
the law !" he cried a third time.
And no one responding, with a blow of the shoulder that was
as violent as a blow from a battering-ram, he dashed open the
door. Then the horror-stricken accent of the man who had
been peering through the shutters was explained. The room
presented such a spectacle that all the agents, and even Gevrol
himself, remained for a moment rooted to the threshold, shud-
dering with unspeakable horror.
Everything denoted that the house had been the scene of a
terrible struggle, of one of those savage conflicts which only
too often stain the barriere drinking dens with blood. The
lights had been extinguished at the beginning of the strife, but
a blazing fire of pine logs illuminated even the furthest corners
of the room. Tables, glasses, decanters, household utensils,
and stools had been overturned, thrown in every direction,
trodden upon, shivered into fragments. Near the fireplace
two men lay stretched upon the floor. They were lying motion-
less upon their backs, with their arms crossed. A third was
extended in the middle of the room. A woman crouched upon
the lower steps of a staircase leading to the floor above. She
had thrown her apron over her head, and was uttering inarticu-
late moans. Finally, facing the police, and with his back
turned to an open door leading into an adjoining room, stood
a young man, in front of whom a heavy oaken table formed,
as it were, a rampart.
He was of medium stature, and wore a full beard. His
clothes, not unlike those of a railway porter, were torn to frag-
ments, and soiled with dust and wine and blood. This certainly
MONSIEUR LECOQ 7
was the murderer. The expression on his face was terrible. A
mad fury blazed in his eyes, and a convulsive sneer distorted his
features. On his neck and cheek were two wounds which bled
profusely. In his right hand, covered with a handkerchief, he
held a pistol, which he aimed at the intruders.
"Surrender !" cried Gevrol.
The man's lips moved, but in spite of a visible effort he
could not articulate a syllable.
"Don't do any mischief," continued the inspector, "we are
in force, you can not escape ; so lay down your arms."
"I am innocent," exclaimed the man, in a hoarse, strained
voice.
"Naturally, but we do not see it."
"I have been attacked ; ask that old woman. I defended
myself; I have killed — I had a right to do so; it was in self-
defense !"
The gesture with which he enforced these words was so
menacing that one of the agents drew Gevrol violently aside,
saying, as he did so; "Take care, General, take care! The re-
volver has five barrels, and we have heard but two shots."
But the inspector was inaccessible to fear; he freed himself
from the grasp of his subordinate and again stepped forward,
speaking in a still calmer tone. "No foolishness, my lad; if
your case is a good one, which is possible, after all, don't
spoil it."
A frightful indecision betrayed itself on the young man's
features. He held Gevrol's life at the end of his finger, was
he about to press the trigger? No, he suddenly threw his
weapon to the floor, exclaiming: "Come and take me!" And
turning as he spoke he darted into the adjoining room, hop-
ing doubtless to escape by some means of egress which he
knew of.
Gevrol had expected this movement. He sprang after him
with outstretched arms, but the table retarded his pursuit.
"Ah !" he exclaimed, "the wretch escapes us !"
But the fate of the fugitive was already decided. While
Gevrol parleyed, one of the agents — he who had peered through
the shutters — had gone to the rear of the house and effected an
entrance through the back door. As the murderer darted out,
this man sprang upon him, seized him, and with surprising
strength and agility dragged him back. The murderer tried
to resist ; but in vain. He had lost his strength : he tottered
8 MONSIEUR LECOQ
and fell upon the table that had momentarily protected him,
murmuring loud enough for every one to hear: "Lost! It is
the Prussians who are coming!"
This simple and decisive maneuvre on the part of the sub-
ordinate had won the victory, and at first it greatly delighted
the inspector. "Good, my boy," said he, "very good ! Ah !
you have a talent for your business, and you will do well if
ever an opportunity — "
But he checked himself; all his followers so evidently shared
his enthusiasm that a feeling of jealousy overcame him. He
felt his prestige diminishing, and hastened to add: "The idea
had occurred to me; but I could not give the order without
warning the scoundrel himself."
This remark was superfluous. All the police agents had now
gathered around the murderer. They began by binding his feet
and hands, and then fastened him securely to a chair. He
offered no resistance. His wild excitement had given place
to that gloomy prostration that follows all unnatural efforts,
either of mind or body. Evidently he had abandoned himself
to his fate.
When Gevrol saw that the men had finished their task, he
called on them to attend to the other inmates of the den, and
in addition ordered the lamps to be lit for the fire was going
out. The inspector began his examination with the two men
lying near the fireplace. He laid his hand on their hearts, but
no pulsations were to be detected. He then held the face of his
watch close to their lips, but the glass remained quite clear.
"Useless," he murmured, after several trials, "useless; they are
dead ! They will never see morning again. Leave them in the
same position until the arrival of the public prosecutor, and
let us look at the other one."
The third man still breathed. He was a young fellow, wear-
ing the uniform of a common soldier of the line. He was
unarmed, and his large bluish gray cloak was partly open,
revealing his bare chest. The agents lifted him very carefully —
for he groaned piteously at the slightest movement — and placed
him in an upright position, with his back leaning against the
wall. He soon opened his eyes, and in a faint voice asked for
something to drink. They brought him a glass of water, which
he drank with evident satisfaction. lie then drew a long breath,
and seemed to regain some little strength.
"Where are you wounded?" asked Gevrol.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 9
"In the head, there," he responded, trying to raise one of
his arms. "Oh ! how I suffer."
The police agent, who had cut off the murderer's retreat
now approached, and with a dexterity that an old surgeon
might have envied, made an examination of the gaping wound
which the young man had received in the back of the neck.
"It is nothing," declared the police agent, but as he spoke there
was no mistaking the movement of his lower lip. It was evident
that he considered the wound very dangerous, probably mortal.
"It will be nothing," affirmed Gevrol in his turn; "wounds
in the head, when they do not kill at once, are cured in a month."
The wounded man smiled sadly. "I have received my death
blow," he murmured.
"Nonsense !"
"Oh ! it is useless to say anything ; I feel it, but I do not
complain. I have only received my just deserts."
All the police agents turned toward the murderer on hearing
these words, presuming that he would take advantage of this
opportunity to repeat his protestations of innocence. But their
expectations were disappointed ; he did not speak, although he
must certainly have heard the words. •
"It was that brigand, Lacheneur, who enticed me here,"
continued the wounded man, in a voice that was growing fainter.
"Lacheneur?"
"Yes, Jean Lacheneur, a former actor, who knew me when
I was rich — for I had a fortune, but I spent it all ; I wished to
amuse myself. He, knowing I was without a single sou in the
world, came and promised me money enough to begin life over
again. Fool that I was to believe him, for he brought me to
die here like a dog! Oh! I will have my revenge on him!"
At this thought the wounded man clenched his hands threaten-
ingly. "I will have my revenge," he resumed. "I know much
more than he believes. I will reveal everything."
But he had presumed too much upon his strength. Anger
had given him a moment's energy, but at the cost of his life
which was ebbing away. When he again tried to speak, he
could not. Twice did he open his lips, but only a choking cry
of impotent rage escaped them. This was his last manifesta-
tion of intelligence. A bloody foam gathered upon his lips, his
eyes rolled back in their sockets, his body stiffened, and he
fell face downward in a terrible convulsion.
"It is over," murmured Gevrol,
10 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"Not yet," replied the young police agent, who had shown
himself so proficient ; "but he can not live more than two
minutes. Poor devil ! he will say nothing."
The inspector of police had risen from the floor as if he had
just witnessed the commonest incident in the world, and was
carefully dusting the knees of his trousers. "Oh, well," he
responded, "we shall know all we need to know. This fellow
is a soldier, and the number of his regiment will be given on the
buttons of his cloak."
A slight smile curved the lips of the subordinate. "I think
you are mistaken, General," said he.
"How—"
"Yes, I understand. Seeing him attired in a military coat,
you supposed — But no ; this poor wretch was no soldier. Do
you wish for an immediate proof? Is his hair the regulation
cut? Where did you ever see soldiers with their hair falling
over their shoulders?"
This objection silenced the General for a moment; but he
replied bruskly: "Do you think that I keep my eyes in my
pocket ? What you have remarked did not escape my notice ;
only I said to myself, here is a young man who has profited by
leave of absence to visit the wig maker."
"At least—"
But Gevrol would permit no more interruptions. "Enough
talk," he declared. "We will now hear what has happened.
Mother Chupin, the old hussy, is not dead !"
As he spoke, he advanced toward the old woman, who was
still crouching upon the stairs. She had not moved nor ven-
tured so much as a look since the entrance of the police, but her
moans had not been discontinued. With a sudden movement,
Gevrol tore off the apron which she had thrown over her head,
and there she stood, such as years, vice, poverty, and drink had
made her; wrinkled, shriveled, toothless, and haggard, her skin
as yellow and as dry as parchment and drawn tightly over her
bones.
"Come, stand up!" ordered the inspector. "Your lamenta-
tions don't affect me. You ought to be sent to prison for putting
such vile drugs into your liquors thus breeding madness in the
brains of your customers."
The old woman's little red eyes traveled slowly round the
room, and then in tearful tones she exclaimed: "What a mis-
fortune ! what will become of me ? Everything is broken — I am
MONSIEUR LECOQ 11
ruined !" She only seemed impressed by the loss of her table
utensils.
"Now tell us how this trouble began," said Gevrol.
"Alas ! I know nothing about it. I was upstairs mending
my son's clothes, when I heard a dispute."
"And after that?"
"Of course I came down, and I saw those three men that
are lying there picking a quarrel with the young man you have
arrested: the poor innocent! For he is innocent, as truly as
I am an honest woman. If my son Polyte had been here he
would have separated them ; but I. a poor widow, what could 1
do! I cried 'Police!' with all my might."
After giving this testimony she resumed her seat, thinking
she had said enough. But Gevrol rudely ordered her to stand
up again. "Oh ! we have not done," said he. "I wish for other
particulars."
"What particulars, dear Monsieur Gevrol. since I saw-
nothing ?"
Anger crimsoned the inspector's ears. "What would you
say, old woman, if I arrested you?"
"It would be a great piece of injustice."
"Nevertheless, it is what will happen if you persist in re-
maining silent. I have an idea that a fortnight in Saint Lazare
would untie your tongue."
These words produced the effect of an electric shock on the
Widow Chupin. She suddenly ceased her hypocritical lamenta-
tions, rose, placed her hands defiantly on her hips, and poured
forth a torrent of invective upon Gevrol and his agents, accusing
them of persecuting her family ever since they had previously
arrested her son. a good-for-nothing fellow. Finally, she swore
that she was not afraid of prison, and would be only too glad
to end her days in jail beyond the reach of want.
At first the General tried to impose silence upon the terrible
termagant : but he soon discovered that he was powerless :
besides, all his subordinates were laughing. Accordingly he
turned his back upon her, and, advancing toward the murderer,
he said : "You. at least, will not refuse an explanation."
The man hesitated for a moment. "I have already said all
that I have to say," he replied, at last. "I have told you that
I am innocent ; and this woman and a man on the point of
death who was struck down by my hand, have both confirmed
my declaration. What more do you desire? When the judge
12 MONSIEUR LECOQ
questions me, I will, perhaps, reply; until then do not expect
another word from me."
It was easy to see that the fellow's resolution was irrevocable ;
and that he was not to be daunted by any inspector of police.
Criminals frequently preserve an absolute silence, from the
very moment they are captured. These men are experienced
and shrewd, and lawyers and judges pass many sleepless
nights on their account. They have learned that a system of
defense can not be improvised at once ; that it is, on the con-
trary, a work of patience and meditation ; and knowing what
a terrible effect an apparently insignificant response drawn from
them at the moment of detection may produce on a court of
justice, they remain obstinately silent. So as to see whether
the present culprit wa° an old hand or not, Gevrol was about
to insist on a full explanation when some one announced that
the soldier had just breathed his last.
"As that is so, my boys," the inspector remarked, "two of
you will remain here, and I will leave with the others. I
shall go and arouse the commissary of police, and inform him
of the affair ; he will take the matter in hand : and we can
then do whatever he commands. My responsibility will be
over, in any case. So untie our prisoner's legs and bind Mother
Chupin's hands, and we will drop them both at the station-
house as we pass."
The men hastened to obey, with the exception of the youngest
among them, the same who had won the General's passing praise.
He approached his chief, and motioning that he desired to speak
with him, drew him outside the door. When they were a few
steps from the house, Gevrol asked him what he wanted.
"I wish to know, General, what you think of this affair."
"I think, my boy, that four scoundrels encountered each
other in this vile den. They began to quarrel ; and from words
they came to blows. One of them had a revolver, and he killed
the others. It is as clear as daylight. According to his ante-
cedents, and according to the antecedents of the victims, the
assassin will be judged. Perhaps society owes him some
thanks."
"And you think that any investigation — any further search is
unnecessary."
"Entirely unnecessary."
The younger man appeared to deliberate for a moment. "It
seems to me, General," he at length replied, "that this affair
MONSIEUR LECOQ
18
is not perfectly clear. Have you noticed the murderer, re-
marked his demeanor, and observed his look ? Have you been
surprised as I have been — ?"
"By what?"
"Ah, well ! it seems to me — I may, of course, be mistaken — i
but I fancy that appearances are deceitful, and — Yes, I sus-
pect something."
"Bah ! — explain yourself, please."
"How can you explain the dog's faculty of scent?"
Gevrol shrugged his shoulders. "In short, he replied, "you
scent a melodrama here — a rendezvous of gentlemen in disguise,
here at the Poivriere, at Mother Chupin's house. Well, hunt
after the mystery, my boy; search all you like, you have my
permission."
"What! you will allow me?"
"I not only allow you, I order you to do it. You are going
to remain here with any one of your comrades you may select.
And if you find anything that I have not seen, I will allow you
to buy me a pair of spectacles."
'T'HE young police agent to whom Gevrol abandoned what he
*■ thought an unnecessary investigation was a debutant in his
profession. His name was Lecoq. He was some twenty-five
or twenty-six years of age, almost beardless, very pale, with
red lips, and an abundance of wavy black hair. He was rather
short but well proportioned; and each of his movements be-
trayed unusual energy. There was nothing remarkable about
his appearance, if we except his eyes, which sparkled brilliantly
or grew extremely dull, according to his mood; and his nose,
the large full nostrils of which had a surprising mobility.
The son of a respectable, well-to-do Norman family, Lecoq
had received a good and solid education. He was prosecuting
his law studies in Paris, when in the same week, blow following
blow, he learned that his father had died, financially ruined,
and that his mother had survived him only a few hours. He
x4 MONSIEUR LECOQ
was left alone in the world, destitute of resources, obliged to
earn his living. But how? He had an opportunity of learning
his true value, and found that it amounted to nothing; for the
university, on bestowing its diploma of bachelor, does not give
an annuity with it. Hence of what use is a college education
to a poor orphan boy? He envied the lot of those who, with a
trade at the ends of their fingers, could boldly enter the office
of any manufacturer, and say: "I would like to work." Such
men were working and eating. Lecoq sought bread by all
the methods employed by people who are in reduced circum-
stances ! Fruitless labor ! There are a hundred thousand peo-
ple in Paris who have seen better days. No matter ! He gave
proofs of undaunted energy. He gave lessons, and copied
documents for a lawyer. He made his appearance in a new
character almost every day, and left no means untried to earn
an honest livelihood. At last he obtained employment from a
well-known astronomer, the Baron Moser, and spent his days
in solving bewildering and intricate problems, at the rate of a
hundred francs a month.
But a season of discouragement came. After five years of
constant toil, he found himself at the same point from which
he had started. He was nearly crazed with rage and disappoint-
ment when he recapitulated his blighted hopes, his fruitless
efforts, and the insults he had endured. The past had been
sad, the present was intolerable, the future threatened to be
terrible. Condemned to constant privations, he tried to escape
from the horrors of his real life by taking refuge in dreams.
Alone in his garret, after a day of unremitting toil, assailed
by the thousand longings of youth, Lecoq endeavored to devise
some means of suddenly making himself rich. All reasonable
methods being beyond his reach, it was not long before he
was engaged in devising the worst expedients. In short, this
naturally moral and honest young man spent much of his time in
perpetrating — in fancy — the most abominable crimes. Sometimes
he himself was frightened by the work of his imagination: for
an hour of recklessness might suffice to make him pass from the
idea to the fact, from theory to practise. This is the case with
all monomaniacs; an hour comes in which the strange concep-
tions that have filled their brains can be no longer held in
check.
One day he could not refrain from exposing to his patron
a little plan he had conceived, which would enable him to obtain
MONSIEUR LECOQ 15
five or six hundred francs from London. Two letters and a
telegram were all that was necessary, and the game was won. It
was impossible to fail, and there was no danger of arousing
suspicion.
The astronomer, amazed at the simplicity of the plan, could
but admire it. On reflection, however, he concluded that it
would not be prudent for him to retain so ingenious a secretary
in his service. This was why, on the following day, he gave
him a month's pay in advance, and dismissed him, saying:
"When one has your disposition, and is poor, one may either
become a famous thief or a great detective. Choose."
Lecoq retired in confusion ; but the astronomer's words bore
fruit in his mind. "Why should I not follow good advice?" he
asked himself. Police service did not inspire him with re-
pugnance — far from it. He had often admired that mysterious
power whose hand is everywhere, and which, although unseen
and unheard, still manages to hear and see everything. He was
delighted with the prospect of being the instrument of such a
power. He considered that the profession of detective would
enable him to employ the talents with which he had been en-
dowed in a useful and honorable fashion ; besides opening out a
life of thrilling adventure with fame as its goal.
In short, this profession had a wonderful charm for him.
So much so, that on the following week, thanks to a letter
from Baron Moser, he was admitted into the service. A cruel
disenchantment awaited him. He had seen the results, but not
the means. His surprise was like that of a simple-minded
frequenter of the theatre, when he is admitted for the first
time behind the scenes, and is able to pry into the decorations
and tinsel that are so dazzling at a distance.
However, the opportunity for which he had so ardently
longed, for which he had been waiting during many weary
months, had come, he thought, at last, as he reached the
Poivriere with Gevrol and the other police agents. While he
was clinging to the window shutters he saw by the light of
his ambition a pathway to success. It was at first only a
presentiment, but it soon became a supposition, and then a con-
viction based upon actual facts, which had escaped his com-
panions, but which he had observed and carefully noted. He
recognized that fortune had, at last, turned in his favor when he
saw Gevrol neglect all but the merest formalities of examination,
and when he heard him declare peremptorily that this triple
16 MONSIEUR LECOQ
murder was merely the result of one of those ferocious quarrels
=;o frequent among vagrants in the outskirts of the city.
"Ah, well!" he thought; "have it your own way — trust in
appearances, since you will see nothing beneath them ! But
I will prove to you that my youthful theory is better than all
your experience."
The inspector's carelessness gave Lecoq a perfect right
to secretly seek information on his own account ; but by warn-
ing his superior officers before attempting anything on his
own responsibility, he would protect himself against any accusa-
tion of ambition or of unduly taking advantage of his comrade.
Such charges might prove most dangerous for his future
prospects in a profession where so much rivalry is seen, and
where wounded vanity has so many opportunities to avenge
itself by resorting to all sorts of petty treason. Accordingly,
he spoke to his superior officer — saying just enough to be able
to remark, in case of success: "Ah! I warned you!" — just
enough so as not to dispel any of Gevrol's doubts.
The permission which Lecoq obtained to remain in charge
of the bodies was his first triumph of the best possible augury;
but he knew how to dissimulate, and it was in a tone of the
utmost indifference that he requested one of his comrades to
remain with him. Then, while the others were making ready
to depart, he seated himself upon the corner of the table, ap-
parently oblivious of all that was passing around. He did not
dare to lift his head, for fear of betraying his joy, so much did
he fear that his companions might read his hopes and plans in
the expression of his face.
Inwardly he was wild with impatience. Though the murderer
submitted with good grace to the precautions that were taken
to prevent his escape, it required some time to bind the hands
of the Widow Chupin, who fought and howled as if they were
burning her alive. "They will never go !" Lecoq murmured
to himself.
They did so at last, however. Gevrol gave the order to start,
and left the house, addressing a laughing good-by to his sub-
ordinate. The latter made no reply. He followed his comrades
as far as the threshold to make sure that they were really going,
for he trembled at the thought that Gevrol might reflect, change
his mind, and return to solve the mystery, as was his right.
His anxiety was needless, however. The squad gradually
faded away in the distance, and the cries of Widow Chupin
MONSIEUR LECOQ 17
died away in the stillness of the night. It was only then that
Lecoq reentered the room. He could no longer conceal his
delight; his eyes sparkled as might those of a conqueror
taking possession of some vast empire : he stamped his foot
upon the floor and exclaimed with exultation : "Now the mys-
tery belongs to us two alone !"
Authorized by Gevrol to choose one of his comrades to remain
with him at the Poivriere, Lecoq had requested the least intel-
ligent of the party to keep him company. He was not influenced
by a fear of being obliged to share the fruits of success with
his companion, but by the necessity of having an assistant from
whom he could, in case of need, exact implicit obedience.
The comrade Lecoq selected was a man of about fifty, who,
after a term of cavalry service, had become an agent of the
prefecture. In the humble office that he occupied he had seen
prefect succeed prefect, and might probably have filled an
entire prison with the culprits he had arrested with his own
hands. Experience had not, however, made him any the
shrewder or any the more zealous. Still he had this merit,
when he received an order he executed it with military exacti-
tude, so far as he understood it. Of course if he had failed to
understand it, so much the worse. It might, indeed, be said of
him, that he discharged his duties like a blind man, like an
old horse trained for a riding school.
When he had a moment's leisure, and a little money in
his pocket, he invariably got drunk. Indeed, he spent his life
between two fits of intoxication, without ever rising above a
condition of semi-lucidity. His comrades had known, but had
forgotten, his name, and his partiality for a certain beverage
had accordingly induced them to call him "Father Absinthe."
With his limited powers of observation, he naturally did not
observe the tone of triumph in his young companion's voice.
"Upon my word," he remarked, when they were alone, "your
idea of keeping me here was a good one, and I thank you for
it. While the others spend the night paddling about in the
slush, I shall get a good sleep."
Here he stood, in a roo*m that was splashed with blood,
that was shuddering, so to speak, with crime, and yet face to
face with the still warm bodies of three murdered men he
could talk of sleep !
But, after all, what did it matter to him? He had seen so
many similar scenes in his time. And does not habit infallibly
18 MONSIEUR LECOQ
lead to professional indifference, making the soldier cool and
composed in the midst of conflict, and rendering the surgeon
impassible when the patient shrieks and writhes beneath his
operating knife.
"I have been upstairs, looking about," pursued Father
Absinthe ; "I saw a bed up there, and we can mount guard
here, by turns."
With an imperious gesture, Lecoq interrupted him. "You
must give up that idea. Father Absinthe," he said, "we are not
here to sleep, but to collect information — to make the most care-
ful researches, and to note all the probabilities. In a few hours
the commissary of police, the legal physician, and the public
prosecutor will be here. I wish to have a report ready for
them."
This proposition seemed anything but pleasing to the old police
agent. "Eh! what is the use of that?" he exclaimed. "I know
the General. When he goes in search of the commissary, as
he has gone this evening, there is nothing more to be done. Do
you think you can see anything that he didn't see?"
"I think that Gevrol, like every one else, is liable to be mis-
taken. I think that he believes too implicitly in what seems to
him evidence. I could swear that this affair is not what it seems
to be ; and I am sure that if we like we can discover the mystery
which is concealed beneath present appearances."
Although Lecoq's vehemence was intense, he did not succeed
in making any impression upon his companion, who with a yawn
that threatened to dislocate his jaws replied: "Perhaps you are
right; but I am going to bed. This need not prevent you from
searching around, however; and if you find anything you can
wake me."
Lecoq made no sign of impatience : nor in reality was he im-
patient. These words afforded him the opportunity for which
he was longing. "You will give me a moment first," he re-
marked. "In five minutes, by your watch, I promise to let you
put your finger on the mystery that I suspect here."
"Well, go on for five minutes."
"After that you shall be free, Father Absinthe. Only it is
clear that if I unravel the mystery alone, I alone ought to pocket
the reward that a solution will certainly bring."
At the word "reward" the old police agent pricked up his
ears. He was dazzled by the vision of an infinite number of
bottles of the greenish liquor whose name he bore. "Convince
MONSIEUR LECOQ 19
me, then," said he, taking a seat upon a stool, which he had
lifted from the floor.
Lecoq remained standing in front of him. "To begin with,"
he remarked, "whom do you suppose the person we have just
arrested to be?"
"A porter, probably, or a vagabond."
"That is to say, a man belonging to the lowest class of society :
consequently, a fellow without education."
"Certainly."
Lecoq spoke with his eyes fixed upon those of his companion.
He distrusted his own powers, as is usual with persons of real
merit, but he felt that if he could succeed in making his convic-
tions penetrate his comrade's obtuse mind, their exactitude would
be virtually proved.
"And now," he continued, "what would you say if I showed
you that this young man had received an excellent, even refined,
education ?"
"I should reply that it was very extraordinary. I should
reply that — but what a fool I am ! You have not proved it to
me yet."
"But I can do so very easily. Do you remember the words
that he uttered as he fell?"
"Yes, I remember them perfectly. He said: 'It is the Prus-
sians who are coming.' "
"What do you suppose he meant by that?"
"What a question ! I should suppose that he did not like the
Prussians, and that he supposed he was offering us a terrible
insult."
Lecoq was waiting anxiously for this response. "Ah, well;
Father Absinthe," he said gravely, "you are wrong, quite
wrong. And that this man has an education superior to his
apparent position is proved by the fact that you did not under-
stand his meaning, nor his intention. It was this single phrase
that enlightened me."
Father Absinthe's physiognomy expressed the strange and
comical perplexity of a man who is so thoroughly mystified
that he knows not whether to laugh, or to be angry. After
reflecting a little, he decided to adopt the latter course. "You
are rather too young to impose upon an old fellow like me,"
he remarked. "I don't like boasters — "
"One moment !" interrupted Lecoq ; "allow me to explain.
You have certainly heard of a terrible battle which resulted
20 MONSIEUR LECOQ
in one of the greatest defeats that ever happened to France —
the battle of Waterloo?"
"I don't see the connection — "
"Answer, if you please."
"Yes — then ! I have heard of it !"
"Very well ; you must know then that for some time victory
seemed likely to rest with the banners of France. The English
began to fall back, and the emperor already exclaimed: "We
have them !" when suddenly on the right, a little in the rear,
a large body of troops was seen advancing. It was the Prussian
army. The battle of Waterloo was lost."
In all his life, worthy Father Absinthe had never made
such a strenuous effort to understand anything. In this case his
perseverance was not wholly useless, for, springing from his
stool, and probably in much the same tone that Archimedes
cried "Eureka:" he exclaimed, "I understand. The man's
words were only an illusion."
"It is as you have said," remarked Lecoq, approvingly. "But
I had not finished. If the emperor was thrown into conster-
nation by the appearance of the Prussians, it was because he
was momentarily expecting the arrival of one of his own gen-
erals from the same direction — Grouchy — with thirty-five
thousand men. So if this man's allusion was exact and
complete, he was not expecting an enemy, but a friend. Now
draw your own conclusions."
Father Absinthe was amazed but convinced: and his eyes,
heavy with sleep a few moments before, now opened to their
widest extent. "Good heavens !" he murmured, "if you put
it in that way ! But I forget ; you must have seen something
as you were looking through the shutters."
The young man shook his head. "Upon my honor," he re-
clared, "I saw nothing save the struggle between the murderer
and the poor devil dressed as a soldier. It was that sentence
alone that aroused my attention."
"Wonderful ! prodigious !" exclaimed the astonished old man.
"I will add that reflection has confirmed my suspicions. I
ask myself why this man, instead of flying at once, should have
waited and remained there, at that door, to parley with us."
With a bound, Father Absinthe sprang again to his feet.
"Why?" he interrupted; "because he had accomplices, and he
wished to give them time to escape. Ah ! I understand it
all now."
MONSIEUR LECOQ
21
A triumphant smile parted Lecoq's lips. "That is what I
said to myself," he replied, "and now it is easy to verify my
suspicions. There is snow outside, isn't there?"
It was not necessary to say any more. The elder officer
seized the light, and followed by his companion, he hastened to
the back door of the house, which opened into a small garden.
In this sheltered enclosure the snow had not melted, and upon
its white surface the dark stains of numerous footprints pre-
sented themselves. Without hesitation, Lecoq threw himself
upon his knees in the snow ; he rose again almost immediately.
"These indentations were not made by the men's feet," said
he. "There have been women here."
/"OBSTINATE men of Father Absinthe's stamp, who are at
^r first always inclined to differ from other people's opinions,
are the very individuals who end in madly adopting them. When
an idea has at last penetrated their empty brains, they twist
and turn it, dwell upon it, and develop it until it exceeds the
the bounds of reason.
Hence, the police veteran was now much more strongly
convinced than his companion that the usually clever Gevrol
had been mistaken, and accordingly he laughed the inspector
to scorn. On hearing Lecoq affirm that women had taken part
in the horrible scene at the Poivriere, his joy was extreme —
"A fine affair!" he exclaimed; "an excellent case!" And sud-
denly recollecting a maxim that has been handed down from the
time of Cicero, he added in sententious tones: "Who holds
the woman holds the cause !"
Lecoq did not deign to reply. He was standing upon the
threshold, leaning against the framework of the door, his hand
pressed to his forehead, as motionless as a statue. The dis-
covery he had just made, and which so delighted Father Ab-
sinthe, filled him with consternation. It was the death of his
hopes, the annihilation of the ingenious structure which his
imagination had built upon the foundation of a single sentence.
22 MONSIEUR LECOQ
There was no longer any mystery — , so celebrity was not to
be gained by a brilliant stroke !
For the presence of two women in this vile den explained
everything in the most natural and commonplace fashion. Their
presence explained the quarrel, the testimony of Widow Chupin,
the dying declaration of the pretended soldier. The behavior
of the murderer was also explained. He had remained to
cover the retreat of the two women; he had sacrificed himself
in order to save them, an act of gallantry so common in the
French character, that any scoundrel of the barrieres might
have performed it.
Still, the strange allusion to the battle of Waterloo remained
unexplained. But what did that prove now? Nothing, simply
nothing. However, who could say how low an unworthy pas-
sion might cause a man even of birth and breeding to descend ?
And the carnival afforded an opportunity for the parties to
disguise themselves.
But while Lecoq was turning and twisting all these prob-
abilities in his mind, Father Absinthe became impatient. "Are
we going to remain here until doomsday?" he asked. "Are
we to pause just at the moment when our search has been pro-
ductive of such brilliant results?"
"Brilliant results !" These words stung the young man as
deeply as the keenest irony could have done. "Leave me alone,"
he replied gruffly; "and, above all, don't walk about the garden,
as by doing so, you'll damage any footprints."
His companion swore a little; but soon became silent in
his turn. He was constrained to submit to the irresistible as-
cendency of superior will and intelligence.
Lecoq was engaged in following out his course of reasoning.
"The murderer, leaving the ball at the Rainbow, a dancing-
house not far from here, near the fortifications, came to this
wine-shop, accompanied by two women. He found three men
drinking here, who either began teasing him, or who displayed
too much gallantry toward his companions. He became angry.
The others threatened him; he was one against three; he was
armed ; he became wild with rage, and fired — "
He checked himself, and an instant after added, aloud :
"But was it the murderer who brought these women here? If
he is tried, this will be the important point. It is necessary to
obtain information regarding it."
He immediately went back into the house, closely followed
MONSIEUR LECOQ 23
by his colleague, and began an examination of the footprints
round about the door that Gevrol had forced open. Labor lost.
There was but little snow on the ground near the entrance of
the hovel, and so many persons had passed in and out that
Lecoq could discover nothing. What a disappointment after
his patient hopes ! Lecoq could have cried with rage. He saw
the opportunity for which he had sighed so long indefinitely
postponed. He fancied he could hear Gevrol's coarse sarcasms.
"Enough of this," he murmured, under his breath. "The
General was right, and I am a fool !"
He was so positively convinced that one could do no more
than discover the circumstances of some commonplace, vulgar
broil, that he began to wonder if it would not be wise to re-
nounce his search and take a nap, while awaiting the coming
of the commissary of police.
But Father Absinthe was no longer of this opinion. This
worthy man, who was far from suspecting the nature of his
companion's reflections could not explain his inaction. "Come !
my boy," said he, "have you lost your wits? This is losing
time, it seems to me. The authorities will arrive in a few
hours, and what report shall we be able to give them ! As for
me, if you desire to go to sleep, I shall pursue the investigation
alone."
Disappointed as he was, the young police officer could not
repress a smile. He recognized his own exhortation of a few
moments before. It was the old man who had suddenly become
intrepid. "To work, then !" he sighed, like a man who, while
foreseeing defeat, wishes, at least, to have no cause for self-
reproach.
He found it, however, extremely difficult to follow the foot-
prints in the open air by the uncertain light of a candle, which
was extinguished by the least breath of wind. "I wonder if
there is a lantern in the house," he said. "If we could only
lay our hands upon one !"
They searched everywhere, and, at last, upstairs in the Widow
Chupin's own room, they found a well-trimmed lantern, so
small and compact that it certainly had never been intended for
honest purposes.
"A regular burglar's implement," said Father Absinthe, with
a coarse laugh.
The implement was useful in any case ; as both men agreed
when they returned to the garden and recommenced their in-
24 MONSIEUR LECOQ
vestigations systematically. They advanced very slowly and
with extreme caution. The old man carefully held the lantern
in the best position, while Lecoq, on his knees, studied each
footprint with the attention of a chiromancer professing to
read the future in the hand of a rich client. This new ex-
amination assured Lecoq that he had been correct in his first
supposition. It was plain that two women had left the Poi-
vriere by the back door. They had started off running, as was
proved by the length of the steps and the shape of the foot-
prints.
The difference in the tracks left by the two fugitives was
so remarkable that it did not escape Father Absinthe's eyes.
"Sapristi !" he muttered; "one of these jades can boast of
having a pretty foot at the end of her leg !"
He was right. One of the tracks betrayed a small, coquet-
tish, slender foot, clad in an elegant high-heeled boot with a
narrow sole and an arched instep. The other denoted a broad,
short foot growing wider toward the end. It had evidently
been incased in a strong, low shoe.
This was indeed a clue. Lecoq's hopes at once revived ; so
eagerly does a man welcome any supposition that is in accord-
ance with his desires. Trembling with anxiety, he went to
examine some other footprints a short distance from these ;
and an excited exclamation at once escaped his lips.
"What is it?" eagerly inquired the other agent: "what do
you see ?"
"Come and look for yourself, see there !" cried Lecoq.
The old man bent down, and his surprise was so great that
he almost dropped the lantern. "Oh !" said he in a stifled
voice, "a man's footprint !"
"Exactly. And this fellow wore the finest of boots. See
that imprint, how clear, how neat it is !"
Worthy Father Absinthe was scratching his ear furiously,
nis usual method of quickening his rather slow wits. "But it
seems to me," he ventured to say at last, "that this individual
was not coming from this ill-fated hovel."
"Of course not ; the direction of the foot tells you that. No,
he was not going away, he was coming here. But he did not
pass beyond the spot where we are now standing. He was
standing on tiptoe with outstretched neck and listening ears,
when, on reaching this spot, he heard some noise, fear seized
him, and he fled."
1— Vol. 1— Gab.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 25
"Or rather, the women were going out as he was coming,
and—"
"No, the women were outside the garden when he entered it."
This assertion seemed far too audacious to suit Lecoq's com-
panion, who remarked : "One can not be sure of that."
"I am sure of it, however ; and can p r ove it conclusively.
If you doubt it, it is because your eyes are growing old. Bring
your lantern a little nearer — yes, here it is — our man placed his
large foot upon one of the marks made by the woman with
the small foot and almost effaced it." This unexceptionable
piece of circumstantial evidence stupefied the old police agent.
"Now," continued Lecoq, "could this man have been the
accomplice whom the murderer was expecting? Might it not
have been some strolling vagrant whose attention was attracted
by the two pistol shots? This is what we must ascertain. And
we will ascertain it. Come !"
A wooden fence of lattice-work, rather more than three feet
high, was all that separated the Widow Chupin's garden from
the waste land surrounding it. When Lecoq made the circuit
of the house to cut off the murderer's escape he had encoun-
tered this obstacle, and, fearing lest he should arrive too late,
he had leaped the fence to the great detriment of his panta-
loons, without even asking himself if there was a gate or not.
There was one, however — a light gate of lattice-work similar
to the fence, turning upon iron hinges, and closed by a wooden
button. Now it was straight toward this gate that these foot-
prints in the snow led the two police agents. Some new
thought must have struck the younger man, for he suddenly
paused. "Ah !" he murmured, "these two women did not come
to the Poivriere this evening for the first time."
"Why do you think that, my boy?" inquired Father Absinthe.
"I could almost swear it. How, unless they were in the
habit of coming to this den, could they have been aware of the
existence of this gate ? Could they have discovered it on such
a dark, foggy night? No; for I, who can, without boasting,
say that I have good eyes — I did not see it."
"Ah ! yes, that is true !"
"These two women, however, came here without hesitating,
in a straight line ; and note that to do this, it was necessary for
them to cross the garden diagonally."
The veteran would have given something if he could have
found some objection to offer; but unfortunately he could find
z — Vol. i — Gab.
26 MONSIEUR LECOQ
none. "Upon my word !" he exclaimed, "yours is a droll way
of proceeding. You are only a conscript; I am a veteran in
the service, and have assisted in more affairs of this sort than
you are years old, but never have I seen — "
"Nonsense !" interrupted Lecoq, "you will see much more.
For example, I can prove to you that although the women
knew the exact position of the gate, the man knew it only by
hearsay."
"The proof !"
"The fact is easily demonstrated. Study the man's foot-
prints, and you, who are very sharp, will see at once that he
deviated greatly from the straight course. He was in such
doubt that he was obliged to search for the gate with his hand
stretched out before him — and his fingers have left their imprint
on the thin covering of snow that lies upon the upper railing
of the fence."
The old man would have been glad to verify this statement
for himself, as he said, but Lecoq was in a hurry. "Let us go
on, let us go on !" said he. "You can verify my assertions
some other time."
They left the garden and followed the footprints which led
them toward the outer boulevards, inclining somewhat in the
direction of the Rue de Patay. There was now no longer any
need of close attention. No one save the fugitives had crossed
this lonely waste since the last fall of snow. A child could
have followed the track, so clear and distinct it was. Four
series of footprints, very unlike in character, formed the track ;
two of these had evidently been left by the women ; the other
two, one going and one returning, had been made by the man.
On several occasions the latter had placed his foot exactly on
the footprints left by the two women, half effacing them, thus
dispelling all doubt as to the precise moment of his approach.
About a hundred yards from the Poivriere, Lecoq suddenly
seized his colleague's arm. "Halt !" he exclaimed, "we have
reached a good place ; I can see unmistakable proofs."
The spot, all unenclosed as it was, was evidently utilized
by some builder for the storage of various kinds of lumber.
The ground was strewn with large blocks of granite, some
chiseled, some in the rough, with numerous long planks and
logs of wood in their midst. In front of one of these logs, the
surface of which had been evidently wiped, all the various foot-
prints came together, mingling confusedly.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 27
"Here," declared the young detective, "our fugitives met the
man and took counsel with him. One of the women, the one
with the little feet, sat down upon this log."
"We ought to make quite sure of that," said Father Absinthe,
in an oracular tone.
But his companion cut short his desire for verification.
"You, my old friend," said he, "are going to do me the kind-
ness to keep perfectly still : pass me the lantern and do not
move."
Lecoq's modest tone had suddenly become so imperious that
his colleague dared offer no resistance. Like a soldier at the
command to halt, he remained erect, motionless, and mute, fol-
lowing his colleague's movements with an inquisitive, won-
dering eye.
Quick in his motions, and understanding how to maneuvre
the lantern in accordance with his wishes, the young police
agent explored the surroundings in a very short space of time.
A bloodhound in pursuit of his prey would have been less alert,
less discerning, less agile. He came and went, now turning,
now pausing, now retreating, now hurrying on again without
any apparent reason ; he scrutinized, he questioned every sur-
rounding object : the ground, the logs of wood, the blocks of
stone, in a word, nothing escaped his glance. For a moment
he would remain standing, then fall upon his knees, and at
times lie flat upon his stomach with his face so near the ground
that his breath must have melted the snow. He had drawn a
tape-line from his pocket, and using it with a carpenter's dex-
terity, he measured, measured, and measured.
And all his movements were accompanied with the wild
gestures of a madman, interspersed with oaths or short laughs,
with exclamations of disappointment or delight. After a quar-
ter of an hour of this strange exercise, he turned to Father
Absinthe, placed the lantern on a stone, wiped his hands with
his pocket-handkerchief, and said: "Now I know everything!"
"Well, that is saying a great deal !"
"When I say everything, I mean all that is connected with
the episode of the drama which ended in that bloody bout in
the hovel. This expanse of earth covered with snow is a white
page upon which the people we are in search of have written,
not only their movements, their goings, and comings, but also
their secret thoughts, their alternate hopes and anxieties. What
do these footprints say to you, Papa Absinthe? To me they
28 MONSIEUR LECOQ
are alive like the persons who made them; they breathe, speak,
accuse !"
The old agent was saying to himself: "Certainly, this fellow
is intelligent, undeniably shrewd; but he is very disagreeable."
"These are the facts as I have read them," pursued Lecoq.
"When the murderer repaired to the Poivriere with the two
women, his companion — I should say his accomplice — came here
to wait. He was a tall man of middle age ; he wore a soft hat
and a shaggy brown overcoat ; he was, moreover, probably mar-
ried, or had been so, as he had a wedding-ring on the little
finger of his right hand — "
His companion's despairing gestures obliged the speaker to
pause. This description of a person whose existence had but
just now been demonstrated, these precise details given in a
tone of absolute certainty, completely upset all Father Ab-
sinthe's ideas, increasing his perplexity beyond all bounds.
"This is not right," he growled, "this is not kind. You are
poking fun at me. I take the thing seriously; I listen to you,
I obey you in everything, and then you mock me in this way.
We find a clue, and instead of following it up, you stop to
relate all these absurd stories."
"No," replied his companion, "I am not jesting, and I have
told you nothing of which I am not absolutely sure, nothing
that is not strictly and indisputably true."
"And you would have me believe — "
"Fear nothing, papa; I would not have you do violence to
your convictions. When I have told you my reasons, and my
means of information, you will laugh at the simplicity of the
theory that seems so incomprehensible to you now."
"Go on, then," said the good man, in a tone of resignation.
"We had decided," rejoined Lecoq, "that the accomplice
mounted guard here. The time seemed long, and, growing im-
patient, he paced to and fro — the length of this log of wood —
occasionally pausing to listen. Hearing nothing, he stamped
his foot, doubtless exclaiming: 'What the deuce has happened
to him down there! He had made about thirty turns (I have
counted them), when a sound broke the stillness — the two
women were coming."
On hearing Lecoq's recital, all the conflicting sentiments that
are awakened in a child's mind by a fairy tale — doubt, faith,
anxiety, and hope — filled Father Absinthe's heart. What should
he believe? what should he refuse to believe? He did not
MONSIEUR LECOQ 29
know. How was he to separate the true from the false among
all these equally surprising assertions? On the other hand, the
gravity of his companion, which certainly was not feigned, dis-
missed all idea of pleasantry.
Finally, curiosity began to torture him. "We had reached the
point where the women made their appearance," said he.
"Yes, indeed," responded Lecoq, "but here all certainty
ceases ; no more proofs, only suppositions. Still, I have every
reason to believe that our fugitives left the drinking den before
the beginning of the fight, before the cries that attracted our
attention. Who were they? I can only conjecture. I suspect,
however, that they were not equals in rank. I am inclined to
think that one was the mistress, the other her servant."
"That is proved," ventured the old man, "by the great dif-
ference in their feet and in their shoes."
This shrewd observation elicited a smile from Lecoq. "That
difference," he replied, seriously, "is something, of course; but
it was not that which decided me in my opinion. If greater or
less perfection of the extremities regulated social distinctions,
many mistresses would be servants. What struck me was this :
When the two women rushed wildly from Mother Chupin's
house, the woman with the small feet sprang across the garden
with one bound, she darted on some distance in advance of the
other. The terror of the situation, the vileness of the den, the
horror of the scandal, the thought of safety, inspired her with
marvelous energy. But her strength, as often happens with
delicate and nervous women, lasted only a few seconds. She
was not half-way from the Poivriere when her speed relaxed,
her limbs trembled. Ten steps farther on she tottered and
almost fell. Some steps farther, and she became so exhausted
that she let go her hold upon her skirts ; they trailed upon the
snow, tracing a faint circle there. Then the woman with the
broad feet came to aid her. She seized her companion round
the waist; she dragged her along; their footprints here are
mingled confusedly; then, seeing that her friend was about to
fall, she caught her up in her strong arms and carried her —
for you will see that the footprints made by the woman with
the small feet suddenly cease at this point."
Was Lecoq merely amusing himself by inventing this story?
Was this scene anything but a work of imagination? Was the
accent of deep and sincere conviction which he imparted to
his words only feigned?
30 MONSIEUR LECOQ
Father Absinthe was still in doubt, but he thought of a way
in which he might satisfy his uncertainty. He caught up the
lantern and hurried off to examine these footprints which he
had not known how to read, which had been speechless to him,
but which yielded their secret to another. He was obliged to
agree with his companion. All that Lecoq had described was
written there ; he saw the confused footprints, the circle made
by the sweeping skirts, the cessation of the tiny imprints.
On his return, his countenance betrayed a respectful and
astonished admiration, and it was with a shade of embarrass-
ment that he said : "You can scarcely blame an old man for
being a little like St. Thomas. T have touched it with my
fingers,' and now I am content to follow you."
The young police agent could not, indeed, blame his col-
league for his incredulity. Resuming his recital, he continued :
"Then the accomplice, who had heard the fugitives coming, ran
to meet them, and he aided the woman with large feet in carry-
ing her companion. The latter must have been really ill, for
the accomplice took off his hat and used it in brushing the snow
off this log. Then, thinking the surface was not yet dry
enough, he wiped it with the skirt of his overcoat. Were these
civilities pure gallantry, or the usual attentions of an inferior?
I have asked myself that question. This much, however, is
certain, while the woman with the small feet was recovering
her strength, half reclining upon this board, the other took the
accomplice a little on one side, five or six steps away to the
left, just beside that enormous block of granite. There she
talked with him, and, as he listened, the man leaned upon the
snow-covered stone. His hand left a very distinct imprint there.
Then, as the conversation continued, he rested his elbow upon
the snowy surface."
Like all men of limited intelligence, Father Absinthe had
suddenly passed from unreasoning distrust to unquestioning
confidence. Henceforth, he could believe anything for the very
same reason that had, at first, made him believe nothing. Hav-
ing no idea of the bounds of human reasoning and penetration,
he saw no limits to the conjectural genius of his companion.
With perfect faith, therefore, he inquired: "And what was the
accomplice saying to the woman with the broad shoes?"
Lecoq smiled at this simplicity, but the other did not see him
do so. "It is rather difficult for me to answer that question,"
replied the young detective, "I think, however, that the woman
MONSIEUR LECOQ 31
was explaining to the man the immensity and imminence of the
danger that threatened his companion, and that they were try-
ing to devise some means to rescue him from it. Perhaps she
brought him orders given by the murderer. It is certain that
she ended by beseeching the accomplice to run to the Poivriere
and see what was passing there. And he did so, for his tracks
start from this block of granite."
"And only to think," exclaimed Father Absinthe, "that we
were in the hovel at that very moment. A word from Gevrol,
and we might have had handcuffs on the whole gang ! How
unfortunate !"
Lecoq was not sufficiently disinterested to share his com-
panion's regret. On the contrary, he was very thankful for
Gevrol's blunder. Had it not been for that, how would he ever
have found an opportunity of investigating an affair that grew
more and more mysterious as his search proceeded, but which
he hoped to fathom finally.
"To conclude," he resumed, "the accomplice soon returned,
he had witnessed the scene, and was evidently afraid. He
feared that the thought of exploring the premises might enter
the minds of the police. It was to the lady with small feet
that he addressed himself. He explained the necessity of
flight, and told her that even a moment's delay might be fatal.
At his words, she summoned all her energy; she rose and has-
tened away, clinging to the arm of her companion. Did the
man indicate the route they were to take, or did they know it
themselves? This much is certain, he accompanied them some
distance, in order to watch over them. But besides protecting
these women, he had a still more sacred duty to perform — that
of succoring his accomplice, if possible. He retraced his steps,
passed by here once more, and the last footprint that I can dis-
cover leads in the direction of the Rue du Chateau des Ren-
tiers. He wished to know what would become of the mur-
derer, and went to place himself where he might see him pass
by with his captors.
Like a dilettante who can scarcely restrain his applause until
the close of the aria that delights him, Father Absinthe had
been unable during the recital to entirely suppress his admira-
tion. But it was not until Lecoq ceased speaking that he gave
full vent to his enthusiasm : "Here is a detective if you like !"
he exclaimed. "And they pretend that Gevrol is a shrewd!
What has he ever done to compare with this? Ah! shall I
32
MONSIEUR LECOQ
tell you what I think ? Why, in comparison with you, the Gen-
eral is a more John the Baptist."
Certainly the flattery was gross, but it was impossible to
doubt its sincerity. This was the first time that the balmy
dew of praise had fallen upon Lecoq's vanity, and it greatly
delighted him, although he modestly replied : "Nonsense, you
are too kind, papa. After all, what have I done that is so very
clever? I told you that the man was of middle age. It was
not difficult to see that after one had examined his heavy, drag-
ging step. I told you that he was tall — an easy matter. When
I saw that he had been leaning upon that block of granite there
to the left, I measured the block in question. It is almost five
feet five inches in height, consequently a man who could rest
his elbow upon it must be at least six feet high. The mark of
his hand proves that I am not mistaken. On seeing that he
had brushed away the snow which covered the plank, I asked
myself what he had used ; I thought that it might be his cap,
and the mark left by the peak proves that I was right. Finally,
if I have discovered the color and the material of his overcoat,
it is only because when he wiped the wet board, some splinters
of the wood tore off a few tiny flakes of brown wool, which I
have found, and which will figure in the trial. But what does
this amount to, after all? Nothing. We have only discovered
the first clues of the affair. Still, we are on the right scent
— so, forward then !"
The old officer was electrified, and, like an echo, he repeated :
"Forward !"
HP HAT night the vagabonds, who had taken refuge in the
•*■ neighborhood of the Poivriere, had a very bad time of it ;
for while those who managed to sleep were disturbed by fright-
ful dreams of a police raid, those who remained awake witnessed
some strange incidents, well calculated to fill their minds with
terror. On hearing the shots fired inside Mother Chupin's
drinking den, most of the vagrants concluded that there had
MONSIEUR LECOQ 83
been a collision between the police and some of their com-
rades, and they immediately began prowling about, eagerly lis-
tening and watching, and ready to take flight at the least sign
of danger. At first they could discover no particular reasons
for alarm. But later on. at about two o'clock in the morning,
just as they were beginning to feel secure again, the fog lifted
a little, and they witnessed a phenomenon well calculated to
arouse anxiety.
Upon the unoccupied tract of land, which the people of the
neighborhood called the "plain," a small but very bright light
was seen describing the most capricious evolutions. It moved
here and there without any apparent aim, tracing the most
inexplicable zigzags, sometimes sinking to the earth, sometimes
rising to a height of four or five feet, at others remaining quite
motionless, and the next second flying off like a ball. In spite
of the place and the season of the year, the less ignorant
among vagabonds believed the light to be some ignis fatuus. one
of those luminous meteors that raise from the marshes and float
about in the atmosphere at the bidding of the wind. In point of
fact, however, this ignis fatuus was the lantern by the light of
which the two police agents were pursuing their investigations.
After thus suddenly revealing his capacity to his first dis-
ciple, Lecoq found himself involved in a cruel perplexity. He
had not the boldness and promptness of decision which is the
gift of a prosperous past, and was hesitating between two
courses, both equally reasonable, and both offering strong proba-
bilities of success. He stood between two paths, that made by
the two women on the one side, and that made by the accom-
plice on the other. Which should he take? For he could not
hope to follow both. Seated upon the log where the women
had rested a few moments before, with his hand pressed upon
his forehead, he reflected and weighed the chances.
"If I follow the man I shall learn nothing that I do not know
already. He has gone to hover round the party; he has fol-
lowed them at a distance, he has seen them lock up his accom-
plice, and he is undoubtedly prowling round about the station
house. If I hurried in pursuit, could I hope to overtake and
capture him? No; too long a time has elapsed."
Father Absinthe listened to this monologue with intense curi-
osity, as anxious as an unsophisticated person who, having
questioned a clairvoyant in regard to some lost articles, is
waiting the oracle's response.
54 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"To follow the women," continued the young man, "to what
would that lead? Perhaps to an important discovery, perhaps
to nothing."
However, he preferred the unknown, which, with all its
chances of failure, had chances of success as well. He rose,
his course was decided.
"Father Absinthe," said he, "we are going to follow the
footprints of these two women, and wherever they lead us we
will go."
Inspired with equal ardor they began their walk. At the
end of the path upon which they had entered they fancied they
observed, as in some magic glass, the one the fruits, the other
the glory of success. They hurried forward. At first it was
only play to follow the distinct footprints that led toward the
Seine. But it was not long before they were obliged to proceed
more slowly.
On leaving the waste ground they arrived at the outer limits
of civilization, so to speak; and strange footprints mingled
constantly with the footprints of the fugitives, at times even
effacing them. In many spots, either on account of exposure
or the nature of the soil, the thaw had completed its work,
and there were large patches of ground entirely free from
snow. In such cases they lost the trail, and it required all
Lecoq's sagacity and all his companion's good-will to find it
again.
On such occasions Father Absinthe planted his cane in the
earth, near the last footprint that had been discovered, and
Lecoq and himself hunted all over the ground around this
point, much after the fashion of a couple of bloodhounds thrown
off the scent. Then it was that the lantern moved about so
strangely. More than a dozen times, in spite of all their efforts,
they would have lost the clue entirely had it not been for the
elegant shoes worn by the lady with the little feet. These had
such small and extremely high heels that the impression they
left could not be mistaken. They sank down three or four
inches in the snow, or the mud, and their tell-tale impress
remained as clear and distinct as that of a seal.
Thanks to these heels, the pursuers were able to discover
that the two fugitives had not gone up the Rue de Patay, as
might have been supposed. Probably they had considered this
street too frequented, and too well lighted. They had only
crossed it, just below the Rue de la Croix-Rouge, and had
MONSIEUR LECOQ 35
profited by an empty space between two houses to regain the
open ground.
"Certainly these women were well acquainted with the local-
ity," murmured Lecoq.
Indeed, the topography of the district evidently had no secrets
for them, for, on quitting the Rue de Patay, they had imme-
di?tely turned to the right, so as to avoid several large excava-
tions, from which a quantity of brick clay had been dug.
But at last the trail was recovered, and the detectives fol-
lowed it as far as the Rue du Chevaleret. Here the footprints
abruptly ceased. Lecoq discovered eight or ten footmarks left
by the woman who wore the broad shoes, but that was all.
Hereabout, moreover, the condition of the ground was not cal-
culated to facilitate an exploration of this nature. There had
been a great deal of passing to and fro in the Rue du Cheva-
leret, and not merely was there scarcely any snow left on the
footpaths, but the middle of the street was transformed into a
river of slush.
"Did these people recollect at last that the snow might betray
them? Did they take the middle of the road?" grumbled the
young police agent.
Certainly they could not have crossed to a vacant space as
they had done just before, for on the other side of the street
extended a long factory wall.
"Ah !" sighed Father Absinthe, "we have our labor for our
pains."
But Lecoq possessed a temperament that refused to acknowl-
edge defeat. Animated by the cold anger of a man who sees
the object which he was about to seize disappear from before
his eyes, he recommenced his search, and was well repaid for
his efforts.
"I understand !" he cried suddenly, "I comprehend — I see !"
Father Absinthe drew near. He did not see nor divine any-
thing ! but he no longer doubted his companion's powers.
"Look there," said Lecoq ; "what are those marks ?"
"Marks left by the wheels of some carriage that plainly
turned here."
"Very well, papa, these tracks explain everything. When
they reached this spot, our fugitives saw the light of an ap-
proaching cab, which was returning from the centre of Paris.
It was empty, and proved their salvation. They waited, and
when it came nearer they hailed the driver. No doubt they
36 MONSIEUR LECOQ
promised him a handsome fare; this is indeed evident, since he
consented to go back again. He turned round here ; they got
into the vehicle, and that is why the footprints go no further."
This explanation did not please Lecoq's companion. "Have
we made any great progress now that we know that ?" he asked.
Lecoq could not restrain an impulse to shrug his shoulders.
"Did you expect that the tracks made by the fugitives would
lead us through Paris and up to their verv doors ?" he asked.
"Xo; but—"
"Then what would you ask more? Do you think that I
shall not know how to find this driver to-morrow? He was
returning with his empty vehicle, his day's work was ended;
hence, his stable is in the neighborhood. Do you suppose that
he will have forgotten that he took up two persons in the Rue
du Chevaleret? He will tell us where he drove them; but that
will not do us any good, for, of course, they will not have given
him their real address. But at all events he can probably give
us a description of them, tell us how they were dressed, describe
their appearance, their manner, and their age. And with that,
and what we already know — "
An eloquent gesture expressed the remainder of his thought,
then he added: "We must now go back to the Poivriere, and
go quickly. And you, my friend, may now extinguish your
lantern."
While doing his best to keep pace with his companion, who
was in such haste to get back to the Poivriere that he almost
ran, Father Absinthe's thoughts were as busy as his legs, and
an entirely new train of ideas was awakened in his mind.
During the twenty-five years that he had been connected
with the police force, the good man — to use his own expression
— had seen many of his colleagues walk over him and win,
after only a few months' work, a promotion that his long years of
service had not gained for him. In these cases he had not failed
to accuse his superiors of injustice, and his fortunate rivals of
gross flattery. In his opinion, seniority was the only claim to
advancement — the only, the best, the most respectable claim ;
and he was wont to sum up all his opinions, all his grief and
bitterness of mind in one phrase : "It is infamous to pass over
an old member of the service."
To-night, however, Father Absinthe discovered that there
is something else in the world besides seniority, and sufficient
reasons for what he had formerly regarded as favoritism. He
MONSIEUR LECOQ 37
sec ret ly confessed that this newcomer whom he had treated so
carelessly had just followed up a clue as he. veteran though he
was, would never have succeeded in doing.
But communing with himself was not this good man's forte ;
he soon grew weary of reflection ; and on reaching a place
where they were obliged to proceed more slowly on account
of the badness of the road, he deemed it a favorable opportu-
nity to resume the conversation. "You are silent, comrade,"
he ventured to remark, "and one might swear that you were
not exactly pleased."
This surprising result of the old man's reflections would have
amazed Lecoq, if his mind had not been a hundred leagues
away. "No, I am not pleased," he responded.
''And whv. prav? Onlv ten minutes ago vou were as gav as
a lark."
"Then I did not see the misfortune that threatens us."
"A misfortune!"
"A very great misfortune. Do you not perceive that the
weather has undesirably changed. It is evident that the wind
is now coming from the south. The fog has disappeared, but
the sky is cloudy and threatening. It will rain in less than
an hour."
"A few drops are falling now; I just felt one."
These words produced on Lecoq much the same effect as a
whip-up on a spirited horse. He sprang forward, and, adopting
a still more hurried pace, exclaimed: "Let us make haste! let
us make haste !"
The old police agent followed him as in duty bound; but his
mind was. if possible, still more troubled by the replies of his
young companion. A great misfortune ! The wind from the
south ! Rain ! He did not. he could not see the connection.
Greatly puzzled, and not a little anxious. Father Absinthe
asked for an explanation, although he had but little more
breath than was absolutely necessary to enable him to continue
the forced march he was making. "Upon my word," said he,
"I have racked my brains — "
His companion took pity on his anxiety. "What !" he ex-
claimed, as he still hastened forward, "you do not understand
that our investigation, my success, and your reward, are de-
pendent upon those black clouds which the wind is driving
toward us !"
"Oh r
38 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"Twenty minutes of merely gentle rain, and our time and
labor will be lost. If it rains, the snow will melt, and then
farewell to our proofs. Let us get on — let us get on more
quickly ! You know very well that in such cases words don't
suffice. If we declare to the public prosecutor that we have
seen these footprints, he will ask, where? And what can we
say? If we swear by all the gods that we have seen the foot-
prints of a man and of two women, the investigating magis-
trate will say, 'Let me see them.' And who will feel sheepish
then? Father Absinthe and Lecoq. Besides, Gevrol would not
fail to declare that we were saying what was not true, in order
to enhance our own value, and humiliate him."
"What an idea !"
"Faster, papa, faster; you will have all day to-morrow to be
indignant. Perhaps it will not rain. In that case, these per-
fect, clear, and easily recognizable footprints will prove the
culprits' ruin. How can we preserve them? By what process
could we solidify them? I would deluge them with my blood
if that could only cause them to congeal."
Father Absinthe was just then thinking that his share of the
labor had hitherto been the least important; for he had merely
held the lantern. But here was a chance for him to acquire
a real and substantial right to the prospective reward. "I
know a method," said he, "by which one could preserve these
marks in the snow."
At these words the younger man stopped short. "You know
— you?" he interrupted.
"Yes, I know," replied the old detective, with the evident
satisfaction of a man who has gained his revenge. "They
invented a way at the time of that affair at the Maison Blanche,
last December."
"I recollect."
"Ah ! well, on the snow in the courtyard there was a foot-
print that attracted a detective's attention. He said that the
whole evidence depended on that mark alone, that it was
worth more than ten years' hard work in following up the
case. Naturally, he desired to preserve it. They sent for a
great chemist — "
"Go on, go on."
"I have never seen the method put into prastise, but an expert
told me all about it, and showed me the mold they obtained.
He explained it to me precisely, on account of my profession."
MONSIEUR LECOQ 39
Lecoq was trembling with impatience. "And how did they
obtain the mold?" he asked abruptly.
"Wait: I was just going to explain. They take some of the
best gelatine, and allow it to soak in cold water. When it
becomes thoroughly softened, they heat it until it forms a
liquid, of moderate consistency. Then when it is just cool
enough, they pour a nice little covering of it upon the foot-
print.
Lecoq felt the irritation that is natural to a person who has
just heard a bad joke, or who has lost his time in listening to
a fool.
"Enough !" he interrupted, angrily. "That method can be
found in all the manuals. It is excellent, no doubt, but how can
it serve us? Have you any gelatine about you?"
"No."
"Nor have I. You might as well have counseled me to pour
melted lead upon the footprints to fix them."
They continued their way, and five minutes later, without
having exchanged another word, they reentered the Widow
Chupin's hovel. The first impulse of the older man would have
been to rest to breathe, but Lecoq did not give him time to
do so.
"Make haste: get me a dish — a plate — anything!" cried the
young detective, "and bring me some water; gather together
all the boards and old boxes you can find lying about."
While his companion was obeying him, Lecoq armed him-
self with a fragment of one of the broken bottle's, and began
scraping away furiously at the plastered wall that separated
the two rooms.
His mind disconcerted at first by the imminence of this
unexpected catastrophe, a fall of rain, had now regained
its equilibrium. He had reflected, he had thought of a way
by which failure might possibly be averted — and he hoped for
ultimate success. When he had accumulated some seven or
eight handfuls of fine plaster dust, he mixed one-half with a
little water so as to form a thin paste, leaving the rest un-
touched on the side of the plate.
"Now, papa," said he, "come and hold the light for me."
When in the garden, the young man sought for the deepest
and most distinct of the footprints, knelt beside it, and began
his experiment, trembling with anxiety. He first sprinkled
upon the impression a fine coating of dry plaster, and then
40
MONSIEUR LECOQ
upon this coating, with infinite care, he poured his liquid solu-
tion drop by drop.
What luck ! the experiment was successful ! The plaster
united in a homogeneous mass, forming a perfect model of the
impression. Thus, after an hour's labor, Lecoq possessed half
a dozen of these casts, which might, perhaps, be a little wanting
in clearness of outline, but which were quite perfect enough
to be used as evidence.
The young detective's alarm had been well founded, for it
was already beginning to rain. Still, he had plenty of time to
cover a number of the footprints with the boxes and pieces of
board which Father Absinthe had collected, thus placing them,
as it were, beyond the reach of a thaw. Now he could breathe.
The authorities might come, for the most important part of his
task was completed.
IT was some distance from the Poivriere to the Rue de
■*■ Chevaleret, even by way of the plain, and fully four hours
had been occupied by Lecoq and his colleague in collecting
their elements of information.
All this while, the Widow Chupin's abode had remained
open, accessible to any chance visitor. Still, when, on his
return, the young police agent remembered this neglect of ele-
mentary precautions, he did not feel alarmed. Considering all
the circumstances, it was very difficult to believe that any seri-
ous harm could have resulted from this carelessness.
For who would have been likely to visit this drinking-den
after midnight? Its bad name served the purpose of a bul-
wark. The most daring vagrants did not drink there without
some disquietude, fearing that if the liquor caused them to lose
consciousness, they might be robbed or perhaps even mur-
dered. Hence, if any one had been attracted to this notori-
ously dangerous drinking-shop by the light that streamed
through the open door, it could only have been some very
reckless person returning late at night from the ball at the
MONSIEUR LECOQ 41
Rainbow, with a few so^us left in his pocket. But, even then,
a single glance inside would have sufficed to put the bravest
to flight.
In less than a second the young police agent had weighed
all these possibilities, concerning which he did not breathe a
word to Father Absinthe. When, little by little, the excite-
ment caused by his successive hopes and disappointments, and
by the accomplishment of the experiment with the footprints
had died away, and he had regained his usual calm of mind,
he made a careful inspection of the abode, and was by no means
satisfied with himself. He had experimented upon Father Ab-
sinthe with his new system of investigation, just as an aspiring
orator tries his powers before his least gifted friends, not
before the cleverest. He had certainly overwhelmed the old
veteran by his superiority; he had literally crushed him. But
what great merit, what wonderful victory was this? Why
should he boast of having outwitted Father Absinthe, one of
the least sagacious men in the service?
If he could only have given some startling proofs of his
energy or of his penetration ! But, after all, what had he
accomplished? Was the mystery solved? Was his success
more than problematical? When one thread is drawn out, the
skein is not untangled. This night would undoubtedly decide
his future as a detective, so he swore that if he could not
conquer his vanity, he would, at least, compel himself to con-
ceal it. Hence, it was in a very modest tone that he said to his
companion : "We have done all that we can do outside, now,
would it not be wise to busy ourselves with the inside of
the house ?"
Everything looked exactly in the same state as when the two
men left the room. A candle, with a charred smoking wick,
cast its flickering light upon the same scene of disorder, reveal-
ing to view the rigid features of the three victims. Without
losing a moment, Lecoq began to pick up and study the vari-
ous objects scattered over the floor. Some of these still re-
mained intact. The Widow Chupin had recoiled from the
expense of a tiled floor, judging the bare ground upon which
the cabin was built quite good enough for the feet of her cus-
tomers. This ground, which must originally have been well
beaten down, had, by constant use and damp, become well-
nigh as muddy as the soil outside.
The first fruits of Lecoq's search were a large salad-bowl
42 MONSIEUR LECOQ
and a big iron spoon, the latter so twisjed and bent that it had
evidently been used as a weapon during the conflict. On in-
specting the bowl, it became evident that when the quarrel
began the victims were regaling themselves with the familiar
mixture of water, wine, and sugar, known round about the
barrieres as vin a la Franqaise. After the salad-bowl, the two
men picked up five of the weighty glasses ordinarily used in
wine-shops, and which, while looking as though they would
contain half a bottle, are in point of fact so thick at the bottom
that they hold next to nothing. Three of these glasses were
broken, two were whole. All of them had contained wine — the
same vin a la Franqaise. This was plain, but for greater surety,
Lecoq applied his tongue to the bluish mixture remaining in the
bottom of each glass. "The deuce !" he muttered, with an aston^
ished air.
Then he examined successively the surfaces of the three over-
turned tables. Upon one of these, the one nearest the fireplace
and the window, the still wet marks of the five glasses, of the
salad-bowl, and even of the spoons could be distinguished.
Lecoq very properly regarded this circumstance as a matter of
the greatest importance, for it proved clearly enough that five
persons had emptied the salad-bowl in company. Who were
these five persons?
"Oh! oh!" suddenly exclaimed lecoq in two entirely dif-
ferent tones. "Then the two women could not have been with
the murderer !"
A very simple mode of discovery had presented itself to his
mind. It was to ascertain if there were any other glasses, and
what they had contained. After a fresh search on the floor, a
sixth glass was found, similar in form to the others, but much
smaller. Its smell showed that it had contained brandy. Then
these two women had not been with the murderer, and there-
fore he could not have fought because the other men had in-
sulted them. This discovery proved the inaccuracy of Lecoq's
original suppositions. It was an unexpected check, and he was
mourning over it in silence, when Father Absinthe, who had
not ceased ferreting about, uttered a cry of surprise.
The young man turned; he saw that his companion had be-
come very pale. "What is it?" he asked.
"Some one has been here in our absence."
"Impossible !"
It was not impossible — it was true. When Gevrol had torn
MONSIEUR LECOQ 43
the apron off Widow Chupin's head he had thrown it upon the
steps of the stairs; neither of the police agents had since
touched it. And yet the pockets of this apron were now turned
inside out; this was a proof, this was evidence. At this dis-
covery Lecoq was overcome with consternation, and the con-
traction of his features revealed the struggle going on in his
mind. "Who could have been here?" he murmured. "Rob-
bers? That is improbable."
Then, after a long silence which his companion took good
care not to interrupt, he added : "The person who came here,
who dared to penetrate into this abode and face the corpses of
these murdered men — this person could have been none other
than the accomplice. But it is not enough to suspect this, it is
necessary to know it. I must — I will know it !"
They searched for a long time, and it was not until after an
hour of earnest work that, in front of the door forced open by
the police, they discovered in the mud, just inside the marks
made by Gevrol's tread, a footprint that bore a close resem-
blance to those left by the man who had entered the garden.
They compared the impressions and recognized the same
designs formed by the nails upon the sole of the boot.
"It must have been the accomplice !" exclaimed Lecoq. "He
watched us, he saw us go away, and then he entered. But
why? What pressing, irresistible necessity made him decide
to brave such imminent danger?" He seized his companion's
hand, nearly crushing it in his excitement : "Ah ! I know why !"
continued he, violently. "I understand only too well. Some
article that would have served to throw light on this horrible
affair had been left or forgotten, or lost here, and to obtain it,
to find it, he decided to run this terrible risk. And to think
that it was my fault, my fault alone, that this convincing proof
escaped us ! And I thought myself so shrewd ! What a lesson !
The door should have been locked ; any fool would have
thought of it — " Here he checked himself, and remained with
open mouth and distended eyes, pointing with his finger to one
of the corners of the room.
"What is the matter?" asked his frightened companion.
Lecoq made no reply, but slowly, and with the stiff move-
ments of a somnambulist, he approached the spot to which he
had pointed, stooped, picked up something, and said : "My folly
is not deserving of such luck."
The object he had found was an earring composed of a
44 MONSIEUR LECOQ
single large diamond. The setting was of marvelous work-
manship. "This diamond," declared Lecoq, after a moment's
examination, "must be worth at least five or six thousand
francs."
"Are you in earnest?"
"I think I could swear to it."
He would not have troubled about such a preamble as "I
think" a few hours before, but the blunder he had made was
a lesson that would not be forgotten so long as he lived.
"Perhaps it was that same diamond earring that the accom-
plice came to seek," ventured Father Absinthe.
"The supposition is scarcely admissible. In that case, he
would not have sought for it in Mother Chupin's apron. No,
he must have been seeking for something else — a letter, for
example."
The older man was not listening; he had taken the earring,
and was examining it in his turn. "And to think," he mur-
mured, astonished by the brilliancy of the stone, "to think that
a woman who had ten thousand francs' worth of jewels in her
ears would have come to the Poivriere. Who would have
believed it?"
Lecoq shook his head thoughtfully. "Yes, it is very strange,
very improbable, very absurd. And yet we shall see many
things quite as strange if we ever arrive — which I very much
doubt — at a solution of this mysterious affair."
Day was breaking, cold, cheerless, and gloomy, when Lecoq
and his colleague concluded their investigation. There was not
an inch of space that had not been explored, carefully examined
and studied, one might almost say, with a magnifying glass.
There now only remained to draw up the report.
The younger man seated himself at the table, and, with the
view of making his recital as intelligible as possible, he began
by sketching a plan of the scene of the murder.
It will be seen that in the memoranda appended to this ex-
planatory diagram, Lecoq had not once written his own name.
In noting the things that he had imagined or discovered, he
referred to himself simply as one of the police. This was not
so much modesty as calculation. By hiding one's self on well-
chosen occasions, one gains greater notoriety when one emerges
from the shade. It was also through cunning that he gave
Gevrol such a prominent position. These tactics, rather subtle,
perhaps, but after all perfectly fair, could not fail to call atten-
MONSIEUR LECOQ
45
X. — The point where the squad of police, under the command of Inspector
Gevrol, heard the cries of the victims.
(The distance from this point to the wine-shop known as the Poivriere, is
only one hundred and twenty-three yards; hence, it may reasonably be sup-
posed that these cries were the first that were uttered, and consequently that
the conflict had just commenced.)
H. — The window closed with shutters, through the cracks of which one ot
the police agents was able to see the scene within.
(5. — The door forced open by Inspector Gevrol.
D.— -The staircase upon which the Widow Chupin was seated, crying.
(It was upon the third step of this staircase that the Widow Chupin s apron
was afterward found, the pockets turned kiside out.)
F. — Fireplace.
HHH.— Tables.
(The remnants of the salad-bowl and of the five glasses were found scat-
tered on the floor between the points F and B.)
T. — Door communicating with the back room of the hovel, before which
the armed murderer was standing with the table H before hira as a rampart.
K. — Back door of the hut, opening into the garden, by which the agent
of police who thought of cutting off the murderer's retreat, entered and
secured him.
L. — Gate of the garden, opening upon the unoccupied ground.
MM. — Footprints on the snow, discovered by the police agent remaining
at the Poivriere, after the departure of Inspector Gevrol.
tion to the man who had shown himself so efficient when the
efforts of his chief had been merely confined to breaking open
the door.
The document Lecoq drew up was not a proces-verbal, a
formal act reserved for the officers of judiciary police; it was
a simple report, that would be admitted under the title of an
inquiry, and yet the young detective composed it with quite
as much care as a general would have displayed in drawing up
the bulletin of his first victory.
46 MONSIEUR LECOQ
While Lecoq was drawing and writing, Father Absinthe
leaned over his shoulder to watch him. The plan amazed that
worthy man. He had seen a great deal; but he had always
supposed that it was necessary to be an engineer, an architect,
or, at least, a carpenter, to execute such work. Not at all.
With a tape-line with which to take some measurements, and
a bit of board in place of a rule, his inexperienced colleague
had soon accomplished the miracle. Father Absinthe's respect
for Lecoq was thereby greatly augmented. It is true that the
worthy veteran had not noticed the explosion of the young
police agent's vanity, nor his return to his former modest
demeanor. He had not observed his alarm, nor his perplexity,
nor his lack of penetration.
After a few moments, Father Absinthe ceased watching his
companion. He felt weary after the labors of the night, his
head was burning, and he shivered and his knees trembled.
Perhaps, though he was by no means sensitive, he felt the in-
fluence of the horrors that surrounded him, and which seemed
more sinister than ever in the bleak light of morning. He
began to ferret in the cupboards, and at last succeeded in
discovering — oh, marvelous fortune ! — a bottle of brandy, three
parts full. He hesitated for an instant, then he poured out a
glass, and drained it at a single draft.
"Will you have some?" he inquired of his companion. "It
is not a very famous brand, to be sure ; but it is just as good,
it makes one's blood circulate and enlivens one."
Lecoq refused ; he did not need to be enlivened. All his.
faculties were hard at work. He intended that, after a single
perusal of his report, the investigating magistrate should say:
"Let the officer who drew up this document be sent for." It
must be remembered that Lecoq's future depended upon such
an order. Accordingly, he took particular care to be brief,
clear, and concise, to plainly indicate how his suspicions on the
subject of the murder had been aroused, how they had in-
creased, and how they had been confirmed. He explained by
what series of deductions he had succeeded in establishing
a theory which, if it was not the truth, was at least plausible
enough to serve as the basis for further investigation.
Then he enumerated the articles of conviction ranged on the
table before him. There were the flakes of brown wool col-
lected upon the plank, the valuable earring, the models of the
different footprints in the garden, and the Widow Chupin's
MONSIEUR LECOQ 47
apron with its pockets turned inside out. There was also the
murderer's revolver, with two barrels discharged and three still
load«d. This weapon, although not of an ornamental charac-
ter, was still a specimen of highly finished workmanship. It
bore the name of one Stephens, 14 Skinner Street, a well-known
London gunsmith.
Lecoq felt convinced that by examining the bodies of the
victims he would obtain other and perhaps very valuable in-
formation ; but he did not dare venture upon such a course.
Besides his own inexperience in such a matter, there was
Gevrol to be thought of, and the inspector, furious at his own
mistake, would not fail to declare that, by changing the atti-
tude of the bodies, Lecoq had rendered a satisfactory examina-
tion by the physicians impossible.
The young detective accordingly tried to console himself
for his forced inaction in this respect, and he was rereading
his report, modifying a few expressions, when Father Absinthe,
who was standing upon the threshold of the outer door, called
to him.
"Is there anything new?" asked Lecoq.
"Yes," was the reply. "Here come Gevrol and two of
our comrades with the commissary of police and two other
gentlemen."
It was, indeed, the commissary who was approaching, inter-
ested but not disturbed by this triple murder which was sure
to make his arrondissement the subject of Parisian conversation
during the next few days. Why, indeed, should he be troubled
about it ? For Gevrol, whose opinion in such matters might be
regarded as an authority, had taken care to reassure him when
he went to arouse him from his slumbers.
"It was only a fight between some old offenders; former jail
birds, habitues of the Poivriere," he had said, adding senten-
tiously : "If all these ruffians would kill one another, we might
have some little peace."
He added that as the murderer had been arrested and placed
in confinement, there was nothing urgent about the case. Ac-
cordingly, the commissary thought there was no harm in taking
another nap and waiting until morning before beginning the
inquiry. He had seen the murderer, reported the case to the
prefecture, and now he was coming — leisurely enough — accom-
panied by two physicians, appointed by the authorities to draw
up a medico-legal report in all such cases. The party also
48 MONSIEUR LECOQ
comprised a sergeant-major of the 53d regiment of infantry of
the line, who had been summoned by the commissary to iden-
tify, if possible, the murdered man who wore a uniform, for
if one might believe the number engraved upon the buttons of
his overcoat, he belonged to the 53d regiment, now stationed
at the neighboring fort.
As the party approached it was evident that Inspector Gevrol
was even less disturbed than the commissary. He whistled as
he walked along, flourishing his cane, which never left his
hand, and already laughing in his sleeve over the discomfiture
of the presumptuous fool who had desired to remain to glean,
where he, the experienced and skilful officer, had perceived
nothing. As soon as he was within speaking distance, the
inspector called to Father Absinthe, who, after warning Lecoq,
remained on the threshold, leaning against the door-post, puffing
his pipe, as immovable as a sphinx.
"Ah, well, old man !" cried Gevrol, "have you any great
melodrama, very dark and very mysterious, to relate to us?"
"I have nothing to relate myself," replied the old detective,
without even drawing his pipe from his lips, "I am too stupid,
that is perfectly understood. But Monsieur Lecoq will tell you
something that will astonish you."
The prefix, "monsieur," which the old police agent used in
speaking of his colleague, displeased Gevrol so much that he
pretended not to understand. "Who are you speaking of?" he
asked abruptly.
"Of my colleague, of course, who is now busy finishing his
report — of Monsieur Lecoq." Quite unintentionally, the worthy
fellow had certainly become the young police agent's godfather.
From that day forward, for his enemies as well as for his
friends, he was and he remained "Monsieur" Lecoq.
"Ah ! ah !" said the inspector, whose hearing was evidently
impaired. "Ah, he has discovered — "
"The pot of roses which others did not scent, General." By
this remark, Father Absinthe made an enemy of his supe-
rior officer. But he cared little for that: Lecoq had become
his deity, and no matter what the future might reserve, the
old veteran had resolved to follow his young colleague's
fortunes.
"We'll see about that," murmured the inspector, mentally
resolving to have an eye on this youth whom success might
transform into a rival. He said no more, for the little party
MONSIEUR LECOQ 49
which he preceded had now overtaken him, and he stood aside
to make way for the commissary of police.
This commissary was far from being a novice. He had
served for many years, and yet he could not repress a gesture
of horror as he entered the Poivriere. The sergeant-major of
me 53d, who followed him, an old soldier, dtcorated and medaled
— who had smelt powder many scores of times — was still more
overcome. He grew as pale as the corpses lying on the ground,
and was obliged to lean against the wall for support. The two
physicians alone retained their stoical indifference.
Lecoq had risen, his report in his hand ; he bowed, and
assuming a respectful attitude, was waiting to be questioned.
"You must have passed a frightful night," said the commis-
sary, kindly ; "and quite unnecessarily, since any investigation
was superfluous."
"I think, however," replied the young police agent, having
recourse to all his diplomacy, "that my time has not been
entirely lost. I have acted according to the instructions of my
superior officer ; I have searched the premises thoroughly, and
I have ascertained many things. I have, for example, acquired
the certainty that the murderer had a friend, possibly an ac-
complice, of whom I can give quite a close description. He
must have been of middle age, and wore, if I am not mistaken,
a soft cap and a brown woolen overcoat : as for his boots — "
"Zounds !" exclaimed Gevrol, "and I — " He stopped short,
like a man whose impulse had exceeded his discretion, and who
would have gladly recalled his words.
"And you?" inquired the commissary, "pray, what do you
mean ?"
The inspector had gone too far to draw back, and, unwit-
tingly, was now obliged to act as his own executioner. "I was
about to mention," he said, "that this morning, an hour or so
ago, while I was waiting for you, sir, before the station-house,
at the Barriere d'ltalie, where the murderer is confined, I
noticed close by an individual whose appearance was not unlike
that of the man described by Lecoq. This man seemed to be
very intoxicated, for he reeled and staggered against the walls.
He tried to cross the street, but fell down in the middle of it,
in such a position that he would inevitably have been crushed
by the first passing vehicle."
Lecoq turned away his head; he did not wish them to read
in his eyes how perfectly he understood the whole game.
3— Vol. I— Gab.
50 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"Seeing this," pursued Gevrol, "I called two men and asked
them to aid me in raising the poor devil. We went up to him ;
he had apparently fallen asleep: we shook him — we made him
sit up; we told him that he could not remain there, but he
immediately flew into a furious rage. He swore at us, threat-
ened us, and began fighting us. And, on my word, we had to
take him to the station-house, and leave him there to recover
from the effects of his drunken debauch."
"Did you shut him up in the same cell with the murderer?"
inquired Lecoq.
"Naturally. You know very well that there are only two
cages in the station-house at the barriere — one for men and the
other for women ; consequently — "
The commissary seemed thoughtful. "Ah ! that's very unfor-
tunate," he stammered; "and there is no remedy."
"Excuse me, there is one," observed Gevrol, "I can send
one of my men to the station-house with an order to detain the
drunken man — "
Lecoq interposed with a gesture: "Trouble lost," he said
coldly. "If this individual is an accomplice, he has got sober
by now — rest assured of that, and is already far away."
"Then what is to be done?" asked the inspector, with an
ironical air. "May one be permitted to ask the advice of
Monsieur Lecoq."
"I think chance offered us a splendid opportunity, and we
did not know how to seize it; and that the best thing we can
do now is to give over mourning, and prepare to profit by the
next opportunity that presents itself."
Gevrol was, however, determined to send one of his men to
the station-house ; and it was not until the messenger had
started that Lecoq commenced the reading of his report. He
read it rapidly, refraining as much as possible from placing
the decisive proofs in strong relief, reserving these for his own
benefit ; but so strong was the logic of his deductions that he
was frequently interrupted by approving remarks from the com-
missary and the two physicians.
Gevrol, who alone represented the opposition, shrugged his
shoulders till they were well-nigh dislocated, and grew literally
green with jealousy.
"I think that you alone, young man, have judged correctly
in this affair," said the commissary when Lecoq had finished
reading. "I may be mistaken ; but your explanations have made
MONSIEUR LECOQ
51
me alter my opinion concerning the murderer's attitude while
I was questioning him (which was only for a moment). He
refused, obstinately refused, to answer my questions, and
wouldn't even give me his name."
The commissary was silent for a moment, reviewing the past
circumstances in his mind, and it was in a serious tone that he
eventually added : "We are, I feel convinced, in presence of
one of those mysterious crimes the causes of which are beyond
the reach of human sagacity — this strikes me as being one of
those enigmatical cases which human justice never can reach."
Lecoq made no audible rejoinder; but he smiled to himself
and thought: "We will see about that."
"^T O consultation held at the bedside of a dying man ever took
■^ place in the presence of two physicians so utterly unlike
each other as those who accompanied the commissary of police
to the Poivriere.
One of them, a tall old man with a bald head, wearing a
broad-brimmed hat, and an overcoat of antique cut, was
evidently one of those modest savants encountered occasionally
in the byways of Paris — one of those healers devoted to their
art, who too often die. in obscurity, after rendering immense
services to mankind. He had the gracious calmness of a
man who, having seen so much of human misery, has noth-
ing left to learn, and no troubled conscience could have
possibly sustained his searching glance, which was as keen
as his lancet.
His colleague — young, fresh-looking, light-haired, and jovial
— was somewhat foppishly attired ; and his white hands were
encased in handsome fur gloves. There was a soft self-satisfied
smile on his face, and he had the manners of those practitioners
who, for profit's sake, invariably recommend the infallible
panaceas invented each month in chemical laboratories and
advertised ad nauseam in the back pages of newspapers. He
had probably written more than one article upon "Medicine for
52 MONSIEUR LECOQ
the use of the people" ; puffing various mixtures, pills, ointments,
and plasters for the benefit of their respective inventors.
"I will request you, gentlemen," said the commissary of police,
"to begin your duties by examining the victim who wears a
military costume. Here is a sergeant-major summoned to
answer a question of identity, whom I must send back to his
quarters as soon as possible."
The two physicians responded with a gesture of assent, and
aided by Father Absinthe and another agent of police, they
lifted the body and laid it upon two tables, which had previously
been placed end to end. They were not obliged to make any
note of the attitude in which they found the body, since the un-
fortunate man, who was still alive when the police entered the
cabin, had been moved before he expired.
"Approach, sergeant," ordered the commissary, "and look
carefully at this man."
It was with very evident repugnance that the old soldier
obeyed.
"What is the uniform that he wears?"
"It is the uniform of the 2d battalion of the 53d regiment
of the line."
"Do you recognize him?"
"Not at all."
"Are you sure that he does not belong to your regiment?"
"I can not say for certain: there are some conscripts at the
depot whom I have never seen. But I am ready to swear that
he had never formed part of the 2d battalion — which, by the
way, is mine, and in which I am sergeant-major."
Lecoq, who had hitherto remained in the background, now
stepped forward. "It might be as well," he suggested, "to note
the numbers marked on the other articles of clothing."
"That is a very good idea," said the commissary, approvingly.
"Here is his shako," added the young police agent. "It bears
the number 3,129."
The officials followed Lecoq's advice, and soon discovered
that each article of clothing worn by the unfortunate man bore
a different number.
"The deuce !" murmured the sergeant ; "there is every indi-
cation — But it is very singular."
Invited to consider what he was going to say, the brave
trooper evidently made an effort to collect his intellectual
faculties. "I would stake my epaulets that this fellow never
MONSIEUR LECOQ 53
was a soldier," he said at last. "He must have disguised him-
self to take part in the Shrove Sunday carnival."
"Why do you think that?"
"Oh, I know it better than I can explain it. I know it by
his hair, by his nails, by his whole appearance, by a certain
je ne sais quoi; in short, I know it by everything and by nothing.
Why look, the poor devil did not even know how to put on his
shoes ; he has laced his gaiters wrong side outwards." Evidently
further doubt was impossible after this evidence, which con-
firmed the truth of Lecoq's first remark to Inspector Gevrol.
"Still, if this person was a civilian, how could he have
procured this clothing?" insisted the commissary. "Could he
have borrowed it from the men in your company?"
"Yes, that is possible ; but it is difficult to believe."
"Is there no way by which you could ascertain?"
"Oh ! very easily. I have only to run over to the fort and
order an inspection of clothing."
"Do so," approved the commissary; "it would be an excellent
way of getting at the truth."
But Lecoq had just thought of a method quite as convincing,
and much more prompt. "One word, sergeant," said he, "isn't
cast off military clothing sold by public auction ?"
"Yes ; at least once a year, after the inspection."
"And are not the articles thus sold marked in some way?"
"Assuredly."
"Then see if there isn't some mark of the kind on this poor
wretch's uniform."
The sergeant turned up the collar of the coat and examined
the waist-band of the pantaloons. "You are right," he said,
these are condemned garments."
The eyes of the young police agent sparkled. "We must
then believe that the poor devil purchased this costume," he
observed. "Where? Necessarily at the Temple, from one of
the dealers in military clothing. There are only five or six
of these establishments. I will go from one to another of them,
and the person who sold these clothes will certainly recognize
them by some trade mark."
"And that will assist us very much," growled Gevrol.
The sergeant-major, to his great relief, now received per-
mission to retire, but not without having been warned that
very probably the commissary would require his deposition.
The moment had come to search the garments of the pre-
54 MONSIEUR LECOQ
tended soldier, and the commissary, who performed this duty
himself, hoped that some clue as to the man's identity would be
forthcoming. He proceeded with his task, at the same time
dictating to one of the men a proces-verbal of the search; that
is to say, a minute description of all the articles he found upon
the dead man's person. In the right hand trousers pocket some
tobacco, a pipe, and a few matches were found ; in the left hand
one, a linen handkerchief of good quality, but unmarked, and a
soiled leather pocket-book, containing seven francs and sixty
centimes.
There appeared to be nothing more, and the commissary was
expressing his regret, when, on carefully examining the pocket-
book he found a compartment which had at first escaped his
notice, being hidden by a leather flap. This compartment con-
tained a carefully folded paper. The commissary unfolded it
and read the contents aloud:
*My dear Gustave, — To-morrow, Sunday evening, do not
fail to come to the ball at the Rainbow, according to our agree-
ment. If you have no money pass by my house, and I will leave
some with the concierge, who will give it to you.
"Be at the ball by eight o'clock. If I am not already there, it
will not be long before I make my appearance. Everything is
going on satisfactorily. "Lacheneur/
tt
Alas ! what did this letter reveal ? Only that the dead man's
name was Gustave; that he had some connection with a man
named Lacheneur, who had advanced him money for a certain
object; and that they had met at the Rainbow some hours before
the murder.
It was little — very little — but still it was something. It was
a clue; and in this absolute darkness even the faintest gleam of
light was eagerly welcomed.
"Lacheneur!" growled Gevrol ; "the poor devil uttered that
name in his last agony."
"Precisely," insisted Father Absinthe, "and he declared that
he wished to revenge himself upon him. He accused him of
having drawn him into a trap. Unfortunately, death cut his
story short."
Lecoq was silent. The commissary of police had handed him
the letter, and he was studying it with the closest attention. The
paper on which it was written was of the ordinary kind; the
MONSIEUR LECOQ 55
ink was blue. In one of the corners was a half-effaced stamp,
of which one could just distinguish the word — Beaumarchais.
This was enough for Lecoq. "This letter," he thought, "was
certainly written in a cafe on the Boulevard Beaumarchais.
In which one ? I must ascertain that point, for this Lacheneur
must be found."
While the agents of the prefecture were gathered around the
commissary, holding council and deliberating, the physicians
began their delicate and disagreeable task. With the assistance
of Father Absinthe, they removed the clothing of the pretended
soldier, and then, with sleeves rolled up, they bent over their
"subject" like surgeons in the schools of anatomy, and exam-
ined, inspected, and appraised him physically. Very willingly
would the younger doctor have dispensed with these formalities,
which he considered very ridiculous, and entirely unnecessary;
but the old physician had too high a regard for his profession,
and for the duty he had been called upon to fulfil, to neglect
the slightest detail. Minutely, and with the most scrupulous
exactitude, he noted the height of the dead man, his supposed
age, the nature of his temperament, the color and length of his
hair, and the degree of development of his muscular system.
Then the doctors passed to an examination of the wound.
Lecoq had judged correctly. The medical men declared it to
be a fracture of the base of the skull. It could, they stated,
only have been caused by some instrument with a very broad
surface, or by a violent knock of the head against some hard
substance of considerable magnitude.
But no weapon, other than the revolver, had been found;
and it was evidently not heavy enough to produce such a
wound. There must, then, necessarily, have been a hand-to-
hand struggle between the pretended soldier and the murderer ;
and the latter, seizing his adversary by the throat, had dashed
him violently against the wall. The presence of some very
tiny but very numerous spots of extravasated blood about the
neck made this theory extremely plausible.
No other wound, not even a bruise or a scratch, was to be
found. Hence, it became evident that this terrible struggle
must have been exceedingly short. The murder of the pre-
tended soldier must have been consummated between the
moment when the squad of police heard the shrieks of despair
and the moment when Lecoq peered through the shutter and
saw the victim fall.
56 MONSIEUR LECOQ
The examination of the other murdered man required dif-
ferent but even greater precautions than those adopted by the
doctors in their inspection of the pseudo soldier. The position
of these two victims had been respected ; they were still lying
across the hearth as they had fallen, and their attitude was a
matter of great importance, since it might have decisive bearing
on the case. Now, this attitude was such that one could not
fail to be impressed with the idea that with both these men
death had been instantaneous. They were both stretched out
upon their backs, their limbs extended, and their hands wide
open.
No contraction or extension of the muscles, no trace of
conflict could be perceived ; it seemed evident that they had
been taken unawares, the more so as their faces expressed
the most intense terror.
"Thus," said the old doctor, "we may reasonably suppose
that they were stupefied by some entirely unexpected, strange,
and frightful spectacle. I have come across this terrified ex-
pression depicted upon the faces of dead people more than
once. I recollect noticing it upon the features of a woman who
died suddenly from the shock she experienced when one of her
neighbors, with the view of playing her a trick, entered her
kouse disguised as a ghost."
Lecoq followed the physician's explanations, and tried to
make them agree with the vague hypotheses that were revolving
in his own brain. But who could these individuals be ? Would
they, in death, guard the secret of their identity, as the other
victim had done?
The first subject examined by the physicians was over fifty
years of age. His hair was very thin and quite gray and his
face was closely shaven, excepting a thick tuft of hair on his
rather prominent chin. He was very poorly clad, wearing a
soiled woolen blouse and a pair of dilapidated trousers hanging
in rags over his boots, which were very much trodden down at
the heels. The old doctor declared that this man must have
been instantly killed by a bullet. The size of the circular
wound, the absence of blood around its edge, and the blackened
and burnt state of the flesh demonstrated this fact with almost
mathematical precision.
The great difference that exists in wounds made by firearms,
according to the distance from which the death-dealing missile
comes, was seen when the physicians began to examine the last
MONSIEUR LECOQ 57
of the murdered men. The ball that had caused the latter's
death had scarcely crossed a yard of space before reaching
him, and his wound was not nearly so hideous in aspect as the
other's. This individual, who was at least fifteen years younger
than his companion, was short and remarkably ugly; his face,
which was quite beardless, being pitted all over by the small-
pox. His garb was such as is worn by the worst frequenters
of the barriere. His trousers were of a gray checked material,
and his blouse, turned back at the throat, was blue. It was
noticed that his boots had been blackened quite recently. The
smart glazed cap that lay on the floor beside him was in har-
mony with his carefully curled hair and gaudy necktie.
These were the only facts that the physicians' report set
forth in technical terms, this was the only information obtained
by the most careful investigation. The two men's pockets were
explored and turned inside out ; but they contained nothing that
gave the slightest clue to their identity, either as regards name,
social position, or profession. There was not even the slightest
indication on any of these points, not a letter, nor an address,
not a fragment of paper, nothing — not even such common
articles of personal use, as a tobacco pouch, a knife, or a pipe
which might be recognized, and thus establish the owner's
identity. A little tobacco in a paper bag, a couple of pocket
handkerchiefs that were unmarked, a packet of cigarettes —
these were the only articles discovered beyond the money which
the victims carried loose in their pockets. On this point, it
should be mentioned that the elder man had sixty-seven francs
about him, and the younger one, two louis.
Rarely had the police found themselves in the presence of so
strange an affair, without the slightest clue to guide them. Of
course, there was the fact itself, as evidenced by the bodies of
the three victims; but the authorities were quite ignorant of the
circumstances that had attended and of the motive that had
inspired the crime. Certainly, they might hope with the power-
ful means of investigation at their disposal to finally arrive at
the truth in the course of time, and after repeated efforts. But,
in the mean while, all was mystery, and so strangely did the case
present itself that it could not safely be said who was really
responsible for the horrible tragedy at the Poivriere.
The murderer had certainly been arrested ; but if he persisted
in his obstinacy, how were they to ascertain his name? He
protested that he had merely killed in self-defense. How could
58 MONSIEUR LECOQ
it be shown that such was not the case? Nothing was known
concerning the victims ; one of whom had with his dying breath
accused himself. Then again, an inexplicable influence tied
the Widow Chupin's tongue. Two women, one of whom had
lost an earring valued at 5,000 francs, had witnessed the strug-
gle — then disappeared. An accomplice, after two acts of
unheard-of audacity, had also made his escape. And all these
people — the women, the murderer, the keeper of the saloon,
the accomplice, and the victims — were equally strange and
mysterious, equally liable not to be what they seemed.
Perhaps the commissary of police thought he would spend
a very unpleasant quarter of an hour at the prefecture when
he reported the case. Certainly, he spoke of the crime in a
very despondent tone.
"It will now be best," he said at last, "to transport these
three bodies to the Morgue. There they will doubtless be
identified." He reflected for a moment, and then added: "And
to think that one of these dead men is perhaps Lacheneur
himself!"
"That is scarcely possible," said Lecoq. "The spurious
soldier, being the last to die, had seen his companions fall. If
he had supposed Lacheneur to be dead, he would not have
spoken of vengeance."
Gevrol, who for the past two hours had pretended to pay
no attention to the proceedings, now approached. He was
not the man to yield even to the strongest evidence. "If
Monsieur, the Commissary, will listen to me, he shall hear
my opinion, which is a trifle more definite than M. Lecoq's
fancies."
Before he could say any more, the sound of a vehicle stopping
before the door of the cabin interrupted him, and an instant
afterward the investigating magistrate entered the room.
All the officials assembled at the Poivriere knew at least
by sight the magistrate who now made his appearance, and
Gevrol, an old habitue of the Palais de Justice, mechanically
murmured his name: "M. Maurice d'Escorval."
He was the son of that famous Baron d'Escorval, who, in
181 5, sealed his devotion to the empire with his blood, and
upon whom Napoleon, in the Memorial of St. Helena, pro-
nounced this magnificent eulogium : "Men as honest as he
may, I believe, exist ; but more honest, no, it is not possible."
Having entered upon his duties as magistrate early in life,
MONSIEUR LECOQ 59
and being endowed with remarkable talents, it was at first
supposed that the younger D'Escorval would rise to the most
exalted rank in his profession But he had disappointed all
such prognostications by resolutely refusing the more elevated
positions that were offered to him, in order to retain his modest
but useful functions in the public prosecutor's offices at Paris.
To explain his repeated refusals, he said that life in the capital
had more charms for him than the most enviable advancement
in provincial centres. But it was hard to understand this
declaration, for in spite of his brilliant connections and
large fortune, he had. ever since the death of his eldest
brother, led a most retired life, his existence merely being
revealed by his untiring labors and the good he did to those
around him.
He was now about forty-two years of age, but appeared much
younger, although a few furrows already crossed his brow.
One would have admired his face, had it not been for the
puzzling immobility that marred its beauty, the sarcastic curl
of his thin lips, and the gloomy expression of his pale-blue
eyes. To say that he was cold and grave, did not express the
truth, it was saying too little. He was gravity and coldness
personified, with a shade of hauteur added.
Impressed by the horror of the scene the instant he placed
his foot upon the threshold, M. d'Escorval acknowledged the
presence of the physicians and the commissary by a slight nod
of the head. The others in the room had no existence so far
as he was concerned. At once his faculties went to work. He
studied the ground, and carefully noted all the surroundings
with the attentive sagacity of a magistrate who realizes the
immense weight of even the slightest detail, and who fully
appreciates the eloquence of circumstantial evidence.
"This is a serious affair," he said gravely; "very serious."
The commissary's only response was to lift his eyes to
heaven. A gesture that plainly implied, "I quite agree with
you !" The fact is, that for the past two hours the worthy
commissary's responsibility had weighed heavily upon him. and
he secretly blessed the investigating magistrate for relieving
him of it.
"The public prosecutor was unable to accompany me," re-
sumed M. d'Escorval, "he has not the gift of omnipresence, and
I doubt if it will be possible for him to join me here. Let us,
therefore, begin operations at once."
60 MONSIEUR LECOQ
The curiosity of those present had become intense; and the
commissary only expressed the general feeling when he said :
"You have undoubtedly questioned the murderer, sir, and have
learnt—"
"I have learnt nothing," interrupted M. d'Escorval, apparently
much astonished at the interruption.
He took a chair and sat himself down, and while his clerk
was busy in authenticating the commissary's proces-vcrbal, he
began to read the report prepared by Lecoq.
Pale, agitated, and nervous, the young police agent tried to
read upon the magistrate's impassive face the impression pro-
duced by the document. His future depended upon the
magistrate's approval or disapproval; and it was not with a
fuddled mind like that of Father Absinthe that he had now to
deal, but with a superior intelligence.
"If I could only plead my own cause," he thought. "What
are cold written phrases in comparison with spoken, living
words, palpitating with emotion and imbued with the con-
victions of the speaker."
However, he was soon reassured. The magistrate's face
retained its immobility, but again and again did M. d'Escorval
nod his head in token of approval, and occasionally some point
more ingenious than the others extorted from his lips the ex-
clamations : "Not bad — very good !"
When he had finished the perusal he turned to the commissary
and remarked : "All this is very unlike your report of this
morning, which represented the affair as a low broil between
a party of miserable vagabonds."
The observation was only too just and fair; and the com-
missary deeply regretted that he had trusted to Gevrol's
representations, and remained in bed. "This morning,"
he responded evasively, "I only gave you my first impres-
sions. These have been modified by subsequent researches,
so that—"
"Oh !" interrupted the magistrate, "I did not intend to re-
proach you ; on the contrary, I must congratulate you. One
could not have done better nor acted more promptly. The
investigation that has been carried out shows great penetration
and research, and the results are given with unusual clearness,
and wonderful precision."
Lecoq's head whirled.
The commissary hesitated for an instant. At first he was
MONSIEUR LECOQ 61
sorely tempted to confiscate this praise to his own profit. If he
drove away the unworthy thought, it was because he was an
honest man, and more than that, because he was not displeased
to have the opportunity to do Gevrol a bad turn and punish him
for his presumptuous folly."
"I must confess," he said with some embarrassment, "that
the merit of this investigation does not belong to me."
"To whom, then, shall I attribute it — to the inspector?"
thought M. d'Escorval, not without surprise, for having occa-
sionally employed Gevrol, he did not expect from him such
ingenuity and sagacity as was displayed in this report. "Is it
you, then, who have conducted this investigation so ably?"
he asked.
"Upon my word, no !" responded Inspector Gevrol. "I, my-
self, am not so clever as all that. I content myself with telling
what I actually discover ; and I only give proofs when I have
them in hand. May I be hung if the grounds of this report
have any existence save in the brains of the man who imagined
them." Perhaps the inspector really believed what he said, being
one of those persons who are blinded by vanity to such a degree
that, with the most convincing evidence before their eyes, they
obstinately deny it.
"And yet," insisted the magistrate, "these women whose foot-
prints have been detected must have existed. The accomplice
who left the flakes of wool adhering to the plank is a real being.
This earring is a positive, palpable proof."
Gevrol had hard work to refrain from shrugging his shoul-
ders. "All this can be satisfactorily explained," he said, "with-
out a search of twelve or fourteen hours. That the murderer
had an accomplice is possible. The presence of the women is
very natural. Wherever there are male thieves, you will find
female thieves as well. As for the diamond — what does that
prove? That the scoundrels had just met with a stroke of
good luck, that they had come here to divide their booty, and
that the quarrel arose from the division."
This was an explanation, and such a plausable one, that M.
d'Escorval was silent, reflecting before he announced his de-
cision. "Decidedly," he declared at last, "decidedly, I adopt
the hypothesis set forth in the report. Who prepared it?"
Gevrol's face turned red with anger. "One of my men," he
replied, "a clever, adroit fellow, Monsieur Lecoq. Come
forward, Lecoq, that the magistrate may see you."
62 MONSIEUR LECOQ
The young man advanced, his lips tightly compressed so as
to conceal a smile of satisfaction which almost betrayed itself.
"My report, sir, is only a summary," he began, "but I have
certain ideas — "
"Which you will acquaint me with, when I ask for them,"
interrupted the magistrate. And oblivious of Lecoq's chagrin,
he drew from his clerk's portfolio two forms, which he filled
up and handed to Gevrol, saying : "Here are two orders ; take
them to the station, where the murderer and the landlady of
this cabin are confined, and have them conducted to the pre-
fecture, where they will be privately examined."
Having given these directions, M. d'Escorval was turn-
ing toward the physicians, when Lecoq, at the risk of a
second rebuff, interposed. "May I venture, sir, to beg of you
to confide this message to me?" he asked of the investigating
magistrate.
"Impossible, I may have need of you here."
"I desired, sir, to collect certain evidence and an opportunity
to do so may not present itself again."
The magistrate perhaps fathomed the young man's motive.
"Then, let it be so," he replied, "but after your task is com-
pleted you must wait for me at the prefecture, where I shall
proceed as soon as I have finished here. You may go."
Lecoq did not wait for the order to be repeated. He snatched
up the papers, and hastened away.
He literally flew over the ground, and strange to say he no
longer experienced any fatigue from the labors of the pre-
ceding night. Never had he felt so strong and alert, either
in body or mind. He was very hopeful of success. He had
every confidence in himself, and his happiness would indeed
have been complete if he had had another judge to deal
with. But M. d'Escorval overawed him to such a degree
that he became almost paralyzed in his presence. With
what a disdainful glance the magistrate had surveyed him !
With what an imperious tone he had imposed silence upon
him — and that, too, when he had found his work deserving
of commendation.
"Still, never mind," the young detective mentally exclaimed,
"no one ever tastes perfect happiness here below."
And concentrating all his thoughts on the task before him,
he hurried on his way.
MONSIEUR LECOQ
63
TI 7" HEN, after a rapid walk of twenty minutes, Lecoq reached
T the police station near the Barriere d'ltalie, the door-
keeper, with his pipe in his mouth, was pacing slowly to and fro
before the guard-house. His thoughtful air, and the anxious
glances he cast every now and then toward one of the little
grated windows of the building sufficed to indicate that some
very rare bird indeed had been entrusted to his keeping. As
soon as he recognized Lecoq, his brow cleared, and he paused in
his promenade.
"Ah, well!" he inquired, "what news do you bring?"
"I have an order to conduct the prisoners to the prefecture."
The keeper rubbed his hands, and his smile of satisfaction
plainly implied that he felt a load the less on his shoulders.
"Capital ! capital !" he exclaimed. "The Black Maria, the
prison van, will pass here in less than an hour; we will throw
them in, and hurry the driver off — "
Lecoq was obliged to interrupt the keeper's transports of satis-
faction. "Are the prisoners alone?" he inquired.
"Quite alone : the woman in one cell, and the man in the
other. This has been a remarkably quiet night, for Shrove
Sunday ! Quite surprising indeed ! It is true your hunt was
interrupted."
"You had a drunken man here, however."
"No — yes — that's true — this morning just at daybreak. A
poor devil, who is under a great obligation to Gevrol."
The involuntary irony of this remark did not escape Lecoq.
"Yes, under a great obligation, indeed !" he said with a de-
risive laugh.
"You may laugh as much as you like," retorted the keeper,
"but such is really the case; if it hadn't been for Gevrol the
man would certainly have been run over."
"And what has become of him?"
The keeper shrugged his shoulders. "You ask me too much,"
he responded. He was a worthy fellow who had been spending
64 MONSIEUR LECOQ
the night at a friend's house, and on coming out into the open
air, the wine flew into his head. He told us all about it when
he got sober, half an hour afterward. I never saw a man so
vexed as he was. He wept, and stammered : "The father of
a family, and at my age too ! Oh ! it is shameful ! What shall
I say to my wife ? What will the children think ?"
"Did he talk much about his wife?"
"He talked about nothing else. He mentioned her name —
Eudosia Leocadie, or some name of that sort. He declared
that he should be ruined if we kept him here. He begged us
to send for the commissary to go to his house, and when we
set him free, I thought he would go mad with joy ; he kissed
our hands, and thanked us again and again !"
"And did you place him in the same cage as the murderer?"
inquired Lecoq.
"Of course."
"Then they talked with each other."
"Talked ? Why, the drunkard was so 'gone,' I tell you. that he
couldn't have said 'bread' distinctly. When he was placed in a
cell, bang ! He fell down like a log of wood. As soon as he re-
covered, we let him out. I'm sure, they didn't talk to each other."
The young police agent had grown very thoughtful. "I was
evidently right," he murmured.
"What did you say?" inquired the keeper.
"Nothing," replied Lecoq, who was not inclined to com-
municate his reflections to the custodian of the guard-house.
These reflections of his were by no means pleasant ones. "I
was right," he thought; "this pretended drunkard was none
other than the accomplice. He is evidently an adroit, audacious,
cool-headed fellow. While we were tracking his footprints he
was watching us. When we had got to some distance, he was
bold enough to enter the hovel. Then he came here and com-
pelled them to arrest him ; and thanks to an assumption of child-
ish simplicity, he succeeded in finding an opportunity to speak
with the murderer. He played his part perfectly. Still, I know
that he did play a part, and that is something. I know that one
must believe exactly the opposite of what he said. He talked of
his family, his wife and children — hence, he has neither children,
wife, nor family."
Lecoq suddenly checked himself, remembering that he had
no time to waste in conjectures. "What kind of fellow was
this drunkard ? he inquired.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 65
"He was tall and stout, with full ruddy cheeks, a pair of
white whiskers, small eyes, a broad flat nose, and a good-
natured, jovial manner."
"How old would you suppose him to be?"
"Between forty and fifty."
"Did you form any idea of his profession?"
"It's my opinion, that what with his soft cap and his heavy
brown overcoat, he must be either a clerk or the keeper of
some little shop."
Having obtained this description, which agreed with the
result of his investigations, Lecoq was about to enter the
station house when a sudden thought brought him to a stand-
still. "I hope this man has had no communication with this
Widow Chupin !" he exclaimed.
The keeper laughed heartily. "How could he have had any?"
he responded. "Isn't the old woman alone in her cell ? Ah, the
old wretch ! She has been cursing and threatening ever since
she arrived. Never in my whole life have I heard such language
as she has used. It has been enough to make the very stones
blush ; even the drunken man was so shocked that he went to
the grating in the door, and told her to be quiet."
Lecoq's glance and gesture were so expressive of impatience
and wrath that the keeper paused in his recital much perturbed.
"What is the matter?" he stammered. "Why are you angry?"
"Because," replied Lecoq, furiously, "because — " Not wish-
ing to disclose the real cause of his anger, he entered the
station house, saying that he wanted to see the prisoner.
Left alone, the keeper began to swear in his turn. "These
police agents are all alike," he grumbled. "They question you,
you tell them all they desire to know ; and afterward, if you
venture to ask them anything, they reply : 'nothing,' or 'because.'
They have too much authority ; it makes them proud."
Looking through the little latticed window in the door, by
which the men on guard watch the prisoners, Lecoq eagerly
examined the appearance of the assumed murderer. He was
obliged to ask himself if this was really the same man he had
seen some hours previously at the Poivriere, standing on the
threshold of the inner door, and holding the whole squad of
police agents in check by the intense fury of his attitude. Now,
on the contrary, he seemed, as it were, the personification of
weakness and despondency. He was seated on a bench opposite
the grating in the door, his elbows resting on his knees, his chin
66 MONSIEUR LECOQ
upon his hand, his under lip hanging low and his eyes fixed
upon vacancy.
"No," murmured Lecoq, "no, this man is not what he seems
to be."
So saying he entered the cell, the culprit raised his head, gave
the detective an indifferent glance, but did not utter a word.
"Well, how goes it ?" asked Lecoq.
"I am innocent !" responded the prisoner, in a hoarse, dis-
cordant voice.
"I hope so, I am sure — but that is for the magistrate to
decide. I came to see if you wanted anything."
"No," replied the murderer, but a second later he changed
his mind. "All the same," he said, "I shouldn't mind a crust
and a drink of wine."
"You shall have them," replied Lecoq, who at once went
out to forage in the neighborhood for eatables of some sort.
In his opinion, if the murderer had asked for a drink after at
first refusing to partake of anything, it was solely with the
view of conveying the idea that he was really the kind of man
he pretended to be.
At all events, whoever he might be, the prisoner ate with an
excellent appetite. He then took up the large glass of wine
that had been brought him, drained it slowly, and remarked :
"That's capital ! There can be nothing to beat that !"
This seeming satisfaction greatly disappointed Lecoq, who
had selected, as a test, one of those horribly thick, bluish,
nauseous mixtures in vogue around the barrieres — hoping, nay,
almost expecting, that the murderer would not drink it with-
out some sign of repugnance. And yet the contrary proved the
case. However, the young detective had no time to ponder
over the circumstance, for a rumble of wheels now announced
the approach of that lugubrious vehicle, the Black Maria.
When the Widow Chupin was removed from her cell she
fought and scratched and cried "Murder !" at the top of her
voice ; and it was only by sheer force that she was at length
got into the van. Then it was that the officials turned to the
assassin. Lecoq certainly expected some sign of repugnance
now, and he watched the prisoner closely. But he was again
doomed to disappointment. The culprit entered the vehicle
in the most unconcerned manner, and took possession of his
compartment like one accustomed to it, knowing the most com-
fortable position to assume in such close quarters.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 67
"Ah ! what an unfortunate morning," murmured Lecoq,
disconsolately. "Still I will lie in wait for him at the pre-
fecture."
When the door of the prison-van had been securely closed,
the driver cracked his whip, and the sturdy horses started off
at a brisk trot. Lecoq had taken his seat in front, between
the driver and the guard ; but his mind was so engrossed with
his own thoughts that he heard nothing of their conversation,
which was very jovial, although frequently interrupted by the
shrill voice of the Widow Chupin, who sang and yelled her
imprecations alternately.
It is needless, however, to recapitulate her oaths; let us
rather follow the train of Lecoq's meditation. By what means
could he secure some clue to the murderer's identity? He was
still convinced that the prisoner must belong to the higher
ranks of society. After all, it was not so extraordinary that
he should have succeeded in feigning an appetite, that he should
have concealed his distaste for a nauseous beverage, and that
he should have entered the Black Maria without hesitation.
Such conduct was quite possible, indeed almost probable on the
part of a man, endowed with considerable strength of will, and
realizing the imminence of his peril. But granting this, would
he be equally able to hide his feelings when he was obliged to
submit to the humiliating formalities that awaited him — for-
malities which in certain cases can, and must, be pushed even
to the verge of insult and outrage?
No; Lecoq could not believe that this would be possible. He
felt sure that the disgraceful position in which the prisoner
would find himself would cause him to revolt, to lose his self-
control, to utter some word that might give the desired clue.
It was not until the gloomy vehicle had turned off the Pont
Neuf on to the Quai de l'Horloge that the young detective be-
came conscious of what was transpiring around him. Soon the
van passed through an open gateway, and drew up in a small,
damp courtyard.
Lecoq immediately alighted, and opened the door of the com-
partment in which the supposed murderer was confined, ex-
claiming as he did so: "Here we are, get out." There was no
fear of the prisoner escaping. The iron gate had been closed,
and at least a dozen agents were standing near at hand, waiting
to have a look at the new arrivals.
The prisoner slowly stepped to the ground. His expression
68 MONSIEUR LECOQ
of face remained unchanged, and each gesture evinced the per-
fect indifference of a man accustomed to such ordeals.
Lecoq scrutinized his demeanor as attentively as an anatomist
might have watched the action of a muscle. He noted that the
prisoner seemed to experience a sensation of satisfaction directly
his foot touched the pavement of the courtyard, that he drew
a long breath, and then stretched and shook himself, as if to
regain the elasticity of his limbs, cramped by confinement in
the narrow compartment from which he had just emerged.
Then he glanced around him, and a scarcely perceptible smile
played upon his lips. One might have sworn that the place
was familiar to him, that he was well acquainted with these
high grim walls, these grated windows, these heavy doors — in
short, with all the sinister belongings of a prison.
"Good Lord !" murmured Lecoq, greatly chagrined, "does he
indeed recognize the place?"
And his sense of disappointment and disquietude increased
when, without waiting for a word, a motion, or a sign, the
prisoner turned toward one of the five or six doors that opened
into the courtyard. Without an instant's hesitation he walked
straight toward the very doorway he was expected to enter
— Lecoq asked himself was it chance? But his amazement and
disappointment increased tenfold when, after entering the
gloomy corridor, he saw the culprit proceed some little dis-
tance, resolutely turn to the left, pass by the keeper's room, and
finally enter the registrar's office. An old offender could not
have done better.
Big drops of perspiration stood on Lecoq's forehead. "This
man," thought he, "has certainly been here before; he knows
the ropes."
The registrar's office was a large room heated almost to suf-
focation by an immense stove, and badly lighted by three small
windows, the panes of which were covered with a thick coating
of dust. There sat the clerk reading a newspaper, spread out
over the open register — that fatal book in which are inscribed
the names of all those whom misconduct, crime, misfortune,
madness, or error have brought to these grim portals.
Three or four attendants, who were awaiting the hour for
entering upon their duties, reclined half asleep upon the wooden
benches that lined three sides of the room. These benches, with
a couple of tables, and some dilapidated chairs, constituted the
entire furniture of the office, in one corner of which stood a
MONSIEUR LECOQ 69
measuring machine, under which each culprit was obliged to
pass, the exact height of the prisoners being recorded in order
that the description of their persons might be complete in
every respect.
At the entrance of the culprit accompanied by Lecoq, the
clerk raised his head. "Ah!" said he, "has the van arrived?"
"Yes," responded Lecoq. And showing the orders signed
by M. d'Escorval, he added : "Here are this man's papers."
The registrar took the documents and read them. "Oh !"
he exclaimed, "a triple assassination ! Oh ! oh !" The glance
he gave the prisoner was positively deferential. This was no
common culprit, no ordinary vagabond, no vulgar thief.
"The investigating magistrate orders a private examination,"
continued the clerk, "and I must get the prisoner other clothing,
as the things he is wearing now will be used as evidence. Let
some one go at once and tell the superintendent that the other
occupants of the van must wait."
At this moment, the governor of the Depot entered the office.
The clerk at once dipped his pen in the ink, and turning to the
prisoner he asked : "What is your name ?"
"May."
"Your Christian name?"
"I have none."
"What, have you no Christian name?"
The prisoner seemed to reflect for a moment, and then an-
swered, sulkily : "I may as well tell you that you need not tire
yourself by questioning me. I shan't answer any one else but
the magistrate. You would like to make me cut my own throat,
wouldn't you? A very clever trick, of course, but one that
won't do for me."
"You must see that you only aggravate your situation,"
observed the governor.
"Not in the least. I am innocent ; you wish to ruin me. I
only defend myself. Get anything more out of me now, if you
can. But you had better give me back what they took from
me at the station-house. My hundred and thirty-six francs and
eight sous. I shall need them when I get out of this place. I
want vou to make a note of them on the register. Where are
they?"
The money had been given to Lecoq by the keeper of the
station-house, who had found it upon the prisoner when he was
placed in his custody. Lecoq now laid it upon the table.
70 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"Here are your hundred and thirty-six francs and eight sous,"
said he, "and also your knife, your handkerchief, and four
cigars."
An expression of lively contentment was discernible on the
prisoner's features.
"Now," resumed the clerk, "will you answer?"
But the governor perceived the futility of further question-
ing; and silencing the clerk by a gesture, he told the prisoner
to take off his boots.
Lecoq thought the assassin's glance wavered as he heard this
order. .Was it only a fancy?"
"Why must I do that?" asked the culprit.
"To pass under the beam," replied the clerk. "We must
make a note of your exact height."
The prisoner made no reply, but sat down and drew off his
heavy boots. The heel of the right one was worn down on the
inside. It was, moreover, noticed that the prisoner wore no
socks, and that his feet were coated with mud.
"You only wear boots on Sundays, then?" remarked Lecoq.
"Why do you think that?"
"By the mud with which your feet are covered, as high as
the ankle-bone."
"What of that?" exclaimed the prisoner, in an insolent tone.
"Is it a crime not to have a marchioness's feet?"
"It is a crime you are not guilty of, at all events," said the
young detective slowly. "Do you think I can't see that if the mud
were picked off your feet would be white and neat? The nails
have been carefully cut and polished — "
He paused. A new idea inspired by his genius for investi-
gation had just crossed Lecoq's mind. Pushing a chair in front
of the prisoner, and spreading a newspaper over it, he said :
"Will you place your foot there?"
The man did not comply with the request.
"It is useless to resist," exclaimed the governor, "we arc
in force."
The prisoner delayed no longer. He placed his foot on
the chair, as he had been ordered, and Lecoq, with the aid of
a knife, proceeded to remove the fragments of mud that
adhered to the skin.
Anywhere else so strange and grotesque a proceeding would
have excited laughter, but here, in this gloomy chamber, the
anteroom of the assize court, an otherwise trivial act is fraught
MONSIEUR LECOQ 71
with serious import. Nothing astonishes ; and should a smile
threaten to curve one's lips, it is instantly repressed
All the spectators, from the governor of the prison to the
keepers, had witnessed many other incidents equally absurd;
and no one thought of inquiring the detective's motive. This
much was known already ; that the prisone r was trying to con-
ceal his identity. Now it was necessary to establish it, at any
cost, and Lecoq had probably discovered some means of attain-
ing this end.
The operation was soon concluded ; and Lecoq swept the
dust off the paper into the palm of his hand. He divided it
into two parts, enclosing one portion in a scrap of paper, and
slipping it into his own pocket. With the remainder he
formed a package which he handed to the governor, saying:
"I beg you, sir. to take charge of this, and to seal it up
here, in presence of the prisoner. This formality is neces-
sary, so that by and by he may not pretend that the dust has
been changed."
The governor complied with the request, and as he placed
this "bit of proof" (as he styled it) in a small satchel for safe
keeping, the prisoner shrugged his shoulders with a sneering
laugh. Still, beneath this cynical gaiety Lecoq thought he could
detect poignant anxiety. Chance owed him the compensation
of this slight triumph ; for previous events had deceived all his
calculations.
The prisoner did not offer the slightest objection when he
was ordered to undress, and to exchange his soiled and blood-
stained garments for the clothing furnished by the Government.
Not a muscle of his face moved while he submitted his person
to one of those ignominous examinations which make the blood
rush to the forehead of the lowest criminal. It was with per-
fect indifference that he allowed an inspector to comb his hair
and beard, and to examine the inside of his mouth, so as to
make sure that he had not concealed either some fragment of
glass, by the aid of which captives can sever the strongest bars,
or one of those microscopical bits of lead with which prisoners
write the notes -they exchange, rolled up in a morsel of bread,
and called "postilions."
These formalities having been concluded, the superintendent
rang for one of the keepers. "Conduct this man to No. 3 of
the secret cells," he ordered.
There was no need to drag the prisoner away. He walked
72 MONSIEUR LECOQ
out, as he had entered, preceding the guard, like some old
habitue, who knows where he is going.
"What a rascal !" exclaimed the clerk.
"Then you think — " began Lecoq, baffled but not convinced,
"Ah ! there can be no doubt of it," declared the governor.
"This man is certainly a dangerous criminal — an old offender
— I think I have seen him before — I could almost swear to it."
Thus it was evident these people, with their long, varied expe-
rience, shared Gevrol's opinion ; Lecoq stood alone. He did not
discuss the matter — what good would it have done? Besides,
the Widow Chupin was just being brought in.
The journey must have calmed her nerves, for she had be-
come as gentle as a lamb. It was in a wheedling voice, and
with tearful eyes, that she called upon these "good gentlemen"
to witness the shameful injustice with which she was treated —
she, an honest woman. Was she not the mainstay of her family
(since her son Polyte was in custody, charged with pocket-
picking), hence what would become of her daughter-in-law,
and of her grandson Toto, who had no one to look after them
but her?
Still, when her name had been taken, and a keeper was
ordered to remove her, nature reasserted itself, and scarcely
had she entered the corridor than she was heard quarreling
with the guard.
"You are wrong not to be polite," she said ; "you are losing
a good fee, without counting many a good drink I would stand
you when I get out of here."
Lecoq was now free until M. d'Escorval's arrival. He wan-
dered through the gloomy corridors, from office to office, but
finding himself assailed with questions by every one he came
across, he eventually left the depot, and went and sat down on
one of the benches beside the quay. Here he tried to collect
his thoughts. His convictions were unchanged. He was more
than ever convinced that the prisoner was concealing his real
social standing, but, on the other hand, it was evident that he
was well acquainted with the prison and its usages.
He had also proved himself to be endowed- with far more
cleverness than Lecoq had supposed. What self-control ! What
powers of dissimulation he had displayed ! He had not so
much as frowned while undergoing the severest ordeals, and
he had managed to deceive the most experienced eyes in Paris.
The young detective had waited during nearly three hours,
MONSIEUR LECOQ B
as motionless as the bench on which he was seated, and so
absorbed in studying his case that he had thought neither of
the cold nor of the flight of time, when a carriage drew up
before the entrance of the prison, and M. d'Escorval alighted,
followed by his clerk.
Lecoq rose and hastened, well-nigh breathless with anxiety,
toward the magistrate.
"My researches on the spot," said this functionary, "confirm
me in the belief that you are right. Is there anything fresh?"
"Yes, sir; a fact that is apparently very trivial, though, in
truth, it is of importance that — "
"Very well !" interrupted the magistrate. "You will explain it
to me by and by. First of all, I must summarily examine the
prisoners. A mere matter of form for to-day. Wait for me here."
Although the magistrate promised to make haste, Lecoq ex-
pected that at least an hour would elapse before he reappeared.
In this he was mistaken. Twenty minutes later, M. d'Escorval
emerged from the prison without his clerk.
He was walking very fast, and instead of approaching the
young detective, he called to him at some little distance. "I must
return home at once," he said, "instantly ; I can not listen to you."
"But, sir—"
"Enough ! the bodies of the victims have been taken to the
Morgue. Keep a sharp lookout there. Then, this evening make
— well — do whatever you think best."
"But, sir, I must—"
"To-morrow ! — to-morrow, at nine o'clock, in my office in the
Palais de Justice."
Lecoq wished to insist upon a hearing, but M. d'Escorval
had entered, or rather thrown himself into, his carriage, and
the coachman was already whipping up the horse.
"And to think that he's an investigating magistrate," panted
Lecoq, left spellbound on the quay. "Has he gone mad?" As
he spoke, an uncharitable thought took possession of his mind.
"Can it be," he murmured, "that M. d'Escorval holds the key
to the mystery? Perhaps he wishes to get rid of me."
This suspicion was so terrible that Lecoq hastened back to
the prison, hoping that the prisoner's bearing might help to
solve his doubts. On peering through the grated aperture in
the door of the cell, he perceived the prisoner lying on the
pallet that stood opposite the door. His face was turned
toward the wall, and he was enveloped in the coverlid up to
4— Vol. I— Gab.
74
MONSIEUR LECOQ
his eyes. He was not asleep, for Lecoq could detect a strange
movement of the body, which puzzled and annoyed him. On
applying his ear instead of his eye to the aperture, he distin-
guished a stifled moan. There could no longer be any doubt.
The death rattle was sounding in the prisoner's throat.
"Help ! help !*' cried Lecoq, greatly excited. "The prisoner
is killing himself !"
A dozen keepers hastened to the spot. The door was quickly
opened, and it was then ascertained that the prisoner, having
torn a strip of binding from his clothes, had fastened it round
his neck and tried to strangle himself with the assistance of
a spoon that had been left him with his food. He was already
unconscious, and the prison doctor, who immediately bled him,
declared that had another ten minutes elapsed, help would have
arrived too late.
When the prisoner regained his senses, he gazed around him
with a wild, puzzled stare. One might have supposed that he
was amazed to find himself still alive. Suddenly a couple of
big tears welled from his swollen eyelids, and rolled down his
cheeks. He was pressed with questions, but did not vouchsafe
so much as a single word in response. As he was in such a
desperate frame of mind, and as the orders to keep him in soli-
tary confinement prevented the governor giving him a com-
panion, it was decided to put a straight waistcoat on him.
Lecoq assisted at this operation, and then walked away, puz-
zled, thoughtful, and agitated. Intuition told him that these
mysterious occurrences concealed some terrible drama.
"Still, what can have occurred since the prisoner's arrival
here?" he murmured. "Has he confessed his guilt to the magis-
trate, or what is his reason for attempting so desperate an act?''
I ECOQ did not sleep that night, although he had been on his
feet for more than forty hours, and had scarcely paused
either to eat or drink. Anxiety, hope, and even fatigue itself,
had imparted to his body the fictitious strength of fever, and
MONSIEUR LECOQ 75
to his intellect the unhealthy acuteness which is so often the
result of intense mental effort.
He no longer had to occupy himself with imaginary deduc-
tions, as in former times when in the employ of his patron,
the astronomer. Once again did the fact prove stranger than
fiction. Here was reality — a terrible realit> personified by the
corpses of three victims lying on the marble slabs at the Morgue.
Still, if the catastrophe itself was a patent fact, its motive, its
surroundings, could only be conjectured. Who could tell what
circumstances had preceded and paved the way for this tragical
denouement ?
It is true that all doubt might be dispelled by one discovery
— the identity of the murderer. Who was he ? Who was right,
Gevrol or Lecoq ? The former's views were shared by the
officials at the prison; the latter stood alone. Again, the for-
mer's opinion was based upon formidable proof, the evidence
of sight; while Lecoq's hypothesis rested only on a series of
subtle observations and deductions, starting from a single sen-
tence that had fallen from the prisoner's lips.
And yet Lecoq resolutely persisted in his theory, guided by
the following reasons. He learnt from M. d'Escorval's clerk
that when the magistrate had examined the prisoner, the latter
not only refused to confess, but answered all the questions put
to him in the most evasive fashion. In several instances, more-
over, he had not replied at all. If the magistrate had not
insisted, it was because this first examination was a mere
formality, solely intended to justify the somewhat premature
delivery of the order to imprison the accused.
Now, under these circumstances, how was one to explain
the prisoner's attempt at self-destruction ? Prison statistics
show that habitual offenders do not commit suicide. When
apprehended for a criminal act, they are sometimes seized with
a wild frenzy and suffer repeated nervous attacks ; at others
they fall into a dull stupor, just as some glutted beast succumbs
to sleep with the blood of his prey still dripping from his lips.
However, such men never think of putting an end to their days.
They hold fast to life, no matter how seriously they may be
compromised. In truth, they are cowards.
On the other hand, the unfortunate fellow who, in a moment
of frenzy, commits a crime, not unfrequently seeks to avoid the
consequences of his act by self-destruction.
Hence, the prisoner's frustrated attempt at suicide was a
76 MONSIEUR LECOQ
strong argument in favor of Lecoq's theory. This wretched
man's secret must be a terrible one since he held it dearer
than life, since he had tried to destroy himself that he might
take it unrevealed to the grave.
Four o'clock was striking when Lecoq sprang from his bed
on which he had thrown himself without undressing ; and five
minutes later he was walking down the Rue Montmartre. The
weather was still cold and muggy; and a thick fog hung over
the city. But the young detective was too engrossed with his
own thoughts to pay attention to any atmospherical unpleasant-
ness. Walking with a brisk stride, he had just reached the
church of Saint Eustache, when a coarse, mocking voice
accosted him with the exclamation : "Ah, ha ! my fine fellow !"
He looked up and perceived Gevrol, who, with three of his
men, had come to cast his nets round about the markets, whence
the police generally return with a good haul of thieves and
vagabonds.
"You are up very early this morning, Monsieur Lecoq," con-
tinued the inspector ; "you are still trying to discover our man's
identity, I suppose?"
"Still trying."
"Is he a prince in disguise, or only a marquis?"
"One or the other, I am quite certain."
"All right then. In that case you will not refuse us the
opportunity to drink to your success."
Lecoq consented, and the party entered a wine-shop close by.
When the glasses were filled, Lecoq turned to Gevrol and ex-
claimed : "Upon my word, General, our meeting will save me a
long walk. I was going to the prefecture to request you, on
M. d'Escorval's behalf, to send one of our comrades to the
Morgue this morning. The affair at the Poivriere has been
noised about, and all the world will be there, so he desires
some officer to be present to watch the crowd and listen to the
remarks of the visitors."
"All right ; Father Absinthe shall be there when the doors open."
To send Father Absinthe where a shrewd and subtle agent
was required was a mockery. Still Lecoq did not protest, for
it was better to be badly served than to be betrayed ; and he
could at least trust Father Absinthe.
"It doesn't much matter," continued Gevrol ; "but you should
have informed me of this last evening. However, when I
reached the prefecture you had gone."
MONSIEUR LECOQ 77
"I had some work to do."
"Yes ?"
"At the station-house near the Barriere d'ltalie. I wanted
to know whether the floor of the cell was paved or tiled." So
saying, Lecoq paid the score, saluted his superior officer, and
went out."
"Thunder !" exclaimed Gevrol, striking his glass violently
upon the counter. "Thunder ! how that fellow provokes me !
He does not know the A B C of his profession. When he can't
discover anything, he invents wonderful stories, and then mis-
leads the magistrates with his high-sounding phrases, in the
hope of gaining promotion. I'll give him advancement with a
vengeance ! I'll teach him to set himself above me !"
Lecoq had not been deceived. The evening before, he had
visited the station-house where the prisoner had first been con-
fined, and had compared the soil of the cell floor with the dust
he had placed in his pocket ; and he carried away with him, as
he believed, one of those crushing proofs that often suffice to
extort from the most obstinate criminal a complete confession.
If Lecoq was in haste to part company with Gevrol, it was
because he was anxious to pursue his investigations still fur-
ther, before appearing in M. d'Escorval's presence. He was
determined to find the cab-driver who had been stopped by the
two women in the Rue du Chevaleret ; and with this object in
view, he had obtained at the prefecture the names and addresses
of all the cab-owners hiring between the road to Fontainebleau
and the Seine.
His earlier efforts at investigation proved unsuccessful. At
the first establishment he visited, the stable boys, who were not
yet up, swore at him roundly. In the second, he found the
grooms at work, but none of the drivers had as yet put in an
appearance. Moreover, the owner refused to show him the
books upon which are recorded — or should be recorded — each
driver's daily engagements. Lecoq was beginning to despair,
when at about half-past seven o'clock he reached an establish-
ment just beyond the fortifications belonging to a man named
Trigault. Here he learned that on Sunday night, or rather,
early on Monday morning, one of the drivers had been accosted
on his way home by some persons who succeeded in persuading
him to drive them back into Paris.
This driver, who was then in the courtyard harnessing his
horse, proved to be a little old man, with a ruddy complexion,
78 MONSIEUR LECOQ
and a pair of small eyes full of cunning. Lecoq walked up to
him at once.
"Was it you," he asked, "who, on Sunday night or rather on
Monday, between one and two in the morning, drove a couple
of women from the Rue du Chevaleret into Paris?"
The driver looked up, and surveying Lecoq attentively, cau-
tiously replied: "Perhaps."
"It is a positive answer that I want."
"Aha !" said the old man sneeringly, "you know two ladies
who have lost something in a cab, and so — "
The young detective trembled with satisfaction. This man
was certainly the one he was looking for. "Have you heard
anything about a crime that has been committed in the neigh-
borhood?" he interrupted.
"Yes ; a murder in a low wine-shop."
"Well, then, I will tell you that these two women are mixed
up in it; they fled when we entered the place. I am trying to
find them. I am a detective ; here is my card. Now, can you
give me any information?"
The driver had grown very pale. "Ah! the wretches!" he
exclaimed. "I am no longer surprised at the luck-money they
gave me — a louis and two five-franc pieces for the fare — thirty
francs in all. Cursed money! If I hadn't spent it, I'd throw
it away !"
"And where did you drive them?"
"To the Rue de Bourgogne. I have forgotten the number,
but I should recognize the house."
"Unfortunately, they would not have let you drive them to
their own door."
"Who knows? I saw them ring the bell, and I think they
went in just as I drove away. Shall I take you there?"
Lecoq's sole response was to spring on to the box, exclaim-
ing: "Let us be off."
It was not to be supposed that the women who had escaped
from the Widow Chupin's drinking-den at the moment of the
murder were utterly devoid of intelligence. Nor was it at all
likely that these two fugitives, conscious as they were of their
perilous situation, had gone straight to their real home in a
vehicle hired on the public highway. Hence, the driver's hope
of finding them in the Rue de Bourgogne was purely chimerical.
Lecoq was fully aware of this, and yet he did not hesitate to
jump on to the box and give the signal for starting. In so
MONSIEUR LECOQ 79
doing, he obeyed a maxim which he had framed in his early
days of meditation — a maxim intended to assure his after-fame,
and which ran as follows : "Always suspect that which seems
probable ; and begin by believing what appears incredible."
As soon as the vehicle was well under way, the young detec-
tive proceeded to ingratiate himself into the driver's good
graces, being anxious to obtain all the information that this
worthy was able to impart.
In a tone that implied that all trifling would be useless the
cabman cried: "Hey up, hey up, Cocotte !" and his mare pricked
up her ears and quickened her pace, so that the Route de Choisy
was speedily reached. Then it was that Lecoq resumed his
inquiries.
"Well, my good fellow," he began, "you have told me the
principal facts, now I should like the details. How did these
two women attract your attention ?"
"Oh, it was very simple. I had been having a most unfor-
tunate day — six hours on a stand on the Boulevards, with the
rain pouring all the time. It was simply awful. At midnight
I had not made more than a franc and a half for myself, but
I was so wet and miserable and the horse seemed so done up
that I decided to go home. I did grumble, I can tell you. Well,
I had just passed the corner of the Rue Picard, in the Rue du
Chevaleret, when I saw two women standing under a lamp,
some little distance off. I did not pay any attention to them;
for when a man is as old as I am, women — "
"Go on!" said Lecoq, who could not restrain his impatience.
"I had already passed them, when they began to call after
me. I pretended I did not hear them; but one of them ran
after the cab, crying: 'A louis ! a louis for yourself!' I hesi-
tated for a moment, when the woman added: 'And ten francs
for the fare !' I then drew up."
Lecoq was boiling over with impatience; but he felt that
the wisest course was not to interrupt the driver with ques-
tions, but to listen to all he had to say.
"As you may suppose," continued the coachman, "I wasn't
inclined to trust two such suspicious characters, alone at that
hour and in that part of the city. So, just as they were about
to get into the cab, I called to them : 'Wait a bit, my little
friends, you have promised papa some sous; where are they?"
The one who had called after the cab at once handed me thirty
francs, saying : 'Above all, make haste !' "
80 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"Your recital could not be more minute," exclaimed Lecoq,
approvingly. "Now, how about these two women?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean what kind of women did they seem to be ; what did
you take them for?"
"Oh, for nothing very good !" replied the driver, with a know-
ing smile.
"Ah! and how were they dressed?"
"Like most of the girls who go to dance at the Rainbow.
One of them, however, was very neat and prim, while the other
— well ! she was a terrible dowdy."
"Which ran after you?"
"The girl who was neatly dressed, the one who — " The
driver suddenly paused : some vivid remembrance passed through
his brain, and, abruptly jerking the rains, he brought his horse
to a standstill.
"Thunder !" he exclaimed. "Now I think of it, I did notice
something strange. One of the two women called the other
'Madame' as large as life, while the other said 'thee' and
'thou,' and spoke as if she were somebody."
"Oh ! oh ! oh !" exclaimed the young detective, in three
different kevs. "And which was it that said 'thee' and
'thou' ?"
"Why, the dowdy one. She with shabby dress and shoes as
big as a gouty man's. You should have seen her shake the
prim-looking girl, as if she had been a plum tree. 'You little
fool!' said she, 'do you want to ruin us? You will have time
to faint when we get home; now come along. And then she
begam to sob: 'Indeed, madame, indeed I can't!' she said, and
really she seemed quite unable to move : in fact, she appeared
to be so ill that I said to myself: 'Here is a young woman who
has drunk more than is good for her !' "
These facts confirmed even if they corrected Lecoq's first
suppositions. As he had suspected, the social position of the
two women was not the same. He had been mistaken, how-
ever, in attributing the higher standing to the woman wearing
the shoes with the high heels, the marks of which he had so
particularly noticed in the snow, with all the attendant signs
of precipitation, terror, and weakness. In reality, social pre-
eminence belonged to the woman who had left the large, broad
footprints behind her. And not merely was she of a superior
rank, but she had also shown superior energy. Contrary to
MONSIEUR LECOQ 81
Lecoq's original idea, it now seemed evident that she was the
mistress, and her companion the servant.
"Is that all, my good fellow?" he asked the driver, who dur-
ing the last few minutes had been busy with his horses.
''Yes," replied the cabman, "except that I noticed that the
shabbily dressed woman who paid me had a hand as small as
a child's, and in spite of her anger, her voice was as sweet as
music."
"Did you see her face?"
"I just caught a glimpse of it."
"Could you tell if she were pretty, or whether she was a
blonde or brunette?"
So many questions at a time confused the driver. "Stop
a minute !" he replied. "In my opinion she wasn't pretty, and
I don't believe she was young, but she certainly was a blonde,
and with plenty of hair too."
"Was she tall or short, stout or slender?"
"Between the two."
This was very vague. "And the other," asked Lecoq, "the
neatly dressed one?"
"The deuce ! As for her, I did not notice her at all ; all I
know about her is that she was very small."
"Would you recognize her if you met her again?"
"Good heavens ! no."
The vehicle was now rolling along the Rue de Bourgogne.
Half-way down the street the driver pulled up, and, turning to
Lecoq, exclaimed: "Here we are. That's the house the hussies
went into."
To draw off the silk handkerchief that served him as a
muffler, to fold it and slip it into his pocket, to spring to the
ground and enter the house indicated, was only the work of
an instant for the young detective.
In the concierge's little room he found an old woman knit-
ting. Lecoq bowed to her politely, and, displaying the silk
handkerchief, exclaimed: "Madame, I have come to return this
article to one of your lodgers."
"To which one?"
"Really, I don't exactly know."
In a moment the worthy dame imagined that this polite young
man was making fun of her. "You scamp — !" she began.
"Excuse me," interrupted Lecoq; "allow me to finish. I
must tell you that at about three o'clock in the morning, of the
82 MONSIEUR LECOQ
day before yesterday, I was quietly returning home, when two
ladies, who were seemingly in a great hurry, overtook me and
passed on. One of them dropped this handkerchief, which
I picked up. I hastened after her to restore it, but before I
could overtake them they had rung the bell at your door and
were already in the house. I did not like to ring at such an un-
earthly hour for fear of disturbing you. Yesterday I was so
busy I couldn't come; however, here I am at last, and here's
the handkerchief." So saying, Lecoq laid the handkerchief on
the table, and turned as if to go, when the concierge detained
him.
"Many thanks for your kindness," said she, "but you can
keep it. We have no ladies in this house who are in the habit
of coming home alone after midnight."
"Still I have eyes," insisted Lecoq, "and I certainly saw — "
"Ah ! I had forgotten," exclaimed the old woman. "The
night you speak of some one certainly did ring the bell here.
I pulled the string that opens the door and listened, but not
hearing any one close the door or come upstairs, I said to my-
self: 'Some mischievous fellow has been playing a trick on
me.' I slipped on my dress and went out into the hall, where
I saw two women hastening toward the door. Before I could
reach them they slammed the door in my face. I opened it
again as quickly as I could and looked out into the street. But
they were hurrying away as fast as they could."
"In what direction?"
"Oh ! they were running toward the Rue de Varennes."
Lecoq was baffled again ; however, he bowed civilly to the
concierge, whom he might possibly have need of at another
time, and then went back to the cab. "As I had supposed, they
do not live here," he remarked to the driver.
The latter shrugged his shoulders in evident vexation, which
would inevitably have vent in a torrent of words, if Lecoq,
who had consulted his watch, had not forestalled the outburst
by saying: "Nine o'clock — I am an hour behind time already:
still I shall have some news to tell. Now take me to the
Morgue as quickly as possible."
When a mysterious crime has been perpetrated, or a great
catastrophe has happened, and the identity of the victims has
not been established, "a great day" invariably follows at the
Morgue. The attendants are so accustomed to the horrors of
the place that the most sickly sight fails to impress them; and
MONSIEUR LECOQ 83
even under the most distressing circumstances, they hasten
gaily to and fro, exchanging jests well calculated to make an
ordinary mortal's flesh creep. As a rule, they are far less
interested in the corpses laid out for public view on the
marble slabs in the principal hall than in the people of every
age and station in life who congregate hero all day long; at
times coming in search of some lost relative or friend, but far
more frequently impelled by idle curiosity.
As the vehicle conveying Lecoq reached the quay, the young
detective perceived that a large, excited crowd was gathered
outside the building. The newspapers had reported the tragedy
at the Widow Chupin's drinking-den, of course, more or less
correctly, and everybody wished to see the victims.
On drawing near the Pont Notre Dame, Lecoq told the
driver to pull up. "I prefer to alight here, rather than in front
of the Morgue," he said, springing to the ground. Then,
producing first his watch, and next his purse, he added : ''We
have been an hour and forty minutes, my good fellow, conse-
quently I owe you — "
"Nothing at all," replied the driver, decidedly.
"But—"
"No — not a sou. I am too worried already to think that I
took the money these hussies offered me. It would only have
served me right if the liquor I bought with it had given me
the gripes. Don't be uneasy about the score, and if you need a
trap use mine for nothing, till you have caught the jades."
As Lecoq's purse was low, he did not insist.
"You will, at least, take my name and address?" continued
the driver.
"Certainly. The magistrate will want your evidence, and a
summons will be sent you."
"All right, then. Address it to Papillon (Eugene), driver,
care of M. Trigault. I lodge at his place, because I have some
small interest in the business, you see."
The young detective was hastening away, when Papillon
called him back. "When you leave the Morgue you will want
to go somewhere else," he said, "you told me that you had
another appointment, and that you were already late."
"Yes, I ought to be at the Palais de Justice; but it is only
a few steps from here."
"No matter. I will wait for you at the corner of the bridge.
It's useless to say 'no'; I've made up my mind, and I'm a
84 MONSIEUR LECOQ
Breton, you know. I want you to ride out the thirty francs
that those jades paid me"."
It would have been cruel to refuse such a request. Accord-
ingly, Lecoq made a gesture of assent, and then hurried toward
the Morgue.
If there was a crowd on the roadway outside, it was because
the gloomy building itself was crammed full of people. Indeed,
the sightseers, most of whom could see nothing at all, were
packed as closely as sardines, and it was only by dint of well-
nigh superhuman efforts that Lecoq managed to effect an
entrance. As usual, he found among the mob a large number
of girls and women; for, strange to say, the Parisian fair sex
is rather partial to the disgusting sights and horrible emotions
that repay a visit to the Morgue.
The shop and work girls who reside in the neighborhood
readily go out of their way to catch a glimpse of the corpses
which crime, accident, and suicide bring to this horrible place.
A few, the more sensitive among them, may come no further
than the door, but the others enter, and after a long stare
return and recount their impressions to their less courageous
companions.
If there should be no corpse exhibited; if all the marble
slabs are unoccupied, strange as it may seem, the visitors turn
hastily away with an expression of disappointment or discon-
tent. There was no fear of their doing so, however, on the
morrow of the tragedy at Poivriere, for the mysterious murderer
whose identity Lecoq was trying to establish had furnished
three victims for their delectation. Panting with curiosity,
they paid but little attention to the unhealthy atmosphere : and
yet a damp chill came from beyond the iron railings, while
from the crowd itself rose an infectious vapor, impregnated
with the stench of the chloride of lime used as a disinfectant.
As a continuous accompaniment to the exclamations, sighs,
and whispered comments of the bystanders came the murmur
of the water trickling from a spigot at the head of each slab ;
a tiny stream that flowed forth only to fall in fine spray upon
the marble. Through the small arched windows a gray light
stole in on the exposed bodies, bringing each muscle into bold re-
lief, revealing the ghastly tints of the lifeless flesh, and impart-
ing a sinister aspect to the tattered clothing hung around the
room to aid in the identification of the corpses. This clothing,
after a certain time, is sold — for nothing is wasted at the Morgue.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 85
However, Lecoq was too occupied with his own thoughts to
remark the horrors of the scene. He scarcely bestowed a glance
on the three victims. He was looking for Father Absinthe,
whom he could not perceive. Had Gevrol intentionally or unin-
tentionally failed to fulfil his promise, or had Father Absinthe
forgotten his duty in his morning dram?
Unable to explain the cause of his comrade's absence, Lecoq
addressed himself to the head keeper: "It would seem that no
one has recognized the victims," he remarked.
"No one. And yet, ever since opening, we have had an im-
mense crowd. If I were master here, on days like this, I would
charge an admission fee of two sous a head, with half-price for
children. It would bring in a round sum, more than enough to
cover the expenses."
The keeper's reply seemed to offer an inducement to conver-
sation, but Lecoq did not seize it. "Excuse me," he interrupted,
"didn't a detective come here this morning?"
"Yes, there was one here."
"Has he gone away then? I don't see him anywhere?"
The keeper glanced suspiciously at his eager questioner, but
after a moment's hesitation, he ventured to inquire: "Are you
one of them?"
"Yes, I am," replied Lecoq, exhibiting his card in support
of his assertion.
"And your name ?"
"Is Lecoq."
The keeper's face brightened up. "In that case," said he,
"I have a letter for you, written by your comrade, who was
obliged to go away. Here it is."
The young detective at once tore open the envelope and
read: "Monsieur Lecoq — "
"Monsieur?" This simple formula of politeness brought a
faint smile to his lips. Was it not, on Father Absinthe's part,
an evident recognition of his colleague's superiority. Indeed,
our hero accepted it as a token of unquestioning devotion which
it would be his duty to repay with a master's kind protection
toward his first disciple. However, he had no time to waste in
thought, and accordingly at once proceeded to peruse the note,
which ran as follows:
"Monsieur Lecoq — I had been standing on duty since the
opening of the Morgue, when at about nine o'clock three young
86 MONSIEUR LECOQ
men entered, arm-in-arm. From their manner and appearance,
I judged them to be clerks in some store or warehouse. Sud-
denly I noticed that one of them turned as white as his shirt ;
and calling the attention of his companions to one of the
unknown victims, he whispered: 'Gustave !'
"His comrades put their hands over his mouth, and one of
them exclaimed : 'What are you about, you fool, to mix yourself
up with this affair ! Do you want to get us into trouble ?'
"Thereupon they went out, and I followed them. But the
person who had first spoken was so overcome that he could
scarcely drag himself along; and his companions were obliged
to take him to a little restaurant close by. I entered it myself,
and it is there I write this letter, in the mean time watching
them out of the corner of my eye. I send this note, explaining
my absence, to the head keeper, who will give it you. You will
understand that I am going to follow these men. A. B. S."
The handwriting of this letter was almost illegible ; and there
were mistakes in spelling in well-nigh every line ; still, its
meaning was clear and exact, and could not fail to excite the
most flattering hopes.
Lecoq's face was so radiant when he returned to the cab
that, as the old coachman urged on his horse, he could not
refrain from saying: "Things are going on to suit you."
A friendly "hush !" was the only response. It required all
Lecoq's attention to classify this new information. When he
alighted from the cab in front of the Palais de Justice, he expe-
rienced considerable difficulty in dismissing the old cabman, who
insisted upon remaining at his orders. He succeeded at last,
however, but even when he had reached the portico on the left
side of the building, the worthy fellow, standing up, still shouted
at the top of his voice : "At M. Trigault's house — <lon't forget —
Father Papillon — No. 998 — 1,000 less 2 — "
Lecoq had entered the left wing of the Palais. He climbed
the stairs till he had reached the third floor, and was about to
enter the long, narrow, badly-lighted corridor known as the
Galerie de lTnstruction, when, finding a doorkeeper installed
behind a heavy oaken desk, he remarked: "M. d'Escorval is,
of course, in his office?''
The man shook his head. "No," said he, "M. d'Escorval is
not here this morning, and he won't be here for several weeks."
"Why not! What do you mean?"
MONSIEUR LECOQ 87
"Last night, as he was alighting from his carriage, at his own
door, he had a most unfortunate fall, and broke his leg."
COME men are wealthy. They own a carriage drawn by a
^ pair of high-stepping horses, and driven by a coachman in
stylish livery ; and as they pass by, leaning back on comfortable
cushions, they become the object of many an envious glance.
Sometimes, however, the coachman has taken a drop too much,
and upsets the carriage ; perhaps the horses run away and a
general smash ensues; or, maybe, the hitherto fortunate owner,
in a moment of absent-mindedness, misses the step, and frac-
tures his leg on the curbstone. Such accidents occur every day ;
and their long list should make humble foot-passengers bless
the lowly lot which preserves them from such peril.
On learning the misfortune that had befallen M. d'Escorval,
Lecoq's face wore such an expression of consternation that the
doorkeeper could not help laughing. "What is there so very
extraordinary about that I've told you?" he asked.
"I— oh! nothing—"
The detective did not speak the truth. The fact is, he had
just been struck by the strange coincidence of two events — the
supposed murderer's attempted suicide, and the magistrate's fall.
Still, he did not allow the vague presentiment that flitted through
his mind to assume any definite form. For after all, what pos-
sible connection could there be between the two occurrences?
Then again, he never allowed himself to be governed by preju-
dice, nor had he as yet enriched his formulary with an axiom
he afterward professed : "Distrust all circumstances that seem
to favor your secret wishes."
Of course, Lecoq did not rejoice at M. d'Escorval's accident;
could he have prevented it, he would have gladly done so.
Still, he could not help saying to himself that this stroke of
misfortune would free him from all further connection with a
man whose superciliousness and disdain had been painfully dis-
agreeable to his feelings.
88 MONSIEUR LECOQ
This thought caused a sensation of relief — almost one of light-
headedness. "In that case," said the young detective to the
doorkeeper, "I shall have nothing to do here this morning."
"You must be joking," was the reply. "Does the world stop
moving because one man is disabled? The news only arrived
an hour ago; but all the urgent business that M. d'Escorval
had in charge has already been divided among the other
magistrates."
"I came here about that terrible affair that occurred the other
night just beyond the Barriere de Fontainebleau."
"Eh ! Why didn't you say so at once ? A messenger has
been sent to the prefecture after you already. M. Segmuller
has charge of the case, and he's waiting for you."
Doubt and perplexity were plainly written on Lecoq's fore-
head. He was trying to remember the magistrate that bore
this name, and wondered whether he was a likely man to espouse
his views.
"Yes," resumed the doorkeeper, who seemed to be in a talka-
tive mood, "M. Segmuller — you don't seem to know him. He
is a worthy man, not quite so grim as most of our gentlemen.
A prisoner he had examined said one day : 'That devil there
has pumped me so well that I shall certainly have my head
chopped off ; but, nevertheless, he's a good fellow !"
His heart somewhat lightened by these favorable reports,
Lecoq went and tapped at a door that was indicated to him,
and which bore the number — 22.
"Come in !" called out a pleasant voice.
The young detective entered, and found himself face to face
with a man of some forty years of age, tall and rather corpu-
lent, who at once exclaimed : "Ah ! you are Lecoq. Very well
— take a seat. I am busy just now looking over the papers of
the case, but I will attend to you in five minutes."
Lecoq obeyed, at the same time glancing furtively at the
magistrate with whom he was about to work. M. Segmuller's
appearance corresponded perfectly with the description given
by the doorkeeper. His plump face wore an air of frankness
and benevolence, and his blue eyes had a most pleasant expres-
sion. Nevertheless, Lecoq distrusted these appearances, and
in so doing he was right.
Born near Strasbourg, M. Segmuller possessed that candid
physiognomy common to most of the natives of blonde Alsace
— a deceitful mask, which, behind seeming simplicity, not un-
MONSIEUR LECOQ 89
frequently conceals a Gascon cunning, rendered all the more
dangerous since it is allied with extreme caution. He had a
wonderfully alert, penetrating mind ; but his system — every mag-
istrate has his own— was mainly good-humor. Unlike most of
his colleagues, who were as stiff and cutting in manner as the
sword which the statue of Justice usually holds in her hand,
he made simplicity and kindness of demeanor his leading trait,
though, of course, without ever losing sight of his magisterial
duties.
Still, the tone of his voice was so paternal, and the subtle
purport of his questions so veiled by his seeming frankness,
that most of those whom he examined forgot the necessity of
protecting themselves, and unawares confessed their guilt.
Thus, it frequently happened that while some unsuspecting cul-
prit was complacently congratulating himself upon getting the
best of the judge, the poor wretch was really being turned
inside out like a glove.
By the side of such a man as M. Segmuller a grave and
slender clerk would have excited distrust ; so he had chosen one
who was a caricature of himself. This clerk's name was
Goguet. He was short but corpulent, and his broad, beardless
face habitually wore a silly smile, not out of keeping with his
intellect, which was none of the brightest.
As stated above, when Lecoq entered M. Segmuller's room
the latter was busy studying the case which had so unexpectedly
fallen into his hands. All the articles which the vounsr detec-
tive had collected, from the flakes of wool to the diamond ear-
ring, were spread out upon the magistrate's desk. With the
greatest attention, he perused the report prepared by Lecoq,
and according to the different phases of the affair, he examined
one or another of the objects before him, or else consulted the
plan of the ground.
"A good half-hour elapsed before he had completed his
inspection, when he threw himself back in his armchair.
Monsieur Lecoq," he said, slowly, "Monsieur d'Escorval has
informed me by a note on the margin of this file of papers
that you are an intelligent man, and that we can trust you."
"I am willing, at all events."
"You speak too slightingly of yourself; this is the first time
that an agent has brought me a report as complete as yours.
You are young, and if you persevere, I think you will be abl?
to accomplish great things in your profession."
yo MONSIEUR LECOQ
Nervous with delight, Lecoq bowed and stammered his
thanks.
"Your opinion in this matter coincides with mine," continued
M. Segmuller, "and the public prosecutor informs me that M.
d'Escorval shares the same views. An enigma is before us ; and
it ought to be solved."
"Oh ! — we'll solve it, I am certain, sir," exclaimed Lecoq,
who at this moment felt capable of the most extraordinary
achievements. Indeed, he would have gone through fire and
water for the magistrate who had received him so kindly, and
his enthusiasm sparkled so plainly in his eyes that M. Segmuller
could not restrain a smile.
"I have strong hopes of it myself," he responded ; "but we
are far from the end. Now, what have you been doing since
yesterday? Did M. d'Escorval give you any orders? Have
you obtained any fresh information?"
"I don't think I have wasted my time," replied Lecoq, who
at once proceeded to relate the various facts that had come to
his knowledge since his departure from the Poivriere.
With rare precision and that happiness of expression which
Seldom fails a man well acquainted with his subject, he re-
counted the daring feats of the presumed accomplice, the points
he had noted in the supposed murderer's conduct, the latter's
unsuccessful attempt at self-destruction. He repeated the testi-
mony given by the cab-driver, and by the concierge in the Rue
de Bourgogne, and then read the letter he had received from
Father Absinthe.
In conclusion, he placed on the magistrate's desk some of the
dirt he had scraped from the prisoner's feet ; at the same time
depositing beside it a similar parcel of dust collected on the
floor of the cell in which the murderer was confined at the
Barriere d'ltalie.
When Lecoq had explained the reasons that had led him
to collect this soil, and the conclusions that might be drawn
from a comparison of the two parcels, M. Segmuller, who had
been listening attentively, at once exclaimed: "You are right.
It may be that you have discovered a means to confound all the
prisoner's denials. At all events, this is certainly a proof of
surprising sagacity on your part."
So it must have been, for Goguet, the clerk, nodded approv-
inglv. "Capital !" he murmured. "I should never have thought
of that"
MONSIEUR LECOQ 91
While he was talking, M. Segmuller had carefully placed all
the so-called "articles of conviction" in a large drawer, from
which they would not emerge until the trial. "Now," said he,
"I understand the case well enough to examine the Widow
Chupin. We may gain some information from her."
He was laying his hand upon the bell, when Lecoq stopped
him with an almost supplicating gesture. "I have one great
favor to ask you, sir," he observed.
"What is it?— speak."
"I should very much like to be present at this examination.
It takes so little, sometimes, to awaken a happy inspiration."
Although the law says that the accused shall first of all be
privately examined by the investigating magistrate assisted by
his clerk, it also allows the presence of police agents. Accord-
ingly, M. Segmuller told Lecoq that he might remain. At the
same time he rang his bell ; which was speedily answered by a
messenger.
"Has the Widow Chupin been brought here, in compliance
with my orders ?" asked M. Segmuller.
"Yes, sir; she is in the gallery outside."
"Let her come in then."
An instant later the hostess of the Poivriere entered the
room, bowing to the right and to the left. This was not her
first appearance before a magistrate, and she was not ignorant
of the respect that is due to justice. Accordingly, she had
arrayed herself for her examination with the utmost care. She
had arranged her rebellious gray locks in smooth bandeaux, and
her garments, although of common material, looked positively
neat. She had even persuaded one of the prison warders to
buy her — with the money she had about her at the time of her
arrest — a black crape cap. and a couple of white pocket-hand-
kerchiefs, intending to deluge the latter with her tears, should
the situation call for a pathetic display.
She was indeed far too knowing to rely solely on the mere
artifices of dress ; hence, she had also drawn upon her repertoire
of grimaces for an innocent, sad, and yet resigned expression,
well fitted, in her opinion, to win the sympathy and indulgence
of the magistrate upon whom her fate would depend.
Thus disguised, with downcast eyes and honeyed voice, she
looked so unlike the terrible termagant of the Poivriere, that
her customers would scarcely have recognized her. Indeed, an
honest old bachelor might have offered her twenty francs a
92 MONSIEUR LECOQ
month to take charge of his chambers — solely on the strength
of her good looks. But M. Segmuller had unmasked so many
hypocrites that he was not deceived for a moment. "What an
old actress !" he muttered to himself, and, glancing at Lecoq, he
perceived the same thought sparkling in the young detective's
eyes. It is true that the magistrate's penetration may have been
due to some notes he had just perused — notes containing an
abstract of the woman's former life, and furnished by the chief
of police at the magistrate's request.
With a gesture of authority M. Segmuller warned Goguet,
the clerk with the silly smile, to get his writing materials ready.
He then turned toward the Widow Chupin. "Your name ?" he
asked in a sharp tone.
"Aspasie Claperdty, my maiden name," replied the old
woman, "and to-day, the Widow Chupin, at your service, sir ;"
so saying, she made a low courtesy, and then added : "A lawful
widow, you understand, sir ; I have my marriage papers safe
in my chest at home ; and if you wish to send any one — "
"Your age ?" interrupted the magistrate.
"Fifty-four."
"Your profession?"
"Dealer in wines and spirits outside of Paris, near the Rue
du Chateau-des-Rentiers, just beyond the fortifications."
A prisoner's examination always begins with these questions
as to individuality, which gives both the magistrate and the
culprit time to study each other, to try, as it were, each other's
strength, before joining in a serious struggle; just as two duel-
ists, about to engage in mortal combat, first try a few passes
with the foils.
"Now," resumed M. Segmuller, "we will note your antece-
dents. Have you not already been found guilty of several
offenses?"
The Widow Chupin was too well versed in criminal proce-
dure to be ignorant of those famous records which render the
denial of identity such a difficult matter in France. "I have
been unfortunate, my good judge," she whined.
"Yes, several times. First of all, you were arrested on a
charge of receiving stolen goods."
"But it was proved that I was innocent, that my character
was whiter than snow. My poor, dear husband had been
deceived by his comrades ; that was all."
"Possibly. But while your husband was undergoing his sen-
MONSIEUR LECOQ 93
tence, you were condemned, first to one month's and then to
three months' imprisonment for stealing."
"Oh, I had some enemies who did their best to ruin me."
"Next you were imprisoned for having led some young girls
astray."
''They were good-for-nothing hussies, my kind sir, heartless,
unprincipled creatures. I did them many favors, and then they
went and related a batch of falsehoods to ruin me. I have
always been too kind and considerate toward others."
The list of the woman's offenses was not exhausted, but M.
Segmuller thought it useless to continue. "Such is your past,"
he resumed. "At the present time your wine-shop is the resort
of rogues and criminals. Your son is undergoing his fourth
term of imprisonment; and it has been clearly proved that you
abetted and assisted him in his evil deeds. Your daughter-in-
law, by some miracle, has remained honest and industrious,
hence you have tormented and abused her to such an extent
that the authorities have been obliged to interfere. When she
left your house you tried to keep her child — no doubt meaning
to bring it up after the same fashion as its father."
"This," thought the Widow Chupin, "is the right moment to
try and soften the magistrate's heart." Accordingly, she drew
one of her new handkerchiefs from her pocket, and, by dint of
rubbing her eyes, endeavored to extract a tear. "Oh, unhappy
me," she groaned. "How can any one imagine that I would
harm my grandson, my poor little Toto ! Why, I should be
worse than a wild beast to try and bring my own flesh and
blood to perdition."
She soon perceived, however, that her lamentations did not
much affect M. Segmuller, hence, suddenly changing both her
tone and manner, she began her justification. She did not posi-
tively deny her past; but she threw all the blame on the injus-
tice of destiny, which, while favoring a few, generally the less
deserving, showed no mercy to others. Alas ! she was one of
those who had had no luck in life, having always been perse-
cuted, despite her innocence. In this last affair, for instance,
how was she to blame? A triple murder had stained her shop
with blood ; but the most respectable establishments are not
exempt from similar catastrophes. During her solitary con-
finement, she had, said she, dived down into the deepest recesses
of her conscience, and she was still unable to discover what
blame could justly be laid at her door.
94 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"I can tell you," interrupted the magistrate. "You are
accused of impeding the action of the law."
"Good heavens ! Is it possible ?"
"And of seeking to defeat justice. This is equivalent to
complicity, Widow Chupin ; take care. When the police entered
your cabin, after this crime had been committed, you refused
to answer their questions."
"I told them all that I knew."
"Very well, then, you must repeat what you told them
to me."
M. Segmuller had reason to feel satisfied. He had conducted
the examination in such a way that the Widow Chupin would
now have to initiate a narrative of the tragedy. This excellent
point gained; for this shrewd old woman, possessed of all her
coolness, would naturally have been on her guard against any
direct questions. Now, it was essential that she should not
suspect either what the magistrate knew of the affair, or what
he was ignorant of. By leaving her to her own devices she
might, in the course of the version which she proposed to sub-
stitute for the truth, not merely strengthen Lecoq's theories, but
also let fall some remark calculated to facilitate the task of
future investigation. Both M. Segmuller and Lecoq were of
opinion that the version of the crime which they were about
to hear had been concocted at the station-house of the Place
d'ltalie while the murderer and the spurious drunkard were left
together, and that it had been transmitted by the accomplice to
the widow during the brief conversation they were allowed to
have through the wicket of the latter's cell.
Invited by the magistrate to recount the circumstances of the
tragedy, Mother Chupin did not hesitate for a moment. "Oh,
it was a very simple affair, my good sir," she began. "I was
sitting by my fireside on Sunday evening, when suddenly the
door opened, and three men and two women came in."
M. Segmuller and the young detective exchanged glances.
The accomplice had evidently seen Lecoq and his comrade
examining the footprints, and accordingly the presence of the
two women was not to be denied.
"What time was this?" asked the magistrate.
"About eleven o'clock."
"Go on."
"As soon as they sat down they ordered a bowl of wine,
a la Frangaise. Without boasting, I may say that I haven't an
MONSIEUR LECOQ 95
equal in preparing that drink. Of course, I waited on them,
and afterward, having a blouse to mend for my boy, I went
upstairs to my room, which is just over the shop."
"Leaving the people alone?"
"Yes, my judge."
"That showed a great deal of confidence on your part."
The widow sadly shook her head. "People as poor as I am
don't fear the thieves," she sighed.
"Go on — go on."
"Well, I had been upstairs about half an hour, when I heard
some one below call out : 'Eh ! old woman !' So I went down,
and found a tall, big-bearded man, who had just come in. He
asked for a glass of brandy, which I brought to a table where
he had sat down by himself."
"And then did you go upstairs again ?" interrupted the magis-
trate.
The exclamation was ironical, of course, but no one could
have told from the Widow Chupin's placid countenance whether
she was aware that such was the case.
"Precisely, my good sir," she replied in the most composed
manner. "Only this time I had scarcely taken up my needle
when I heard a terrible uproar in the shop. I hurried down-
stairs to put a stop to it — but heaven knows my interference
would have been of little use. The three men who had come
in first of all had fallen upon the newcomer, and they were
beating him, my good sir, they were killing him. I screamed.
Just then the man who had come in alone drew a revolver
from his pocket ; he fired and killed one of his assailants,
who fell to the ground. I was so frightened that I crouched
on the staircase and threw my apron over my head that I
might not see the blood run. An instant later Monsieur
Gevrol arrived with his men ; they forced open the door,
and behold—"
The Widow Chupin here stopped short. These wretched old
women, who have trafficked in every sort of vice, and who have
tasted every disgrace, at times attain a perfection of hypocrisy
calculated to deceive the most subtle penetration. Any one un-
acquainted with the antecedents of the landlady of the Poivriere
would certainly have been impressed by her apparent candor,
so skilfully did she affect a display of frankness, surprise, and
fear. Her expression would have been simply perfect, had it
not been for her eyes, her small gray eyes, as restless as those
96 MONSIEUR LECOQ
of a caged animal, and gleaming at intervals with craftiness
and cunning.
There she stood, mentally rejoicing at the success of her
narrative, for she was convinced that the magistrate placed
implicit confidence in her revelations, although during her
recital, delivered, by the way, with conjurer-like volubility, not
a muscle of M. Segmuller's face had betrayed what was passing
in his mind. When she paused, out of breath, he rose from his
seat, and without a word approached his clerk to inspect the
notes taken during the earlier part of the examination.
From the corner where he was quietly seated, Lecoq did
not cease watching the prisoner. "She thinks that it's all
over," he muttered to himself: "she fancies that her deposition
is accepted without question."
If such were, indeed, the widow's opinion, she was soon to
be undeceived; for, after addressing a few low-spoken words
to the smiling Goguet, M. Segmuller took a seat near the fire-
place, convinced that the moment had now come to abandon
defensive tactics, and open fire on the enemy's position.
"So, Widow Chupin," he began, "you tell us that you didn't
remain for a single moment with the people who came into
your shop that evening !"
"Not a moment."
"They came in and ordered what they wanted; you waited
on them, and then left them to themselves?"
"Yes, my good sir."
"It seems to me impossible that you didn't overhear some
words of their conversation. What were they talking about?"
"I am not in the habit of playing spy over my customers."
"Didn't you hear anything?"
"Nothing at all."
The magistrate shrugged his shoulders with an air of com-
miseration. "In other words," he remarked, "you refuse to
inform justice — "
"Oh, my good sir!"
"Allow me to finish. All these improbable stories about
leaving the shop and mending your son's clothes in your bed-
room are so many inventions. You have concocted them so
as to be able to say to me: 'I didn't see anything; I didn't
hear anything.' If such is your system of defense, I warn
you that it will be impossible for you to maintain it, and I may
add that it would not be admitted by any tribunal."
MONSIEUR LECOQ 97
"It is not a system of defense ; it is the truth."
M. Segmuller seemed to reflect for a moment ; then, suddenly,
he exclaimed : "Then you have nothing to tell me about this
miserable assassin ?"
"But he is not an assassin, my good sir."
"What do you mean by such an assertion?"
"I mean that he only killed the others in protecting himself.
They picked a quarrel with him; he was alone against three,
and saw very plainly that he could expect no mercy from
brigands who — "
The color rose to the Widow Chupin's cheeks, and she
suddenly checked herself, greatly embarrassed, and evidently
regretting that she had not bridled her tongue. It is true she
might reasonably hope, that the magistrate had imperfectly
heard her words, and had failed to seize their full purport, for
two or three red-hot coals having fallen from the grate on the
hearth, he had taken up the tongs, and seemed to be engrossed
in the task of artistically arranging the fire.
"Who can tell me — who can prove to me that, on the con-
trary, it was not this man who first attacked the others?" he
murmured, thoughtfully.
"I can," stoutly declared the widow, already forgetful of
her prudent hesitation, "I can swear it."
M. Segmuller looked up, intense astonishment written upon
his .face. "How can you know that?" he said slowly. "How
can you swear it? You were in your bedroom when the quar-
rel began."
Silent and motionless in his corner, Lecoq was inwardly
jubilant. This was a most happy result, he thought, but a few
questions more, and the old woman would be obliged to con-
tradict herself. What she had already said sufficed to show
that she must have a secret interest in the matter, or else she
would never have been so imprudently earnest in defending
the prisoner.
"However, you have probably been led to this conclusion by
your knowledge of the murderer's character," remarked M.
Segmuller, "you are apparently well acquainted with him."
"Oh, I had never set eyes on him before that evening."
"But he must have been in your establishment before?"
"Never in his life."
"Oh, oh ! Then how do you explain that on entering the
shop while you were upstairs, this unknown person — this
5— Vol. I— Gab.
98 MONSIEUR LECOQ
stranger — should have called out : 'Here, old woman !' Did
he merely guess that the establishment was kept by a woman;
and that this woman was no longer young?"
"He did not say that."
"Reflect a moment; you, yourself just told me so."
"Oh, I didn't say that, I'm sure, my good sir."
"Yes, you did, and I will prove it by having your evidence
read. Goguet, read the passage, if you please."
The smiling clerk looked back through his minutes and then,
in his clearest voice, he read these words, taken down as they
fell from the Widow Chupin's lips: "I had been upstairs
about half an hour, when I heard some one below call out 'Eh !
old woman.' So I went down," etc., etc.
"Are you convinced?" asked M. Segmuller.
The old offender's assurance was sensibly diminished by this
proof of her prevarication. However, instead of discussing the
subject any further, the magistrate glided over it as if he did
not attach much importance to the incident.
"And the other men," he resumed, "those who were killed:
did you know them?"
"No, good sir, no more than I knew Adam and Eve."
"And were you not surprised to see three men utterly un-
known to you, and accompanied by two women, enter your
establishment?"
"Sometimes chance — "
"Come ! you do not think of what you are saying. It was
not chance that brought these customers, in the middle of the
night, to a wine-shop with a reputation like yours — an estab-
lishment situated far from any frequented route in the midst
of a desolate waste."
"I'm not a sorceress ; I say what I think."
"Then you did not even know the youngest of the victims,
the man who was attired as a soldier, he who was named
Gustave ?"
"Not at all."
M. Segmuller noted the intonation of this response, and
then slowly added: "But you must have heard of one of
Gustave's friends, a man called Lacheneur?"
On hearing this name, the landlady of the Poivriere became
visibly embarrassed, and it was in an altered voice that she
stammered : "Lacheneur ! Lacheneur ! no, I have never heard
that name mentioned."
MONSIEUR LECOQ 99
Still despite her denial, the effect of M. Segmuller's remark
was evident, and Lecoq secretly vowed that he would find this
Lacheneur, at any cost. Did not the "articles of conviction"
comprise a letter sent by this man to Gustave, and written, so
Lecoq had reason to believe, in a cafe on the Boulevard Beau-
marchais? With such a clue and a little patience, the mysterious
Lacheneur might yet be discovered.
"Now," continued M. Segmuller, "let us speak of the women
who accompanied these unfortunate men. What sort of women
were they?"
"Oh ! women of no account whatever !"
"Were they well dressed?"
"On the contrary, very miserably."
"Well, give me a description of them."
"They were tall and powerfully built, and indeed, as it was
Shrove Sundav, I first of all took them for men in disguise.
They had hands like shoulders of mutton, gruff voices, and
very black hair. They were as dark as mulattoes — "
"Enough !" interrupted the magistrate, "I require no further
proof of your mendacity. These women were short, and one
of them was remarkably fair."
"I swear to you, my good sir — "
"Do not declare it upon oath. I shall be forced to confront
you with an honest man, who will tell you to your face that
you are a liar !"
The widow did not reply, and there was a moment's silence.
M. Segmuller determined to deal a decisive blow. "Do you also
affirm that you had nothing of a compromising character in the
pocket of your apron?" he asked.
"Nothing — you may have it examined; it was left in the
house."
"Then you still persist in your system," resumed M. Seg-
muller. "Believe me, you are wrong. Reflect — it rests with
you to go to the Assize Court as a witness, or an accomplice."
Although the widow seemed crushed by this unexpected
blow, the magistrate did not add another word. Her depo-
sition was read over to her, she signed it, and was then
led away.
M. Segmuller immediately seated himself at his desk, filled
up a blank form and handed it to his clerk, saying: "This is
an order for the governor of the Depot. Tell him to send the
supposed murderer here at once."
100
MONSIEUR LECOQ
T F it is difficult to extort a confession from a man interested
■■■ in preserving silence and persuaded that no proofs can be
produced against him, it is a yet more arduous task to make a
woman, similarly situated, speak the truth. As ttiey say at
the Palais de Justice, one might as well try to make the devil
confess.
The examination of the Widow Chupin had been conducted
with the greatest possible care by M. Segmuller, who was
as skilful in managing his questions as a tried general in
maneuvring his troops.
However, all that he had discovered was that the landlady
of the Poivriere was conniving with the murderer. The motive
of her connivance was yet unknown, and the murderer's identity
still a mystery. Both M. Segmuller and Lecoq were neverthe-
less of the opinion that the old hag knew everything. "It is
almost certain," remarked the magistrate, "that she was ac-
quainted with the people who came to her house — with the
women, the victims, the murderer — with all of them, in fact.
I am positive as regards that fellow Gustave — I read it in her
eyes. I am also convinced that she knows Lacheneur — the man
upon whom the dying soldier breathed vengeance — the myste-
rious personage who evidently possesses the key to the enigma.
That man must be found."
"Ah !" replied Lecoq, "and I will find him even if I have
to question every one of the eleven hundred thousand men
who constantly walk the streets of Paris !"
This was promising so much that the magistrate, despite his
preoccupation, could not repress a smile.
"If this old woman would only decide to make a clean
breast of it at her next examination !" remarked Lecoq.
"Yes. But she won't."
The young detective shook his head despondingly. Such was
his own opinion. He did not delude himself with false hopes,
and he had noticed between the Widow Chupin's eyebrows
MONSIEUR LECOQ 101
those furrows which, according to physiognomists, indicate a
senseless, brutish obstinacy.
"Women never confess," resumed the magistrate; "and even
when they seemingly resign themselves to such a course they
are not sincere. They fancy they have discovered some means
of misleading their examiner. On the contrary, evidence will
crush the most obstinate man; he gives up the struggle, and
confesses. Now, a woman scoff's at evidence. Show her the
sun; tell her it's daytime; at once she will close her eyes and
say to you, 'No, it's night.' Male prisoners plan and combine
different systems of defense according to their social positions;
the women, on the contrary, have but one system, no matter
what may be their condition in life. They deny everything,
persist in their denials even when the proof against them is
overwhelming, and then they cry. When I worry the Chupin
with disagreeable questions, at her next examination, you may
be sure she will turn her eyes into a fountain of tears."
In his impatience, M. Segmuller angrily stamped his foot.
He had many weapons in his arsenal; but none strong enough
to break a woman's dogged resistance.
"If I only understood the motive that guides this old hag!"
he continued. "But not a clue ! Who can tell me what power-
ful interest induces her to remain silent? Is it her own cause
that she is defending? Is she an accomplice? Is it certain that
she did not aid the murderer in planning an ambuscade?"
"Yes," responded Lecoq, slowly, "yes; this supposition very
naturally presents itself to the mind. But think a moment, sir,
such a theory would prove that the idea we entertained a
short time since is altogether false. If the Widow Chupin is
an accomplice, the murderer is not the person we have sup-
posed him to be ; he is simply the man he seems to be."
This argument apparently convinced M. Segmuller. "What
is your opinion?" he asked.
The young detective had formed his opinion a long while
ago. But how could he, a humble police agent, venture to
express' any decided views when the magistrate hesitated? He
understood well enough that his position necessitated extreme
reserve ; hence, it was in the most modest tone that he replied :
"Might not the pretended drunkard have dazzled Mother
Chupin's eyes with the prospect of a brilliant reward? Might
he not have promised her a considerable sum of money?"
He paused; Goguet, the smiling clerk, had just returned.
102 MONSIEUR LECOQ
Behind him stood a private of the Garde de Paris who remained
respectfully on the threshold, his heels in a straight line, his
right hand raised to the peak of his shako, and his elbow on a
level with his eyes, in accordance with the regulations.
"The governor of the Depot," said the soldier, "sends me
to inquire if he is to keep the Widow Chupin in solitary con-
finement; she complains bitterly about it."
M. Segmuller reflected for a moment. "Certainly," he mur-
mured, as if replying to an objection made by his own con-
science; "certainly, it is an undoubted aggravation of suffering;
but if I allow this woman to associate with the other prisoners,
she will certainly find some opportunity to communicate with
parties outside. This must not be; the interests of justice and
truth must be considered first." The thought embodied in these
last words decided him. "Despite her complaints the prisoner
must be kept in solitary confinement until further orders," he
said.
The soldier allowed his right hand to fall to his side, he
carried his right foot three inches behind his left heel, and
wheeled around. Goguet, the smiling clerk, then closed the
door, and, drawing a large envelope from his pocket, handed
it to the magistrate. "Here is a communication from the
governor of the Depot," said he.
The magistrate broke the seal, and read aloud, as follows:
"I feel compelled to advise M. Segmuller to take every precau-
tion with the view of assuring his own safety before proceeding
with the examination of the prisoner, May. Since his unsuc-
cessful attempt at suicide, this prisoner has been in such a state
of excitement that we have been obliged to keep him in a strait-
waistcoat. He did not close his eyes all last night, and the guards
who watched him expected every moment that he would become
delirious. However, he did not utter a word. When food was
offered him this morning, he resolutely rejected it, and I should
not be surprised if it were his intention to starve himself to
death. I have rarely seen a more determined criminal. I think
him capable of any desperate act."
"Ah !" exclaimed the clerk, whose smile had disappeared,
"If I were in your place, sir, I would only let him in here
with an escort of soldiers."
"What ! you — Goguet, you, an old clerk — make such a prop-
osition ! Can it be that you're frightened?"
"Frightened! No, certainly not; but — "
MONSIEUR LECOQ 103
''Nonsense !" interrupted Lecoq, in a tone that betrayed
superlative confidence in his own muscles; "Am I not here?"
If M. Segmuller had seated himself at his desk, that article
of furniture would naturally have served as a rampart between
the prisoner and himself. For purposes of convenience he
usually did place himself behind it; but after Goguet's display
of fear, he would have blushed to have taken the slightest
measure of self-protection. Accordingly, he went and sat
down by the fireplace^-as he had done a few moments previously
while questioning the Widow Chupin — and then ordered his
door-keeper to admit the prisoner alone. He emphasized this
word "alone."
A moment later the door was flung open with a violent jerk,
and the prisoner entered, or rather precipitated himself into
the room. Goguet turned pale behind his table, and Lecoq
advanced a step forward, ready to spring upon the orisoner
and pinion him should it be requisite. But when the latter
reached the centre of the room, he paused and looked around
him. "Where is the magistrate?" he inquired, in a hoarse
voice.
"I am the magistrate," replied M. Segmuller.
"No, the other one."
"What other one?"
"The one who came to question me last evening."
"He has met with an accident. Yesterday, after leaving you,
he fell down and broke his leg."
"Oh!"
"And I am to take his place."
The prisoner was apparently deaf to the explanation. Ex-
citement had seemingly given way to stupor. His features,
hitherto contracted with anger, now relaxed. He grew pale
and tottered, as if about to fall.
"Compose yourself," said the magistrate in a benevolent
tone; "if you are too weak to remain standing, take a seat."
Already, with a powerful effort, the man had recovered his
self-possession. A momentary gleam flashed from his eyes.
"Many thanks for your kindness," he replied, "but this is
nothing. I felt a slight sensation of dizziness, but it is over now."
"Is it long since you have eaten anything?"
"I have eaten nothing since that man" — and so saying he
pointed to Lecoq — "brought me some bread and wine at the
station house."
104 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"Wouldn't you like to take something?"
"No — and yet — if you would be so kind — I should like a
glass of water."
"Will you not have some wine with it?"
"I should prefer pure water."
His request was at once complied with. He drained a first
glassful at a single draft ; the glass was then replenished and
he drank again, this time, however, more slowly. One might
have supposed that he was drinking in. life itself. Certainly,
when he laid down the empty glass, he seemed quite another
man.
Eighteen out of every twenty criminals who appear before
our investigating magistrates come prepared with a more or
less complete plan of defense, which they have conceived during
their preliminary confinement. Innocent or guilty, they have
resolved on playing some part or other, which they begin to act
as soon as they cross the threshold of the room where the
magistrate awaits them.
The moment they enter his presence, the magistrate needs to
bring all his powers of penetration into play; for such a culprit's
first attitude as surely betrays his plan of defense as an index
reveals a book's contents. In this case, however, M. Segmuller
did not think that appearances were deceitful. It seemed
evident to him that the prisoner was not feigning, but that the
excited frenzy which marked his entrance was as real as his
after stupor.
At all events, there seemed no fear of the danger the gover-
nor of the Depot had spoken of, and accordingly M. Segmuller
seated himself at his desk. Here he felt stronger and more at
ease for his back being turned to the window, his face was
half hidden in shadow; and in case of need, he could, by bend-
ing over his papers, conceal any sign of surprise or discomfiture.
The prisoner, on the contrary, stood in the full light, and not
a movement of his features, not the fluttering of an eyelid
could escape the magistrate's attention. He seemed to have
completely recovered from his indisposition ; and his features
assumed an expression which indicated either careless indiffer-
ence, or complete resignation.
"Do you feel better?" asked M. Segmuller.
"I feel very well."
"I hope," continued the magistrate, paternally, "that in future
you will know how to moderate your excitement. Yesterday
MONSIEUR LECOQ 105
you tried to destroy yourself. It would have been another
great crime added to many others — a crime which — "
With a hasty movement of the hand, the prisoner inter-
rupted him. "I have committed no crime," said he. in a rough,
but no longer threatening voice. "I was attacked, and I de-
fended myself. Any one has a right to do that. There were
three men against me. It was a great misfortune ; and I would
give my right hand to repair it ; but my conscience does not
reproach me — that much !"
The prisoner's "that much," was a contemptuous snap of his
finger and thumb.
"And yet I've been arrested and treated like an assassin," he
continued. "When I saw myself interred in that living tomb
which you call a secret cell, I grew afraid ; I lost my senses. I
said to myself: 'My boy, they've buried you alive; and it is
better to die — to die quickly, if you don't wish to suffer.' So I
tried to strangle myself. My death wouldn't have caused the
slightest sorrow to any one. I have neither wife nor child
depending upon me for support. However, my attempt was
frustrated. I was bled: and then placed in a strait-waistcoat,
as if I were a madman. Mad ! I really believed I should
become so. All night long the jailors sat around me, like
children amusing themselves by tormenting a chained animal.
They watched me, talked about me, and passed the candle to
and fro before my eyes."
The prisoner talked forcibly, but without any attempt at
oratorical display ; there was bitterness but not anger in his
tone ; in short, he spoke with all the seeming sincerity of a
man giving expression to some deep emotion or conviction. As
the magistrate and the detective heard him speak, they were
seized with the same idea. "This man," they thought, "is very
clever ; it won't be easy to get the better of him."
Then, after a moment's reflection, M. Segmuller added aloud :
"This explains your first act of despair; but later on, for in-
stance, even this morning, you refused to eat the food that
was offered you."
As the prisoner heard this remark, his lowering face suddenly
brightened, he gave a comical wink, and finally burst into a
hearty laugh, gay, frank, and sonorous.
"That," said he, "is quite another matter. Certainly. I
refused all they offered me, and now I will tell you why. As
I had my hands confined in the strait-waistcoat, the jailor
106 MONSIEUR LECOQ
tried to feed me just as a nurse tries to feed a baby with pap.
Now I wasn't going to submit to that, so I closed my lips as
tightly as I could. Then he tried to force my mouth open and
push the spoon in, just as one nu\ght force a sick dog's jaws
apart and pour some medicine down its throat. The deuce take
his impertinence ! I tried to bite him : that's the truth, and if
I had succeeded in getting his finger between my teeth, it would
have stayed there. However, because I wouldn't be fed like a
baby, all the prison officials raised their hands to heaven in holy
horror, and pointed at me, saying: 'What a terrible man! What
an awful rascal !' "
The prisoner seemed to thoroughly enjoy the recollection of
the scene he had described, for he now burst into another
hearty laugh, to the great amazement of Lecoq, and the scandal
of Goguet, the smiling clerk.
M. Segmuller also found it difficult to conceal his surprise.
"You are too reasonable, I hope," he said, at last, "to attach
any blame to these men, who, in confining you in a strait-
waistcoat, were merely obeying the orders of their superior
officers with the view of protecting you from your own violent
passions."
"Hum !" responded the prisoner, suddenly growing serious.
"I do blame them, however, and if I had one of them in a
corner — But, never mind, I shall get over it. If I know
myself aright, I have no more spite in my composition than a
chicken."
"Your treatment depends on your own conduct," rejoined M.
Segmuller, "If you will only remain calm, you shan't be put in
a strait-waistcoat again. But you must promise me that you
will be quiet and conduct yourself properly."
The murderer sadly shook his head. "I shall be very prudent
hereafter," said he, "but it is terribly hard to stay in prison
with nothing to do. If I had some comrades with me, we could
laugh and chat, and the time would slip by; but it is positively
horrible to have to remain alone, entirely alone, in that cold,
damp cell, where not a sound can be heard."
The magistrate bent over his desk to make a note. The
word "comrades" had attracted his attention, and he pro-
posed to ask the prisoner to explain it at a later stage of the
inquiry.
"If you are innocent," he remarked, "you will soon be re-
leased : but it is necessary to prove your innocence."
MONSIEUR LECOQ 107
"What must I do to prove it?"
"Tell the truth, the whole truth : answer my questions honest-
ly without reserve."
"As for that, you may depend upon me." As he spoke the
prisoner lifted his hand, as if to call upon God to witness his
sincerity.
But M. Segmuller immediately intervened: "Prisoners do
not take the oath," said he.
"Indeed !" ejaculated the man with an astonished air, "that's
strange !"
Although the magistrate had apparently paid but little atten-
tion to the prisoner, he had in point of fact carefully noted his
attitude, his tone of voice, his looks and gestures. M. Segmuller
had, moreover, done his utmost to set the culprit's mind at ease,
to quiet all possible suspicion of a trap, and his inspection of
the prisoner's person led him to believe that this result had been
attained.
"Now," said he, "you will give me your attention; and
do not forget that your liberty depends upon your frankness
What is your name?"
"May."
"What is your Christian name?"
"I have none."
"That is impossible."
"I have been told that already three times since yesterday."
rejoined the prisoner impatiently. "And yet it's the truth. If
I were a liar, I could easily tell you that my name was Peter,
James, or John. But lying is not in my line. Really, I have
no Christian name. If it were a question of surnames, it would
be quite another thing. I have had plenty of them."
"What were they?"
"Let me see — to commence with, when I was with Father
Fougasse, I was called Affiloir, because you see — "
"Who was this Father Fougasse?"
"The great wild beast tamer, sir. Ah ! he could boast of a
menagerie and no mistake! Lions, tigers, and bears, serpents
as big round as your thigh, parrakeets of every color under the
sun. Ah ! it was a wonderful collection. But unfortunately — "
Was the man jesting, or was he in earnest? It was so hard
to decide, that M. Segmuller and Lecoq were equally in doubt.
As for Goguet, the smiling clerk, he chuckled to himself as bis
pen ran over the paper.
108 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"Enough," interrupted the magistrate. "How old are you?"
"Forty-four or forty-five years of age."
"Where were you born?"
"In Brittany, probably."
M. Segmuller thought he could detect a hidden vein of
irony in this reply.
'"I warn you," said he, severely, "that if you go on in
this way your chances of recovering your liberty will be
greatly compromised. Each of your answers is a breach of
propriety."
As the supposed murderer heard these words, an expression
of mingled distress and anxiety was apparent in his face. "Ah !
I meant no offense, sir," he sighed. "You questioned me, and
I replied. You will see that I have spoken the truth, if you will
allow me to recount the history of the whole affair."
"When the prisoner speaks, the prosecution is enlightened,"
so runs an old proverb frequently quoted at the Palais de
Justice. It does, indeed, seem almost impossible for a culprit
to say more than a few words in an investigating magistrate's
presence, without betraying his intentions or his thoughts;
without, in short, revealing more or less of the secret he is
endeavoring to conceal. All criminals, even the most simple-
minded, understand this, and those who are shrewd prove re-
markably reticent. Confining themselves to the few facts upon
which they have founded their defense, they are careful not to
travel any further unless absolutely compelled to do so, and
even then they only speak with the utmost caution. When
questioned, they reply, of course, but always briefly; and they
are very sparing of details.
In the present instance, however, the prisoner was prodigal
of words. He did not seem to think that there was any danger
of his being the medium of accomplishing his own decapitation.
He did not hesitate like those who are afraid of misplacing a
word of the romance they are substituting for the truth. Under
other circumstances, this fact would have been a strong argu-
ment in his favor.
"You may tell your own story, then," said M. Segmuller
in answer to the prisoner's indirect request.
The presumed murderer did not try to hide the satisfaction
he experienced at thus being allowed to plead his own cause,
in his own way. His eyes sparkled and his nostrils dilated as
if with pleasure. He sat himself down, threw his head back,
MONSIEUR LECOQ 109
passed his tongue over his lips as if to moisten them, and said:
"Am I to understand that vou wish to hear my history?"
"Yes."
"Then you must know that one day about forty-five years
ago, Father Tringlot, the manager of a traveling acrobatic
company, was going from Guingamp to Saint Brieuc, in Brit-
tany. He had with him two large vehicles containing his wife,
the necessary theatrical paraphernalia, and the members of
the company. Well, soon after passing Chatelaudren, he per-
ceived something white lying by the roadside, near the edge
of a ditch. 'I must go and see what that is,' he said to his wife.
He stopped the horses, alighted from the vehicle he was in,
went to the ditch, picked up the object he had noticed, and
uttered a cry of surprise. You will ask me what he had found?
Ah ! good heavens ! A mere trifle. He had found your humble
servant, then about six months old."
With these last words, the prisoner made a low bow to his
audience.
"Naturally, Father Tringlot carried me to his wife. She
was a kind-hearted woman. She took me, examined me, fed me,
and said: 'He's a strong, healthy child; and we'll keep him
since his mother has been so wicked as to abandon him by the
roadside. I will teach him ; and in five or six years he will be
a credit to us.' They then asked each other what name they
should give me, and as it happened to be the first day of May,
they decided to call me after the month, and so it happens that
May has been my name from that day to this."
The prisoner paused again and looked from one to another
of his listeners, as if seeking some sign of approval. Xone
being forthcoming, he proceeded with his story.
"Father Tringlot was an uneducated man, entirely ignorant
of the law. He did not inform the authorities that he had found
a child, and, for this reason, although I was living, I did not
legally exist, for, to have a legal existence it is necessary that
one's name, parentage, and birthplace should figure upon a
municipal register.
"When I grew older. I rather congratulated myself on Father
Tringlot's neglect. 'May, my boy,' said I, 'you are not put down
on any government register, consequently there's no fear of
your ever being drawn as a soldier.' I had a horror of military
service, and a positive dread of bullets and cannon balls. Later
on, when I had passed the proper age for the conscription, a
110 MONSIEUR LECOQ
lawyer told me that I should get into all kinds of trouble if I
sought a place on the civil register so late in the day ; and so
I decided to exist surreptitiously. And this is why I have no
Christian name, and why I can't exactly say where I was born."
If truth has any particular accent of its own, as moralists
have asserted, the murderer had found that accent. Voice,
gesture, glance, expression, all were in accord; not a word of
his long story had rung false.
"'Now," said M. Segmuller, coldly, "what are your means of
subsistence ?"
By the prisoner's discomfited mien one might have sup-
posed that he had expected to see the prison doors fly open at
the conclusion of his narrative. "I have a profession," he
replied plaintively. ''The one that Mother Tringlot taught me.
I subsist by its practise; and I have lived by it in France and
other countries."
The magistrate thought he had found a flaw in the prisoner's
armor. "You say you have lived in foreign countries?" he
inquired.
"Yes ; during the seventeen years that I was with M. Simp-
son's company, I traveled most of the time in England and
Germany."
"Then you are a gymnast and an athlete. How is it that
your hands are so white and soft?"
Far from being embarrassed, the prisoner raised his hands
from his lap and examined them with evident complacency.
"It is true they are pretty," said he, "but this is because I take
good care of them and scarcely use them."
"Do they pay you, then, for doing nothing?"
"Ah, no, indeed ! But, sir, my duty consists in speaking to
the public, in turning a compliment, in making things pass off
pleasantly, as the saying is ; and, without boasting, I flatter my-
self that I have a certain knack — "
M. Segmuller stroked his chin, according to his habit when-
ever he considered that a prisoner had committed some grave
blunder. "In that case," said he, "will you give me a specimen
of your talent?"
"Ah, ha !" laughed the prisoner, evidently supposing this to
be a jest on the part of the magistrate. "Ah, ha!"
"Obey me, if you please," insisted M. Segmuller.
The supposed murderer made no objection. His face at
once assumed a different expression, his features wearing a
MONSIEUR LECOQ 111
mingled air of impudence, conceit, and irony. He caught up a
ruler that was lying on the magistrate's desk, and, flourishing
it wildly, began as follows, in a shrill falsetto voice: "Silence,
music ! And you, big drum, hold your peace ! Now is the hour,
now is the moment, ladies and gentlemen, to witness the grand,
unique performance of these great artists, unequaled in the
world for their feats upon the trapeze and the tight-rope, and
in innumerable other exercises of grace, suppleness, and
strength !"
"That is sufficient," interrupted the magistrate. "You can
speak like that in France ; but what do you say in Germany ?"'
"Of course, I use the language of that country."
"Let me hear, then !" retorted M. Segmuller, whose mother
tongue was German.
The prisoner ceased his mocking manner, assumed an air
of comical importance, and without the slightest hesitation
began to speak as follows, in very emphatic tones : "Mit Be-
willigung der hochloeblichen Obrigkeit, wird heute, vor hiesiger
ehrenwerthen Burgerschaft, zum erstenmal aufgefuhrt —
Genovesa, oder — "
This opening of the prisoner's German harangue may be
thus rendered : "With the permission of the local authorities
there will now be presented before the honorable citizens, for
the first time — Genevieve, or the — "
"Enough," said the magistrate, harshly. He rose, perhaps to
conceal his chargin, and added : "We will send for an in-
terpreter to tell us whether you speak English as fluently."
On hearing these words, Lecoq modestly stepped forward.
"I understand English," said he.
"Very well. You hear, prisoner?"
But the man was already transformed. British gravity
and apathy were written upon his features ; his gestures were
stiff and constrained, and in the most ponderous tones he
exclaimed : "Walk up ! ladies and gentlemen, walk up ! Long
life to the queen and to the honorable mayor of this town ! No
country, England excepted — our glorious England ! — could pro-
duce such a marvel, such a paragon — " For a minute or two
longer he continued in the same strain.
M. Segmuller was leaning upon his desk, his face hidden by
his hands. Lecoq, standing in front of the prisoner, could not
conceal his astonishment. Goguet, the smiling clerk, alone
found the scene amusing.
112
MONSIEUR LECOQ
THE governor of the depot, a functionary who had gained
the reputation of an oracle by twenty years' experience in
prisons and with prisoners — a man whom it was most difficult
to deceive — had advised the magistrate to surround himself
with every precaution before examining the prisoner, May.
And yet this man, characterized as a most dangerous crimi-
nal, and the very announcement of whose coming had made the
clerk turn pale, had proved to be a practical, harmless, and
jovial philosopher, vain of his eloquence, a bohemian whose
existence depended upon his ability to turn a compliment; in
short, a somewhat erratic genius.
This was certainly strange, but the seeming contradiction
did not cause M. Segmuller to abandon the theory propounded
by Lecoq. On the contrary, he was more than ever convinced
of its truth. If he remained silent, with his elbows leaning on
the desk, and his hands clasped over his eyes, it was only that
he might gain time for reflection.
The prisoner's attitude and manner were remarkable. When
his English harangue was finished, he remained standing in the
centre of the room, a half-pleased, half-anxious expression on
his face. Still, he was as much at ease as if he had been on
the platform outside some stroller's booth, where, if one could
believe bis story, he had passed the greater part of his life. It
was in vain that the magistrate sought for some indication of
weakness on his features, which in their mobility were more
enigmatical than the lineaments of the Sphinx.
Thus far, M. Segmuller had been worsted in the encounter.
It is true, however, that he had not as yet ventured on any direct
attack, nor had he made use of any of the weapons which Lecoq
had forged lor his use. Still he was none the less annoyed at
his defeat, as it was easy to see by the sharp manner in which
he raised his head after a few moments' silence. "I see that
you speak three European languages correctly," said he. "It
is a rare talent."
MONSIEUR LECOQ 113
The prisoner bowed, and smiled complacently. "Still that
does not establish your identity," continued the magistrate.
"Have you any acquaintances in Paris? Can you indicate any
respectable person who will vouch for the truth of this story?"
"Ah ! sir, it is seventeen years since I left France."
"That is unfortunate, but the prosecution can not content
itself with such an explanation. What about your last em-
ployer, M. Simpson? Who is he?"
"M. Simpson is a rich man," replied the prisoner, rather
coldly, "worth more than two hundred thousand francs, and
honest besides. In Germany he traveled with a show of mario-
nettes, and in England with a collection of phenomena to suit
the tastes of that country."
"Very well ! Then this millionaire could testify in your
favor; it would be easy to find him, I suppose?"
"Certainly," responded May, emphatically. "M. Simpson
would willingly do me this favor. It would not be difficult
for me to find him, only it would require considerable time."
"Why ?"
"Because at the present moment he must be on his way to
America. It was on account of this journey that I left his
company — I detest the ocean."
A moment previously Lecoq's anxiety had been so intense
that his heart almost stopped beating ; on hearing these last
words, however, he regained all his self-possession. As for the
magistrate, he merely greeted the murderer's reply with a brief
but significant ejaculation.
"When I say that he is on his way," resumed the prisoner,
"I may be mistaken. He may not have started yet, though he
had certainly made all his arrangements before we separated."
"What ship was he to sail by?"
"He did not tell me."
"Where was he when you left him?"
"At Leipsic."
"When was this?"
"Last Wednesday."
M. Segmuller shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. "So you
say you were in Leipsic on Wednesday? How long have you
been in Paris?"
"Since Sunday afternoon, at four o'clock."
"It will be necessary to prove that."
Judging by the murderer's contracted brow it might be con-
114 MONSIEUR LECOQ
lectured that he was making a strenuous effort to remember
something. He cast questioning glances first toward the ceil-
ing and then toward the floor, scratching his head and tapping
his foot in evident perplexity. "How can I prove it — how?"
he murmured.
The magistrate did not appear disposed to wait. "Let me
assist you," said he. "The people at the inn where you boarded
while in Leipsic must remember you."
"We did not stop at an inn."
"Where did you eat and sleep, then?"
"In M. Simpson's large traveling-carriage; it had been sold,
but he was not to give it up until he reached the port he was
to sail from."
"What port was that?"
"I don't know."
At this reply Lecoq, who had less experience than the magis-
trate in the art of concealing one's impressions, could not help
rubbing his hands with satisfaction. The prisoner was plainly
convicted of falsehood, indeed driven into a corner.
"So you have only your own word to offer in support of this
story?" inquired M. Segmuller.
"Wait a moment," said the prisoner, extending his arm as if
to clutch at a still vague inspiration — "wait a moment. When
I arrived in Paris I had with me a trunk containing my clothes.
The linen is all marked with the first letter of my name, and
besides some ordinary coats and trousers, there were a couple
of costumes I used to wear when I appeared in public."
"Well, what have you done with all these things?"
"When I arrived in Paris, I took the trunk to a hotel, close
by the Northern railway station — "
"Go on. Tell us the name of this hotel," said M. Segmuller,
perceiving that the prisoner had stopped short, evidently embar-
rassed.
"That's just what I'm trying to recollect. I've forgotten it.
But I haven't forgotten the house. I fancy I can see it now;
and, if some one would only take me to the neighborhood, I
should certainly recognize it. The people at the hotel would
know me, and, besides, my trunk would prove the truth of what
I've told you."
On hearing this statement, Lecoq mentally resolved to make
a tour of investigation through the various hotels surrounding
the Gare du Nord.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 115
"Very well," retorted the magistrate. "Perhaps we will do
as you request. Now, there are two questions I desire to ask.
If you arrived in Paris at four o'clock in the afternoon, how
did it happen that by midnight of the same day you had dis-
covered the Poivriere, which is merely frequented by suspicious
characters, and is situated in such a lonely spot that it would
be impossible to find it at night-time, if one were not familiar
with the surrounding localities? In the second place, how does
it happen, if you possess such clothing as you describe, that
you are so poorly dressed ?" ■
The prisoner smiled at these questions. "I can easily explain
that," he replied. "One's clothes are soon spoiled when one
travels third-class, so on leaving Leipsic I put on the worst
things I had. When I arrived here, and felt my feet on the
pavements of Paris, I went literally wild with delight. I acted
like a fool. I had some money in my pocket — it was Shrove
Sunday — and my only thought was to make a night of it. I
did not think of changing my clothes. As I had formerly been
in the habit of amusing myself round about the Barriere d'ltalie.
I hastened there and entered a wine-shop. While I was eating
a morsel, two men came in and began talking about spending
the night at a ball at the Rainbow. I asked them to take me
with them ; they agreed, I paid their bills, and we started. But
soon after our arrival there these young men left me and joined
the dancers. It was not long before I grew weary of merely
looking on. Rather disappointed, I left the inn, and being fool-
ish enough not to ask my way, I wandered on till I lost myself,
while traversing a tract of unoccupied land. I was about to
go back, when I saw a light in the distance. I walked straight
toward it, and reached that cursed hovel."
"What happened then?"
"Oh ! I went in ; called for some one. A woman came down-
stairs, and I asked her for a glass of brandy. When she
brought it, I sat down and lighted a cigar. Then I looked
about me. The interior was almost enough to frighten one
Three men and two women were drinking and chatting in low
tones at another table. My face did not seem to suit them.
One of them got up, came toward me, and said : 'You are a
police agent ; you've come here to play the spy ; that's very
plain.' I answered that I wasn't a police agent. He replied
that I was. I again declared that I wasn't. In short, he swore
that he was sure of it, and that my beard was false. So saying.
116 MONSIEUR LECOQ
he caught hold of my beard and pulled it. This made me mad.
I jumped up, and with a blow of my fist I felled him to the
ground. In an instant all the others were upon me ! I had
my revolver — you know the rest."
"And while all this was going on what were the two women
doing?"
"Ah ! I was too busy to pay any attention to them. They
disappeared!"
"But you saw them when you entered the place — what were
they like?"
"Oh ! they were big, ugly creatures, as tall as grenadiers, and
as dark as moles !"
Between plausible falsehood, and improbable truth, justice
— human justice, and therefore liable to error — is compelled to
decide as best it can. For the past hour M. Segmuller had not
been free from mental disquietude. But all his doubts van-
ished when he heard the prisoner declare that the two women
were tall and dark. If he had said : "The women were fair,"
M. Segmuller would not have known what to believe, but in
the magistrate's opinion the audacious falsehood he had just
heard proved that th^re was a perfect understanding between
the supposed murderer and Widow Chupin.
Certainly, M. Segmuller's satisfaction was great; but his face
did not betray it. It was of the utmost importance that the
prisoner should believe that he had succeeded in deceiving his
examiner. "You must understand how necessary it is to find
these women," said the magistrate kindly.
"If their testimony corresponds with your allegations, your
innocence will be proved conclusively."
"Yes, I understand that; but how can I put my hand upon
them ?"
"The police can assist you — our agents are always at the
service of prisoners who desire to make use of them in estab-
lishing their innocence. Did you make any observations which
might aid in the discovery of these women?"
Lecoq, whose eyes never wandered from the prisoner's face,
fancied that he saw the faint shadow of a smile on the man's
lips.
"I remarked nothing," said the prisoner coldly.
M. Segmuller had opened the drawer of his desk a moment
before. He now drew from it the earring which had been
found on the scene of the tragedy, and handing it abruptly to
MONSIEUR LECOQ 117
the prisoner, he asked: "So you didn't notice this in the ear
of one of the women?"
The prisoner's imperturbable coolness of demeanor did not
forsake him. He took the jewel in his hand, examined it
attentively, held it up to the light, admired its brilliant scin-
tillations, and said : "It is a very handsome stone, but I didn't
notice it."
"This stone," remarked the magistrate, "is a diamond."
"Ah !"
"Yes; and worth several thousand francs."
"So much as that!"
This exclamation may have been in accordance with the
spirit of the part assumed by the prisoner ; though, at the same
time, its simplicity was undoubtedly far-fetched. It was strange
that a nomad, such as the murderer pretended to have been,
acquainted with most of the countries and capitals of Europe,
should have displayed this astonishment on learning the value
of a diamond. Still, M. Segmuller did not seem to notice the
discrepancy.
"Another thing," said he. "When you threw down your
pistol, crying, 'Come and take me,' what did you intend to do?"
"I intended to make my escape."
"In what way?"
"Why, of course, by the door, sir — by — "
"Yes, by the back door," retorted the magistrate, with freez-
ing irony. "It remains for you to explain how you — you who
had just entered that hovel for the first time — could have known
of this door's existence."
For once, in the course of the examination, the prisoner
seemed troubled. For an instant all his assurance forsook him.
He evidently perceived the danger of his position, and after a
considerable effort he contrived to burst out in a laugh. His
laugh was a poor one, however; it rang false, and failed to
conceal a sensation of deep anxiety. Growing gradually bolder,
he at length exclaimed : "That's nonsense, I had just seen these
two women go out by that very door."
"Excuse me, you declared a minute ago that you did not see
these women leave: that you were too busy to watch their
movements."
"Did I say that?"
"Word for word; the passage shall be shown you. Goguet.
find it."
118 MONSIEUR LECOQ
The clerk at once read the passage referred to, whereupon the
prisoner undertook to show that the remark had been misun-
derstood. He had not said — at least, he did not intend to say
— that; they had quite misinterpreted his words. With such
remarks did he try to palliate the effect of his apparent
blunders.
In the mean while, Lecoq was jubilant. "Ah, my fine fel-
low," thought he, "you are contradicting yourself — you are in
deep water already — you are lost. There's no hope for you."
The prisoner's situation was indeed not unlike that of a
bather, who, unable to swim, imprudently advances into the sea
until the water rises above his chin. He may for a while
have preserved his equilibrium, despite the buffeting of the
waves, but now he totters, loses his footing — another second,
and he will sink !
"Enough — enough !" said the magistrate, cutting the pris-
oner's embarrassed explanation short. "Now, if you started out
merely with the intention of amusing yourself, how did it
happen that you took your revolver with you?"
"I had it with me while I was traveling, and did not think
of leaving it at the hotel any more than I thought of changing
my clothes."
"Where did you purchase it?"
"It was given me by M. Simpson as a souvenir."
"Confess that this M. Simpson is a very convenient person-
age," said the magistrate coldly. "Still, go on with your story.
Only two chambers of this murderous weapon were discharged,
but three men were killed. You have not told me the end of
the affair."
"What's the use?" exclaimed the prisoner, in saddened tones.
"Two of my assailants had fallen ; the struggle became an equal
one. I seized the remaining man, the soldier, round the body,
and threw him down. He fell against a corner of the table,
and did not rise again."
M. Segmuller had unfolded upon his desk the plan of the
Poivriere drawn by Lecoq. "Come here," he said, addressing
the prisoner, "and show me on this paper the precise spot you
and your adversaries occupied."
May obeyed, and with an assurance of manner a little sur-
prising in a man in his position, he proceeded to explain the
drama. "I entered," said he, "by this door, marked C; I seated
myself at the table, H, to the left of the entrance: my assail-
MONSIEUR LECOQ 119
ants occupied the table between the fireplace, F, and the
window, B."
"I must admit," said the magistrate, "that your assertions
fully agree with the statements of the physicians, who say that
one of the shots must have been fired about a yard off, and
the other about two yards off."
This was a victory for the prisoner, but he only shrugged
his shoulders and murmured : "That proves that the physicians
knew their business."
Lecoq was delighted. This part of the prisoner's narrative
not merely agreed with the doctor's statements, but also con-
firmed his own researches. The young detective felt that, had
he been the examiner, he would have conducted the investiga-
tion in precisely the same way. Accordingly, he thanked heaven
that M. Segmuller had supplied the place of M. d'Escorval.
"This admitted," resumed the magistrate, "it remains for
you to explain a sentence you uttered when the agent you see
here arrested you."
"What sentence?"
"You exclaimed: 'Ah, it's the Prussians who are coming;
I'm lost !' What did you mean by that?"
A fleeting crimson tinge suffused the prisoner's cheek. It
was evident that if he had anticipated the other questions, and
had been prepared for them, this one, at least, was unexpected.
"It's very strange," said he, with ill-disguised embarrassment,
"that I should have said such a thing!"
"Five persons heard you," insisted the magistrate.
The prisoner did not immediately reply. He was evidently
trying to gain time, ransacking in his mind for a plausible ex-
planation. "After all," he ultimately said, "the thing's quite
possible. When I was with M. Simpson, we had with us an
old soldier who had belonged to Napoleon's body-guard and had
fought at Waterloo. I recollect he was always repeating that
phrase. I must have caught the habit from him."
This explanation, though rather slow in coming, was none
the less ingenious. At least, M. Segmuller appeared to be per-
fectly satisfied. "That's very plausible," said he; "but there is
one circumstance that passes my comprehension. Were you
freed from your assailants before the police entered the place?
Answer me, yes or no."
"Yes."
"Then why, instead of making your escape by the back door,
120
MONSIEUR LECOQ
the existence of which you had divined, did you remain on the
threshold of the door leading into the back room, with a table
before you to serve as a barricade, and your revolver leveled
at the police, as if to keep them at bay?"
The prisoner hung his head, and the magistrate had to wait
for his answer. "I was a fool," he stammered at last. "I
didn't know whether these men were police agents or friends
of the fellows I had killed."
"In either case your own interest should have induced you
to fly."
The prisoner remained silent.
"Ah, well !" resumed M. Segmuller, "let me tell you my
opinion. I believe you designedly and voluntarily exposed your-
self to the danger of being arrested in order to protect the
retreat of the two women who had just left."
"Why should I have risked my own safety for two hussies I
did not even know?"
"Excuse me. The prosecution is strongly inclined to believe
that you know these two women very well."
"I should like to see any one prove that !" So saying, the
prisoner smiled sneeringly, but at once changed countenance
when the magistrate retorted in a tone of assurance: "I will
prove it."
MAGISTRATES are frequently nonplussed when dealing
with these difficult and delicate questions of personal
identity. Railroads, photography, and telegraphic communication
have multiplied the means of investigation in vain. Every day
it happens that criminals succeed in deceiving justice in regard
to their true personality, and thus escape the consequences of
former crimes. This is indeed so frequently the case that an
eminent French public prosecutor once ventured to remark:
"Uncertainty as regards a criminal's identity will only cease
when the law prescribes the branding of a number on the
shoulder of every child whose birth is reported to the mayor."
MONSIEUR LECOQ 121
M. Segmuller certainly wished that a number had been
branded upon the enigmatical prisoner before him. And vet
he did not by any means despair, and his confidence, exag-
gerated though it might be, was not at all feigned. He was
of opinion that the weakest point of the prisoner's defense
so far was his pretended ignorance concerning the two women.
He proposed to return to this subject later on. In the mean
while, however, there were other matters to be dealt with.
When he felt that his threat as regards the women had had
time to produce its full effect, the magistrate continued : "So,
prisoner, you assert that you were acquainted with none of
the persons you met at the Poivriere."
"I swear it."
"Have you never had occasion to meet a person called
Lacheneur, an individual whose name is connected with this
unfortunate affair?"
"I heard the name for the first time when it was pronounced
by the dying soldier. Poor fellow ! I had just dealt him his
death blow ; and yet his last words testified to my innocence."
This sentimental outburst produced no impression whatever
upon the magistrate. "In that case," said he, "I suppose you
are willing to accept this soldier's statement."
The man hesitated, as if conscious that he had fallen into
a snare, and that he would be obliged to weigh each answer
carefully. "I accept it," said he at last. "Of course I accept it."
"Very well, then. This soldier, as you must recollect, wished
to revenge himself on Lacheneur, who, by promising him a
sum of money, had inveigled him into a conspiracy. A con-
spiracy against whom? Evidently against you; and yet you
pretend that you had only arrived in Paris that evening, and
that mere chance brought you to the Poivriere. Can you recon-
cile such conflicting statements?"
The prisoner had the hardihood to shrug his shoulders dis-
dainfully. "I see the matter in an entirely different light."
said he. "These people were plotting mischief against I don't
know whom — and it was because I was in their way that they
sought a quarrel with me, without any cause whatever."
Skilfully as the magistrate had delivered this thrust, it had
been as skilfully parried ; so skilfully, indeed, that Goguet, the
smiling clerk, could not conceal an approving grimace. Be-
sides, on principle, he always took the prisoner's part, in a
mild, Platonic way, of course.
fc — Vol. I — Gab.
122 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"Let us consider the circumstances that followed your arrest,"
resumed M. Segmuller. "Why did you refuse to answer all the
questions put to you?"
A gleam of real or assumed resentment shone in the prisoner's
eyes.
"This examination," he growled, "will alone suffice to make
a culprit out of an innocent man !"
"I advise you, in your own interest, to behave properly.
Those who arrested you observed that you were conversant
with all the prison formalities and rules."
"Ah ! sir, haven't I told you that I have been arrested and
put in prison several times — always on account of my papers?
I told you the truth, and you shouldn't taunt me for having
done so."
The prisoner had dropped his mask of careless gaiety, and
had assumed a surly, discontented tone. But his troubles were
by no means ended ; in fact, the battle had only just begun.
Laying a tiny linen bag on his desk, M. Segmuller asked him if
he recognized it.
"Perfectly ! It is the package that the governor of the Depot
placed in his safe."
The magistrate opened the bag, and poured the dust that it
contained on to a sheet of paper. "You are aware, prisoner,"
said he, "that this dust comes from the mud that was sticking
to your feet. The police agent who collected it has been to the
station-house where you spent the night of the murder, and
has discovered that the composition of this dust is identical
with that of the floor of the cell you occupied."
The prisoner listened with gaping mouth.
"Hence," continued the magistrate, "it was certainly at the
station-house, and designedly, that you soiled your feet with
that mud. In doing so vou had an object."
"I wished—"
"Let me finish. Being determined to keep your identity
secret, and to assume the character of a member of the lower
classes — of a mountebank, if you please — you reflected that the
care you bestow upon your person might betray you. You
foresaw the impression that would be caused when the coarse,
ill-fitting boots you wore were removed, and the officials per-
ceived your trim, clean feet, which are as well kept as your
hands. Accordingly, what did you do? You poured some of
the water that was in the pitcher in your cell on to the ground
MONSIEUR LECOQ 123
and then dabbled your feet in the mud that had thus been
formed."
During these remarks the prisoner's face wore, by turns, an
expression of anxiety, astonishment, irony, and mirth. When
the magistrate had finished, he burst into a hearty laugh.
"So that's the result of twelve or fourteen hours' research,"
he at length exclaimed, turning toward Lecoq. "Ah ! Mr.
Agent, it's good to be sharp, but not so sharp as that. The
truth is, that when I was taken to the station-house, forty-eight
hours — thirty-six of them spent in a railway carriage — had
elapsed since I had taken off my boots. My feet were red and
swollen, and they burned like fire. What did I do? I poured
some water over them. As for your other suspicions, if I have
a soft white skin, it is only because I take care of myself. Be-
sides, as is usual with most men of my profession, I rarely
wear anything but slippers on my feet. This is so true that,
on leaving Leipsic, I only owned a single pair of boots, and
that was an old cast-off pair given me by M. Simpson."
Lecoq struck his chest. "Fool, imbecile, idiot, that I am !"
he thought. "He was waiting to be questioned about this cir-
cumstance. He is so wonderfully shrewd that, when he saw
me take the dust, he divined my intentions; and since then he
has managed to concoct this story — a plausible story enough —
and one that any jury would believe."
M. Segmuller was saying the same thing to himself. But
he was not so surprised nor so overcome by the skill the pris-
oner had displayed in fencing with this point. "Let us con-
tinue," said he. "Do you still persist in your statements,
prisoner?"
"Yes."
"Very well ; then I shall be forced to tell you that what you
are saying is untrue."
The prisoner's lips trembled visibly, and it was with difficulty
that he faltered : "May my first mouthful of bread strangle me,
if I have uttered a single falsehood !"
"A single falsehood ! Wait."
The magistrate drew from the drawer of his desk the molds
of the footprints prepared by Lecoq, and showing them to the
murderer, he said: "You told me a few minutes ago that the
two women were as tall as grenadiers; now, just look at the
footprints made by these female giants. They were as 'dark as
moles,' you said; a witness will tell you that one of them was
124 MONSIEUR LECOQ
a small, delicate-featured blonde, with an exceedingly sweet
voice." He sought the prisoner's eyes, gazed steadily into
them, and added slowly: "And this witness is the driver whose
cab was hired in the Rue de Chevaleret by the two fugitives,
both short, fair-haired women."
This sentence fell like a thunderbolt upon the prisoner; he
grew pale, tottered, and leaned against the wall for support.
"Ah ! you have told me the truth !" scornfully continued the
pitiless magistrate. "Then, who is this man who was waiting
for you while you were at the Poivriere? Who is this accom-
plice who, after your arrest, dared to enter the Widow Chupin's
den to regain possession of some compromising object — no
doubt a letter — which he knew he would find in the pocket of
the Widow Chupin's apron? Who is this devoted, courageous
friend who feigned drunkenness so effectually that even the
police were deceived, and thoughtlessly placed him in confine-
ment with you? Dare you deny that you have not arranged
your system of defense in concert with him? Can you affirm
that he did not give the Widow Chupin counsel as to the course
she should pursue?"
But already, thanks to his power of self-control, the prisoner
had mastered his agitation. "All this," said he, in a harsh
voice, "is a mere invention of the police f"
However faithfully one may describe an examination of this
kind, a narrative can convey no more idea of the real scene
than a heap of cold ashes can give the effect of a glowing fire.
One can note down each word, each ejaculation, but phrase-
ology is powerless to portray the repressed animation, the im-
passioned movements, the studied reticence, the varied tones
of voice, the now bold, now faltering glances, full of hatred and
suspicion, which follow each other in rapid succession, mostly
on the prisoner's side, but not entirely so, for although the
magistrate may be an adept in the art of concealing his feelings,
at times nature can not be controlled.
When the prisoner reeled beneath the magistrate's last
words, the latter could not control his feelings. "He yields,"
he thought, "he succumbs — he is mine !"
But all hope of immediate success vanished when M. Seg-
muller saw his redoubtable adversary struggle against his
momentary weakness, and arm himself for the fight with re-
newed, and, if possible, even greater energy. The magistrate
perceived that it would require more than one assault to over-
MONSIEUR LECOQ 125
come such a stubborn nature. So, in a voice rendered still
more harsh by disappointment, he resumed: "It is plain that
you are determined to deny evidence itself."
The prisoner had recovered all his self-possession. He must
have bitterly regretted his weakness, for a fiendish spite glit-
tered in his eyes. "What evidence !" he asked, frowning.
"This romance invented by the police is very plausible, I don't
deny it; but it seems to me that the truth is quite as probable.
You talk to me about a cabman whose vehicle was hired by
two short, fair-haired women: but who can prove that these
women were the same that fled from the Poivriere?"
"The police agent you see here followed the tracks they left
across the snow."
"Ah ! at night-time — across fields intersected by ditches, and
up a long street — a fine rain falling all the while, and a thaw
already beginning ! Oh, your story is very probable !"
As he spoke, the murderer extended his arm toward Lecoq,
and then, in a tone of crushing scorn, he added: "A man must
have great confidence in himself, or a wild longing for advance-
ment, to try and get a man guillotined on such evidence as
that !"
At these words, Goguet, the smiling clerk, whose pen was
rapidly flying across the paper, could not help remarking to
himself: "The arrow has entered the bull's-eye this time!"
The comment was not without foundation : for Lecoq was
evidently cut to the quick. Indeed, he was so incensed that,
forgetful of his subordinate position, he sprang to his feet, ex-
claiming: "This circumstance would be of slight importance
if it were not one of a long chain — "
"Be good enough to keep silent," interrupted the magistrate,
who, turning to the prisoner, added : "The court does not utilize
the proofs and testimony collected by the police until it has
examined and weighed them."
"No matter," murmured the prisoner. "I should like to see
this cab-driver."
"Have no fear about that; he shall repeat his evidence in
your presence."
"Very well. I am satisfied then. I will ask him how he can
distinguish people's faces when it is as dark as — "
He checked himself, apparently enlightened by a sudden
inspiration.
"How stupid I am !" he exclaimed. "I'm losing my temper
126 MONSIEUR LECOQ
about these people when you know all the while who they are.
For of course the cabmen drove them home."
M. Segmuller saw that the prisoner understood him. He
perceived, moreover, that the latter was doing all he could
to increase the mystery that enshrouded this essential point of
the case — a point upon which the prosecution was particularly
anxious to obtain information.
The prisoner was truly an incomparable comedian, for his
last observation was made in a tone of remarkable candor, just
tinged with sufficient irony to show that he felt he had nothing
to fear in this direction.
"If you are consistent with yourself," remarked the magis-
trate, "you will also deny the existence of an accomplice, of a
— comrade."
"What would be the use denying it, since you believe nothing
that I say ? Only a moment ago you insinuated that my former
employer was an imaginary personage ; so what need I say
about my pretended accomplice? According to your agents,
he's at all events a most faithful friend. Indeed, this wonder-
ful being — invented by Monsieur" (with these words the pris-
oner pointed to Lecoq) — "was seemingly not satisfied at having
once escaped the police, for, according to your account, he vol-
untarily placed himself in their clutches a second time. You
gentlemen pretend that he conferred first of all with me, and
next with the Widow Chupin. How did that happen ? Perhaps
after removing him from my cell, some of your agents oblig-
ingly shut him up with the old woman."
Goguet, the clerk, wrote all this down admiringly. "Here,"
thought he, "is a man of brain, who understands his case. He
won't need any lawyer's eloquence to put his defense favor-
ably before a jury."
"And after all," continued the prisoner, "what are the proofs
against me ? The name of Lacheneur faltered by a dying man ;
a few footprints on some melting snow; a sleepy cab-driver's
declaration; and a vague doubt about a drunkard's identity. If
that is all you have against me, it certainly doesn't amount to
much — "
"Enough !" interrupted M. Segmuller. "Your assurance is
perfect now; though a moment ago your embarrassment was
most remarkable. What was the cause of it?"
"The cause !" indignantly exclaimed the prisoner, whom this
query had seemingly enraged ; "the cause ! Can't you see, sir,
MONSIEUR LECOQ 127
that you are torturing me frightfully, pitilessly ! I am an inno-
cent man, and you are trying to deprive me of my life. You
have been turning me this way and that way for so many
hours that I begin to feel as if I were standing on the guillo-
tine. Each time I open my mouth to speak I ask myself, is it
this answer that will send me to the scaffold? My anxiety and
dismay surprise you, do they? Why, since this examination
began, I've felt the cold knife graze my neck at least twenty
times. I wouldn't like my worst enemy to be subjected to such
torture as this."
The prisoner's description of his sufferings did not seem at
all exaggerated. His hair was saturated with perspiration, and
big drops of sweat rested on his pallid brow, or coursed down
his cheeks on to his beard.
"I am not your enemy," said the magistrate more gently.
"A magistrate is neither a prisoner's friend nor enemy, he is
simply the friend of truth and the executor of the law. I am
not seeking either for an innocent man or for a culprit ; I merely
wish to arrive at the truth. I must know who you are — and I
do know — "
"Ah ! — if the assertion costs me my life — I'm May and none
other."
"No, you are not."
"Who am I then ? Some great man in disguise ? Ah ! I wish
I were ! In that case, I should have satisfactory papers to show
you; and then you would set me free, for you know very well,
my good sir, that I am as innocent as you are."
The magistrate had left his desk, and taken a seat by the
fireplace within a yard of the prisoner. "Do not insist," said
he. Then, suddenly changing both manner and tone, he added
with the urbanity that a man of the world displays when ad-
dressing an equal :
"Do me the honor, sir, to believe me gifted with sufficient
perspicuity to recognize, under the difficult part you play to
such perfection, a very superior gentleman — a man endowed
with remarkable talents."
Lecoq perceived that this sudden change of manner had un-
nerved the prisoner. He tried to laugh, but his merriment par-
took somewhat of the nature of a sob, and big tears glistened
in his eyes.
"I will not torture you any longer," continued the magistrate.
"In subtle reasoning I confess that you have conquered me.
128
MONSIEUR LECOQ
However, when I return to the charge I shall have proofs
enough in my possession to crush you."
He reflected for a moment, then lingering over each word,
he added : "Only do not then expect from me the consideration
I have shown you to-day. Justice is human ; that is, she is
indulgent toward certain crimes. She has fathomed the depth
of the abyss into which blind passion may hurl even an honest
man. To-day I freely offer you any assistance that will not
conflict with my duty. Speak. Shall I send this officer of police
away? Would you like me to send my clerk out of the room,
on an errand?" He said no more, but waited to see the effect
of this last effort.
The prisoner darted upon him one of those searching glances
that seem to pierce an adversary through. His lips moved; one
might have supposed that he was about to make a revelation.
But no; suddenly he crossed his arms over his chest, and mur-
mured: "You are very frank, sir. Unfortunately for me, I'm
only a poor devil, as I've already told you. My name is May,
and I earn my living by speaking to the public and turning a
compliment."
"I am forced to yield to your decision," said the magistrate
sadly. "The clerk will now read the minutes of your examina-
tion — listen."
While Goguet read the evidence aloud, the prisoner listened
without making any remark, but when asked to sign the docu-
ment, he obstinately refused to do so, fearing, he said, "some
hidden treachery."
A moment afterward the soldiers who had escorted him to
the magistrate's room conducted him back to the Depot.
VX^HEN the prisoner had gone, M. Segmuller sank back in
v v his armchair, literally exhausted. He was in that state
of nervous prostration which so often follows protracted but
fruitless efforts. He had scarcely strength enough to bathe his
burning forehead and gleaming eyes with cool, refreshing water.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 129
This frightful examination had lasted no less than seven con-
secutive hours.
The smiling clerk, who had kept his place at his desk busily
writing the whole while, now rose to his feet, glad of an oppor-
tunity to stretch his limbs and snap his fingers, cramped by hold-
ing the pen. Still, he was not in the least degree bored. He
invariably took a semi-theatrical interest in the dramas that
were daily enacted in his presence ; his excitement being all the
greater owing to the uncertainty that shrouded the finish of
the final act — a finish that only too often belied the ordinary
rules and deductions of writers for the stage.
"What a knave !" he exclaimed after vainly waiting for the
magistrate or the detective to express an opinion, "what a
rascal !"
M. Segmuller ordinarily put considerable confidence in his
clerk's long experience. He sometimes even went so far as to
consult him, doubtless somewhat in the same style that Moliere
consulted his servant. But, on this occasion he did not accept
his opinion.
"No," said he in a thoughtful tone, "that man is not a knave.
When I spoke to him kindly he was really touched; he wept,
he hesitated. I could have sworn that he was about to tell me
everything."
"Ah, he's a man of wonderful power!" observed Lecoq.
The detective was sincere in his praise. Although the pris-
oner had disappointed his plans, and had even insulted him, he
could not help admiring his shrewdness and courage. He —
Lecoq — had prepared himself for a strenuous struggle with this
man, and he hoped to conquer in the end. Nevertheless in his
secret soul he felt for his adversary, admiring that sympathy
which a "foeman worthy of one's steel" always inspires.
"What coolness, what courage !" continued the young detec-
tive. "Ah ! there's no denying it, his system of defense — of
absolute denial — is a masterpiece. It is perfect. How well he
played that difficult part of buffoon ! At times I could scarcely
restrain my admiration. What is a famous comedian beside that
fellow? The greatest actors need the adjunct of stage scenery
to support the illusion, whereas this man, entirely unaided,
almost convinced me even against my reason."
"Do you know what your very appropriate criticism proves?"
inquired the magistrate.
"I am listening, sir."
130 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"Ah, well ! I have arrived at this conclusion — either this
man is really May, the stroller, earning his living by paying
compliments, as he says — or else he belongs to the highest rank
of society, and not to the middle classes. It is only in the lowest
or in the highest ranks that you encounter such grim energy
as he has displayed, such scorn of life, as well as such remark-
able presence of mind and resolution. A vulgar tradesman
attracted to the Poivriere by some shameful passion would have
confessed it long ago."
"But, sir, this man is surely not the buffoon, May," replied
the young detective.
"No, certainly not," responded M. Segmuller ; "we must,
therefore, decide upon some plan of action." He smiled kindly,
and added, in a friendly voice : "It was unnecessary to tell you
that, Monsieur Lecoq. Quite unnecessary, since to you belongs
the honor of having detected this fraud. As for myself, I con-
fess, that if I had not been warned in advance, I should have
been the dupe of this clever artist's talent."
The young detective bowed; a blush of modesty tinged his
cheeks, but a gleam of pleased vanity sparkled in his eyes.
What a difference between this friendly, benevolent magistrate
and M. d'Escorval, so taciturn and haughty. This man, at
least, understood, appreciated, and encouraged him ; and it was
with a common theory and an equal ardor that they were about
to devote themselves to a search for the truth. Scarcely had
Lecoq allowed these thoughts to flit across his mind than he
reflected that his satisfaction was, after all, a trifle premature,
and that success was still extremely doubtful. With this chill-
ing conclusion, presence of mind returned. Turning toward
the magistrate, he exclaimed: "You will recollect, sir, that the
Widow Chupin mentioned a son of hers, a certain Polyte — "
"Yes."
"Why not question him? He must know all the frequenters
of the Poivriere, and might perhaps give us valuable informa-
tion regarding Gustave, Lacheneur, and the murderer himself.
As he is not in solitary confinement, he has probably heard of
his mother's arrest ; but it seems to me impossible that he should
suspect our present perplexity."
"Ah ! you are a hundred times right !" exclaimed the magis-
trate. I ought to have thought of that myself. In his position
he can scarcely have been tampered with as yet, and I'll have
him up here to-morrow morning; I will also question his wife."
MONSIEUR LECOQ 131
Turning to his clerk, M. Segmuller added: "Quick, Goguet,
prepare a summons in the name of the wife of Hippolyte Chupin,
and address an order to the governor of the Depot to produce
her husband !"
But night was coming on. It was already too dark to see to
write, and accordingly the clerk rang the bell for lights. Just
as the messenger who brought the lamps turned to leave the
room, a rap was heard at the door. Immediately afterward
the governor of the Depot entered.
During the past twenty-four hours this worthy functionary
had been greatly perplexed concerning the mysterious prisoner
he had placed in secret cell No. 3, and he now came to the mag-
istrate for advice regarding him. "I come to ask," said he, "if I
am still to retain the prisoner May in solitary confinement?"
"Yes."
"Although I fear fresh attacks of frenzy, I dislike to confine
him in the strait-jacket again."
"Leave him free in his cell," replied M. Segmuller ; "and tell
the keepers to watch him well, but to treat him kindly."
By the provisions of Article 613 of the Code, accused parties
are placed in the custody of the government, but the investi-
gating magistrate is allowed to adopt such measures concern-
ing them as he may deem necessary for the interest of the
prosecution.
The governor bowed assent to M. Segmuller's instructions,
and then added: "You have doubtless succeeded in establishing
the prisoner's identity."
"Unfortunately, I have not."
The governor shook his head with a knowing air. "In that
case," said he, "my conjectures were correct. It seems to me
evident that this man is a criminal of the worst description —
an old offender certainly, and one who has the strongest inter-
est in concealing his identity. You will find that you have to
deal with a man who has been sentenced to the galleys for life,
and who has managed to escape from Cayenne."
"Perhaps you are mistaken."
"Hum ! I shall be greatly surprised if such should prove the
case. I must admit that my opinion in this matter is identical
with that of M. Gevrol, the most experienced and the most skil-
ful of our inspectors. I agree with him in thinking that young
detectives are often overzealous, and run after fantoms orig-
inated in their own brains."
132
MONSIEUR LECOQ
Lecoq, crimson with wrath, was about to make an angry re-
sponse when M. Segmuller motioned to him to remain silent.
Then with a smile on his face the magistrate replied to the
governor. "Upon my word, my dear friend," he said, "the more
I study this affair, the more convinced I am of the correctness
of the theory advanced by the 'overzealous' detective. But,
after all, I am not infallible, and I shall depend upon your
counsel and assistance."
"Oh ! I have means of verifying my assertion," interrupted the
governor ; "and I hope before the end of the next twenty-four
hours that our man will have been identified, either by the police
or by one of his fellow-prisoners."
With these words he took his leave. Scarcely had he done
so than Lecoq sprang to his feet. The young detective was
furious. "You see that Gevrol already speaks ill of me; he
is jealous."
"Ah, well! what does that matter to you? If you succeed,
you will have your revenge. If you are mistaken — then I am
mistaken, too."
Then, as it was already late, M. Segmuller confided to Lecoq's
keeping the various articles the latter had accumulated in sup-
port of his theory. He also placed in his hands the diamond
earring, the owner of which must be discovered ; and the letter
signed "Lacheneur," which had been found in the pocket of
the spurious soldier. Having given him full instructions, he
asked him to make his appearance promptly on the morrow,
and then dismissed him, saying: "Now go; and may good luck
attend you !"
TONG, narrow, and low of ceiling, having on the one side a
*~-* row of windows looking on to a small courtyard, and on the
other a range of doors, each with a number on its central panel,
thus reminding one of some corridor in a second-rate hotel, such
is the Galerie d'Instruction at the Palais de Justice whereby
admittance is gained into the various rooms occupied by th«
MONSIEUR LECOQ 133
investigating magistrates. Even in the daytime, when it is
thronged with prisoners, witnesses, and guards, it is a sad and
gloomy place. But it is absolutely sinister of aspect at night-
time, when deserted, and only dimly lighted by the smoky lamp
of a solitary attendant, waiting for the departure of some magis-
trate whom business has detained later than usual.
Although Lecoq was not sensitive to such influences, he made
haste to reach the staircase and thus escape the echo of his
footsteps, which sounded most drearily in the silence and dark-
ness pervading the gallery.
Finding an open window on the floor below, he looked out
to ascertain the state of the weather. The temperature was
much milder; the snow had altogether disappeared, and the
pavement was almost dry. A slight haze, illumined by the
ruddy glare of the street lamps, hung like a purple mantle over
the city. The streets below were full of animation; vehicles
were rolling rapidly to and fro, and the footways were too
narrow for the bustling crowd, which, now that the labors of
the day were ended, was hastening homeward or in search of
pleasure.
The sight drew a sigh from the young detective. "And it
is in this great city," he murmured, "in the midst of this world
of people that I must discover the traces of a person I don't
even know ! Is it possible to accomplish such a feat ?"
The feeling of despondency that had momentarily surprised
him was not, however, of long duration. "Yes, it is possible,"
cried an inward voice. "Besides, it must be done ; your future
depends upon it. Where there's a will, there's a way." Ten
seconds later he was in the street, more than ever inflamed
with hope and courage.
Unfortunately, however, man can only place organs of limited
power at the disposal of his boundless desires ; and Lecoq had
not taken twenty steps along the streets before he became aware
that if the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak. His limbs
trembled, and his head whirled. Nature was asserting her
rights; during the last forty-eight hours, the young detective
had taken scarcely a moment's rest, and he had, moreover, now
passed an entire day without food.
"Am I going to be ill?" he thought, sinking on to a bench.
And he groaned inwardly on recapitulating all that he wished
to do that evening.
If he dealt only with the more important matters, must he
134 MONSIEUR LECOQ
not at once ascertain the result of Father Absinthe's search
after the man who had recognized one of the victims at the
Morgue ; test the prisoner's assertions regarding the box of
clothes left at one of the hotels surrounding the Northern
Railway Station; and last, but not the least, must he not pro-
cure the address of Polyte Chupin's wife, in order to serve her
with the summons to appear before M. Segmuller?
Under the power of urgent necessity, he succeeded in tri-
umphing over his attack of weakness, and rose, murmuring: "I
will go first to the Prefecture and to the Morgue ; then I will
see."
But he did not find Father Absinthe at the Prefecture,
and no one could give any tidings of him. He had not been
there at all during the day. Nor could any one indicate,
even vaguely, the abode of the Widow Chupin's daughter-
in-law.
On the other hand, however, Lecoq met a number of his col-
leagues, who laughed and jeered at him unmercifully. "Ah !
you are a shrewd fellow !" they said, "it seems that you have
just made a wonderful discovery, and it's said you are going
to be decorated with the Legion of Honor."
Gevrol's influence betrayed itself everywhere. The jealous
inspector had taken pains to inform all his colleagues and sub-
ordinates that poor Lecoq, crazed by ambition, persisted in
declaring that a low, vulgar murderer trying to escape justice
was some great personage in disguise. However, the jeers and
taunts of which Lecoq was the object had but little effect upon
him, and he consoled himself with the reflection that, "He
laughs best who laughs last."
If he were restless and anxious as he walked along the Quai
des Orfevres, it was because he could not explain Father Ab-
sinthe's prolonged absence, and because he feared that Gevrol,
mad with jealousy, might attempt, in some underhand way, to
frustrate his, Lecoq's, efforts to arrive at a solution of the
mystery.
At the Morgue the young detective met with no better suc-
cess than at the Prefecture. After ringing three or four times,
one of the keepers opened the door and informed him that the
bodies had not been identified, and that the old police agent had
not been seen since he went away early in the morning.
"This is a bad beginning," thought Lecoq. "I will go and
get some dinner — that, perhaps, will change the luck; at all
MONSIEUR LECOQ 135
events, I have certainly earned the bottle of good wine to which
I intend to treat myself."
It was a happy thought. A hearty meal washed down with
a couple of glasses of Bordeaux sent new courage and energy
coursing through his veins. If he still felt a trifle weary, the
sensation of fatigue was at all events greatly diminished when
he left the restaurant with a cigar between his lips.
Just at that moment he longed for Father Papillon's trap
and sturdy steed. Fortunately, a cab was passing: he hired it,
and as eight o'clock was striking, alighted at the corner of the
square in front of the Northern Railway Station. After a brief
glance round, he began his search for the hotel where the mur-
derer pretended to have left a box of clothes.
It must be understood that he did not present himself in his
official capacity. Hotel proprietors fight shy of detectives, and
Lecoq was aware that if he proclaimed his calling he would
probably learn nothing at all. By brushing back his hair and
turning up his coat collar, he made, however, a very consid-
erable alteration in his appearance ; and it was with a marked
English accent that he asked the landlords and servants of
various hostelries surrounding the station for information con-
cerning a "foreign workman named May."
He conducted his search with considerable address, but every-
where he received the same reply.
"We don't know such a person ; we haven't seen any one
answering the description you give of him."
Any other answer would have astonished Lecoq, so strongly
persuaded was he that the prisoner had only mentioned the
circumstances of a trunk left at one of these hotels in order
to give a semblance of truth to his narrative. Nevertheless he
continued his investigation. If he noted down in his memoran-
dum book the names of all the hotels which he visited, it was
with a view of making sure of the prisoner's discomfiture when
he was conducted to the neighborhood and asked to prove the
truth of his story.
Eventually, Lecoq reached the Hotel de Mariembourg, at the
corner of the Rue St. Quentin. The house was of modest pro-
portions; but seemed respectable and well kept. Lecoq pushed
open the glass door leading into the vestibule, and entered the
office — a neat, brightly lighted room, where he found a woman
standing upon a chair, her face on a level with a large bird
cage, covered with a piece of black silk. She was repeating
136 MONSIEUR LECOQ
three or four German words with great earnestness to the
inmate of the cage, and was so engrossed in this occupation that
Lecoq had to make considerable noise before he could attract
her attention.
At length she turned her head, and the young detective ex-
claimed : "Ah ! good evening, madame ; you are much interested,
I see, in teaching your parrot to talk."
"It isn't a parrot," replied the woman, who had not yet de-
scended from her perch ; "but a starling, and I am trying to
teach it to say 'Have you breakfasted ?' in German."
"What ! can starlings talk ?"
"Yes, sir, as well as you or I," rejoined the woman, jumping
down from the chair.
Just then the bird, as if it had understood the question, cried
very distinctly: "Camille ! Where is Camille?"
But Lecoq was too preoccupied to pay any further attention
to the incident. "Madame," he began, "I wish to speak to the
proprietor of this hotel."
"I am the proprietor."
"Oh ! very well. I was expecting a mechanic — from Leipsic
— to meet me here in Paris. To my great surprise, he has not
made his appearance ; and I came to inquire if he was stopping
here. His name is May."
"May !" repeated the hostess, thoughtfully. "May !"
"He ought to have arrived last Sunday evening."
The woman's face brightened. "Wait a moment," said she.
"Was this friend of yours a middle-aged man, of medium size,
of very dark complexion — wearing a full beard, and having
very bright eyes?"
Lecoq could scarcely conceal his agitation. This was an ex-
act description of the supposed murderer. "Yes," he stammered,
"that is a very good portrait of the man."
"Ah, well ! he came here on Shrove Sunday, in the afternoon.
He asked for a cheap room, and I showed him one on the fifth
floor. The office-boy was not here at the time, and he insisted
upon taking his trunk upstairs himself. I offered him some
refreshments ; but he declined to take anything, saying that he
was in a great hurry ; and he went away after giving me ten
francs as security for the rent."
"Where is he now?" inquired the young detective.
"Dear me ! that reminds me," replied the woman. "He has
never returned, and I have been rather anxious about him.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 137
Paris is such a dangerous place for strangers ! It is true he
spoke French as well as you or I ; but what of that ? Yesterday
evening I gave orders that the commissary of police should be
informed of the matter."
"Yesterday — the commissary ?"
"Yes. Still, I don't know whether the toy obeyed me. I had
forgotten all about it. Allow me to ring for the boy, and ask
him."
A bucket of iced water falling upon Lecoq's head could not
have astonished him more than did this announcement from the
proprietress of the Hotel de Mariembourg. Had the prisoner
indeed told the truth ? Was it possible ? Gevrol and the
governor of the prison were right, then, and M. Segmuller
and he, Lecoq, were senseless fools, pursuing a fantom. These
ideas flashed rapidly through the young detective's brain. But
he had no time for reflection. The boy who had been sum-
moned now made his appearance, and proved to be a big over-
grown lad with frank, chubby face.
"Fritz," asked his mistress, "did you go to the commissary's
office?"
"Yes, madame."
"What did he say?"
"He was not in ; but I spoke to his secretary, M. Casimir,
who said you were not to worry yourself, as the man would no
doubt return."
"But he has not returned."
The boy rejoined, with a movement of the shoulders that
plainly implied: "How can I help that?"
"You hear, sir," said the hostess, apparently thinking the
importunate questioner would now withdraw.
Such, however, was not Lecoq's intention, and he did not
even move, though he had need of all his self-possession to
retain his English accent. "This is very annoying," said he,
"very ! I am even more anxious and undecided than I was
before, since I am not certain that this is the man I am seek-
ing for."
"Unfortunately, sir, I can tell you nothing more," calmly re-
plied the landlady.
Lecoq reflected for a moment, knitting his brows and biting
his lips, as if he were trying to discover some means of solving
the mystery. In point of fact, he was seeking for some adroit
phrase which might lead this woman to show him the register
138 MONSIEUR LECOQ
in which all travelers are compelled to inscribe their full names,
profession, and usual residence. At the same time, however,
it was necessary that he should not arouse her suspicions.
"But, madame," said he at last, "can't you remember the
name this man gave you? Was it May? Try to recollect if
that was the name — May — May !"
"Ah ! I have so many things to remember. But now I think
of it, and the name must be entered in my book, which, if it
would oblige you, I can show you. It is in the drawer of my
writing-table. Whatever can I have done with my keys?"
And while the hostess, who seemed to possess about as much
intelligence as her starling, was turning the whole office upside
down looking for her keys, Lecoq scrutinized her closely. She
was about forty years of age, with an abundance of light hair,
and a very fair complexion. She was well preserved — that is
to say, she was plump and healthy in appearance; her glance
was frank and unembarrassed ; her voice was clear and musi-
cal, and her manners were pleasing, and entirely free from
affectation.
"Ah !" she eventually exclaimed, "I have found those wretched
keys at last." So saying, she opened her desk, took out the
register, laid it on the table, and began turning over the leaves.
At last she found the desired page.
"Sunday, February 20th," said she. "Look, sir: here on the
seventh line — May — no Christian name — foreign artist — coming
from Leipsic — without papers."
While Lecoq was examining this record with a dazed air, the
woman exclaimed: "Ah! now I can explain how it happened
that I forgot the man's name and strange profession — 'foreign
artist.' I did not make the entry myself."
"Who made it, then?"
"The man himself, while I was finding ten francs to give him
as change for the louis he handed me. You can see that the
writing is not at all like that of other entries."
Lecoq had already noted this circumstance, which seemed to
furnish an irrefutable argument in favor of the assertions made
by the landlady and the prisoner. "Are you sure," he asked,
"that this is the man's handwriting?"
In his anxiety he had forgotten his English accent. The woman
noticed this at once, for she drew back, and cast a suspicious
glance at the pretended foreigner. "I know what I am say-
ing," she said, indignantly. "And now this is enough, isn't it?"
MONSIEUR LECOQ 139
Knowing that he had betrayed himself, and thoroughly
ashamed of his lack of coolness, Lecoq renounced his English
accent altogether. "Excuse me," he said, "if I ask one more
question. Have you this man's trunk in your possession?"
"Certainly."
"You would do me an immense service by showing it to me."
"Show it to you !" exclaimed the landlady, angrily. "What
do you take me for? What do you want? and who are you?"
"You shall know in half an hour," replied the young detec-
tive, realizing that further persuasion would be useless.
He hastily left the room, ran to the Place de Roubaix, jumped
into a cab, and giving the driver the address of the district
commissary of police, promised him a hundred sous over and
above the regular fare if he would only make haste. As might
have been expected under such circumstances, the poor horse
fairly flew over the ground.
Lecoq was fortunate enough to find the commissary at his
office. Having given his name, he was immediately ushered
into the magistrate's presence and told his story in a few words.
"It is really true that they came to inform me of this man's
disappearance," said the commissary. "Casimir told me about
it this morning."
"They — came — to inform — you — " faltered Lecoq.
"Yes, yesterday ; but I have had so much to occupy my time.
Now, my man, how can I serve you?"
"Come with me, sir ; compel them to show us the trunk, and
send for a locksmith to open it. Here is the authority — a search
warrant given me by the investigating magistrate to use in case
of necessity. Let us lose no time. I have a cab at the door."
"We will start at once," said the commissary.
The driver whipped up his horse once more, and they were
soon rapidly rolling in the direction of the Rue St. Quentin.
"Now, sir," said the young detective, "permit me to ask if
you know this woman who keeps the Hotel de Mariembourg?"
"Yes, indeed. I know her very well. When I was first ap-
pointed to this district, six years ago, I was a bachelor, and for
a long while I took my meals at her table d'hote. Casimir, my
secretary, boards there even now."
"And what kind of woman is she ?"
"Why, upon my word, my young friend, Madame Milner —
for such is her name — is a very respectable widow (highly es-
teemed by her neighbors) and having a very prosperous busi-
140
MONSIEUR LECOQ
ness. If she remains a widow, it is only from choice, for she
is very prepossessing and has plenty of suitors."
"Then you don't think her capable of serving, for the sake
of a good round sum, the interests of some wealthy culprit?"
"Have you gone mad?" interrupted the commissary. "What,
Madame Milner perjure herself for the sake of money ! Haven't
I just told you that she is an honest woman, and that she is
very well off ! Besides, she informed me yesterday that this
man was missing, so — "
Lecoq made no reply ; the driver was pulling up ; they had
reached their destination.
On seeing her obstinate questioner reappear, accompanied by
the commissary, Madame Milner seemed to vmderstand every-
thing.
"Good heavens !" she exclaimed, "a detective ! I might have
guessed it ? Some crime has been committed ; and now my
hotel has lost its reputation forever !"
While a messenger was despatched for a locksmith, the com-
missary endeavored to reassure and console her, a task of no
little difficulty, and which he was some time in accomplishing.
At last they all went up to the missing man's room, and
Lecoq sprang toward the trunk. Ah ! there was no denying it.
It had, indeed, come from Leipsic ; as the labels pasted upon
it by the different railroad companies only too plainly proved.
On being opened, it was, moreover, found to contain the vari-
ous articles mentioned by the prisoner.
Lecoq was thunderstruck. When he had seen the commis-
sary lock the trunk and its contents up in a cupboard and take
possession of the key, he felt he could endure nothing more.
He left the room with downcast head ; and stumbled like a
drunken man as he went down the stairs.
TUI ARDI GRAS, or Shrove Tuesday, was very gay that year ■,
*y* that is to say, all places of public resort were crowded.
When Lecoq left the Hotel de Mariembourg about midnight, the
MONSIEUR LECOQ HI
streets were as full as if it had been noonday, and the cafes
were thronged with customers.
But the young detective had no heart for pleasure. He min-
gled with the crowd without seemingly seeing it, and jostled
against groups of people chatting at the corners, without hear-
ing the imprecations occasioned by his awkwardness. Where
was he going? He had no idea. He walked aimlessly, more
disconsolate and desperate than the gambler who had staked
his last hope with his last louis, and lost.
"I must yield," he murmured ; "this evidence is conclusive.
My presumptions were only chimeras ; my deductions the play-
things of chance ! All I can now do is to withdraw, with the
least possible damage and ridicule, from the false position I
have assumed."
Just as he reached the boulevard, however, a new idea en-
tered his brain, an idea of so startling a kind that he could
scarcely restrain a loud exclamation of surprise. "What a fool
I am !" cried he, striking his hand violently against his fore-
head. "Is it possible to be so strong in theory, and yet so
ridiculously weak in practise? Ah! I am only a child, a mere
novice, disheartened by the slightest obstacle. I meet with a
difficulty, and at once I lose all my courage. Now, let me
reflect calmly. What did I tell the judge about this murderer,
whose plan of defense so puzzles us? Did I not tell him that
we had to deal with a man of superior talent — with a man of
consummate penetration and experience — a bold, courageous
fellow of imperturbable coolness, who will do anything to
insure the success of his plans? Yes; I told him all that, and
yet I give up the game in despair as soon as I meet with a
single circumstance that I can not instantly explain. It is
evident that such a prisoner would not resort to old. hackneyed,
commonplace expedients. Time, patience, and research are
requisite to find a flaw in his defense. With such a man as
he is, the more appearances are against my presumptions, and
in favor of his narrative, the more certain it is that I am right
— or else logic is no longer logic."
At this thought, Lecoq burst into a hearty laugh. "Still."
continued he, "it would perhaps be premature to expose this
theory at headquarters in Gevrol's presence. He would at once
present me with a crtificate for admission into some lunatic
asylum."
The young detective paused. While absorbed in thought,
142 MONSIEUR LECOQ
his legs, obeying an instinctive impulse, had brought him to
his lodgings. He rang the bell; the door opened, and he
groped his way slowly up to the fourth floor. He had reached
his room, and was about to enter, when some one, whom he
could not distinguish in the dark, called out: "Is that you,
Monsieur Lecoq ?" .
"Yes, it's I!" replied the young man, somewhat surprised;
"but who are you?"
"I'm Father Absinthe."
"Oh ! indeed ! Well, you are welcome ! I didn't recognize
your voice — will you come in ?"
They entered the room, and Lecoq lit a candle. Then the
young man could see his colleague, and, good heavens ! he
found him in a most pitiable condition.
He was as dirty and as bespattered with mud as a lost
dog that has been wandering about in the rain and the mire
for a week at the very least. His overcoat bore the traces of
frequent contact with damp walls; his hat had lost its form
entirely. His eyes wore an anxious look, and his mustache
drooped despondently. He spoke, moreover, so strangely that
one might have supposed his mouth was full of sand.
"Do you bring me bad news?" inquired Lecoq, after a short
examination of his companion.
"Yes, bad."
"The people you were following escaped you, then?"
The old man nodded his head affirmatively.
"It is unfortunate — very unfortunate !" said Lecoq. "But it
is useless to distress ourselves about it. Don't be so cast down,
Father Absinthe. To-morrow, between us, we will repair the
damage."
This friendly encouragement only increased the old man's
evident embarrassment. He blushed, this veteran, as if he had
been a schoolgirl, and raising his hands toward heaven, he
exclaimed: "Ah, you wretch! didn't I tell you so?"
"Why! what is the matter with you?" inquired Lecoq.
Father Absinthe made no reply. Approaching a looking-
glass that hung against the wall, he surveyed himself reproach-
fully and began to heap cruel insults upon the reflection of his
features.
"You old good-for-nothing!" he exclaimed. "You vile de-
serter! have you no shame left? You were entrusted with a
mission, were you not? And how have you fulfilled it? You
MONSIEUR LECOQ 143
have got drunk, you old wretch, so drunk as to have lost your
wits. Ah, you shan't escape punishment this time, for even if
M. Lecoq is indulgent, you shan't taste another drop for a week.
Yes, you old sot, you shall suffer for this escapade."
"Come, come," said Lecoq, "you can sermonize by and by.
Now tell me your story."
"Ah ! I am not proud of it, believe me. However, never
mind. No doubt you received the letter in which I told you I
was going to follow the young men who seemed to recognize
Gustave ?"
"Yes, yes — go on !"
"Well, as soon as they entered the cafe, into which I had
followed them, they began drinking, probably to drive away
their emotion. After that they apparently felt hungry. At all
events they ordered breakfast. I followed their example. The
mail, with coffee and beer afterward, took up no little time,
and indeed a couple of hours had elapsed before they were
ready to pay their bill and go. Good ! I supposed they would
now return home. Not at all. They walked down the Rue
Dauphin ; and I saw them enter another cafe. Five minutes
later I glided in after them; and found them already engaged
in a game of billiards."
At this point Father Absinthe hesitated; it is no easy task to
recount one's blunders to the very person who has suffered by
them.
"I seated myself at a little table," he eventually resumed,
"and asked for a newspaper. I was reading with one eye and
watching with the other, when a respectable-looking man en-
tered, and took a seat beside me. As soon as he had seated
himself he asked me to let him have the paper when I had
finished with it. I handed it to him, and then we began talking
about the weather. At last he proposed a game of bezique. I
declined, but we afterward compromised the matter by having
a game of piquet. The young men, you understand, were still
knocking the balls about. We began by playing for a glass of
brandy each. I won. My adversary asked for his revenge, and
we played two games more. I still kept on winning. He in-
sisted upon another game, and again I won, and still I drank —
and drank again — "
"Go on, go on."
"Ah ! here's the rub. After that I remember nothing — noth-
ing either about the man I had been playing with or the young
144 MONSIEUR LECOQ
men. It seems to me, however, that I recollect falling asleep
in the cafe, and that a long while afterward a waiter came and
woke me and told me to go. Then I must have wandered about
along the quays until I came to my senses, and decided to go
to your lodgings and wait on the stairs until you returned."
To Father Absinthe's great surprise, Lecoq seemed rather
thoughtful than angry. "What do you think about this chance
acquaintance of yours, papa?" asked the young detective.
"I think he was following me while I was following the
others, and that he entered the cafe with the view of making
me drunk."
"What was he like ?"
"Oh, he was a tall, stoutish man, with a broad, red face, and
a flat nose; and he was very unpretending and affable in
manner.
"It was he !" exclaimed Lecoq.
"He! Who?"
"Why, the accomplice — the man whose footprints we discov-
ered — the pretended drunkard — a devil incarnate, who will get
the best of us yet, if we don't keep our eyes open. Don't you
forget him, papa ; and if you ever meet him again — "
But Father Absinthe's confession was not ended. Like most
devotees, he had reserved the worst sin for the last.
"But that's not all," he resumed; "and as it's best to make
a clean breast of it, I will tell you that it seems to me this
traitor talked about the affair at the Poivriere, and that I told
him all we had discovered, and all we intended to do."
Lecoq made such a threatening gesture that the old tippler
drew back in consternation. "You wretched man!" exclaimed
the young detective, "to betray our plans to the enemy!"
But his calmness soon returned. If at first sight the evil
seemed to be beyond remedy, on further thought it had a good
side after all. It sufficed to dispel all the doubts that had assailed
Lecoq's mind after his visit to the Hotel de Mariembourg.
"However," quoth our hero, "this is not the time for delib-
eration. I am overcome with fatigue ; take a mattress from the
bed for yourself, my friend, and let us get a little sleep."
Lecoq was a man of considerable forethought. Hence, before
going to bed he took good care to wind up his alarm so that
it might wake him at six o'clock. "With that to warn us," he
remarked to his companion, as he blew out the candle, "there
need be no fear of our missing the coach."
MONSIEUR LECOQ 145
He had not, however, made allowance for his own extreme
weariness or for the soporific effect of the alcoholic fumes with
which his comrade's breath was redolent. When six o'clock
struck at the church of St. Eustache, the young detective's
alarm resounded faithfully enough, with a loud and protracted
whir. Shrill and sonorous as was the sound, it failed, however,
to break the heavy sleep of the two detectives. They would
indeed, in all probability, have continued slumbering for several
hours longer, if at half-past seven a sturdy fist had not begun
to rap loudly at the door. With one bound Lecoq was out of
bed, amazed at seeing the bright sunlight, and furious at the
futility of his precautions.
"Come in !" he cried to his early visitor. He had no
enemies to fear, and could, without danger, sleep with his door
unlocked.
In response to his call, Father Papillon's shrewd face peered
into the room.
"Ah ! it is m\ worthy coachman !" exclaimed Lecoq. "Is
there anything new?"
"Excuse me, but it's the old affair that brings me here," re-
plied our eccentric friend the cabman. "You know — the thirty
francs those wretched women paid me. Really, I shan't sleep
in peace till you have worked off the amount by using my
vehicle. Our drive yesterday lasted two hours and a half,
which, according to the regular fare, would be worth a hundred
sous; so you see I've still more than twelve hours at your
disposal."
"That is all nonsense, my friend !"
"Possibly, but I am responsible for it, and if you won't use
my cab, I've sworn to spend those twelve hours waiting out-
side your door. So now make up your mind." He gazed at
Lecoq beseechingly, and it was evident that a refusal would
wound him keenly.
"Very well," replied Le«oq, "I will take you for the morning,
only I ought to warn you that we are starting on a long
journey."
"Oh, Cocotte's legs may be relied upon."
"My companion and myself have business in your own neigh-
borhood. It is absolutely necessary for us to find the Widow
Chupin's daughter-in-law ; and I hope we shall be able to obtain
her address from the police commissary of the district where the
Poivriere is situated."
7 — Vol. i — Gab.
146 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"Very well, we will go wherever you wish; I am at your
orders."
A few moments later they were on their way.
Papillon's features wore an air of self-satisfied pride as, sit-
ting erect on his box, he cracked his whip, and encouraged the
nimble Cocotte. The vehicle could not have got over the
ground more rapidly if its driver had been promised a hundred
sous' gratuity.
Father Absinthe alone was sad. He had been forgiven by
Lecoq, but he could not forget that he, an old police agent, had
been duped as easily as if he had been some ignorant provincial.
The thought was humiliating, and then in addition he had been
fool enough to reveal the secret plans of the prosecution ! He
knew but too well that this act of folly had doubled the diffi-
culties of Lecoq's task.
The long drive in Father Papillon's cab was not a fruitless
one. The secretary of the commissary of police for the thir-
teenth arrondissement informed Lecoq that Polyte Chupin's wife
lived with her child, in the suburbs, in the Rue de la Butte-
aux-Cailles. He could not indicate the precise number, but
he described the house and gave them some information con-
cerning its occupants.
The Widow Chupin's daughter-in-law, a native of Auvergne,
had been bitterly punished for preferring a rakish Parisian
ragamuffin to one of the grimy charcoal-burners of the Puy de
Dome. She was hardly more than twelve years of age when
she first came to Paris and obtained employment in a large
factory. After ten years' privation and constant toil, she had
managed to amass, sou by sou, the sum of three thousand francs.
Then her evil genius threw Polyte Chupin across her path.
She fell in love with this dissipated, selfish rascal ; and he mar-
ried her for the sake of her little hoard.
As long as the money lasted, that is, for some three or four
months, matters went on pleasantly enough. But as soon as
the last franc had been spent, Polyte left his wife, and com-
placently resumed his former life of idleness, thieving, and de-
bauchery. When at times he returned home, it was merely with
the view of robbing his wife of what little money she might
have saved in the mean while ; and periodically she uncomplain-
ingly allowed him to despoil her of the last penny of her
earnings.
Horrible to relate, this unworthy rascal even tried to trade
MONSIEUR LECOQ 147
on her good looks. Here, however, he met with a strenuous
resistance — a resistance which excited not merely his own ire,
but also the hatred of the villain's mother — that old hag, the
Widow Chupin. The result was that Polyte's wife was subjected
to such incessant cruelty and persecution that one night she was
forced to fly with only the rags that covered her. The Chupins
— mother and son — believed, perhaps, that starvation would
effect what their horrible threats and insidious counsel had
failed to accomplish. Their shameful expectations were not,
however, gratified.
In mentioning these facts to Lecoq, the commissary's secre-
tary added that they had become widely known, and that the
unfortunate creature's force of character had won for her gen-
eral respect. Among those she frequented, moreover, she was
known by the nickname of "Toinon the Virtuous" — a rather
vulgar but, at all events, sincere tribute to her worth.
Grateful for this information, Lecoq returned to the cab.
The Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles, whither Papillon was now
directed to drive, proved to be very unlike the Boulevard
Malesherbes, and one brief glance sufficed to show that opu-
lence had not here fixed its abode. Luck seemed for the
moment to have turned in Lecoq's favor. At all events, when
he and Father Absinthe alighted at the corner of the street, it
so happened that the very first person the young detective ques-
tioned concerning the virtuous Toinon was well acquainted with
her whereabouts. The house in which she resided was pointed
out, and Lecoq was instructed to go upstairs to the top floor,
and knock at the door in front of him. With such precise
cHrections the two detectives speedily reached Madame Polyte
Chupin's abode.
This proved to be a cold and gloomy attic of medium size,
windowless, but provided with a small skylight. A straw pallet,
a broken table, two chairs, and a few plain kitchen utensils
constituted the sole appointments of this miserable garret. But
in spite of the occupant's evident poverty, everything was neat
and clean, and to use a forcible expression that fell from
Father Absinthe, one could have eaten off the floor.
The two detectives entered, and found a woman busily en-
gaged in making a heavy linen sack. She was seated in the
centre of the room, directly under the skylight, so that the sun's
rays might fall upon her work. At the sight of two strangers,
she half rose from her chair, surprised, and perhaps a little
148 MONSIEUR LECOQ
frightened ; but when Lecoq had explained that they desired a
few moments' conversation with her, she gave up her own seat,
and drawing the second chair from a corner, invited both detec-
tives to sit down. Lecoq complied, but Father Absinthe declared
that he preferred to remain standing.
With a single glance Lecoq took an inventory of the humble
abode, and, so to speak, appraised the woman. She was short,
stout, and of commonplace appearance. Her forehead was ex-
tremely low, being crowned by a forest of coarse, black hair;
while the expression of her large, black eyes, set very close
together, recalled the look of patient resignation one so often
detects in ill-treated and neglected animals. Possibly, in former
days, she might have possessed that fleeting attraction called
the bcautc du diablc; but now she looked almost as old as her
wretched mother-in-law. Sorrow and privation, excessive toil
and ill-treatment, had imparted to her face a livid hue, redden-
ing her eyes and stamping deep furrows round about her
temples. Still, there was an attribute of native honesty about
her which even the foul atmosphere in which she had been
compelled to live had not sufficed to taint.
Her little boy furnished a striking contrast. He was pale
and puny ; his eyes gleamed with a phosphorescent brilliancy ;
and his hair was of a faded flaxen tint. One little circum-
stance attracted both detectives' attention. If the mother was
attired in an old, thin, faded calico dress, the child was warmly
clad in stout woolen material.
"Madame, you have doubtless heard of a dreadful crime, com-
mitted in your mother-in-law's establishment," began Lecoq in
a soft voice.
"Alas! yes, sir," replied Toinon the Virtuous, quickly adding:
"But my husband could not have been implicated in it, since he
is in prison."
Did not this objection, forestalling, as it were, suspicion, be-
tray the most horrible apprehensions?
"Yes. I am aware of that," replied Lecoq. "Polyte was
arrested a fortnight ago — "
"Yes, and very unjustly, sir," replied the neglected wife. "He
was led astray by his companions, wicked, desperate men. He
i* so weak when he has taken a glass of wine that they can do
whatever they like with him. If he were only left to himself
he would not harm a child. You have only to look at him — "
As she spoke, the virtuous Toinon turned her red and swollen
MONSIEUR LECOQ 149
eyes to a miserable photograph hanging against the wall. This
blotchy smudge portrayed an exceedingly ugly, dissipated-look-
ing young man, afflicted with a terrible squint, and whose repul-
sive mouth was partially concealed by a faint mustache. This
rake of the barrieres was Polyte Chupin. And yet despite his
unprepossessing aspect there was no mistaking the fact that
this unfortunate woman loved him — had always loved him ;
besides, he was her husband.
A moment's silence followed her indication of the portrait —
an act which clearly revealed how deeply she worshiped her
persecutor ; and during this pause the attic door slowly and
softly opened. Not of itself, however, for suddenly a man's
head peered in. The intruder, whoever he was, instantly with-
drew, uttering as he did so a low exclamation. The door was
swiftly closed again ; the key — which had been left on the out-
side — grated in the lock, and the occupants of the garret could
hear hurried steps descending the stairs.
Lecoq was sitting with his back to the door, and could not,
therefore, see the intruder's face. Quickly as he had turned, he
had failed to see who it was: and yet he was far from being
surprised at the incident. Intuition explained its meaning.
"That must have been the accomplice !" he cried.
Thanks to his position, Father Absinthe had seen the man's
face. "Yes," said he, "yes, it was the same man who made
me drink with him yesterday."
With a bound, both detectives threw themselves against the
door, exhausting their strength in vain attempts to open it.
It resisted all their efforts, for it was of solid oak, having been
purchased by the landlord from some public building in process
of demolition, and it was, moreover, furnished with a strong
and massive fastening.
"Help us!" cried Father Absinthe to the woman, who stood
petrified with astonishment; "give us a bar, a piece of iron, a
nail — anything !"
The younger man was making frantic efforts to push back
the bolt, or to force the lock from the wood. He was wild
with rage. At last, having succeeded in forcing the door open,
they dashed out in pursuit of their mysterious adversary. On
reaching the street, they eagerly questioned the bystanders.
Having described the man as best they could, they found two
persons who had seen him enter the house of Toinon the Vir-
tuous, and a third who had seen him as he left. Some children
150 MONSIEUR LECOQ
who were playing in the middle of the street added that he had
run off in the direction of the Rue du Moulin-des-Pres as fast as
his legs could carry him. It was in this street, near the corner
of the Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles, that Lecoq had left old
Papillon waiting with the cab.
"Let us hasten there!" proposed Father Absinthe; "perhaps
Papillon can give us some information."
But Lecoq shook his head despondingly. He would go no
further. "It would be of no use," he said. "He had sufficient
presence of mind to turn the key in the lock, and that saved
him. He is at least ten minutes in advance of us, and we
should never overtake him."
Father Absinthe could not restrain his anger. He looked
upon this mysterious accomplice who had so cruelly duped him
as a personal enemy, and he would willingly have given a
month's pay to be able to lay his hand on his shoulder. Lecoq
was quite as angry as his subordinate, and his vanity was like-
wise wounded ; he felt, however, that coolness and deliberation
were necessary.
"Yes," said he thoughtfully, "he's a shrewd and daring fel-
low — a perfect demon. He doesn't remain idle. If we are
working, he's at work too. No matter what side I turn, I find
him on the defensive. He foiled you, papa, in your effort to
obtain a clue concerning Gustave's identity; and he made me
appear a fool in arranging that little comedy at the Hotel de
Mariembourg. His diligence has been wonderful. He has
hitherto been in advance of us everywhere, and this fact ex-
plains the failures that have attended all my efforts. Here we
arrive before him. But if he came here, it was because he
scented danger. Hence, we may hope. Now let us get back
and question Polyte's wife."
Alas ! poor Toinon the Virtuous did not understand the affair
at all. She had remained upstairs, holding her child by the
hand, and leaning over the baluster; her mind in great per-
plexity and her eyes and ears on the alert. As soon as she
perceived the two detectives coming up the stairs again, she
hastened down to meet them. "In the name of heaven, what
does this all mean?" she asked. "Whatever has happened?"
But Lecoq was not the man to tell his business on a landing,
with inquisitive ears all around him, and before he answered
Toinon he made her go up into her own garret, and securely
close the door.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 151
"We started in pursuit of a man who is implicated in the
murders at the Poivriere," he said ; "one who came here hoping
to find you alone, who was frightened at seeing us."
"A murderer !" faltered Toinon, with clasped hands. '"What
could he want of me?"
"Who knows? It is very probable that he is one of your
husband's friends."
"Oh! sir."
"Why, did you not tell me just now that Polyte had some very
undesirable acquaintances? But don't be alarmed; this does
not compromise him in the least. Besides, you can very easily
clear him of all suspicion."
"How? In what way? Oh, tell me at once."
"Merely by answering me frankly, and by assisting me to
find the guilty party. Now, among your husband's friends,
don't you know any who might be capable of such a deed?
Give me the names of his acquaintances."
The poor woman's hesitation was evident; undoubtedly she
had been present at many sinister cabals, and had been threat-
ened with terrible punishment if she dared to disclose the plans
formed by Polyte or his associates.
"You have nothing to fear," said Lecoq, encouragingly, "and
I promise you no one shall ever know that you have told me
a word. Very probably you can tell me nothing more than I
know already. I have heard a great deal about your former life,
and the brutality with which Polyte and his mother have
treated you."
"My husband has never treated me brutally," said the young
woman, indignantly; "besides, that matter would only concern
myself."
"And your mother-in-law?"
"She is, perhaps, a trifle quick-tempered; but in reality she
has a good heart."
"Then, if you were so happy at the Widow Chupin's house,
why did you fly from it?"
Toinon the Virtuous turned scarlet to the very roots of her
hair. "I left for other reasons," she replied. "There were
always a great many drunken men about the house ; and, some-
times, when I was alone, some of them tried to carry their
pleasantry too far. You may say that I have a solid fist of my
own, and that I am quite capable of protecting myself. That's
true. But while I was away one day some fellows were wicked
152 MONSIEUR LECOQ
enough to make this child drink to such an excess that when
I came home I found him as stiff and cold as if he were dead.
It was necessary to fetch a doctor or else — "
She suddenly paused ; her eyes dilated. From red she turned
livid, and in a hoarse, unnatural voice, she cried : "Toto !
wretched child I"
Lecoq looked behind him, and shuddered. He understood
everything. This child — Jiot yet five years old — had stolen up
behind him, and, ferreting in the pockets of his overcoat, had
rifled them of their contents.
"Ah, well — yes !" exclaimed the unfortunate mother, bursting
into tears. "That's how it was. Directly the child was out
of my sight, they used to take him into town. They took him
into the crowded streets, and taught him to pick people's pockets,
and bring them everything he could lay his hands on. If the
child was detected they were angry with him and beat him ;
and if he succeeded they gave him a sou to buy some sweets,
and kept what he had taken."
The luckless Toinon hid her face in her hands, and sobbed
in an almost unintelligible voice : "Ah, I did not wish my
little one to be a thief."
But what this poor creature did not tell was that the man
who had led the child out into the streets, to teach him to steal,
was his own father, and her husband — the ruffian, Polyte Chu-
pin. The two detectives plainly understood, however, that
such was the case, and the father's crime was so horrible, and
the woman's grief so great, that, familiar as they were with all
the phases of crime, their very hearts were touched. Lecoq's
main thought, however, was to shorten this painful scene. The
poor mother's emotion was a sufficient guarantee of her
sincerity.
"Listen." said he, with affected harshness. "Two questions
only, and then I will leave you. Was there a man named
Gustave among the frequenters of the Poivriere?"
"No, sir, I'm quite sure there wasn't."
"Very well. But Lacheneur — you must know Lacheneur!"
"Yes, sir; I know him."
The young police agent could not repress an exclamation of
delight. "At last," thought he, "I have a clue that may lead
me to the truth. What kind of man is he?" he asked with
intense anxiety.
"Oh ! he is not at all like the other men who come to drink
MONSIEUR LECOQ
153
at my mother-in-law's shop. I have only seen him once ; but
I remember him perfectly. It was on a Sunday. He was in
a cab. He stopped at the corner of the waste ground and
spoke to Polyte. When he went away, my husband said to
me: 'Do you see that old man there? he will make all our for-
tunes.' [ thought him a very respectable-locking gentleman — "
"That's enough," interrupted Lecoq. "Now it is necessary
for you to tell the investigating magistrate all you know about
him. I have a cab downstairs. Take your child with you, if
you like ; but make haste ; come, come quickly !"
MSEGMULLER was one of those magistrates whose pro-
• fession is their only love, and who devote to its duties all
the energy, intelligence, and sagacity they possess. As an inves-
tigator, he displayed, in his constant searches after truth, the
same tenacity and zeal that distinguishes a conscientious physi-
cian struggling against some unknown disease, the same enthu-
siasm that is shown by the artist, enamored of the beautiful, who
seeks to realize the ideal of art. Hence, it is easy to understand
how greatly this mysterious case attracted and interested him.
The magnitude of the crime, the peculiar circumstances attend-
ing it, the mystery that enshrouded the identity of both the
victims and the murderer, the strange attitude the latter had
assumed, everything combined to make a profound impression
on his mind. Even the romantic element was not lacking in this
strange case ; being represented by the two women who had
disappeared.
The extreme uncertainty of the result was another attraction
for M. Segmuller's investigating mind. Given the magnitude of
the difficulties that were to be overcome, he rightly considered
that if his efforts proved successful, he would have achieved a
really wonderful victory. And, assisted by such a man as Lecoq,
who had a positive genius for his calling, and in whom he recog-
nized a most valuable auxiliary, he really felt confident of
ultimate success.
154 MONSIEUR LECOQ
Even on returning home after the fatiguing labors of the
day he did not think of freeing himself from the burden of re-
sponsibility in relation to the business he had on hand, or of
driving away care until the morrow. He dined in haste, and as
soon as he had swallowed his coffee began to study the case with
renewed ardor. He had brought from his office a copy of the
prisoner's narrative, which he attentively perused, not once or
twice, but several times, seeking for some weak point that
might be attacked with a probability of success. He analyzed
every answer, and weighed one expression after another, striv-
ing, as he did so, to find some flaw through which he might slip
a question calculated to shatter the structure of defense. He
worked thus, far into the night, and yet he was on his legs
again at an early hour in the morning. By eight o'clock he was
not merely dressed and shaved, he had not merely taken his
matutinal chocolate and arranged his papers, but he was actually
on his way to the Palais de Justice. He had quite forgotten
that his own impatience was not shared by others.
In point of fact, the Palais de Justice was scarcely awake
when he arrived there. The doors had barely opened. The
attendants were busy sweeping and dusting; or changing
their ordinary garments for their official costumes. Some
of them standing in the windows of the long dressing room
were shaking and brushing the judges' and advocates' gowns ;
while in the great hall several clerks stood in a group, chaffing
each other while waiting for the arrival of the head registrar
and the opening of the investigation offices.
M. Segmuller thought that he had better begin by consulting
the public prosecutor, but he discovered that this functionary
had not yet arrived. Angry and impatient, he proceeded to his
own office; and with his eyes fixed on the clock, growled at the
slowness of the minute hand. Just after nine o'clock, Goguet,
the smiling clerk, put in an appearance and speedily learned the
kind of humor his master was in.
"Ah, you've come at last," gruffly ejaculated M. Segmuller,
momentarily oblivious of the fact that he himself scarcely
ever arrived before ten, and that a quarter-past nine was cer-
tainly early for his clerk.
Goguet's curiosity had indeed prompted him to hurry to
the Palais; still, although well aware' that he did not deserve
a reprimand, he endeavored to mumble an excuse — an excuse
cut short by M. Segmuller in such unusually harsh tones that
MONSIEUR LECOQ 155
for once in a way Goguet's habitual smile faded from his face.
"It's evident," thought he, "that the wind's blowing from a
bad quarter this morning," with which reflection he philosophi-
cally put on his black sleeves and going to his table pretended
to be absorbed in the task of mending his pens and preparing
his paper.
In the mean while, M. Segmuller who was usually calmness
personified, and dignity par excellence, paced restlessly to and
fro. At times he would sit down and then suddenly spring to
his feet again, gesticulating impatiently as he did so. Indeed,
he seemed unable to remain quiet for a moment.
"The prosecution is evidently making no headway," thought
the clerk. "May's prospects are encouraging." Owing to the
magistrate's harsh reception the idea delighted him ; and, indeed,
letting his rancor have the upper hand, Goguet actually
offered up a prayer that the prisoner might get the better of
the fight.
From half-past nine till ten o'clock M. Segmuller rang for
his messenger at least five times, and each time he asked him
the same questions : "Are you sure that M. Lecoq has not been
here this morning? Inquire! If he has not been here he must
certainly have sent some one, or else have written to me."
Each time the astonished doorkeeper replied: "No one has
been here, and there is no letter for you."
Five identical negative answers to the same inquiries only
increased the magistrate's wrath and impatience. "It is incon-
ceivable !'' he exclaimed. "Here I am upon coals of fire, and
that man dares to keep me waiting. Where can he be ?"
At last he ordered a messenger to go and see if he could
not find Lecoq somewhere in the neighborhood ; perhaps in
some restaurant or cafe. "At all events, he must be found
and brought back immediately," said he.
When the man had started, M. Segmuller began to recover
his composure. "We must not lose valuable time," he said to
his clerk. "I was to examine the widow Chupin's son. I had
better do so now. Go and tell them to bring him to me. Lecoq
left the order at the prison."
In less than a quarter of an hour Polyte entered the room.
From head to foot, from his lofty silk cap to his gaudy colored
carpet slippers, he was indeed the original of the portrait upon
which poor Toinon the Virtuous had lavished such loving
glances. And yet the photograph was flattering. The lens
i66 MONSIEUR LECOQ
had failed to convey the expression of low cunning that dis-
tinguished the man's features, the impudence of his leering
smile, and the mingled cowardice and ferocity of his eyes, which
never looked another person in the face. Nor could the portrait
depict the unwholesome, livid pallor of his skin, the restless
blinking of his eyelids, and the constant movement of his thin
lips as he drew them tightly over his short, sharp teeth. There
was no mistaking his nature; one glance and he was estimated
at his worth.
When he had answered the preliminary questions, telling the
magistrate that he was thirty years of age, and that he had
been born in Paris, he assumed a pretentious attitude and waited
to see what else was coming. -
But before proceeding with the real matter in hand. M.
Segmuller wished to relieve the complacent scoundrel of some
of his insulting assurance. Accordingly, he reminded Polyte,
in forcible terms, that his sentence in the affair in which he
was now implicated would depend very much upon his behavior
and answers during the present examination.
Polyte listened with a nonchalant and even ironical air. In
fact, this indirect threat scarcely touched him. Having pre-
viously made inquiries he had ascertained that he could not be
condemned to more than six months' imprisonment for the
offense for which he had been arrested ; and what did a month
more or less matter to him ?
The magistrate, who read this thought in Polyte's eyes, cut
his preamble short. "Justice," said he, "now requires some
information from you concerning the frequenters of your
mother's establishment."
"There are a great many of them, sir." answered Polyte in a
harsh voice.
"Do you know one of them named Gustave?"
"No, sir."
To insist would probably awaken suspicion in Polyte's mind;
accordingly, M. Segmuller continued : "You must, however,
remember Lacheneur ?"
"Lacheneur? No, this is the first time I've heard that name."
"Take care. The police have means of finding out a great
many things."
The scapegrace did not flinch. "I am telling the truth, sir,"
he retorted. "What interest could I possibly have in deceiving
you?"
MONSIEUR LECOQ 157
Scarcely had he finished speaking than the door suddenly
opened and Toinon the Virtuous entered the room, carrying her
child in her arms. On perceiving her husband, she uttered a
joyful exclamation, and sprang toward him. But Polyte,
stepping back, gave her such a threatening glance that she re-
mained rooted to the spot.
"It must be an enemy who pretends that I know any one
named Lacheneur !" cried the barriere bully. "I should like to
kill the person who uttered such a falsehood. Yes, kill him; I
will never forgive it."
The messenger whom M. Segmuller had instructed to go in
search of Lecoq was not at all displeased with the errand;
for it enabled him to leave his post and take a pleasant little
stroll through the neighborhood. He first of all proceeded to
the Prefecture of Police, going the longest way round as a
matter of course, but, on reaching his destination, he could
find no one who had seen the young detective.
Accordingly, M. Segmuller's envoy retraced his steps, and
leisurely sauntered through the restaurants, cafes, and wine
shops installed in the vicinity of the Palais de Justice, and
dependent on the customers it brought them. Being of a con-
scientious turn of mind, he entered each establishment in suc-
cession and meeting now and again various acquaintances, he
felt compelled to proffer and accept numerous glasses of the
favorite morning beverage — white wine. Turn which way he
would, however, loiter as long as he might, there were still no
signs of Lecoq. He was returning in haste, a trifle uneasy on
account of the length of his absence, when he perceived a cab
pull up in front of the Palais gateway. A second glance, and
oh, great good fortune, he saw Lecoq, Father Absinthe, and the
virtuous Toinon alight from this very vehicle. His peace of
mind at once returned : and it was in a very important and
somewhat husky tone that he delivered the order for Lecoq to
follow him without a minute's delay. "M. Segmuller has asked
for you a number of times," said he, "He has been extremely
impatient, and he is in a very bad humor, so you may expect
to have your head snapped off in the most expeditious manner."
Lecoq smiled as he went up the stairs. Was he not bringing
with him the most potent of justifications? He thought of the
agreeable surprise he had in store for the magistrate, and
fancied he could picture the sudden brightening of that func-
tionary's gloomy face.
158 MONSIEUR LECOQ
And yet, fate so willed it that the doorkeeper's message and
his urgent appeal that Lecoq should not loiter on the way, pro-
duced the most unfortunate results. Believing that M. Seg-
muller was anxiously waiting for him, Lecoq saw nothing
wrong in opening the door of the magistrate's room without
previously knocking; and being anxious to justify his absence,
he yielded, moreover, to the impulse that led him to push
forward the poor woman who?e testimony might prove so
decisive. When he saw, however, that the magistrate was not
alone, and when he recognized Polyte Chupin — the original of
the photograph — in the man M. Segmuller was examining, his
stupefaction became intense. He instantly perceived his mistake
and understood its consequences.
There was only one thing to be done: He must prevent any
exchange of words between the two. Accordingly, springing
toward Toinon and seizing her roughly by the arm, he ordered
her to leave the room at once. But the poor creature was quite
overcome, and trembled like a leaf. Her eyes were fixed upon
her unworthy husband, and the happiness she felt at seeing him
again shone plainly in her anxious gaze. Just for one second;
and then she caught his withering glance and heard his words
of menace. Terror-stricken, she staggered back, and then Lecoq
seized her around the waist, and, lifting her with his strong
arms, carried her out into the passage. The whole scene had
been so brief that M. Segmuller was still forming the order for
Toinon to be removed from the room, when he found the door
closed again, and himself and Goguet alone with Polyte.
"Ah. ah !" thought the smiling clerk, in a flutter of delight,
"this is something new." But as these little diversions never
made him forget his duties, he leaned toward the magistrate
and asked: "Shall I take down the last words the witness
uttered ?"
"Certainly," replied M. Segmuller, "and word for word, if
you please."
He paused ; the door opened again, this time to admit the
magistrate's messenger, who timidly, and with a rather guilty
air, handed his master a note, and then withdrew. This note,
scribbled in pencil by Lecoq on a leaf torn from his memoran-
dum book, gave the magistrate the name of the woman who
had just entered his room, and recapitulated briefly but clearly
the information obtained in the Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles.
"That young fellow thinks of everything!" murmured M.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 159
Segmuller. The meaning of the scene that had just occurred
was now explained to him. He understood everything.
He bitterly regretted this unfortunate meeting; at the same
time casting the blame on his own impatience and lack of
caution, which, as soon as the messenger had started in search
of Lecoq, had induced him to summon Polyte Chupin. Although
he could not conceal from himself the enormous influence this
seemingly trivial incident might have, still he would not allow
himself to be cast down, but prepared to resume his exami-
nation of Polyte Chupin in hopes of yet obtaining the infor-
mation he desired.
"Let us proceed," he said to Polyte, who had not moved since
his wife had been taken from the room, being to all appearances
sublimely indifferent to everything passing around him. To
the magistrate's proposal he carelessly nodded assent.
"Was that your wife who came in just now?" asked M.
Segmuller.
"Yes."
"She wished to embrace you, and you repulsed her."
"I didn't repulse her."
"You kept her at a distance at all events. If you had a
spark of affection in your nature, you would at least have
looked at your child, which she held out to you. Why did you
behave in that manner?"
"It wasn't the time for sentiment."
"You are not telling the truth. You simply desired to attract
her attention, to influence her evidence."
"I — I influence her evidence ! I don't understand you."
"But for that supposition, your words would have been
meaningless?"
"What words?"
The magistrate turned to his clerk : "Goguet," said he, "read
the last remark you took down."
In a monotonous voice, the smiling clerk repeated : "I should
like to kill the person who dared to say that I knew Lacheneur."
"Well, then!" insisted M. Segmuller, "what did you mean
by that?"
"It's very easy to understand, sir."
M. Segmuller rose. "Don't prevaricate any longer," he said.
"You certainly ordered your wife not to say anything about
Lacheneur. That's evident. Why did you do so? What are
you afraid of her telling us? Do you suppose the police are
160 MONSIEUR LECOQ
ignorant of your acquaintance with Lacheneur — of your con-
versation with him when he came in a cab to the corner of the
waste ground near your mother's wine-shop; and of the hopes
of fortune you based upon his promises? Be guided by me;
confess everything, while there is yet time ; and abandon the
present course which may lead you into serious danger. One
may be an accomplice in more ways than one."
As these words fell on Polyte's ears, it was evident his im-
pudence and indifference had received a severe shock. He seemed
confounded, and hung his head as if thoroughly abashed. Still,
he preserved an obstinate silence; and the magistrate finding
that this last thrust had failed to produce any effect, gave up
the fight in despair. He rang the bell, and ordered the guard
to conduct the witness back to prison, and to take every pre-
caution to prevent him seeing his wife again.
When Polyte had departed, Lecoq reentered the room. "Ah,
sir," said he, despondently, "to think that I didn't draw out
of this woman everything she knew, when I might have done
so easily. But I thought you would be waiting for me, and
made haste to bring her here. I thought I was acting for
the best—"
"Never mind, the misfortune can be repaired."
"No, sir, no. Since she has seen her husband, it is quite
impossible to get her to speak. She loves that rascal intensely,
and he has a wonderful influence over her. You heard what he
said. He threatened her with death if she breathed a word
about Lacheneur, and she is so terrified that there is no hope
of making her speak."
Lecoq's apprehension was based on fact, as M, Segmuller
himself perceived the instant Toinon the Virtuous again set
foot in his office. The poor creature seemed nearly heartbroken,
and it was evident she would have given her life to retract the
words that had escaped her when first questioned by Lecoq.
Polyte's threat had aroused the most sinister apprehensions in
her mind. Not understanding his connection with the affair,
she asked herself if her testimony might not prove his death-
warrant. Accordingly, she answered all M. Segmuller's
questions with "no" or "I don't know" ; and retracted everything
she had previously stated to Lecoq. She swore that she had
been misunderstood, that her words had been misconstrued ;
and vowed on her mother's memory, that she had never heard
the name of Lacheneur before. At last, she burst into wild,
MONSIEUR LECOQ 161
despairing sobs, and pressed her frightened child against her
breast.
What could be done to overcome this foolish obstinacy, as
blind and unreasoning as a brute's? M. Segmuller hesitated.
"You may retire, my good woman," said he kindly, after
a moment's pause, "but remember that your strange silence
injures your husband far more than anything you could
say."
She left the room — or rather she rushed wildly from it as
though only too eager to escape — and the magistrate and the
detective exchanged glances of dismay and consternation.
"I said so before," thought Goguet, "the prisoner knows what
he's about. I would be willing to bet a hundred to one in his
favor."
A French investigating magistrate is possessed of almost
unlimited powers. No one can hamper him, no one can give him
orders. The entire police force is at his disposal. One word
from him and twenty agents, or a hundred if need be, search
Paris, ransack France, or explore Europe. If there be any one
whom he believes able to throw light upon an obscure point,
he simply sends an order to that person to appear before him,
and the man must come even if he lives a hundred leagues
away.
Such is the magistrate, such are his powers. On the other
hand, the prisoner charged with a crime, but as yet un-
convicted, is confined, unless his offense be of a trivial descrip-
tion, in what is called a "secret cell." He is, so to say, cut off
from the number of the living. He knows nothing of what
may be going on in the world outside. He can not tell what
witnesses may have been called, or what they may have said,
and in his uncertainty he asks himself again and again how far
the prosecution has been able to establish the charges against
him.
Such is the prisoner's position, and yet despite the fact
that the two adversaries are so unequally armed, the man in the
secret cell not unfrequently wins the victory. If he is sure that
he has left behind him no proof of his having committed the
crime; if he has no guilty antecedents to be afraid of. he can —
impregnable in a defense of absolute denial — brave all the
attacks of justice.
Such was, at this moment, the situation of May, the myste-
rious murderer; as both M. Segmuller and Lecoq were forced
162 MONSIEUR LECOQ
to admit, with mingled grief and anger. They had hoped to
arrive at a solution of the problem by examining Polyte Chupin
and his wife, and they had been disappointed ; for the prisoner's
identity remained as problematical as ever.
"And yet," exclaimed the magistrate impatiently, "these people
know something about this matter, and if they would only
speak — "
"But they won't."
"What motive is it that keeps them silent? This is what we
must discover. Who will tell us the price that has been prom-
ised Polyte Chupin for his silence? What recompense can he
count upon? It must be a great one, for he is braving real
danger !"
Lecoq did not immediately reply to the magistrate's successive
queries, but it was easy to see from his knit brows that his
mind was hard at work. "You ask me, sir," he eventually re-
marked, "what reward has been promised Chupin? I ask on
my part who can have promised him this reward?"
"Who has promised it? Why. plainly the accomplice who
has beaten us on every point."
"Yes," rejoined Lecoq, "I suppose it must have been he.
It certainly looks like his handiwork — now, what artifice can
he have used ? We know how he managed to have an interview
with the Widow Chupin, but how has he succeeded in getting
at Polyte, who is in prison, closely watched?"
The young detective's insinuation, vague as it was, did not
escape M. Segmuller. "What do you mean?" asked the latter,
with an air of mingled surprise and indignation. "You can't
suppose that one of the keepers has been bribed?"
Lecoq shook his head, in a somewhat equivocal manner. "I
mean nothing," he replied, "I don't suspect any one. All I
want is information. Has Chupin been forewarned or not?"
"Yes, of course he has."
"Then if that point is admitted it can only be explained in
two ways. Either there are informers in the prison, or else
Chupin has been allowed to see some visitor."
These suppositions evidently worried M. Segmuller, who
for a moment seemed to hesitate between the two opinions;
then, suddenly making up his mind, he rose from his chair,
took up his hat, and said: "This matter must be cleared up.
Come with me, Monsieur Lecoq."
A couple of minutes later, the magistrate and the detective
MONSIEUR LECOQ 163
had reached the Depot, which is connected with the Palais de
Justice by a narrow passage, especially reserved for official use.
The prisoners' morning rations had just been served to them,
and the governor was walking up and down the courtyard, in
the company of Inspector Gevrol. As soon as he perceived M.
Segmuller he hastened toward him and asked if he had not
come about the prisoner May.
As the magistrate nodded assent, the governor at once added :
"Well I was only just now telling Inspector Gevrol that I was
very well satisfied with May's behavior. It has not only been
quite unnecessary to place him in the strait-waistcoat again,
but his mood seems to have changed entirely. He eats with a
good appetite ; he is as gay as a lark, and he constantly laughs
and jests with his keeper."
Gevrol had pricked up his ears when he heard himself named
by the governor, and considering this mention to be a sufficient
introduction, he thought there would be no impropriety in his
listening to the conversation. Accordingly, he approached the
others, and noted with some satisfaction the troubled glances
which Lecoq and the magistrate exchanged.
M. Segmuller was plainly perplexed. May's gay manner to
which the governor of the Depot alluded might perhaps have
been assumed for the purpose of sustaining his character as a
jester and buffoon, it might be due to a certainty of defeating
the judicial inquiry, or, who knows? the prisoner had perhaps
received some favorable news from outside.
With Lecoq's last words still ringing in his ears, it is no
wonder that the magistrate should have dwelt on this last sup-
position. "Are you quite sure," he asked, "that no com-
munication from outside can reach the inmates of the secret
cells ?"
The governor of the Depot was cut to the quick by M.
Segmuller's implied doubt. What ! were his subordinates sus-
pected? Was his own professional honesty impugned? He
could not help lifting his hands to heaven in mute protest
against such an unjust charge.
"Am I sure?" he exclaimed. "Then you can never have
visited the secret cells. You have no idea, then, of their situa-
tion; you are unacquainted with the triple bolts that secure
the doors ; the grating that shuts out the sunlight, to say nothing
of the guard who walks beneath the windows day and night.
Why, a bird couldn't even reach the prisoners in those cells."
164 MONSIEUR LECOQ
Such a description was bound to reassure the most skeptical
mind, and M. Segmuller breathed again: "Now that I am easy
on that score," said he, "I should like some information about
another prisoner — a fellow named Chupin, who isn't in the
secret cells. I want to know if any visitor came for him
yesterday."
"I must speak to the registrar," replied the governor, "before
I can answer you with certainty. Wait a moment though, here
comes a man who can perhaps tell us. He is usually on guard
at the entrance. Here, Ferraud, this way !"
The man to whom the governor called hastened to obey
the summons.
"Do you know whether any one asked to see the prisoner
Chupin yesterday?"
"Yes, sir, I went to fetch Chupin to the parlor myself."
"And who was his visitor?" eagerly asked Lecoq, "wasn't
he a tall man ; very red in the face — "
"Excuse me, sir, the visitor was a lady — his aunt, at least so
Chupin told me."
Neither M. Segmuller nor Lecoq could restrain an excla-
mation of surprise. "What was she like?" they both asked at
the same time.
"She was short," replied the attendant, "with a very fair
complexion and light hair; she seemed to be a very respectable
woman."
"It must have been one of the female fugitives who escaped
from the Widow Chupin's hovel," exclaimed Lecoq.
Gevrol, hitherto an attentive listener, burst into a loud laugh.
"Still that Russian princess," said he.
Neither the magistrate nor the young detective relished this
unseasonable jest. "You forget yourself, sir," said M. Seg-
muller severely. "You forget that the sneers you address to
your comrade also apply to me !"
The General saw that he had gone too far; and while glanc-
ing hatefully at Lecoq, he mumbled an apology to the magistrate.
The latter did not apparently hear him, for, bowing to the
governor, he motioned Lecoq to follow him away.
"Run to the Prefecture of Police," he said as soon as they
were out of hearing, "and ascertain how and under what pre-
text this woman obtained permission to see Polyte Chupin."
MONSIEUR LECOQ
165
/"VN his way back to his office, M. Segmuller mentally reviewed
^-^ the position of affairs; and came to the conclusion that
as he had failed to take the citadel of defense by storm, he
must resign himself to a regular protracted siege. He was
exceedingly annoyed at the constant failures that had attended
all Lecoq's efforts; for time was on the wing, and he knew
that in a criminal investigation delay only increased the un-
certainty of success. The more promptly a crime is followed
by judicial action the easier it is to find the culprit, and prove
his guilt. The longer investigation is delayed the more difficult
it becomes to adduce conclusive evidence.
In the present instance there were various matters that M.
Segmuller might at once attend to. With which should he
begin? Ought he not to confront May, the Widow Chupin,
and Polyte with the bodies of their victims? Such horrible
meetings have at times the most momentous results, and more
than one murderer when unsuspectedly brought into the pres-
ence of his victim's lifeless corpse has changed color and lost
his assurance.
Then there were other witnesses whom M. Segmuller might
examine. Papillon, the cab-driver ; the concierge of the house
in the Rue de Bourgogne — where the two women flying from
the Poivriere had momentarily taken refuge ; as well as a cer-
tain Madame Milner, landlady of the Hotel de Mariembourg.
In addition, it would also be advisable to summon, with the
least possible delay, some of the people residing in the vicinity
of the Poivriere; together with some of Polyte's habitual com-
panions, and the landlord of the Rainbow, where the victims
and the murderer had apparently passed the evening of the
crime. Of course, there was no reason to expect any great
revelations from any of these witnesses, still they might know
something, they might have an opinion to express, and in the
present darkness one single ray of light, however faint, might
mean salvation.
166 MONSIEUR LECOQ
Obeying the magistrate's orders, Goguet, the smiling clerk,
had just finished drawing up at least a dozen summonses, when
Lecoq returned from the Prefecture. M. Segmuller at once
asked him the result of his errand.
"Ah, sir," replied the young detective, "I have a fresh proof
of that mysterious accomplice's skill. The permit that was
used yesterday to see young Chupin was in the name of his
mother's sister, a woman named Rose Pitard. A visiting card
was given her more than a week ago, in compliance with a
request indorsed by the commissary of police of her district."
The magistrate's surprise was so intense that it imparted to
his face an almost ludicrous expression. "Is this aunt also in
the plot?" he murmured.
"I don't think so," replied Lecoq, shaking his head. "At all
events, it wasn't she who went to the prison parlor yesterday.
The clerks at the Prefecture remember the widow's sister very
well, and gave me a full description of her. She's a woman
over five feet high, with a very dark complexion ; and very
wrinkled and weatherbeaten about the face. She's quite sixty
years old ; whereas, yesterday's visitor was short and fair, and
not more than forty-five."
"If that's the case," interrupted M. Segmuller, "this visitor
must be one of our fugitives."
"I don't think so."
"Who do you suppose she was, then?"
"Why, the landlady of the Hotel de Mariembourg — that
clever woman who succeeded so well in deceiving me. But
she had better take care ! There are means of verifying my
suspicions."
The magistrate scarcely heard Lecoq's last words, so enraged
was he at the inconceivable audacity and devotion displayed
by so many people: all of whom were apparently willing to
run the greatest risks so long as they could only assure the
murderer's incognito.
"But how could the accomplice have known of the existence
of this permit?" he asked after a pause.
"Oh, nothing could be easier, sir," replied Lecoq. "When
the Widow Chupin and the accomplice had that interview at
the station-house near the Barriere d'ltalie, they both realized
the necessity of warning Polyte. While trying to devise some
means of getting to him, the old woman remembered her sister's
visiting card, and the man made some excuse to borrow it."
MONSIEUR LECOQ 167
"Yes, such must be the case," said M. Segmuller, approv-
ingly. "It will be necessary to ascertain, however — "
"And I will ascertain,'' interrupted Lecoq, with a resolute
air, "if you will only intrust the matter to me, sir. If you
will authorize me I will have two spies on the watch before
to-night, one in the Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles, and the
other at the door of the Hotel de Mariembourg. If the accom-
plice ventured to visit Toinon or Madame Milner he would be
arrested ; and then we should have our turn !"
However, there was no time to waste in vain words and idle
boasting. Lecoq therefore checked himself, and took up his
hat preparatory to departure. "Now," said he, "I must ask
you, sir, for my liberty; if you have any orders, you will find
a trusty messenger in the corridor. Father Absinthe, one of
mj colleagues. I want to find out something about Lache-
neur's letter and the diamond earring."
"Go, then," replied M. Segmuller. "and good luck to you!*'
Good luck ! Yes, indeed. Lecoq looked for it. If up to the
present moment he had taken his successive defeats good-
humoredly, it was because he believed that he had a talisman
in his pocket which was bound to insure ultimate victory.
"I shall be very stupid if I can't discover the owner of such
a valuable jewel," he soliloquized, referring to the diamond
earring. "And when I find the owner I shall at the same time
discover our mysterious prisoner's identity."
The first step to be taken was to ascertain whom the earring
had been bought from. It would naturally be a tedious proc-
ess to go from jeweler to jeweler and ask: "Do you know this
jewel, was it set by you, and if so whom did you sell it to?"
But fortunately Lecoq was acquainted with a man whose knowl-
edge of the trade might at once throw light on the matter.
This individual was an old Hollander, named Van Numen,
who, as a connoisseur in precious stones, was probably with-
out his rival in Paris. He was employed by the Prefecture of
Police as an expert in all such matters. He was considered
rich. Despite his shabby appearance, he was rightly considered
rich, and, in point of fact, he was indeed far more wealthy
than people generally supposed. Diamonds were his especial
passion, and he always had several in his pocket, in a little
box which he would pull out and open at least a dozen times
an hour, just as a snuff -taker continually produces his snuff-
box.
168 MONSIEUR LECOQ
This worthy man greeted Lecoq very affably. He put on his
glasses, examined the jewel with a grimace of satisfaction, and,
in the tone of an oracle, remarked: "That stone is worth eight
thousand francs, and it was set by Doisty, in the Rue de la
Paix."
Twenty minutes later Lecoq entered this well-known jeweler's
establishment. Van Numen had not been mistaken. Doisty
immediately recognized the earring, which had, indeed, come
from his shop. But whom had he sold it to? He could not
recollect, for it had passed out of his hands three or four years
before.
"Wait a moment though," said he, "I will just ask my wife,
who has a wonderful memory."
Madame Doisty truly deserved this eulogium. A single glance
at the jewel enabled her to say that she had seen this earrmg
before, and that the pair had been purchased from them by the
Marchioness d'Arlange.
"You must recollect," she added, turning to her husband,
"that the Marchioness only gave us nine thousand francs on
account, and that we had all the trouble in the world to make
her pay the balance."
Her husband did remember this circumstance; and in record-
ing his recollection, he exchanged a significant glance with his
wife.
"Now," said the detective, "I should like to have this
marchioness's address."
"She lives in the Faubourg St. Germain," replied Madame
Doisty, "near the Esplanade des Invalides."
Lecoq had refrained from any sign of satisfaction while he
was in the jeweler's presence. But directly he had left the
shop he evinced such delirious joy that the passers-by asked
themselves in amazement if he were not mad. He did not
walk, but fairly danced over the stones, gesticulating in the
most ridiculous fashion as he addressed this triumphant mono-
logue to the empty air: "At last," said he, "this affair emerges
from the mystery that h^= enshrou.ied it. At /ast I reach the
veritable actors in the drama, the txaited personages whose
existence I had suspected. Ah ! Gevrol, my illustrious Gen-
eral ! you talked about a Russian princess, but you will be
obliged to content yourself with a simple marchioness."
But the vertigo that had seized the young detective gradually
disappeared. His good sense reasserted itself, and, looking
MONSIEUR LECOQ 169
calmly at the situation, he felt that he should need all his
presence of mind, penetration, and sagacity to bring the expe-
dition to a successful finish. What course should he pursue,
on entering the marchioness's presence, in order to draw from
her a full confession and to obtain full particulars of the mur-
der, as well as the murderer's name !
"It will be best to threaten her, to frighten her into con-
fession," he soliloquized. "If I give her time for reflection,
I shall learn nothing."
He paused in his cogitations, for he had reached the resi-
dence of the Marchioness d'Arlange — a charming mansion with
a courtyard in front and garden in the rear. Before entering,
he deemed it advisable to obtain some information concerning
the inmates.
"It is here, then," he murmured, "that I am to find the solu-
tion of the enigma ! Here, behind these embroidered curtains,
dwells the frightened fugitive of the other night. What agony
of fear must torture her since she has discovered the loss of
her earring !"
For more than an hour, standing under a neighbor's porte
cochere, Lecoq remained watching the house. He would have
liked to see the face of any one ; but the time passed by and
not even a shadow could be detected behind the curtain; not
even a servant passed across the courtyard. At last, losing
patience, the young detective determined to make inquiries in
the neighborhood, for he could not take a decisive step without
obtaining some knowledge of the people he was to encounter.
While wondering where he could obtain the information he
required, he perceived, on the opposite side of the street, the
keeper of a wine-shop smoking on his doorstep.
At once approaching and pretending that he had forgotten
an address, Lecoq politely asked for the house where March-
ioness d'Arlange resided. Without a word, and Avithout con-
descending to take his pipe from his mouth, the man pointed
to the mansion which Lecoq had previously watched.
There was a way, however, to make him more communica-
tive, namely, to enter the^shop, call for something to drink, and
invite the landlord to drink as well. This was what Lecoq did,
and the sight of two well-filled glasses unbound, as by enchant-
ment, the man's hitherto silent tongue. The young detective
could not have found a better person to question, for this
same individual had been established in the neighborhood for
8 — Vol. I — Gab.
170 MONSIEUR LECOQ
ten years, and enjoyed among the servants of the aristocratic
families here residing a certain amount of confidence.
"I pity you if you are going to the marchioness's house to
collect a bill," he remarked to Lecoq. "You will have plenty
of time to learn the way here before you see your money. You
will only be another of the many creditors who never let her
bell alone."
"The deuce! Is she as poor as that?"
"Poor ! Why, every one knows that she has a comfortable
income, without counting this house. But when one spends
double one's income every year, you know — "
The landlord stopped short, to call Lecoq's attention to two
ladies who were passing along the street, one of them, a woman
of forty, dressed in black ; the other, a girl half-way through
her teens. "There," quoth the wine-seller, "goes the march-
ioness's granddaughter, Mademoiselle Claire, with her gover-
ness, Mademoiselle Smith."
Lecoq's head whirled. "Her granddaughter !" he stammered.
"Yes — the daughter of her deceased son, if you prefer it."
"How old is the marchioness, then?"
"At least sixty : but one would never suspect it. She is one
of those persons who live a hundred years. And what an old
wretch she is too. She would think no more of knocking me
over the head than I would of emptying this glass of wine — "
"Excuse me," interrupted Lecoq, "but does she live alone
in that great house?"
"Yes — that is — with her granddaughter, the governess, and
two servants. But what is the matter with you?"
This last question was not uncalled for ; for Lecoq had turned
deadly white. The magic edifice of his hopes had crumbled
beneath the weight of this man's words as completely as if it
were some frail house of cards erected by a child. He had only
sufficient strength to murmur : "Nothing — nothing at all."
Then, as he could endure this torture of uncertainty no
longer, he went toward the marchioness's house and rang the
bell. The servant who came to open the door examined him
attentively, and then announced that 'Madame d'Arlange was
in the country. He evidently fancied that Lecoq was a
creditor.
But the young detective insisted so adroitly, giving the lackey
to understand so explicitly that he did not come to collect
money, and speaking so earnestly of urgent business, that the
MONSIEUR LECOQ 171
servant finally admitted him to the hall, saying that he would
go and see if madame had really gone out.
Fortunately for Lecoq, she happened to be at home, and an
instant afterward the valet returned requesting the young de-
tective to follow him. After passing through a large and
magnificently furnished drawing-room, they reached a charming
boudoir, hung with rose-colored curtains, where, sitting by the
fireside, in a large easy-chair, Lecoq found an old woman, tall,
bony, and terrible of aspect, her face loaded with paint, and
her person covered with ornaments. Th aged coquette was
Madame, the Marchioness, who, for the time being, was engaged
in knitting a stripe of green wool. She turned toward her
visitor just enough to show him the rouge on one cheek, and
then, as he seemed rathe/ frightened — .. fact flattering to her
vanity — she spoke in an affable tone. "Ah, well ! young man,"
said she, "what brings you here?"
In point of fact, Lecoq was not frightened, but he was in-
tensely disappointed to find that Madame d'Arlange could not
possibly be one of the women who hau escaped fr^m the Widow
Chupin's hovel on the night of the murder. There was nothing
about her appearance that corresponded iu the least degree with
the descriptions given by Papillon.
Remembering the small footprints left in the snow by the
two fugitives, the young detective glanced, moreover, at the
marchioness's feet, just perceivabk beneati. her skirt, and his
disappointment reached its climax when he found that they
were truly colossal in size.
"Well, are you dumb?" inquired the old lady, raising her
voice.
Without making a direct reply, Lecoq produced the precious
earring, and, placing it upon the table beside the marchioness,
remarked: "I bring you this jewel, madame, which I have
found, and which, I am told, belongs to you."
Madame de'Arlange laid down her knitting and proceeded
to examine the earring. "It is true," she said, after a moment,
"that this ornament formerly belonged to me. It was a fancy
I had, about four years ago, and it cost me dear — at least
twenty thousand francs. Ah! Doisty, the man who sold me
those diamonds, must make a handsome income. But I had a
granddaughter to educate ! and pressing need of money com-
pelled me to sell them."
"To whom?" asked Lecoq, eagerly.
172 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"Eh?" exclaimed the old lady, evidently shocked at his
audacity, "you are very inquisitive upon my word !"
"Excuse me. madame, but I am anxious to find the owner
of this valuable ornament."
Madame d'Arlange regarded her visitor with an air of min-
gled curiosity and surprise. "Such honesty !" said she. "Oh,
oh ! And of course you don't hope for a sou by way of
reward — "
"Madame !"
"Good, good ! There is not the least need for you to turn
as red as a poppy, young man. I sold these diamonds to a
great Austrian lady — the Baroness de Watchau."
"And where does this lady reside? - '
"At the Pere la Chaise, probably, since she died about a
year ago. Ah ! these women of the present day — an extra waltz,
or the merest draft, and it's all over with them ! In my time,
after each gallop, we girls used to swallow a tumbler of sweet-
ened wine, and sit down between two open doors. And we did
very well, as you see."
"But, madame," insisted Lecoq, "the Baroness de Watchau
must have left some one behind her — a husband, or children — "
"No one but a brother, who holds a court position at Vienna :
and who could not leave even to attend the funeral. He sent
orders that all his sister's personal property should be sold —
not even excepting her wardrobe — and the money sent to him."
Lecoq could not repress an exclamation of disappointment.
"How unfortunate !" he murmured.
"Why?" asked the old lady. "Under these circumstances, the
diamond will probably remain in your hands, and I am rejoiced
that it should be so. It will be a fitting reward for your
honesty."
Madame d'Arlange was naturally not aware that her remark
implied the most exquisite torture for Lecoq. Ah ! if it should
be as she said, if he should never find the lady who had lost
this costly jewel ! Smarting under the marchioness's unintended
irony, he would have liked to apostrophize her in angry terms ;
but it could not be, for it was advisable if not absolutely neces-
sary that he should conceal his true identity. Accordingly, he
contrived to smile, and even stammered an acknowledgment
of Madame d'Arlange's good wishes. Then, as if he had no
more to expect, he made her a low bow and withdrew.
This new misfortune well-nigh overwhelmed him. One by
MONSIEUR LECOQ 173
one all the threads upon which he had relied to guide him out
of this intricate labyrinth were breaking in his hands. In the
present instance he could scarcely be the dupe of some fresh
comedy, for if the murderer's accomplice had taken Doisty. the
jeweler, into his confidence he would have instructed him to
say that the earring had never come from his establishment,
and that he could not consequently tell whom it had been sold to.
On the contrary, however, Doisty and his wife had readily given
Madame d'Arlange's name, and all the circumstances pointed in
favor of their sincerity. Then, again, there was good reason
to believe in the veracity of the marchioness's assertions. They
were .sufficiently authenticated by a significant glance which
Lecoq had detected between the jeweler and his wife. The
meaning of this glance could not Lj doubted. It implied plainly
that both husband and wife were of opinion that in buying
these earrings the marchioness engaged in one of those little
speculations which are more common than many people might
suppose among ladies moving in high-class society. Being in
urgent want of ready money, she had bought on credit at a high
price to sell for cash at a loss.
As Lecoq was anxious to investigate the matter as far as
possible, he returned to Doisty'^ establishment, and, by a plaus-
ible pretext, succeeded in gaining a sight of the books in which
the jeweler recorded his transactions. He soon found the sale
of the earrings duly recorded — specified by Madame Doisty at
the date — both in the day-book and the ledger. Madame d'Ar-
lange first paid 9,000 francs on account and the balance of
the purchase money (an equivalent sum) haa been received
in instalments at long intervals subsequently. Now, if it had
been easy for Madame Milner tc make a false entry in her
traveler's registry at the Hotel de Mariembourg, it was absurd
to suppose that the jeweler had falsified all his accounts for
four years. Hence, the facts were indisputable; and yet, the
young detective was not satisfied.
He hurried to the Faubourg Saint Honore, to the house for-
merly occupied by the Baroness de Watchau, and there found
a good-natured concierge, who at once informed him that after
the Baroness's death her furniture and personal effects had
been taken to the great auction mart in the Rue Drouot ; the
sale being conducted by M. Petit, the eminent auctioneer.
Without losing a minute, Lecoq hastened to this individual's
office. M. Petit remembered the Watchau sale very well; it
174 MONSIEUR LECOQ
had made quite a sensation at the time, and on searching
among his papers he soon found a long catalogue of the various
articles sold. Several lots of jewelry were mentioned, with
the sums paid, and the names of the purchasers ; but there was
not the slightest allusion to these particular earrings. When
Lecoq produced the diamond he had in his pocket, the auctioneer
could not remember that he had ever seen it; though of course
this was no evidence to the contrary, for, as he himself re-
marked, — so many articles passed through his hands ! However,
this much he could declare upon oath ; the baroness's brother,
her only heir, had preserved nothing — not so much as a pin's
worth of his sister's effects: although he had been in a great
hurry to receive the proceeds, which amounted to the pleasant
sum of one hundred and sixty-seven thousand five hundred and
thirty francs, all expenses deducted.
"Everything this lady possessed was sold?" inquired Lecoq.
"Everything."
"And what is the name of this brother of hers?"
"Watchau, also. The baroness had probably married one of
her relatives. Until last year her brother occupied a very promi-
nent diplomatic position. I think he now resides at Berlin."
Certainly this information would not seem to indicate that
the auctioneer had been tampered with; and yet Lecoq was
not satisfied. "It is very strange," he thought, as he walked
toward his lodgings, "that whichever side I turn, in this affair,
I find mention of Germany. The murderer comes from Leipsic,
Madame Milner must be a Bavarian, and now here is an Aus-
trian baroness."
It was too late to make any further inquiries that evening,
and Lecoq went to bed; but the next morning, at an early
hour, he resumed his investigations with fresh ardor. There
now seemed only one remaining clue to success: the letter
signed "Lacheneur," which had been found in the pocket of
the murdered soldier. This letter, judging from the half-
effaced heading at the top of the note-paper, must have been
written in some cafe on the Boulevard Beaumarchais. To dis-
cover which precise cafe would be mere child's play; and
indeed the fourth landlord to whom Lecoq exhibited the letter
recognized the paper as his. But neither he, nor his wife, nor
the young lady at the counter, nor the waiters, nor any of the
customers present at the time, had ever once heard mention
made of this singular name — Lacheneur.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 175
And now what was Lecoq to do? Was the case utterly
hopeless? Not yet. Had not the spurious soldier declared
that this Lacheneur was an old comedian? Seizing upon this
frail clue, as a drowning man clutches at the merest fragment
of the floating wreck, Lecoq turned his steps in another direc-
tion, and hurried from theatre to theatre, asking every one,
from doorkeeper to manager: "Don't you know an actor named
Lacheneur ?"
Alas ! one and all gave a negative reply, at times indulging
in some rough joke at the oddity of the name. And when any
one asked the young detective what the man he was seeking
was like, what could he reply? His answer was necessarily
limited to the virtuous Toinon's phrase : "I thought him a very
respectable-looking gentleman." This was not a very graphic
description, however, and, besides, it was rather doubtful what
a woman like Polyte Chupin's wife might mean by the word
"respectable." Did she apply it to the man's age, to his per-
sonal aspect, or to his apparent fortune.
Sometimes those whom Lecoq questioned would ask what
parts this comedian of his was in the habit of playing; and
then the young detective could make no reply whatever. He
kept for himself the harassing thought that the role now being
performed by the unknown Lacheneur was driving him — Lecoq
— wild with despair.
Eventually our hero had recourse to a method of investiga-
tion which, strange to say, the police seldom employ, save in
extreme cases, although it is at once sensible and simple, and
generally fraught with success. It consists in examining all
the hotel and lodging-house registers, in which the landlords
are compelled to record the names of their tenants, even should
the latter merely sojourn under their roofs for a single night.
Rising long before daybreak and going to bed late at night,
Lecoq spent all his time in visiting the countless hotels and
furnished lodgings in Paris. But still and ever his search was
vain. He never once came across the name of Lacheneur ; and
at last he began to ask himself if such a name really existed,
or if it were not some pseudonym invented for convenience.
He had not found it even in Didot's directory, the so-called
"Almanach Boitin," where one finds all the most singular and
absurd names in France — those which are formed of the most
fantastic mingling of syllables.
Still, nothing could daunt him or turn him from the almost
176
MONSIEUR LECOQ
impossible task he had undertaken, and his obstinate perse-
verance well-nigh developed into monomania. He was no
longer subject to occasional outbursts of anger, quickly re-
pressed ; but lived in a state of constant exasperation, which
soon impaired the clearness of his mind. No more theories,
or ingenious deductions, no more subtle reasoning. He pur-
sued his search without method and without order — much as
Father Absinthe might have done when under the influence
of alcohol. Perhaps he had come to rely less upon his own
shrewdness than upon chance to reveal to him the substance of
the mystery, of which he had as yet only detected the shadow.
'fXT'HEN a heavy stone is thrown into a lake a considerable
* v commotion ensues, the water spouts and seethes and bub-
bles and frequently a tall jet leaps into the air. But all this
agitation only lasts for a moment; the bubbling subsides as the
circles of the passing whirlpool grow larger and larger; the
surface regains at last its customary smoothness ; and soon no
trace remains of the passage of the stone, now buried in the
depths below.
So it is with the events of our daily life, however momentous
they may appear at the hour of their occurrence. It seems as
if their impressions would last for years ; but no, they speedily
sink into the depths of the past, and time obliterates their pas-
sage — just as the water of the lake closes over and hides the
stone, for an instant the cause of such commotion. Thus it was
that at the end of a fortnight the frightful crime committed in
the Widow Chupin's drinking-den, the triple murder which had
made all Paris shudder, which had furnished the material for
so many newspaper articles, and the topic for such indignant
comments, was completely forgotten. Indeed, had the tragedy
at the Poivriere occurred in the times of Charlemagne, it
could not have passed more thoroughly out of people's minds.
It was remembered only in three places, at the Depot, at the
Prefecture de Police, and at the Palais de Justice.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 177
M. Segmuller's repeated efforts had proved as unsuccessful
as Lecoq's. Skilful questioning, ingenious insinuations, forcible
threats, and seductive promises had proved powerless to over-
come the dogged spirit of absolute denial which persistently
animated, not merely the prisoner May, but also the Widow
Chupin, her son Polyte, Toinon the Viituous, and Madame
Milner. The evidence of these various witnesses showed plainly
enough that they were all in league with the mysterious accom-
plice ; but what did this knowledge avail ? Their attitude never
varied ! And, even if at times their looks gave the lie to their
denials, one could always read in their eyes an unshaken
determination to conceal the truth.
There were moments when the magistrate, overpowered by
a sense of the insufficiency of the purely moral weapons at his
disposal, almost regretted that the Inquisition was suppressed.
Yes, in presence of the lies that were told him, lies so impu-
dent that they were almost insults, he no longer wondered at
the judicial cruelties of the Middle Ages, or at the use of the
muscle-breaking rack, the flesh-burning, red-hot pincers, and
other horrible instruments, which, by the physical torture they
inflicted, forced the most obstinate culprit to confess. The
prisoner May's manner was virtually unaltered ; and far from
showing any signs of weakness, his assurance had, if anything,
increased, as though he were confident of ultimate victory and
as though he had in some way learned that the prosecution
had failed to make the slightest progress.
On one occasion, when summoned before M. Segmuller, he
ventured to remark in a tone of covert irony : "Why do you
keep me confined so long in a secret cell ? Am I never to be
set at liberty or sent to the assizes. Am I to suffer much
longer on account of your fantastic idea that I am some great
personage in disguise?"
"I shall keep you until you have confessed," was M. Seg-
muller's answer.
"Confessed what?"
"Oh ! you know very well."
The prisoner shrugged his shoulders at these last words, and
then in a tone of mingled despondency and mockery retorted :
"In that case there is no hope of my ever leaving this cursed
prison !"
It was probably this conviction that induced him to make
all seeming preparations for an indefinite stay. He applied
178 MONSIEUR LECOQ
for and obtained a portion of the contents of the trunk found
at the Hotel de Mariembourg, and evinced great joy when the
various knickknacks and articles of clothing were handed over
to him. Thanks to the money found upon his person when
arrested, and deposited with the prison registrar, he was,
moreover, able to procure many little luxuries, which are
never denied to unconvicted prisoners, no matter what
may be the charges against them, for they have a right
to be considered as innocent until a jury has decided to the
contrary. To while away the time, May next asked for a
volume of Beranger's songs, and his request being granted,
he spent most of the day in learning several of the ditties by
heart, singing them in a loud voice and with considerable
taste. This fancy having excited some comment, he pretended
that he was cultivating a talent which might be useful to him
when he was set at liberty. For he had no doubt of his
acquittal; at least, so he declared; and if he were anxious
about the date of his trial, he did not show the slightest appre-
hension concerning its result.
He was never despondent save when he spoke of his pro-
fession. To all appearance he pined for the stage, and, in
fact, he almost wept when he recalled the fantastic, many-
colored costumes, clad in which he had once appeared before
crowded audiences — audiences that had been convulsed with
laughter by his sallies of wit, delivered between bursts of
noisy music. He seemed to have become altogether a better
fellow ; more frank, communicative, and submissive. He
eagerly embraced every opportunity to babble about his past,
and over and over again did he recount the adventures of the
roving life he had led while in the employ of M. Simpson, the
showman. He had, of course, traveled a great deal; and he
remembered everything he had seen ; possessing, moreover, an
inexhaustible fund of amusing stories, with which he enter-
tained his custodians. His manner and his words were so
natural that head keepers and subordinate turnkeys alike were
quite willing to give credit to his assertions.
The governor of the Depot alone remained unconvinced.
He had declared that this pretended buffoon must be some
dangerous criminal who had escaped from Cayenne, and who
for this reason was determined to conceal his antecedents.
Such being this functionary's opinion, he tried every means
to substantiate it. Accordingly, during an entire fortnight,
MONSIEUR LECOQ 179
May was submitted to the scrutiny of innumerable members
of the police force, to whom were added all the more notable
private detectives of the capital. No one recognized him,
however, and although his photograph was sent to all the
prisons and police stations of the empire, not one of the
officials could recognize his features.
Other circumstances occurred, each of which had its influ-
ence, and one and all of them speaking in the prisoner's favor.
For instance, the second bureau of the Prefecture de Police
found positive traces of the existence of a strolling artist,
named Tringlot, who was probably the man referred to in
May's story. This Tringlot had been dead several years.
Then again, inquiries made in Germany revealed the fact that
a certain M. Simpson was very well known in that country,
where he had achieved great celebrity as a circus manager.
In presence of this information and the negative result of
the scrutiny to which May had been subjected, the governor
of the Depot abandoned his views and openly confessed that
he had been mistaken. "The prisoner, May," he wrote to the
magistrate, "is really and truly what he pretends to be. There
can be no further doubt on the subject." This message, it may
be added, was sent at Gevrol's instigation.
So thus it was that M. Segmuller and Lecoq alone remained
of their opinion. This opinion was at least worthy of consid-
eration, as they alone knew all the detaiL of the investigation
which had been conducted with such strict secrecy; and yet this
fact was of little import. It is not merely unpleasant, but
often extremely dangerous to struggle on against all the world,
and unfortunately for truth and logic one man's opinion, cor-
rect though it may be, is nothing in the balance of daily life
against the faulty views of a thousand adversaries.
The "May affair" had soon become notorious among the
members of the police force ; and whenever Lecoq appeared
at the Prefecture he had to brave his colleagues' sarcastic
pleasantry. Nor did M. Segmuller escape scot free ; for more
than one fellow magistrate, meeting him on the stairs or in the
corridor, inquired, with a smile, what he was doing with his
Caspar-Hauser, his man in the Iron Mask, in a word, with
his mysterious mountebank. When thus assailed, both M. Seg-
muller and Lecoq could scarcely restrain those movements of
angry impatience which come naturally to a person who feels
certain he is in the right and yet can not prove it.
180 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"Ah, me!" sometimes exclaimed the magistrate, "why did
D'Escorval break his leg? Had it not been for that cursed
mishap, he would have been obliged to endure all these per-
plexities, and I — I should be enjoying myself like other people."
"And I thought myself so shrewd !" murmured the young
detective by his side.
Little by little anxiety did its work. Magistrate and detec-
tive both lost their appetites and looked haggard; and yet the
idea of yielding never once occurred to them. Although of very
different natures, they were both determined to persevere in
the task they had set themselves — that of solving this tantaliz-
ing enigma. Lecoq, indeed, had resolved to renounce all other
claims upon his time, and to devote himself entirely to the
study of the case. "Henceforth," he said to M. Segmuller, "I
also will constitute myself a prisoner; and although the sus-
pected murderer will be unable to see me, I shall not lose sight
of him !"
It so happened that there was a loft between the cell occu-
pied by May and the roof of the prison, a loft of such diminu-
tive proportions that a man of average height could not stand
upright in it. This loft had neither window nor skylight, and
the gloom would have been intense, had not a few faint sun-
rays struggled through the interstices of some ill-adjusted tiles.
In this unattractive garret Lecoq established himself one fine
morning, just at the hour when May was taking his daily walk
in the courtyard of the prison accompanied by a couple of
keepers. Under these circumstances there was no fear of
Lecoq's movements attracting the prisoner's notice or suspicion.
The garret had a paved floor, and first of all the young detec-
tive removed one of the stones with a pickax he had brought
for the purpose. Beneath this stone he found a timber beam,
through which he next proceeded to bore a hole of funnel
shape, large at the top and gradually dwindling until on piercing
the ceiling of the cell it was no more than two-thirds of an
inch in diameter. Prior to commencing his operations, Lecoq
had visited the prisoner's quarters and had skilfully chosen
the place of the projected aperture, so that the stains and
graining of the beam would hide it from the view of any one
below. He was yet at work when the governor of the Depot
and his rival Gevrol appeared upon the threshold of the loft.
"So this is to be your observatory, Monsieur Lecoq !" re-
marked Gevrol, with a sneering laugh.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 181
"Yes, sir."
"You will not be very comfortable here."
"I shall be less uncomfortable than you suppose ; I have
brought a large blanket with me, and I shall stretch myself
out on the floor and manage to sleep here.
"So that, night and day, you will have your eye on the
prisoner?"
"Yes, night and day."
"Without giving yourself time to eat or drink?" inquired
Gevrol.
"Excuse me ! Father Absinthe will bring me my meals,
execute any errand I may have, and relieve me at times if
necessary."
The jealous General laughed ; but his laugh, loud as it was,
was yet a trifle constrained. "Well, I pity you," he said.
"Very possibly."
"Do you know what you will look like, with your eye glued
to that hole?"
"Like what? Tell me, we needn't stand on ceremony."
"Ah, well! you will look just like one of those silly natural-
ists who put all sorts of little insects under a magnifying glass,
and spend their lives in watching them."
Lecoq had finished his work ; and rose from his kneeling
position. "You couldn't have found a better comparison, Gen-
eral," said he. "I owe my idea to those very naturalists you
speak about so slightingly. By dint of studying those little
creatures — as you say— under a microscope, these patient,
gifted men discover the habits and instincts of the insect world.
Very well, then. What they can do with an insect, I will do
with a man !"
"Oh, ho !" said the governor of the prison, considerably
astonished.
"Yes; that's my plan," continued Lecoq. "I want to learn
this prisoner's secret ; and I will do so. That I've sworn ; and
success must be mine, for, however strong his courage may
be, he will have his moments of weakness, and then I shall
be present at them. I shall be present if ever his will fails
him, if, believing himself alone, he lets his mask fall, or for-
gets his part for an instant, if an indiscreet word escapes him
in his sleep, if his despair elicits a groan, a gesture, or a look
— I shall be there to take note of it."
The tone of resolution with which the young detective spoke
182 MONSIEUR LECOQ
made a deep impression upon the governor's mind. For an
instant he was a believer in Lecoq's theory ; and he was im-
pressed by the strangeness of this conflict between a prisoner,
determined to preserve the secret of his identity, and the agent
for the prosecution, equally determined to wrest it from him.
"Upon my word, my boy, you are not wanting in courage and
energy," said he.
"Misdirected as it may be," growled Gevrol, who, although
he spoke very slowly and deliberately, was in his secret soul
by no means convinced of what he said. Faith is contagious,
and he was troubled in spite of himself by Lecoq's imperturbable
assurance. What if this debutant in the profession should be
right, and he, Gevrol, the oracle of the Prefecture, wrong !
What shame and ridicule would be his portion, then ! But
once again he inwardly swore that this inexperienced youngster
could be no match for an old veteran like himself, and then
added aloud : "The prefect of police must have more money
than he knows what to do with, to pay two men for such a
nonsensical job as this."
Lecoq disdained to reply to this slighting remark. For more
than a fortnight the General had profited of every opportunity
to make himself as disagreeable as possible, and the young
detective feared he would be unable to control his temper if
the discussion continued. It would be better to remain silent,
and to work and wait for success. To succeed would be
revenge enough ! Moreover, he was impatient to see these
unwelcome visitors depart; believing, perhaps, that Gevrol was
quite capable of attracting the prisoner's attention by some
unusual sound.
As soon as they went away, Lecoq hastily spread his blanket
over the stones and stretched himself out upon it in such a
position that he could alternately apply his eye and his ear to
the aperture. In this position he had an admirable view of the
cell below. He could see the door, the bed, the table, and the
chair; only the small space near the window and the window
itself were beyond his range of observation. He had scarcely
completed his survey, when he heard the bolts rattle: the pris-
oner was returning from his walk. He seemed in excellent
spirits, and was just completing what was, undoubtedly, a very
interesting story, since the keeper who accompanied him lin-
gered for a moment to hear the finish. Lecoq was delighted
with the success of his experiment. He could hear as easily
MONSIEUR LECOQ 163
as he could see. Each syllable reached his ear distinctly, and he
had not lost a single word of the recital, which was amusing,
though rather coarse.
The turnkey soon left the cell; the bolts rattled once more,
and the key grated in the lock. After walking once or twice
across his cell, May took up his volume of Beranger and for
an hour or more seemed completely engrossed in its contents.
Finally, he threw himself down upon his bed. Here he re-
mained until meal-time in the evening, when he rose and
ate with an excellent appetite. He next resumed the study
of his book, and did not go to bed until the lights were ex-
tinguished.
Lecoq knew well enough that during the night his eyes would
not serve him, but he trusted that his ears might prove of use,
hoping that some telltale word might escape the prisoner's lips
during his restless slumber. In this expectation he was disap-
pointed. May tossed to and fro upon his pallet; he sighed,
and one might have thought he was sobbing, but not a syllable
escaped his lips. He remained in bed until very late the next
morning; but on hearing the bell sound the hour of breakfast,
eleven o'clock, he sprang from his couch with a bound, and after
capering about his cell for a few moments, began to sing, in
a loud and cheerful voice, the old ditty:
"Diogene!
Sous ton manteau, libre et content,
Je ris, je bois, sans gene — "
The prisoner did not stop singing until a keeper entered his
cell carrying his breakfast. The day now beginning differed
in no respect from the one that had preceded it, neither did
the night. The same might be said of the next day, and of
those which followed. To sing, to eat, to sleep, to attend to his
hands and nails — such was the life led by this so-called buffoon.
His manner, which never varied, was that of a naturally cheer-
ful man terribly bored.
Such was the perfection of his acting that, after six days
and nights of constant surveillance, Lecoq had detected nothing
decisive, nor even surprising. And yet he did not despair. He
had noticed that every morning, while the employees of the
prison were busy distributing the prisoner's food, May invari-
ably began to sing the same ditty.
"Evidently this song is a signal," thought Lecoq. "What
184 MONSIEUR LECOQ
can be going on there by the window I can't see? I must
know to-morrow."
Accordingly on the following morning he arranged that
May should be taken on his walk at half-past ten o'clock, and
he then insisted that the governor should accompany him to
the prisoner's cell. That worthy functionary was not very
well pleased with the change in the usual order of things.
"What do you wish to show me?" he asked. "What is there
so very curious to see?"
"Perhaps nothing," replied Lecoq, "but perhaps something
of great importance."
Eleven o'clock sounding soon after, he began singing the
prisoner's song, and he had scarcely finished the second line,
when a bit of bread, no larger than a bullet, adroitly thrown
through the window, dropped at his feet.
A thunderbolt falling in May's cell would not have terrified
the governor as much as did this inoffensive projectile. He
stood in silent dismay ; his mouth wide open, his eyes starting
from their sockets, as if he distrusted the evidence of his own
senses. What a disgrace ! An instant before he would have
staked his life upon the inviolability of the secret cells; and
now he beheld his prison dishonored.
"A communication ! a communication !" he repeated, with a
horrified air.
Quick as lightning, Lecoq picked up the missile. "Ah," mur-
mured he, "I guessed that this man was in communication with
his friends."
The young detective's evident delight changed the governor's
stupor into fury. "Ah ! my prisoners are writing !" he exclaimed,
wild with passion. "My warders are acting as postmen ! By
my faith, this matter shall be looked into."
So saying, he was about to rush to the door when Lecoq
stopped him. "What are you going to do, sir?" he asked.
"I am going to call all the employees of this prison together,
and inform them that there is a traitor among them, and that
I must know who he is, as I wish to make an example of him.
And if, in twenty-four hours 'from now, the culprit has not
been discovered, every man connected with this prison shall
be removed."
Again he started to leave the room, and Lecoq, this time,
had almost to use force to detain him. "Be calm, sir ; be calm,"
he entreated.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 185
"I zvill punish — "
"Yes, yes — I understand that — but wait until you have re-
gained your self-possession. It is quite possible that the guilty
party may be one of the prisoners who assist in the distribution
of food every morning.''
"What does that matter?"
"Excuse me, but it matters a great deal. If you noise this
discovery abroad, we shall never discover the truth. The traitor
will not be fool enough to confess his guilt. We must be silent
and wait. We will keep a close watch and detect the culprit in
the very act."
These objections were so sensible that the governor yielded
"So be it," he sighed, "I will try and be patient. But let me
see the missive that was enclosed in this bit of bread."
Lecoq could not consent to this proposal. "I warned M. Seg-
muller," said he, "that there would probably be something new
this morning; and he will be waiting for me in his office. We
must only examine the letter in his presence."
This remark was so correct that the governor assented : and
they at once started for the Palais de Justice. On their way,
Lecoq endeavored to convince his companion that it was wrong
to deplore a circumstance which might be of incalculable benefit
to the prosecution. "It was an illusion," said he, "to imagine
that the governor of a prison could be more cunning than the
prisoners entrusted to him. A prisoner is almost always a match
in ingenuity for his custodians."
The young detective had not finished speaking when they
reached the magistrate's office. Scarcely had Lecoq opened
the door than M. Segmuller and his clerk rose from their seats.
They both read important intelligence in our hero's troubled
face. "What is it?" eagerly asked the magistrate. Lecoq's sole
response was to lay the pellet of bread upon M. Segmuller's
desk. In an instant the magistrate had opened it, extracting
from the centre a tiny slip of the thinnest tissue paper. This
he unfolded, and smoothed upon the palm of his hand. As
soon as he glanced at it, his brow contracted. "Ah ! this
note is written in cipher," he exclaimed, with a disappointed
air.
"We must not lose patience," said Lecoq quietly. He took
the slip of paper from the magistrate and read the numbers
inscribed upon it. They ran as follows: "235, 15, 3, 8, 25, 2,
16, 208, 5, 360, 4, 36, 19, 7, 14, 118, 84, 23, 9, 40, 11, 99."
186 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"And so we shall learn nothing from this note," murmured
the governor.
"Why not?" the smiling clerk ventured to remark. "There
is no system of cipher which can not be read with a little
skill and patience ; there are some people who make it their
business."
"You are right," said Lecoq, approvingly. "And I, myself,
once had the knack of it."
"What!" exclaimed the magistrate; "do you hope to find the
key to this cipher?"
"With time, yes."
Lecoq was about to place the paper in his breast-pocket, when
the magistrate begged him to examine it a little further. He
did so ; and after a while his face suddenly brightened. Striking
his forehead with his open palm, he cried : "I've found it !"
An exclamation of incredulous surprise simultaneously escaped
the magistrate, the governor, and the clerk.
"At least I think so," added Lecoq, more cautiously. "If I
am not mistaken, the prisoner and his accomplice have adopted
a very simple system called the double book-cipher. The cor-
respondents first agree upon some particular book; and both
obtain a copy of the same edition. When one desires to com-
municate with the other, he opens the book haphazard, and
begins by writing the number of the page. Then he must find
on the same page the words that will express his thoughts. If
the first word he wishes to write is the twentieth on the page,
he places number 20 after the number of the page ; then he
begins to count one, two, three, and so on, until he finds the
next word he wishes to use. If this word happens to be the
sixth, he writes the figure 6; and he continues so on till he has
finished his letter. You see, now, how the correspondent who
receives the note must begin. He finds the page indicated, and
then each figure represents a word."
"Nothing could be clearer," said the magistrate, approvingly.
"If this note," pursued Lecoq, "had been exchanged between
two persons at liberty, *it would be folly to attempt its transla-
tion. This simple system is the only one which has completely
baffled inquisitive efforts, simply because there is no way of
ascertaining the book agreed upon. But in this instance such
is not the case; May is a prisoner, and he has only one book
in his possession, 'The Songs of Beranger.' Let this book be
sent for — "
MONSIEUR LECOQ
187
The governor of the Depot was actually enthusiastic. "I will
run and fetch it myself," he interrupted.
But Lecoq, with a gesture, detained him. "Above all, sir,"
said he, "take care that May doesn't discover his book has been
tampered with. If he has returned from his promenade, make
some excuse to have him sent out of his cell again ; and don't
allow him to return there while we are using his book."
"Oh, trust me!" replied the governor, hastily leaving the
room.
Less than a quarter of an hour afterward he returned, carry-
ing in triumph a little volume in 321110. With a trembling hand
Lecoq turned to page 235, and began to count. The fifteenth
word on the page was T ; the third afterward, 'have' ; the
eighth following, 'told' ; the twenty-fifth, 'her' ; the second, 'your' ;
the sixteenth, 'zvishes.' Hence, the meaning of those six num-
bers was: "I have told her your wishes."
The three persons who had witnessed this display of shrewd-
ness could not restrain their admiration. "Bravo ! Lecoq," ex-
claimed the magistrate. "I will no longer bet a hundred to
one on May," thought the smiling clerk.
But Lecoq was still busily engaged in deciphering the missive,
and soon, in a voice trembling with gratified vanity, he read
the entire note aloud. It ran as follows : "I have told her your
wishes; she submits. Our safety is assured; we are waiting
your orders to act. Hope ! Courage !"
Vf ET what a disappointment it produced after the fever of
anxiety and expectation that had seized hold of everybody
present. This strange epistle furnished no clue whatever to the
mystery; and the ray of hope that had sparkled for an instant
in M. Segmuller's eyes speedily faded away. As for the ver-
satile Goguet he returned with increased conviction to his
former opinion, that the prisoner had the advantage over his
accusers.
188 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"How unfortunate," remarked the governor of the Depot,
with a shade of sarcasm in his voice, "that so much trouble,
and such marvelous penetration, should be wasted!"
"So you think, sir, that I have wasted my time!" rejoined
Lecoq in a tone of angry banter, a scarlet flush mantling at
the same time over his features. "Such is not my opinion.
This scrap of paper undeniably proves that if any one has been
mistaken as regards the prisoner's identity, it is certainly not I."'
"Very well," was the reply. "M. Gevrol and myself may
have been mistaken : no one is infallible. But have you learned
anything more than you knew before ? Have you made any
progress?"
"Why, yes. Now that people know the prisoner is not what
he pretends to be, instead of annoying and hampering me, per-
haps they will assist us to discover who he really is."
Lecoq's tone, and his allusion to the difficulties he had en-
countered, cut the governor to the quick. The knowledge that
the reproof was not altogether undeserved increased his resent-
ment and determined him to bring this discussion with an
inferior to an abrupt close. "You are right," said he, sarcas-
tically. "This May must be a very great and illustrious per-
sonage. Only, my dear Monsieur Lecoq (for there is an only),
do me the favor to explain how such an important personage
could disappear, and the police not be advised of it? A man
of rank, such as you suppose this prisoner to be, usually has
a family, friends, relatives, proteges, and numerous connec-
tions ; and yet not a single person has made any inquiry during
the three weeks that this fellow May has been under my charge !
Come, admit you never thought of that."
The governor had just advanced the only serious objection
that could be found to the theory adopted by the prosecution.
He was wrong, however, in supposing that Lecoq had failed to
foresee it ; for it had never once been out of the young detec-
tive's mind; and he had racked his brain again and again to
find some satisfactory explanation. At the present moment he
would undoubtedly have made some angry retort to the gov-
ernor's sneering criticism, as people are wont to do when their
antagonists discover the weak spot in their armor, had not
M. Segmuller opportunely intervened.
"All these recriminations do no good," he remarked, calmly;
"we can make no progress while they continue. It would be
much wiser to decide upon the course that is now to be pursued."
MONSIEUR LECOQ 189
Thus reminded of the present situation of affairs, the young
detective smiled ; all his rancor was forgotten. "There is, I
think, but one course to pursue," he replied in a modest tone ;
"and I believe it will be successful by reason of its simplicity.
We must substitute a communication of our own composition
for this one. That will .'. be at all difficult, since I have the
key to the cipher. I shall only be obliged to purchase a similar
volume of Beranger's songs; and May, believing that he is
addressing his accomplice, will reply in all sincerity — will reveal
everything perhaps — "
"Excuse me!" interrupted the governor, "but how will you
obtain possession of his reply?"
"Ah ! you ask me too much. I know the way in which his
letters have reached him. For the rest, I will watch and find
a way — never fear !"
Goguet, the smiling clerk, could not conceal an approving
grin. If he had happened to have ten francs in his pocket just
then he would have risked them all on Lecoq without ? moment's
hesitation.
"First," resumed the young detective, "I will replace this
missive by one of my own composition. To-morrow, at break-
fast time, if the prisoner gives the signal, Father Absinthe
shall throw the morsel of bread enclosing my note through
the window while I watch the effect through the hole in the
ceiling of the cell."
Lecoq was so delighted with this plan of his that he at once
rang the bell, and when the magistrate's messenger appeared,
he gave him half a franc and requested him to go at once and
purchase some of the thinnest tissue paper. When this had
been procured, Lecoq took his seat at the clerk's desk, and, pro-
vided with the volume of Beranger's songs, began to compose
a fresh note, copying as closely as possible the forms of the
figures used by the unknown correspondent. The task did not
occupy him more than ten minutes, for, fearing lest he might
commit some blunder, he reproduced most of the words of
the original letter, giving them, however, an entirely different
meaning.
"When completed, his note read as follows : "I have told her
your wishes ; she does not submit. Our safety is threatened.
We are awaiting your orders. I tremble."
Having acquainted the magistrate with the purport of the
note, Lecoq next rolled up the paper, and enclosing it in the
190 MONSIEUR LECOQ
fragment of bread, remarked: "To-morrow we shall learn some-
thing new."
To-morrow ! The twenty-four hours that separated the young
man from the decisive moment he looked forward to seemed as
it were a century ; and tie resorted to every possible expedient
to hasten the passing of the time. At length, after giving pre-
cise instructions to Father Absinthe, he retired to his loft for
the night. The hours seemed interminable, and such was his
nervous excitement that he found it quite impossible to sleep.
On rising at daybreak he discovered that the prisoner was
already awake. May was sitting on the foot of his bed, appar-
ently plunged in thought. Suddenly he sprang to his feet and
paced restlessly to and fro. He was evidently in an unusually
agitated frame of mind : for he gesticulated wildly, and at inter-
vals repeated: "What misery! My God! what misery!"
"Ah ! my fine fellow," thought Lecoq, "you are anxious about
the daily letter you failed to receive yesterday. Patience,
patience ! One of my writing will soon arrive."
At last the young detective heard the stir usually preceding
the distribution of the food. People were running to and fro,
sabots clicked noisily in the corridors, and the keepers could be
heard engaged in loud conversation. By and by the prison bell
began to toll. It was eleven o'clock, and soon afterward the
prisoner commenced to sing his favorite song:
"Diogene!
Sous ton manteau, libre et content—"
Before he commenced the third line the slight sound caused
by the fragment of bread as it fell upon the stone floor caused
him to pause abruptly.
Lecoq, at the opening in the ceiling above, was holding his
breath and watching with both eyes. He did not miss one of
the prisoner's movements — not so much as the quiver of an eye-
lid. May looked first at the window, and then all round the
cell, as if it were impossible for him to explain the arrival of
this projectile. It was not until some little time had elapsed
that he decided to pick it up. He held it in the hollow of his
hand, and examined it with apparent curiosity. His features
expressed intense surprise, and any one would have sworn that
he was innocent of all complicity. Soon a smile gathered round
his lips, and after a slight shrug of the shoulders, which might
be interpreted, "Am I a fool?" he hastily broke the pellet in
MONSIEUR LECOQ 191
half. The sight of the paper which it contained seemed to
amaze him.
"What does all this mean?" wondered Lecoq.
The prisoner had opened the note, and was examining with
knitted brows the figures which were apparently destitute of
all meaning to him. Then, suddenly rushing to the door of his
cell, and hammering upon it with clenched fists, he cried at the
top of his voice: "Here! keeper! here!"
"What do you want?" shouted a turnkey, whose footsteps
Lecoq could hear hastening along the adjoining passage.
"I wish to speak to the magistrate."
"Very well. He shall be informed."
"Immediately, if you please. I have a revelation to make."
"He shall be sent for immediately."
Lecoq waited to hear no more. He tore down the narrow
staircase leading from the loft, and rushed to the Palais de Jus-
tice to acquaint M. Segmuller with what had happened.
"What can all this mean ?" he wondered as he darted over
the pavement. "Are we indeed approaching a denouement?
This much is certain, the prisoner was not deceived by my note.
He could only decipher it with the aid of his volume of
Beranger, and he did not even touch the book ; plainly, then,
he hasn't read the letter."
M. Segmuller was no less amazed than the young detective.
They both hastened to the prison, followed by the smiling clerk,
who was the magistrate's inevitable shadow. On their way
they encountered the governor of the Depot, arriving all in a
flutter, having been greatly excited by that important word
"revelation." The worthy official undoubtedly wished to express
an opinion, but the magistrate checked him by the abrupt
remark, "I know all about it, and I am coming."
When they had reached the narrow corridor leading to the
secret cells, Lecoq passed on in advance of the rest of the
party. He said to himself that by stealing upon the prisoner
unawares he might possibly find him engaged in surreptitiously
reading the note. In any case, he would have an opportunity
to glance at the interior of the cell. May was seated beside
the table, his head resting on his hands. At the grating of the
bolt, drawn by the governor himself, the prisoner rose to his
feet, smoothed his hair, and remained standing in a respectful
attitude, apparently waiting for the visitors to address him.
"Did you send for me?" inquired the magistrate.
192 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"Yes, sir."
"You have, I understand, some revelation to make to me."
"I have something of importance to tell you."
"Very well ! these gentlemen will retire."
M. Segmuller had already turned to Lecoq and the governor
to request them to withdraw, when the prisoner motioned him
not to do so.
"It is not necessary," said May, "I am, on the contrary, very
well pleased to speak before these gentlemen."
"Speak, then."
May did not wait for the injunction to be repeated. Throw-
ing his chest forward, and his head back as had been his wont
throughout his examinations, whenever he wished to make an
oratorical display, he began as follows : "It shall be for you
to say, gentlemen, whether I'm an honest man or not. The
profession matters little. One may, perhaps, act as the clown of
a traveling show, and yet be an honest man — a man of honor."
"Oh, spare us your reflections !"
"Very well, sir, that suits me exactly. To be brief, then,
here is a little paper which was thrown into my cell a few
minutes ago. There are some numbers on it which may mean
something; but I have examined them, and they are quite
Greek to me."
He paused, and then handing Lecoq's missive to the magis-
trate, quietly added: "It was rolled up in a bit of bread."
This declaration was so unexpected, that it struck all the
officials dumb with surprise, but the prisoner, without seeming
to notice the effect he had produced, placidly continued: "I
suppose the person who threw it, made a mistake in the win-
dow. I know very well that it's a mean piece of business to
denounce a companion in prison. It's a cowardly act and one
may get into trouble by doing so ; still, a fellow must be prudent
when he's charged with murder as I am, and with something
very unpleasant, perhaps, in store for him."
A terribly significant gesture of severing the head from
the body left no doubt whatever as to what May meant by the
"something very unpleasant."
"And yet I am innocent," continued May, in a sorrowful,
reproachful tone.
The magistrate had by this time recovered the full pos-
session of his faculties. Fixing his eyes. upon the prisoner
and concentrating in one magnetic glance all his power of will,
MONSIEUR LECOQ 193
he slowly exclaimed : "You speak falsely ! It was for you
that this note was intended."
"For me ! Then I must be the greatest of fools, or why
should I have sent for you to show it you? For me? In that
case, why didn't I keep it ? Who knew, who could know that I
had received it?"
These words were uttered with such a marvelous sem-
blance of honesty, May's gaze was frank and open, his voice
rang so true, and his reasoning was so specious, that all the
governor's doubts returned.
"And what if I could prove that you are uttering a false-
hood?" insisted M. Segmuller. "What if I could prove it —
here and now?"
"You would have to lie to do so ! Oh ! pardon ! Excuse me ;
I mean — "
But the magistrate was not in a frame of mind to stickle for
nicety of expression. He motioned May to be silent; and,
turning to Lecoq, exclaimed: "Show the prisoner that you have
discovered the key to his secret correspondence."
A sudden change passed over May's features. "Ah! it is
this agent of police who says the letter was for me," he re-
marked in an altered tone. "The same agent who asserts that
/ am a grand seigneur." Then, looking disdainfully at Lecoq,
he added: "Under these circumstances there's no hope for me.
When the police are absolutely determined that a man shall
be found guilty, they contrive to prove his guilt ; everybody
knows that. And when a prisoner receives no letters, an
agent, who wishes to show that he is corresponding knows well
enough how to write to him."
May's features wore such an expression of marked contempt
that Lecoq could scarcely refrain from making an angry reply.
He restrained his impulse, however, in obedience to a warning
gesture from the magistrate, and taking from the table the
volume of Beranger's songs, he endeavored to prove to the
prisoner that each number in the note which he had shown M.
Segmuller corresponded with a word on the page indicated,
and that these various words formed several intelligible phrases.
This overpowering evidence did not seem to trouble May in
the least. After expressing the same admiration for this
novel system of correspondence that a child would show for a
new toy. he declared his belief that no one could equal the
police in such machinations.
9 — Vol. I — Gab.
194 MONSIEUR LECOQ
What could have been done in the face of such obstinacy?
M. Segmuller did not even attempt to argue the point, but
quietly retired, followed by his companions. Until they reached
the governor's office, he did not utter a word ; then, sinking
down into an armchair, he exclaimed: "We must confess
ourselves beaten. This man will always remain what he is —
an inexplicable enigma."
"But what is the meaning of the comedy he has just played?
I do not understand it at all," remarked the governor.
"Why," replied Lecoq, "don't you see that he wished to per-
suade the magistrate that the first note, the one that fell into
the cell while you and I were there yesterday, had been written
by me in a mad desire to prove the truth of my theory at any
cost? It was a hazardous project; but the importance of the
result to be gained must have emboldened him to attempt it.
Had he succeeded. I should have been disgraced ; and he would
have remained May — the stroller, without any further doubt
as to his identity. But how could he know that I had dis-
covered his secret correspondence, and that I was watching him
from the loft overhead ? That will probably never be explained."
The governor and the young detective exchanged glances of
mutual distrust. "Eh ! eh !" thought the former, "yes, indeed,
that note which fell into the cell while I was there the other
day might after all have been this crafty fellow's work. His
Father Absinthe may have served him in the first instance just
as he did subsequently."
While these reflections were flitting through the governor's
mind, Lecoq suspiciously remarked to himself: "Who knows
but what this fool of a governor confided everything to Gevrol ?
If he did so, the General, jealous as he is, would not have
scrupled to play one such a damaging trick."
His thoughts had gone no further when Goguet, the smiling
clerk, boldly broke the silence with the trite remark : "What a
pity such a clever comedy didn't succeed."
These words startled the magistrate from his reverie. "Yes,
a shameful farce," said he, "and one I would never have author-
ized, had I not been blinded by a mad longing to arrive at the
truth. Such tricks only bring the sacred majesty of justice
into contempt !"
At these bitter words, Lecoq turned white with anger. This
was the second affront within an hour. The prisoner had
first insulted him, and now it was the magistrate's turn. "I
MONSIEUR LECOQ 195
am defeated," thought he. "I must confess it. Fate is against
me ! Ah ! if I had only succeeded !"
Disappointment alone had impelled M. Segmuller to utter
tiiese harsh words; they were both cruel and unjust, and the
magistrate soon regretted them, and did everything in his
power to drive them from Lecoq's recollection. They met
every day after this unfortunate incident; and every morning,
when the young detective came to give an account of his in-
vestigations, they had a long conference together. For Lecoq
still continued his efforts; still labored on with an obstinacy
intensified by constant sneers; still pursued his investigations
with that cold and determined zeal which keeps one's faculties
on the alert for years.
The magistrate, however, was utterly discouraged. "We
must abandon this attempt," said he. "All the means of
detection have been exhausted. I give it up. The prisoner
will go to the Assizes, to be acquitted or condemned under the
name of May. I will trouble myself no more about the matter."
He said this, but the anxiety and disappointment caused by
defeat, sneering criticism, and perplexity, as to the best course
to be pursued, so affected his health that he became really ill —
so ill that he had to take to his bed.
He had been confined to his room for a week or so, when
one morning Lecoq called to inquire after him.
"You see, my good fellow," quoth M. Segmuller, despondently,
"that this mysterious murderer is fatal to us magistrates.
Ah ! he is too much for us ; he will preserve the secret of his
identity."
"Possibly," replied Lecoq. "At all events, there is now but
one way left to discover his secret ; we must allow him to
escape — and then track him to his lair."
This expedient, although at first sight a very startling one,
was not of Lecoq's own invention, nor was it by any means
novel. At all times, in cases of necessity, have the police
closed their eyes and opened the prison doors for the release
of suspected criminals. And not a few, dazzled by liberty and
ignorant of being watched, have foolishly betrayed themselves.
All prisoners are not like the Marquis de Lavalette, protected
by royal connivance ; and one might enumerate many individuals
who have been released, only to be rearrested after confessing
their guilt to police spies or auxiliaries who have won their
confidence.
196 MONSIEUR LECOO
Naturally, however, it is but seldom, and only in special
cases, and as a last resort, that such a plan is adopted. More-
over, the authorities only consent to it when they hope to
derive some important advantage, such as the capture of a
whole band of criminals. For instance, the police perhaps arrest
one of a band. Now, despite his criminal propensities the
captured culprit often has a certain sense of honor — we all
know that there is honor among thieves — which prompts him
to refuse all information concerning his accomplices. In such
a case what is to be done? Is he to be sent to the Assizes by
himself, tried and convicted, while his comrades escape scot
free? No; it is best to set him at liberty. The prison doors
are opened, and he is told that he is free. But each after step
he takes in the streets outside is dogged by skilful detectives;
and soon, at the very moment when he is boasting of his good
luck and audacity to the comrades he has rejoined, the whole
gang find themselves caught in the snare.
M. Segmuller knew all this, and much more, and yet, on
hearing Lecoq's proposition, he made an angry gesture and
exclaimed: "Are you mad?"
"I think not, sir."
"At all events your scheme is a most foolish one!"
"Why so, sir? You will recollect the famous murder of the
Chaboiseaus. The police soon succeeded in capturing the
guilty parties; but a robbery of a hundred and sixty thousand
francs in bank-notes and coin had been committed at the same
time, and this large sum of money couldn't be found. The
murderers obstinately refused to say where they had concealed
it; for, of course, it would prove a fortune for them, if they
ever escaped the gallows. In the mean while, however, the
children of the victims were ruined. Now, M. Patrigent, the
magistrate who investigated the affair, was the first to con-
vince the authorities that it would be best to set one of the
murderers at liberty. His advice was followed ; and three days
later the culprit was surprised unearthing the money from
among a bed of mushrooms. Now, I believe that our prisoner — "
"Enough !" interrupted M. Segmuller. "I wish to hear no
more on the matter. I have, it seems to me, forbidden you to
broach the subject."
The young detective hung his head with a hypocritical air
of submission. But all the while he watched the magistrate
out of the corner of his eye and noted his agitation. "I can
MONSIEUR LECOQ 197
afford to be silent," he thought; "he will return to the subject
of his own accord."
And in fact M. Segmuller did return to it only a moment
afterward. "Suppose this man were released from prison,"
said he, "what would you do?"
"What would I do, sir! T would follow him like grim
death: I would not once let him out of my sight; I would be
his shadow."
"And do you suppose he wouldn't discover this surveillance?"
"I should take my precautions."
"But he would recognize you at a single glance."
"No, sir, he wouldn't, for I should disguise myself. A detective
who can't equal the most skilful actor in the matter of make-up
is no better than an ordinary policeman. I have only practised
at it for a twelvemonth, but I can easily make myself look old
or young, dark or light, or assume the manner of a man of the
world, or of some frightful ruffian of the barrieres."
"I wasn't aware that you possessed this talent, Monsieur
Lecoq."
"Oh! I'm very far from the perfection I hope to arrive at;
though I may venture to say that in three days from now I
could call on you and talk with you for half an hour without
being recognized."
M. Segmuller made no rejoinder; and it was evident to
Lecoq that the magistrate had offered this objection rather in
the hope of its being overruled, than with the wish to see it
prevail.
"I think, my poor fellow," he at length observed, "that
you are strangely deceived. We have both been equally anxious
to penetrate the mystery that enshrouds this strange man.
We have both admired his wonderful acuteness — for his
sagacity is wonderful ; so marvelous, indeed, that it exceeds
the limits of imagination. Do you believe that a man of his
penetration would betray himself like an ordinary prisoner?
He will understand at once, if he is set at liberty, that his
freedom is only given him so that we may surprise his secret."
"I don't deceive myself, sir. May will guess the truth of
course. I'm quite aware of that."
"Very well. Then, what would be the use of attempting
what you propose ?"
"I have come to this conclusion," replied Lecoq, "May will
find himself strangely embarrassed, even when he's set free.
198 MONSIEUR LECOQ
He won't have a sou in his pocket; we know he has no trade,
so what will he do to earn a living? He may struggle along
for a while ; but he won't be willing to suffer long. Man must
have food and shelter, and when he finds himself without a
roof over his head, without even a crust of bread to break,
he will remember that he is rich. Won't he then try to re-
cover possession of his property? Yes, certainly he will. He
will try to obtain money, endeavor to communicate with his
friends, and I shall wait till that moment arrives. Months may
elapse, before, seeing no signs of my surveillance, he may
venture on some decisive step ; and then I will spring forward
with a warrant for his arrest in my hand."
"And what if he should leave Paris? What if he should
go abroad?"
"Oh, I will follow him. One of my aunts has left me a little
land in the provinces worth about twelve thousand francs. I
will sell it, and spend the last sou, if necessary, so long as
I only have my revenge. This man has outwitted me as if I
were a child, and I must have my turn."
"And what if he should slip through your fingers?"
Lecoq laughed like a man that was sure of himself. "Let
him try," he exclaimed ; "I will answer for him with my life."
"Your idea is not a bad one," said M. Segmuller, eventually.
"But you must understand that law and justice will take no
part in such intrigues. All I can promise you is my tacit
approval. Go, therefore, to the Prefecture ; see your superiors — "
With a really despairing gesture, the young man interrupted
M. Segmuller. "What good would it do for me to make such
a proposition?" he exclaimed. "They would not only refuse
my request, but they would dismiss me on the spot, if my
name is not already erased from the roll."
"What, dismissed, after conducting this case so well?"
"Ah, sir, unfortunately every one is not of that opinion.
Tongues have been wagging busily during your illness. Some-
how or other, my enemies have heard of the last scene we had
with May; and impudently declare that it was / who imagined
all the romantic details of this affair, being eager for advance-
ment. They pretend that the only reasons to doubt the prisoner's
identity are those I have invented myself. To hear them talk
at the Depot, one might suppose that I invented the scene in
the Widow Chupin's cabin; imagined the accomplices;
suborned the witnesses; manufactured the articles of convic-
MONSIEUR LECOQ 199
tion; wrote the first note in cipher as well as the second;
duped Father Absinthe, and mystified the governor."
"The deuce !" exclaimed M. Segmuller ; "in that case, what
do they think of me?"
The wily detective's face assumed an expression of intense
embarrassment.
"Ah ! sir," he replied with a great show of reluctance, "they
pretend that you have allowed yourself to be deceived by me,
and that you haven't weighed at their proper worth the proofs
I've furnished."
A fleeting flush mantled over M. Segmuller's forehead. "In
a word," said he, "they think I'm your dupe — and a fool besides."
The recollection of certain sarcastic smiles he had often
detected on the faces of colleagues and subordinates alike, the
memory of numerous covert allusions to Casper Hauser, and
the Man with the Iron Mask — allusions which had stung him
to the quick — induced him to hesitate no longer.
"Very well ! I will aid you. Monsieur Lecoq," he exclaimed.
"I should like you to triumph over your enemies. I will get
up at once and accompany you to the Palais de Justice. I
will see the public prosecutor myself; I will speak to him,
and plead your case for you."
Lecoq's joy was intense. Never, no never, had he dared to
hope for such assistance. Ah ! after this he would willingly
go through fire on M. Segmuller's behalf. And yet, despite
his inward exultation, he had sufficient control over his feelings
to preserve a sober face. This victory must be concealed under
penalty of forfeiting the benefits that might accrue from it.
Certainly, the young detective had said nothing that was untrue ;
but there are different ways of presenting the truth, and he
had, perhaps, exaggerated a trifle in order to excite the magis-
trate's rancor, and win his needful assistance.
"I suppose," remarked M. Segmuller, who was now quite
calm again — no outward sign of wounded vanity being per-
ceptible — "I suppose you have decided what stratagem must
be employed to lull the prisoner's suspicions if he is permitted
to escape."
"I must confess I haven't given it a thought," replied Lecoq.
"Besides, what good would any such stratagem do? He knows
too well that he is the object of suspicion not to remain on the
alert. Still, there is one precaution which I believe absolutely
necessary, indispensable indeed, if we wish to be successful."
200 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"What precaution do you mean?" inquired the magistrate.
"Well, sir, I think an order should be given to have May
transferred to another prison. It doesn't in the least matter
which ; you can select the one you please."
"Why should we do that?"
"Because, during the few days preceding his release, it is
absolutely necessary he should hold no communication with
his friends outside, and that he should be unable to warn his
accomplice."
"Then you think he's badly guarded where he is?" inquired
M. Segmuller with seeming amazement.
"No, sir, I did not say that. I am satisfied that since the
affair of the cipher note the governor's vigilance has been
unimpeachable. However, news from outside certainly reaches
the suspected murderer at the Depot; we have had material
evidence — full proof of that — and besides — "
The young detective paused in evident embarrassment. He
plainly had some idea in his head to which he feared to give
expression.
"And besides?" repeated the magistrate.
"Ah, well, sir ! I will be perfectly frank with you. I find
that Gevrol enjoys too much liberty at the Depot; he is per-
fectly at home there, he comes and goes as he likes, and no
one ever thinks of asking what he is doing, where he is going,
or what he wants. No pass is necessary for his admission,
and he can influence the governor just as he likes. Now, to
tell the truth, I distrust Gevrol."
"Oh ! Monsieur Lecoq !"
"Yes, I know very well that it's a bold accusation, but a
man is not master of his presentiments : so there it is, I distrust
Gevrol. Did the prisoner know that I was watching him from
the loft, and that I had discovered his secret correspondence,
was he ignorant of it? To my mind he evidently knew every-
thing, as the last scene we had with him proves."
"I must say that's my own opinion," interrupted M. Seg-
muller.
"But how could he have known it?" resumed Lecoq. "He
could not have discovered it by himself. I endured tortures
for a while in the hope of solving the problem. But all my
trouble was wasted. Now the supposition of Gevrol's inter-
vention would explain everything."
M. Segmuller had turned pale with anger. "Ah! if I could
MONSIEUR LECOQ 201
really believe that !" he exclaimed ; "if I were sure of it ! Have
you any proofs?"
The young man shook his head. "No," said he, "I haven't;
but even if my hands were full of proofs I should not dare to
show them. I should ruin my future. Ah, if ever I succeed,
I must expect many such acts of treachery. There is hatred
and rivalry in every profession. And, mark this, sir — I don't
doubt Gevrol's honesty. If a hundred thousand francs were
counted out upon the table and offered to him, he wouldn't even
try to release a prisoner. But he would rob justice of a dozen
criminals in the mere hope of injuring me, jealous as he is, and
fearing lest I might obtain advancement."
How many things these simple words explained. Did they
not give the key to many and many an enigma which justice
has failed to solve, simply on account of the jealousy and
rivalry that animate the detective force? Thus thought M.
Segmuller, but he had no time for further reflection.
"That will do," said he, "go into the drawing-room for a
moment. I will dress and join you there. I will send for
a cab : for we must make haste if I am to see the public prose-
cutor to-day."
Less than a quarter of an hour afterward M. Segmuller,
who usually spent considerable time over his toilet, was dressed
and ready to start. He and Lecoq were just getting into the
cab that had been summoned when a footman in a stylish
livery was seen approaching.
"Ah! Jean," exclaimed the magistrate, "how's your master?"
"Improving, sir," was the reply. "He sent me to ask how
you were, and to inquire how that affair was progressing?"
"There has been no change since I last wrote to him. Give
him my compliments, and tell him that I am out again."
The servant bowed. Lecoq took a seat beside the magistrate
and the cab started off.
"That fellow is one of D'Escorval's servants," remarked M.
Segmuller. "He's richer than I, and can well afford to keep
a footman."
"D'Escorval's," ejaculated Lecoq. "the magistrate who — "
"Precisely. He sent his man to me two or three days ago
to ascertain what we were doing with our mysterious May."
"Then M. d'Escorval is interested in the case?"
"Prodigiously ! I conclude it is because he opened the prose-
cution, and because the case rightfully belongs to him. Perhaps
202 MONSIEUR LECOQ
he regrets that it passed out of his hands, and thinks that he
could have managed the investigation better himself. We would
have done better with it if we could. I would give a good deal
to see him in my place."
But this change would not have been at all to Lecoq's taste.
"Ah," thought he, "such a fellow as D'Escorval would never
have shown me such confidence as M. Segmuller." He had,
indeed, good reason to congratulate himself: for that very day
M. Segmuller, who was a man of his word, a man who never
rested until he had carried his plan into execution, actually
induced the authorities to allow May to be set at liberty; and
the details of this measure only remained to be decided upon.
As regards the proposed transfer of the suspected murderer
to another prison, this was immediately carried into effect, and
May was removed to Mazas, where Lecoq had no fear of Gev-
rol's interference.
That same afternoon, moreover, the Widow Chupin received
her conditional release. There was no difficulty as regards her
son, Polyte. He had, in the mean time, been brought before
the correctional court on a charge of theft; and, to his great
astonishment, had heard himself sentenced to thirteen months'
imprisonment. After this, M. Segmuller had nothing to do but
to wait, and this was the easier as the advent of the Easter
holidays gave him an opportunity to seek a little rest and
recreation with his family in the provinces.
On the day he returned to Paris— the last of the recess, and
by chance a Sunday — he was sitting alone in his library when
his cook came to tell him that there was a man in the vestibule
who had been sent from a neighboring register office to take
the place of a servant he had recently dismissed. The new-
comer was ushered into the magistrate's presence and proved
to be a man of forty or thereabouts, very red in the face and
with carroty hair and whiskers. He was, moreover, strongly
inclined to corpulence, and was clad in clumsy, ill-fitting gar-
ments. In a complacent tone, and with a strong Norman ac-
cent, he informed the magistrate that during the past twenty
years he had been in the employment of various literary men.
as well as of a physician, and notary; that he was familiar with
the duties that would be required of him at the Palais de
Justice, and that he knew how to dust papers without disarrang-
ing them. In short, he produced such a favorable impression
that, although M. Segmuller reserved twenty-four hours in
MONSIEUR LECOQ
203
which to make further inquiries, he drew a twenty-franc piece
from his pocket on the spot and tendered it to the Norman
valet as the first instalment of his wages.
But instead of pocketing the proffered coin, the man, with
a sudden change of voice and attitude, burst into a hearty laugh,
exclaiming: "Do you think, sir, that May will recognize me?"
"Monsieur Lecoq !" cried the astonished magistrate.
"The same, sir ; and I have come to tell you that if you are
ready to release May, all my arrangements are now completed."
TXT" HEN one of the investigating magistrates of the Tribunal
v v of the Seine wishes to examine a person confined in one of
the Paris prisons, he sends by his messenger to the governor
of that particular jail a so-called "order of extraction," a
concise, imperative formula, which reads as follows : "The
keeper of prison will give into the custody of the bearer
of this order the prisoner known as , in order that he may
be brought before us in our cabinet at the Palais de Justice."
No more, no less, a signature, a seal, and everybody is bound
to obey.
But from the moment of receiving this order until the pris-
oner is again incarcerated, the governor of the prison is re-
lieved of all responsibility. Whatever may happen, his hands
are clear. Minute precautions are taken, however, so that a
prisoner may not escape during his journey from the prison to
the Palais. He is carefully locked up in a compartment of one
of the lugubrious vehicles that may be often seen waiting on
the Quai de l'Horloge, or in the courtyard of the Sainte-
Chapelle. This van conveys him to the Palais, and while he
is awaiting examination, he is immured in one of the cells
of the gloomy jail, familiarly known as "la Souriciere" or the
"mouse-trap." On entering and leaving the van the prisoner is
surrounded by guards : and on the road, in addition to the
mounted troopers who always accompany these vehicles, there
are prison warders or linesmen of the Gard de Paris installed
204 MONSIEUR LECOQ
in the passage between the compartments of the van and seated
on the box with the driver. Hence, the boldest criminals ordi-
narily realize the impossibility of escaping from this ambula-
tory prison.
Indeed, statistics record only thirty attempts at escape in a
period of ten years. Of these thirty attempts, twenty-five were
ridiculous failures; four were discovered before their authors
had conceived any serious hope of success : and only one man
actually succeeded in alighting from the vehicle, and even he
had not taken fifty steps before he was recaptured.
Lecoq was well acquainted with all these facts, and in pre-
paring everything for May's escape, his only fear was lest the
murderer might decline to profit of the opportunity. Hence,
it was necessary to offer every possible inducement for flight.
The plan the young detective had eventually decided on con-
sisted in sending an order to Mazas for May to be despatched
to the Palais de Justice. He could be placed in one of the
prison vans, and at the moment of starting the door of his
compartment would not be perfectly secured. When the van
reached the Palais de Justice and discharged its load of crimi-
nals at the door of the "mouse-trap" May would purposely be
forgotten and left in the vehicle, while the latter waited on the
Quai de l'Horloge until the hour of returning to Mazas. It
was scarcely possible that the prisoner would fail to embrace
this apparently favorable opportunity to make his escape.
Everything was, therefore, prepared and arranged according
to Lecoq's directions on the Monday following the close of
the Easter holidays; the requisite "order of extraction" being
entrusted to an intelligent man with the most minute instruc-
tions.
Now, although the van in which May would journey was not
to be expected at the Palais de Justice before noon, it so hap-
pened that at nine o'clock that same morning a queer-looking
"loafer" having the aspect of an overgrown, overaged "gamin
de Paris" might have been seen hanging about the Prefecture
de Police. He wore a tattered black woolen blouse and a pair
of wide, ill-fitting trousers, fastened about his waist by a leather
strap. His boots betrayed a familiar acquaintance with the
puddles of the barrieres, and his cap was shabby and dirty,
though, on the other hand, his necktie, a pretentious silk scarf
of flaming hue, was evidently quite fresh from some haber-
dasher's shop. No doubt it was a present from his sweetheart.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 205
This uncomely being had the unhealthy complexion, hollow
eyes, slouching mien, and straggling beard common to his tribe.
His yellow hair, cut closely at the back of the head, as if to
save the trouble of brushing, was long in front and at the
sides ; being plastered down over his forehead and advancing
above his ears in extravagant corkscrew ringlets.
What with his attire, his affected jaunty step, his alternate
raising of either shoulder, and his way of holding his cigarette
and of ejecting a stream of saliva from between his teeth,
Polyte Chupin, had he been at liberty, would undoubtedly have
proffered a paw, and greeted this barriere beauty as a "pal."
It was the 14th of April ; the weather was lovely, and, on
the horizon, the youthful foliage of the chestnut trees in the
Tuileries gardens stood out against a bright blue sky. The
"ethereal mildness" of "gentle spring" seemed to have a posi-
tive charm for the tattered "loafer" who lazily loitered in the
sunlight, dividing his attention between the passers-by. and
some men who were hauling sand from the banks of the Seine.
Occasionally, however, he crossed the roadway, and, strange to
say, exchanged a few remarks with a neatly dressed, long-
bearded gentleman, who wore gold-rimmed spectacles over his
nose and drab silk gloves on his hands. This individual exhib-
ited all the outward characteristics of eminent respectability,
and seemed to take a remarkable interest in the contents of an
optician's shop window.
Every now and then a policeman or an agent of the detec-
tive corps passed by on his way to the Prefecture, and the
elderly gentleman or the "loafer" would at times run after
these officials to ask for some trifling information. The person
addressed replied and passed on ; and then the "loafer" and the
gentleman would join each other and laughingly exclaim:
"Good ! — there's another who doesn't recognize us."
And in truth the pair had just cause for exultation, good
reason to be proud, for of some twelve or fifteen comrades they
accosted, not one recognized the two detectives. Lecoq and
Father Absinthe. For the "loafer" was none other than our
hero, and the gentleman of such eminent respectability his faith-
ful lieutenant.
"Ah !" quoth the latter with admiration, "I am not surprised
they don't recognize me, since I can't recognize myself. No
one but you, Monsieur Lecoq, could have so transformed me."
Unfortunately for Lecoq's vanity, the good fellow spoke at
206 MONSIEUR LECOQ
a moment when the time for idle conversation had passed. The
prison van was just crossing the bridge at a brisk trot.
"Attention !" exclaimed the young detective, "there comes
our friend ! Quick ! — to your post ; remember my directions,
and keep your eyes open !"
Near them, on the quay, was a large pile of timber, behind
which Father Absinthe immediately concealed himself, while
Lecoq, seizing a spade that was lying idle, hurried to a little
distance and began digging in the sand. They did well to
make haste. The van came onward and turned the corner. It
passed the two detectives, and with a noisy clang rolled under
the heavy arch leading to "la Souriciere." May was inside, as
Lecoq assured himself on recognizing the keeper sitting beside
the driver.
The van remained in the courtyard for more than a quarter
of an hour. When it reappeared, the driver had left his perch
and the quay opposite the Palais de Justice, threw a covering
over his horses, lighted his pipe, and quietly walked away. The
moment for action was now swiftly approaching.
For a few minutes the anxiety of the two watchers amounted
to actual agony ; nothing stirred — nothing moved. But at last
the door of the van was opened with infinite caution, and a
pale, frightened face became visible. It was the face of May.
The prisoner cast a rapid glance around him. No one was in
sight. Then as swiftly and as stealthily as a cat he sprang
to the ground, noiselessly closed the door of the vehicle, and
walked quietly toward the bridge.
Lecoq breathed again. He had been asking himself if some
trifling circumstance could have been forgotten or neglected,
thus disarranging all his plans. He had been wondering if this
strange man would refuse the dangerous liberty which had been
offered him. But he had been anxious without cause. May
had fled ; not thoughtlessly, but with premeditation.
From the moment when he was left alone, apparently for-
gotten, in the insecurely locked compartment, until he opened
the door and glanced around him, sufficient time had elapsed
for a man of his intellect and discernment to analyze and cal-
culate all the chances of so grave a step. Hence, if he had
stepped into the snare laid for him, it must be with a full
knowledge of the risks he had to run. He and Lecoq were
alone together, free in the streets of Paris, armed with mutual
distrust, equally obliged to resort to strategy, and forced to
MONSIEUR LECOQ 207
hide from each other. Lecoq, it is true, had an auxiliary —
Father Absinthe. But who could say that May would not be
aided by his redoubtable accomplice ? Hence, it was a veritable
duel, the result of which depended entirely upon the courage,
skill, and coolness of the antagonists.
All these thoughts flashed through the young detective's brain
with the quickness of lightning. Throwing down his spade,
and running toward a sergeant de ville, who was just coming
out of the Palais de Justice, he gave him a letter which was
ready in his pocket. "Take this to M. Segmuller at once ; it
is a matter of importance," said he.
The policeman attempted to question this "loafer" who was
in correspondence with the magistrates ; but Lecoq had already
darted off on the prisoner's trail.
May had covered but a short distance. He was sauntering
along with his hands in his pockets ; his head high in the air,
his manner composed and full of assurance. Had he reflected
that it would be dangerous to run while so near the prison
from which he had just escaped? Or was he of opinion that
as an opportunity of flight had been willingly furnished him,
there was no danger of immediate rearrest? This was a point
Lecoq could not decide. At all events, May showed no signs
of quickening his pace even after crossing the bridge ; and it
was with the same tranquil manner that he next crossed the
Quai aux Fleurs and turned into the Rue de la Cite.
Nothing in his bearing or appearance proclaimed him to
be an escaped prisoner. Since his trunk — that famous trunk
which he pretended to have left at the Hotel de Mariembourg
— had been returned to him, he had been well supplied with
clothing: and he never failed, when summoned before the mag-
istrate, to array himself in his best apparel. The garments
he wore that day were black cloth, and their cut, combined
with his manner, gave him the appearance of a working man
of the better class taking a holiday.
His tread, hitherto firm and decided, suddenly became uncer-
tain when, after crossing the Seine, he reached the Rue St.
Jacques. He walked more slowly, frequently hesitated, and
glanced continually at the shops on either side of the way.
"Evidently he is seeking something," thought Lecoq: "but
what ?"
It was not long before he ascertained. Seeing a second-hand-
clothes shop close by, May entered in evident haste. Lecoq at
208 MONSIEUR LECOQ
once stationed himself under a gateway on the opposite side of
the street, and pretended to be busily engaged lighting a ciga-
rette. The criminal being momentarily out of sight, Father
Absinthe thought he could approach without danger.
"Ah, well," said he, "there's our man changing his fine clothes
for coarser garments. He will ask for the difference in
money; and they will give it him. You told me this morning:
'May without a sou' — that's the trump card in our game !"
"Nonsense ! Before we begin to lament, let us wait and see
what happens. It is not likely that shopkeeper will give him
any money. He won't buy clothing of the first passer-by."
Father Absinthe withdrew to a little distance. He distrusted
these reasons, but not Lecoq who gave them.
In the mean while, in his secret soul, Lecoq was cursing him-
self. Another blunder, thought he, another weapon left in the
hands of the enemy. How was it that he, who fancied himself
so shrewd, had not foreseen this emergency? Calmness of mind
returned, however, a moment afterward when he saw May
emerge from the shop attired as when he entered it. Luck
had for once been in the young detective's favor.
May actually staggered when he stepped out on the pave-
ment. His bitter disappointment could be read in his counte-
nance, which disclosed the anguish of a drowning man who sees
the frail plank which was his only hope of salvation snatched
from his grasp by the ruthless waves.
What could have taken place? This Lecoq must know with-
out a moment's delay. He gave a peculiar whistle, to warn
his companion that he momentarily abandoned the pursuit of
him ; and having received a similar signal in response, he en-
tered the shop. The owner was still standing behind the
counter. Lecoq wasted no time in parleying. He merely
showed his card to acquaint the man with his profession, and
curtlv asked: "What did the fellow want who was just in
here?"
The shopkeeper seemed embarrassed. "It's a long story," he
stammered.
"Then tell it !" said Lecoq, surprised at the man's hesitation.
"Oh, it's very simple. About twelve days ago a man entered
my shop with a bundle under his arm. He claimed to be a
countryman of mine."
"Are you an Alsatian?"
"Yes, sir. Well, I went with this man to the wine-shop at
MONSIEUR LECOQ 209
the corner, where he ordered a bottle of good wine : and while
we drank together, he asked me if I would consent to keep the
package he had with him until one of his cousins came to
claim it. To prevent any mistake, this cousin was to say cer-
tain words — a countersign, as it were. I refused, shortly and
decidedly, for the very month before I had got into trouble
and had been charged with receiving stolen goods, all by oblig-
ing a person in this way. Well, you never saw a man so vexed
and so surprised. What made me all the more determined in my
refusal was that he offered me a good round sum in payment
for my trouble. This only increased my suspicion, and I per-
sisted in my refusal."
The shopkeeper paused to take breath ; but Lecoq was on
fire with impatience. "And what then?" he insisted.
"Well, he paid for the wine and went away. I had forgotten
all about the matter until that man came in here just now, and
after asking me if I hadn't a package for him, which had been
left by one of his cousins, began to say some peculiar words —
the countersign, no doubt. W'hen I replied that I had nothing
at all he turned as white as his shirt ; and I thought he was
going to faint. All my suspicions came back to me. So when
he afterward proposed that I should buy his clothes, I told
him I couldn't think of it."
All this was plain enough to Lecoq. "And this cousin who
was here a fortnight ago, what was he like ?" asked he.
"He was a tall, rather corpulent man, with a ruddy com-
plexion, and white whiskers. Ah ! I should recognize him in
an instant !"
"The accomplice !" exclaimed Lecoq.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing that would interest you. Thank you. I am in a
hurry. You will see me again : good morning."
Lecoq had not remained five minutes in the shop : and yet,
when he emerged, May and Father Absinthe were nowhere in
sight. Still, the young detective was not at all uneasy on that
score. In making arrangements with his old colleague for this
pursuit Lecoq had foreseen such a situation, and it had been
agreed that if one of them were obliged to remain behind, the
other, who was closely following May, should from time to
time make chalk marks on the walls, shutters, and facings of
the shops, so as to indicate the route, and enable his com-
panion to rejoin him. Hence, in order to know which way to
210 MONSIEUR LECOQ
go, Lecoq had only to glance at the buildings around him. The
task was neither long nor difficult, for on the front of the
third shop beyond that of the second-hand-clothes dealer a
superb dash of the crayon instructed him to turn into the Rue
Saint-Jacques.
On he rushed in that direction, his mind busy at work with
the incident that had just occurred. What a terrible warning
that old-clothes dealer's declaration had been ! Ah ! that myste-
rious accomplice was a man of foresight. He had even done
his utmost to insure his comrade's salvation in the event of his
being allowed to escape. What did the package the shopkeeper
had spoken of contain? Clothes, no doubt. Everything neces-
sary for a complete disguise — money, papers, a forged passport
most likely.
While these thoughts were rushing through Lecoq's mind,
he had reached the Rue Soufflot. where he paused for an
instant to learn his way from the walls. This was the work
of a second. A long chalk mark on a watchmaker's shop pointed
to the Boulevard Saint-Michel, whither the young detective at
once directed his steps. "The accomplice," said he to himself,
resuming his meditation, "didn't succeed with that old-clothes
dealer ; but he isn't a man to be disheartened by one rebuff.
He has certainly taken other measures. How shall I divine
what they are in order to defeat them?"
The supposed murderer had crossed the Boulevard Saint-
Michel, and had then taken to the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, as
Father Absinthe's dashes of the crayon proclaimed with many
eloquent flourishes.
"One circumstance reassures me," the young detective mur-
mured, "May's going to this shop, and his consternation on
finding that there was nothing for him there. The accomplice
had informed him of his plans, but had not been able to inform
him of their failure. Hence, from this hour, the prisoner is
left to his own resources. The chain that bound him to his
accomplice is broken ; there is no longer an understanding be-
tween them. Everything depends now upon keeping them
apart. Yes, everything lies in that!"
Ah ! how Lecoq rejoiced that he had succeeded in having
May transferred to another prison; for he was convinced that
the accomplice had warned May of the attempt he was going
to make with the old-clothes dealer on the very evening before
May's removal to Mazas. Hence, it had not been possible to
MONSIEUR LECOQ 211
acquaint him with the failure of this scheme or the substitution
of another.
Still following the chalk marks, Lecoq now reached the
Odeon theatre. Here were fresh signs, and what was more,
Father Absinthe could be perceived under the colonnade, stand-
ing in front of one of the book-stalls, and apparently engrossed
in the contemplation of a print.
Assuming the nonchalant manner of the loafer whose garb
he wore, Lecoq took his stand beside his colleague. "Where is
he?" asked the young detective.
"There," replied his companion, with a slight movement of
his head in the direction of the steps.
The fugitive was, indeed, seated on one of the steps at the
side of the theatre, his elbows resting on his knees and his face
hidden in his hands, as if he felt the necessity of concealing
the expression of his face from the passers-by. Undoubtedly,
at that moment, he gave himself up for lost. Alone in the
midst of Paris, without a penny, what was to become of him?
He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was being
watched; that his steps were being dogged, that the first at-
tempt he made to inform his accomplice of his whereabouts
would cost him his secret — the secret which he plainly held
as more precious than life itself, and which, by immense sacri-
fices, he had so far been able to preserve.
Having for some short time contemplated in silence this
unfortunate man whom after all he could but esteem and
admire, Lecoq turned to his old companion: "What did he do
on the way?" he asked.
"He went into the shops of five dealers in second-hand cloth-
ing without success. Then he addressed a man who was passing
with a lot of old rubbish on his shoulder : but the man wouldn't
even answer him."
Lecoq nodded his head thoughtfully. "The moral of this is,
that there's a vast difference between theory and practise." he
remarked. "Here's a fellow who has made some most discern-
ing men believe that he's only a poor devil, a low buffoon.
Well, now he's free; and this so-called Bohemian doesn't even
know how to go to work to sell the clothes on his back. The
comedian who could play his part so well on the stage has
disappeared; while the man remains — the man who has always
been rich, and knows nothing of the vicissitudes of life."
The young detective suddenly ceased moralizing, for May
212 MONSIEUR LECOQ
had risen from his seat. Lecoq was only ten yards distant, and
could see that his face was pallid. His attitude expressed pro-
found dejection and one could read his indecision in his eyes.
Perhaps he was wondering if it would not be best -to return
and place himself again in the hands of his jailers, since he
was without the resources upon which he had depended.
After a little, however, he shook off the torpor that had for
a time overpowered him ; his eyes brightened, and, with a
gesture of defiance, he left the steps, crossed the open square
and walked down the Rue de l'Ancienne-Comedie. He strode
onward now with the brisk, determined step of a man who has
a definite aim in view.
"Who knows where he is going now?" murmured Father
Absinthe, as he trotted along by Lecoq's side.
"I do," replied the young detective. "And the proof is, that
I am going to leave you, and run on in advance, to prepare for
his reception. I may be mistaken, however, and as we must
be prepared for any emergency, leave me the chalk-marks as
you go along. If our man doesn't come to the Hotel de Mariem-
bourg, as I think he will, I shall come back here to start in
pursuit of you again."
Just then an empty cab chanced to be passing, and Lecoq
hastily got into it, telling the driver to take him to the North-
ern Railway Station by the shortest route and as quickly as
possible. As time was precious, he handed the cabman his fare
while on the road, and then began to search his pocket-book,
among the various documents confided to him by M. Seg-
muller, for a particular paper he would now require.
Scarcely had the cab stopped at the Place de Roubaix than
the young detective alighted and ran toward the Hotel de
Mariembourg, where, as on the occasion of his first visit, he
found Madame Milner standing on a chair in front of her bird-
cage, obstinately trying to teach her starling German, while
the bird with equal obstinacy repeated : "Camille ! where is
Camille?"
On perceiving the individual of questionable mien who had
presumed to cross her threshold, the pretty widow did not deign
to change her position.
"What do you want?" she asked in a curt, sharp voice.
"I am the nephew of a messenger at the Palais de Justice,"
replied Lecoq with an awkward bow, in perfect keeping with
his attire. "On going to see my uncle this morning, I found
MONSIEUR LECOQ 213
him laid up with rheumatism; and he asked me to bring you
this paper in his stead. It is a summons for you to appear at
once before the investigating magistrate."
This reply induced Madame Milner to abandon her perch.
"Very well," she replied after glancing at the summons ; "give
me time to throw a shawl over my shoulder, and I'll start."
Lecoq withdrew with another awkward bow ; but he had not
reached the street before a significant grimace betrayed his
inward satisfaction. She had duped him once, and now he had
repaid her. On looking round him he perceived a half-built
house at the corner of the Rue St. Quentin, and being momen-
tarily in want of a hiding-place he concluded that he had best
conceal himself there. The pretty widow had only asked for
sufficient time to slip on a shawl before starting ; but then it
so happened that she was rather particular as to her personal
appearance — and such a plump, attractive little body as herself,
having an eye perhaps to renewed wedlock, could not possibly
be expected to tie her bonnet strings in less than a quarter of
an hour. Hence, Lecoq's sojourn behind the scaffolding of the
half-built house proved rather longer than he had expected, and
at the thought that May might arrive at any moment he fairly
trembled with anxiety. How much was he in advance of the
fugitive? Half an hour, perhaps! And he had accomplished
only half his task.
At last, however, the coquettish landlady made her appear-
ance as radiant as a spring morning. She probably wished to
make up for the time she had spent over her toilet, for as she
turned the corner she began to run. Lecoq waited till she was
out of sight, and then bounding from his place of concealment,
he burst into the Hotel de Mariembourg like a bombshell.
Fritz, the Bavarian lad, must have been warned that the
house was to be left in his sole charge for some hours: for
having comfortably installed himself in his mistress's own par-
ticular armchair, with his legs resting on another one, he had
already commenced to fall asleep.
"Wake up!" shouted Lecoq; "wake up!"
At the sound of this voice, which rang like a trumpet blast,
Fritz sprang to his feet, frightened half out of his wits.
"You see that I am an agent of the Prefecture of Police,"
said the visitor, showing his card. "Now, if you wish to avoid
all sorts of disagreeable things, the least of which will be a
sojourn in prison, you must obey me."
214 MONSIEUR LECOQ
The boy trembled in every limb. "Yes, mein Herr — Mon-
sieur, I mean — I will obey you," he stammered. "But what
am I to do?"
"Oh, very little. A man is coming here in a moment: you
will know him by his black clothes and his long beard. You
must answer him word for word as I tell you. And remember,
if you make any mistake, you will suffer for it."
"You may rely upon me, sir," replied Fritz. "I have an
excellent memory."
The prospect of imprisonment had terrified him into abject
submission. He spoke the truth; he would have been willing
to say or do anything just then. Lecoq profited by this disposi-
tion; and then clearly and concisely gave the lad his instruc-
tions. "And now," added he, "I must see and hear you. Where
can I hide myself?"
Fritz pointed to a glass door. "In the dark room there, sir.
By leaving the door ajar you can hear and you can see every-
thing through the glass."
Without another word Lecoq darted into the room in question.
Not a moment too soon, however, for the spring bell of the
outer door announced the arrival of a visitor. It was May.
"I wish to speak to the landlady," he said.
"What landlady?" replied the lad.
"The person who received me when I came here six weeks
ago-"
"Oh, I understand," interrupted Fritz; "it's Madame Milner
you want to see ; but you have come too late ; she sold the house
about a month ago, and has gone back to Alsace."
May stamped his foot and uttered a terrible oath. "I have
come to claim something from her," he insisted.
"Do you want me to call her successor?"
Concealed behind the glass door, Lecoq could not help admir-
ing Fritz, who was uttering these glaring falsehoods with that
air of perfect candor which gives the Germans such a vast
advantage over the Latin races, who seem to be lying even when
they are telling the truth.
"Her successor would order me off," exclaimed May. "I
came to reclaim the money I paid for a room I never occu-
pied."
"Such money is never refunded."
May uttered some incoherent threat, in which such words
as "downright robbery" and "justice" could be distinguished,
MONSIEUR LECOQ 215
and then abruptly walked back into the street, slamming the
door behind him.
"Well! did I answer properly?" asked Fritz triumphantly as
Lecoq emerged from his hiding-place.
"Yes, perfectly," replied the detective. And then pushing
aside the boy, who was standing in his way, he dashed after
May.
A vague fear almost suffocated him. It had struck him that
the fugitive had not been either surprised or deeply affected by
the news he had heard. He had come to the hotel depending
upon Madame Milner's assistance, and the news of this woman's
departure would naturally have alarmed him, for was she not
the mysterious accomplice's confidential friend? Had May, then,
guessed the trick that had been played upon him? And if so,
how ?
Lecoq's good sense told him plainly that the fugitive must
have been put on his guard, and on rejoining Father Absinthe,
he immediately exclaimed : "May spoke to some one on his way
to the hotel."
"Why, how could you know that?" exclaimed the worthy
man, greatly astonished.
"Ah ! I was sure of it !"
"Who did he speak to ?"
"To a very pretty woman, upon my word ! — fair and plump
as a partridge !"
"Ah ! fate is against us !" exclaimed Lecoq with an oath.
"I run on in advance to Madame Milner's house, so that May
shan't see her. I invent an excuse to send her out of the hotel,
and yet they meet each other."
Father Absinthe gave a despairing gesture. "Ah ! if I had
known !" he murmured ; "but you did not tell me to prevent
May from speaking to the passers-by."
"Never mind, my old friend," said Lecoq, consolingly; "it
couldn't have been helped."
While this conversation was going on, the fugitive had
reached the Faubourg Montmartre, and his pursuers were
obliged to hasten forward and get closer to their man, so that
they might not lose him in the crowd.
"Now," resumed Lecoq when they had overtaken him, "give
me the particulars. Where did they meet?"
"In the Rue Saint-Quentin."
"Which saw the other first?"
216 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"Mav."
"What did the woman say? Did you hear any cry of
surprise?"
"I heard nothing, for I was quite fifty yards off; but by the
woman's manner I could see she was stupefied."
Ah ! if Lecoq could have witnessed the scene, what valuable
deductions he might have drawn from it. "Did they talk for a
long time?" he asked.
"For less than a quarter of an hour."
"Do you know whether Madame Milner gave May money
or not?"
"I can't say. They gesticulated like mad— so violently, indeed,
that I thought they were quarreling."
"They knew they were being watched, and were endeavoring
to divert suspicion."
"If they would only arrest this woman and question her,"
suggested Father Absinthe.
"What good would it do? Hasn't M. Segmuller examined
and cross-examined her a dozen times without drawing any-
thing from her ! Ah ! she's a cunning one. She would declare
that May met her and insisted that she should refund the ten
francs he paid her for his room. We must do our best, how-
ever. If the accomplice has not been warned already, he will
soon be told ; so we must try to keep the two men apart. What
ruse they will employ, I can't divine. But I know that it will
be nothing hackneyed."
Lecoq's presumptions made Father Absinthe nervous. "The
surest way, perhaps," ventured the latter, "would be to lock him
up again !"
"No!" replied the young detective. "I want his secret, and
I'll have it. What will be said of us if we two allow this man
to escape us? He can't be visible and invisible by turns, like
the devil. We'll see what he is going to do now that he's got
some money and a plan— for he has both at the present moment.
I would stake my right hand upon it."
At that same instant, as if May intended to convince
Lecoq of the truth of his suspicion, he entered a tobacconist's
shop and emerged an instant afterward with a cigar in hi*
mouth.
MONSIEUR LECOQ
217
CO the landlady of the Hotel de Mariembourg had given May
money. There could be no further doubt on that point after
the purchase of this cigar. But had they agreed upon any plan ?
Had they had sufficient time to decide on the method that May
was to employ with the view of baffling his pursuit?
It would seem so, since the fugitive's manner had now
changed in more respects than one. If hitherto he had seemed
to care little for the danger of pursuit and capture, at present
he was evidently uneasy and agitated. After walking so long
in the full sunlight, with his head high in the air, he now
slunk along in the shadow of the houses, hiding himself as much
as possible.
"It is evident that his fears have increased in proportion with
his hopes," said Lecoq to his companion. "He was quite un-
nerved when we saw him at the Odeon, and the merest trifle
would have decided him to surrender ; now, however, he thinks
he has a chance to escape with his secret."
The fugitive was following the boulevards, but suddenly he
turned into a side street and made his way toward the Temple,
where, soon afterward, Father Absinthe and Lecoq found him
conversing with one of those importunate dealers in cast-off
garments who consider every passer-by their lawful prey. The
vender and May were evidently debating a question of price;
but the latter was plainly no skilful bargainer, for with a
somewhat disappointed air he soon gave up the discussion and
entered the shop.
"Ah, so now he has some coin he has determined on a cos-
tume," remarked Lecoq. "Isn't that always an escaped prisoner's
first impulse?"
Soon afterward May emerged into the street. His appear-
ance was decidedly changed, for he wore a pair of dark blue
linen trousers, of the type French "navvies" habitually affect,
and a loosely fitting coat of rough woolen material. A gay
silk 'kerchief was knotted about his throat, and a black silk
10 Vol. J — 'Jph
218 MONSIEUR LECOQ
cap was set on one side of his head. Thus attired, he was
scarcely more prepossessing in appearance than Lecoq, and one
would have hesitated before deciding which of the two it would
be preferable to meet at night on a deserted highway.
May seemed very well pleased with his transformation, and
was evidently more at ease in his new attire. On leaving the
shop, however, he glanced suspiciously around him, as if to
ascertain which of the passers-by were watching his move-
ments. He had not parted with his broadcloth suit, but was
carrying it under his arm, wrapped up in a handkerchief. The
only thing he had left behind him was his tall chimney-pot hat.
Lecoq would have liked to enter the shop and make some
inquiries, but he felt that it would be imprudent to do so, for
May had settled his cap on his head with a gesture that left no
doubt as to his intentions. A second later he turned into the
Rue du Temple, and now the chase began in earnest; for the
fugitive proved as swift and agile as a stag, and it was no
small task to keep him well in sight. He had no doubt lived
in England and Germany, since he spoke the language of these
countries like a native ; but one thing was certain — he knew
Paris as thoroughly as the most expert Parisian.
This was shown by the way in which he dashed into the
Rue des Gravelliers. and by the precision of his course through
the many winding streets that lie between the Rue du Temple
and the Rue Beaubourg. He seemed to know this quarter of
the capital by heart ; as well, indeed, as if he had spent half his
life there. He knew all the wine-shops communicating with
two streets — all the byways, passages, and tortuous alleys.
Twice he almost escaped his pursuers, and once his salvation
hung upon a thread. If he had remained in an obscure corner,
where he was completely hidden, only an instant longer, the
two detectives would have passed him by and his safety would
have been assured.
The pursuit presented immense difficulties. Night was coming
on, and with it that light fog which almost invariably accom-
panies a spring sunset. Soon the street-lamps glimmered luridly
in the mist, and then it required a keen eyesight indeed to see
even for a moderate distance. And, to add to this drawback,
the streets were now thronged with workmen returning home
after their daily toil, and with housewives intent on purchasing
provisions for the evening meal, while round about each dwell-
ing there congregated its numerous denizens swarming like
MONSIEUR LECOQ 219
bees around a hive. May. however, took advantage of every
opportunity to mislead the persons who might be following him.
Groups collected around some cheap-jack's stall, street accidents,
a block of vehicles — everything was utilized by him with such
marvelous presence of mind that he often glided through the
crowd without leaving any sign of his passage.
At last he left the neighborhood of the Rue des Gravelliers
and made for a broader street. Reaching the Boulevard de
Sebastopol, he turned to the left, and took a fresh start. He
darted on with marvelous rapidity, with his elbows pressed close
to his body — husbanding his breath and timing his steps with
the precision of a dancing-master. Never pausing, and without
once turning his head, he ever hurried on. And it was at the
same regular but rapid pace that he covered the Boulevard de
Sebastopol, crossed the Place du Chatelet, and proceeded to
mount the Boulevard Saint-Michel.
Here he suddenly halted before a cab-stand. He spoke to
one of the drivers, opened the door of his vehicle, and jumped
in. The cab started off at a rapid pace. But May was not
inside. He had merely passed through the vehicle, getting out
at the other door, and just as the driver was departing for an
imaginary destination May slipped into an adjacent cab which
left the stand at a gallop. Perhaps, after so many ruses, after
such formidable efforts after this last stratagem — perhaps May
believed that he was free.
He was mistaken. Behind the cab which bore him onward,
and while he leaned back against the cushions to rest, a man
was running ; and this man was Lecoq. Poor Father Absinthe
had fallen by the way. In front of the Palais de Justice he
paused, exhausted and breathless, and Lecoq had little hope of
seeing him again, since he had all he could do to keep his man
in sight without stopping to make the chalk-marks agreed upon.
May had instructed his driver to take him to the Place
dTtalie : requesting him. moreover, to stop exactly in the middle
of the square. This was about a hundred paces from the
police station in which he had been temporarily confined with
the Widow Chupin. When the vehicle halted, he sprang to the
ground and cast a rapid glance around him, as if looking for
some dreaded shadow. He could see nothing, however, for
although surprised by the sudden stoppage, Lecoq had yet had
time to fling himself flat on his stomach under the body of the
cab, regardless of all danger of being crushed by the wheels.
220 MONSIEUR LFXOO
May was apparently reassured. He paid the cabman and then
retraced his course toward the Rue Mouffetard.
With a bound, Lecoq was on his feet again, and started after
the fugitive as eagerly as a ravenous dog might follow a bone.
He had reached the shadow cast by the large trees in the outer
boulevards when a faint whistle resounded in his ears. "Father
Absinthe !" he exclaimed in a tone of delighted surprise.
"The same," replied the old detective, "and quite rested,
thanks to a passing cabman who picked me up and brought
me here — "
"Oh, enough !" interrupted Lecoq. "Let us keep our eyes
open."
May was now walking quite leisurely. He stopped first before
one and then before another of the numerous wine-shops and
eating-houses that abound in this neighborhood. He was appar-
ently looking for some one or something, which of the two
Lecoq could not, of course, divine. However, after peering
through the glass doors of three of these establishments and
then turning away, the furitive at last entered the fourth. The
two detectives, who were enabled to obtain a good view of the
shop inside, saw the supposed murderer cross the room and seat
himself at a table where a man of unusually stalwart build,
ruddy-faced and gray-whiskered, was already seated.
"The accomplice !" murmured Father Absinthe.
Was this really the redoubtable accomplice? Under other
circumstances Lecoq would have hesitated to place dependence
on a vague similarity in personal appearance ; but here prob-
abilities were so strongly in favor of Father Absinthe's assertion
that the young detective at once admitted its truth. Was not
this meeting the logical sequence of May and Madame Milner's
chance interview a few hours before ?
"May," thought Lecoq, "began by taking all the money
Madame Milner had about her, and then instructed her to tell
his accomplice to come and wait for him in some cheap restau-
rant near here. If he hesitated and looked inside the different
establishments, it was only because he hadn't been able to
specify any particular one. Now, if they don't throw aside the
mask, it will be because May is not sure he has eluded pursuit
and because the accomplice fears that Madame Milner may have
been followed."
The accomplice, if this new personage was really the accom-
plice, had resorted to a disguise not unlike that which May and
MONSIEUR LECOQ 221
Lecoq had both adopted. He wore a dirty blue blouse and a
hideous old slouch hat, which was well-nigh in tatters. He
had. in fact, rather exaggerated his make-up, for his sinister
physiognomy attracted especial attention even beside the de-
praved and ferocious faces of the other customers in the shop.
For this low eating-house was a regular den of thieves and
cut-throats. Among those present there were not four work-
men really worthy of that name. The others occupied in eat-
ing and drinking there were all more or less familiar with
prison life. The least to be dreaded were the barriere loafers,
easily recognized by their glazed caps and their loosely knotted
neckerchiefs. The majority of the company appeared to consist
of this class. .
And yet May, that man who was so strongly suspected of
belonging to the highest social sphere, seemed to be perfectly
at home. He called for the regular "ordinary" and a "chopine"
of wine, and then, after gulping down his soup, bolted great
pieces of beef, pausing every now and then to wipe his mouth
on the back of his sleeve. But was he conversing with his
neighbor? This it was impossible to discern through the glass
door, all obscured by smoke and steam.
"I must go in," said Lecoq, resolutely. "I must get a place
near them, and listen."
"Don't think of such a thing," said Father Absinthe. "What
if they recognized you?"
"Thev won't recognize me."
"If they do, they'll kill you."
Lecoq made a careless gesture.
"I certainly think that they wouldn't hesitate to rid them-
selves of me at any cost. But, nonsense ! A detective who
is afraid to risk his life is no better than a low spy. Why !
you never saw even Gevrol flinch."
Perhaps Father Absinthe had wished to ascertain if his com-
panion's courage was equal to his .shrewdness and sagacity.
If such were the case he was satisfied on this score now.
"You, my friend, will remain here to follow them if they
leave hurriedly," resumed Lecoq, who in the mean while had
already turned the handle of the door. Entering with a care-
less air and taking a seat at a table near that occupied by the
fugitive and the man in the slouch hat, he called for a plate
of meat and a "chopine" of wine in a guttural voice.
The fugitive and the ruffian opposite him were talking, but
222 MONSIEUR LECOQ
like strangers who had met by chance, and not at all after the
fashion of friends who have met at a rendezvous. They spoke
in the jargon of their pretended rank in life, not that puerile
slang met with in romances descriptive of low life, but that
obscene, vulgar dialect which it is impossible to render, so
changeable and diverse is the signification of its words.
"What wonderful actors !" thought Lecoq ; "what perfection !
what method ! How I should be deceived if I were not abso-
lutely certain !"
For the moment the man in the slouch hat was giving a de-
tailed account of the different prisons in France. He described
the governors of the principal houses of detention ; explained
the divergencies of discipline in different establishments ; and
recounted that the food at Poissy was ten times better than that
at Fontevrault.
Lecoq, having finished his repast, ordered a small glass of
brandy, and, leaning his back against the wall and closing his
eyes, pretended to fall asleep. His ears were wide open, how-
ever, and he carefully listened to the conversation.
Soon May began talking in his turn; and he narrated his
story exactly as he had related it to the magistrate, from the
murder up to his escape, without forgetting to mention the sus-
picions attached to his identity — suspicions which afforded him
great amusement, he said. He added that he would be perfectly
happy if he had money enough to take him back to Germany ;
but unfortunately he only had a few sous and didn't know
where or how to procure any more. He had not even suc-
ceeded in selling some clothing which belonged to him, and
which he had with him in a bundle.
At these words the man in the tattered felt hat declared that
he had too good a heart to leave a comrade in such embarrass-
ment. He knew, in the very same street, an obliging dealer
in such articles, and he offered to take May to his place at
once. May's only response was to rise, saying: "Let us start.''
And they did start, with Lecoq at their heels.
They walked rapidly on until passing the Rue Fer-a-Moulin,
when they turned into a narrow, dimly lighted alley, and entered
a dingy dwelling.
"Run and ask the concierge if there are not two doors by
which any one can leave this house," said Lecoq, addressing
Father Absinthe.
The latter instantly obeyed. He learned, however, that the
MONSIEUR LECOQ 223
house had only one street door, and accordingly the two detec-
tives waited. "We are discovered !" murmured Lecoq. "I am
sure of it. May must have recognized me, or the boy at the
Hotel de Mariembourg has described me to the accomplice."
Father Absinthe made no response, for just then the two
men came out of the house. May was jingling some coins in
his hand, and seemed to be in a very bad temper. "What infer-
nal rascals these receivers are !" he grumbled.
However, although he had only received a small sum for his
clothing, he probably felt that his companion's kindness deserved
some reward ; for immediately afterward he proposed they
should take a drink together, and with that object in view they
entered a wine-shop close by. They remained here for more
than an hour, drinking together ; and only left this establish-
ment to enter one a hundred paces distant. Turned out by the
landlord, who was anxious to shut up, the two friends now
took refuge in the next one they found open. Here again they
were soon turned out and then they hurried to another boozing-
den — and yet again to a fifth. And so, after drinking innu-
merable bottles of wine, they contrived to reach the Place Saint-
Michel at about one o'clock in the morning. Here, however,
they found nothing to drink ; for all the wine-shops were
closed.
The two men then held a consultation together, and. after
a short discussion, they walked arm-in-arm toward the Fau-
bourg Saint-Germain, like a pair of friends. The liquor they
had imbibed was seemingly producing its effect, for they often
staggered in their walk, and talked not merely loudly but both
at the same time. In spite of the danger, Lecoq advanced near
enough to catch some fragments of their conversation ; and the
words "a good stroke." and "money enough to satisfy one,"
reached his ears.
Father Absinthe's confidence wavered. "All this will end
badly," he murmured.
"Don't be alarmed," replied his friend. "I frankly confess
that I don't understand the maneuvres of these wily confed-
erates, but what does that matter after all ; now the two men
are together, I feel sure of success — sure. If one runs away,
the other will remain, and Gevrol shall soon see which is
right, he or I."
Meanwhile the two drunkards had slackened their pace. By
the manner in which they examined the magnificent mansions
224 MONSIEUR LECOQ
of the Faubourg Saint-German, one might have suspected them
of the very worst intentions. In the Rue de Varrennes, at
only a few steps from the Rue de la Chaise, they suddenly
paused before a wall of moderate height surrounding an im-
mense garden. The man in the slouch hat now did the talk-
ing, and explained to May — as the detectives could tell by his
gestures — that the mansion to which the garden belonged had
its front entrance in the Rue de Grenelle.
"Bah !" growled Lecoq, "how much further will they carry
this nonsense?"
They carried it farther than the young detective had ever
imagined. May suddenly sprang on to his companion's shoul-
ders, and raised himself to a level with the summit of the
wall. An instant afterward a heavy thud might have been
heard. He had let himself drop into the garden. The man in
the slouch hat remained in the street to watch.
The enigmatical fugitive had accomplished this strange, in-
conceivable design so swiftly that Lecoq had neither the time
nor the desire to oppose him. His amazement at this unex-
pected misfortune was so great that for an instant he could
neither think nor move. But he quickly regained his self-
possession, and at once decided what was to be done. With
a sure eye he measured the distance separating him from May's
accomplice, and with three bounds he was upon him. The man
in the slouched hat attempted to shout, but an iron hand stifled
the cry in his throat. He tried to escape, and to beat off his
assailant, but a vigorous kick stretched him on the ground as
if he had been a child. Before he had time to think of further
resistance he was bound, gagged, and carried, half-suffocated,
to the corner of the Rue de la Chaise. No sound had been
heard; not a word, not an ejaculation, not even a noise of
shuffling — nothing. Any suspicious sound might have reached
May, on the other side of the wall, and warned him of what
was going on.
"How strange," murmured Father Absinthe, too much amazed
to lend a helping hand to his younger colleague. "How strange !
Who would have supposed — "
"Enough ! enough !" interrupted Lecoq, in that harsh, impe-
rious voice, which imminent peril always gives to energetic
men. "Enough ! — we will talk to-morrow. I must run away
for a minute, and you will remain here. If May shows himself,
capture him ; don't allow him to escape."
MONSIEUR LECOQ 225
"I understand ; but what is to be done with the man who is
lying there?"
"Leave him where he is. I have bound him securely, so
there is nothing to fear. When the night-police pass, we will
give him into charge — "
He paused and listened. A short way down the street, heavy,
measured footsteps could be heard approaching.
"There they ccme," said Father Absinthe.
"Ah ! I dared not hope it ! I shall have a good chance now."
At the same moment, two sergeants de ville, whose attention
had been attracted by this group at the street corner, has-
tened toward them. In a few words, Lecoq explained the situa-
tion, and it was decided that one of the sergeants should take
the accomplice to the station-house, while the other remained
with Father Absinthe to cut off May's retreat.
"And now," said Lecoq, "I will run round to the Rue de
Grenelle and give the alarm. To whose house does this garden
belong?"
"What !" replied one of the sergeants in surprise, "don't
you know the gardens of the Duke de Sairmeuse, the famous
duke who is a millionaire ten times over, and who was formerly
the friend — "
"Ah, yes, I know, I know !" said Lecoq.
"The thief," resumed the sergeant, "walked into a pretty trap
when he got over that wall. There was a reception at the
mansion this evening, as there is every Monday, and every one
in the house is still up. The guests are only just leaving, for
there were five or six carriages still at the door as we
passed by."
Lecoq darted off extremely troubled by what he had just
heard. It now seemed to him that if May had got into this
garden, it was not for the purpose of committing a robbery,
but in the hope of throwing his pursuers off the track, and
making his escape by way of the Rue de Grenelle, which he
hoped to do unnoticed, in the bustle and confusion attending
the departure of the guests.
On reaching the Hotel de Sairmeuse, a princely dwelling, the
long facade of which was brilliantly illuminated. Lecoq found
a last carriage just coming from the courtyard, while several
footmen were extinguishing the lights, and an imposing
"Suisse," dazzling to behold in his gorgeous livery, prepared
to close the heavy double doors of the grand entrance.
226 MONSIEUR LECOQ
The young detective advanced toward this important per-
sonage: "Is this the Hotel de Sairmeuse?" he inquired.
The Suisse suspended his work to survey the audacious vaga-
bond who ventured to question him, and then in a harsh voice
replied: "I advise you to pass on. I want none of your
jesting."
Lecoq had forgotten that he was clad as a barriere loafer.
"Ah," he rejoined, "I'm not what I seem to be. I'm an agent
of the secret service ; by name Lecoq. Here is my card, and
I came to tell you that an escaped criminal has just scaled the
garden wall in the rear of the Hotel de Sairmeuse."
"A crim-in-al?"
The young detective thought a little exaggeration could
do no harm, and might perhaps insure him more ready aid.
"Yes," he replied; "and one of the most dangerous kind — a man
who has the blood of three victims already on his hands. We
have just arrested his accomplice, who helped him over the
wall."
The flunky's ruby nose paled perceptibly. "I will summon
the servants," he faltered, and suiting the action to the word,
he was raising his hand to the bell-chain, employed to an-
nounce the arrival of visitors, when Lecoq hastily stopped him.
"A word first!" said he. "Might not the fugitive have
passed through the house and escaped by this door, without
being seen? In that case he would be far away by this time."
"Impossible!"
"But why?"
"Excuse me, but I know what I am saying. First, the door
opening into the garden is closed; it is only open during grand
receptions, not for our ordinary Monday drawing-rooms.
Secondly, Monseigneur requires me to stand on the threshold
of the street door when he is receiving. To-day he repeated
this order, and you may be sure that I haven't disobeyed him."
"Since that's the case," said Lecoq, slightly reassured, "we
shall perhaps succeed in finding our man. Warn the servants,
but without ringing the bell. The less noise we make, the
greater will be our chance of success."
In a moment the fifty servants who peopled the ante-rooms,
stables, and kitchens of the Hotel de Sairmeuse were gathered
together. The great lanterns in the coach houses and stables
were lighted, and the entire garden was illuminated as by
enchantment.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 227
"If May is concealed here." thought Lecoq, delighted to
see so many auxiliaries, "it will be impossible for him to escape."
But it was in vain that the gardens were thoroughly ex-
plored over and over again ; no one could be found. The sheds
where gardening tools were kept, the conservatories, the sum-
mer houses, the two rustic pavilions at the foot of the garden,
even the dog kennels, were scrupulously visited, but all in
vain. The trees, with the exception of some horse-chestnuts at
the rear of the garden, were almost destitute of leaves, but
they were not neglected on that account. An agile boy. armed
with a lantern, climbed each tree, and explored even the top-
most branches.
"The murderer must have left by the way he came," obsti-
nately repeated the Suisse who had armed himself with a
huge pistol, and who would not let go his hold on Lecoq, fear-
ing an accident perhaps.
To convince the Suisse of his error it was necessary for the
young detective to place himself in communication with Father
Absinthe and the sergeant de ville on the other side of the
wall. As Lecoq had expected, the latter both replied that they
had not once taken their eyes off the wall, and that not even
a mouse had crossed into the street.
The exploration had hitherto been conducted after a some-
what haphazard fashion, each of the servants obeying his own
inspiration ; but the necessity of a methodically conducted
search was now recognized. Accordingly, Lecoq took such
measures that not a corner, not a recess, could possibly escape
scrutiny ; and he was dividing the task between his willing
assistants, when a new-comer appeared upon the scene. This
was a grave, smooth-faced individual in the attire of a notary.
"Monsieur Otto, Monseigneur's first valet de chambre." the
Suisse murmured in Lecoq's ear.
This important personage came on behalf of Monsieur le
Due (he did not say "Monseigneur") to inquire the meaning
of all this uproar. When he had received an explanation, M.
Otto condescended to compliment Lecoq on his efficiency, and
to recommend that the house should be searched from garret
to cellar. These precautions alone would allay the fears of
Madame la Duchesse.
He then departed, and the search began again with renewed
ardor. A mouse concealed in the gardens of the Hotel de Sair-
meuse could not have escaped discovery, so minute were the
228 MONSIEUR LECOQ
investigations. Not a single object of any size was left undis-
turbed. The trees were examined leaf by leaf, one might almost
sav. Occasionally the discouraged servants proposed to abandon
the search; but Lecoq urged them on. He ran from one to the
other, entreating and threatening by turns, swearing that he
asked only one more effort, and that this effort would assuredly
be crowned with success. Vain promises ! The fugitive could
not be found.
The evidence was now conclusive. To persist in searching
the garden any longer would be worse than folly. Accordingly,
the young detective decided to recall his auxiliaries. "That's
enough," he said, in a despondent voice. "It is now certain
that the criminal is no longer in the garden."
Was he cowering in some corner of the great house, white
with fear, and trembling at the noise made by his pursuers?
One might reasonably suppose this to be the case; and such
was the opinion of the servants. Above all, such was the
opinion of the Suisse who renewed with growing assurance
his affirmations of a few moments before.
"I have not moved from the threshold of the house to-night,"
he said, "and I should certainly have seen any person who
passed out."
"Let us go into the house, then," said Lecoq. "But first
let me ask my companion, who is waiting for me in the street,
to join me. It is unnecessary for him to remain any longer
where he is."
When Father Absinthe had responded to the summons all
the lower doors were carefully closed and guarded, and the
search recommenced inside the house, one of the largest and
most magnificent residences of the Faubourg Saint-Germain.
But at this moment all the treasures of the universe could
not have won a single glance or a second's attention from Lecoq.
All his thoughts were occupied with the fugitive. He passed
through several superb drawing-rooms, along an unrivaled
picture gallery, across a magnificent dining-room, with side-
boards groaning beneath their load of massive plate, without
paying the slightest attention to the marvels of art and uphols-
tery that were offered to his view. He hurried on, accompanied by
the servants who were guiding and lighting him. He lifted heavy
articles of furniture as easily as he would have lifted a feather;
he moved each chair and sofa from its place, he explored each
cupboard and wardrobe, and drew back in turns all the wall-
MONSIEUR LECOQ 229
hangings, window-curtains, and portieres. A more complete
search would have been impossible. In each of tbe rooms and
passages that Lecoq entered not a nook was left unexplored,
not a corner was forgotten. At length, after two hours' con-
tinuous work, Lecoq returned to the first floor. Only five or
six servants had accompanied him on hi^ tour of inspection.
The others had dropped off one by one, weary of this adventure,
which had at first possessed the attractions of a pleasure party.
"You have seen everything, gentlemen," declared an old
footman.
"Everything!" interrupted the Suisse, "everything! Certainly
not. There are the private apartments of Monseigneur and
those of Madame la Duchesse still to be explored."
"Alas!" murmured Lecoq, "What good would it be?"
But the Suisse had already gone to rap gently at one of the
doors opening into the hall. His interest equaled that of the
detectives. They had seen the murderer enter ; he had not
seen him go out; therefore the man was in the house and he
wished him to be found.
The door at which he had knocked soon opened, and the
grave, clean-shaven face of Otto, the duke's first valet de
chambre, showed itself. "What the deuce do you want?" he
asked in surly tones.
"To enter Monseigneur's room," replied the Suisse, "in order
to see if the fugitive has not taken refuge there."
"Are you crazy?" exclaimed the head valet de chambre.
"How could any one have entered here? Besides, I can't
suffer Monsieur le Due to be disturbed. He has been at work
all night, and he is just going to take a bath before going to
bed."
The Suisse seemed very vexed at this rebuff; and Lecoq
was presenting his excuses, when another voice was heard
exclaiming. "Let these worthy men do their duty. Otto."
"Ah ! do you hear that !" exclaimed the Suisse triumphantly.
"Very well, since Monsieur le Due permits it. Come in, I
will light you through the apartments."
Lecoq entered, but it was only for form's sake that he
walked through the different apartments ; a library, an admi-
rable study, and a charming smoking-room. As he was passing
through the bed-chamber, he had the honor of seeing the
Due de Sairmeuse through the half-open door of a small,
white, marble bath-room.
230 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"Ah, well !" cried the duke, affably, "is the fugitive still
invisible?"
"Still invisible, monsieur," Lecoq respectfully replied.
The valet de chambre did not share his master's good
humor. "I think, gentlemen," said he, "that you may spare
yourselves the trouble of visiting the apartments of the duchess.
It is a duty we have taken upon ourselves — the women and I —
and we have looked even in the bureau drawers."
Upon the landing the old footman, who had not ventured
to enter his master's apartments, was awaiting the detectives.
He had doubtless received his orders, for he politely inquired
if they desired anything, and if, after such a fatiguing night,
they would not find some cold meat and a glass of wine ac-
ceptable. Father Absinthe's eyes sparkled. He probably
thought that in this quasi-royal abode they must have deli-
cious things to eat and drink — such viands, indeed, as he had
never tasted in his life. But Lecoq civilly refused, and left
the Hotel de Sairmeuse, reluctantly followed by his old com-
panion.
He was eager to be alone. For several hours he had been
making immense efforts to conceal his rage and despair. May
escaped ! vanished ! evaporated ! The thought drove him almost
mad. What he had declared to be impossible had nevertheless
occurred. In his confidence and pride, he had sworn to
answer for the prisoner's head with his own life; and yet he
had allowed him to slip between his fingers.
When he was once more in the street, he paused in front
of Father Absinthe, and crossing his arms, inquired : "Well,
my friend, what do you think of all this?"
The old detective shook his head, and in serene unconscious-
ness of his want of tact, responded : "I think that Gevrol will
chuckle with delight."
At this mention of his most cruel enemy, Lecoq bounded
from the ground like a wounded bull. "Oh !" he exclaimed.
"Gevrol has not won the battle yet. We have lost May; it is
a great misfortune; but his accomplice remains in our hands.
We hold the crafty man who has hitherto defeated all our
plans, no matter how carefully arranged. He is certainly
shrewd and devoted to his friend ; but we wiil see if his
devotion will withstand the prospect of hard labor in the
penitentiary. And that is what awaits him, if he is silent,
and if he thus accepts the responsibility of aiding and abetting
MONSIEUR LECOQ 231
the fugitive's escape. Oh ! I've no fears — M. Segmuller will
know how to draw the truth out of him."
So speaking, Lecoq brandished his clinched fist with a
threatening air and then, in calmer tones, he added: "But we
must go to the station-house where the accomplice was re-
moved. I wish to question him a little."
f" T was six o'clock, and the dawn was just breaking when
* Father Absinthe and his companion reached the station-house,
where they found the superintendent seated at a small table,
making out his report. He did not move when they entered,
failing to recognize them under their disguises. But when
they mentioned their names, he rose with evident cordiality,
and held out his hand.
"Upon my word !" said he, "I congratulate you on your
capture last night."
Father Absinthe and Lecoq exchanged an anxious look.
"What capture?" they both asked in a breath.
"Why, that individual you sent me last night so carefully
bound."
"Well, what about him?"
The superintendent burst into a hearty laugh. "So you are
ignorant of your good fortune," said he. "Ah ! luck has
favored you. and you will receive a handsome reward."
"Pray tell us what we've captured?" asked Father Absinthe,
impatiently.
"A scoundrel of the deepest dye, an escaped convict, who has
been missing for three months. You must have a description
of him in your pocket — Joseph Couturier, in short."
On hearing these words, Lecoq became so frightfully pale
that Father Absinthe, fearing he was going to faint, raised his
arms to prevent his falling. A chair stood close by, however,
and on this Lecoq allowed himself to drop. "Joseph Couturier,"
he faltered, evidently unconscious of what he was saying.
"Joseph Couturier ! an escaped convict !"
232 MONSIEUR LECOQ
The superintendent certainly did not understand Lecoq's
agitation any better than Father Absinthe's discomfited air.
"You have reason to be proud of your work; your success
will make a sensation this morning," he repeated. "You have
captured a famous prize. I can see Gevrol's nose now when
he hears the news. Only yesterday he was boasting that he
alone was capable of securing this dangerous rascal."
After such an irreparable failure as that which had over-
taken Lecoq, the unintended irony of these compliments was
bitter in the extreme. The superintendent's words of praise
fell on his ears like so many blows from a sledge hammer.
"You must be mistaken," he eventually remarked, rising
from his seat and summoning all his energy to his assistance.
"That man is not Couturier."
"Oh, I'm not mistaken ; you may be quite sure of that. He
fully answers the description appended to the circular ordering
his capture, and even the little finger of his left hand is lacking,
as is mentioned."
"Ah ! that's a proof indeed !" groaned Father Absinthe.
"It is indeed. And I know another one more conclusive
still. Couturier is an old acquaintance of mine. I have had
him in custody before; and he recognized me last night just
as I recognized him."
After this further argument was impossible ; hence it was
in an entirely different tone that Lecoq remarked: "At least,
my friend, you will allow me to address a few questions to
your prisoner."
"Oh ! as many as you like. But first of all, let us bar the
door and place two of my men before it. This Couturier has
a fondness for the open air, and he wouldn't hesitate to dash
out our brains if he only saw a chance of escape."
After taking these precautions, the man was removed from
the cage in which he had been confined. He stepped forward
with a smile on his face, having already recovered that non-
chalant manner common to old offenders who, when in custody,
seem to lose all feeling of anger against the police. They are
not unlike those gamblers who, after losing their last half-
penny, nevertheless willingly shake hands with their adversary.
Couturier at once recognized Lecoq. "Ah !" said he, "It
was you who did that business last night. You can boast of
having a solid fist! You fell upon me very unexpectedly; and
the back of my neck is still the worse for your clutch."
MONSIEUR LECOQ 233
"Then, if I were to ask a favor of you, you wouldn't be
disposed to grant it?"
"Oh, yes ! all the same. I have no more malice in my com-
position than a chicken J and I rather like your face. What
do you want of me ?"
"I should like to have some information about the man who
accompanied you last night."
Couturier's face darkened. "I am really unable to give
vou any," he replied.
"Why ?"
"Because I don't know him. I never saw him before last
night."
"It's hard to believe that. A fellow doesn't enlist the first-
comer for an expedition like yours last evening. Before
undertaking such a job with a man, one finds out something
about him."
"I don't say I haven't been guilty of a stupid blunder,"
replied Couturier. "Indeed I could murder myself for it, but
there was nothing about the man to make me suspect that he
belonged to the secret-service. He spread a net for me, and
I jumped into it. It was made for me, of course; but it wasn't
necessary for me to put my foot into it."
"You are mistaken, my man," said Lecoq. "The individual
in question didn't belong to the police force. I pledge you my
word of honor, he didn't."
For a moment Couturier surveyed Lecoq with a knowing
air, as if he hoped to discover whether he were speaking the
truth or attempting to deceive him. "I believe you," he said
at last. "And to prove it I'll tell you how it happened. I
was dining alone last evening in a restaurant in the Rue
Mouffetard, when that man came in and took a seat beside me.
Naturally we began to talk ; and I thought him a very good
sort of a fellow. I forget how it began, but somehow or
other he mentioned that he had some clothes he wanted to
sell ; and being glad to oblige him, I took him to a friend,
who bought them from him. It was doing him a good turn,
wasn't it? Well, he offered me something to drink, and I
returned the compliment. We had a number of glasses together,
and by midnight I began to see double. He then began to
propose a plan, which, he swore, would make us both rich. It
was to steal the plate from a superb mansion. There would
be no risk for me; he would take charge of the whole affair.
234 MONSIEUR LECOQ
I had only to help him over the wall, and keep watch. The
proposal was tempting — was it not? You would have thought
so, if you had been in my place, and yet I hesitated. But the
fellow insisted. He swore that he was acquainted with the
habits of the house ; that Monday evening was a grand gala
night there, and that on these occasions the servants didn't
lock up the plate. After a little while I consented."
A fleeting flush tinged Lecoq's pale cheeks. "Are you sure
he told you that the Due de Sairmeuse received every Monday
evening?" he asked, eagerly.
"Certainly ; how else could I have known it ! He even men-
tioned the name you uttered just now, a name ending in 'euse.' "
A strange thought had just flitted through Lecoq's mind.
"What if May and the Due de Sairmeuse should be one and
the same person ?" But the notion seemed so thoroughly absurd,
so utterly inadmissible that he quickly dismissed it, despising
himself even for having entertained it for a single instant. He
cursed his inveterate inclination always to look at events from
a romantic impossible side, instead of considering them as natu-
ral commonplace incidents. After all there was nothing sur-
prising in the fact that a man of the world, such as he supposed
May to be, should know the day set aside by the Due de
Sairmeuse for the reception of his friends.
The young detective had nothing more to expect from
Couturier. He thanked him, and after shaking hands with the
superintendent, walked away, leaning on Father Absinthe's
arm. For he really had need of support. His legs trembled,
his head whirled, and he felt sick both in body and in mind.
He had failed miserably, disgracefully. He had flattered him-
self that he possessed a genius for his calling, and yet he had
been easily outwitted.
To rid himself of pursuit, May had only had to invent a
pretended accomplice, and this simple stratagem had sufficed
to nonplus those who were on his trail.
Father Absinthe was rendered uneasy by his colleague's evi-
dent dejection. "Where are we going?" he inquired; "to the
Palais de Justice, or to the Prefecture de Police?"
Lecoq shuddered on hearing this question, which brought him
face to face with the horrible reality of his situation. "To the
Prefecture!" he responded. "Why should I go there? To
expose myself to Gevrol's insults, perhaps? I haven't courage
enough for that. Nor do I feel that I have strength to go
MONSIEUR LECOQ 235
to M. Segmuller and say: 'Forgive me: you have judged me
too favorably. I am a fool !' "
"What are we to do ?"
"Ah ! I don't know. Perhaps I shall embark for America —
perhaps I shall throw myself into the river."
He had walked about a hundred yards when suddenly he
stopped short. "No!" he exclaimed, with a furious stamp «f
his foot. "No, this affair shan't end like this. I have sworn
to have the solution of the enigma — and I will have it !" For
a moment he reflected ; then, in a calmer voice, he added :
"There is one man who can save us, a man who will see what
I haven't been able to discern, who will understand things that
I couldn't. Let us go and ask his advice, my course will depend
on his reply — come !•"
After such a day and such a night, it might have been ex-
pected that these two men would have felt an irresistible desire
to sleep and rest. But Lecoq was sustained by wounded vanity,
intense disappointment, and yet unextinguished hope of re-
venge: while poor Father Absinthe was not unlike some luck-
less cab-horse, which, having forgotten there is such a thing
as repose, is no longer conscious of fatigue, but travels on
until he falls down dead. The old detective felt that his limbs
were failing him; but Lecoq said: "It is necessary," and so
he walked on.
They both went to Lecoq's lodgings, where they laid aside
their disguises and made themselves trim. Then after break-
fasting they hastily betook themselves to the Rue St. Lazare,
where, entering one of the most stylish houses in the street,
Lecoq inquired of the concierge: "Is M. Tabaret at home?"
"Yes, but he's ill," was the reply.
"Very ill ?" asked Lecoq anxiously.
"It is hard to tell," replied the man : "it is his old complaint
— gout." And with an air of hypocritical commiseration, he
added: "M. Tabaret is not wise to lead the life he does.
Women are very well in a way, but at his age — "
The two detectives exchanged a meaning glance, and as soon
as they were out of hearing burst out laughing. Their hilarity
had scarcely ceased when they reached the first floor, and rang
the bell at the door of one of the apartments. The buxom-
looking woman who appeared in answer to his summons, in-
formed them that her master would receive them, although he
was confined to his bed. "However, the doctor is with him
236 MONSIEUR LECOQ
now," she added. "But perhaps the gentlemen would not mind
waiting until he has gone?" The gentlemen replying in the
affirmative, she then conducted them into a handsome library,
and invited them to sit clown.
The person whom Lecoq had come to consult was a man cele-
brated for wonderful shrewdness and penetration, well-nigh
exceeding the bounds of possibility. For five-and-forty years
he had held a petty post in one of the offices of the Mont de
Piete, just managing to exist upon the meagre stipend he re-
ceived. Suddenly enriched by the death of a relative, of whom
he had scarcely ever heard, he immediately resigned his func-
tions, and the very next day began to long for the same em-
ployment he had so often anathematized. In his endeavors to
divert his mind, he began to collect old books, and heaped up
mountains of tattered, worm-eaten volumes in immense oak
bookcases. But despite this pastime to many so attractive, he
could not shake off his weariness. He grew thin and yellow,
and his income of forty thousand francs was literally killing
him, when a sudden inspiration came to his relief. It came
to him one evening after reading the memoirs of a celebrated
detective, one of those men of subtle penetration, soft as silk,
and supple as steel, whom justice sometimes sets upon the trail
of crime.
"And I also am a detective !" he exclaimed.
This, however, he must prove. From that day forward he
perused with feverish interest every book he could find that had
any connection with the organization of the police service and
the investigation of crime. Reports and pamphlets, letters and
memoirs, he eagerly turned from one to the other, in his desire
to master his subject. Such learning as he might find in books
did not suffice, however, to perfect his education. Hence,
whenever a crime came to his knowledge he started out in
quest of the particulars and worked up the case by himself.
Soon these platonic investigations did not suffice, and one
evening, at dusk, he summoned all his resolution, and, going
on foot to the Prefecture de Police, humbly begged employment
from the officials there. He was not very favorably received,
for applicants were numerous. But he pleaded his cause so
adroitly that at last he was charged with some trifling com-
missions. He performed them admirably. The great difficulty
was then overcome. Other matters were entrusted to him, and
he soon displayed a wonderful aptitude for his chosen work.
MONSIEUR LECOQ 237
The case of Madame B , the rich banker's wife, made him
virtually famous. Consulted at a moment when the police had
abandoned all hope of solving the mystery, he proved by A plus
B — by a mathematical deduction, so to speak — that the dear
lady must have stolen her own property ; and events soon
proved that he had told the truth. After this success he was
always called upon to advise in obscure and difficult cases.
It would be difficult to tell his exact status at the Prefecture.
When a person is employed, salary or compensation of some
kind is understood, but this strange man had never consented
to receive a penny. What he did he did for his own pleasure
— for the gratification of a passion which had become his very
life. When the funds allowed him for expenses seemed insuf-
ficient, he at once opened his private purse ; and the men who
worked with him never went away without some substantial
token of his liberality. Of course, such a man had many ene-
mies. He did as much work — and far better work than any
two inspectors of police ; and he didn't receive a sou of salary.
Hence, in calling him "spoil-trade," his rivals were not far
from right.
Whenever any one ventured to mention his name favorably
in Gevrol's presence, the jealous inspector could scarcely con-
trol himself, and retorted by denouncing an unfortunate mistake
which this remarkable man once made. Inclined to obstinacy,
like all enthusiastic men, he had indeed once effected the con-
viction of an innocent prisoner — a poor little tailor, who was
accused of killing his wife. This single error (a grievous one
no doubt), in a career of some duration, had the effect of
cooling his ardor perceptibly ; and subsequently he seldom vis-
ited the Prefecture. But yet he remained "the oracle," after
the fashion of those great advocates who, tired of practise at
the bar, still win great and glorious triumphs in their consult-
ing rooms, lending to others the weapons they no longer care
to wield themselves.
When the authorities were undecided what course to pursue
in some great case, they invariably said : "Let us go and consult
Tirauclair." For this was the name by which he was most
generally known : a sobriquet derived from a phrase which was
always on his lips. He was constantly saying: "II faut que cela
se tire au clair: That must be brought to light." Hence, the
not altogether inappropriate appellation of "Pere Tirauclair,"
or "Father Bring-to-Light."
238
MONSIEUR LECOQ
Perhaps this sobriquet assisted him in keeping his occupa-
tion secret from his friends among the general public. At all
events they never suspected them. His disturbed life when he
Avas working up a case, the strange visitors he received, his
frequent and prolonged absences from home, were all imputed
to a very unreasonable inclination to gallantry. His concierge
was deceived as well as his friends, and laughing at his sup-
posed infatuation, disrespectfully called him an old libertine.
It was only the officials of the detective force who knew that
Tirauclair and Tabaret were one and the same person.
Lecoq was trying to gain hope and courage by reflecting on
the career of this eccentric man, when the buxom housekeeper
reentered the library and announced that the physician had
left. At the same time she opened a door and exclaimed : "This
is the room; you gentlemen can enter now."
/~\N a large canopied bed, sweating and panting beneath the
^^ weight of numerous blankets, lay the two-faced oracle —
Tirauclair, of the Prefecture — Tabaret, of the Rue Saint Lazare.
It was impossible to believe that the owner of such a face, in
which a look of stupidity was mingled with one of perpetual
astonishment, could possess superior talent, or even an average
amount of intelligence. With his retreating forehead, and his
immense ears, his odious turned-up nose, tiny eyes, and coarse,
thick lips, M. Tabaret seemed an excellent type of the ignorant,
pennywise, petty rentier class. Whenever he took his walks
abroad, the juvenile street Arabs would impudently shout after
him or try to mimic his favorite grimace. And yet his ungain-
liness did not seem to worry him in the least, while he appeared
to take real pleasure in increasing his appearance of stupidity,
solacing himself with the reflection that "he is not really a
genius who seems to be one."
At the sight of the two detectives, whom he knew very well,
his eyes sparkled with pleasure. "Good morning, Lecoq, my
boy," said he. "Good morning, my old Absinthe. So you
MONSIEUR LECOQ 239
think enough down there of poor Papa Tirauclair to come and
see him?"
"We need your advice, Monsieur Tabaret."
"Ah, ah!"
"We have just been as completely outwitted as if we were
babies in long clothes."
"What ! was your man such a very cunning fellow ?"
Lecoq heaved a sigh. "So cunning," he replied, "that, if I
were superstitious, I should say he was the devil himself."
The sick man's face wore a comical expression of envy.
"What ! you have found a treasure like that," said he. "and
you complain ! Why, it is a magnificent opportunity — a chance
to be proud of ! You see, my boys, everything has degenerated
in these days. The race of great criminals is dying out — those
who've succeeded the old stock are like counterfeit coins.
There's scarcely anything left outside a crowd of low offenders
who are not worth the shoe leather expended in pursuing them.
It is enough to disgust a detective, upon my word. No more
trouble, emotion, anxiety, or excitement. When a crime is
committed nowadays, the criminal is in jail the next morning,
you've only to take the omnibus, and go to the culprit's house
and arrest him. He's always found, the more the pity. But
what has your fellow been up to?"
"He has killed three men."
"Oh ! oh ! oh !" said old Tabaret, in three different tones,
plainly implying that this criminal was evidently superior to
others of his species. "And where did this happen?"
"In a wine-shop near the barriere."
"Oh, yes, I recollect : a man named May. The murders were
committed in the Widow Chupin's cabin. I saw the case men-
tioned in the 'Gazette des Tribunaux,' and your comrade, Fan-
ferlot l'Ecureuil, who comes to see me, told me you were
strangely puzzled about the prisoner's identity. So you are
charged with investigating the affair? So much the better.
Tell me all about it, and I will assist you as well as I can."
Suddenly checking himself, and lowering his voice, Tirau-
clair added: "But first of all, just do me the favor to get up.
Now, wait a moment, and when I motion you, open that door
there, on the left, very suddenly. Mariette, my housekeeper,
who is curiosity incarnate, is standing there listening. I hear
her hair rubbing against the lock. Now !"
The young detective immediately obeyed, and Mariette, caught
240 MONSIEUR LECOQ
in the act, hastened away, pursued by her master's sarcasms.
"You might have known that you couldn't succeed at that !"
he shouted after her.
Although Lecoq and Father Absinthe were much nearer the
door than old Tirauclair, neither of them had heard the slight-
est sound ; and they looked at each other in astonishment, won-
dering whether their host had been playing a little farce for
their benefit, or whether his sense of hearing was really so
acute as this incident would seem to indicate.
"Now," said Tabaret, settling himself more comfortably upon
his pillows — "now I will listen to you, my boy. Mariette will
not come back again."
On his way to Tabaret's, Lecoq had busied himself in pre-
paring his story ; and it was in the clearest possible manner that
he related all the particulars, from the moment when Gevrol
opened the door of the Poivriere to the instant when May
leaped over the garden wall in the rear of the Hotel de
Sairmeuse.
While the young detective was telling his story, old Tabaret
seemed completely transformed. His gout was entirely for-
gotten. According to the different phases of the recital, he
either turned and twisted on his bed, uttering little cries of
delight or disappointment, or else lay motionless, plunged in
the same kind of ecstatic reverie which enthusiastic admirers
of classical music yield themselves up to while listening to one
of the great Beethoven's divine sonatas.
"If I had been there ! If only I had been there !" he mur-
mured regretfully every now and then through his set teeth,
though when Lecoq's story was finished, enthusiasm seemed
decidedly to have gained the upper hand. "It is beautiful ! it
is grand !" he exclaimed. "And with just that one phrase : 'It
is the Prussians who are coming,' for a starting point ! Lecoq,
my boy, I must say that you have conducted this affair like an
angel !"
"Don't you mean to say like a fool?" asked the discouraged
detective.
"No, my friend, certainly not. You have rejoiced my old
heart. I can die ; I shall have a successor. Ah ! that Gevrol
who betrayed you — for he did betray you, there's no doubt
about it — that obtuse, obstinate 'General' is not worthy to
blacken your shoes !"
"You overpower me, Monsieur Tabaret !" interrupted Lecoq,
MONSIEUR LECOQ 241
as yet uncertain whether his host was poking fun at him or not.
"But it is none the less true that May has disappeared, and I
have lost my reputation before I had begun to make it."
"Don't be in such a hurry to reject my compliments," replied
old Tabaret, with a horrible grimace. "I say that you have
conducted this investigation very well ; but it could have been
done much better, very much better. You have a talent for
your work, that's evident ; but you lack experience ; you be-
come elated by a trifling advantage, or discouraged by a mere
nothing; you fail, and yet persist in holding fast to a fixed idea,
as a moth flutters about a candle. Then, you are young. But
never mind that, it's a fault you will outgrow only too soon.
And now, to speak frankly, I must tell you that you have made
a great many blunders."
Lecoq hung his head like a schoolboy receiving a reprimand
from his teacher. After all was he not a scholar, and was not
this old man his master?
"I will now enumerate your mistakes." continued old Taba-
ret, "and I will show you how, on at least three occasions, you
allowed an opportunity for solving this mystery to escape you."
"But—"
"Pooh ! pooh ! my boy, let me talk a little while now. What
axiom did you start with ? You said : 'Always distrust appear-
ances ; believe precisely the contrary of what appears true, or
even probable.' "
"Yes, that is exactly what I said to myself."
"And it was a very wise conclusion. With that idea in your
lantern to light your path, you ought to have gone straight to
the truth. But you are young, as I said before ; and the very
first circumstance you find that seems at all probable you quite
forget the rule which, as you yourself admit, should have
governed your conduct. As soon as you meet a fact that seems
even more than probable, you swallow it as eagerly as a gudgeon
swallows an angler's bait."
This comparison could but pique the young detective. "I
don't think I've been so simple as that," protested he.
"Bah ! What did you think, then, when you heard that M.
d'Escorval had broken his leg in getting out of his carriage?"
"Believe! I believed what they told me, because — "
He paused, and Tirauclair burst into a hearty fit of laughter.
"You believed it," he said, "because it was a very plausible
story."
11— Vol. I— Gab.
242
MONSIEUR LECOQ
"What would you have believed had you been in my place?"
"Exactly the opposite of what they told me. I might have
been mistaken ; but it would be the logical conclusion as my first
course of reasoning."
This conclusion was so bold that Lecoq was disconcerted.
"What !" he exclaimed ; "do you suppose that M. d'EscorvaPs
fall was only a fiction? that he didn't break his leg?"
Old Tabaret's face suddenly assumed a serious expression.
"I don't suppose it," he replied; "I'm sure of it."
fECOQ'S confidence in the oracle he was consulting was
•*-** very great ; but even old Tirauclair might be mistaken, and
what he had just said seemed such an enormity, so completely
beyond the bounds of possibility, that the young man could
not conceal a gesture of incredulous surprise.
"So, Monsieur Tabaret, you are ready to affirm that M.
d'Escorval is in quite as good health as Father Absinthe or
myself; and that he has confined himself to his room for a
couple of months to give a semblance of truth to a falsehood?"
"I would be willing to swear it."
"But what could possibly have been his object?"
Tabaret lifted his hands to heaven, as if imploring for-
giveness for the young man's stupidity. "And it was in you."
he exclaimed, "in you that I saw a successor, a disciple to whom
I might transmit my method of induction ; and now, you ask
me such a question as that ! Reflect a moment. Must I give
you an example to assist you? Very well. Let it be so.
Suppose yourself a magistrate. A crime is committed; you
are charged with the duty of investigating it, and you visit
the prisoner to question him. Very well. This prisoner has,
hitherto, succeeded in concealing his identity — this was the
case in the present instance, was it not? Very well. Now,
what would you do if, at the very first glance, you recognized
under the prisoner's disguise your best friend, or your worst
enemy? What would you do, I ask?"
MONSIEUR LECOQ 243
"I should say to myself that a magistrate who is obliged to
hesitate between his duty and his inclinations, is placed in a
very trying position, and I should endeavor to avoid the
responsibility."
"I understand that ; but would you reveal this prisoner's
identity — remember, he might be your friend or your enemy?"
The question was so delicate that Lecoq remained silent for
a moment, reflecting before he replied.
The pause was interrupted by Father Absinthe. "I should
reveal nothing whatever !" he exclaimed. "I .should remain
absolutely neutral. I should say to myself others are trying
to discover this man's identity. Let them do so if they can;
but let my conscience be clear."
This was the cry of honesty ; not the counsel of a casuist.
"I also should be silent," Lecoq at last replied; "and it
seems to me that, in holding my tongue, I should not fail in
my duty as a magistrate."
On hearing these words, Tabaret rubbed his hands together,
as he always did when he was about to present some over-
whelming argument. "Such being the :ase," said he, "do
me the favor to tell me what pretext you would invent in
order to withdraw from the case without exciting suspicion?"
"I don't know ; I can't say now. But if I were placed in
such a position I should find some excuse — invent something — "
"And if you could find nothing better," interrupted Tabaret,
"you would adopt M. d'Escorval's expedient ; you would pre-
tend you had broken a limb. Only, as you are a clever fellow,
you would sacrifice your arm ; it would be less inconvenient
than your leg; and you wouldn't be condemned to seclusion
for several months."
"So, Monsieur Tabaret, you are convinced that M. d'Escorval
knows who May really is."
Old Tirauclair turned so suddenly in his bed that his for-
gotten gout drew from him a terrible groan. "Can you doubt?"
he exclaimed. "Can you possibly doubt it? What proofs do
you want then ? What connection do you see between the
magistrate's fall and the prisoner's attempt at suicide? I wasn't
there as you were ; T only know the story as you have told it
to me. I can't look at the facts with my own eyes, but accord-
ing to your statements, which are I suppose correct, this is
what I understand. When M. d'Escorval has completed his
task at the Widow Chupin's house, he comes to the prison to
244 MONSIEUR LECOQ
examine the supposed murderer. The two men recognize
each other. Had they been alone, mutual explanations might
have ensued, and affairs taken quite a different turn. But
they were not alone ; a third party was present — M. d'Escorval's
clerk. So they could say nothing. The magistrate asked a
few common-place questions, in a troubled voice, and the
prisoner, terribly agitated, replied as best he could. Now,
after leaving the cell, M. d'Escorval no doubt said to himself:
T can't investigate the offenses of a man I hate !' He was
certainly terribly perplexed. When you tried to speak to him,
as he was leaving the prison, he harshly told you to wait till
the next 'day; and a quarter of an hour later he pretended to
fall down and break his leg."
"Then you think that M. d'Escorval and May are enemies?"
inquired Lecoq.
"Don't the facts prove that beyond a doubt?" retorted
Tabaret. "If they had been friends, the magistrate might have
acted in the same manner ; but then the prisoner wouldn't
have attempted to strangle himself. But thanks to you; his
life was saved; for he owes his life to you. During the night,
confined in a straight- waistcoat, he was powerless to injure
himself. Ah ! how he must have suffered that night ! What
agony ! So, in the morning, when he was conducted to the
magistrate's room for examination, it was with a sort of frenzy
that he dashed into the dreaded presence of his enemy. He
expected to find M. d'Escorval there, ready to triumph over
his misfortunes; and he intended to say: 'Yes, it's I. There
is a fatality in it. I have killed three men, and I am in your
power. But there is a mortal feud between us, and for that
very reason you haven't the right to prolong my tortures ! It
would be infamous cowardice if you did so.' However, instead
of M. d'Escorval, he sees M. Segmuller. Then what happens?
He is surprised, and his eyes betray the astonishment he feels
when he realizes the generosity of his enemy — an enemy from
whom he had expected no indulgence. Then a smile comes to
his lips — a smile of hope; for he thinks, since M. d'Escorval
has not betrayed his secret, that he may be able to keep it, and
emerge, perhaps, from this shadow of shame and crime with
his name and honor still untarnished."
Old Tabaret paused, and then, with a sudden change of tone
and an ironical gesture, he added: "And that — is my expla-
nation."
MONSIEUR LECOQ 245
Father Absinthe had risen, frantic with delight. "Cristi!"
he exclaimed, "that's it! that's it!"
Lecoq's approbation was none the less evident although un-
spoken. He could appreciate this rapid and wonderful work
of induction far better than his companion.
For a moment or two old Tabaret reclined upon his pillows
enjoying the sweets of admiration; then he continued: "Do
you wish for further proofs, my boy? Recollect the per-
severance M. d'Escorval displayed in sending to M. Segmuller
for information. I admit that a man may have a passion for
his profession ; but not to such an extent as that. You believed
that his leg was broken. Then were you not surprised to find
a magistrate, with a broken limb, suffering mortal anguish,
taking such wonderful interest in a miserable murderer? I
haven't any broken bones, I've only got the gout ; but I know
very well that when I'm suffering, half the world might be
judging the other half, and yet the idea of sending Mariette
for information would never occur to me. Ah ! a moment's
reflection would have enabled you to understand the reason
of his solicitude, and would probably have given you the key
to the whole mystery."
Lecoq, who was such a brilliant casuist in the Widow
Chupin's hovel, who was so full of confidence in himself, and
so earnest in expounding his theories to simple Father Absinthe
— Lecoq hung his head abashed and did not utter a word. But
he felt neither anger nor impatience.
He had come to ask advice, and was glad that it should be
given him. He had made many mistakes, as he now saw only
too plainly; and when they were pointed out to him he neither
fumed nor fretted, nor tried to prove that he had been right
when he had been wrong. ihis was certainly an excellent
trait in his character.
Meanwhile, M. Tabaret had poured out a great glass of
some cooling drink and drained it. He now resumed: "I
need not remind you of the mistake you made in not compelling
Toinon Chupin to tell you all she knew about this affair while
she was in your power. 'A bird in the hand' — you know the
proverb."
"Be assured, Monsieur Tabaret, that this mistake has cost
me enough to make me realize the danger of allowing a well-
disposed witness's zeal to cool down."
"Wc will say no more about that, then. But I must tell you
246 MONSIEUR LECOQ
that three or four times, at least, it has been in your power
to clear up this mystery."
The oracle paused, awaiting some protestation from his
disciple. None came, however. "If he says this," thought the
young detective, "it must indeed be so."
This discretion made a great impression on old Tabaret,
and increased the esteem he had conceived for Lecoq. "The
first time that you were lacking in discretion," said he, "was
when you tried to discover the owner of the diamond earring
found at the Poivriere."
"I made every effort to discover the last owner."
"You tried very hard. I don't deny it; but as for making
every effort — that's quite another thing. For instance, when
you heard that the Baroness de Watchau was dead, and that
all her property had been sold, what did you do?"
"You know; I went immediately to the person who had
charge of the sale."
"Very well ! and afterwards ?"
"I examined the catalogue; and as, among the jewels men-
tioned, I could find none that answered the description of these
diamonds, I knew that the clue was quite lost."
"There is precisely where you are mistaken !" exclaimed old
Tirauclair, exultantly. "If such valuable jewels are not
mentioned in the catalogue of the sale, the Baroness de
Watchaa could not have possessed them at the time of her
death. And if ohe no longer possessed them she must have
given them away or sold them. And who could she have sold
them to? To one of her lady friends, very probably. For this
reason, had I been in your place, I should have found out the
names of her intimate friends ; this would have been a very
easy task ; and then, I should have tried to win the favor of
all the lady's-maids in the service of these friends. This would
have only been a pastime for a good-looking young fellow like
you. Then, I should have shown this earring to each maid
in succession until I found one who said: 'That diamond be-
longs to my mistress,' or one who was seized with a nervous
trembling."
"And to think that this idea did not once occur to me !"
ejaculated Lecoq.
"Wait, wait, I am coming to the second mistake you made,"
retorted the oracle. "What did you do when you obtained
possession of the trunk which May pretended was his? Why
MONSIEUR LECOQ 247
you played directly into this cunning adversary's hand. How
could you fail to see that this trunk was only an accessory
article; a bit of 'property' got ready in 'mounting' the 'comedy'?
You should have known that it could only have been deposited
with Madame Milner by the accomplice, and that all its con-
tents must have been purchased for the occasion."
"I knew this, of course; but even under these circumstances,
what could I do?"
"What could you do, my boy? Well, I am only a poor old
man, but I should have interviewed every clothier in Paris ;
and at last some one would have exclaimed : 'Those articles !
Why, I sold them to an individual like this or that — who pur-
chased them for one of his friends whose measure he brought
with him.' "
Angry with himself, Lecoq struck his clenched hand violently
upon the table beside him. "Sacrebleu!" he exclaimed, "that
method was infallible, and so simple too ! Ah ! I shall never
forgive myself for my stupidity as long as I live !"
"Gently, gently !" interrupted old Tirauclair. "You are
going too far, my dear boy. Stupidity is not the proper word
at all ; you should say carelessness, thoughtlessness. You are
young — what else could one expect? What is far less inexcus-
able is the manner in which you conducted the chase, after
the prisoner was allowed to escape."
"Alas !" murmured the young man, now completely dis-
couraged; "did I blunder in that?"
"Terribly, my son; and here is where I really blame you.
What diabolical influence induced you to follow May, step by
step, like a common policeman?"
This time Lecoq was stupefied. "Ought I to have allowed
him to escape me?" he inquired.
"No; but if I had been by your side in the gallery of the
Odeon, when you so clearly divined the prisoner's intentions,
I should have said to you: 'This fellow, friend Lecoq, will
hasten to Madame Milner's house to inform her of his escape.
Let us run after him.' I shouldn't have tried to prevent his
seeing her, mind. But when he had left the Hotel de Mariem-
bourg, I should have added: 'Now, let him go where he chooses ;
but attach yourself to Madame Milner ; don't lose sight of her ;
cling to her as closely as her own shadow, for she will lead
you to the accomplice — that is to say — to the solution of the
mystery.' "
248 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"That's the truth; I see it now."
"But instead of that, what did you do? You ran to the
hotel, you terrified the boy ! When a fisherman has cast his
bait and the fish are swimming near, he doesn't sound a gong
to frighten them all away !"
Thus it was that old Tabaret reviewed the entire course
of investigation and pursuit, remodeling it in accordance with
his own method of induction. Lecoq had originally had a
magnificent inspiration. In his first investigations he had
displayed remarkable talent; and yet he had not succeeded.
Why? Simply because he had neglected the axiom with which
he started : "Always distrust what seems probable !"
But the young man listened to the oracle's "summing up"
with divided attention. A thousand projects were darting
through his brain, and at length he could no longer restrain
himself. "You have saved me from despair," he exclaimed,
"I thought everything was lost; but I see that my blunders can
be repaired. What I neglected to do, I can do now ; there is
still time. Haven't I the diamond earring, as well as various
effects belonging to the prisoner, still in my possession? Ma-
dame Milner still owns the Hotel de Mariembourg, and I will
watch her."
"And what for, my boy?"
"What for? Why, to find my fugitive, to be sure!"
Had the young detective been less engrossed with his idea,
he would have detected a slight smile that curved Papa Tir-
auclair's thick lips.
"Ah, my son ! is it possible that you don't suspect the real
name of this pretended buffoon ?" inquired the oracle somewhat
despondently.
Lecoq trembled and averted his face. He did not wish
Tabaret to see his eyes. "No," he replied, "I don't suspect — "
"You are uttering a falsehood !" interrupted the sick man.
"You know as well as I do, that May resides in the Rue de
Grenelle-Saint-Germain, and that he is known as the Due de
Sairmeuse."
On hearing these words, Father Absinthe indulged in a
hearty laugh: "Ah! that's a good joke!" he exclaimed.
"Ah, ha I"
Such was not Lecoq's opinion, however. "Well, yes, Mon-
sieur Tabaret," said he, "the idea did occur to me; but I drove
it away."
MONSIEUR LECOQ
249
"And why, if you please?"
"Because — because — "
"Because you would not believe in the logical sequence of
your premises ; but I am consistent, and I say that it seems
impossible the murderer arrested in the Widow Chupin's drink-
ing den should be the Due de Sairmeuse. Hence, the
murderer arrested there. May, the pretended buffoon, is the
Due de Sairmeuse !"
t_T OW this idea had entered old Tabaret's head, Lecoq could
not understand. A vague suspicion had, it is true, flitted
through his own mind ; but it was in a moment of despair
when he was distracted at having lost May, and when certain
of Couturier's remarks furnished the excuse for any ridiculous
supposition. And yet now Father Tirauclair calmly pro-
claimed this suspicion — which Lecoq had not dared seriously
to entertain, even for an instant — to be an undoubted fact.
"You look as if you had suddenly fallen from the clouds,"
exclaimed the oracle, noticing his visitor's amazement. "Do
you suppose that I spoke at random like a parrot ?"
"No, certainly not, but — "
"Tush ! You are surprised because you know nothing of
contemporary history. If you don't wish to remain all your
life a common detective, like your friend Gevrol, you must
read, and make yourself familiar with all the leading events
of the century."
"I must confess that I don't see the connection."
M. Tabaret did not deign to reply. Turning to Father
Absinthe, he requested the old detective, in the most affable
tones, to go to the library and fetch two large volumes entitled :
"General Biography of the Men of the Present Age," which
he would find in the bookcase on the right. Father Absinthe
hastened to obey; and as soon as the books were brought, M.
Tabaret began turning the pages with an eager hand ; like a
person seeking some word in a dictionary.
250 MONSIEUR LECOQ
"Esbayron," he muttered, "Escars, Escayrac, Escher, Escodica
— at last we have it — Escorval ! Listen attentively, my boy,
and you will be enlightened."
This injunction was entirely unnecessary. Never had the
young detective's faculties been more keenly on the alert. It
was in an emphatic voice that the sick man then read: "Es-
corval (Louis-Guillaume. baron d'). — Diplomatist and politician,
born at Montaignac, December 3d, 1769 ; of an old family of
lawyers. He was completing his studies in Paris at the out-
break of the Revolution and embraced the popular cause with
all the ardor of youth. But, soon disapproving the excesses
committed in the name of Liberty, he sided with the Reaction-
ists, advised, perhaps, by Roederer, who was one of his
relatives. Commended to the favor of the First Counsel by
M. de Talleyrand, he began his diplomatic career with a mission
to Switzerland ; and during the existence of the First Empire he
was entrusted with many important negotiations. Devoted to
the Emperor, he found himself gravely compromised at the ad-
vent of the Second Restoration. At the time of the celebrated
rising at Montaignac. he was arrested on the double charge
of high treason and conspiracy. He was tried by a military
commission, and condemned to death. The sentence was not
executed, however. He owed his life to the noble devotion
and heroic energy of a priest, one of his friends, the Abbe
Midon, cure of the little village of Sairmeuse. The baron
d'Escorval had only one son, who embraced the judicial pro-
fession at a very early age."
Lecoq was intensely disappointed. "I understand," he re-
marked. "This is the biography of our magistrate's father.
Only I don't see that it teaches us anything."
An ironical smile curved old Tirauclair's lips. "It teaches
us that M. d'Escorval's father was condemned to death," he
replied. "That's something, I assure you. A little patience,
and you will soon know everything."
Having found a new leaf, he recommenced to read: "Sair-
meuse (Anne-Marie- Victor de Tingry, Due de). — A French
general and politician, born at the chateau de Sairmeuse, near
Montaignac, in 1758. The Sairmeuse family is one of the
oldest and most illustrious in France. It must not be con-
founded with the ducal family of Sermeuse, whose name is
written with an *e.' Leaving France at the beginning of the
Revolution, Anne de Sairmeuse began by serving in the army
MONSIEUR LECOQ 251
of Conde. Some years later he offered his sword to Russia;
and it is asserted by some of his biographers that he was fighting
in the Russian ranks at the time of the disastrous retreat from
Moscow. Returning to France with the Bourbons, he became
notorious by the intensity of his ultra-royalist opinions. It is
certain that he had the good fortune to regain possession of
his immense family estates ; and the rank and dignities which
he had gained in foreign lands were confirmed. Appointed by
the king to preside at the military commission charged with
arresting and trying the conspirators of Montaignac his zeal
and severity resulted in the capture and conviction of all the
parties implicated."
Lecoq sprang up with sparkling eyes. "I see it clearly
now," he exclaimed. "The father of the present Due de Sair-
meuse tried to have the father of the present M. d'Escorval
beheaded."
M. Tabaret was the picture of complacency. "You see the
assistance history gives," said he. "But I have not finished,
my boy; the present Due de Sairmeuse also has his article
which will be of interest to us. So listen: Sairmeuse (Anne-
Marie-Martial) — Son of the preceding, was born in London
toward the close of the last century; received his early edu-
cation in England, and completed it at the Court of Austria,
which he subsequently visited on several confidential missions.
Heir to the opinions, prejudices, and animosities of his father,
he placed at the service of his party a highly cultivated intellect,
unusual penetration, and extraordinary abilities. A leader at
a time when political passion was raging highest, he had the
courage to assume the sole responsibility of the most unpopular
measures. The hostility he encountered, however eventually
obliged him to retire from office, leaving behind him animos-
ities likely to terminate only with his life."
The sick man closed the book, and with assumed modesty,
he asked : "Ah, well ! What do you think of my little method
of induction?"
But Lecoq was too much engrossed with his own thoughts
to reply to this question. "I think," he remarked, "that if the
Due de Sairmeuse had disappeared for two months — the
period of May's imprisonment, all Paris would have known
of it — and so — "
"You are dreaming," interrupted Tabaret. "Why with his
wife and his valet de chambre for accomplices, the duke could
252 MONSIEUR LECOQ
absent himself for a year if he liked, and yet all his servants
would believe him to be in the house."
"I admit that," said Lecoq, at last ; "but unfortunately,
there is one circumstance which completely upsets the theory
we have built up so laboriously."
"And what is that if you please?"
"If the man who took part in the broil at the Poivriere had
been the Due de Sairmeuse, he would have disclosed his
name — he would have declared that, having been attacked, he
had only defended himself — and his name alone would have
opened the prison doors. Instead of that, what did the prisoner
do? He attempted to kill himself. Would a grand seigneur,
like the Due de Sairmeuse, to whom life must be a perpetual
■enchantment, have thought of committing suicide?"
A mocking whistle from the old Tabaret interrupted the
speaker. "You seem to have forgotten the last sentence in
his biography: 'M. Sairmeuse leaves behind him ill-will and
hatred.' Do you know the price he might have been com-
pelled to pay for his liberty! No— no more do I. To explain
Tiis presence at the Poivriere, and the presence of a woman,
who was perhaps his wife, who knows what disgraceful secrets
he would have been obliged to reveal? Between shame and
suicide, he chose suicide. He wished to save hisr name and
honor intact."
Old Tirauclair spoke with such vehemence that even Father
Absinthe was deeply impressed, although, to tell the truth, he
had understood but little of the conversation.
As for Lecoq, he rose very pale, his lips trembling a little.
"You will excuse my hypocrisy, Monsieur Tabaret," he said
in an agitated voice. "I only offered these last objections for
form's sake. I had thought of what you now say, but I dis-
trusted myself, and I wanted to hear you say it yourself."
Then with an imperious gesture, he added : "Now, I know
what I have to do."
Old Tabaret raised his hands toward heaven with every
sign of intense dismay. "Unhappy man !" he exclaimed ; "do
you think of going to arrest the Due de Sairmeuse! Poor
Lecoq ! Free, this man is almost omnipotent, and you, an in-
finitesimal agent of police, would be shattered as easily as
glass. Take care, my boy, don't attack the duke. I wouldn't
be responsible for the consequences. You might imperil your
Jife."
MONSIEUR LECOQ 253
The young detective shook his head. "Oh ! I don't deceive
myself," said he. "I know that the duke is far beyond my
reach — at least for the present. But he will be in my power
again, the day I learn his secret. I don't fear danger; but I
know, that if I am to succeed, I must conceal myself, and so
I will. Yes, I will remain in the shade until I can unveil this
mystery; but then I shall reappear in my true character. And
if May be really the Due de Sairmeuse, I shall have my
revenge."
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
PART I
1 — Vol. II — Gab.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
ON the first Sunday in the month of August, 1815, at ten
o'clock precisely, the sacristan of the parish church of
Sairmeuse gave, according to custom, three successive
pulls at the bell — placed high in the tower above — to warn the
faithful that the priest was about to ascend the steps of the altar
to celebrate high mass. The church was already more than half-
full, and from every side came groups of peasants, hurrying
toward the churchyard. The women were all in their bravest
attire, with dainty 'kerchiefs crossed upon their breasts, broad-
striped, brightly colored skirts, reaching to their ankles, and
large white caps set upon their heads. Being of an economical
mind, although coquettish, they mostly came barefooted, carry-
ing their shoes in their hands, and only putting them on as they
were about to enter the house of worship.
But few of the men went into the church. They remained
outside to talk, seating themselves in the porch, or standing
about the yard, in the shade of the grand old elms. For such
was the custom in the village of Sairmeuse. The two hours
which the women consecrated to prayer the men employed in
discussing the news, the success or failure of the crops; and,
before the .service came to a close, they could generally be
found, glass in hand, in the long public room of the village
hostelry.
For the farmers for a league around, Sunday mass at Sair-
meuse was only an excuse for meeting together to hold, as it
were, a kind of weekly exchange. Since the reestablishment
of religion all the cures who had been successively stationed at
Sairmeuse had endeavored to put an end to this scandalous
habit of turning God's acre into an exchange, but all their
efforts had proved unavailing. The obstinate peasantry would
only make one concession. At the moment of the elevation of
the Host, all voices outside the church were hushed, heads un-
covered, and a few of the less skeptical farmers even bowed the
257
258 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
knee, and made the sign of a cross. But this was the affair of
an instant only, and then conversation anent crops, cattle, wine,
wood and so on was resumed with increased vivacity.
But on that particular Sunday in August the usual animation
was wanting; and the comments exchanged among little knots
of villagers gathered here and there among the tombstones under
the trees were scarcely audible. Ordinarily there would have
"been no dearth of noisy discussions between the various buyers
and sellers — discussions well-nigh interminable, and punctuated
at frequent intervals with some loud spoken popular oath, such
as "By my faith in God !" or "May the devil burn me !" To-day,
however, the farmers were not talking, they were whispering
together. Each face was sad ; lips were placed cautiously at
each listener's ear ; and anxiety could be read in every eye.
Evidently some great misfortune had occurred.
In point of fact, only a month had elapsed since Louis XVIII
had been, for the second time, installed at the Tuileries by the
efforts of a triumphant coalition. The earth had scarcely had
time to imbibe the blood that had flowed at Waterloo; twelve
hundred thousand foreign soldiers desecrated the soil of France ;
and a Prussian general was Governor of Paris.
The peasantry of Sairmeuse trembled with indignation and
fear. This king, brought back by the Allies, was no less to
be dreaded than the Allies themselves. To these non-political
country folks, the great name of Bourbon only signified a ter-
rible burden of taxation and oppression. Above all, it signified
ruin for there was scarcely one among them who had not
purchased from the government of the revolution or the
Empire some patch of the land confiscated after the down-
fall of Louis XVI ; and now it was currently reported that
all the estates would have to be surrendered to the former
landowners, who had emigrated when the Bourbons were
overthrown.
Hence, it was with feverish curiosity that most of the Sair-
meuse peasants clustered round a young man who, only two
days before, had returned from the army. With tears of rage
in his eyes, he was recounting the shame and misery of the in-
vasion. He described the pillage at Versailles, the exactions at
Orleans, and the pitiless requisitions of the Allied army.
"And these cursed foreigners to whom the traitors have deliv-
ered us will remain here," he exclaimed, "as long as there's a
sou and a bottle of wine left in France !" So speaking, he
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 259
shook his clenched fist menacingly at a white flag that floated
from the tower of the church.
His generous anger won the close attention of his audience,
who were still listening to him with undiminished interest,
when the sound of a horse's hoofs resounded on the stones of
the one long street of Sairmeuse. A shudder passed through the
crowd, and the same fear slackened the beating of every heart.
Who could say but what this rider was not some English or
Prussian officer, who had come perhaps to announce the arrival
of his regiment, and to demand, with all a conqueror's harsh-
ness, money, food, and clothing for his men?
But the suspense was not of long duration. Instead of a uni-
form the rider wore a soiled blue blouse, and in lieu of a
charger with military trappings, he bestrode a saddleless, bony,
nervous little mare, covered with foam, which he was urging
forward with repeated blows of an improvised whip.
"Ah ! it's Father Chupin." murmured one of the peasants
with a sigh of relief.
"The same," observed another. "He seems to be in a ter-
rible hurry."
"The old rascal has probably stolen the horse he is riding,"
remarked a third.
This last remark revealed the reputation that the rider of
the saddleless mare enjoyed among his neighbors. He was, in
fact, one of those rascals who are the scourge and terror of
rural districts. He pretended to be a day-laborer, but in reality
he held all work in holy horror, and spent most of his time
idling about his hovel. Indeed, he and his wife and their two
sons — terrible youths who, somehow, had escaped the conscription
• — lived entirely by theft. Everything they consumed was stolen ;
wheat, wine, fuel, fruits — all being the property of others, while
poaching and fishing in closed time furnished them with ready
money. Every one in the neighborhood was aware of this ; and
yet when Father Chupin' was pursued and captured, as occa-
sionally happened, no one could ever be found to testify against
him.
"He's such a dangerous fellow," the peasantry remarked.
"If any one denounced him. why, on leaving prison he would
simply lie in ambush and send an ounce of lead into his enemy's
brains."
While the farmers assembled in the churchyard were thus
exchanging comments concerning him, the rider of the saddle-
260 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
less mare had drawn rein in front of the local hostelry — the inn
of the Bceuf Couronne or Crowned Bull. Alighting from his
steed and crossing the square he walked toward the church.
He was a tall man of fifty or thereabouts, and as gnarled and
sinewy as the stem of some ancient vine. At the first glance he
would not have been taken for a scoundrel, for his demeanor
was humble and even gentle. The restlessness of his eyes and
the expression of his thin lips betrayed, however, a spirit of
diabolical cunning and calculation. At any other moment this
half-despised, half-dreaded individual would have been avoided;
but curiosity and anxiety now led the crowd toward him.
'Ah, well. Father Chupin !" cried the peasants, as soon as
he was within hearing, "where do you come from in such a
tremendous haste ?"
"From the city." To the inhabitants of Sairmeuse and its
environs "the city" meant the chief town of the arrondissement,
Montaignac, a charming subprefecture of eight thousand souls,
about four leagues distant. "And did you buy the horse you
were riding just now at Montaignac?"
"I didn't buy it : it was lent to me."
Coming from such a rascal this was so strange an assertion
that his listeners could not repress a smile. He did not seem,
however, to notice their incredulity.
"It was lent me," he continued, "in order that I might bring
some great news here as quickly as possible."
For a moment a vague fear struck the inquisitive farmers
dumb. "Is the enemy in the city?" one of the more timid
eventually inquired in an anxious tone.
"Yes, but not the enemy you mean. The new arrival is our
old lord of the manor, his grace the Due de Sairmeuse."
"What ! why, people said he was dead."
"They were mistaken."
"Have you seen him?"
"No, I have not seen him, but some one else has seen him
for me, and has spoken to him. And this some one is M. Lau-
geron, the landlord of the Hotel de France at Montaignac. I
was passing the house this morning, when he called me. 'Here,
old fellow,' said he, 'will you do me a favor?' Naturally I
replied I would, whereupon he placed a coin in my hand and
said : 'Well, go round to the stable and tell them to saddle a
horse for you, then gallop to Sairmeuse as fast as you can and
tell my friend Lacheneur that the Due de Sairmeuse arrived
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 261
here last night in a post-chaise, with his son Monsieur Martial,
and two servants.' " Father Chupin paused. "The news was
important," said he. "And as there wasn't an ostler in the
stable and I couldn't find a saddle, I came here as quickly as I
could on the beast's bare back."
The peasants were listening with pale cheeks and set teeth,
and Father Chupin strove to preserve the subdued mien appro-
priate to a messenger of misfortune. But if one had observed
him carefully, a swiftly repressed smile of irony might have
been detected on his lips, and a gleam of malicious joy in his
eyes. He was, in fact, inwardly jubilant, for at that moment
he was having his revenge for all the slights and all the scorn
he had been forced to endure. And what a revenge it was !
If his words seemed to fall slowly and reluctantly from his
lips, it was only because he was trying to prolong the sufferings
of his audience as much as possible.
However, a stalwart young peasant, with an intelligent face,
who, perhaps, read the old rascal's secret heart, bruskly inter-
rupted him : "What can we care for the presence of the Due
de Sairmeuse at Montaignac?" said he. "Let him remain at
the Hotel de France as long as he chooses ; we shan't go in
search of him."
"No ! we shan't go in search of him," echoed the other peas-
ants approvingly.
The old rogue shook his head with affected commiseration.
"The duke will not put you to that trouble," he replied; "he
will be here in less than a couple of hours."
"How do you know that?"
"I know it through M. Laugeron, who, just as I was start-
ing, said: 'Above all. old man, explain to my friend Lacheneur
that the duke has ordered horses to be ready to take him to
Sairmeuse at eleven o'clock.' "
With a common impulse all the peasants who had watches
consulted them.
"And what does he want here?" asked the same young
farmer who had spoken before.
"Excuse me, but he didn't tell me," replied Father Chupin,
"though one need not be very cunning to guess. He comes to
revisit his former estates, and to take them from those who
have purchased them, if possible. From you, Rousselet, he will
claim the meadows on the Oiselle, which always yield two
crops; from you, Father Gauchais, the ground on which the
262 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
Croix-Brulee stands ; from you, Chanlouineau, the vineyards on
the Borderie — "
Chanlouineau was the impetuous young fellow who had twice
interrupted Father Chupin already. "Claim the Borderie!" he
exclaimed, with even greater violence than before, "let him
try — and we'll see. It was waste land when my father bought
it — covered with briers: why, a goat couldn't have found pas-
ture there. We have cleared it of stones, we have scratched up
the soil with our very nails, watered it with our sweat, and
now this duke wants to take it from us! Ah! he shall have
my last drop of blood first."
"I don't say but—"
"But what? Is it any fault of ours if the nobles fled to for-
eign lands? We haven't stolen their lands, have we? The
government offered them for sale: we bought them, and paid
for them; they are lawfully ours."
"That's true ; but M. de Sairmeuse is the great friend of the
king."
The young soldier whose voice had aroused the most noble
sentiments only a moment before was now no longer remem-
bered. Invaded France, the threatening enemy, were alike for-
gotten. The all-powerful instinct of avarice had been suddenly
aroused.
"In my opinion," resumed Chanlouineau, "we had better con-
sult the Baron d'Escorval."
"Yes, yes!" exclaimed the peasants; "let us go at once!"
They were starting, when a villager who sometimes read the
papers checked them with the remark: "Take care what you
are about. Don't you know that since the return of the Bour-
bons M. d'Escorval is of no account whatever? Fouche has
him on the proscription list, and he is under the surveillance
of the police."
This objection dampened the general enthusiasm. "That's
true," murmured some of the older men, "a visit to M. d'Escor-
val would, perhaps, do us more harm than good. And, besides,
what advice could he give us?"
Chanlouineau had forgotten all prudence. "What of that !"
he exclaimed. "If M. d'Escorval has no advice to give us
about this matter, he can, perhaps, teach us how to resist and
to defend ourselves."
For some moments Father Chupin had been studying, with
a placid countenance, the storm of anger he had aroused. In
TlitL HONOR OF THE NAME 263
his secret heart he experienced an incendiary's satisfaction at
the sight of the flames he had kindled, perhaps he already had
a presentiment of the infamous part he would play a few
months later. However, satisfied with his experiment, he now
thought fit to assume the role of moderator.
"Wait a little. Don't cry before you are hurt," he exclaimed
in an ironical tone. "Who told you that the Due de Sair-
meuse would trouble you? How much of his former domain
do you all own between you ? Almost nothing. A few
fields and meadows, and a hill on the Borderie. All these
together didn't yield him five thousand livres a year in the
old days."
"Yes, that's true," replied Chanlouineau; "and if the revenue
you mention is now four times as much it is only because the
land is in the hands of forty farmers who cultivate it them-
selves."
"Which is another reason why the duke is not likely to say
a word ; he won't wish to set the whole district in commotion.
In my opinion he will only proceed against one person —
against our late mayor — M. Lacheneur, in short." Ah ! the
wily poacher knew only too well the egotism of his compatriots.
He knew with what complacency and eagerness they would
accept an expiatory victim whose sacrifice would be their
salvation.
"That's a fact," remarked an old man; "M. Lacheneur owns
nearly all the Sairmeuse property."
"Say all, while you are about it," rejoined Father Chupin.
"Where does M. Lacheneur live? Why, in the beautiful
Chateau de Sairmeuse, whose towers we can see there through
the trees. He hunts in the forests which once belonged to the
Due de Sairmeuse ; he fishes in their lakes ; he drives the
horses that once belonged to them, seated in the carriages on
which one might still see their coat-of-arms, if it hadn't been
painted out. Twenty years ago Lacheneur was a poor devil
like myself; now he's a grand gentleman with a princely in-
come. He wears the finest broadcloth and top-boots just like
the Baron d'Escorval. Instead of working himself he makes
others work for him, and when he passes by every one must
bow to the earth. If you kill so much as a sparrow on his lands
he will have you thrown into prison. Ah, he has been a lucky
fellow. The emperor made him mayor. The Bourbons de-
prived him of his office; but what does that matter to him?
r
2H4 THE HONOR OF THE'NA'ME
He is still the real master here, just as the dukes were in other
days. His son is pursuing his studies in Paris, with the inten-
tion of becoming a notary. As for his daughter, Mademoiselle
Marie-Anne — "
"Not a word against her !" exclaimed Chanlouineau ; "if
she were mistress, there wouldn't be a poor man in the
neighborhood. Ask your wife if that isn't the case, Father
Chupin."
This was an affront which the rascal Chupin would never
forget as long as he lived ; still for the moment he swallowed
it without any show of outward resentment. "I don't say that
Mademoiselle Marie-Anne is not generous," he replied with
affected humility, "but after all her charitable work, she has
plenty of money left for her fine dresses and other fancies. I
think M. Lacheneur might be very well content to give the duke
back half or even three-quarters of the property he acquired
no one ever knew how. He would still have enough left to
grind the poor under foot."
After appealing to selfishness, Father Chupin now appealed
to envy. There could be no doubt of his success. But he had
no time to pursue his advantage. Mass was over, and the wor-
shipers were leaving the church. Soon there stood on the
threshold of the porch the man he had alluded to — M. Lache-
neur — mayor of Sairmeuse in the days of the vanquished
emperor. A young girl of dazzling beauty leaned upon his
arm. Father Chupin walked straight toward him and bruskly
delivered his message. M. Lacheneur staggered beneath
the blow. He turned first so red, and then so frightfully
pale that those around him thought he was about to fall.
But he quickly recovered his self-possession, and without a
word to the messenger, walked rapidly away, leading his
daughter with him.
Some minutes later an old post-chaise, drawn by four horses,
dashed through the village at a gallop, and paused before the
cure's house. Then one might have witnessed a singular spec-
tacle. Father Chupin had gathered his wife and sons together,
and the four surrounded the carriage, shouting with all the
power of their lungs:
"Long live the Due de Sairmeuse !"
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
265
A GENTLY inclined road, more than two miles in length,
shaded by a quadruple row of venerable elms, leads from
the village to the Chateau de Sairmeuse. Nothing could be
more beautiful than this avenue, a fit approach to a palace ; and
the stranger who beheld it would at once understand the popu-
lar proverb of the district: "He does not know the real beauty
of France who has never seen Sairmeuse nor the Oiselle."
The Oiselle is a little river crossed by a wooden bridge on leav-
ing the village, and the clear rapid waters of which give a
delicious freshness to the valley. At every step as one ascends
the avenue the view changes. It is as if an enchanting pano-
rama were being slowly unrolled before one. On the right the
saw-pits of Fereol and the wind-mills of La Reche may be per-
ceived. On the left the tree-tops of the forest of Dolomieu
tremble in the breeze. Those imposing ruins across the river
are all that remain of the feudal castle of the house of Breulh.
That red brick mansion, with granite trimmings, half con-
cealed by a bend in the stream, belongs to the Baron d'Escor-
val And if the day is clear, one can easily distinguish the
spires of Montaigrac in the distance.
This was the road taken by M. Lacheneur after Chupin had
delivered his message. But what did the late mayor of Sair-
meuse care for the beauties of the landscape ! Standing under
the church porch he had received his death wound ; and now,
with a tottering step, he dragged himself along like some poor
soldier, mortally wounded upon the field of battle, who searches
for a ditch or quiet nook where to lie down and die. He
seemed to have lost all thought of the surroundings — all con-
sciousness of previous events. He pursued his way, lost in his
reflections, and guided only by force of habit. Two or three
times his daughter, who was walking by his side, tried to speak
to him ; but an "Ah ! let me alone !" uttered in a harsh tone,
was the only reply she obtained. Evidently M. Lacheneur had
received a terrible blow; and undoubtedly, as often happens
266 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
under such circumstances, the unfortunate man was reviewing
all the different phases of his life.
At twenty he was only a poor plowboy in the service of
the Sairmeuse family. His ambition was modest then ; and
stretched beneath a tree at the hour of noonday rest he indulged
in dreams as simple as his calling. "If I could but amass a
hundred pistoles," he thought, "I would ask Father Barrios
for the hand of his daughter Martha ; and he wouldn't re-
fuse me."
A hundred pistoles ! A thousand francs ! — an enormous sum
for one who, during two years of toil and privation had only
laid by eleven louis, placed carefully in a tiny box and hidden
in the depth of his straw mattress. Still, he did not despair, for
he had read in Martha's eyes that she would wait. And Made-
moiselle Armande de Sairmeuse, a rich old maid, was his god-
mother; and he thought, if he attracted her adroitly, that he
might, perhaps, interest her in his love affair.
Then suddenly the terrible storm of the Revolution burst
over France. With the fall of the first thunderbolts, the Due
de Sairmeuse left France with the Comte d'Artois. They took
refuge in foreign lands much after the same fashion as a
passer-by might seek shelter in a doorway from a summer
shower, saying to himself: "This will not last long." The
storm did last, however, and the following year Mademoiselle
Armande, who had remained at Sairmeuse, died. The chateau
was then closed, the president of the district took possession
of the keys in the name of the government, and the servants
became scattered in various parts.
Lacheneur took up his residence in Montaignac. Young,
daring, and personally attractive, blessed with an energetic face,
and an intelligence far above his station, it was not long before
he became well known in the political clubs. For three months
indeed Lacheneur was the virtual dictator of Montaignac.
But this profession of public agitator is seldom lucrative ;
hence the surprise throughout the district was immense when
people learned that the former plowboy had purchased the
chateau and almost all the land belonging to his former masters.
It is true that the nation had sold this princely domain for
scarcely a twentieth part of its real value. It had been valued
at sixty-nine thousand francs. To sell it for so beggarly an
amount was equivalent to giving it away. And yet it was nec-
essary to have this sum, and strange to say the apparently
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 267
penniless Lacheneur possessed it, since he had poured a flood
of beautiful louis d'or into the hands of the receiver of the
district.
From that moment his popularity waned. The patriots who
had applauded the plowboy cursed the capitalist. He discreetly
left his former friends to recover from their rage as best they
could, and returned to Sairmeuse. There every one bowed
low before Citoyen Lacheneur. Unlike most people, he did not
forget his past hopes at the moment when they might be real-
ized. He married Martha Barrios, and leaving the country to
work out its own salvation without his assistance, he gave his
time and attention to agriculture.
Any close observer in those days would have surmised that
the man was bewildered by the sudden change in his situation.
His manner was so troubled and anxious that, to see him, he
"would have been taken for a servant in constant fear of being
detected in some indiscretion. At first he did not open the
chateau, but installed himself and his young wife in the cottage
formerly occupied by the head gamekeeper, near the entrance
•of the park. But, little by little, with the habit of possession
came assurance. The Consulate had succeeded the Directory,
the Empire succeeded the Consulate, and Citoyen Lacheneur
became Monsieur Lacheneur. Appointed mayor two years later,
he left the cottage and took possession of the chateau. The
former plowboy slept in the bed of the Dues de Sairmeuse;
he ate off the massive plate bearing their escutcheon ; and he
received his visitors in the same magnificent suite of rooms
where the proud peers had received their friends in the years
gone by.
To those who had known him in former days, M. Lacheneur
had become unrecognizable. He had adapted himself to his
lofty station. Blushing at his own ignorance, he had had the
courage — wonderful in one of his age — to acquire the educa-
tion which he lacked. Then all his undertakings were success-
ful to such a degree that his good luck had become proverbial.
It sufficed for him to take any part in an enterprise for it to
turn out well. The blessings of wedded life, moreover, were
not denied him, for his wife had given him two lovely chil-
dren, a son and a daughter; while, on the other hand, his
property, managed with a shrewdness and sagacity the former
owners had not possessed, yielded a princely income.
How many under similar circumstances would have lost their
268 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
heads ! But Lacheneur retained all his habitual coolness. In
spite of the luxury that surrounded him, his own habits con-
tinued simple and frugal. He never had an attendant for his
own person. His large income was almost entirely consecrated
to the improvement of the estate or to the purchase of more
land. And yet he was not avaricious. In all that concerned
his wife or children he did not count the cost. His son Jean
had been educated in Paris, for he wished him to be fitted
for any position. Unwilling to consent to a separation from
his daughter, he had entrusted her to the care of a resident
governess. Sometimes his friends accused him of an inordinate
ambition for his children ; but at any such remarks he would
sadly shake his head and reply: "All I want is to insure them
a modest and comfortable future, though it is folly indeed to
count upon the time to come. Thirty years ago who would
have foreseen that the Sairmeuse family would ever be deprived
of their estates?"
With such opinions he should have been a good master; and
such he was, though no one ever thought better of him on that
account. His former comrades could not forgive him for his
sudden elevation, and seldom spoke of him without wishing his
ruin in ambiguous language.
Alas ! evil days were to come. Toward the close of the year
1812 he lost his wife, while the disasters of 1813 swept away
a large portion of his personal fortune, invested in a manufac-
turing enterprise. At the advent of the First Restoration, he
was obliged to conceal himself for a time ; and to cap the
climax the conduct of his son, who was still in Paris, caused
him serious disquietude. He already believed himself the most
unfortunate of men, and now here was another misfortune
threatening him — a misfortune so terrible that all the others
were forgotten in the contemplation of it. Twenty years had
elapsed since the day he had purchased Sairmeuse. Twenty
years ! And yet it seemed to him only yesterday that, blushing
and trembling, he had laid those piles of louis d'or on the desk
of the district receiver. Had he dreamed it? No, he had not
dreamed it. His whole life, with its struggles and miseries, its
hopes and fears, its unexpected joys and blighted hopes, passed
in review before him.
Lost in these memories, he had quite forgotten the present
situation, when a commonplace incident, more powerful than
his daughter's voice, brought him back to the threatening real-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 269
ity. The park gate leading to the Chateau de Sairmeuse, to
his chateau, was locked. He shook it violently in a fit of rage,
and being unable to break the lock, found some relief in
breaking the bell.
On hearing the noise, a gardener hastened to the spot.
"Why is this gate closed ?" demanded M. Lacheneur, with
unwonted violence of manner. "By what right do you barri-
cade my house when I, the master, am out of doors?"
The gardener tried to make some excuse. "Hold your
tongue!" interrupted his master. "I dismiss you; you are no
longer in my service."
Leaving the bewildered gardener to his astonishment, he
walked on through the pleasure grounds — past the velvet lawns
fringed with summer flowers and dense patches of shrubbery.
In the vestibule, paved and paneled with mosaics of marble,
three of his tenants sat awaiting him, for it was on "Sunday
that he always received those farmers who desired to confer
with him. The three even rose at his approach, and deferen-
tially doffed their hats. But he did not give them time to utter
a word.
"Who allowed you to enter here ?" he said in a savage voice,
"and what do you desire ? They sent you to play the spy on
me, did they? Well, get out now and at once!"
The three farmers were even more bewildered than the
gardener had been, and exchanged many comments of dismay.
But M. Lacheneur did not hear them. Throwing open a sculp-
tured door, he had dashed into the grand saloon followed by
his frightened daughter.
Never had Marie-Anne seen her father in such a mood ; and
she fairly trembled, affected for the moment by the most ter-
rible presentiments. She had heard it said that under the influ-
ence o+ some dire calamity men have sometimes suddenly lost
their reason, and she was wondering if her father had become
insane. Many might really have supposed that such was the
case, for his eyes flashed, his lips twitched, and convulsive shud-
ders shook his entire frame. He made the circuit of the
drawing-room as a wild beast makes the circuit of its cage,
uttering harsh imprecations and making frenzied gestures. His
actions were quite incomprehensible. Sometimes he seemed to
be trying the thickness of the carpet with the toe of his boot,
and sometimes he threw himself on to a chair or a sofa as if
to test their softness. Occasionally he paused abruptly before
270 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
one of the valuable pictures that covered the walls, or before
some precious bronze ; and one might have supposed him to be
taking an inventory, and appraising all the marvels of art and
upholstery which decorated this apartment, the most sumptuous
in the chateau.
"And I must renounce all this !" he exclaimed at last. "No,
never ! never ! never ! I can not ! I will not !"
Now, Marie-Anne was in a measure enlightened. But still
she did not exactly know what was passing in her father's mind.
Anxious for information, she left the low chair on which she
had been sitting and went to his side. "Are you ill, father?'*
she asked, in her sweetest voice ; "what is the matter ? What
do you fear? Why don't you confide in me — am I not your
daughter? Don't you love me any longer?"
At the sound of this dear voice, M. Lacheneur trembled like
a sleeper suddenly aroused from the terrors of nightmare, and
cast an indescribable glance upon his daughter. "Did you not
hear what Chupin said to me?" he replied slowly. "The Due
de Sairmeuse is at Montaignac — he will soon be here; and we
are dwelling in the chateau of his fathers, and his domain has
become ours !"
Marie-Anne was well acquainted with this vexed question
of the national lands, a question which agitated France for
thirty years, for she had heard it discussed a thousand times.
"Ah, well ! dear father," said she, "what does that matter, even
if we do hold the property? You have bought it and paid for
it, haven't you? So it is rightfully and lawfully ours."
M. Lacheneur hesitated a moment before replying. He had
a secret which suffocated him ; and was in one of those crises
in which a man, however strong, totters and seeks for any sup-
port, however fragile. "You would be right, my daughter,"
he murmured with drooping head, "if the money I gave in
exchange for Sairmeuse had really belonged to me."
At this strange avowal the young girl turned pale and re-
coiled a step. "What?" she faltered; "the gold wasn't yours,
father? Whom did it belong to then? where did it come
from ?"
The unhappy man had gone too far to retract. "I will tell
you everything, my dear girl," he replied, "and you shall be
my judge. You shall decide everything. When the Sairmeuse
family fled from France, I had only my hands to depend upon,
and as it was almost impossible to obtain work, I wondered if
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 271
starvation were not near at hand. Such was my condition
when some one came one evening to tell me that Mademoiselle
Armande de Sairmeuse, my godmother, was dying, and wished
to speak with me. I ran to the chateau. The messenger had
told the truth. Mademoiselle Armande was sick unto death.
I felt aware of this when I saw her lying on the bed, whiter
than wax. Ah ! if I were to live a hundred years, I should
never forget the look that was on her face. It seemed to
express a determination to hold death at bay until some task
on which she had resolved had been performed. When I en-
tered the room she seemed relieved. 'How long you were in
coming !' she murmured. I was about to make some excuse,
when she motioned me to pause, and ordered her nurses to
leave the room. As soon as we were alone, 'You are an honest
boy,' said she, 'and I am about to give you a proof of my con-
fidence. People believe me to be poor, but they are mistaken.
While my relatives were gaily ruining themselves, I was saving
the five hundred louis which the duke allowed me every year.
So saying, she motioned me to come nearer and kneel beside
her bed. I obeyed, and then Mademoiselle Armande leaned
toward me, fixed her lips to my ear, and added: 'I have saved
eighty thousand francs.' I felt a sudden giddiness, but my god-
mother didn't notice it. 'This amount,' she continued, 'is not
a quarter of the former income from our family estates. But
now who knows but one day it may be the only resource of the
Sairmeuses. I am going to place it in your charge, Lacheneur.
I confide it to your honor and devotion. The estates belonging
to the emigrants are to be sold, I hear. If such an act of
injustice is committed, you will probably be able to purchase
our property for seventy thousand francs. If the property is
sold by the government, purchase it ; but if the lands belonging
to the emigrants are not sold, take seventy thousand francs to
the duke, my nephew, who is with the Comte d'Artois. The
surplus, that is to say, the ten thousand francs remaining, I
give to you — they are yours.' When saying this she seemed to
recover her strength. She raised herself up in bed, and hold-
ing the crucifix attached to her rosary against my lips, she
added: 'Swear by the image of our Saviour that you \,_il faith-
fully execute your dying godmother's last will.' I took the
required oath, and an expression of satisfaction overspread her
features."
M. Lacheneur paused. The recollection of this scene plainly
272 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
produced a deep impression on his mind. "In continuation,"
he said, "Mademoiselle Armande then told me she should die
content. 'You will have a protector on high,' she said. 'But
this is not all. In times like these, this gold will not be safe
in your hands unless those about you are ignorant that you
possess it. It is here in this cupboard at the head of my bed,
in a small oak chest, which you must manage to remove with-
out being seen. If you went out with it in your arms, people
might wonder by and by what it contained. The best plan
would be to fasten a sheet round it, and let it down gently from
the window into the garden. You must then leave the house
as you entered it, and as soon as you are outside, you must
take the box and carry it home. The night is very dark, and
no one will see you, if you are careful. But make haste : my
strength is nearly gone.' I did as Mademoiselle Armande sug-
gested, and less than ten minutes afterward I had lowered the
box into the garden without the slightest noise. Closing the
window, I exclaimed : 'I have done your bidding, godmother/
'God be praised.' she whispered, 'Sairmeuse is saved !' I heard
a deep sigh, and turning round found that she was dead."
M. Lacheneur shuddered as he uttered these last words. His
emotion was intense, and for a moment he could not speak.
Eventually, in a hollow voice, he exclaimed : "I called for aid
— it came. Mademoiselle Armande was loved by every one;
there was great lamentation, and half an hour of indescribable
confusion. I was able to withdraw, unnoticed, to run into the
garden, and carry away the box. An hour later, it was con-
cealed in the miserable hovel I inhabited, and the following year
I purchased Sairmeuse."
The unfortunate man paused again, he had confessed every-
thing, and now stood trembling in front of his daughter trying
to read his sentence in her eyes.
"And can you hesitate?" she asked.
"Ah ! you don't know—"
"I know that Sairmeuse must be given up."
This was also the counsel of his own conscience, that faint
voice which speaks only in a whisper, but which all the tumult
on earth can not overpower. Still he hesitated. "No one saw
me take away the chest," he faltered. "If any one suspected
it, there is not a single proof against me. But no one does
suspect it."
Marie-Anne rose, her eyes flashing with indignation.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 273
"Father!" she exclaimed. "Oh! father! If others know
nothing about it, can you forget it?"
M. Lacheneur did not immediately reply. He seemed to be
inwardly wrestling with himself. "Restitution." he at last
exclaimed. "Yes, then I will make restitution. I restitute what
I received. I will give the duke the eighty thousand francs,
with the interest on the amount ever since I have had it in my
hands, and then we shall be quits !"
Marie-Anne shook her head. "Why resort to an unworthy
subterfuge ?" she asked in a gentle voice. "You know perfectly
well that it was Sairmeuse itself that Mademoiselle Armande
wished to entrust to the servant of her house. And it is Sair-
meuse which must be returned."
The word "servant" was revolting to a man who, at least
while the Empire lasted, had been a power in the land. "Ah !
Marie, you are cruel," he replied with intense bitterness, "as
cruel as a child who has never suffered — as cruel as one who,
never having been tempted himself, is without mercy for those
who have yielded to temptation. You tell me that I was but a
trustee, and so indeed I formerly considered myself. If your
dear mother were still alive, she would tell you the anxiety
and anguish I felt on becoming the master of riches which
were not mine. I was afraid of myself. I felt like some gam-
bler to whom the winnings of others have been confided. Your
mother could tell you that I moved heaven and earth to find
the Due de Sairmeuse. But he had left the Comte d'Artois,
and no one knew where he had gone or what had become of
him. Ten years passed before I could make up my mind to
inhabit the chateau — yes, ten years — during which I had the
furniture dusted each morning as if the master was to return
that very evening. At last I ventured. I heard ML d'Escorval
declare that the duke had been killed in battle. So I took up
my abode here ; and day after day as the domain of Sairmeuse
grew more productive and extensive under my care, I felt
myself more and more its rightful owner."
This fresh plea — this despairing appeal on behalf of a bad
cause produced no impression on Marie-Anne's loyal heart.
"Restitution must be made," she repeated.
Her father wrung his hands. "Without mercy !" he ex-
claimed ; "she is without mercy. Unfortunate girl ! doesn't
she understand that it is for her sake I wish to remain where
I am. I am old ; familiar with toil and poverty ; and my hands
274 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
are still hard and horny. What do I need to keep me alive till
the time comes to lay me in the graveyard? A crust of bread
and an onion in the morning, a bowl of soup at night, and a
bundle of straw to sleep on. I could easily return to that.
But you, unhappy child ! and your brother, what will become
of you both ?"
"We must not discuss or haggle with duty, father," replied
Marie-Anne. "I think, however, that you are needlessly
alarmed. I believe the duke is too noble-hearted ever to allow
you to want after the immense service you have rendered him."
The former plowboy of the house of Sairmeuse laughed a
loud, bitter laugh. "You believe that !" said he. "Then you
don't know the nobles who have been our masters for ages.
My only reward will be some callous phrase: 'You're a worthy
fellow,' or something of the kind, uttered just for form's sake;,
and you will see us — me at my plow, and you out at service.
And if I venture to speak of the ten thousand francs that were
given me, I shall be treated like an impostor or an impudent
fool. I swear this shall not be !"
"Oh, father!"
"No ! this shall not be. And I realize — as you can not real-
ize — the disgrace of such a fall. You think you are beloved
in Sairmeuse ? You are mistaken. We have been too fortunate
not to be the victims of hatred and jealousy. If I fall to-
morrow, those who kissed your hands yesterday will be ready
to tear you to pieces !"
Lacheneur's eyes glittered; he believed he had found a vic-
torious argument. "And then," resumed he, "you yourself will
realize the horror of the disgrace. It will cost you the deadly
anguish of separating from the man your heart has chosen?"
At these words Marie-Anne's beautiful eyes filled with tears.
"If what you say proves true, father," she murmured, in an
altered voice, "I may, perhaps, die of sorrow; but I shall have
to realize that my confidence and love were misplaced."
"And you still insist upon my returning Sairmeuse to its-
former owner?"
"Honor demands it, father."
M. Lacheneur struck the chair in which he was seated with
a violent blow of his fist. "And if I continue obstinate," he
exclaimed — "if I keep the property — what will you do then?"
"I shall say to myself, father, that honest poverty is better
than stolen wealth. I shall leave the chateau, which belongs
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
275
to the Due de Sairmeuse, and seek a situation as a servant in
the neighborhood."
M. Lacheneur sank back in his chair sobbing. He knew his
daughter's nature well enough to rest assured that she would
do what she said. However, he was conquered ; Marie-Anne
had won the battle, and he had decided to make the heroic
sacrifice she asked for.
"I will relinquish Sairmeuse," he faltered, "come what
may — "
He paused suddenly, for a visitor had just opened the door
unheard, and was now entering the room. The newcomer was
a young man, twenty or thereabouts, of distinguished mien, but
with a rather melancholy and gentle manner. On crossing the
threshold his eyes met those of Marie-Anne, and a crimson
flush mantled over both their faces.
"Sir," said this young fellow, "my father sends me to in-
form you that the Due de Sairmeuse and his son have just
arrived. They have asked the hospitality of our cure."
M. Lacheneur rose, unable to conceal his agitation. "You
will thank the Baron d'Escorval for his attention, my dear
Maurice," he replied. "I shall have the honor of seeing him
to-day, after an important step which my daughter and I are
about to take."
Young d'Escorval had seen at the first glance that his pres-
ence was inopportune, and accordingly he did not linger. But
as he was taking leave, Marie-Anne found time and opportu-
nity to say to him in a low voice : "I think I know your heart,
Maurice; this evening I shall know it for certain."
"C* E W of the inhabitants of Sairmeuse knew, except by name,
the terrible duke whose arrival had thrown the whole
village into commotion. Some of the oldest residents had a
faint recollection of having seen him long ago, before '89
indeed, when he came to visit his aunt, Mademoiselle Armande,
though under the monarchy his duties had seldom permitted
276 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
him to leave the court. If he had given no signs of life
during the Empire, it was mainly because he had escaped the
humiliations and suffering which so many of the emigrants
endured in exile. Indeed unlike most of his fellows he had
received a princely fortune in exchange for the wealth of which
the Revolution had deprived him.
Taking refuge in London after the defeat of the army of
Conde, he had been so fortunate as to please the only daughter
of one of the richest Catholic peers in England, and he had
married her. She possessed a dowry of two hundred and fifty
thousand pounds sterling, more than six million francs. Still
the marriage was not a happy one ; for the chosen companion
of the licentious Comte d'Artois not unnaturally proved a
very indifferent husband. Indeed, the young duchess was con-
templating a separation when she died, in giving birth to a
little boy, who was baptized under the names of Anne-Marie-
Martial.
The loss of his wife did not render the Due de Sairmeuse
inconsolable. He was free and richer than he had ever been.
As soon therefore as etiquette permitted, he confided his son
to the care of one of his wife's relations and began his roving
life again. Rumor had told the truth. He had fought, and
fought furiously, against France first in the Austrian and
then in the Russian ranks. And he took no pains to conceal
the fact, convinced that he had only performed his duty. He
indeed considered that he had honestly and loyally gained the
rank of general, granted him by the Emperor of all the Russias.
He had not returned to France during the First Restoration;
but his absence had been involuntary. His father-in-law had
just died, and the duke was detained in London by business
connected with his son's immense inheritance. Then followed
the "Hundred Days," by which he was exasperated. But "the
good cause," as he styled it, having triumphed anew, he had at
length hastened back to France.
Lacheneur had correctly estimated the character of the for-
mer lord of Sairmeuse, when he resisted his daughter's en-
treaties. The former plowboy had been compelled to conceal
himself during the First Restoration, and he knew only too well
that the returned emigres had learned nothing and forgotten
nothing. The Due de Sairmeuse was no exception to the rule.
He thought, and nothing could be more sadly absurd, that a
mere act of authority would suffice to suppress forever all the
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 27?
events of the Revolution and the Empire. When any of those
who had seen Louis XVIII at the helm in 1814 assured the
duke that France had changed in many respects since 1789,
he responded with a shrug of the shoulders: "Nonsense! As
soon as we assert ourselves all these rascals whose rebellion
alarms you will quietly slink out of sight." And such was
really his opinion.
On the road from Montaignac to Sairmeuse, his grace,
comfortably ensconced in a corner of his traveling carriage,
unfolded his theories for his son's benefit. "The king has been
poorly advised," he said. "And indeed I am disposed to believe
that he inclines too much to Jacobinism. If he would listen
to my advice, he would use the twelve hundred thousand
soldiers our friends have placed at his disposal, to bring his
subjects to a proper sense of duty. Twelve hundred thousand
bayonets have far more eloquence than all the clauses of a
charter."
The duke continued his remarks in this strain until the
vehicle approached Sairmeuse. Though but little given to
sentiment, he was really affected by the sight of the district
in which he had been born — where he had played as a child,
and of which he had heard nothing since Mademoiselle Ar-
mande's death. Though change could be detected on every side,
at least the outlines of the landscape remained the same, and
the valley of the Oiselle was as bright and smiling as in days
gone by.
"I recognize it!" exclaimed his grace with a momentary
delight that made him forget politics. "I recognize it!"
Soon the changes became more striking. The vehicle had
reached Sairmeuse, and rattled over the stones of the one long
street. This street, in former years, had been unpaved, and
had always been well-nigh impassable in wet weather.
"Ah, ha!" murmured the duke, "this is an improvement!"
It was not long before he noticed others. The dilapidated,
thatched hovels of the old regime had given place to pretty,
comfortable white cottages, with green blinds to the windows
and vines hanging gracefully over the doors. Soon the church
came in view with the white flag of the Bourbons floating
according to royal command on the summit of the belfry tower.
In the open square facing the house of worship groups of
peasants were still engaged in anxious converse.
"What do you think of all these peasants?" inquired the
278 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
duke's son, the Marquis Martial de Sairmeuse. "Do you think
they look like people who are preparing a triumphal recep-
tion for their old masters?"
The duke shrugged his shoulders. He was not the man to
renounce an illusion for such a trifle. "They don't know that
I am in this carriage," he replied. "When they know — " At
this very moment loud shouts of "Vive Monseigneur le Due
de Sairmeuse !" interrupted him.
"Do you hear that, marquis ?" he exclaimed ; and pleased by
these cries that proved he was in the right, he leaned from the
carriage window, waving his hand to the honest Chupin family,
who were running after the vehicle with noisy shouts. The
old rascal, his wife, and his sons, all possessed powerful voices ;
and it was scarcely strange that the duke should believe that
the whole village was welcoming him. He was indeed con-
vinced of it; and when the vehicle stopped before the house of
the cure, M. de Sairmeuse was firmly persuaded that the
popularity of the nobility was even greater then than ever.
Upon the threshold of the parsonage, stood Bibaine, the vil-
lage priest's old housekeeper. She knew who these guests
must be, for a cure's servant always knows everything that
is going on. "The cure has not yet returned from church,"
she said, in reply to the duke's inquiry; "but if the gentlemen
would like to wait, it will not be long before he comes, for the
poor dear man has not yet lunched."
"Then let us go in," the duke said to his son; and guided
by the housekeeper, they entered a small sitting-room which
M. de Sairmeuse appraised in a single glance. The aspect of a
house reveals the habits of its master. Here everything was
poor and bare, though scrupulously clean. The walls were
white-washed ; eight or ten chairs were ranged around, and
the spoons and forks on the clothless table were of common
pewter. This abode either belonged to a man of saintly char-
acter or one of intense ambition.
"Will these gentlemen take any refreshment?" inquired
Bibaine.
"Upon my word," replied Martial, "I must confess that the
drive has whetted my appetite amazingly."
"Blessed Jesus !" exclaimed the old housekeeper, in evident
despair. "You wish to lunch. What am I to do? I have
nothing ! That is to say — yes — I have an old hen left in the
coop. Give me time to wring its neck, to pick it and clean it — "
1 — vol. II — Gab
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 279
She paused to listen; footsteps could be heard in the passage.
"Ah !" she exclaimed, "here comes our cure !"
The village priest of Sairmeuse, the Abbe Midon as he was
called, was the son of a poor farmer in the environs of Mon-
taignac, and owed his Latin and his tonsure to the privations
of his family. Tall, angular, and solemn, he was as cold and
impassive as a grave-stone
It was by immense efforts of will, and at the cost of great
physical and mental torture that he had made himself what he
was. Some idea of the terrible restraint to which he had
subjected himself could be formed by looking at his eyes, which
occasionally flashed with all tht fire of an impassioned soul.
Was he old or young? The most subtle observer would have
hesitated to answer this question on looking at his pallid,
emaciated face, cut in two by an immense nose — a real eagle's
beak — as thin as the edge of a razor. He wore a long black
robe, patched and darned in numberless places, but without a
single spot or stain. This garment hung about his tall atten-
uated body like the damaged sails around the mast of some
disabled ship.
At the sight of two strangers occupying his sitting-room,
the village priest manifested some slight surprise. The vehicle
standing at the door haa announced the presence of some
unusual visitor; but neither he nor the sacristan had been
notified, and he wondered whom he had to deal with, and what
was required of him. Mechanically he turned to Bibaine, but
the old servant had taken flight.
The duke understood his host's astonishment. "Upon my
word, abbe," he said, with the impertinent ease of a great
nobleman, who makes himself a. home everywhere, "we hare
taken your house by storm and hold the position, as you see. I
am the Due de Sairmeuse, and this is my son the marquis."
The priest bowed, but he did not seem very greatly im-
pressed by his guest's exalted rank. "It is a great honor for
me," he replied, in a more than reserved tone, "to receive a
visit from the former master of this place."
He emphasized this word "former," in such a manner that
it was impossible to doubt his sentiments and opinions. Un-
fortunately," he continued, "you will not find here the comforts
to which you are accustomed, and I fear — "
"Nonsense !" interrupted the duke. "An old soldier is not
fastidious, and what suffices for you, Monsieur l'Abbc, will
2— Vol. II— Gab.
280 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
suffice for us. And rest assured that we shall amply repay
you in one way or another for any inconvenience we may
cause you."
The priest's eyes flashed. This want of tact, this disagreeable
familiarity, this last insulting remark, kindled the anger of
the man concealed beneath the priest.
"Besides." added Martial gaily, "we have been vastly amused
by your housekeeper's anxieties, and already know that there
is a chicken in the coop — "
"That is to say there was one, Monsieur le Marquis."
The old housekeeper, who suddenly reappeared, explained her
master's reply. She seemed overwhelmed with despair. "Holy
Virgin! what shall I do?" she clamored. "The chicken has
disappeared. Some one has certainly stolen it, for the coop
is securely closed !"
"Do not accuse your neighbors hastily," interrupted the cure ;
"no one has stolen it. Bertrand was here this morning to
ask alms for her sick daughter. I had no money, so I gave
her the fowl that she might make some good broth for the
poor girl"
This explanation changed Bibaine's consternation to fury.
Planting herself in the centre of the room, one hand on her
hip, and the other pointing at her master, she cried in a loud
voice, "That is just the sort of a man he is; he hasn't as much
sense as a baby ! Any miserable peasant who meets him can
turn him round his little finger; and the bigger the falsehood
the more readily the tears come to his eyes. And that's the way
they take the very shoes off his feet and the bread from his
mouth. As for Bertrand's daughter she's no more ill than I am !"
"Enough," said the priest sternly, "enough." Then, knowing
by experience that his voice would not check her flood of
reproaches, he took her by the arm and led her out into the
passage.
The Due de Sairmeuse and his son exchanged a glance of
consternation. Was this a comedy prepared for their benefit?
Evidently not, since their arrival had been unexpected. But
the priest whose character had been so plainly revealed by this
domestic quarrel, was not a man to their taste. At least, he
was evidently not the man they had hoped to find — the auxiliary
whose assistance was indispensable to the success of their plans.
Still they did not exchange a word; but listened, waiting for
what would follow.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 281
They could hear a discussion in the passage. The master
was speaking in a low tone, but with an unmistakable accent
of command, and the servant uttered an astonished exclamation.
No distinct word was, however, audible.
Soon the priest reentered the sitting-room. "I hope, gentle-
men," he said, with a dignity calculated to check any attempt
at sarcasm, "that you will excuse this ridiculous scene. The
cure of Sairmeuse, thank God, is not so poor as his house-
keeper pretends."
Neither the duke nor Martial made any reply. Their earlier
assurance was very sensibly diminished ; and M. de Sairmeuse
deemed it advisable to change the subject. This he did by
relating the events which he had just witnessed in Paris ;
profiting by the occasion to pretend that his majesty, Louis
XVIII, had been welcomed back with enthusiastic transports
of affection.
Fortunately, the old housekeeper interrupted this recital.
She entered the room, loaded with china, spoons, forks, and
bottles, and behind her came a tall man in a white apron, with
three or four covered dishes in his hands. It was an order to
go and obtain this repast from the village inn that had drawn
from Bibaine so many exclamations of wonder and dismay in
the passage.
A moment later the cure and his guests took their places at
the table. Had the dinner merely consisted of the much-
lamented chicken, the rations would have been bery "short."
Indeed the worthy woman was herself obliged to confess this, on
seeing the terrible appetites evinced by M. de Sairmeuse and his
son. "One would have sworn that they hadn't eaten anything
for a whole fortnight," she told her friends the next day.
The Abbe Midon was apparently not hungry, though it was
now two o'clock, and he had eaten nothing since the previous
evening. The sudden arrival of the former masters of Sair-
meuse filled his heart with gloomy forebodings ; and to his mind
their coming presaged the greatest misfortunes. So while he
played with his knife and fork, pretending to eat, he was really
occupied in watching his guests, and in studying them with all
a priest's penetration, which, by the way, is generally far
superior to that of a physician or a magistrate.
The Due de Sairmeuse was fifty-seven, but looked consider-
ably younger. The storms of his youth, the dissipation of his
viper years, the great excesses of every kind in which he had
282 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
indulged had failed to impair his iron constitution. Of her-
culean build, he was extremely proud of his strength, and of
his hands, which were well formed, but large, firmly knit and
powerful, such hands as rightfully belonged to a nobleman
whose ancestors had dealt many a crushing blow with pon-
derous battle-ax and two-handed sword in the ancient days of
chivalry. His face revealed his character. He possessed all
the graces and all the vices of a courtier. He was at the
same time witty and ignorant, skeptical as regards religion,
and yet violently imbued with the authoritative prejudices of
his class.
Though less robust than his father, Martial was quite as
distinguished looking a cavalier. Young as he was, barely
a man, he had already been the hero of many a love intrigue,
and more than one beauty of renown at foreign courts had
been smitten with the soft gleam of his large blue eyes, and
the wavy locks of golden hair he inherited from his mother.
To his father he owed energy, courage, and, it must also be
added, perversity. But he was his superior in education and
intellect. If he shared his father's prejudices, he had not
adopted them without weighing them carefully. What the
father might do in a moment of excitement, the son was
capable of doing in cold blood.
It was thus that the abbe, with rare sagacity, read the
character of his guests. So it was with sorrow, but without
surprise, that he heard the duke advance, on the questions of
the day, the impossible ideas that were shared by nearly all the
returned emigres. Knowing the condition of the country, and
the state of the public opinion, the cure endeavored to convince
the obstinate nobleman of his mistake; but upon this subject
the duke would not permit contradiction ; and he was beginning
to lose his temper, when Bibaine opportunely appeared at the
parlor door.
"Monsieur le Due," she said, "M. Lacheneur and his daughter
are without and desire to speak to you."
This name of Lacheneur awakened no recollection in the
duke's mind. First of all, he had never lived at Sairmeuse.
And even if he had, what courtier of the ancien regime ever
troubled himseh about the individual names of his peasantry,
whom he regarded with such profound indifference. When a
nobleman addressed these people, he exclaimed: "Hello! hi
there ! my worthy fellow !"
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 283
Hence it was with the air of a man who is making an effort
of memory that the Due de Sairmeuse repeated: "Lachen-
eur — M. Lacheneur — "
But Martial, a closer observer than his father, had noticed
that the priest's glance wavered at the mention of this name.
"Who is this person, abbe?" lightly asked the duke.
"M. Lacheneur," replied the priest with evident hesitation,
"is the present owner of the Chateau de Sairmeuse."
Martial, the precocious diplomat, could not repress a smile
on hearing this reply, which he had foreseen. But the duke
bounded from his chair. "Ah !" he exclaimed, "it's the rascal
who had the impudence — Let him come in, old woman, let
him come in."
Bibaine retired, and the priest's uneasiness increased.
"Permit me, Monsieur le Due," he hastily said, "to remark
that M. Lacheneur exercises a great influence in this region —
to offend him would be impolitic — "
"I understand — you advise me to be conciliatory. Such
sentiments are those of a Jacobin. If his majesty listens to
the advice of such as you, all these sales of confiscated estates
will be ratified. Zounds ! our interests are the same. If the
Revolution has deprived the nobility of their property, it has
also impoverished the clergy."
"The possessions of a priest are not of this world," coldly
retorted the cure.
M. de Sairmeuse was about to make some impertinent re-
joinder, when M. Lacheneur appeared, followed by his daughter.
The wretched man was ghastly pale, great drops of perspiration
coursed down his forehead, and his restless, haggard eyes
revealed his distress of mind. Marie-Anne was as pale as her
father, but her attitude and the light gleaming in her glance
spoke of invincible energy and determination.
"Ah, well ! friend," said the duke, "so you are the owner
of Sairmeuse. it seems."
This was said with such a careless insolence of manner that
the cure blushed that a man whom he considered his equal should
be thus treated in his house. He rose and offered the visitors
chairs. "Will you take a seat, dear Lacheneur?" said he,
with a politeness intended as a lesson for the duke ; "and you,
also, mademoiselle, do me the honor — "
But the father and the daughter both refused the proffered
civility with a motion of the head.
284 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
"Monsieur !e Due," continued Lacheneur, "I am an old
servant of your house — "
"Ahi indeed!"
"Mademoiselle Armande, your aunt, did my poor mother
the honor of acting as my godmother — "
"Ah, yes," interrupted the duke, "I remember you now.
Our family has shown great kindness to you and yours. And
it was to prove your gratitude, probably, that you made haste
to purchase our estate !"
The former plowboy was of humble origin, but his heart and
'his character had developed with his fortunes; he understood
his own worth. Much as he was disliked, and even detested,
.by his neighbors, every one respected him. And here was a
man who treated him with undisguised scorn. Why? By
what right? Indignant at the outrage, he made a movement
as if to retire. No one, save his daughter, knew the truth ; he
had only to keep silent, and Sairmeuse remained his. Yes, he
had still the power to keep Sairmeuse, and he knew it, for
he did not share the fears of the ignorant rustics. He was too
well informed not to be able to distinguish between the hopes
of the emigres and the reality of their situation.
He knew that to place the returning noblemen perforce in
repossession of their ancestral estates would imperil even the
existence of the monarchy, despite the presence of all the
foreign bayonets. A beseeching word, uttered in a low tone
by his daughter, induced him, however, to turn again to the
duke. "If I purchased Sairmeuse," he answered, in a voice
husky with emotion, "it was in obedience to the command of
your dying aunt, and with the money she gave me for that
purpose. If you see me here, it is only because I come to re-
store to you the deposit confided to my keeping."
Any one not belonging to that class of spoiled fools who
ordinarily surround a throne would have been deeply touched.
But the duke thought this grand act of honesty and generosity
the most simple and natural thing in the world.
"That's all very well, so far as the principal is concerned,"
said he. "But let us speak now of the interest. Sairmeuse, if E
remember rightly, yielded an average income of one thousand
louis per year. These revenues, well invested, should have
amounted to a considerable amount. Where is it?"
This claim, thus advanced and at such a moment, was so
outrageous, that Martial, disgusted, made a sign to his father
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 285
which the latter did not see. But the cure hoping to recall the
grasping nobleman to something like a sense of shame, ex-
claimed : "Monsieur le Due ! Oh, Monsieur le Due !"
Lacheneur shrugged his shoulders with an air of resignation.
"The income I have partly used for my own living expenses,
and the education of my children ; but most of it has been
expended in improving the estate, which to-day yields an income
twice as large as in former years."
"That is to say, for twenty years, M. Lacheneur has played
the part of lord of the manor. A delightful comedy. You are
rich now, I suppose."
"I possess nothing at all. But I hope you will allow me to
take ten thousand francs, which your aunt gave me."
"Ah ! she gave you ten thousand francs. And when ?"
"On the same evening that she gave me the seventy thousand
francs intended for the purchase of the estate."
"Perfect ! What proof can you furnish that she gave you
this sum?"
Lacheneur stood motionless and speechless. He tried to
reply, but could not. If he opened his lips it would only be to
pour out a torrent of menace, insult, and invective.
Marie-Anne stepped quickly forward. "The proof, sir,"
she said, in a clear, ringing voice, "is the word of this man,
who, of his own free will, comes to return to you — to give
you a fortune."
As she sprang forward, her beautiful dark hair escaped
from its confinement, her rich blood crimsoned her cheeks, her
dark eyes flashed brilliantly, and sorrow, anger, horror at the
humiliation imposed upon her father, imparted a sublime ex-
pression to her face. She was so beautiful that Martial gazed
at her with absolute wonder. "Lovely!" he murmured in
English; "beautiful as an angel!"
These words, which she understood, abashed Marie-Anne.
But she had said enough; her father felt that he was avenged.
He drew from his pocket a roll of papers and threw them upon
the table.
"Here are your titles," he said, addressing the duke in a
tone full of implacable hatred. "Keep the legacy your aunt
gave me, I wish nothing of yours. I shall never set foot in
Sairmeuse again. Penniless I entered it, penniless I will
leave it!"
He walked out of the room with head proudly erect, and when
286
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
they were outside, he merely said to his daughter; "You see,
I told you so !"
"You have done your duty," she replied; "it is those who
haven't done theirs who are to be pitied !"
She had no opportunity to say more, for Martial came run-
ning after them, anxious for another chance of seeing this girl
whose beauty had made such an immediate impression upon
his mind. "I hastened after you," he said addressing Marie-
Anne, rather than M. Lacheneur, "to reassure you. All this
will be arranged, Mademoiselle. Eyes so beautiful as yours
should never know tears. I will be your advocate with my
father—"
"Mademoiselle Lacheneur has no need of an advocate !"
interrupted a harsh voice.
Martial turned, and saw the young man who that morning
had gone to warn M. Lacheneur of the duke's arrival. Accost-
ing him, he exclaimed, in an insolent voice, "I am the Marquis
de Sairmeuse."
"And I," said the other quietly, "am Maurice d'Escorval."
They surveyed one another for a moment, each expecting,
perhaps, an insult from the other. Instinctively, they felt they
were to be enemies; and the glances they exchanged were full
of animosity. Perhaps they had a presentiment that they were
to be the champions of two different principles, as well as
rivals in love.
Martial, remembering his father, yielded: "We shall meet
again, M. d'Escorval," he said, as he retired.
At this threat, Maurice shrugged his shoulders, and replied,
"You had better not desire it."
HP HE residence of the Baron d'Escorval, the brick structure
* with stone dressings, seen from the avenue leading to the
Chateau de Sairmeuse, was small and unpretentious. Its chief
attraction was a pretty lawn extending to the banks of the
Oiselle in front, and a small but shady park in the rear. It
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 287
was known as the Chateau d'Escorval, but such an appellation
was a piece of the grossest flattery. Any petty manufacturer
who has amassed a small fortune would desire a larger, hand-
somer, and more imposing structure for his residence.
M. d'Escorval — and history will record the fact to his honor
— was not a rich man. Although he had been entrusted with
several of those missions from which generals and diplomats
often return laden with millions, his worldly possessions only
consisted of the little patrimony bequeathed him by his father ;
a property which yielded an income of from twenty to twenty-
five thousand francs a year. His modest dwelling, situated
about a mile from Sairmeuse, represented ten years' savings.
He had built it in 1806 from a plan drawn by his own hand,
and it was the dearest spot he had on earth. He always
hastened to this retreat when work allowed him a little rest,
though on this occasion he had not come to Escorval of his
own free will, for he had been compelled to leave Paris by the
proscription list of July 24 — that fatal list which summoned
the valiant Ney, the enthusiastic Labedoyere, and the virtuous
Drouot before a court-martial.
Even in the seclusion of his country seat, M. d'Escorval's
situation was not without danger, for he was one of those who,
some days before the disaster of Waterloo,- had strongly urged
the emperor to order the execution of Fouche, the former min-
ister of police. Now, Fouche knew of this advice ; and to-day
he was all-powerful. Hence, M. d'Escorval's friends wrote to
him from Paris to be very careful. But he put his trust in
Providence, and faced the future, threatening though it was,
with the unalterable serenity of a pure conscience.
The baron was still young; he was not yet fifty, but anxiety,
work, and long nights passed in struggling with the most
arduous difficulties of the imperial policy had aged him before
his time. He was tall, slightly inclined to embonpoint, and
stooped a little. His calm eyes, serious mouth, broad, furrowed
forehead, and austere manner at once inspired respect. "He
must be stern and inflexible," said those who saw him for the
first time. But they were mistaken. If, in the exercise of his
official duties, he had always had the strength to resist any
temptation to swerve from the right path : if, when duty was
at stake, he was as rigid as iron, in private life he was as
unassuming as a child, and kind and gentle even to the verge
of weakness. To this nobility of character he owed his domes-
288 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
tic happiness, that rare boon which after all is the one great
treasure of life.
During the bloodiest epoch of the Reign of Terror, M.
d'Escorval had saved from the guillotine a young girl, named
Victorie-Laure d'Alleu, a distant cousin of the Rhetaus of
Commarin, as beautiful as an angel, and only three years
younger than himself. He loved her — and though she was an
orphan, destitute of fortune, he married her, considering the
treasure of her virgin heart of far greater value than the
largest dowry. She was an honest woman as her husband was
an honest man, in the strictest, most rigorous sense of the word.
She was seldom seen at the Tuileries, where M. d'Escorval's
worth made him eagerly welcomed. The splendors of the im-
perial court, outshining even the pomp of the Grand Monarque,
had no attractions for her. She reserved her grace, beauty,
youth, and accomplishments for the adornment of her home.
Her husband was everything for her. She lived in him and
through him. She had not a thought which did not belong to
him; and her happiest hours were those he could spare from
his arduous labors to devote to her. And when in the evening
they sat beside the fire in their modest drawing-room, with their
son Maurice playing on the rug at their feet, it seemed to them
that they had nothing to wish for here below.
The overthrow of the Empire surprised them in the hey-
day of happiness. Surprised them? Scarcely. For a long
time M. d'Escorval had seen the prodigious edifice, raised by
the genius whom he had made his idol, totter as if about to
fall. Certainly, he was troubled by this fall when at last it
came, but he was truly heart-broken at beholding all the treason
and cowardice which followed it. He was disgusted and horri-
fied at the rising of the sons of mammon, eager to gorge them-
selves with the spoil. Under these circumstances, exile from
Paris seemed an actual blessing; and he remarked to the baro-
ness that in the seclusion of the provinces they would soon be
forgotten. In his innermost heart, however, he was not with-
out misgivings — misgivings shared by his wife, who trembled
for her husband's safety, although to spare him all alarm she
strove to preserve a placid countenance.
On the first Sunday in August, M. and Madame d'Escorval
had been unusually sad. A vague presentiment of approaching
misfortune weighed heavily upon their hearts. At the moment
when Lacheneur presented himself at the parsonage they were
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 289'
sitting on the terrace in front of their house, gazing anxiously
at the roads leading from Escorval to the chateau, and to the
village of Sairmeuse. Apprised that same morning of the
duke's arrival by his friends at Montaignac, the baron had sent
his son to warn M. Lacheneur. He had requested him to return
as soon as possible; and yet the hours were rolling by, and
Maurice had not returned.
"What if something has happened to him!" thought the
anxious parents.
No, at that moment nothing had happened to him, though
a word from Mademoiselle Lacheneur had sufficed to make
him forget his usual deference to his father's wishes. "This
evening," she had said, "I shall certainly know your heart."
What could this mean? Could she doubt him? Tortured by
anxieties, he could not make up his mind to go home again
without having had an explanation, and he loitered near the
chateau hoping that Marie-Anne would reappear.
She did reappear at last, but leaning on her father's arm.
Young D'Escorval followed them at a distance, and soon saw
them enter the parsonage. What they wanted there he couldn't
guess, though he knew that the duke and his son were inside.
The time that the Lacheneur? remained in the Abbe Midon's
house seemed a century to Maurice, who paced restlessly up
and down the market-place. At last, however, Marie-Anne and
her father reappeared, and he was about to join them when
he was prevented by the appearance of Martial, whose prom-
ises he overheard.
Maurice knew nothing of life; he was as innocent as a child,
but he could not mistake the intentions that had dictated the
step taken by the Marquis de Sairmeuse. At the thought that
a libertine's caprice should for an instant rest on the pure and
beautiful girl he loved with all the strength of his being — the
girl he had sworn should be his wife — all his blood mounted
madly to his brain. He felt a wild longing to chastise the
marquis ; but fortunately — unfortunately, perhaps — his hand was
stayed by the recollection of a phrase he had heard his father
repeat a thousand times : "Calmness and irony are the only
weapons worthy of the strong." And at the remembrance of
these words he acquired sufficient strength of will to appear
calm, though in reality he was beside himself with passion.
"Ah ! I will find you again," he repeated, however, through
his set teeth as he watched his enemy move away. He then
290 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
turned and discovered that Marie-Anne and her father had left
him. He saw them standing about a hundred yards off, and
although he was surprised at their indifference, he made haste
to join them, and addressed himself to M. Lacheneur.
"We are just going to your father's house," was the only
reply he received, and this in an almost ferocious tone.
A glance from Marie-Anne commanded silence. He obeyed,
and walked a few steps behind them, his head bowed upon his
breast, terribly anxious, and vainly seeking to explain to him-
self what had taken place. His manner betrayed such intense
grief that his mother divined a misfortune as soon as she caught
sight of him.
All the anguish which this courageous woman had hidden
for a month found utterance in a single cry : "Ah ! here is
misfortune!" said she: "we shall not escape it."
It was indeed misfortune. One could no longer doubt it on
seeing M. Lacheneur enter the drawing-room. He walked with
the heavy and uncertain step of a drunken man ; his eyes were
void of expression, his features were distorted and his lips
trembled.
"What has happened?" eagerly asked the baron.
But the whilom proprietor of Sairmeuse did not seem to hear
him. "Ah ! I warned her," he murmured, continuing a mono-
logue he had begun before entering the room. "Yes, I told my
daughter so."
Madame d'Escorval, after kissing Marie-Anne, drew the girl
toward her. "What has happened? For heaven's sake tell me
what has happened !" she exclaimed.
With a gesture of resignation, the girl motioned her to look
at M. Lacheneur, and listen to him.
The latter seemed to wake up; he passed his hand across his
forehead and wiped away the moisture from his eyes. "It is
only this, M. le Baron," said he in a harsh, unnatural voice: 'I
rose this morning the richest landowner in the district, and J
shall lie down to-night poorer than the poorest beggar in Sair-
meuse. I had everything; and now I have nothing, nothing
but my two hands. They earned me my bread for twenty-five
years ; they will earn it for me now until the day of my death.
I had a beautiful dream; it is over."
In the presence of this outburst of despair, M. d'Escorval
turned pale. "You must exaggerate your misfortune," he fal-
tered; "explain what has happened."
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 291
Unconscious of what he was doing, M. Lacheneur threw his
hat upon a chair, and flinging back his long, gray hair, he said:
"To you I will tell everything. I came here for that purpose.
I know you ; I know your heart. And have you not done me
the honor to call me your friend?"
Then, without omitting a detail, he related the scene which
had just taken place at the parsonage. The baron listened with
intense astonishment, almost doubting the evidence of his own
senses; while Madame d'Escorval's indignant exclamations
showed that she was utterly revolted by such injustice.
But there was one listener, whom Marie-Anne alone observed,
who was most intensely moved by Lacheneur's narrative. This
listener was Maurice. Leaning against the door, pale as death,
he tried in vain to repress the tears of rage and grief which
rushed to his eyes. To insult Lacheneur was to insult Marie-
Anne — that is to say, to injure, to outrage him in what he held
dearest in the world. Had Martial now been within his reach
he would certainly have paid dearly for the insults heaped on
the father of the girl that Maurice loved. However, young
D'Escorval swore that the chastisement he contemplated was
only deferred — that it should surely come. And it was not mere
angry boasting. This young man, so modest and gentle in
manner, had albeit a heart that was inaccessible to fear. His
beautiful, dark eyes, which usually had the trembling timidity
of a girl's could meet an enemy's gaze without flinching.
When M. Lacheneur had repeated the last words he addressed
to the Due de Sairmeuse, M. d'Escorval offered him his hand.
"I have told you already that I was your friend," he said, in
a voice faltering with emotion ; "but I must tell you to-day that
I am proud of having such a friend as you."
Lacheneur trembled at the touch of the loyal hand which
clasped his so warmly, and his face betrayed his inward
satisfaction.
"If my father had not returned the estate," obstinately mur-
mured Marie-Anne, "he would have been an unfaithful guar-
dian — a thief. He has only done his duty."
M. d'Escorval turned to the young girl a little surprised.
"You speak the truth, mademoiselle," he said, reproachfully;
"but when you are as old as I am and have had my experience,
you will know that the accomplishment of a duty is, under
certain circumstances, an act of heroism of which only few
persons are capable."
292 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
M. Lacheneur exclaimed .warmly to his friend : "Ah ! your
words do me good. Now, I am glad of what I have done."
The baroness rose, too much a woman to know how to resist
the generous dictates of her heart. "And I, also, Lacheneur,"
said she, "desire to press your hand. I wish to tell you that
I esteem you as much as I despise those who have tried to
humiliate you, when they should have fallen at your feet. They
are heartless monsters, and I don't believe the like of them
are to be found oh earth."
"Alas !" sighed the baron, "the Allies have brought back
plenty of others who, like the Sairmeuses, think that the world
was created exclusively for their benefit."
"And yet these people wish to be our masters," growled
Lacheneur.
By some strange fatality no one chanced to hear this last
remark. Had it been overheard, and had the speaker been
questioned, he would probably have disclosed some of the proj^
ects just forming in his mind; and then many disastrous conse-
quences might have been averted.
M. d'Escorval had now regained his usual coolness. "Now,
my dear friend," he asked, "what course do you propose to
pursue with these members of the Sairmeuse family?"
"They will hear nothing more from me — for some time at
least."
"What! Shall you not claim the ten thousand francs they
owe you?"
"I shall ask them for nothing."
"You will be compelled to do so. Since you have alluded to
the legacy, your own honor requires that you should insist
upon its payment by all legal means. There are still judges
in France."
M. Lacheneur shook his head. "The judges will not grant
me the justice I desire. I shall not apply to them."
"But—"
"No, no. I wish to have nothing more to do with these men.
I shall not even go to the chateau to remove either my own
clothes or my daughter's. If they send them to us— very well.
If they like to keep them so much the better. The more
shameful, infamous, and odious their conduct the better I shall
be satisfied."
The baron made no reply; but his wife spoke, believing that
she had a sure means of conquering this incomprehensible ob-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 293
stinacy. "I could understand your determination if you were
alone in the world," said she, "but you have children."
"My son is eighteen, madame; he is in good health and has
had an excellent education. He can make his own way in
Paris if he chooses to remain there."
"But your daughter?"
"Marie-Anne will remain with me."
M. d'Escorval thought it his duty to interfere. "Take care,
my dear friend, that your grief doesn't tamper with your rea-
son," said he. "Reflect ! What will become of you — your
daughter and yourself?"
Lacheneur smiled sadly. "Oh," he replied, "we are not as
destitute as I said. I exaggerated our misfortune. We are still
landowners. Last year an old cousin, whom I could never
induce to come and live with us at Sairmeuse, died, and left
everything she had to Marie- Anne ; so we've still got a poor
little cottage near La Reche, with a little garden and a few
acres of barren land. In compliance with my daughter's en-
treaties, I repaired the cottage, and furnished it with a table,
some chairs, and a couple of beds. It was then intended as a
home for old Father Guvat and his wife. And in the midst of
my wealth and luxury, I said to myself: 'How comfortable
those two old people will be there.' Well, what I thought so
comfortable for others will be good enough for me now. I can
raise vegetables, and Marie-Anne shall sell them."
Was he speaking seriously? Maurice must have supposed
so, for he sprang forward. "This shall not be, Lacheneur !"
he exclaimed.
"What !"
"No, this shall not be, for I love Marie-Anne, and I ask you
to give her to me for my wife."
Maurice and Marie-Anne's affections for each other did not
date from yesterday. As children they had played together in
the parks of Sairmeuse and Escorval. They had shared many
a butterfly hunt, and many a search for pebbles on the river
banks; and oft times had they rolled in the hay while their
mothers sauntered through the meadows bordering the Oiselle.
For their mothers were friends. Madame Lacheneur had
been reared like most poor peasant girls ; that is to say, on her
marriage day she only succeeded with great difficulty in inscrib-
ing her name upon the register. But from her husband's ex-
ample she learnt that prosperity, as well as noble lineage
294 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
entails numerous obligations ; hence with rare courage, crowned
with still rarer success, she undertook to acquire an education
in keeping with her rank and fortune. And the baroness made
no effort to resist the feelings of sympathy which led her
toward this meritorious young woman, in whom it was easy
to discern a mind of many natural gifts, and a nature which,
despite low birth, was instinctively refined. When Madame
Lacheneur died, Madame d'Escorval mourned for her as she
would have mourned for a favorite sister.
From that moment Maurice's attachment assumed a more
serious character. Educated at a college in Paris, his masters
sometimes complained of his want of application. "If your
professors are not satisfied with you," said his mother, "you
shall not go to Escorval for the holidays, and then you will not
see your friend." Now this simple threat always sufficed to
make the schoolboy resume his studies with redoubled diligence.
So each succeeding year strengthened as it were the love which
preserved Maurice from the restlessness and errors of youth.
The two children were equally timid and artless, and equally
infatuated with each other. Long walks in the twilight under
their parents' eyes, a glance that revealed their delight at meet-
ing, flowers exchanged between them and religiously preserved
— such were their simple pleasures. That magical word love — so
sweet to utter, and so sweet to hear — had never once dropped
from their lips. Maurice's audacity had never gone beyond a
furtive pressure of the hand.
The parents could not be ignorant of this mutual affection;
and if they pretended to shut their eyes, it was only because
it neither displeased them nor disturbed their plans. M. and
Madame d'Escorval saw no objection to their son's marriage
with a girl whose nobility of character they appreciated, and
who was as beautiful as she was good. That she was the
richest heiress in the province was naturally no objection. So
far as M. Lacheneur was concerned, he was delighted at the
prospect of a marriage which would ally him, a former plow-
boy, with an old and generally respected family. Hence, al-
though the subject had never been directly alluded to either by
the baron or Lacheneur, there was withal a tacit agreement
between the two families. Indeed, the marriage was consid-
ered as a foregone conclusion.
And yet Maurice's impetuous, unexpected declaration struck
every one dumb. In spite of his agitation, the young man per-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 295
ceived the effect his words had produced, and frightened by his
own boldness, he turned toward his father with a look of inter-
rogation. The baron's face was grave, even sad ; but his
attitude expressed no displeasure.
This gave renewed courage to the anxious lover. "You will
excuse me," he said, addressing Lacheneur, "for presenting my
request in such a manner, and at such a time. But surely it
is at the moment when misfortune overtakes one that true
friends should declare themselves, and deem themselves fortu-
nate if their devotion can obliterate the remembrance of such
infamous treatment as that to which you have been subjected."
As he spoke, he was watching Marie-Anne. Blushing and
embarrassed, she turned away her head, perhaps to conceal the
tears which gushed forth from her eyes — tears of joy and grati-
tude. The love of the man she worshiped had come forth
victorious from a test which many heiresses might in vain
resort to. Now could she truly say that she knew Maurice's
heart.
Maurice speedily continued : "I have not consulted my father,
sir ; but I know his affection for me and his esteem for you.
When the happiness of my life is at stake he will not oppose
me. He, who married my dear mother without a dowry, must
understand my feelings."
With these words Maurice paused, awaiting the verdict.
"I approve your course, my son," said M. d'Escorval, "you
have behaved like an honorable man. Certainly you are very
young to become the head of a family ; but, as you say, circum-
stances demand it."
Then, turning to M. Lacheneur, he added : "My dear friend,
on my son's behalf I ask you for your daughter's hand in
marriage."
Maurice had not expected so little opposition. In his delight
he was almost tempted to bless the hateful Due de Sair-
meuse, to whom he would owe his future happiness. He
sprang toward his father, and seizing his hands, he raised them
to his lips, faltering : "Thanks ! — you are so good ! I love you
so ! Oh, how happy I am !"
Unfortunately, the poor boy's joy was premature. A gleam
of pride flashed in M. Lacheneur's eyes ; but his face soon
resumed its gloomy expression. "Believe me. M. le Baron."
said he, "I am deeply touched by what you and your son have
said — yes, deeply touched. You wish to make me forget my
296 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
humiliation ; but for this very reason, I should be the most
contemptible of men if I did not refuse the great honor you
desire to confer upon my daughter."
"What!" exclaimed the baron in utter astonishment; "you
refuse ?"
"I am compelled to do so."
Although momentarily thunderstruck, Maurice soon renewed
the attack with an energy no one had ever suspected in his
character. "Do you wish to ruin my life, to ruin our lives,"
he exclaimed ; "for if I love Marie- Anne she also loves me."
It was easy to see that he spoke the truth. The unhappy
girl, crimson with happy blushes a moment earlier, had now
turned as white as marble and glanced imploringly toward her
father.
"It can not be," repeated M. Lacheneur ; "and the day will
arrive when you will bless the decision I have come to."
Alarmed by her son's evident dismay, Madame d'Escorval
interposed : "You must have reasons for this refusal," said
she.
"None that I can disclose, madame. But as long as I can
prevent it, my daughter shall never be your son's wife."
"Ah ! it will kill my child !" exclaimed the baroness.
M. Lacheneur shook his head. "M. Maurice," said he, "is
young; he will soon console himself — and forget."
"Never !" interrupted the unhappy lover — "never !"
"And your daughter?" inquired the baroness.
Ah ! this was the weak spot in L'acheneur's armor : a mother's
instinct had prompted the baroness's last words. The whilom
lord of Sairmeuse hesitated for a moment, and it was not
without a struggle that his will gained the mastery over his
heart : "Marie- Anne," he replied slowly, "knows her duty too
well not to obey me. When I have told her the motive that
governs my conduct she will resign herself, and if she suffers
she will know how to conceal her sufferings."
He suddenly paused. In the distance a report of musketry
could be plainly heard. Each face grew paler : for circum-
stances imparted to these sounds an ominous significance to
anxious hearts. Both M. d'Escorval and Lacheneur sprang
out upon the terrace. But everything was silent again. Far
as the horizon stretched, nothing unusual could be discerned.
The limpidity of the azure sky was unimpaired, and not the
faintest cloudlet of smoke rose above the trees.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 297
"It is the enemy," muttered M. Lacheneur in a tone which
told how gladly he would have shouldered his gun and with
five hundred others marched against the allies.
He paused. The reports were repeated with still greater
violence, and for five minutes or so succeeded each other with-
out cessation. It seemed even as if some pieces of artillery
had been discharged.
M. d'Escorval listened with knitted brows. "This is very
strange ; but yet it is scarcely the fire of a regular engagement,"
he murmured.
To remain any longer in such a state of uncertainty was
out of the question. "If you will allow me, father," ventured
Maurice, "I will try and ascertain — "
"Go," replied the baron quietly j "but if there should be any-
thing, which I doubt, don't expose yourself to useless danger,
but return."
"Oh ! be prudent !" nervously insisted Madame d'Escorval,
who already saw her son exposed to peril.
"Be prudent !" also entreated Marie-Anne, who alone under-
stood the attraction that danger might have for a lover in
despair.
These cautions were unnecessary. As Maurice was rushing
to the gate, his father stopped him.
"Wait," said he, "here comes some one who may, perhaps,
be able to enlighten us."
A peasant was passing along the road leading from Sair-
meuse. He was walking bareheaded and with hurried strides
in the middle of the dusty highway, brandishing his stick
as if soon to threaten some invisible enemy, and he came
near enough for the party on the terrace to distinguish his
features.
"Ah ! it's Chanlouineau !" exclaimed M. Lacheneur.
"The owner of the vineyards on the Borderie?"
"The same ! The best-looking young farmer in the district,
and the best in heart as well. Ah ! he has good blood in his
veins ; we may well be proud of him."
"Ask him to stop," said M. d'Escorval.
"Ah ! Chanlouineau !" shouted Lacheneur, leaning over the
balustrade.
The young farmer raised his head.
"Come up here," resumed Lacheneur; "the baron wishes to
speak with you."
298 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
Chanlouineau replied by a gesture of assent, and opening the
garden gate soon crossed the lawn. He had a furious look in
his face, and the state of his clothes showed plainly enough
that he had been fighting. He had lost his collar and necktie,
and the muscles of his neck were swollen as if by the pressure
of some vigorous hand.
"What's going on?" eagerly asked Lacheneur. "Is there
a battle?"
"Oh, there's no battle," replied the young farmer, with a
nervous laugh. "The firing you heard is in honor of the Due
de Sairmeuse."
"What !"
"Oh, it's the truth. It's all the work of that scoundrel,
Chupin. If ever he comes within reach of my arm again, he
will never steal any more."
M. Lacheneur was confounded. "Tell us what has happened,"
he said, excitedly.
"Oh, it's simple enough. When the duke arrived at Sair-
meuse, Chupin, with his two rascally boys, and that old hag,
his wife, ran after the carriage like beggars after a diligence,
crying, 'Vive Monseigneur le due !' The duke was delighted,
for he no doubt expected a volley of stones, so he gave each
of the wretches a five- franc piece. This money abetted Chupin's
appetite, so he took it into his head to give the duke such a
reception as was given the emperor. Having learned from
Bibaine, whose tongue is as long as a viper's, everything that
had occurred at the parsonage between the duke and you,
M. Lacheneur, he came and proclaimed the news on the market-
place. When the fools heard it, all those who had purchased
national lands got frightened. Chupin had counted on this, and
soon he began telling the poor fools that they must burn powder
under the duke's nose if they wished him to confirm their titles
to their property."
"And did they believe him?"
"Implicitly. It didn't take them long to make their prepara-
tions. They went to the mairie and took the firemen's muskets
and the guns used for firing salutes on fete days; the mayor
gave them powder, and then you heard the result. When I left
Sairmeuse there was more than two hundred idiots in front of
the parsonage shouting 'Vive Monseigneur ! Vive le Due de
Sairmeuse !' at the top of their voices."
"The same pitiful farce that was played in Paris, only on a
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 299
smaller scale," murmured the Baron d'Escorval. "Avarice and
human cowardice are the same all the world over."
Meanwhile, Chanlouineau was proceeding with his narrative.
"To make the fete complete, the devil must have warned all
the nobility of the district, for they all hastened to the spot.
They say that M. de Sairmeuse is the king's favorite, and that
he can do just as he pleases. So you may imagine how they
all greeted him! I'm only a poor peasant, but I'd never lie
down in the dust before any man like these old nobles, who
are so haughty with us, did before the duke. They even kissed
his hands, and he allowed them to do so. He walked about the
square with the Marquis de Courtornieu — "
"And his son ?" interrupted Maurice. .
"The Marquis Martial, eh? Oh, he was also strutting about
with Mademoiselle Blanche de Courtornieu on his arm. Ah !
I can't understand how people can call her pretty — a little bit
of a thing, so blond that one might almost take her hair for
white. Ah, they did laugh, those two, and poke fun at the
peasants into the bargain. Some of the villagers say they are
going to be married. And even this evening there's to be a
banquet at the Chateau de Courtornieu in the duke's honor."
"You've only forgotten one thing," said M. Lacheneur when
Chanlouineau paused. "How is it your clothes are torn ; it
seems as if you'd been fighting."
The young farmer hesitated for a moment, and it was with
evident reluctance that he replied : "I can tell you all the same.
While Chupin was preaching, I preached as well, but not in
the same strain. The scoundrel reported me. So, in crossing
the square, the duke stopped before me and remarked: 'So you
are an evil-disposed person ?' I said I wasn't, though I knew
my rights. Then he took me by the coat and shook me, and
told me he'd cure me and take possession of his vineyard again.
The deuce ! When I felt the old rascal's hand on me my blood
boiled. I pinioned him. But six or seven men fell on me, and
compelled me to let him go. But he had better make up his
mind not to come prowling about my vineyard !"
The young farmer clenched his hands, and his eyes flashed
ominously ; he evidently had an intense thirst for vengeance.
M. d'Escorval remained silent, fearing to aggravate this hatred,
so imprudently kindled, and the explosion of which might have
terrible results.
M. Lacheneur had risen from his chair. "I must go and take
300 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
possession of my cottage," he remarked to Chanlouineau; "will
you accompany me? I have a proposal to make to you."
M. and Madame d'Escorval endeavored to detain him, but
he would not allow himself to be persuaded, and a minute later
he, his daughter, and Chanlouineau had taken their departure.
However, Maurice did not despair, for Marie-Anne had prom-
ised to meet him on the following day in the pine grove near
La Reche.
Chanlouineau had correctly reported the reception which the
villagers of Sairmeuse had given to the duke. The artful
Chupin had found a sure means of kindling a semblance of
enthusiasm among the callous, calculating peasants who were
his neighbors.
He was a dangerous fellow, this old poacher and farmyard
thief. Shrewd he always was; cautious and pathetic when
necessary ; bold as those who possess nothing can afford to
be ; in short, one of the most consummate scoundrels that ever
breathed. The peasants feared him, and yet they had no con-
ception of his real character. All the resources of his mind
had hitherto been expended in evading the provisions of the
rural code. To save himself from falling into the hands of
the gendarmes, to steal a few sacks of wheat without detection,
he had expended talents of intrigue which would have sufficed
to make the fortune of twenty diplomats. Circumstances, as
he always said, had been against him. Hence, he desperately
caught at the first and only opportunity worthy of his genius
that had ever presented itself.
Of course, the wily rustic told his fellow villagers nothing
of the true circumstances which had attended the restoration
of Sairmeuse to its former owner. From him the peasants
only learned the bare fact ; and the news spread rapidly from
group to group. "M. Lacheneur has given up Sairmeuse," said
Chupin. "Chateau, forests, vineyards, fields — he surrenders
everything."
This was enough, and more than enough, to terrify every
landowner in the village. If Lacheneur, this man who was
so powerful in their eyes, considered the danger so threaten-
ing that he deemed it necessary or advisable to make a complete
surrender, what was to become of them — poor devils — without
aid, without counsel, without defense? They were told that
the government was about to betray their interests; that a
decree was in process of preparation which would render their
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 301
litle-deeds worthless. They could see no hope of salvation,
except through the duke's generosity — that generosity which
Chupin painted with the glowing colors of a rainbow.
When a man is not strong enough to weather the gale, he
must bow like the reed before it, and rise again after the storm
has passed : to this conclusion the frightened peasantry came.
Accordingly they bowed. And their apparent enthusiasm was
all the more vociferous, on account of the rage and fear that
filled their hearts. A close observer would have detected an
undercurrent of anger and menace in their shouts ; and in point
of fact each villager murmured to himself: "What do we risk
by crying, 'Vive le due?' Nothing, absolutely nothing. If he's
satisfied with that as a compensation for his lost property — all
well and good ! If he isn't satisfied, we shall have time by and
by to adopt other measures." Hence they all shouted themselves
hoarse.
And while the duke was sipping his coffee in the cure's little
sitting-room, he expressed his lively satisfaction at the scene
outside. He, this great lord of times gone by, this unconquer-
able, incorrigible man of absurd prejudices and obstinate illu-
sions, accepting these acclamations as if they had been bona fide.
Without the least semblance of doubt, he blandly mistook the
counterfeit coin for genuine money. "How you have deceived
me, to be sure," he said to the Abbe Midon. "How could you
declare that your people were unfavorably disposed toward us?"
The Abbe Midon was silent. What could he reply ? He could
not understand this sudden revolution in public opinion — this
abrupt change from gloom and discontent to excessive gaiety.
Something must have transpired of which he was not aware.
Somebody must have been at work among the peasantry.
It was not long before it became apparent who that some-
body was. Emboldened by his success outside, Chupin ventured
to present himself at the parsonage. He entered the sitting-
room, scraping and cringing, his back bent double, and an
obsequious smile upon his lips. He came as an ambassador,
he declared, with numerous protestations of respect ; he came
to implore "monseigneur" to show himself upon the market-place.
"Ah, well — yes," exclaimed the duke, rising from his seat ;
"yes, I will yield to the wishes of these good people. Follow
me, marquis !"
As the duke appeared on the threshold of the parsonage, a
loud shout rent the air; a score of muskets blazed away, and
802 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
the old salute guns belched forth smoke and fire. Never had
Sairmeuse heard such a salvo of artillery, and the shock of
the report shattered three windows at the inn of the Boeuf
Couronne.
The Due de Sairmeuse knew how to preserve an appear-
ance of haughty indifference. Any display of emotion was, in
his opinion, vulgar; but in reality he was perfectly delighted,
so delighted that he desired to reward his welcomers. A glance
over the deeds handed him by Lacheneur had shown him that
Sairmeuse had been restored to him virtually intact. The por-
tions of the immense domain which had been detached and sold
separately were, after all, of little importance. Now, the duke,
already schooled in a measure by his son, thought it would be
politic, and at the same time inexpensive, to abandon all claim to
these few acres, now shared by forty or fifty peasants.
"My friends," he exclaimed in a loud voice, "I renounce, for
myself and for my descendants, all claim to the lands belonging
to my house which you have purchased. They are yours — I
give them to you !"
By this absurd semblance of a gift, M. de Sairmeuse thought
to add the finishing touch to his popularity. A great mistake!
It simply assured the popularity of Chupin, the organizer of
the farce. While the duke was promenading through the crowd
with a proud and self-satisfied air, the peasants, despite their
seemingly respectful attitude, were secretly laughing and jeer-
ing at him. And if they promptly took his part against Chan-
louineau, it was only because his gift was still fresh in their
minds ; except for that his grace might have fared badly indeed.
The duke, however, had but little time to think of this en-
counter, which produced a vivid impression on his son. One
of his former companions in exile, the Marquis de Courtornieu,
whom he had informed of his arrival, now appeared on the
place, and hastened to welcome him. The marquis was accom-
panied by his daughter, Mademoiselle Blanche. Martial could
not do otherwise than offer his arm to the daughter of his
father's friend; and the young couple took a leisurely prome-
nade under the shade of the lofty trees, while the duke renewed
his acquaintance with all the nobility of the neighborhood.
There was not a single nobleman who did not hasten to press
the Due de Sairmeuse's hand. First, he possessed, it was said,
an estate in England valued at more than twenty millions of
francs. Then, he was the king's favorite, and each member of
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
808
the local aristocracy had some favor to ask for himself, his
relatives, or friends. Poor king! If he had had twenty king-
doms of France to divide like a cake between all these cor-
morants, he would yet have failed to satisfy their voracious
appetites.
That evening, after a grand banquet at the Chateau de Cour-
tornieu, the duke slept at the Chateau de Sairmeuse, in the
room which had been so lately occupied by Lacheneur. He
was gay, chatty, and full of confidence in the future.
"I'm like Louis XVIII in Bonaparte's bedroom," he said to
his son in a jocular tone; then adding with a shade of senti-
ment, "Ah ! it's good to be in one's own house again !"
But Martial only tendered a mechanical reply. His mind was
occupied in thinking of two women, who had made a deep
impression on his heart that day. He was thinking of two
girls so utterly unlike — Blanche de Courtornieu and Marie-Anne
Lacheneur.
ONLY those who. in the bright springtime of life, have loved,
and been loved in return, who have suddenly seen an im-
passable gulf open between them and their future happiness, can
realize Maurice d'Escorval's disappointment. All the dreams of
his life, all his future plans, were based upon his love for Marie-
Anne. If this love failed him, the enchanted castle which hope
had erected would crumble and fall, burying him beneath its
ruins. Without Marie-Anne he saw neither aim nor motive in
existence. Still he did not suffer himself to be deluded by false
hopes. Although at first his appointed meeting with Marie-Anne
on the following day seemed salvation itself, on reflection he
was forced to admit that this interview could bring no change,
since everything depended upon the will of a third person,
M. Lacheneur.
Maurice spent the remainder of Sunday in mournful silence.
Dinner-time came ; and he took his seat at the table, but it was
impossible for him to eat, and he soon requested his parents'
J — Vol. 11 — GaD
304 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
permission to withdraw. M. d'Escorval and the baroness ex-
changed sorrowful glances, but did not offer any comment.
They respected his grief, knowing that a sorrow such as his
would only be aggravated by any attempt at consolation.
"Poor Maurice !" murmured Madame d'Escorval, as soon as
her son had left the room. "Perhaps it will not be prudent for
us to leave him entirely to the dictates of despair."
The baron shuddered. He divined only too well his wife's
sad apprehensions. ''We have nothing to fear," he replied
quickly; "I heard Marie-Anne promise to meet Maurice to-
morrow in the grove near La Reche."
The baroness, who in her anxiety had momentarily dreaded
lest Maurice might commit suicide, now breathed more freely.
Still she was a mother, and her husband's assurance did not
completely satisfy her. She hastily went upstairs, softly opened
the door of her son's room and looked in.
He was so engrossed in gloomy thought that he neither heard
her nor even for an instant suspected the presence of the anxious
mother who was fondly watching over him. He was sitting at
the window, his elbows resting on the sill and his head between
his hands. There was no moon, but the night was clear, and
over and beyond the light fog, which indicated the course of the
Oiselle, rose the towers and turrets of the massive Chateau de
Sairmeuse. More than once had Maurice sat silently gazing at
this stately pile, which sheltered all that he held dearest and
most precious in the world. From his windows Marie-Anne's
casement could be perceived, and the throbbing of his heart
would quicken whenever he saw it lighted up. "She is there,"
he would think, "in her virgin chamber. She is praying on her
bended knees, and she murmurs my name after her father's,
imploring Heaven's blessing upon us both."
But this evening Maurice was not waiting for a light to gleam
through the panes of that dear window. Marie-Anne was no
longer at Sairmeuse — she had been driven away. Where was
she now? She, accustomed to all the luxury that wealth could
procure, no longer had any home save a poor thatch-roofed
hovel, the walls of which were not even whitewashed, and
whose only floor was the earth itself, dusty as the public high-
way in summer, and frozen or muddy in winter. She was
reduced to the necessity of occupying herself the humble abode
which, in her charitable heart, she had intended as an asylum
for one of her pensioners. What was she doing now? Doubt-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 305
less she was weeping; and at this thought poor Maurice felt
heartbroken.
What was his surprise, a little after midnight, to see the cha-
teau brilliantly illuminated. The duke and his son had repaired
there after the banquet given by the Marquis de Courtornieu;
and before going to bed they made a tour of inspection through
their ancestral abode. M. de Sairmeuse had not crossed its
threshold for two-and-twenty years, and Martial had never seen
it in his life. Maurice could see the lights leap from story to
story, from casement to casement, until at last even Marie-
Anne's windows were illuminated.
At this sight the unhappy youth could not restrain a cry of
rage. These men, these strangers, dared to enter this virgin
bower which he, even in thought, scarcely ventured to picture.
No doubt they trampled carelessly over the delicate carpet with
their heavy boots, and Maurice trembled to think of the liberties
which, in their insolent familiarity, they might perhaps venture
to take. He fancied he could see them examining and handling
the thousand petty trifles with which young girls love to sur-
round themselves, impudently opening the drawers and perhaps
inquisitively reading an unfinished letter lying on the writing-
desk. Never until this night had Maurice supposed it possible
to hate any one as now he hated these two men.
At last, in despair, he threw himself on to his bed, and passed
the remainder of the night in thinking over what he should
say to Marie-Anne on the morrow, and in seeking for some
means to remove the difficulties obstructing his path to happi-
ness. He rose at daybreak and spent the early morning wan-
dering about the park, fearing and yet longing for the hour
that would decide his fate. Madame d'Escorval was obliged
to exert all her authority to make him take some food, for he
had quite forgotten that he had spent twenty-four hours without
eating. At last, when eleven o'clock struck, he left the house.
The lands of La Reche are situated across the Oiselle, and
Maurice, to reach his destination, had to take a ferry a short
distance from his home. As he approached the river-bank, he
perceived six or seven peasants who were waiting to cross.
They were talking in a loud voice, and did not notice young
d'Escorval as he drew near them.
"It is certainly true," Maurice heard one of the men say.
*'I heard it from Chanlouineau himself only last evening. He
was wild with delight. 'I invite you all to the wedding!" he
306 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
cried. 'I am betrothed to M. Lacheneur's daughter ; the affair's
decided.' "
Maurice was well-nigh stunned by this astounding news, and
he was actually unable to think or to move.
"Besides," he heard the same man say, "Chanlouineau's been
in love with her for a long time. Every one knows that.
Haven't you ever noticed his eyes when he met her — red-hot
coals were nothing to them. But while her father was so rich,
he didn't dare speak. However, now that the old man has
met with this trouble, he has ventured to offer himself, and is
accepted."
"An unfortunate thing for him," remarked one of the listeners.
"Why so?"
"If M. Lacheneur is ruined as they say — "
The others laughed heartily. "Ruined — M. Lacheneur !" they
exclaimed in chorus. "How absurd ! He's richer than all of
us put together. Do you suppose he's been stupid enough not
to put anything by during all these years? He hasn't put his
money in ground, as he pretends, but somewhere else."
"What you are saying is untrue !" interrupted Maurice, indig-
nantly. "M. Lacheneur left Sairmeuse as poor as he entered it."
On recognizing M. d'Escorval's son, the peasants became
extremely cautious ; and to all his questions they would only
give vague, unsatisfactory answers. A Sairmeuse rustic is
usually so dreadfully afraid of compromising himself that he
will never give a frank reply to a question if he has the
slightest reason to suspect that his answer might displease his
questioner. However, what Maurice had heard before sufficed
to fill his heart with doubt. Directly he had crossed the Oiselle,
he pushed on rapidly toward La Reche, murmuring as he went :
"What! Marie-Anne marry Chanlouineau? No; that can not
be. It is impossible !"
The spot termed La Reche — literally the Waste — where
Marie-Anne had promised to meet Maurice, owed its name to
the rebellious sterile nature of its soil. It seems to have been
cursed by nature. Boulders strewed the sandy surface, and vain
indeed had been all the attempts at culture. It is only here and
there among the broom that a few stunted oaks with straggling
branches manage to exist. But at the edge of this barren tract
rises a shady grove. Here the firs are straight and strong, with
wild clematis and honeysuckle clinging to their stems and
branches, for the winter floods have washed down from the
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 307
high lands and 'eft among the rocks sufficient soil to sustain
them.
On reaching this grove, Maurice consulted his watch. It
was just noon ; he had feared he was late, but he was fully
an hour in advance of the appointed time. He seated himself
on a ledge of one of the high rocks scattered among the firs,
whence he could survey the entire Reche, and waited.
The weather was sultry in the extreme. The rays of the
scorching August sun fell on the sandy soil, and speedily with-
ered the few weeds which had sprung up since the last rainfall.
The stillness was profound. Not a sound broke the silence, not
even the chirp of a bird, the buzzing of an insect, nor the
faintest whisper of a breeze passing through the firs. All
nature was apparently asleep — taking its siesta — and there was
nothing to remind one of life, motion, or mankind. This repose
of nature, which contrasted so vividly with the tumult raging
in his own heart, soon exerted a beneficial effect on Maurice.
These few moments of solitude afforded him an opportunity
to regain his composure, and to collect his thoughts, scattered
by the storm of passion, as leaves are scattered by the fierce
November gale.
With sorrow comes experience, and that cruel knowledge of
life which teaches one to guard one's self against one's hopes.
It was not until he heard the conversation of the peasants
standing near the ferry that Maurice fully realized the horror
of Lacheneur's position. Suddenly precipitated from the social
eminence he had attained, the whilom lord of Sairmeuse found,
in the valley of humiliation into which he was cast, only hatred,
distrust, and scorn. Both factions despised and derided him.
Traitor, cried one ; thief, cried the other. He no longer held
any social status. He was the fallen man, the man who had
been, and who was no more. Was not the excessive misery of
such a position a sufficient explanation of the strangest and
wildest resolutions?
This thought made Maurice tremble. Connecting the con-
versation of the peasants with the words spoken by Lacheneur
to Chanlouineau on the preceding evening at Escorval, he came
to the conclusion that this report of Marie-Anne's marriage to
the young farmer was not so improbable as he had at first
supposed. But why should M. Lacheneur give his daughter
to an uncultured peasant? From mercenary motives? Cer-
tainly not, since he had just refused an alliance of which he
308 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
had been justly proud even in his days of prosperity. Could it
be in order to satisfy his wounded pride then? Perhaps so;
possibly he did not wish it to be said that he owed anything
to a son-in-law.
Maurice was exhausting all his ingenuity and penetration in
endeavoring to solve this knotty point, when at last, along the
footpath crossing the waste, he perceived a figure approaching
him. It was Marie-Anne. He rose to his feet, but fearing
observation did not venture to leave the shelter of the grove.
Marie-Anne must have felt a similar fear, for as she hurried
on she cast anxious glances on every side. Maurice remarked,
not without surprise, that she was bareheaded, and had neither
shawl nor scarf about her shoulders.
As she reached the edge of the wood, he sprang toward her,
and catching hold of her hand raised it to his lips. But this
hand which she had so often yielded to him was now gently
withdrawn, and with so sad a gesture that he could not help
feeling there was no hope.
"I came, Maurice," she began, "because I could not endure
the thought of your anxiety. By doing so I have betrayed my
father's confidence. He was obliged to leave home, and I has-
tened here ; and yet I promised him, only two hours ago, that
I would never see you again. You hear me — never !"
She spoke hurriedly, but Maurice was appalled by the firmness
of her accent. Had he been less agitated, he would have seen
what a terrible effort this semblance of calm cost the girl he loved.
He would have detected the agony she was striving to conceal in
the pallor of her cheeks, the twitching of her lips, and the red-
ness of her eyelids, which, although recently bathed with fresh
water, still betrayed the tears she had wept during the night.
"If I have come," she continued, "it is only to tell you that,
for your own sake, as well as for mine, you must not retain the
slightest shadow of hope. It is all over ; we must separate for-
ever ! It is only weak natures that revolt against a destiny
which can not be altered. Let us accept our fate uncomplain-
ingly. I wished to see you once more, and to bid you be of
good courage. Go away, Maurice — leave Escorval — forget me !"
"Forget you, Marie-Anne !" exclaimed the poor fellow, "for-
get you!" His eyes met hers, and in a husky voice he added:
"Will you then forget me?"
"I am a woman, Maurice — "
But he interrupted her. "Ah ! I did not expect this," he said,
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 309
despondingly. "Poor fool that I was ! I believed you would
surely find a way to touch your father's heart."
She blushed slightly, and with evident hesitation replied:
"I threw myself at my father's feet, but he repulsed me."
Maurice was thunderstruck, but recovering himself: "It was
because you did not know how to speak to him !" he exclaimed
with passionate emphasis ; "but I shall know how I will present
such arguments that he will be forced to yield. Besides, what
right has he to ruin my happiness with his caprices? I love
you, you love me, and by the right of love, you are mine —
mine rather than his ! I will make him understand this, you
shall see. Where is he? Where can I find him?"'
Already he was starting to go, he knew not where, when
Marie-Anne caught him by the arm. "Remain here."' she an-
swered in a tone of authority surprising in one of her sex and
youth, "remain ! Ah, you have failed to understand me, Mau-
rice. But you must know the truth. I am acquainted now with
the reasons of my father's refusal ; and though his decision
should cost me my life, I approve it. Don't try to find my
father. If he were moved by your prayers, and gave his con-
sent, I should have the courage to refuse mine !"
Maurice was so beside himself that this reply did not en-
lighten him. Crazed with anger and despair, regardless even
of how he spoke to the woman he loved so deeply, he exclaimed :
"Is it for Chanlouineau, then, that you are reserving your con-
sent ? I've already heard that he goes about everywhere saying
you will soon be his wife."
Marie-Anne could not conceal all resentment of these words ;
and yet there was more sorrow than anger in the glance she
cast on Maurice. "Must I stoop so low as to defend myself
from such an imputation?" she asked sadly. "Must I tell you
that even if I suspect such an arrangement between my father
and Chanlouineau, I have not been consulted? Must I tell you
that there are some sacrifices which are beyond the strength
of human nature? Understand this: I have found strength to
renounce the man I love — I shall never be able to accept another
in his place !"
Maurice hung his head, abashed by her earnest words, and
dazzled by the sublime expression of her face. Reason returned
to him ; he realized the enormity of his suspicions, and was
horrified with himself for having dared to give them utterance.
"Oh ! forgive me !" he faltered, "forgive me !"
310
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
What did the mysterious motive of all these events which
had so rapidly succeeded each other, what did M. Lacheneur's
secrets or Marie- Anne's reticence matter to him now? He was
seeking some chance of salvation, and believed that he had
found it. "We must fly !" he exclaimed ; "fly at once without
pausing to look back. Before night we shall have crossed the
frontier." So saying, he sprang toward her with outstretched
arms as if to seize her and carry her off.
But she checked him by a single look. "Fly !" said she re-
proachfully; "fly! — and is it you, Maurice, who thus advises
me ? What ! while my poor father is crushed with misfortune,
am I to add despair and shame to his sorrows? His friends
have deserted him; must I, his daughter, also abandon him?
Ah! if I did that, I should be a vile, cowardly creature! If,
when I believed my father to be the true owner of Sairmeuse,
he had asked of me such a sacrifice as that I consented to last
night, I might, perhaps, have resolved on doing what you say.
I might have left Sairmeuse in broad daylight on my lover's
arm, for it isn't the world I fear ! But if one might fly from
the chateau of a wealthy, happy father, one can not desert a
despairing, penniless parent. Leave me, Maurice, where honor
holds me. It will not be difficult for me, the daughter of gen-
erations of peasants, to become a peasant myself. Leave me !
I can not endure any more ! Go ! and remember that it is
impossible to be utterly wretched if one's conscience is clean
and one's duty fulfilled !"
Maurice was about to reply, when a crackling of dry branches
made him turn his head. Scarcely ten paces off, Martial de
Sairmeuse was standing under the firs leaning on his gun.
'T'HE Due de Sairmeuse had indulged in but little sleep on
*■ the night of his return, or, as he phrased it, "of his restora-
tion." Although he pretended to be inaccessible to the emotions
which agitate the common herd, the scenes of the day had in
point of fact greatly excited him; and, on lying down to rest,
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 311
he could not help reviewing them, although he made it a rule
of life never to reflect. While exposed to the scrutiny of the
village peasants and of his own aristocratic acquaintances, he
had felt that honor required him to appear cold and indifferent
to everything that transpired, but as soon as he was alone in
the privacy of his own bedroom, he gave free vent to his
satisfaction.
This satisfaction amounted to perfect joy, almost verging
on delirium. He was now forced to admit to himself Lache-
neur had rendered him an immense service in voluntarily re-
storing Sairmeuse. This man to whom he had displayed the
blackest ingratitude, this man, honest to heroism, whom he had
treated like an unfaithful servant, had just relieved him of an
anxiety which had long poisoned his life. Indeed, Lacheneur
had just placed the Due de Sairmeuse beyond the reach of a
very possible calamity which he had dreaded for some time
back.
If his secret anxiety had been made known, it would have
caused some little merriment. The less fortunate of the re-
turning emigres were in the habit of remarking that the Sair-
meuses would never know want, as they possessed property in
England of a value of many million francs. Broadly speaking,
the statement was true, only the property in question — property
coming from Martial's mother and maternal grandfather — had
not been left to the duke, but to Martial himself. It is true
that the Due de Sairmeuse enjoyed absolute control over this
enormous fortune ; he disposed of the capital and the immense
revenues just as he pleased, although in reality everything be-
longed to his son — to his only son. The duke himself possessed
nothing — a pitiful income of twelve hundred francs, or so,
strictly speaking, not even the means of subsistence.
Martial, who was just coming of age, had certainly never
uttered a word which might lead his father to suppose that he
had any intention of removing the property from his control ;
still this word might some day or another be spoken, and at the
thought of such a contingency the duke shuddered with horror.
He saw himself reduced to a pension, a very handsome pension
undoubtedly, but still a fixed, immutable, regular allowance, by
which he would be obliged to regulate his expenditure. He
would have to calculate that two ends might meet — he, who
had been accustomed to inexhaustible coffers. "And this will
necessarily happen sooner or later," he thought.
312 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
"If Martial should marry, if he should become ambitious, or
meet with evil counselors, then my reign will end."
Hence, the duke watched and studied his son much as a
jealous woman studies and watches the lover she mistrusts.
He thought he could read in his son's eyes many thoughts
which Martial never had ; he carefully noted whether the Mar-
quis was gay or sad, careless or preoccupied, and according to
the young man's mood, he became reassured or grew still more
alarmed. Sometimes he imagined the worst. "If I should
quarrel by and by with Martial," he thought, "he would take
possession of his entire fortune, and I should be left absolutely
without bread."
To a man like the Due de Sairmeuse, who judged the senti-
ments of others by his own, these torturing apprehensions
proved a terrible chastisement ; and there were days when
his personal poverty and impotence well-nigh drove him mad.
"What am I?" he would say to himself in a fit of rage. "A
mere plaything in the hands of a child. My son owns me. If
I displease him, he will cast me aside. Yes, he will be able
to dismiss me just as he would a lackey. If I enjoy his for-
tune, it will be because he allows me to do so. I owe my
very existence, as well as my luxuries, to his charity. But a
moment's anger, even a whim, may deprive me of everything."
With such ideas in his brain, the duke could not love his son.
Indeed, he hated him. He passionately envied him all the ad-
vantages he possessed — his youth, his millions, his physical
good looks, and his talents, which were really of a superior
order. We every day meet mothers who are jealous of their
daughters, and in the same way there are fathers who are
jealous of their sons. This was one of those cases. The duke,
however, showed no outward sign of mental disquietude ; and if
Martial had possessed less penetration, he might have believed
that his father adored him. However, if he had detected the
duke's secret, he did not reveal his knowledge, nor did he abuse
his power. Their manner toward each other was perfect. The
duke was kind even to weakness ; Martial full of deference.
But their relations were not those of father and son. One was
in constant fear of displeasing the other ; the other a little too
sure of his power. They lived on a footing of perfect equality,
like two companions of the same age. From this trying situa-
tion, Lacheneur had now rescued the duke. On becoming once
more the owner of Sairmeuse, an estate worth more than three
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 813
million francs, his grace freed himself from his son's tyranny;
and recovered all his liberty. What brilliant projects flitted
through his brain that night! He beheld himself the richest
landowner in the province ; and in addition he was the king's
chosen friend. To what then might he not aspire? Such a
prospect enchanted him. He felt quite young again : he had
shaken off the twenty years he had spent in exile. So, rising
before nine o'clock, he went to Martial's room to rouse him.
On returning from dining with the Marquis de Courtornieu,
the evening before, the duke had promenaded through the
chateau ; but this hasty inspection by candle-light had not satis-
fied his curiosity. He wished to visit everything in detail now
that it was day. So, followed by his son, he explored one after
another the numerous rooms of this princely abode ; and at
every step he took, the recollections of childhood crowded upon
him. Lacheneur had such a wonderful respect for all the
■appointments of the chateau that the duke found things as old
as himself religiously preserved, and occupying the old familiar
places from which they had never been removed.
"Decidedly, Marquis," he exclaimed when his inspection was
•concluded, "this Lacheneur wasn't such a rascal as I supposed.
I am disposed to forgive him a great deal, on account of the
care he has taken of our house in our absence."
Martial seemed engrossed in thought. "I think, sir," he
said, at last, "that we should show our gratitude to this man
by paying him a large indemnity."
This last word excited the duke's anger. "An indemnity!"
he exclaimed. "Are you mad, Marquis? Think of the income
he has received out of my estate. Have you forgotten the cal-
culation made for us last evening by the Chevalier de la
Livandiere?"
"The chevalier is a fool !" declared Martial, promptly. "He
forgot that Lacheneur has trebled the value of Sairmeuse. I
think our family honor requires us to give this man an indem-
nity of at least a hundred thousand francs. This would, more-
over, be a good stroke of policy in the present state of public
sentiment, and his majesty would, I am sure, be much pleased
if we did so."
"Stroke of policy" — "public sentiment" — "his majesty." You
might have obtained almost anything from M. de Sairmeuse by
such words and arguments as these.
"Heavenly powers !" he exclaimed ; "a hundred thousand
814 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
francs ! how you talk ! It is all very well for you, with your
fortune ! Still, if you really think so — "
"Ah ! my dear sir, isn't my fortune yours ? Yes, such is
really my opinion. So much so, indeed, that, if you will permit
it, I will see Lacheneur myself, and arrange the matter in such
a way that his pride won't be wounded. It would be worth our
while to retain such devotion as his."
The duke opened his eyes to their widest extent. "Lache-
neur's pride !" he murmured. "Worth while to retain his devo-
tion ! Why do you talk in that strain ? What's the reason of
this extraordinary interest?"
He paused, enlightened by a sudden recollection. "Ah, I
understand!" he exclaimed; "I understand. He has a pretty
daughter." Martial smiled without replying.
"Yes, as pretty as a rose," continued the duke; "but a hun-
dred thousand francs ; zounds ! That's a round sum to pay for
such a whim. But, if you insist upon it — "
After this the matter was settled, and, two hours later, armed
with the authorization he had solicited, Martial started on his
mission. The first peasant he met told him the way to the
cottage which M. Lacheneur now occupied. "Follow the
river," said the man, "and when you see a pine grove on your
left, cross through it and follow the path over the waste."
Martial was crossing through the grove when he heard the
sound of voices. He approached, recognized Marie-Anne and
Maurice d'Escorval, and, obeying an angry impulse, paused.
During the decisive moments of life, when one's entire
future depends on a word or a gesture, twenty contradictory
inspirations can traverse the mind in the time occupied by a
flash of lightning.
On thus suddenly perceiving the young Marquis de Sair-
meuse, Maurice d'Escorval's first thought was : How long has
he been here? Has he been playing the spy? Has he been
listening to us? What did he hear? His first impulse was to
spring upon his enemy, to strike him in the face, and compel
him to engage in a hand-to-hand struggle. The thought of
Marie-Anne checked him, however. He reflected upon the pos-
sible, even probable, results of a quarrel arising under such
circumstances. The combat which would ensue would cost
this pure young girl her reputation. Martial would talk about
it; and country folks are pitiless. He could imagine Marie-
Anne becoming the talk of the neighborhood, and saw the
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 315
finger of scorn pointed at her. Accordingly, he made a great
effort and mastered his anger. These reflections occupied
merely a few seconds, and then young D'Escorval, politely
touching his hat, advanced toward Martial and observed :
"You are a stranger, sir, and have no doubt lost your way ?"
His words were ill-chosen, and defeated his prudent inten-
tions. A curt "Mind your own business" would have been less
wounding. He forgot that this word "stranger" was the most
deadly insult that one could cast in the face of the former
emigres, now returning in the rear of the Allies.
However, the young marquis did not change his nonchalant
attitude. He touched the peak of his hunting cap with one
finger, and replied : "It's true I've lost my way."
Marie-Anne, despite her agitation, easily perceived that her
presence alone restrained the hatred animating these young
men. Their attitude, and the glance with which they measured
each other, plainly spoke of hostile feelings. If one of them
was ready to spring upon the other, the latter was on the alert,
prepared to defend himself.
A short pause followed the marquis's last words. At length
he spoke again. "A peasant's directions are not generally re-
markable for their clearness," he said, lightly; "and for more
than an hour I have been trying to find the house to which M.
Lacheneur has retired."
"Ah !"
"I am sent to him by the Due de Sairmeuse, my father."
Knowing what he did, Maurice supposed that these strangely
rapacious individuals had some fresh claim to make. "I thought,"
said he, "that all relations between M. Lacheneur and M. de
Sairmeuse were broken off yesterday evening at the abbe's
house."
This was said in the most provoking tone, and yet Martial
never so much as frowned. He had sworn that he would re-
main calm, and he had strength enough to keep his word. "If
these relations have been broken off," he replied, "believe me,
M. d'Escorval, it is no fault of ours."
"Then it is not as people say?"
"What people? Who?"
"The people here in the neighborhood."
"Ah! And what do these people say?"
"The truth; that you have been guilty of an offense which
a man of honor could never forgive nor forget."
316 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
The young marquis shook his head gravely. "Your con-
demnation is very hasty, sir," he said, coldly. "Permit me to
hope that M. Lacheneur will be less severe than you are ; and
that his resentment, his just resentment, I confess, will vanish
before a truthful explanation."
Martial profited by the effect he had produced to walk
toward Marie-Anne, and, addressing himself exclusively to
her, now seemed to completely ignore Maurice's presence. "For
there has been a mistake — a misunderstanding, mademoiselle,"
he continued. "Do not doubt it. The Sairmeuses are not
ingrates. How could any one have supposed that we would
intentionally give offense to a devoted friend of our family,
and that at a moment when he had rendered us such signal
service ! A true gentleman like my father, and a hero of probity
like yours, can not fail to esteem each other. I admit that
yesterday M. de Sairmeuse did not appear to advantage ; but
the step he takes to-day proves his sincere regret."
Certainly this was not the cavalier tone which Martial had
employed in speaking to Marie-Anne for the first time on the
square in front of the church. He had removed his cap, his
attitude was full of deference, and he spoke as respectfully as
though he were addressing some haughty duchess, instead of
the humble daughter of that "rascal" Lacheneur. Was this only
a roue's maneuvre ? Or had a true sense of this noble girl's ster-
ling worth penetrated his heart ? Perhaps it was both. At all
events it would have been difficult for him to say how far the
homage he thus paid was intentional, and how far involuntary.
"My father," he continued, "is an old man who has had
cruel sufferings. Exile is hard to bear. But if sorrow and
deception have embittered his character, they have not changed
his heart. His apparent imperiousness conceals a kindness of
heart which I have often seen degenerate into positive weak-
ness. And — why should I not confess it? — the Due de Sair-
meuse, with his white hair, still retains the illusions of a child.
He refuses to believe that the world has progressed during the
past twenty years. Moreover, people had deceived him by the
most absurd fabrications. To speak plainly, even while we
were in Montaignac, M. Lacheneur's enemies succeeded in
prejudicing my father against him."
One might have sworn that Martial was speaking the truth ;
for his voice was so persuasive, and his glance, his gestures,
and the expression on his face corresponded so fittingly with
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 317
his words. Maurice, who felt certain that young De Sair-
meuse was lying, impudently lying, was abashed by this scien-
tific prevarication, so universally practised in good society, but
of which he was happily and utterly ignorant. However, if the
marquis were lying, what did he want here, and what was the
meaning of this farce?
"Need I tell you, mademoiselle," Martial resumed, "all that
I suffered last evening in the little sitting-room in the par-
sonage? Never in my whole life can I recollect such a cruel
moment ! I understood, and I did honor to M. Lacheneur's
heroism. Hearing of our arrival, he came without hesitation,
without delay, to voluntarily surrender a princely fortune — and
he was insulted. This excessive injustice horrified me. And if
I did not openly protest against it — if I did not show my indig-
nation — it was only because contradiction drives my father to
the verge of frenzy. And what good would it have done for
me to protest? Your filial love and piety had a far more
powerful effect than any words of mine would have had. You
were scarcely out of the house before the duke, already ashamed
of his injustice, said to me: T have been wrong, but I am
an old man ; it is hard for me to decide to make the first
advance ; you, marquis, go and find M. Lacheneur, and obtain
his forgiveness.' "
Marie-Anne, redder than a peony, and terribly embarrassed,
lowered her eyes. "I thank you, sir," she faltered, "in my
father's name — "
"Oh! do not thank me," interrupted Martial earnestly; "it
will be my duty, on the contrary, to give yon thanks, if you
can induce M. Lacheneur to accept the reparation which is
due to him — and he will accept it, if you will only condescend
to plead our cause. Who could resist your sweet voice, your
beautiful, beseeching eyes?"
However inexperienced Maurice might be, he could no longer
fail to comprehend Martial's intentions. This man, whom he
mortally hated already, dared to speak of love to Marie-Anne,
and in his presence. In other words, the marquis, not content
with having ignored and insulted him, presumed to take an
insolent advantage of his supposed simplicity. The certainty
of this outrage made his blood boil. He seized Martial by the
arm, and threw him forcibly against a fir tree, several paces off.
"This last is too much, Marquis de Sairmeuse !" he cried.
Maurice's attitude was so threatening that Martial fully ex-
318 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
pected another attack. He had fallen on one knee; without
rising he now raised his gun, as if to take aim. It was not
from anything like cowardice that the Marquis de Sairmeuse
felt an impulse to fire upon an unarmed foe ; but the affront
which he had received was in his opinion so dastardly that he
would have shot Maurice like a dog, rather than feel the weight
of his hand upon his arm again.
For some minutes previously, Marie-Anne had been expect-
ing and hoping for Maurice's outburst of anger. She was even
more inexperienced than her lover ; but she was a woman, and
could not fail to understand the meaning of the young marquis's
manner. He was evidently "paying his court to her." And
with what intentions it was only too easy to divine. Her agita-
tion, while the marquis spoke to her in an unceasingly tender
voice, had changed at first to stupor, and then to indignation, as
she realized his marvelous audacity. After that, how could she
help blessing the act of violence which had curtailed a situation
so insulting for herself and so humiliating for Maurice? An
ordinary woman would have thrown herself between two men
anxious to kill each other ; but Marie- Anne remained impassive.
Was it not Maurice's duty to protect her when she was insulted ?
Who, then, if not he, should defend her from this young roue's
insolent gallantry? She would have blushed, she who was
energy personified, to love a weak and pusillanimous man.
But, after all, intervention was quite unnecessary; for Mau-
rice understood that the situation required him to be very
cautious under penalty of giving the offending party the advan-
tage. He felt that Marie-Anne must not be regarded as the
cause of the quarrel ; and this thought at once produced a
powerful reaction in his mind. He recovered, as if by magic,
his usual coolness and the free exercise of his faculties.
"Yes," he resumed, in a bold voice, "this is hypocrisy enough.
To dare to prate of reparation after the insults that you and
yours have inflicted is adding intentional humiliation to injury
— and I will not permit it."
Martial had thrown aside his gun ; he now rose, and with
a phlegm he had learned in England, complacently brushed his
dusty knee. He was too discerning not to perceive that Mau-
rice had purposely disguised the true cause of his passionate
outburst; and though he would not have been displeased if
young D'Escorval had confessed the truth, the matter was after
all of little moment.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 319
However, it was necessary to make some reply, and to pre-
serve the superiority which he imagined he had hitherto main-
tained. "You will never know, sir," he said, glancing alter-
nately at his gun and at Marie-Anne, "all that you owe to
Mademoiselle Lacheneur. We shall meet again, I hope — "
"You have made that remark before," Maurice interrupted,
tauntingly. "Nothing is easier than to find me. The first
peasant you meet will point out the Baron d'Escorval's house."
"Very good, sir, I can't promise but that two of my friends
will call upon you."
"Oh ! whenever you please !"
"Certainly; but it would gratify me to know by what right
you make yourself the judge of M. Lacheneur's honor, and take
upon yourself to defend what has not been attacked. Who has
given you this right?"
From Martial's sneering tone, Maurice felt certain the mar-
quis had overheard at least a part of his conversation with
Marie-Anne. "My right." he replied, "is that of friendship.
If I tell you that your advances are unwelcome, it is because
I know that M. Lacheneur will accept nothing from you. No,
nothing, no matter how you may disguise the alms you offer
merely to appease your own consciences. He will never forgive
the affront which is his honor and your shame. Ah ! you
thought to degrade him, Messieurs de Sairmeuse ! and you have
raised him far above your own mock grandeur. He receive
anything from you ! Go and learn that your millions can never
give you a pleasure equal to the ineffable joy he will feel when
he sees you roll by in your carriage, for he can say to himself :
'Those people owe everything to me !' "
Maurice spoke with such an intensity of feeling that Marie-
Anne could not resist the impulse to press his hand ; and this
gesture was his revenge on Martial, who turned pale with
passion.
"But I have still another right," continued Maurice. "My
father yesterday had the honor of asking M. Lacheneur for his
daughter's hand — "
"And I refused it !" cried a terrible voice.
The marquis, Marie-Anne, and Maurice turned with a move-
ment of mingled alarm and surprise. M. Lacheneur was be-
side them, and just behind him stood Chanlouineau, surveying
the group with threatening eyes.
"Yes, I refused it," resumed M. Lacheneur, "and I do not
320 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
believe that my daughter will marry any one without my con-
sent. What did you promise me this morning, Marie-Anne?
And yet you grant a rendezvous to gallants in the grove? Go
home at once !"
"But, father—"
"Go home !" he repeated angrily. "Go home, I command
you."
Marie- Anne did not utter another word; but, with a look of
resignation, turned to depart, though not without bestowing on
Maurice a saddened gaze in which he read a last farewell.
As soon as she was some twenty paces off, M. Lacheneur,
with folded arms, confronted the baron's son. "As for you,
M. d'Escorval," said he, "I hope that you'll no longer prowl
round about my daughter — "
"I swear to you, sir — "
"Oh, no oaths, if you please. It is an evil action to try and
turn a young girl from her duty, which is obedience. You have
severed forever all connection between your family and mine."
Maurice tried to excuse himself ; but M. Lacheneur inter-
rupted him. "Enough! enough!" said he; "go back home."
And as the young fellow hesitated, he seized him by the
collar and dragged him to the little footpath, leading through
the grove. This was the work of scarcely ten seconds, and yet
Lacheneur found time to whisper in Maurice's ear, in his former
friendly tones : "Go, you young wretch ! do you want to render
all my precautions useless?"
He watched Maurice as the latter disappeared, bewildered
by the scene he had witnessed, and stupefied by what he had
just heard; and it was not until the late lord of Sairmeuse saw
that young D'Escorval was out of hearing that he turned to
Martial. "As I have had the honor of meeting you, M. le
Marquis," said he, "I deem it my duty to inform you that Chu-
pin and his sons are searching for you everywhere. It is at the
request of the duke, your father, who is anxious for you to go
at once to the Chateau de Courtornieu." Then, turning to
Chanlouineau, he added : "We will now proceed on our
way."
But Martial detained him with a gesture. "I am much sur-
prised to hear that they are seeking me," said he. "My father
knows very well where he sent me — I was going to your house,
at his request."
"To my house?"
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
321
"Yes, to your house, to express our sincere regret for the
scene which took place at the parsonage yesterday evening."
And then, without waiting for any rejoinder, Martial, with
wonderful cleverness and felicity of expression, began to repeat
to the father the story he had just related to the daughter.
According to his version, the duke and himself were in despair.
How could M. Lacheneur suppose them guilty of such black
ingratitude? Why had he retired so precipitately? The Due
de Sairmeuse held at M. Lacheneur's disposal any amount
which it might please him to mention — sixty, a hundred thou-
sand francs, even more.
But M. Lacheneur did not appear to be dazzled in the least;
and when Martial had concluded, he replied respectfully, but
coldly, that he would consider the matter.
This coldness amazed Chanlouineau, who when the marquis,
after many earnest protestations, at last turned his face home-
ward, naively declared: "We have misjudged these people."
But M. Lacheneur shrugged his shoulders. "And so you
are foolish enough to suppose that he offered all that money
to met"
"Zounds ! I have ears."
"Ah well ! my poor boy, you must not believe all they hear
if you have. The truth is, these large sums were intended to
win my daughter's favor. She has taken the marquis's fancy,
and — he wishes to make her his mistress — "
Chanlouineau, stopped short, with eyes flashing and hands
clenched. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "prove that and I
am yours, body and soul — to do anything you like !"
" AH, what a girl she is, this Marie- Anne Lacheneur. I've
>**■ never met the like of her before — what beauty, grace, and
dignity combined — " thus soliloquized Martial when after leaving
the grove he turned in the direction of Sairmeuse. At the risk
of losing his way he took what seemed to be the shortest course,
cutting across the fields and leaping the ditches with the aid of
322 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
his gun. He found a peculiar pleasure in picturing Marie-
Anne as he had just seen her. Now blushing and growing
pale with frightened modesty, and now raising her head with
haughty pride and disdain. Who would have suspected that
such girlish artlessness and such outward frigidity of manner
concealed an energetic nature and an impassioned soul? What
an expression of love lighted up her large black eyes when
she glanced at young D'Escorval ! Ah, to be looked at thus
only for a moment was felicity indeed. No wonder that Maurice
d'Escorval was madly in love with her. Was not he — the mar-
quis — in love with her himself? "Ah," exclaimed he, "come
what may she shall be mine."
Thus meditating, the Marquis de Sairmeuse turned to the
strategic side of the question — to assist him in the study of
which he was, despite his recent manhood, able to bring con-
siderable experience. His debut, he was forced to admit, had
been neither fortunate nor adroit. Compliments and offers of
money had alike been rejected. If Marie-Anne had heard his
covert insinuations with evident horror, M. Lacheneur had
received with even more than coldness his repeated offers of
actual wealth. Moreover, he remembered Chanlouineau's ter-
rible eyes; and the way the sturdy rustic measured him. Had
Marie-Anne made but a sign, the young farmer would have
crushed him like an egg-shell, without the least thought of his
noble ancestors. Probably the stalwart young peasant was
another of Marie-Anne's visitors, in which case there would
be three rivals for her favor. However, the more difficult the
undertaking seemed, the more Martial's passions were inflamed.
He reflected that his blunders might after all be repaired; for
occasions of meeting would not be wanting, since he must have
frequent interviews with M. Lacheneur in effecting a formal
transfer of Sairmeuse. If he could only win the father over
to his side. With the daughter his course was plain. Profit-
ing by experience he must henceforth be as timid as he had
hitherto been bold, and she would be hard to please if she were
not flattered by such a triumph of her beauty. Young D'Escorval
remained to be disposed of. True, the baron's son had been
rudely dismissed by M. Lacheneur, and yet the latter's anger
seemed rather far-fetched to be absolutely real. Was this inci-
dent merely a comedy, and if so who had Lacheneur wished
to deceive — he — the marquis — or Chanlouineau? And then, if
there had been deception, what could have been its motive ? On
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 323
the other hand it was impossible to call young D'Escorval to
account for his insolence, for if even a pretext were found,
Marie-Anne would never forgive the man who raised his hand
against one who, for the time being, was apparently her favored
lover — so, hard as it was, Martial must yet swallow Maurice's
affront in silence. Ah, he would have given a handsome sum
to any one who would have devised a means of sending the
baron's son away from the neighborhood.
Revolving in his mind these ideas and plans, the precise con-
sequence of which he could neither calculate nor foresee,
Martial was walking up the avenue leading to the Chateau de
Sairmeuse when he heard hurried footsteps behind him. He
turned and paused on seeing two men running after him and
motioning him to stop. The younger was one of Father Chupin's
sons, and the other the old rascal himself.
The quondam poacher had been enrolled among the servants
charged with preparing Sairmeuse for the duke's reception ; and
he was already doing everything in his power to make him-
self indispensable. 'Ah, M. le Marquis," he cried, "we have
been searching for you everywhere, my son and I. It was
M. le Due—"
"Very well," said Martial dryly. "I am returning — "
But Chupin was not oversensitive ; and, despite his curt recep-
tion, he ventured to follow the marquis, at a little distance
behind it is true, but still sufficiently near to make himself
heard. He also had his schemes, and it was not long before
he began to repeat all the calumnies that had lately been spread
about the neighborhood in reference to Lacheneur. Why did
he choose this subject in preference to any other? Did he sus-
pect the young marquis's passion for Marie- Anne? Perhaps so:
at all events he described Lacheneur (he no longer styled him
"Monsieur") as a thorough rascal. The complete surrender of
Sairmeuse, he said, was only a farce, for Marie-Anne's father
must possess thousands, and hundreds of thousands, of francs,
since he was about to marry his daughter. Any suspicions
the old scoundrel may have entertained became certainties when
he heard Martial eagerly ask, "What ! is Mademoiselle Lache-
neur going to be married?"
"Yes, sir."
"And who's the happy man?"
"Why, Chanlouineau, the fellow the peasants wanted to kill
yesterday on the market-place because he was so disrespectful
324 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
to the duke. He is an avaricious man ; and if Marie- Anne does
not bring him a good round sum as a dowry, he will never
marry her, no matter how beautiful she may be."
"Are you sure of what you say?"
"Oh, it's quite true. My eldest son heard from Chanloui-
neau and from Lacheneur that the wedding would take place
within a month." And turning to his son, the old knave added :
"Is it not true, boy?"
"Yes," promptly replied the youth, although he had heard
nothing of the kind.
Martial made no rejoinder. Perhaps he was ashamed at
having allowed himself to listen to all this tittle-tattle ; though
on the other hand he could not but feel grateful to Chupin for
such important information. Lacheneur's conduct now ap-
peared all the more mysterious. Why had he refused to give
his daughter to Maurice d'Escorval? why did he wish to marry
her to a peasant? His conduct must be guided by some potent
motive.
Thus cogitating, the young marquis reached Sairmeuse, where
a strange scene awaited him. On the broad gravel walk inter-
vening between the peristyle of the chateau and the lawn a
huge pile of furniture, crockery, linen, and clothes might be
perceived. Half a dozen lackeys were running to and fro
executing the orders of the Due de Sairmeuse, who stood on
the threshold of the building, and a passer-by would have sup-
posed that the occupants of the chateau were moving. To
Martial the scene was inexplicable. Approaching his father,
and saluting him respectfully, he inquired what it meant.
The duke burst into a hearty laugh. "Why, can't you guess?"
he replied. "Why, it's very simple. When the lawful master
returns home he finds it delightful the first night to sleep under
the usurper's counterpane, but afterward it is not so pleasant.
Everything here reminds me too forcibly of M. Lacheneur. It
seems to me that I am in his house, and the thought is unen-
durable. So I have had them collect everything belonging to
him and to his daughter — everything in fact which did not
belong to the chateau in former years, and the servants will
put all these goods and chattels into a cart and carry them
to him."
The young marquis gave fervent thanks to heaven that he
had arrived before it was too late. Had his father's project
been executed, he might have oid farewell to all his hopes for-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 325
ever. "You don't surely mean to do this, M. le Due?'" he
said earnestly.
"And why not, pray? Who can prevent me from doing it?"
"No one, most assuredly. But you yourself will decide on
reflection that a man who has not conducted himself too badly
has at least a right to some consideration."
The duke seemed greatly astonished. "Consideration !" he
exclaimed. "This rascal has a right to some consideration !
You must be joking surely. What! I give him — that is to
say — you give him a hundred thousand francs, and that doesn't
satisfy him ! He is entitled to consideration ! You, who are
after the daughter, may treat him to as much consideration as
you like, but / shall do as I please !"
"You have a perfect right to do so, M. le Due," replied
Martial, "but I would respectfully observe that if I were in
your place I should think twice before acting. Lacheneur has
surrendered Sairmeuse; that is all very well, but how can you
authenticate your claim to the property? Suppose you impru-
dently irritated him. What would you do if he changed his
mind? What would become of your right to the estate?"
M. Sairmeuse turned livid. "Zounds !" he exclaimed. "I had
not thought of that. Here, you fellows, take all these things
indoors again, and quickly!" And as the lackeys prepared to
obey his orders, "Now," he remarked, "let us hasten to Cour-
tornieu. They have already sent for us twice. It must be busi-
ness of the utmost importance which demands our attention."
The Chateau de Courtornieu is, next to that of Sairmeuse,
the most magnificent seigniorial seat in the district of Montai-
gnac. When the carriage conveying Martial and his father
turned from the public highway into the long narrow, rough by-
road leading to this historic mansion, the jolting aroused the
duke from a profound reverie into which he had fallen on
leaving Sairmeuse.
The marquis thought that he had caused this unusual fit of
abstraction. "It is the result of my adroit maneuvre," he said
to himself, not without secret satisfaction. "Until the restitu-
tion of Sairmeuse is legalized, I can make my father do any-
thing I wish; yes, anything. And if it is necessary, he will
even invite Lacheneur and Marie-Anne to his table."
Martial was mistaken, however. The duke had already for-
gotten the matter, for his most vivid impressions were more
fleeting than the briefest summer shower. After suddenly
326 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
lowering the glass window in front of the carriage, and order-
ing the coachman to walk his horses up the road, he turned to
his son and remarked : "Let us have a few minutes' chat. Are
you really in love with that girl Lacheneur ?"
Martial could not repress a start. "Oh ! in love," said he,
lightly, "that would perhaps be saying too much. Let me say
she has taken my fancy, that will be sufficient."
The duke glanced at his son with a bantering air. "Really,
you delight me !" he exclaimed. "I feared that this love affair
might derange, at least for the moment, certain plans that I
have formed — for I have formed certain plans for you."
"The deuce !"
"Yes, I have my plans, and I will communicate them to you
later in detail. I will content myself to-day by recommending
you to study Mademoiselle Blanche de Courtornieu."
Martial made no reply. This recommendation was indeed
superfluous. If Mademoiselle Lacheneur had made him forget
momentarily Mademoiselle de Courtornieu that morning, the
remembrance of Marie-Anne was now effaced by the radiant
image of Blanche.
"Before discussing the daughter," resumed the duke, "let us
speak of the father. He is one of my best friends ; and I know
him thoroughly. You have heard men reproach me for what
they style my prejudices, haven't you? Well, in comparison
with the Marquis de Courtornieu, I am only a mere Jacobin."
"Oh! father!"
"Really, such is the case. If I am behind the age in which
I live, he belongs to the reign of Louis XIV. Only — for there
is an only — the principles which I openly profess, he keeps
locked up in his snuff-box — and trust him for not* forgetting
to open it at the proper moment. He has suffered cruelly for
his opinions, in the sense of having so often been obliged to
conceal them. He concealed them, first, under the Consulate,
when he returned from exile. He dissimulated them even more
courageously under the Empire — for he played the part of a
chamberlain to Bonaparte, this dear marquis. But, hush ! don't
remind him of that proof of heroism; he has bitterly deplored
it since the battle of Lutzen."
This was the tone in which M. de Sairmeuse was accus-
tomed to speak of his best friends. "The history of the mar-
quis's fortune," he continued, "is the history of his marriages
— I say marriages, because he has married a number of times,
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 327
and always advantageously. Yes, in a period of fifteen years
he has had the misfortune to lose three wives, each richer than
the other. His daughter's mother was his third and last wife,
a Cisse Blossac — who died in 1809. He comforted himself
after each bereavement by purchasing a quantity of lands or
bonds. So that now he is as rich as you are, and his influence
is powerful and widespread. I forgot one detail, however. He
believes, they tell me, in the growing power of the clergy, and
has become very devout."
The duke checked himself, for the carriage had entered the
marquis's grounds, and was now approaching the grand entrance
of the Chateau de Courtornieu. As the wheels grated over the
gravel, M. de Courtornieu himself appeared on the threshold
of the mansion and hastily descended the steps to receive his
guests in person. This was a flattering distinction, which he
seldom lavished upon his visitors. The marquis was long rather
than tall, and very solemn in deportment. His angular form
was surmounted by a remarkably small head (a distinctive char-
acteristic of his race), covered with thin, glossy black hair,
and lighted by cold, round black eyes. The pride that becomes
a nobleman, and the humility that befits a Christian, were con-
tinually at war with each other in his countenance. He pressed
the hands of MM. de Sairmeuse with a great show of friendship,
and overwhelmed them with compliments expressed in a thin,
nasal voice, which, coming from his elongated frame, was as
astonishing as would be the sound of a flute issuing from the
pipes of an orphicleide.
"At last you have come," he said; "we were waiting for
you before beginning to deliberate on a very grave and delicate
matter. We are thinking of addressing a petition to his maj-
esty. The nobility, who have suffered so much during the
Revolution, have a right to expect ample compensation. Our
neighbors, to the number of sixteen, are now assembled in my
cabinet, transformed for the time into a council chamber."
Martial shuddered at the thought of all the ridiculous and
tiresome conversation he would probably be obliged to listen
to; and his father's recommendation occurred to him. "Shall
we not have the honor of paying our respects to Mademoiselle
de Courtornieu !" he asked.
"My daughter must be in the drawing-room with our cousin."
replied the marquis in an indifferent tone, "at least, if she is
not in the garden."
4 — Vol. II— Gab.
328 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
This might be construed as, "Go and look for her if you
choose." At any rate so Martial understood the marquis; and
accordingly, when the hall was reached, he allowed his father
and M. de Courtornieu to go upstairs without him. At his re-
quest a servant opened the drawing-room door, but he found
that apartment empty. He then turned into the garden, and
after a fruitless search was retracing his steps toward the house,
when, in the recesses of a shady bower, he espied the flowing
folds of a white silk dress. Surmising that the wearer of this
dainty toilet was Mademoiselle de Courtornieu, he advanced
toward the bower, and his heart throbbed quicker when he
perceived that he was right. Mademoiselle Blanche was seated
on a garden bench beside an elderly lady to whom she was
reading a letter in a low voice. She was evidently greatly pre-
occupied, since she did not hear Martial's approach. Pausing
at about a dozen paces from the bower the susceptible young
marquis lingered, blissfully contemplating the charming tableau
presented to his gaze.
Blanche de Courtornieu was not absolutely beautiful ; but
she was as pretty, as piquant, and as dainty as heart could
desire. Bewitching indeed were her large velvety blue eyes, her
dimpled chin, and fresh pouting lips. She was a blonde — but
one of those dazzling, radiant blondes found only in the coun-
tries of the sun — and her hair, drawn high upon the top of her
head, escaped on all sides in a profusion of glittering ringlets
which seemed almost to sparkle in the play of the light breeze.
One might, perhaps, have wished her a trifle taller. But she
had the winning charm of all delicately formed women; and her
figure was deliciously symmetrical and admirably proportioned.
The old axiom that appearances are often deceitful could not,
however, have been better exemplified than in the case of this
apparently innocent, artless girl. The candor sparkling in her
eyes concealed a parched, hollow soul, worthy of an experienced
woman of the world, or of some old courtier. Being the only
daughter of a millionaire grand-seigneur, she had been so petted
by all who approached her, so bespattered with adulation that
every good quality she might have possessed had been blighted
in the bud by the poisonous breath of flattery. She was only
nineteen ; and still it was impossible for any one to have been
more susceptible to the charms of wealth and ambition. She
dreamed of a position at court as most girls dream of a lover.
If she had deigned to notice Martial — and she had remarked
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 329
him — it was only because her father had told her that this
young man might raise his wife to the highest sphere of power
— a statement she had greeted with a "Very well, we will see!"
that would have changed an enamored suitor's love into disgust.
After Martial had loitered a few minutes in contemplation
he made up his mind to advance, and Mademoiselle Blanche,
on seeing him. sprang up with a pretty affectation of intense
timidity. Bowing low before her, the young marquis exclaimed
in a tone of profound deference : "M. de Courtornieu, made-
moiselle, was so kind as to tell me where I might have the
honor of finding you. I had not courage enough to brave those
formidable discussions indoors ; but — " He paused, and point-
ing to the letter the young girl held in her hand, he added : "But
I fear that I am interrupting you."
"Oh ! not in the least, Monsieur le Marquis, although this
letter which I have just been reading has, I confess, deeply
interested me. It was written by a poor child in whom I have
taken a great interest — whom I have sent for at times when I
felt lonely — Marie-Anne Lacheneur."
Accustomed from his infancy to the hypocrisy of drawing-
rooms, the young marquis had taught his face not to betray
his feelings. He could have laughed gaily with anguish at his
heart ; he could have preserved the sternest gravity when in-
wardly convulsed with merriment. And yet, the mention of
Marie-Anne's name coming from Mademoiselle de Courtornieu
caused his glance to waver. The thought that they knew each
other flashed through his brain, and then with equal rapidity
he recovered his self-possession. But Mademoiselle de Courtor-
nieu had perceived his momentary agitation. "What can it
mean ?" she wondered, much disturbed. Still, it was with a
perfect assumption of innocence that she continued: "In fact,
you must have seen her, this poor Marie-Anne, M. le Marquis,
since her father was the guardian of Sairmeuse?"
"Yes. I have seen her, mademoiselle," replied Martial, quietly.
"Is she not remarkably beautiful ? Her beauty is of an un-
usual type, it quite takes one by surprise."
A fool would have protested. The marquis was not guilty
of such folly. "Yes, she is very beautiful." said he.
Blanche de Courtornieu was slightly disconcerted by this
apparent frankness ; and it was with an air of hypocritical com-
passion that she murmured : "Poor girl ! What will become of
her? Here is her father reduced to digging the ground."
330 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
"Oh ! you exaggerate, mademoiselle ; my father will always
preserve Lacheneur from anything of that kind.'*
"Of course — I might have known that — but where will he
find a husband for Marie- Anne?"
"One has been found already. I understand that she is to
marry a farmer in the neighborhood, who has some little prop-
erty — a young fellow named Chanlouineau."
Mademoiselle le Courtornieu, with all her apparent artless-
ness, was more cunning than the marquis. She had satisfied
herself that she had just grounds for her suspicions; and she
experienced a certain anger on finding him so well informed
in regard to everything that concerned Mademoiselle Lache-
neur. "And do you fancy this is the husband she dreamed of?"
she inquired, still in a tone of affected benevolence. "Ah, well !
God grant that she may be happy; for we were very fond of
her, very — were we not, Aunt Medea?"
"Yes, very," replied Aunt Medea, who was the elderly lady
seated on the bench beside the Courtornieu heiress. She was
a poor relation whom M. de Courtornieu had installed at the
chateau as his daughter's chaperone, and she earned her daily
bread by playing the part of echo to the authoritative Blanche.
"It grieves me to see these friendly relations, which were so
dear to me, broken off," resumed Mademoiselle de Courtornieu.
"But listen to what Marie-Anne writes." So saying, she pro-
duced Madeomiselle Lacheneur's letter and read as follows :
"My dear Blanche — You know that the Due de Sairmeuse ha^
returned. The news fell upon us like a thunderbolt. My
father and I had grown too accustomed to consider the deposit
entrusted to our fidelity as our own property, and now we have
been punished for doing so. At least we have done our duty,
and now everything is finished. She whom you have called
your friend will henceforth be only a poor peasant girl, as her
mother was before her."
The most attentive observer would have supposed that Made-
moiselle Blanche was experiencing the keenest emotion. One
would have sworn that it was only by intense effort that she
succeeded in restraining her tears — that they were even trem-
bling beneath the long lashes shading her eyes. In point of
fact, however, she was trying to discover some indication of
Martial's feelings. But now he was on his guard, and he
listened to the perusal of the note with an imperturbable air.
She continued:
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 331
"I should not be telling the truth if I said that I have not
suffered on account of this sudden change. But I have courage
left, and I shall learn how to submit. I shall, I hope, also
have strength to forget, for I must forget ! The remembrances
of past happiness would make my present misery intolerable."
Mademoiselle de Courtornieu suddenly folded up the letter.
"Can you understand such pride as that?" said she. "And
they accuse us daughters of the nobility of being proud !"
Martial made no response. He felt that his trembling voice
would betray him. Great as was the emotion he concealed,
it would have been all the greater if he had been allowed to
read the concluding lines : —
"One must live, my dear Blanche," added Marie-Anne, "and
I feel no false shame in asking you to aid me. I sew very
nicely, as you know, and I could earn my livelihood by em-
broidery if I knew more people. I will call to-day at Cour-
tornieu to ask you to give me a list of ladies to whom I can
present myself on your recommendation."
But Mademoiselle de Courtornieu had taken good care not
to allude to this touching request. She had read the com-
mencement of the letter to Martial as a test, and plainly
perceived that if her new-born suspicions were correct, at all
events the young marquis was resolved not to betray himself
any further. Rising from the bench, she now accepted bis
arm to return to the house. She seemed to have forgotten
her friend, and soon engaged in a gay flirtation. They were
sauntering along toward the chateau, when the sound of voices
engaged in animated debate reached their ears. The council
convened in M. de Courtornieu's cabinet was angrily discussing
the proposed address to the king.
Mademoiselle Blanche paused. "I am trespassing upon your
kindness, M. le Marquis," said she. "I am boring you with my
silly chatter when you would undoubtedly prefer to be up
stairs."
"Certainly not," replied Martial laughing. "What should I
do there? Men of action only intervene when the orators
have finished."
He spoke so energetically, in spite of his jesting tone, that
Mademoiselle de Courtornieu was fascinated. She saw before
her, she believed, a man who, as her father had said, would
rise to the highest position in the political world. Unfortu-
nately, her admiration was disturbed by a ring at the great
332 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
bell which always announced visitors. She faltered, let go
her hold on Martial's arm, and exclaimed in an earnest tone.
"Ah, no matter. I wish very much to know what is going
on up stairs. If I ask my father he will laugh at my curiosity,
while you, if you are present at the conference, can tell me
everything."
A wish thus expressed was a command. Martial bowed and
withdrew. "She dismisses me," he said to himself as he
mounted the staircase, "nothing could be more evident; and
that without much ceremony. Why the deuce did she want to
get rid of me?"
Why? Because that single peal of the bell announced a
visitor to her; because she was expecting a visit from the
former friend whose letter she had just been reading; and
because she wished at any cost to prevent a meeting between
Martial and Marie-Anne. She did not love the young marquis,
and yet an agony of jealousy was torturing her. Such was
the nature of Mademoiselle Blanche.
Her presentiments were realized. It was indeed Mademoiselle
Lacheneur whom she found awaiting her in the drawing-room.
Marie-Anne was paler than usual ; but nothing in her manner
betrayed the frightful anguish she had suffered during the past
few days. In asking her former friend for a list of ladies to
whom she could recommend her, she spoke as calmly and as
quietly as in former days when she had ofttimes called at
Courtornieu and invited Blanche to spend a day at Sairmeuse.
Then the two girls embraced each other, their roles were re-
versed. It was Marie-Anne who had been crushed by mis-
fortune; but it was Blanche who wept. However, while writ-
ing down the names of the persons in the neighborhood with
whom she was acquainted, Mademoiselle de Courtornieu did
not neglect this favorable opportunity for verifying the sus-
picions which Martial's momentary agitation had roused in
her breast.
"It is inconceivable," she remarked to her friend, "that the
Due de Sairmeuse should allow you to be reduced to such
an extremity."
Marie-Anne's nature was so loyal, that although the remark
was leveled against a man who had treated her father most
cruelly, she at once resented its injustice. "The duke is not
to blame," she replied gently, "he offered us a very consider-
able sum, this morning, through his son."
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
333
Mademoiselle Blanche started as if a viper had stung her.
"So vou have seen the Marquis, Marie- Anne?" she said.
"Yes."
"Has he been to your house?"
. "He was going there, when he met me in the grove near La
Reche." As Marie-Anne spoke the recollection of Martial's
impertinent gallantry brought a blush, to her cheeks.
Blanche, despite her precocious experience, misunderstood
the cause of her friend's confusion. Still she was an adapt at
dissimulation, and she took leave of Marie-Anne with every
outward sign of sincere affection. In reality, however, she was
wellnigh suffocating with rage. "What !" she thought, "they
have met but once, and yet they are so strongly impressed with
one another ! Do they love each other already ?"
DLANCHE DE COURTORNIEU would probably have
*"* been extremely astonished if Martial had faithfully reported
to her everything he heard in her father's cabinet. He was
himself passably amazed by the opinions he heard expressed
and the projects he heard enunciated. Above all, he was
really disgusted with the ridiculous greed displayed by M.
de Courtornieu's noble guests. Decorations, fortune, honors,
power — they desired everything. They were satisfied that their
sentimental devotion to the throne deserved the most munifi-
cent rewards; and it was only the most modest among them,
who declared that he would rest content with the epaulets
of lieutenant-general. Recrimination, rancor, and reproach
were persistently indulged in, and the Marquis de Courtor-
nieu, who acted as president of the council, soon grew ex-
hausted with exclaiming: "Be calm, gentlemen, be calm! A
little moderation, if you please !"
"All these men are mad," thought Martial, with difficulty
restraining an intense desire to laugh ; "they are insane
enough to be placed in an asylum."
It so happened that he was not obliged to render a report
334 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
of what transpired, for soon after his arrival in the cabinet
the deliberations were fortunately interrupted by a summons
to dinner, and when he rejoined Blanche, she had quite for-
gotten to question him about the doings of the council. In
fact, what were these people's hopes and plans to her? These
greedy nobles were all below her father in rank, and most of
them were much less rich than he. Moreover, a matter of
personal interest had engaged all her attention. She had been
absorbed in thought, since Marie-Anne's departure — in thought
of Martial, with whose mind and person she was decidedly
pleased. He possessed all the qualifications an ambitious
woman could desire in a husband — and she had decided that
she would marry him. She would most likely not have arrived
at this conclusion so quickly, had it not been for the feeling
of jealousy, aroused in her mind by the belief that he was
coveted by another woman, for the heart had nothing to do
with her new-born desire, which was one of those counterfeit
brain passions so often mistaken for real love. As for the
outcome of her fancy, she never once thought that she might
possibly reap defeat in lieu of victory: for over and over
again had her flatterers told her that the man she chose must
esteem himself fortunate above all others. She had seen her
father besieged by so many suitors for her hand; and, besides,
her mirror told her that she was as pretty — nay, far prettier
than Marie-Anne; while she possessed other advantages which
her rival could lay no claim to; birth, wit, and a genius for
coquetry !
The result of Mademoiselle de Courtornieu's meditations was
that during dinner she exercised all her powers of fascination
upon the young marquis. She was so evidently desirous of
pleasing him that several of the guests remarked it. Some
were even shocked by her forwardness. But Blanche de
Courtornieu could do as she chose, as she herself was well
aware. Was she not the richest heiress for miles and miles
around? No slander can tarnish the brilliancy of such a fortune
as she would one day possess.
Martial yielded unresistingly to the charm of his position.
How could he suspect unworthy motives in a girl whose eyes
had such an expression of virgin purity, and whose laugh be-
spoke the happy gaiety of innocent maidenhood. Involuntarily
he compared the seemingly light-hearted Blanche with the grave
and thoughtful Marie-Anne, and his imagination turned from
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 335
one to the other, inflamed by the strangeness of the contrast. He
occupied a seat beside Mademoiselle de Courtornieu at table,
and they chatted gaily, amusing themselves at the expense of
the other guests, who were again conversing upon political
matters, and whose royalist enthusiasm waxed warmer and
warmer as the repast proceeded. Champagne was served with
the dessert ; and the company drank to the Allies by the force
of whose victorious bayonets the king had managed to return
to Paris; they drank to the English, to the Prussians, and to
the Russians, whose horses were trampling the harvests of
France under foot.
The name of D'Escorval heard above the clink of the
glasses, suddenly roused Martial from his dream of enchant-
ment. An old nobleman had just risen, and proposed that
active measures should be taken to rid the neighborhood of
the Baron d'Escorval. "Such a man's presence dishonors our
province," said he, "he is a frantic Jacobin, and Fouche has
him on the list of suspected persons, a plain proof that he is
a dangerous character. Even now he is under the surveillance
of the police."
Had M. d'Escorval heard these remarks, and had he seen
the savage glances which the listeners exchanged, he would
certainly have felt anxious for his safety. Still, if the old noble-
man's proposal met with approving looks, the various guests
plainly hesitated about giving it their formal sanction. Martial's
easy gaiety of a moment before had now quite vanished, and
he was as pale as death. A terrible struggle was going on
in his mind — a conflict between honor and desire. A few
hours previously he had longed for a means to get rid of
Maurice, and now the opportunity presented itself. It was
impossible to imagine a better one. If the old nobleman's
proposals were adopted, the Baron d'Escorval and his family
would be forced to leave France forever !
Martial noted the hesitation of the company, and felt that
a word from him would probably decide the matter. What
should he do — should he second the suggestion or oppose it?
He did not reflect for long. The voice of honor imperatively
commanded him to do his duty. Rising from his seat he de-
clared that the suggestion was most impolitic. "M. d'Escorval,"
he said, "is one of those men whose spirit of honesty and justice
has made him rightly popular. He fully deserves the general
esteem in which he is held in the district. And by attacking
336 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
him you would make many malcontents among those whose
support it is our duty to obtain in the interests of the monarchy."
The young marquis's cold and haughty manner, his few but
incisive words decided the question. "We had better leave
the baron alone. It would be a great mistake to attack him,"
such were the comments exchanged on every side.
When Martial sat down again Blanche de Courtornieu leant
toward him. "You have acted rightly," she murmured. "I
see you know how to defend your friends."
"M. d'Escorval is not my friend," replied Martial, in a voice
which revealed the struggle through which he had passed. "The
injustice of the proposal incensed me, that is all."
Mademoiselle de Courtornieu was not to be deceived by an
explanation like this. Still, feigning to accept it, she quietly
added: "Then your conduct is all the more admirable, M.
le Marquis."
Such was not the opinion of the Due de Sairmeuse, how-
ever. On returning to the chateau some hours later, he re-
proached his son for his intervention. "Why the deuce did you
meddle with the matter?" he inquired. "I should not have
liked to take upon myself the odium of the proposition, but
since it had been made — "
"I was anxious to prevent such an act of useless folly !"
"Useless folly ! Zounds ! marquis, you carry matters with
a high hand. Do you think that cursed baron adores you?
What would you say if you heard that he was conspiring
against us?"
"I should answer with a shrug of the shoulders."
"You would ! Very well then, just do me the favor to
question Chupin."
The Due de Sairmeuse had only been a fortnight in France;
he had scarcely shaken the dust of exile from his feet, and
already his imagination saw enemies on every side. He had
slept but two nights in the chateau of his forefathers, and yet
he accepted the venomous reports which Chupin poured into
his ears as unhesitatingly as if they had been gospel truth.
The suspicions which he tried to instil into Martial's mind
were, however, cruelly unjust.
At the very moment when the duke accused M. d'Escorval
of conspiring against the house of Sairmeuse, the baron was
weeping at the bedside of his son, whose life he feared for.
Maurice was indeed dangerously ill. Mental agony had over-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 337
come him and with his nervous organism the circumstance
was not surprising. After leaving the grove near La Reche
in obedience with M. Lacheneur's orders, he had mechanically
returned home, a hundred conflicting thoughts battling in
his mind. What did it all mean? The marquis's insults,
Lacheneur's feigned anger, Marie-Anne's obstinacy — all the
incidents in which he had just taken part combined to crush
him; and so singular was his demeanor that the peasants who
met him on the way felt convinced that some great calamity
had befallen the D'Escorval family. When he reached home
his mother experienced a terrible shock on perceiving the wild,
haggard expression of his features. Still he had enough
strength of mind left to try and reassure her. "It is all over,"
he exclaimed in a tremulous voice, "but don't be worried,
mother ; for I have some courage left, as you shall see."
He did, in fact, seat himself at the dinner-table with a
resolute air. He ate even more than usual ; and his father
noticed, without alluding to it, that he drank more wine than
he was in the habit of doing. He was very pale, his eyes
glittered, his manner and appearance were suggestive of the
febrile agitation from which he was suffering, and he spoke
in a husky tone, talking much and at times even jesting.
"Why don't he cry," thought Madame d'Escorval ; "then
I shouldn't be so much alarmed, and I could try to comfort
him."
This was Maurice's last effort. Directly dinner was over he
went upstairs to his room, and when his mother, after repeat-
edly listening at the door, finally decided to enter and ascertain
what he was about, she found him lying upon the bed, mutter-
ing incoherently. He did not appear to recognize or even to
see her; and when she spoke to him, he did not seem to hear.
His face was scarlet, and his lips were parched. She took
hold of his hand and found that it was burning, and this
although his body trembled and his teeth chattered as if with
cold.
No words could describe Madame d'Escorval's agony on
making this discovery. For a moment she feared she was about
to faint: but, summoning all her strength, she sprang to the
staircase, and cried: "Help! help! My son is dying!"
With a bound, M. d'Escorval reached his son's room, and,
after a brief inspection, instructed a servant to saddle a horse
and gallop to Montaignac for a doctor without delay. It is
338 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
true that there was a medical man at Sairmeuse, but he was
a disgrace to his profession. After serving for a short time
as an army surgeon he had been dismissed for absolute incom-
petency. The peasants shunned him as they would have
shunned the plague ; and in cases of sickness they always
sent for the village cure. M. d'Escorval now followed
their example, in this respect well knowing that the phy-
sician from Montaignac could not possibly arrive long before
morning.
The Abbe Midon had never frequented a medical school, but
since he had been ordained to Sairmeuse the poor had so often
asked for his advice that he had applied himself to the study of
medicine, and, aided by experience, had acquired a knowledge
of the healing art well worthy of a faculty diploma. No
matter at what hour of the day or night his parishioners
chanced to beg his help, he was always ready — and the same
answer invariably greeted their appeals: "Let us go at once."
Thus, when the people of the neighborhood met him on the road
with his little medicine bag slung over his shoulder, they doffed
their hats respectfully and stood aside to let him pass. Those
who did not respect the priest honored the man.
When the abbe learnt that M. d'Escorval needed his advice
he set out at once. The baron was his friend, and he was
anxious to do everything in his power to save young Maurice,
whom the frightened messenger described as almost dead. The
priest was just in sight of Escorval when the baroness rushed
out to meet him, and her manner was so suggestive of despair
that the abbe feared she was about to announce some irrep-
arable misfortune. But, no — she took his hand, and, without
uttering a word, led him to her son's room. Maurice's condi-
tion was indeed critical, but it was not hopeless, as the priest at
once perceived. "We will get him out of this," he said with
a smile that reawakened hope.
And then, with the coolness of an old practitioner, he bled
his patient freely, and ordered applications of ice to his
head. In a moment all the household was busy executing
the cure's various orders. He took advantage of the op-
portunity thus offered to draw the baron aside and inquire
what had happened.
"A disappointment in love," replied M. d'Escorval, with a
despairing gesture. "Yesterday afternoon M. Lacheneur re-
fused to let his daughter marry Maurice, who, however, was
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 339
to have seen Marie-Anne to-day. What passed between them
I don't know, but you see what is the result."
At this moment the baroness reentered the room, and the
abbe was unable to make any rejoinder. Maurice was now
more excited than ever; and in his delirium he frequently mut-
tered the names of Marie-Anne, Martial de Sairmeuse. and
Chanlouineau. The hours slowly passed without bringing any
change in his condition, and the vigil, shared by the distressed
parents and their friend the priest, was an anxious one indeed.
Dawn was just at hand, when the stillness out of doors was
broken by the sound of a horse's hoofs approaching at a swift
gallop along the neighboring highway. A few minutes later
and the doctor from Montaignac entered the house.
"There is no motive for immediate alarm," he said, after
carefully examining Maurice and conferring with the abbe.
Nothing more could be done at present. The fever must take
its course, but I will return to-morrow."
He did return every day during the ensuing week, and not
until his eighth visit did he proclaim Maurice to be out of
danger. Then it was that the Baron d'Escorval sought infor-
mation concerning the cause of this dangerous attack, and learnt
from his son what had transpired in the pine grove near La
Reche.
"Are you sure," asked the baron, when Maurice had finished
his narrative, "are you sure that you correctly understood
Marie-Anne's reply? Did she really tell you that even if her
father gave his consent to your marriage she would refuse
hers?"
"Those were her very words."
"And still she loves you?"
"I am sure of it."
"You were not mistaken in M. Lacheneur's tone when he
said to you : 'Be off, you young wretch ! do you want to render
all my precautions useless?"
"No."
M. d'Escorval sat for a moment in silence. "This passes com-
prehension," he murmured at last. And then so low that his
son could not hear him, he added: "I will see Lacheneur
to-morrow : this mystery must be explained."
340
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
'T'HE cottage where M. Lacheneur had taken refuge stood
* on a hill overlooking the river. It was a small and
humble dwelling, though scarcely so miserable in its aspect
and appointments as most of the peasant abodes round about.
It comprised a single story divided into three rooms and
roofed with thatch. In front was a tiny garden, where a vine
straggling over the walls of the house, a few fruit trees, and
some withered vegetables just managed to exist. Small as was
this garden patch, and limited as was its production, still Lache-
neur's aunt, to whom the dwelling had formerly belonged, had
only succeeded in conquering the natural sterility of the soil
after long years of patient perseverance. Day after day, during
a lengthy period, she had regularly spread in front of the cot-
tage three or four basketfuls of arable soil brought from a
couple of miles distant ; and though she had been dead for more
than a twelvemonth, one could still detect a narrow pathway
across the waste, worn by her patient feet in the performance
of this daily task.
This was the path which M. d'Escorval, faithful to his reso-
lution, took the following day, in the hope of obtaining from
Marie-Anne's father some explanation of his singular conduct.
The baron was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he failed
to realize the excessive heat as he climbed the rough hillside in
the full glare of the noonday sun. When he reached the sum-
mit, however, he paused to take breath ; and while wiping the
perspiration from his brow, turned to look back on the valley
whence he had come. It was the first time he had visited
the spot, and he was surprised at the extent of the landscape
offered to his view. From this point, the most elevated in the
surrounding country, one can survey the course of the Oiselle
for many miles ; and in the distance a glimpse may be obtained
of the ancient citadel of Montaignac, perched on an almost in-
accessible rock. A man in the baron's mood could, however,
take but little interest in the picturesqueness of the scenery,
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 341
though, when he turned his back to the valley and prepared
to resume his walk, he was certainly struck by the aspect of
Lacheneur's new abode. His imagination pictured the suffer-
ings of this unfortunate man, who, only two days before, had
relinquished the splendors of the Chateau du Sairmeuse to
resume the peasant life of his early youth
"Come in !" cried a female voice when M. d'Escorval rapped
at the door of the cottage. He lifted the latch, and entered
a small room with whitewashed walls, having no other ceiling
than the thatched roof, and no other flooring than the bare
ground. A table with a wooden bench on either side stood
in the middle of this humble chamber, in one corner of which
was an old bedstead. On a stool near the narrow casement
sat Marie-Anne, working at a piece of embroidery, and clad in
a peasant girl's usual garb.
At the sight of M. d'Escorval, she rose to her feet, and for
a moment they remained standing in front of one another, she
apparently calm, he visibly agitated. Lacheneur's daughter was
paler than usual, she seemed even thinner, but there was a
strange, touching charm about her person ; the consciousness
of duty nobly fulfilled, of resignation calling for accomplish-
ment, lending, as it were, a new radiance to her beauty.
Remembering his son, M. d'Escorval was surprised at Marie-
Anne's tranquillity.
"You don't inquire after Maurice," he said, with a touch of
reproachfulness in his voice.
"I had news of him this morning, as I have had every day,"
quietly replied Marie-Anne. "I know that he is getting better,
and that he was able to take some food yesterday."
"You have not forgotten him, then?"
She trembled; a faint blush suffused her cheeks and fore-
head, but it was in a calm voice that she replied : "Maurice
knows that it would be impossible for me to forget him, even
if I wished to do so."
"And yet you told him that you approved your father's
decision !"
"Yes, I told him so ; and I shall have the courage to repeat it."
"But you have made Maurice most wretched and unhappy,
my dear child ; he almost died of grief."
She raised her head proudly, looked M. d'Escorval fully in
the face and answered: "Do you think, then, that I haven't
suffered myself?"
342 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
M. d'Escorval was nbashed for a moment : but speedily recov-
ering himself, he took hold of Marie-Anne's hand and, press-
ing it affectionately, exclaimed: "So Maurice loves you, and
you love him; you are both suffering: he has nearly died of
grief and still you reject him !"
"It must be so, sir."
"You say this, my dear child — you say this, and you un-
doubtedly believe it. But I, who have sought to discover the
necessity of this immense sacrifice, have quite failed to find any
plausible reason. Explain to me why it must be so, Marie-
Anne. Have you no confidence in me ? Am I not an old
friend? It may be that your father in his despair has adopted
extreme resolutions. Let me know them, and we will conquer
them together. Lacheneur knows how deeply I am attached
to him. I will speak to him : he will listen to me."
"I can tell you nothing, sir."
"What ! you remain inflexible when a father entreats you to
assist him, when he says to you : 'Marie- Anne, you hold my
son's happiness, life, and reason in your hands. Can you be
so cruel — ' "
"Ah ! it is you who are cruel, sir," answered Marie-Anne
with tears glittering in her eyes ; "it is you who are without
pity. Can not you see what I suffer? No, I have nothing to
tell you ; there is nothing you can say to my father. Why try
to unnerve me when I require all my courage to struggle against
my despair? Maurice must forget me; he must never see me
again. This is fate ; and he must not fight against it. It would
be folly. Beseech him to leave the country, and if he refuses,
you, who are his father, must command him to do so. And you,
too, in heaven's name fly from us. We shall bring misfortune
upon you. Never return here ; our house is accursed. The fate
that overshadows us may ruin you as well."
She spoke almost wildly, and her voice was so loud that it
reached an adjoining room, the door of which suddenly opened,
M. Lacheneur appearing upon the threshold.
At the sight of M. d'Escorval the whilom lord of Sairmeuse
could not restrain an oath ; but there was more sorrow and
anxiety than anger in his manner as he said, "What, you
here, baron ?"
The consternation into which Marie-Anne's words had thrown
M. d'Escorval was so intense that he could only just manage
to stammer a reply. "You have abandoned us entirely; I was
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 343
anxious about you. Have you forgotten your old friendship?
I come to you — "
"Why did you not inform me of the honor that the baron
had done me, Marie-Anne?" said Lacheneur sternly.
She tried to speak, but could not ; and it was the baron who
replied: "Why, I have but just arrived, my dear friend."
M. Lacheneur looked suspiciously, first at his daughter and
then at the baron. His brow was overcast as he was evidently
wondering what M. d'Escorval and Marie-Anne had said to
each other while they were alone. Still, however great his dis-
quietude may have been, he seemed to master it ; and it was with
his old-time affability of manner that he invited M. d'Escorval
to follow him into the adjoining room. "It is my reception-
room and study combined," he said smilingly.
This room, although much larger than the first, was, how-
ever, quite as scantily furnished, but piled up on the floor and
table were a number of books and packages, which two men
were busy sorting and arranging. One of these men was
Chanlouineau, whom M. d'Escorval at once recognized, though
he did not remember having ever seen the other one, a young
fellow of twenty or thereabouts. With the latter's identity he
was, however, soon made acquainted.
"This is my son,. Jean," said Lacheneur. "He has changed
since you last saw him ten years ago."
It was true. Fully ten years had elapsed since the baron
last saw Lacheneur's son. How time flies ! He had known
Jean as a boy, and he now found him a man. Young Lache-
neur was just in his twenty-first year, but with his haggard
features and precocious beard he looked somewhat older. He
was tall and well built, and his face indicated more than aver-
age intelligence. Still he did not convey a favorable impres-
sion. His restless eyes betokened a prying curiosity of mind,
and his smile betrayed an unusual degree of shrewdness,
amounting almost to cunning. He made a deep bow when
his father introduced him ; but he was evidently out of temper.
"Having no longer the means to keep Jean in Paris," resumed
M. Lacheneur, "I have made him return as you see. My ruin
will, perhaps, prove a blessing to him. The air of great cities
is not good for a peasant's son. Fools that we are, we send
our children to Paris that they may learn to rise above their
fathers. But they do nothing of the kind. They think only of
degrading themselves."
344 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
"Father," interrupted the young man; '"ather, wait at least
until we are alone !"
"M. d'Escorval is not a stranger," retorted M. Lacheneur,
and then turning again to the baron, he continued: "I mu9t
have wearied you by telling you again and again : 'I am
pleased with my son. He has a commendable ambition; he is
working faithfully and is bound to succeed !' Ah ! I was a
poor foolish father ! The friend whom I commissioned to call
on Jean and tell him to return here has enlightened me as to
the truth. The model young man you see here only left the
gaming-house to run to some public ball. He was in love with
a wretched little ballet girl at some low theatre; and to please
this creature he also went on the stage with his face painted
red and white."
"It's not a crime to appear on the stage," interrupted Jean
with a flushed face.
"No; but it is a crime to deceive one's father and to affect
virtues one doesn't possess! Have I ever refused you money?
No; and yet you have got into debt on all sides. You owe at
least twenty thousand francs !"
Jean hung his head; he was evidently angry, but he feared
his father.
"Twenty thousand francs !" repeated M. -Lacheneur. "I had
them a fortnight ago; now I haven't a sou. I can only hope
to obtain this sum through the generosity of the Due or the
Marquis de Sairmeuse."
The baron uttered an exclamation of surprise. He only knew
of the scene at the parsonage and believed that there would
be no further connection between Lacheneur and the duke's
family. Lacheneur perceived M. d'Escorval's amazement, and
it was with every token of sincerity and good faith that he
resumed :
"What I say astonishes you. Ah! I understand why. My
anger at first led me to indulge in all sorts of absurd threats.
Rut I am calm now, and realize my injustice. What could I
expect the duke to do? To make me a present of Sairmeuse?
He was a trifle brusk, I confess, but that is his way; at heart
he is the best of men."
"Have you seen him again ?"
"No ; but I have seen his son. I have even been with him
to the chateau to select the articles which I desire to keep. Oh !
he refused me nothing. Everything was placed at my disposal
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 346
— everything. I selected what I wanted, furniture, clothes,
linen. Everything is to be brought here ; and I shall be quite
a great man."
"Why not seek another house? This — "
"This pleases me. Its situation suits me perfectly."
In fact, after all, thought M. d'Escorval why should not the
Sairmeuses have regretted their odious conduct? And if they
had done so might not Lacheneur, in spite of indignation, agree
to accept honorable conditions ?
"To say that the marquis has been kind is saying too little,"
continued Lacheneur. "He has shown us the most delicate at-
tentions. For example, having noticed how much Marie-Anne
regrets the loss of her flowers, he has promised to send her
plants to stock our small garden, and they will be renewed
every month."
Like all passionate men, M. Lacheneur overdid his part. This
last remark was too much ; it awakened a terrible suspicion
in M. d'Escorval's mind. "Good heavens !" he thought, "does
this wretched man meditate some crime?" He glanced at
Chanlouineau, and his anxiety increased, for on hearing Lache-
neur speak of the marquis and Marie-Anne, the stalwart young
farmer had turned livid.
"It is decided," resumed Lacheneur with an air of unbounded
satisfaction, "that they will give me the ten thousand francs
bequeathed to me by Mademoiselle Armande. Moreover, I am
to fix upon such a sum as I consider a just recompense for my
services. And that is not all : they have offered me the position
of manager at Sairmeuse; and I was to be allowed to occupy
the gamekeeper's cottage, where I lived so long. But on reflec-
tion I refused this offer. After having enjoyed a fortune which
did not belong to me during so many years, I am now anxious
to amass a fortune of my own."
"Would it be indiscreet in me to inquire what vou intend
to do?"
"Not the least in the world. I am going to turn pedler."
M. d'Escorval could not believe his ears. "Pedler?" he
repeated.
"Yes, M. le Baron. Look, there is my pack in that corner."
"But that's absurd," exclaimed M. d'Escorval. "People can
scarcely earn their daily bread in this way!"
"You are wrong, sir. I have considered the subject care-
fully; the profits are thirty per cent. And besides, there will
346 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
be three of us to sell the goods, for I shall confide one pack
to my son, and another to Chanlouineau."
"What ! Chanlouineau ?"
"He has become my partner in the enterprise."
"And his farm — who will take care of that?"
"He will employ day laborers." And then, as if wishing to
make M. d'Escorval understand that his visit had lasted quite
long enough, Lacheneur began arranging such of the little
packages as were intended for his own pack.
But the baron was not to be got rid of so easily, especially
now that his suspicions had almost ripened into certainty. "I
must speak with you alone," he said in a curt tone.
M. Lacheneur turned round. "I am very busy," he replied
with evident reluctance of manner.
"I only ask for five minutes. But if you haven't the time to
spare to-day, I can return to-morrow — the day after to-morrow
— or any day when I can see you in private."
Lacheneur saw plainly that it would be impossible to escape
this interview, so with a gesture of a man who resigns himself
to a necessity, he bade his son and Chanlouineau withdraw.
They left the room, and as soon as the door had closed behind
them, Lacheneur exclaimed : "I know very well, M. le Baron,
the arguments you intend to advance; and the reason of your
coming. You come to ask me again for Marie-Anne. I know
that my refusal has nearly killed Maurice. Believe me, I have
suffered cruelly at the thought; but my refusal is none the less
irrevocable. There is no power in the world capable of chang-
ing my resolution. Don't ask my motives ; I can not reveal
them ; but rest assured that they are sufficiently weighty."
"Are we not your friends?" asked M. d'Escorval.
"You — !" exclaimed Lacheneur with affectionate cordiality —
"ah ! you know it well ! — you are the best, the only friends I
have here below. I should be the greatest wretch living if I
did not retain the recollection of your kindness until my eyes
close in death. Yes, you are my friends, yes, I am devoted to
you — and it is for that very reason that I answer your pro-
posals with no, no, never !"
There was no longer any room for doubt. M. d'Escorval
seized Lacheneur's hands, and almost crushing them in his
grasp, "Unfortunate man !" he exclaimed, "what do you intend
to do? Of what terrible vengeance are you dreaming?"
"I swear to you — "
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 847
"Oh ! do not swear. You can not deceive a man of my age
and of my experience. I divine your intentions — you hate the
Sairmeuse family more mortally than ever."
"Yes, you ; and if you pretend to forget the way they treated
you, it is only that they may forget it. These people have
offended you too cruelly not to fear you ; you understand this,
and you are doing all in your power to reassure them. You
accept their advances — you kneel before them — why ? Because
they will be more completely in your power when you have
lulled their suspicions to rest ; and then you can strike them
more surely — "
He paused; the door of the front room opened, and Marie-
Anne appeared upon the threshold. "Father." said she, "here
is the Marquis de Sairmeuse."
The mention of this name at such a juncture was so
ominously significant that M. d'Escorval could not restrain a
gesture of surprise and fear. "He dares to come here !" he
thought. "What, is he not afraid the very walls will fall and
crush him?"
M. Lacheneur cast a withering glance at his daughter. He
suspected her of a ruse which might force him to reveal his
secret ; and for a second his features were distorted by a fit
of passionate rage. By an effort, however, he succeeded in
regaining his composure. He sprang to the door, pushed Marie-
Anne aside, and, leaning out, exclaimed : "Deign to excuse me,
M. le Marquis, if I take the liberty of asking you to wait a
moment; I am just finishing some business, and I will be with
you in a few minutes."
Neither agitation nor anger could be detected in his voice ;
but rather, a respectful deference and a feeling of profound
gratitude. Having spoken in this fashion, he closed the door
again and turned to M. d'Escorval. The baron, still standing
with folded arms, had witnessed this scene with the air of a
man who distrusts the evidence of his own senses ; and yet he
understood the meaning of the incident only too well. "So
this young man comes here?" he said to Lacheneur.
"Almost every dav — not at this hour usually, but a trifle
later."
"And you receive him? you welcome him?"
"Certainly. How can I be insensible to the honor he confers
upon me? Moreover, we have subjects of mutual interest to
348 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
discuss. We are now occupied in legalizing the restitution of
Sairmeuse. I can also give him much useful information, and
many hints regarding the management of the property."
"And do you expect to make me, your old friend, believe that
a man of your superior intelligence is deceived by the excuses
the marquis makes for these frequent visits ? Look me in the
eye, and then tell me, if you dare, that you believe these visits
are addressed to you !"
Lacheneur's glance did not waver. "To whom else could
they be addressed?" he inquired.
This obstinate serenity disappointed the baron's expectations.
He could not have received a heavier blow. "Take care, Lache-
neur," he said sternly. "Think of the situation in which you
place your daughter, between Chanlouineau, who wishes to
make her his wife, and M. de Sairmeuse, who hopes to make
her—"
"Who hopes to make her his mistress — is that what you mean ?
Oh, say the word. But what does that matter? I am sure of
Marie-Anne."
M. d'Escorval shuddered. "In other words," said he, in
bitter indignation, "you make your daughter's honor and repu-
tation your stake in the game you are playing."
This was too much. Lacheneur could restrain his furious
passion no longer. "Well, yes !" he exclaimed, with a fright-
ful oath ; "yes, you have spoken the truth. Marie-Anne must
be, and will be, the instrument of my plans. A man in my
situation is free from the considerations by which others are
guided. Fortune, friends, life, honor — I have been forced to
sacrifice everything. Perish my daughter's virtue — perish my
daughter herself — what do they signify if I can but succeed?"
Never had M. d'Escorval seen Lacheneur so excited. His
eyes flashed, and as he spoke, he shook his clenched fist wildly in
the air, as though he were threatening some miserable enemy.
"So you admit it." exclaimed M. d'Escorval ; "you admit that
you propose revenging yourself on the Sairmeuse family, and
that Chanlouineau is to be your accomplice?"
"I admit nothing," Lacheneur replied. "Let me reassure
you." Then raising his hand as if to take an oath, he added
in a solemn voice : "Before God, who hears my word, by all
that I hold sacred in this workl, by the memory of the wife I
loved and whom I mourn to-day, I swear to you, that I am
plotting nothing against the Sairmeuse family; that I have no
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 349
thought of touching a hair of their heads. I use them only
because they are absolutely indispensable to me. They will aid
me without injuring themselves."
For a moment the baron remained silent. He was evidently
trying to reconcile Lacheneur's conflicting utterances. "How
can one believe this assurance after your previous avowal ?" he
inquired.
"Oh, you may refuse to believe me if you choose," rejoined
Lacheneur, who had now regained all his self-possession. "But
whether you believe me or not, I must decline to speak any
further on the subject. I have said too much already. I know
that your visit and your questions have been solely prompted
by your friendship, and I can not help feeling both proud and
grateful. Still I can tell you no more. The events of the last
few days demand that we should separate. Our paths in life
lie far apart, and I can only say to you what I said yesterday
to the Abbe Midon. If you are my friend never come here
again under any pretext whatever. Even if you hear I am
dying, do not come, and should you meet me, turn aside, shun
me as you would some deadly pestilence."
Lacheneur paused, as if expecting some further observation
from the baron, but the latter remained silent, reflecting that the
words he had just heard were substantially a repetition of what
Marie- Anne had previously told him.
"There is still a wiser course you might pursue," resumed
the ex-lord of Sairmeuse, after a brief interval. "Here in the
district there is but little chance of your son's sorrow soon
subsiding. Turn which way he will — alas, I know myself that
even the very trees and flowers will remind him of a happier
time. So leave this neighborhood, take him with you, and go
far away."
. "Ah ! how can I do that when Fouche has virtually impris-
oned me here !"
"All the more reason why you should listen to my advice.
You were one of the emperor's friends, hence you are regarded
with suspicion. You are surrounded by spies, and your enemies
are watching for an opportunity to ruin you. They would seize
on the slightest pretext to throw you into prison — a letter, a
word, an act capable of misconstruction. The frontier is not
far off; so I repeat, go and wait in a foreign land for happier
times."
"That I will never do," said M. d'Escorval proudly, his
350 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
words and accent showing plainly enough how futile further
discussion would be.
"Ah ! you are like the Abbe Midon," sadly rejoined Lache-
neur; "you won't believe me. Who knows how much your
coming here this morning may cost you? It is said that no
one can escape his destiny. But if some day the executioner
lays his hand on your shoulder, remember that I warned you,
and don't curse me for what may happen."
Lacheneur paused once more, and seeing that even this sinister
prophecy produced no impression on the baron, he pressed his
hand as if to bid him an eternal farewell, and opened the door
to admit the Marquis de Sairmeuse. Martial was, perhaps,
annoyed at meeting M. d'Escorval; but he nevertheless bowed
with studied politeness, and began a lively conversation with
M. Lacheneur, telling him that the articles he had selected at
the chateau were at that moment on their way.
M. d'Escorval could do no more. It was quite impossible
for him to speak with Marie-Anne, over whom Chanlouineau
and Jean were both jealously mounting guard. Accordingly,
he reluctantly took his leave, and oppressed by cruel forebod-
ings, slowly descended the hill which he had climbed an hour
before so full of hope.
What should he say to Maurice? He was revolving this
query in his mind and had just reached the little pine grove
skirting the waste, when the sound of hurried footsteps behind
induced him to look back. Perceiving to his great surprise
that the young Marquis de Sairmeuse was approaching and
motioning him to stop, the baron paused, wondering what Mar-
tial could possibly want of him.
The latter's features wore a most ingenuous air, as he hastily
raised his hat and exclaimed : "I hope, sir, that you will excuse
me for having followed you when you hear what I have to say.
I do not belong to your party and our doctrines and preferences
are very different. Still I have none of your enemies' passion
and malice. For this reason I tell you that if I were in your
place I would take a journey abroad. The frontier is but a
few miles off; a good horse, a short gallop, and you have
crossed it. A word to the wise is — salvation !"
Having thus spoken and without waiting for any reply, Mar-
tial abruptly turned and retraced his steps.
"One might suppose there was a conspiracy to drive me
away !" murmured M. d'Escorval in his amazement. "But I
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 351
have good reason to distrust this young man's disinterested-
ness. The young marquis was already far off. Had he been
less preoccupied, he would have perceived two figures in the
grove — Mademoiselle Blanche de Courtornieu, followed by the
inevitable Aunt Medea, had come to play the spy.
' I 'HE Marquis de Courtornieu idolized his daughter. This
* was alike an incontestable and an uncontested fact. When
people spoke to him concerning the young lady they invariably
exclaimed : "You who adore your daughter — " And in a like
manner whenever the marquis spoke of her himself, he always
contrived to say: "I who adore Blanche." -In point of fact,
however, he would have given a good deal, even a third of his
fortune, to get rid of this smiling, seemingly artless girl, who,
despite her apparent simplicity, had proved more than a match
for him with all his diplomatic experience. Her fancies were
legion, and however capricious they chanced to be it was use-
less to resist them. At one time he had hoped to ward his
daughter off by inviting Aunt Medea to come and live at the
chateau, but the weak-minded spinster had proved a most fragile
barrier, and soon Blanche had returned to the charge more
audacious and capricious than ever. Sometimes the marquis
revolted, but nine times out of ten he paid dearly for his
attempts at rebellion. When Blanche turned her cold, steel-
like eyes upon him with a certain peculiar expression, his
courage evaporated. Her weapon was irony ; and knowing his
weak points she dealt her blows with wonderful precision.
Such being the position of affairs, it is easy to understand
how devoutly M. de Courtornieu prayed and hoped that some
eligible young aristocrat would ask for his daughter's hand,
and thus free him from bondage. He had announced on every
side that he intended to give her a dowry of a million francs,
a declaration which had brought a host of eager suitors to
Courtornieu. But, unfortunately, though many of these wooers
would have suited the marquis well enough, not one had been
5 — Vol. II — Gab.
362 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
so fortunate as to please the capricious Blanche. Her father
presented a candidate; she received him graciously, lavished
all her charms upon him; but as soon as his back was turned,
she disappointed all her father's hopes by rejecting him. "He
is too short, or too tall. His rank is not equal to ours. He
is a fool — his nose is so ugly." Such were the reasons she
would give for her refusal; and from these summary decisions
there was no appeal. Arguments and persuasions were alike
useless. The condemned man had only to take himself off and
be forgotten.
Still, as this inspection of would-be husbands amused the
capricious Blanche, she encouraged her father in his efforts to
find a suitor. Despite all his perseverance^ however, to please
her, the poor marquis was beginning to despair, when fate
dropped the Due de Sairmeuse and his son at his very door.
At sight of Martial he had a presentiment that the rara avis
he was seeking was found at last ; and believing it best to strike
the iron while it was hot, he broached the subject to the duke
on the morrow of their first meeting. M. de Courtornieu's over-
tures were favorably received, and the matter was soon decided.
Indeed, having the desire to transform Sairmeuse into a prin-
cipality, the duke could not fail to be delighted with an alli-
ance with one of the oldest and wealthiest families in the neigh-
borhood. "Martial, my son," he said, "possesses in his own
right an income of at least six hundred thousand francs."
"I shall give my daughter a dowry of at least — yes, at least
fifteen hundred thousand," replied M. de Courtornieu.
"His majesty is favorably disposed toward me," resumed
his grace. "I can obtain any important diplomatic position
for Martial."
"In case of trouble," was the retort, "I have many friends
among the opposition."
The treaty was thus concluded; but M. de Courtornieu took
good care not to speak of it to his daughter. If he told her
how much he desired the match, she would be sure to oppose
it. Non-intervention accordingly seemed advisable. The cor-
rectness of his policy was soon fully demonstrated. One morn-
ing Blanche entered her father's study and peremptorily declared :
"Your capricious daughter has decided, papa, that she would like
to become the Marquise de Sairmeuse."
It cost M. de Courtornieu quite an effort to conceal his de-
light; but he feared that if Blanche discovered his satisfaction
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 353
the game would be lost. Accordingly, he presented several
objections, which were quickly disposed of; and, at last, he
ventured to opine : "Then the marriage is half decided, as one
of the parties consents. It only remains to ascertain if — "
"The other will consent," retorted the vain heiress; who, it
should be remarked, had for several days previously been
assiduously engaged in the agreeable task of fascinating Mar-
tial and bringing him to her feet. With a skilful affectation
of simplicity and frankness, she had allowed the young marquis
to perceive that she enjoyed his society, and without being ab-
solutely forward she had made him evident advances. Now,
however, the time had come to beat a retreat — a maneuvre
so successfully practised by coquettes, and which usually suf-
fices to enslave even a hesitating suitor. Hitherto, Blanche
had been gay, spirituelle, and coquettish ; now she gradually
grew quiet and reserved. The giddy schoolgirl had given
place to a shrinking maiden ; and it was with rare perfection
that she played her part in the divine comedy of "first love."
Martial could not fail to be fascinated by the modest timidity
and chaste fears of a virgin heart now awaking under his in-
fluence to a consciousness of the tender passion. Whenever
he made his appearance Blanche blushed and remained silent.
Directly he spoke she grew confused ; and he could only occa-
sionally catch a glimpse of her beautiful eyes behind the shel-
ter of their long lashes. Who could have taught her this
refinement of coquetry? Strange as it may seem, she had ac-
quired her acquaintance with all the artifices of love during
her convent education.
One thing she had not learned, however, that clever as one
may be, one is ofttimes duped by one's own imagination. Great
actresses so enter into the spirit of their part that they fre-
quently end by shedding real tears. This knowledge came to
Blanche one evening when a bantering remark from the Due
de Sairmeuse apprised her of the fact that Martial was in the
habit of going to Lacheneur's house every day. She had pre-
viously been annoyed at the young marquis's admiration of
Marie-Anne, but now she experienced a feeling of real jeal-
ousy ; and her sufferings were so intolerable that, fearing she
might reveal them, she hurriedly left the drawing-room and
hastened to her own room.
"Can it be that he does not love me ?" she murmured. She
shivered at the thought ; and for the first time in her life this
354 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
haughty heiress distrusted her own power. She reflected that
Martial's position was so exalted that he could afford to despise
rank; that he was so rich that wealth had no attractions for
him ; and that she herself might not be so pretty and so charm-
ing as her flatterers had led her to suppose. Still Martial's
conduct during the past week — and heaven knows with what
fidelity her memory recalled each incident ! — was well calculated
to reassure her. He had not, it is true, formally declared him-
self; but it was evident that he was paying his addresses to
her. His manner was that of the most respectful, but the most
infatuated, of lovers.
Her reflections were interrupted by the entrance of her maid
bringing a large bouquet of roses which Martial had just sent.
She took the flowers, and, while arranging them in a vase,
bedewed them with the first sincere tears she had shed since
she was a child.
She was so pale and sad, so unlike herself when she appeared
the next morning at breakfast, that Aunt Medea felt alarmed.
But Blanche had prepared an excuse, which she presented in
such sweet tones that the old lady was as much amazed as
if she had witnessed a miracle. M. de Courtornieu was no less
astonished, and wondered what new freak it was that his
daughter's doleful face betokened. He was still more alarmed
when immediately after breakfast Blanche asked to speak with
him.
She followed him into his study, and as soon as they were
alone, before he had even had time to sit down, she entreated
him to tell her what had passed between the Due de Sairmeuse
and himself; she wished to know if Martial had been informed
of the intended alliance, and what he had replied. Her voice
was meek, her eyes tearful ; and her manner indicated the most
intense anxiety.
The marquis was delighted. "My wilful daughter has been
playing with fire," he thought, stroking his chin caressingly ;
"and upon my word she has scorched herself." Then with a
smile on his face he added aloud: "Yesterday, my child, the
Due de Sairmeuse formally asked for your hand on his son's
behalf; and your consent is all that is lacking. So rest easy,
my beautiful lovelorn damsel — you will be a duchess."
She hid her face in her hands to conceal her blushes. "You
know my decision, father," she faltered in an almost inaudible
voice ; "we must make haste."
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 355
He started back, thinking he had not heard her words aright.
"Make haste !" he repeated.
"Yes, father. I have fears."
"What fears, in heaven's name?"
"I will tell you when everything is settled," she replied, at
the same time making her escape from the room.
She did not doubt the reports which had reached her con-
cerning Martial's frequent visits to Marie-Anne, still she wished
to ascertain the truth for herself. Accordingly, on leaving her
father, she told Aunt Medea to dress herself, and without vouch-
safing a single word of explanation, took her with her to the
Reche and stationed herself in the pine grove, so as to command
a view of M. Lacheneur's cottage.
It chanced to be the very day when M. d'Escorval called on
Marie-Anne's father, in hopes of obtaining some definite ex-
planation of his conduct. Blanche saw the baron climb the
slope, and shortly afterward Martial followed the same route.
She had been rightly informed ; there was no room for further
doubt, and her first impulse was to return home. But on re-
flection she resolved to wait and ascertain how long the mar-
quis remained with this girl she hated. M. d'Escorval's visit
was a brief one, and scarcely had he left the cottage than she
saw Martial hasten out after him, and speak to him. She
breathed again.
The marquis had only made a brief call, perhaps on some
matter of business, and no doubt, like M. d'Escorval. he was
now going home again. Not at all, however; after a moment's
conversation with the baron, Martial returned to the cottage.
"What are we doing here?" asked Aunt Medea.
"Let me alone ! hold your tongue !" angrily replied Blanche,
whose attention had just been attracted by a rumble of wheels,
a tramp of horse's hoofs, a loud cracking of whips, and a brisk
exchange of oaths, such as wagoners in a difficulty usually
resort to.
All this racket heralded the approach of the vehicles con-
veying M. Lacheneur's furniture and clothes. The noise must
have reached the cottage on the slope, for Martial speedily
appeared on the threshold, followed by Lacheneur, Jean, Chan-
louineau, and Marie-Anne. Every one was soon busy unloading
the wagons, and, judging from the young marquis's gestures
and manner, it seemed as if he were directing the operation.
He was certainly bestirring himself immensely. Hurrying to
866 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
and fro, talking to everybody, and at times not even disdaining
to lend a hand.
"He, a nobleman makes himself at home in that wretched
hovel !" quoth Blanche to herself. "How horrible ! Ah ! I see
only too well that this dangerous creature can do what she
likes with him."
All this, however, was nothing compared with what was to
come. A third cart drawn by a single horse, and laden with
shrubs and pots of flowers, soon halted in front of the cottage.
At this sight Blanche was positively enraged. "Flowers !" she
exclaimed, in a voice hoarse with passion. "He sends her
flowers, as he does me — only he sends me a bouquet, while for
her he pillages the gardens of Sairmeuse."
"What are you saying about flowers?" inquired the impov-
erished relative.
Blanche curtly rejoined that she had not made the slightest
allusion to flowers. She was suffocating; and yet she obsti-
nately refused to leave the grove and go home as Aunt Medea
repeatedly suggested. No; she must see the finish, and although
a couple of hours were spent in unloading the furniture, still
she lingered, with her eyes fixed on the cottage and its sur-
roundings. Some time after the empty wagons had gone off,
Martial reappeared on the threshold ; Marie-Anne was with him,
and they remained talking, in full view of the grove where
Blanche and her chaperone were concealed. For a long while
it seemed as if the young marquis could not promptly make up
his mind to leave, and, when he did so, it was with evident
reluctance that he slowly walked away. Marie-Anne still
standing on the doorstep waved her hand after him with a
friendly gesture of farewell.
The young marquis was scarcely out of sight when Blanche
turned to her aunt and hurriedly exclaimed : "I must speak
to that creature ; come quick !" Had Marie-Anne been within
speaking distance at that moment, she would certainly have
learned the cause of her former friend's anger and hatred.
But fate willed it otherwise. Three hundred yards of rough
ground intervened between the two; and in crossing this space
Blanche had time enough to reflect.
She soon bitterly regretted having shown herself at all. But
Marie-Anne, who was still standing on the threshold of the
cottage, had seen her approaching, and it was consequently
quite impossible to retreat. She accordingly utilized the few
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 357
moments still at her disposal in recovering her self-control and
composing her features ; and she had her sweetest smile on her
lips when she greeted the girl whom she had styled "that crea-
ture" only a few minutes previously. Still she was embar-
rassed, scarcely knowing what excuse to give for her visit,
hence, with the view of gaining time, she pretended to be quite
out of breath. "Ah ! it is not very easy to reach you, dear
Marie-Anne," she said at last ; "you live on the top of a perfect
mountain."
Mademoiselle Lacheneur did not reply. She was greatly sur-
prised, and did not attempt to conceal the fact.
"Aunt Medea pretended to know the road," continued Blanche ;
"but she led me astray. Didn't you, aunt?"
As usual the impecunious relative assented, and her niece
resumed: "But at last we are here. I couldn't resign myself
to hearing nothing about you, my dear, especially after all your
misfortunes. What have you been doing? Did my recom-
mendation procure you the work you wanted?"
Marie-Anne was deeply touched by the kindly interest which
her former friend displayed in her welfare, and with perfect
frankness she confessed that all her efforts had been fruitless.
It had even seemed to her that several ladies had taken pleas-
ure in treating her unkindly.
Blanche was not listening, however. Close by stood the
flowers brought from Sairmeuse ; and their perfume rekindled
her anger. "At all events," she interrupted, "you have some-
thing here which will almost make you forget the gardens of
Sairmeuse. Who sent you those beautiful flowers?"
Marie-Anne turned crimson. For a moment she did not
speak, but at last she stammered : "They are a mark of atten-
tion from the Marquis de Sairmeuse."
"So she confesses it !" thought Mademoiselle de Courtornieu,
amazed at what she was pleased to consider an outrageous
piece of impudence. But she succeeded in concealing her rage
beneath a loud burst of laughter ; and it was in a tone of rail-
lery that she rejoined : "Take care, my dear friend, I am going
to call you to account. You are accepting flowers from my
fiance.''
"What, the Marquis de Sairmeuse!"
"Yes, he has asked for my hand ; and my father has promised
it to him. It is a secret as yet; but I see no danger in confiding
in your friendship."
358 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
Blanche really believed that this information would crush
her rival ; but though she watched her closely, she failed to
detect the slightest trace of emotion in her face. "What dis-
simulation !" thought the heiress, and then with affected gaiety,
she resumed aloud: "And the country folks will see two wed-
dings at about the same time, since you are going to be
married as well, my dear."
"I married?"
"Yes, you — you little deceiver ! Everybody knows that you
are engaged to a young man in the neighborhood, named — wait,
I know — Chanlouineau."
Thus the report which annoyed Marie-Anne so much reached
her from every side. "Everybody is for once mistaken," she
replied energetically. "I shall never be that young man's
wife."
"But why ? People speak well of him personally, and he is
very well off."
"Because," faltered Marie-Anne; "because — " Maurice
d'Escorval's name trembled on her lips ; but unfortunately she
did not give it utterance. She was as it were abashed by a
strange expression on Blanche's face. How often one's destiny
depends on such an apparently trivial circumstance as this !
"What an impudent, worthless creature!" thought Blanche;
and then in cold, sneering tones that unmistakably betrayed her
hatred, she said: "You are wrong, believe me, to refuse such
an offer. This young fellow Chanlouineau will at all events
save you from the painful necessity of toiling with your own
hands, and of going from door to door in quest of work which
is refused you. But no matter; /" — she laid great stress upon
this word — "/ will be more generous than your other old
acquaintances. I have a great deal of embroidery to be done.
I shall send it to you by my maid, and you two may settle the
price together. It's late now, and we must go. Good-by, my
dear. Come, Aunt Medea."
So saying, the haughty heiress turned away, leaving Marie-
Anne petrified with surprise, sorrow, and indignation. Although
less experienced than Blanche, she understood well enough that
this strange visit concealed some mystery — but what? She
stood motionless, gazing after her departing visitors, when she
felt a hand laid gently on her shoulder. She trembled, and
turning quickly found herself face to face with her father.
Lacheneur was intensely pale and agitated, and a sinister
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 359
light glittered in his eyes. "I was there," said he, pointing to
the door, "and I heard everything."
"Father !"
"What ! would you try to defend her after she came here
to crush you with her insolent good fortune — after she over-
whelmed you with her ironical pity and scorn ! I tell you they
are all like this — these girls, whose heads have been turned by
flattery, and who believe that the blood in their veins is different
to ours. But patience ! The day of reckoning is near at hand !"
He paused. Those whom he threatened would have trembled
had they seen him at that moment, so plain it was that he
harbored in his mind some terrible design of retributive venge-
ance.
"And you, my darling, my poor Marie-Anne," he continued,
"you did not understand the insults she heaped upon you. You
are wondering why she treated you with such disdain. Ah,
well ! I will tell you : she imagines that the Marquis de Sair-
meuse is your lover."
Marie-Anne turned as pale as her father, and quivered from
head to foot. "Can it be possible?" she exclaimed. "Great
God! what shame! what humiliation!"
"Why should it astonish you?" said Lacheneur, coldly.
"Haven't you expected this result ever since the day when,
to ensure the success of my plans, you consented to receive the
attentions of this marquis, whom you loathe as much as I
despise?"
"But Maurice ! Maurice will despise me ! I can bear any-
thing, yes, everything but that."
Lacheneur made no reply. Marie-Anne's despair was heart-
rending; he felt that he could not bear to witness it, that it
would shake his resolution, and accordingly he reentered the
house.
His penetration was not at fault, in surmising that Blanche's
visit would lead to something new, for biding the time when
she might fully revenge herself in a way worthy of her hatred,
Mademoiselle de Courtornieu availed herself of a favorite
weapon among the jealous — calumny — and two or three abomi-
nable stories which she concocted, and which she induced Aunt
Medea to circulate in the neighborhood, virtually ruined Marie-
Anne's reputation.
These scandalous reports even came to Martial's ears, but
Blanche was greatly mistaken if she had imagined that they
360
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
would induce him to cease his visits to L acheneur's cottage.
He went there more frequently than ever and stayed much
longer than he had been in the habit of doing before. Dissatis-
fied with the progress of his courtship, and fearful that he was
being duped, he even watched the house. And then one even-
ing, when the young marquis was quite sure that Lacheneur,
his son, and Chanlouineau were absent, it so happened that he
perceived a man leave the cottage, descend the slope and hasten
across the fields. He followed in pursuit, but the fugitive
escaped him. He believed, however, that he had recognized
Maurice d'Escorval.
TT7HEN Maurice narrated to his father the various incidents
" * which had marked his interview with Marie-Anne in the
pine grove near La Reche, M. d'Escorval was prudent enough
to make no allusion to the hopes of final victory which he him-
self still entertained. "My poor Maurice," he thought, "is
heart-broken, but resigned. It is better for him to remain
without hope than to be exposed to the danger of another
possible disappointment."
But passion is not always blind, and Maurice divined what
the baron tried to conceal — and clung to this faint hope in his
father's intervention as tenaciously as a drowning man clings
to the proverbial straw. If he refrained from speaking on the
subject, it was only because he felt convinced that his parents
would not tell him the truth. Still he watched all that went
on in the house with that subtlety of penetration which fever
so often imparts, and nothing that his father said or did escaped
his vigilant eyes and ears. He heard the baron put on his
boots, ask for his hat, and select a cane from among those
placed in the hall stand ; and a moment later he, moreover,
heard the garden gate grate upon its hinges. Plainly enough
M. d'Escorval was going out. Weak as he was, Maurice suc-
ceeded in dragging himself to the window in time to ascertain
the truth of his surmise. "If my father is going out," he
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 361
thought, "it can only be to visit M. Lacheneur; and if he
is going to La Reche he has evidently not relinquished all
hope."
With this thought in his mind Maurice sank into an arm-
chair close at hand, intending to watch for his father's return ;
by doing so, he might know his fate a few moments sooner.
Three long hours elapsed before the baron returned, and by
his dejected manner Maurice plainly saw that all hope was lost.
Of this he was sure, as sure as the criminal who reads the fatal
verdict in the judge's solemn face. He required all his energy
to regain his couch, and for a moment he felt that he should
die. Soon, however, he grew ashamed of this weakness, which
he judged unworthy of him, and prompted by a desire to know
exactly what had happened he rang the bell, and told the ser-
vant who answered his summons that he wished to speak with
his father. M. d'Escorval promptly made his appearance.
"Well !" exclaimed Maurice, as his father crossed the thres-
hold of the room.
The baron felt that all deni^ would be useless. "Lacheneur
is deaf to my remonstrances and entreaties," he replied, sadly.
"There is no hope, my poor boy; you must submit. I will not
tell you that time will assuage the sorrow that now seems in-
supportable — for you wouldn't believe me if I did. But I do
say to you be a man, and prove your courage. I will say even
more: fight against all thought of Marie- Anne as a traveler on
the brink of a precipice fights against the thought of vertigo."
"Have you seen Marie-Anne, father? Have you spoken to
her?"
"1 found her even more inflexible than Lacheneur."
"They reject me, and yet no doubt they receive Chanloui-
neau."
"Chanlouineau is living there."
"Good heavens! And Martial de Sairmeuse?"
"He is their familiar guest. I saw him there."
Evidently enough each of these replies fell upon Maurice
like a thunderbolt. But M. d'Escorval had armed himself with
the imperturbable courage of a surgeon, who only grasps his
instrument more firmly when the patient groans and writhes
beneath his touch. He felt that it was necessary to extinguish
the last ray of hope in his son's heart.
"It is evident that M. Lacheneur has lost his reason !" ex-
claimed Maurice.
362 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
The baron shook his head despondently. "I thought so my-
self at first," he murmured.
"But what does he say in justification of his conduct? He
must say something."
"Nothing: he refuses any explanation."
"And you, father, with all your knowledge of human nature,
with all your wide experience, have not been able to fathom
his intentions?"
"I have my suspicions," M. d'Escorval replied; "but only
suspicions. It is possible that Lacheneur, listening to the voice
of hatred, is dreaming of some terrible revenge. He may,
perhaps, think of organizing some conspiracy against the
emigres. Such a supposition would explain everything. Chan-
louineau would be his aider and abettor; and he pretends to
be reconciled to the Marquis de Sairmeuse in order to obtain
information through him — "
The blood had returned to Maurice's pale cheeks. "Such a
conspiracy," said he, "would not explain M. Lacheneur's obsti-
nate rejection of my suit."
"Alas ! yes, it would, my poor boy. It is through Marie-
Anne that Lacheneur exerts such great influence over Chan-
louineau and the marquis. If she became your wife to-day,
they would desert him to-morrow. Then, too, it is precisely
because he has such sincere regard for us that he is deter-
mined to keep us out of a hazardous, even perilous, enterprise.
However, of course, this is merely a conjecture."
"Still, I see that it is necessary to submit," faltered Maurice.
"I must resign myself; forget, I can not."
He said this because he wished to reassure his father; though,
in reality, he thought exactly the reverse. "If Lacheneur is
organizing a conspiracy," he murmured to himself, "he must
need assistance. Why should I not offer mine ? If I aid him
in his preparations, if I share his hopes and dangers, he can
not refuse me his daughter's hand. Whatever he may wish to
undertake, I can surely be of greater assistance to him than
Chanlouineau."
From that moment Maurice dwelt upon this thought; and
the result was that he no longer pined and fretted, but did all
he could to hasten his convalescence. This passed so rapidly
that the Abbe Midon, who had taken the place of the physician
from Montaignac, was positively astonished. Madame d'Escor-
val was delighted at her son's wonderful improvement in health
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 363
and spirits, and declared that she would never have believed
he could be so soon and so easily consoled. The baron did not
try to diminish his wife's satisfaction, though he regarded this
almost miraculous recovery with considerable distrust, having,
indeed, a vague perception of the truth. Skilfully, however,
as he questioned his son he could draw nothing from him ; for
Maurice had decided to keep whatever determinations he had
formed a secret even from his parents. What good would it
do to trouble them? and, besides, he feared remonstrance and
opposition ; which he was anxious to avoid, although firmly
resolved to carry out his plans, even if he were compelled to
leave the paternal roof.
One day in the second week of September the abbe declared
that Maurice might resume his ordinary life, and that, as the
weather was pleasant it would be well for him to spend much
of his time in the open air. In his delight, Maurice embraced
the worthy priest, at the same time remarking that he had felt
afraid the shooting season would pass by without his bagging
a single bird. In reality he cared but little for a day on the
cover ; the partiality he feigned being prompted by the idea
that "shooting" would furnish him with an excuse for frequent
and protracted absences from home.
He had never felt happier than he did the morning when,
with his gun over his shoulder, he crossed the Oiselle and
started for M. Lacheneur's cottage at La Reche. He had just
reached the little pine grove, and was about to pause, when he
perceived Jean Lacheneur and Chanlouineau leave the house,
each laden with a pedler's pack. This circumstance delighted
him, as he might now expect to find M. Lacheneur and Marie-
Anne alone in the cottage.
He hastened up the slope and lifted the door latch without
pausing to rap. Marie-Anne and her father were kneeling on
the hearth in front of a blazing fire.
On hearing the door open, they turned ; and at the sight of
Maurice, they both sprang to their feet, Lacheneur with a com-
posed look on his face, and Marie-Anne blushing to the roots
of her hair. "What brings you here?" they exclaimed in the
same breath.
Under other circumstances, Maurice d'Escorval would have
been dismayed by such an unengaging greeting, but now he
scarcely noticed it.
"You have no business to return here against my wishes, and
364 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
after what I said to you, M. d'Escorval," exclaimed Lacheneur,
rudely.
Maurice smiled, he was perfectly cool, and not a detail of
the scene before him had escaped his notice. If he had felt
any doubts before, they were now dispelled. On the fire he
saw a large caldron of molten lead, while several bullet-molds
stood on the hearth, beside the andirons.
"If, sir, I venture to present myself at your house," said
young D'Escorval in a grave, impressive voice, "it is because I
know everything. I have discovered your revengeful projects.
You are looking for men to aid you, are you not? Very well!
look me in the face, in the eyes, and tell me if I am not one
of those a leader is glad to enroll among his followers?"
Lacheneur seemed terribly agitated. "I don't know what
you mean," he faltered, forgetting his feigned anger; "I have
no such projects as you suppose."
"Would you assert this upon oath? If so, why are you cast-
ing those bullets? You are clumsy conspirators. You should
lock your door; some one else might have opened it." And
adding example to precept, he turned and pushed the bolt.
"This is only an imprudence," he continued: "but to reject a
willing volunteer would be a mistake for which your associates
would have a right to call you to account. Pray understand
that I have no desire to force myself into your confidence.
Whatever your cause may be, I declare it mine ; whatever you
wish, I wish; I adopt your plans; your enemies are my ene-
mies; command me and I will obey you. I only ask one favor,
that of fighting, conquering, or dying by your side."
"Oh ! father, refuse him !" exclaimed Marie-Anne, "refuse
him ! It would be a crime to accept his offer."
"A crime! And why, if you please?" asked Maurice.
"Because our cause is not your cause ; because its success is
doubtful ; because dangers surround us on every side."
Maurice interrupted her with a cry of scorn. "And you think
to dissuade me," said he, "by warning me of the dangers which
you, a girl, can yet afford to brave. You can not think me a
coward! If peril threatens you, all the more reason to accept
my aid. Would you desert me if I were menaced, would you
hide yourself, saying: 'Let him perish, so that I be saved!'
Speak! would you do this?"
Marie-Anne averted her face and made no reply. She could
■ot force herself to utter an untruth; and, on the other hand,
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 365
she was unwilling to answer: "I would act as you are acting."
She prudently waited for her father's decision.
"If I complied with your request, Maurice," said M. Lache-
neur, "in less than three days you would curse me, and ruin us
by some outburst of anger. Loving Marie-Anne as you do, you
could not behold her equivocal position unmoved. Remember,
she must neither discourage Chanlouineau nor the marquis. I
know as well as you do that the part is a shameful one ; and
that it must result in the loss of a girl's most precious posses-
sion — her reputation ; still, to ensure our success, it must be so."
Maurice did not wince. "So be it," he said calmly. "Marie-
Anne's fate will be that of all women who have devoted them-
selves to the political cause of the man they love, be he father,
brother, or lover. She will be slandered and insulted, and still
what does it matter ! Let her continue her task. I consent to
it, for I shall never doubt her, and I shall know how to hold my
peace. If we succeed, she shall be my wife, if we fail — " The
gesture with which young D'Escorval concluded his sentence
expressed more strongly than any verbal protestations that
come what might he was ready and resigned.
Lacheneur seemed deeply moved. "At least give me time for
reflection," said he.
"There is no necessity, sir, for further reflection."
"But you are only a child, Maurice ; and vour father is my
friend."
"What of that?"
"Rash boy ! don't you understand that by compromising your-
self you also compromise the Baron d'Escorval? You think
you are only risking your own head, but you are also endanger-
ing your father's life — "
"Oh, there has been too much parleying already !" inter-
rupted Maurice, "there have been too many remonstrances.
Answer me in a word ! Only understand this : if you refuse,
I shall immediately return home and blow out my brains."
It was plain from the young man's manner that this was no
idle threat. The strange fire gleaming in his eyes, and the im-
pressive tone of his voice, convinced both his listeners that he
really intended to effect his deadly purpose; and Marie-Anne,
with a heart full of cruel apprehensions, clasped her hands and
turned to her father with a pleading look.
"You are one of us. then," sternly exclaimed Lacheneur after
a brief pause; "but do not forget that your threats alone in-
366 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
duced me to consent; and whatever may happen to you or
yours, remember that you would have it so.'
These gloomy words, ominous as they were, produced, how-
ever, no impression upon Maurice, who, feverish with anxiety
a moment before, was now well-nigh delirious with joy.
"At present," continued Lacheneur, "I must tell you my
hopes, and acquaint you with the cause for which I am
toiling—"
"What does that matter to me ?" replied Maurice gaily ; and
springing toward Marie-Anne he seized her hand and raised it
to his lips, crying, with the joyous laugh of youth: "Here is
my cause — none other !"
Lacheneur turned aside. Perhaps he remembered that a
sacrifice of his own obstinate pride would suffice to assure his
daughter's and her lover's happiness.
Still if a feeling of remorse crept into his mind, he swiftly
banished it, and with increased sternness of manner exclaimed:
"It is necessary, however, that you should understand our
agreement."
"Let me know your conditions, sir," said Maurice.
"First of all, your visits here — after certain rumors that I
have circulated — would arouse suspicion. You must only come
here at night-time, and then only at hours agreed upon in
advance — never when you are not expected." Lacheneur
paused, and then seeing that Maurice's attitude implied unre-
served consent, he added: "You must also find some way to
cross the river without employing the ferryman, who is a dan-
gerous fellow."
"We have an old skiff; I will persuade my father to have
it repaired."
"Very well. Will you also promise me to avoid the Marquis
de Sairmeuse?"
"I will."
"Wait a moment — we must be prepared for any emergency.
Perhaps in spite of our precautions you may meet him here.
M. de Sairmeuse is arrogance itself; and he hates you. You
detest him, and you are very hasty. Swear to me that if he
provokes you, you will ignore his insults."
"But I should be considered a coward."
"Probably; but will you swear?"
Maurice was hesitating when an imploring look from Marie-
Anne decided him. "I swear it !" he said gravely.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 367
"As far as Chanlouineau is concerned, it would be better not
to let him know of our agreement ; but I will see to that point
myself." Lacheneur paused once more and reflected for a
moment whether he had left anything forgotten. "All that re-
mains, Maurice," he soon resumed, "is to give you a last and
very important piece of advice. Do you know my son?"
"Certainly ; we were formerly the best of friends when we
met during the holidays."
"Very well. When you know my secret — for I shall confide
it to you without reserve — beware of Jean."
"What, sir?"
"Beware of Jean. I repeat it." And Lacheneur's face
flushed as he added : "Ah ! it is a painful avowal for a father ;
but I have no confidence in my own son. He knows no more
of my plans than I told him on the day of his arrival. I
deceive him, because I fear he might betray us. Perhaps it
would be wise to send him away; but in that case, what would
people say? Most assuredly they would say that I wanted to
save my own blood, while I was ready to risk the lives of others.
Still I may be mistaken; I may misjudge him." He sighed,
and again added : "Beware !"
It will be understood from the foregoing that it was really
Maurice d'Escorval whom the Marquis de Sairmeuse perceived
leaving Lacheneur's cottage on the night he played the spy.
Martial was not positively certain of the fugitive's identity,
but the very idea made his heart swell with anger. "What part
am I playing here, then?" he exclaimed indignantly.
Passion had hitherto so completely blinded him that even if
no pains had been taken to deceive him, he would probably
have remained in blissful ignorance of the true condition of
affairs. He fully believed in the sincerity of Lacheneur's for-
mal courtesy and politeness and of Jean's studied respect,
while Chanlouineau's almost servile obsequiousness did not sur-
prise him in the least. And since Marie-Anne welcomed him
cordially he had concluded that his suit was favorably pro-
gressing. Having himself forgotten the incidents which marked
the return of his family to Sairmeuse, he concluded that every
one else had ceased to remember them. Moreover, he was of
opinion that he had acted with great generosity, and that he
was fully entitled to the gratitude of the Lacheneurs ; for
Marie-Anne's father had received the legacy bequeathed him
by Mademoiselle Armande, with an indemnity for his past ser-
Sfis THE HONOR OF THE NAME
vices; and in addition he had selected whatever furniture h&
pleased among the appointments of the cha eau. In goods and
coin he had been presented with quite sixty thousand francs;
and the hard-fisted old duke, enraged at such prodigality,
although it did not cost him a penny, had discontentedly
growled :
"He must be hard to please indeed if he is not satisfied with
what we've done for him."
Such being the position of affairs, and having for so long
supposed that he was the only visitor to the cottage on La
Reche, Martial was perfectly incensed when he discovered that
such was not the case. Was he, after all, merely a shameless
girl's foolish dupe? So great was his anger that for more
than a week he did not go to Lacheneur's house. His father
concluded that his ill-humor was caused by some misunder-
standing with Marie-Anne; and he took advantage of this
opportunity to obtain his son's consent to a marriage with
Blanche de Courtornieu. Goaded to the last extremity, tor-
tured by doubt and fear, the young marquis eventually agreed
to his father's proposals; and, naturally enough, the duke did
not allow such a good resolution to grow cold. In less than
forty-eight hours the engagement was made public; the mar-
riage contract was drawn up, and it was announced that the
wedding would take place early in the spring. A grand ban-
quet was given at Sairmeuse in honor of the betrothal — a
banquet all the more brilliant since there were other victories
to be celebrated, for the Due de Sairmeuse had just received,
with his brevet of lieutenant-general, a commission placing him
in command of the military district of Montaignac; while the
Marquis de Courtornieu had also been appointed provost-mar-
shal of the same region.
Thus it was that Blanche triumphed, for, after this public
betrothal, might she not consider that Martial was bound to
her? For a fortnight, indeed, he scarcely left her side, finding
in her society a charm which almost made him forget his love
for Marie-Anne. But, unfortunately, the haughty heiress could
not resist the temptation to make a slighting allusion to the
lowliness of the marquis's former tastes; finding, moreover,
an opportunity to inform him that she furnished Marie-Anne
with work to aid her in earning a living. Martial forced him-
self to smile; but the disparaging remarks made by his betrothed
concerning Mark-Anne aroused his sympathy and indignation;
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 369
and the result was that the very next day he went to Lache-
neur's house.
In the warmth of the greeting which there awaited him
all his anger vanished, and all his suspicions were dispelled.
He perceived that Marie- Anne's eyes beamed with joy on
seeing him again, and could not help thinking he should win
her yet.
All the household were really delighted at his return ; as the
son of the commander of the military forces at Montaignac,
and the prospective son-in-law of the provost-marshal, Martial
was bound to prove a most valuable instrument. "Through
him we shall have an eye and an ear in the enemy's camp," said
Lacheneur. "The Marquis de Sairmeuse will be our spy."
And such he soon became, for he speedily resumed his daily
visits to the cottage. It was now December, and the roads
were scarcely passable; but neither rain, snow, nor mud could
keep Martial away. He generally made his appearance at ten
o'clock in the morning, seated himself on a stool in the shadow
of a tall fireplace, and then he and Marie-Anne began to talk
by the hour. She always seemed greatly interested in what
was going on at Montaignac, and he told her everything he
knew, whether it were of a military, political, or social
character.
At times they remained alone. Lacheneur, Chanlouineau,
and Jean were tramping about the country with their pedler's
packs. Business was indeed prospering so well that Lacheneur
had even purchased a horse in order to extend the circuit of
his rounds. But, although the usual occupants of the cottage
might be away, it so happened that Martial's conversation was
generally interrupted by visitors. It was indeed really sur-
prising to see how many peasants called at the cottage to
speak with M. Lacheneur. They called at all hours and in
rapid succession, sometimes alone, and at others in little batches
of two or three. And to each of these peasants Marie-Anne
had something to say in private. Then she would offer them
refreshments; and at times one might have imagined one's self
in an ordinary village wine-shop. But what can daunt a lover's
courage? Martial endured the peasants and their carouses with-
out a murmur. He laughed and jested with them, shook them
by the hand, and at times he even drained a glass in their
company.
He gave many other proofs of moral courage. He offered
370 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
to assist M. Lacheneur in making up his accounts ; and once —
it happened about the middle of February — seeing Chanlouineau
worrying over the composition of a letter, he actually volun-
teered to act as his amanuensis. "The letter is not for me, but
for an uncle of mine who is about to marry off his daughter,"
said the stalwart young farmer.
Martial took a seat at the table, and at Chanlouineau's dic-
tation, but not without many erasures, indited the following
epistle :
"My dear Friend — We are at last agreed, and the marriage
is decided on. We are now busy preparing for the wedding,
which will take place on . We invite you to give us the
pleasure of your company. We count upon you, and be assured
that the more friends you bring with you the better we shall
be pleased."
Had Martial seen the smile upon Chanlouineau's lips when
he requested him to leave the date for the wedding a blank, he
would certainly have suspected that he had been caught in a
snare. But he did not see it, and, besides, he was in love.
"Ah ! marquis," remarked his father one day, "Chupin tells
me you are always at Lacheneur's. When will you recover
from your foolish fancy for that little girl?"
Martial did not reply. He felt that he was at that "little
girl's" mercy. Each glance she gave him made his heart throb
wildly. He lingered by her side a willing captive ; and if she
had asked him to make her his wife he would certainly not
have refused.
But Marie-Anne had no such ambition. All her thoughts
and wishes were for her father's success.
Maurice and Marie-Anne had become M. Lacheneur's most
intrepid auxiliaries. They were looking forward to such a
magnificent reward. Feverish, indeed, was the activity which
Maurice displayed ! All day long he hurried from hamlet to
hamlet, and in the evening, as soon as dinner was over, he
made his escape from the drawing-room, sprang into his boat,
and hastened to La Reche.
M. d'Escorval could not fail to notice his son's long and fre-
quent absences. He watched him, and soon discovered that
some secret understanding existed between Maurice and Lache-
neur. Recollecting his previous suspicion that Lacheneur was
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 371
harboring some seditious design, he became greatly alarmed
for his son's safety, and decided to go to La Reche and try
once more to learn the truth. Previous repulses had dimin-
ished his confidence in his own persuasive powers, and being
anxious for an auxiliary's assistance he asked the Abbe Midon
to accompany him.
It was the 4th of March, and half-past four in the evening,
when M. d'Escorval and the cure started from Sairmeuse bound
for the cottage at La Reche. They were both anxious as to
the result of the step they were taking, and scarcely exchanged
a dozen words as they walked toward the banks of the Oiselle.
They had crossed the river and traversed the familiar pine
grove, when on reaching the outskirts of the waste they wit-
nessed a strange sight well calculated to increase their anxiety
and alarm.
Night was swiftly approaching, but yet it was still sufficiently
light to distinguish objects at a short distance, and on the sum-
mit of the slope they could perceive in front of Lacheneur's
cottage a group of twenty persons, who, judging by their fre-
quent gesticulations, were engaged in animated conversation.
Lacheneur himself was there, and his manner plainly indicated
that he was in a state of great excitement. Suddenly he waved
his hand, the others clustered round him, and he began to
speak. What was he saying? The baron and the priest were
still too far off to distinguish his words, but when he ceased
they were startled by a loud acclamation, which literally rent
the air.
Suddenly the former lord of Sairmeuse struck a match, and
setting fire to a bundle of straw lying before him he tossed
it on to the roof of the cottage, shouting as he did so, "Yes,
the die is cast ! and this will prove to you that I shall not
draw back !"
Five minutes later the house was in flames and in the dis-
tance the baron and his companion could perceive a ruddy
glare illuminating the windows of the citadel at Montaignac,
while on every hillside round about glowed the light of other
incendiary fires. The whole district was answering Lache-
neur's signal.
372
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
AH ! ambition is a fine thing ! The Due de Sairmeuse and
the Marquis de Courtornieu were considerably past middle
age; they had weathered many storms and vicissitudes; they
possessed millions in hard cash, and owned the finest estates
in the province. Under these circumstances it might have been
supposed that their only desire was to end their days in peace
and quietness. It would have been easy for them to lead a
happy and useful life by seeking to promote the welfare of
the district, and they might have gone down to their graves
amid a chorus of benedictions and regrets.
But no. They longed to have a hand in managing the state
vessel ; they were not content with remaining simple passengers.
The duke, appointed to the command of the military forces,
and the marquis, invested with high judicial functions at Mon-
taignac, were both obliged to leave their beautiful chateaux and
install themselves in somewhat dingy quarters in the town.
And yet they did not murmur at the change, for their vanity
was satisfied. Louis XVIII was on the throne; their preju-
dices were triumphant; and they felt supremely happy. It is
true that sedition was already rife on every side, but had they
not hundreds and thousands of allies at hand to assist them
in suppressing it ? And when thoughtful politicians spoke of
"discontent," the duke and his associates looked at him with
the thorough contempt of the skeptic who does not believe in
ghosts.
On the 4th of March, 1816, the duke was just sitting down
to dinner at his house in Montaignac when he heard a loud
noise in the hall. He rose to go and see what was the matter
when the door was suddenly flung open and a man entered the
room panting and breathless. This man was Chupin, once a
poacher, but now enjoying the position of head gamekeeper on
the Sairmeuse estates. It was evident, from his manner and
appearance, that something very extraordinary had happened.
"What is the matter?" inquired the duke.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 373
"They are coming!" cried Chupin; "they are already on
the way !"
"Who are coming? who?"
Chupin made no verbal reply, but handed the duke a copy
of the letter written by Martial under Chanlouineau's dicta-
tion. "My dear friend," so M. de Sairmeuse read, "we are at
last agreed, and the marriage is decided on. We are now busy
preparing for the wedding, which will take place on the 4th
of March." The date was no longer blank : but still the duke
had naturally failed to understand the purport of the missive.
"Well, what of it ?" he asked.
Chupin tore his hair. "They are on the way," he repeated.
"The peasants — all the peasants of the district. They intend to
take possession of Montaignac, dethrone Louis XVIII, bring
back the emperor, or, at least, the emperor's son, and crown
him as Napoleon II. Ah, the wretches ! they have deceived
me. I suspected this outbreak, but I did not think it was so
near at hand."
This unexpected intelligence well-nigh stupefied the duke.
"How many are there?" he asked.
"Ah ! how do I know, your grace ? Two thousand, perhaps —
perhaps ten thousand."
"All the townspeople are with us."
"No, your grace, no. The rebels have accomplices here.
All the retired officers of the imperial army are waiting to
assist them."
"Who are the leaders of the movement?"
"Lacheneur, the Abbe Midon, Chanlouineau, the Baron
d'Escorval — "
"Enough !" cried the duke.
Now that the danger was certain, his coolness returned, and
his herculean form, a trifle bowed by the weight of years, rose
to its full height. He gave the bell-rope a violent pull; and
directly his valet entered he bade him bring his uniform and
pistols at once. The servant was about to obey, when the
duke added : "Wait ! Let some one take a horse, and go and
tell my son to come here without a moment's delay. Take
one of the swiftest horses. The messenger ought to go to
Sairmeuse and back in two hours." On hearing these words.
Chupin pulled at the duke's coat-tail to attract his attention.
"Well, what is it now ?" asked M. de Sairmeuse impatiently.
The old poacher raised his finger to his lips, as if recom-
374 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
mending silence, and as soon as the valet had left the room,
he exclaimed :
"It is useless to send for the marquis !"
"And why, you fool?"
"Because, because — excuse me — I — "
"Zounds ! will you speak, or not ?"
Chupin regretted that he had gone so far. "Because the
marquis — "
"Well?"
"He is engaged in it."
The duke overturned the dinner-table with a terrible blow
of his clenched fist. "You lie, you wretch !" he thundered with
terrible oaths.
His anger was so threatening that the old poacher sprang
to the door and turned the knob, ready for flight. "May I lose
my head if I do not speak the truth," he insisted. "Ah ! Lache-
neur's daughter is a regular sorceress. All the gallants of the
neighborhood are in the ranks ; Chanlouineau, young D'Escorval,
your son — "
M. de Sairmeuse was pouring forth a torrent of curses upon
Marie-Anne when his valet reentered the room. He suddenly
checked himself, put on his uniform, and ordering Chupin to
follow him, he hastened from the house. He was still hoping
that Chupin had exaggerated the danger, but when he reached
the Place d'Armes, commanding an extensive view of the sur-
rounding country, whatever allusions he may have retained
immediately vanished. Signal lights gleamed on every side, and
Montaignac seemed surrounded by a circle of flame.
"There are the signals," murmured Chupin. "The rebels
will be here before two o'clock in the morning."
The duke made no reply, but hastened toward M. de Cour-
tornieu's house. He was striding onward, when, on turning
a corner, he espied two men talking in a doorway ; they also
had perceived him, and at sight of his glittering epaulettes they
both took flight. The duke instinctively started in pursuit, over-
took one of the men, and, seizing him by the collar, sternly
asked : "Who are you ? What is your name ?"
The man was silent, and his captor shook him so roughly
that two pistols concealed under his overcoat fell to the ground.
"Ah, brigand !" exclaimed M. de Sairmeuse, "so you are one
of the conspirators against the king!"
Then, without another word, he dragged the man to the cita-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 375
del, gave him in charge of the astonished soldiers, and again
hastened after M. de Courtornieu. He expected to find the
marquis terrified ; but on the contrary he seemed perfectly
delighted.
"At last," he said, "there comes an opportunity for us to
display our devotion and our zeal — and without danger ! We
have good walls, strong gates, and three thousand soldiers at
our command. These peasants are fools ! But be grateful for
their folly, my dear duke, and run and order out the Montaignac
chasseurs — " He suddenly paused, and then with a gesture of
annoyance he resumed : "The deuce ! I am expecting Blanche
this evening. She was to leave Courtornieu after dinner.
Heaven grant she may meet with no misfortune on the
way !"
The Due de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu
had more time before them than they supposed. The rebels
were advancing, but not so rapidly as Chupin had stated, for
Lacheneur's plans had been disarranged by two unforeseen
circumstances.
When standing beside his burning cottage, he had counted
the signal fires that blazed out in answer to his own, and found
their number corresponded with his expectations; he joyfully
exclaimed : "See, all our friends keep their word ! They are
ready; and are now on their way to the meeting-place. Let
us start at once, for we must be there first !"
His horse was brought him, and one foot was already in
the stirrup when two men sprang from the neighboring grove
and darted toward him. One of them seized the horse by the
bridle.
"The Abbe Midon !" exclaimed Lacheneur in amazement ;
"M. d'Escorval!" And foreseeing, perhaps, what was to come,
he added in a tone of concentrated fury : "What do you two
want with me?"
"We wish to prevent the accomplishment of an act of
madness !" exclaimed M. d'Escorval. "Hatred has crazed you,
Lacheneur !"
"You know nothing of my projects !"
"Do you think that I don't suspect them? You hope to cap-
ture Montaignac — "
"What does that matter to you?" interrupted Lacheneur,
angrily.
But M. d'Escorval would not be silenced. He seized his
6 — Vol. II — Gab.
376 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
former friend by the arm, and in a voice loud enough to be
heard distinctly by every one present, he continued : "You fool-
ish fellow ! You have forgotten that Montaignac is a fortified
city, surrounded by deep moats and high walls! You have for-
gotten that behind these fortifications there is a garrison com-
manded by a man whose energy and bravery are beyond all
question — the Due de Sairmeuse."
Lacheneur struggled to free himself from the baron's grasp.
'Everything has been arranged," he replied, "and they are
expecting us at Montaignac. You would be as sure of this as
I am myself if you had only seen the lights gleaming in the
windows of the citadel. And look, you can see them yet. These
lights tell me that two or three hundred of Napoleon's old
officers will come and open the gates of the town as soon as
we make our appearance."
"And after that! If you take Montaignac, what will you
do then? Do you imagine the English will give you back
vour emperor? Isn't Napoleon II an Austrian prisoner? Have
you forgotten that the allied sovereigns have left a hundred and
fifty thousand soldiers within a day's march of Paris?"
Sullen murmurs were heard among Lacheneur's followers.
"But all this is nothing," continued the baron. "The chief
danger lies in the fact that there are generally as many traitors
as dupes in an undertaking of this sort."
"Whom do you call dupes?"
"All those who mistake their illusions for realities, as you
have done ; all those who wishing something to happen are con-
vinced that it will happen — simply because they wish it so.
And besides, do you really suppose that neither the Due de
Sairmeuse nor the Marquis de Courtornieu has been warned
of your attempt?"
Lacheneur shrugged his shoulders. "Who could have warned
them?" he asked complacently. But his tranquillity was feigned.
as the glance he cast on Jean only too plainly proved. Frigid
indeed was the tone in which he added: "It is probable that
the duke and the marquis are at this moment in the power
of our friends."
The cure now attempted to second the baron's efforts. "You
will not go, Lacheneur," he said. "You can not remain deaf
to the voice of reason. You are an honest man; think of the
frightful responsibility you assume ! Upon these frail hopes
you are imperilling hundreds of brave lives! I tell you that
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 877
you will not succeed; and will be betrayed; I am sure you will
be betrayed I"
An expression of horrible agony contracted Lacheneur's fea-
tures. It was evident to every one that he was deeply moved ;
and, perhaps, matters might have taken a very different course
had it not been for Chanlouineau's intervention. "We are wast-
ing too much time in foolish prattle," he exclaimed, stepping
forward and brandishing his gun.
Lacheneur started as if he had been struck by a whip. He
rudely freed himself from his friend's grasp, and leaped into
the saddle. "Forward !" he ordered.
But the baron and the priest did not yet despair ; they sprang
to the horse's head. "Lacheneur," cried the priest, "beware !
The blood you are about to spill will fall on your own head,
and on the heads of your children !"
Arrested by these prophetic words, the little band paused,
and at the same moment a figure clad in the costume of a
peasant issued from the ranks.
"Marie-Anne !" exclaimed the abbe and the baron in the
same breath.
"Yes, it is I," replied the young girl, doffing the large hat
which had partially concealed her face; "I wish to share the
dangers of those who are dear to me — share in their victory
or their defeat. Your advice comes too late, gentlemen. Do
you see those lights on the horizon ? They tell us that the
people of the province are repairing to the cross-roads at the
Croix d'Arcy, our general meeting-place. Before two o'clock
fifteen hundred men will be gathered there awaiting my father's
commands. Would you have him leave these men, whom he
has called from their peaceful firesides, without a leader? No.
it is impossible !"
She evidently shared her lover's and her father's madness,
even if she did not share all their hopes. "No, there must
be no more hesitation, no more parleying," she continued.
"Prudence now would be the height of folly. There is
no more danger in a retreat than in an advance. Do not
try to detain my father, gentlemen ; each moment of delay
may, perhaps, cost a man's life. And now, my friends,
forward !"
A loud cheer answered her, and the little band descended
the hill.
But M. d'Escorval could not allow his own son, whom he now
378 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
perceived in the ranks, to depart in this fashion: "Maurice!"
he cried.
The young fellow hesitated, but finally stepped forward.
"You will not follow these madmen, Maurice?" said the
baron.
"I must follow them, father."
"I forbid it."
"Alas! father, I can't obey you. I have promised— I
have sworn. I am second in command." If his voice had a
mournful ring, plainly enough he was at all events de-
termined.
"My son !" exclaimed M. d'Escorval ; "unfortunate boy ! Don't
you know that you are marching to certain death?"
"Then all the more reason, father, why I shouldn't break
my word."
"And your mother, Maurice, your mother whom you forget !"
A tear glistened in the young fellow's eye. "I am sure,"
he replied, "that my mother would rather weep for her dead
son than keep him near her dishonored, and branded as a
coward and a traitor. Farewell ! father."
M. d'Escorval appreciated the nobility of mind which
Maurice's conduct implied. He opened his arms, and
pressed his son convulsively to his heart, feeling that it
might be for the last time in life. "Farewell!" he faltered,
"farewell!"
A minute later Maurice had rejoined his comrades, now on the
plain below, leaving the baron standing motionless and over-
whelmed with sorrow.
Suddenly M. d'Escorval started from his reverie. "A single
hope remains, abbe !" he cried.
"Alas !" murmured the priest.
"Oh — I am not mistaken. Marie-Anne just told us the place
of rendezvous. By running to Escorval and harnessing the
cabriolet, we might be able to reach the Croix d'Arcy before
this party arrives there. Your voice, which touched Lacheneur,
will touch the hearts of his accomplices. We will persuade
these poor, misguided men to return home. Come, abbe: come
quickly !"
They tarried no longer, but swiftly descended toward the
ferry.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
379
npHE clock in the church tower of Sairmeuse was just striking
*• eight when Lacheneur and his little band of followers left
La Reche. An hour later, Blanche de Courtornieu, after dining
alone with Aunt Medea at the chateau, ordered the carriage to
take her to Montaignac. Since her father's duties had com-
pelled him to reside in the town they only met on Sundays,
when it either happened that Blanche went to Montaignac, or
the marquis paid a visit to his estate.
Now this was Thursday evening, and the servants were con-
sequently somewhat surprised when they heard that their young
mistress was going to ''the town."
Her journey was prompted, however, by somewhat singular
circumstances.
Six days had elapsed since Martial's last visit to Courtornieu,
six days of suspense and anguish for the jealous Blanche. What
Aunt Medea had to endure during this interval, only poor de-
pendents in rich families can understand. For the first three
days Blanche succeeded in preserving a semblance of self-
control ; but on the fourth she could endure the suspense no
longer, and in spite of the breach of etiquette the step involved,
she despatched a messenger to Sairmeuse to inquire if Martial
were ill, or if he had been summoned away?
The messenger learned that the young marquis was in very
good health, and that he spent the entire day, from early morn
to dewy eve, shooting in the neighboring preserves ; going to
bed every evening as soon as dinner was over.
What a horrible insult this conduct implied for Blanche !
However, it did not so much distress her as she felt certain
that directly Martial heard of her inquiries he would hasten to
her with a full apology. Her hope was vain ; he did not come ;
nor even condescend to give a sign of life.
"Ah ! no doubt he is with that wretch." said Blanche to Aunt
Medea. "He is on his knees before that miserable Marie-Anne
— his mistress." For she had finished by believing — as is not
380 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
unfrequently the case — the very calumnies which she herself
had invented.
Scarcely knowing how to act, she at last decided to make
her father her confidant; and accordingly wrote him a note
to the effect that she was coming to Montaignac for his advice.
In reality, she wished her father to compel Lacheneur to leave
the country. This would be an easy matter for the marquis,
since he was armed with discretionary judicial authority at an
epoch when lukewarm devotion furnished an ample excuse for
sending a man into exile.
Fully decided upon executing this plan, Mademoiselle Cour-
tornieu grew calmer on leaving the chateau; and her hopes
overflowed in incoherent phrases, which poor Aunt Medea lis-
tened to with all her accustomed resignation. "At last," ex-
claimed the revengeful Blanche, "I shall be rid of this shame-
less creature. We will see if he has the audacity to follow her.
Ah, no; he can not dare to do that!"
She was talking in this strain, or reflecting how she should
lay the matter before her father, while the carriage which she
and Aunt Medea occupied rolled over the highway and through
the village of Sairmeuse.
There were lights in every house, the wine-shops seemed full
of tipplers, and groups of people could be seen in every direc-
tion.
All this animation was no doubt most unusual, but what
did it matter to Mademoiselle de Courtornieu ! It was not until
they were a mile or so from Sairmeuse that she was startled
from her reverie.
"Listen, Aunt Medea," she suddenly exclaimed. "What is
that noise?"
The poor dependent listened as she was bid, and both occu-
pants of the carriage could distinguish a confused babel of
shouts and singing, which grew nearer and more distinct as the
vehicle rolled onward.
"Let us find out the meaning of all this hubbub," said Blanche.
And lowering one of the carriage windows, she asked the coach-
man if he knew what the disturbance was about.
"I can see a great crowd of peasants on the hill," he replied ;
"they have torches and — "
"Blessed Jesus!" interrupted Aunt Medea in alarm.
"It must be a wedding," added the coachman, whipping up
his horses.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 381
It was not a wedding, however, but Lacheneur's little band,
which had now swollen to five hundred men.
The Bonapartist ringleader should have been at the Croix
d'Arcy two hours earlier. But he had shared the fate of most
popular chieftains. He had given an impetus to the move-
ment, and now it was beyond his control. The Baron d'Escor-
val had made him lose twenty minutes at La Reche, and he
was delayed four times as long in Sairmeuse. When he reached
that village, a little behind time, he found the peasants scat-
tered through the wine-shops, drinking to the success of the
enterprise; and it proved a long and difficult talk to wrest them
from their merry-making. To crown everything, when the
insurgents were finally induced to resume their line of
march, they could not possibly be persuaded to extinguish the
torches they had lighted. Prayers and threats were alike
unavailing. They declared that they wished to see their way,
and their leader had to submit to this foolish fancy. Poor de-
luded beings ! They had not the slightest conception of the
difficulties and the perils of the enterprise they had undertaken.
They had set out to capture a fortified town, defended by a
numerous garrison, just as if they had been bound on a pleasure
jaunt. Gay, thoughtless, and animated with childlike confidence,
they marched along, arm in arm, singing some patriotic refrain.
Lacheneur, who was on horseback in the centre of the band,
suffered the most intolerable anguish. Would not this delay
ruin everything? What would the others, who were waiting
at the Croix d'Arcy, think of him ! What were they doing at this
very moment? Maurice, Chanlouineau, Jean, Marie- Anne, and
some twenty old soldiers of the Empire who accompanied the
party, understood and shared Lacheneur's despair. They knew
the terrible danger they were incurring, and. like their captain,
they constantly repeated : "Faster ! Let us march faster !"
Vain was the exhortation ! The peasantry openly declared
that they preferred walking slowly. Soon, indeed, they did not
walk at all, but came to an abrupt halt. Still it was not hesi-
tation that induced them to pause. The fact was that some of
the band, chancing to look back, had perceived the lamps of
Mademoiselle de Courtornieu's carriage gleaming in the dark-
ness. The vehicle came rapidly onward, and soon overtook
them. The peasants at once recognized the coachman's livery,
and greeted the carriage with derisive shouts.
M. de Courtornieu's avarice had made him even more enemies
382 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
than the Due de Sairmeuse's pride, and all the peasants who
thought they had more or less to complain of his extortions
were delighted at this opportunity to frighten him; for as this
was his carriage, no doubt he was inside. Hence, their disap-
pointment was great indeed when, on opening the carriage door,
they perceived that the vehicle only contained Blanche and her
elderly aunt. The latter shrieked with terror, but her niece,
who was certainly a brave girl, haughtily asked: "Who are
you ? and what do you want ?"
"You shall know to-morrow," replied Chanlouineau. "Until
then, you are our prisoners."
"I see that you do not know who I am, boy."
"Excuse me. I do know who you are, and, for this very
reason, I must request you to alight from your carriage. She
must leave the carriage, must she not, M. d'Escorval?"
"I won't leave my carriage," retorted the infuriated heiress.
"Tear me from it if you dare !"
They would certainly have dared to do so had it not been for
Marie-Anne, who checked several peasants as they were spring-
ing toward the vehicle. "Let Mademoiselle de Courtornieu pass
without hindrance," said she.
But this permission might produce such serious consequences
that Chanlouineau found courage to resist. "That can not
be, Marie-Anne," said he. "She will warn her father. We
must keep her as a hostage ; her life may save the lives of our
friends."
Blanche had not hitherto recognized her former friend, any
more than she had suspected the intentions of the crowd. But
Marie-Anne's name, coupled with that of D'Escorval, enlight-
ened her at once. She understood everything, and trembled
with rage at the thought that she was at her rival's mercy.
She immediately resolved to place herself under no obligation
to Marie-Anne Lacheneur.
"Very well," said she, "we will alight."
But Marie-Anne checked her. "No," said she, "no ! This is
not proper company for a young girl."
"For an honest young girl, you should say," replied Blanche,
with a sneer.
Chanlouineau was standing only a few feet off with his gun
in his hand. If a man had spoken in this manner he would
certainly have killed him on the spot.
"Mademoiselle will turn back," calmly rejoined Marie-Anne,
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 383
disdaining to notice the insult which her former friend's words
implied. "As she can reach Montaignac by the other road, two
men will accompany her as far as Courtornieu."
The order was obeyed. The carriage turned and rolled away,
though not before Blanche had found time to cry: "Beware,
Marie- Anne ! I will make you pay dearly for your insulting
patronage !"
The hours were flying by. This incident had occupied ten
minutes more — ten centuries — and the last trace of order had
vanished. Lacheneur could have wept with rage. Suddenly
calling Maurice and Chanlouineau to his side, he said: "I
place you in command, do everything you can to hurry these
idiots onward. I will ride as fast as possible to the Croix
d'Arcy."
He started, but he was only a short distance in advance of
his followers when he perceived two men running toward him
at full speed. One was clad in the attire of the middle classes;
the other wore the old uniform of captain in the emperor's
guard.
"What has happened?" cried Lacheneur in alarm.
"Everything is discovered !"
"Good heavens !"
"Major Carini has been arrested."
"By whom? How?"
"Ah ! there was a fatality about it ! Just as we were perfect-
ing our arrangements to seize the Due de Sairmeuse, he him-
self surprised us. We fled, but the cursed noble pursued us,
overtook Carini, caught him by the collar, and dragged him to
the citadel."
Lacheneur was overwhelmed ; the abbe's gloomy prophecy
again resounded in his ears.
"So I warned my friends, and hastened to warn you," con-
tinued the officer. "The affair is an utter failure P'
He was only too correct ; and Lacheneur knew it even better
than he did. But, blinded by hatred and anger, he would not
acknowledge that the disaster was irreparable. He affected a
calmness which he was far from feeling. "You are easily dis-
couraged, gentlemen." he said, bitterly. "There is, at least, one
more chance."
"The deuce ! Then you have resources of which we are
ignorant ?"
"Perhaps — that depends. You have just passed the Croix
384 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
d'Arcy; did you tell any of those people what you have just
told me?"
•Not a word."
"How many men are assembled there?"
"At least two thousand."
"And what is their mood?"
"They are all eagerness to begin the fight. They are cursing
your slowness, and told me to entreat you to make haste."
"In that case our cause is not lost," said Lacheneur, with a
determined gesture. "Wait here until the peasants come up,
and impress upon them that you were sent to tell them to make
haste. Bring them on as quickly as possible, and have confi-
dence in me; I will be responsible for the success of the
enterprise."
So speaking, he put spurs to his horse and galloped away.
In point of fact, he had deceived the men he had just spoken
with. He had no other resources, nor even the slightest hope
that the enterprise might now prove successful. He had told
an abominable falsehood. But if this edifice, which he had
raised with such infinite care and labor, was to totter and fall,
he wished to be buried beneath its ruins. They would be de-
feated; he felt sure of it, but what did that matter? In the
conflict he would seek death and find it.
Bitter discontent pervaded the crowd at the Croix dArcy, the
murmurs of dissatisfaction having changed to curses after the
messengers despatched to warn Lacheneur of the disaster at
Montaignac had passed by. These peasants, nearly two thou-
sand in number, were indignant not to find their leader waiting
for them at the rendezvous. "Where is he?" they asked each
other. "Who knows, perhaps he has turned tail at the last
moment? Perhaps he is concealing himself while we are here
risking our lives and our children's bread."
Soon the epithets of mischief-maker and traitor flew from
lip to lip, increasing the anger that swelled in every heart.
Some were of opinion that it would be best to disperse; while
others wished to march against Montaignac without waiting
any longer for Lacheneur. The point was being deliberated
when a vehicle appeared in sight. It was the Baron d'Escor-
val's cabriolet. He and the abbe were in advance of Lacheneur,
and trusted that they had arrived in time to prevent any further
prosecution of the enterprise. But although only a few min-
utes previously several of the insurgents had wavered, the
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 385
peacemakers found all their entreaties and warnings useless.
Instead of arresting the movement, their intervention only
precipitated it.
"We have gone too far to draw back," exclaimed one of the
neighboring farmers, who was the recognized leader in Lache-
neur's absence. "If death is before us, it is also behind us. To
attack and conquer — that is our only hope of salvation. For-
ward, then, at once. That is the only way of disconcerting our
enemies. He who hesitates is a coward ! So forward !"
"Yes, forward !" reechoed the excited crowd. They unfurled
the tricolor, the banner banished by the Bourbon kings, which
reminded them of so much glory and such great misfor-
tunes ; the drums beat, and with loud shouts of, "Long live
Napoleon the Second !" the whole column took up its line of
march.
Pale, in disordered garb, and with voices husky with emotion
and fatigue, M. d'Escorval and the abbe followed in the wake of
the rebels, imploring them to listen to reason. These two
alone perceived the precipice toward which these misguided men
were rushing, and they prayed to providence for an inspiration
that might enable them to arrest this foolish enterprise while
there was yet time. In fifty minutes the distance separating
the Croix d'Arcy from Montaignac is covered. Soon the insur-
gents perceive the gate of the citadel, which was to have been
opened for them by their friends within the town. It is eleven
o'clock, and this gate is opened. Does not this circumstance
prove that their friends are masters of the town, and that they
are awaiting them in force ? Hence, the column boldly advances,
so certain of success that those who carry guns do not even
take the trouble to load them.
M. d'Escorval and the abbe alone foresee the catastrophe.
They entreat the leader of the expedition not to neglect the
commonest precautions ; they implore him to send two men on
in advance to reconnoitre ; they themselves offer to go, on
condition that the peasants will await their return before pro-
ceeding farther.
But their prayers are unheeded. The peasants pass the outer
line of fortifications in safety, and the head of the advancing
column reaches the drawbridge. The enthusiasm now amounts
to delirium; and who will be the first to enter is the only
thought.
Ala-- ' at that very moment they hear a pistol fired. It is
386
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
a signal, for instantly, and on every side, resounds a terrible
fusillade. Three or four peasants fall, mortally wounded. The
remainder pause, terror-stricken and thinking only of escape.
Still the leader encourages his men, there are a few of Napo-
leon's old soldiers in the ranks; and a struggle begins, all the
more frightful owing to the darkness !
But it is not the cry of "Forward !" that suddenly rends the
air. The voice of a coward raises the cry of panic: "We are
betrayed ! Let him save himself who can !"
Then comes the end of all order. A wild fear seizes the
throng; and these men fly madly, despairingly, scatterea as
withered leaves are scattered by the force of the tempest.
AT first Chupin's extraordinary revelations and the thought
**■ that Martial, the heir of his name and dukedom, should so
degrade himself as to enter into a conspiracy with vulgar peas-
ants, had well-nigh overcome the Due de Sairmeuse. However,
M. de Courtornieu's composure soon restored his sang-froid.
He hastened to the barracks, and in less than half an hour five
hundred linesmen and three hundred Montaignac chasseurs
were under arms. With those forces at his disposal it would
have been easy enough to suppress the movement without the
slightest bloodshed. It was only necessary to close the gates
of the city, for it was not with clubs and fowling-pieces that
these infatuated peasants could force an entrance into a for-
tified town.
Such moderation did not, however, suit a man of the duke's
violent nature. Struggle and excitement were his elements, and
ambition fanned his zeal. He ordered the gates of the citadel
to be left open, and concealed numerous soldiers behind the
parapets of the outer fortifications. He then stationed himself
where he could command a view of the insurgents' approach,
and deliberately choose his moment for giving the signal to
fire. Still a strange thing happened. Out of four hundred
shots fired into a dense mass of fifteen hundred men, only three
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 387
hit their mark. More humane than their commander, nearly all
the soldiers had fired into the air.
However, the duke had no time to investigate this strange
occurrence now. He leaped into the saddle, and placing him-
self at the head of several hundred men, both cavalry and in-
fantry, he started in pursuit of the fugitives. The peasants
were, perhaps, some twenty minutes in advance. These simple-
minded fellows might easily have made their escape. They had
only to disperse in twenty different directions ; but unfortu-
nately, this thought never once occurred to the majority of
them. A few ran across the fields and then gained their homes
in safety; while the others fled panic-stricken, like a flock of
frightened sheep before the pursuing soldiers. Fear lent them
wings, for at each moment they could hear the shots fired at
the laggards.
There was one man, however, who was still steadily galloping
in the direction of Montaignac ; and this was Lacheneur. He
had just reached the Croix dArcy when the firing began. He
listened and waited. No discharge of musketry answered the
first fusillade. What could be happening? Plainly there was
no combat. Had the peasantry been butchered then? Lache-
neur had a perception of the truth, and regretted that the bul-
lets just discharged had not pierced his own heart. He put
spurs to his horse and galloped past the cross-roads toward
Montaignac. At last he perceived the fugitives approaching in
the distance. He dashed forward to meet them, and mingling
curses and insults together he vainly tried to stay their flight.
"You cowards !" he vociferated, "you traitors ! you fly and you
are ten against one! Where are you going? To your own
homes ? Fools ! you will only find the gendarmes there, wait-
ing your coming to conduct you to the scaffold. Is it not better
to die with your weapons in your hands ? Come — right about.
Follow me ! We may still conquer. Reenforcements are at
hand ; two thousand men are following me I"
He promised them two thousand men ; had he promised them
ten thousand, twenty thousand — an army and cannon — it would
have made no difference. Not until they reached the wide open
space of the cross-roads, where they had talked so confidently
scarcely an hour before, did the more intelligent of the throng
regain their senses, while the others fled in every direction.
About a hundred of the bravest and most determined of the
conspirators gathered round Lacheneur. In the midst of the
388 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
little crowd was the Abbe Midon with a gloomy and despondent
countenance. He had been separated from the baron, of whose
fate he was ignorant. Had M. d'Escorval been killed or taken
prisoner? or was it possible that he had made his escape? The
worthy priest dared not return home. He waited, hoping that
his companion might rejoin him, and deemed himself fortunate
in finding the baron's cabriolet still standing at a corner of tht
open space, formed by the four cross-roads'. He was still wait-
ing when the remnant of the column confided to Maurice and
Chanlouineau came up. Of the five hundred men that com-
posed this troop on its departure from Sairmeuse, only fifteen
remained, including the two retired officers, who had escaped
from Montaignac, and brought Lacheneur intelligence that the
conspiracy was discovered. Marie-Anne was in the centre of
this little party.
Her father and his friends were trying to decide what course
should be pursued. Should each man go his own way ? or
should they unite, and by an obstinate resistance, give their
comrades time to reach their homes?
Chanlouineau's voice put an end to the hesitation. "I have
come to fight," he exclaimed, "and I shall sell my life dearly."
"We will make a stand then !" cried the others.
But Chanlouineau did not immediately follow them to the
spot they considered best adapted for a prolonged defense ; he
called Maurice and drew him a little aside. "You must leave
us at once, M. d'Escorval," he said, in a rough voice.
"I — I came here, Chanlouineau, as you did, to do my duty."
"Your duty, sir, is to serve Marie-Anne. Go at once, and
take her with you."
"I shall remain," said Maurice firmly.
He was going to join his comrades when Chanlouineau
stopped him. "You have no right to sacrifice your life here,"
he said quickly. "It belongs to the woman who has given her-
self to you."
"Wretch ! how dare you — "
Chanlouineau sadly shook his head. "What is the use of
denying it?" said he. "It was so great a temptation that only
an angel could have resisted it. It was not your fault, nor was
it hers. Lacheneur was a bad father. There was a day when
I wanted either to kill myself or to kill you, I didn't know
which. Ah ! you certainly were near death that day. You were
scarcely five paces from the muzzle of my gun. It was God
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 389
who stayed my hand by reminding me what her despair would
be. But now that I have to die, and Lacheneur as well, some
one must take care of Marie-Anne. Swear that you will marry
her. You may be involved in some difficulty on account of this
affair; but I have the means of saving you."
He was suddenly interrupted by a fu-illade. The Due de
Sairmeuse's soldiers were approaching. "Good heavens!" ex-
claimed Chanlouineau, "and Marie-Anne."
They rushed in pursuit of her, and Maurice was the first to
find her, standing in the centre of the open space clinging to
the neck of her father's horse. He took her in his arms, trying
to drag her away. "Come !" said he, "come !"
But she refused. "Leave me, leave me !" she entreated.
"But all is lost !"
"Yes, I know that all is lost — even honor. Leave me here.
I must remain; I must die, and thus hide my shame. It must,
it shall be so !"
Just then Chanlouineau reached them. Had he divined the
secret of her resistance? Perhaps so, but at all events without
uttering a word, he lifted her in his strong arms as if she had
been a child, and carried her to the cabriolet, beside which the
Abbe Midon was standing. "Get in," he said, addressing the
priest, "and quick — take Mademoiselle Lacheneur. Now,
Maurice, it's your turn !"
But the duke's soldiers were already masters of the field.
They had perceived this little group and hastened forward.
Brave Chanlouineau certainly was. He seized his gun, and
brandishing it like a club managed to hold the enemy at bay,
while Maurice sprang into the carriage, caught the reins, and
started the horse off at a gallop. All the cowardice and all the
heroism displayed on that terrible night will never be really
known. Two minutes after the departure of the vehicle, Chan-
louineau was still battling with the foe. He had at least a
dozen men to deal with. Twenty shots had been fired, and yet
he was unwounded, and his enemies almost believed him to be
invulnerable.
"Surrender!" cried the soldiers, amazed by his bravery;
"surrender !"
"Never ! never !" he shrieked in reply, at the same time
warding his assailants off with well-nigh superhuman strength
and agility. The struggle might have lasted some time longer,
had not one of the soldiers managed to crawl behind him, with-
390 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
out being perceived. This linesman seized Chanlouineau by the
legs, and although the latter struggled furiously, he was taken
at such a disadvantage that further resistance was impossible.
He fell to the ground with a loud cry of "Help ! friends, help !"'
But no one responded to this appeal. At the other end of the
open space those upon whom he called had virtually yielded,
after a desperate struggle. The main body of the duke's in-
fantry was near at hand. The rebels could hear the drums
beating the charge and see the bayonets gleaming in the
moonlight.
Lacheneur, who had remained on horseback amid his parti-
zans, utterly ignoring the bullets that whistled round him, felt
that his few remaining friends were about to be exterminated.
At that supreme moment a vision of the past flitted before his
mind's eye, with the rapidity of a flash of lightning. He read
and judged his own heart. Hatred had led him to crime. He
loathed himself for the humiliation which he had imposed upon
his daughter, and cursed himself for the falsehoods with which
he had deceived these brave men, for whose death he would be
accountable to God. Enough blood had flowed; he must save
those who remained. "Cease firing, my friends," he com-
manded ; "retreat !"
They obeyed — he could see them scatter in every direction.
He too could fly, for was he not mounted on a swift steed
which would bear him beyond the reach of the enemy? But
he had sworn that he would not survive defeat. Maddened
with remorse, despair, sorrow, and impotent rage, he saw no
refuge except in death. He had only to wait for it, for it was
fast approaching; and yet he preferred to rush to meet it.
Gathering up the reins, and applying the spurs he charged upon
the enemy.
The shock was rude, the ranks opened, and there was a mo-
ment's confusion. Then Lacheneur's horse, wounded by a dozen
bayonet thrusts, reared on its hind-legs, beat the air with its
fore hoofs, and, falling backward, pinned its rider underneath.
And the soldiers marched onward, not suspecting that the rider
was struggling to free himself.
It was half-past one in the morning — the open space where
the cross-roads met was virtually deserted. Nothing could be
heard save the moans of a few wounded men calling on their
comrades for succor. Before thinking of attending to the
wounded, M. de Sairmeuse had to occupy himself with his own
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 391
personal interests and glory. Now that the insurrection had,
so to say, been suppressed, it was necessary to exaggerate its
magnitude as much as possible, in order that his grace's reward
might be in proportion with the services he would be supposed
to have rendered. Some fifteen or twenty rebels had been cap-
tured; but these were not sufficient to give the victory all the
eclat which the duke desired. He must find more culprits to
drag before the provost-marshal or before a military commis-
sion. He, therefore, divided his troops into several detach-
ments, and sent them in every direction with orders to explore
the villages, search the houses, and arrest all suspected per-
sons. Having given this order and recommended implacable
severity, he turned his horse and started at a brisk trot for
Montaignac.
Like his friend, M. de Courtornieu, he would have blessed
these honest, artless conspirators, had not a growing fear im-
paired his satisfaction. Was his son, the Marquis de Sairmeuse,
really implicated in this conspiracy or not? The duke could
scarcely believe in Martial's connivance, and yet the recollec-
tion of Chupin's assertions troubled him. On the other hand,
what could have become of Martial ? Had he been met by the
servant sent to warn him? Was he returning? And, in that
case, by which road? Had he fallen into the hands of the
peasants? So many questions which could not with certainty
be answered.
His grace's relief was intense when, on reaching his resi-
dence in Montaignac, after a conference with M. de Courtor-
nieu, he learned that Martial had returned home about a quarter
of an hour before. The servant who brought him this news
added that the marquis had gone to his own room directly he
dismounted from his horse.
"All right," replied the duke. "I will go to him there." At
the same time, however, despite his outward placidity of man-
ner, he was secretly murmuring: "What abominable imperti-
nence ! What ! I am on horseback at the head of my troops, my
life imperiled, and my son goes quietly to bed without even
assuring himself of my safety !"
He reached Martial's room, and finding the door closed and
locked on the inside, rapped angrily against the panel.
"Who is there?" inquired the young marquis.
"It is I," replied the duke; "open the door."
Martial at once complied, and M. de Sairmeuse entered; but
392 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
the sight that met his gaze made him tremble. On the table
stood a basin full of blood, and Martial, with bare chest, was
bathing a large wound near the right temple.
"You have been fighting!" exclaimed the duke, in an agi-
tated voice.
"Yes."
"Ah ! — then you were, indeed — "
"I was where? — what?"
"Why, at the rendezvous of those miserable peasants who,
in their folly, dared to dream of overthrowing the best of
princes !"
"I think you must be jesting, sir," replied Martial, in a tone
of deep surprise, which somewhat reassured his father, though
it failed to dissipate his suspicions entirely.
"Then these vile rascals attacked you?" inquired M. de Sair-
meuse.
"Not at all. I have been simply obliged to fight a duel."
"With whom? Name the scoundrel who has dared to insult
you.
A faint flush tinged Martial's cheek; but it was with his
usual careless manner that he replied : "Upon my word, no ; I
shall not give his name. You would trouble him, perhaps; and
I really owe the fellow a debt of gratitude. It happened upon
the highway; he might have murdered me without ceremony
had he only chosen, but he offered me open combat. Besides,
he was wounded far more severely than I."
All M. de Sairmeuse's doubts had now returned. "And why,
instead of summoning a physician, are you attempting to dress
this wound yourself?"
"Because it is a mere trifle, and because I wish to keep it a
secret."
The duke shook his head. "All this is scarcely plausible,"
he remarked; "especially after the statements made to me con-
cerning your complicity in the revolt."
"Ah !" said the young marquis, "so your head spy has been
at work again. However, I am certainly surprised that you can
hesitate for a moment between your son's word and the stories
told you by such a wretch."
"Don't speak ill of Chupin, marquis; he is a very useful man.
Had it not been for him, we should have been taken unawares.
It was through him that I learned of this vast conspiracy organ-
ized by Lacheneur — "
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
393
"What ! is it Lacheneur— "
"Who is at the head of the movement ? — yes, marquis. Ah I
your usual discernment has failed you in this instance. What,
you were a constant visitor at his house, and yet you suspected
nothing? And you contemplate a diplomatic career! But this
is not everything. Now you know what became of the money
you so lavishly bestowed on these people. They used it to pur-
chase guns, powder, and ammunition."
The duke was satisfied that his earlier suspicions concern-
ing his son's complicity were without foundation ; still he could
not resist the temptation to taunt Martial anent his intimacy
with the ex-steward of Sairmeuse. But, despite the bitterness
of the situation, it proved a fruitless effort. Martial knew very
well that he had been duped, but he did not think of resent-
ment.
"If Lacheneur has been captured," he murmured to him-
self, "if he were condemned to death, and if I could only save
him, then Marie-Anne would have nothing to refuse me."
TX7HEN the Baron d'Escorval divined the reason of his
son's frequent absences from home, he studiously avoided
speaking on the matter to his wife; and, indeed, he did not
even warn her of his purpose when he went to ask the Abbe
Midon to go with him to Lacheneur's. This was the first time
that he had ever had a secret from the faithful partner of his
life; and his silence fully explains the intensity of Madame
d'Escorval's astonishment when at dinner time Maurice was
sometimes late ; but the baron, like all great workers, was punc-
tuality itself. Hence his non-arrival could only be due to some
extraordinary occurrence. Madame d'Escorvai's surprise devel-
oped into uneasiness when she ascertained that her husband had
started off in the Abbe Midon's company, that they had har-
nessed a horse to the cabriolet themselves, driving through the
stable-yard into a lane leading to the public road, in lieu of
passing through the courtyard in front of the house, as was the
394 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
usual practise. This strange precaution must necessarily con-
ceal some mystery.
Madame d'Escorval waited, oppressed by vague forebodings.
The servants shared her anxiety ; for the baron's affability and
kindness had greatly endeared him to all his dependents. Long
hours passed by, but eventually, at about ten o'clock in the
evening, a peasant returning from Sairmeuse passed by the cha-
teau, and seeing the servants clustering in front of the garden
gate he stopped short, and with the loquacity of a man who has
just been sacrificing at the altar of Bacchus, proceeded to relate
the most incredible stories. He declared that all the peasantry
for ten leagues around were under arms, and that the Baron
d'Escorval was the leader of a revolt organized for the restora-
tion of the Empire. He did not doubt the final success of the
movement, boldly stating that Napoleon II, Marie-Louise, and
all the marshals were concealed in Montaignac. Alas ! it must
be confessed that Lacheneur had not hesitated to utter the
grossest falsehoods in his anxiety to gain followers to his cause.
Madame d'Escorval, before whom this peasant was conducted,
could not be deceived by these ridiculous stories, but she could
and did believe that the baron was the prime mover in the in-
surrection. And this belief, which would have carried conster-
nation to many women's hearts, absolutely reassured her. She
had entire, unlimited faith in her husband. She believed him
superior to all other men — infallible, in short. Hence, if he had
organized a movement, that movement was right. If he had
attempted it, it was because he expected to succeed; and if he
looked for success, to her mind it was certain.
Impatient, however, to know the result, she despatched the
gardener to Sairmeuse with orders to obtain information with-
out awakening suspicion, if possible, and to hasten back as soon
as he could learn anything of a positive nature. He returned
shortly after midnight, pale, frightened, and in tears. The dis-
aster had already become known, and had been described to
him with any amount of exaggeration. He had been told that
hundreds of men had been killed, and that a whole army was
scouring the country, massacring the defenseless peasants and
their families.
While he was telling his story, Madame d'Escorval felt as if
she were going mad. She saw — yes, positively, saw her son and
her husband, dead — or still worse, mortally wounded, stretched
on the public highway — lying with their arms crossed upon
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 395
their breasts, livid, bloody, their eyes staring wildly — begging
for water — a drop of water to assuage" their burning thirst. "I
will find them !" she exclaimed, in frenzied accents. "I will go
to the battlefield and seek for them among the dead, until I find
them. Light some torches, my friends, and come with me, for
you will aid me, will you not? You loved them; they were so
good ! You would not leave their dead bodies unburied ! Oh !
the wretches ! the wretches who have killed them !"
The servants were hastening to obey when the furious gallop
of a horse and the rapid roll of carriage-wheels were heard.
"Here they come !" exclaimed the gardener, "here they come !"
Madame d'Escorval, followed by the servants, rushed to the
gate just in time to see a cabriolet enter the courtyard, and the
panting horse, flecked with foam, miss his footing, and fall.
The Abbe Midon and Maurice had already sprung to the ground
and were removing an apparently lifeless body from the vehicle.
Even Marie-Anne's great energy had not been able to resist so
many successive shocks. The last trial had overwhelmed her.
Once in a carriage, all immediate danger having disappeared,
the excitement which had sustained her fled. She became un-
conscious, and all efforts had hitherto failed to restore her.
Madame d'Escorval, however, did not recognize Mademoiselle
Lacheneur in her masculine attire. She only saw that the body
Maurice and the priest were carrying was not her husband,
and, turning to her son, exclaimed in a stifled voice : "And your
father — your father, where is he?"
Until that moment, Maurice and the cure had comforted
themselves with the hope that M. d'Escorval would reach home
before them. They were now cruelly undeceived. Maurice tot-
tered, and almost dropped his precious burden. The abbe per-
ceived his anguish, and made a sign to two servants, who gently
lifted Marie-Anne, and bore her to the house. Then turning
to Madame d'Escorval the cure exclaimed at hazard: "The
baron will soon be here, madame, he fled first — "
"The Baron d'Escorval could not have fled," she interrupted.
"A general does not desert when he is face to face with the
enemy. If a panic seizes his soldiers, he rushes to the front,
and either leads them back to combat, or sacrifices his own
life."
"Mother!" faltered Maurice; "mother!"
"Oh ! do not try to deceive me. My husband was the organ-
izer of this conspiracy. If his confederates have been beaten
396 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
and dispersed they must have proved themselves cowards.
Heaven have mercy upon me, my husband is dead !"
In spite of the abbe's quickness of perception, he could not
understand these assertions on the part of the baroness; and
feared that sorrow and terror had tampered with her mind.
"Ah ! madame," he exclaimed, "the baron had nothing to do
with this movement: far from it — " He paused; they were
standing in the courtyard, in the full glare of the torches lighted
by the servants a moment previously. Any one passing along
the public road could hear and see everything; and in the pres-
ent situation such imprudence might have fatal results. "Come,
Madame," accordingly resumed the priest, leading the baroness
toward the house ; "and you, Maurice, come as well !"
Madame d'Escorval and her son passively obeyed the sum-
mons. The former seemed crushed by unspeakable anguish, but
on entering the drawing-room she instinctively glanced at the
seemingly lifeless form extended on the sofa. This time she
recognized Marie-Anne. "What, Mademoiselle Lacheneur !"
she faltered, "here in this costume? dead?"
One might indeed believe that the poor girl was dead, to see
her lying there rigid, cold, and as white as if the last drop of
blood had been drained from her veins. Her beautiful face
had the motionless pallor of marble; her half-open, colorless
lips disclosed her teeth, clenched convulsively, and a large dark
blue circle surrounded her closed eyelids. Her long black hair,
which she had rolled up closely, so as to slip it under her peas-
ant's hat, was now unwound, and fell confusedly over the sofa
and her shoulders.
"There is no danger," declared the abbe, after he had ex-
amined her. "She has only fainted, and it will not be long be-
fore she regains consciousness." And then, rapidly but clearly,
he gave the necessary directions to the servants, who were as
astonished as their mistress.
"What a night!" murmured Madame d'Escorval, as, staring
on the scene with dilated eyes, she mechanically wiped her
forehead, covered with cold perspiration.
"I must remind you, madame," said the priest sympathizingly,
but firmly, "that reason and duty alike forbid your yielding to
despair! Wife, where is your energy? Christian, what has
become of your confidence in a just and protecting Providence !"
"Oh, I have courage left," faltered the wretched woman. "I
am brave !"
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 397
The abbe led her to a large armchair and compelled her to
sit down. Then in a gentler tone, he resumed : "Besides, why
should you despair, madame? Your son is with you in safety.
Your husband has not compromised himself ; he has done noth-
ing more than I have done myself." And briefly, but with rare
precision, the priest explained the part which he and the baron
had played during this unfortunate evening.
Instead of reassuring the baroness, however, his recital
seemed to increase her anxiety. "I understand you," she inter-
rupted, "and I believe you. But I also know that all the people
in the country round about are convinced that my husband com-
manded the rebels. Thev believe it, and they will say it."
"And what of that?"
"If he has been arrested, as you give me to understand may
be the case, he will be summoned before a court-martial. Was
he not one of the emperor's friends ? That alone is a crime, as
you know very well yourself. He will be convicted and sen-
tenced to death."
"No, madame, no ! Am I not here ? I will go to the tribunal
and say : 'I have seen and know everything.' "
"But they will arrest you as well, for you are not a priest
after their cruel hearts. They will throw you into prison, and
you will meet him on the scaffold."
Maurice had been listening with a pale, haggard face. "Ah.
I shall have been the cause of the death of my father," he ex-
claimed, as he heard these last words, and then, despite all the
abbe's attempts to silence him, he continued : "Yes, I shall have
killed him. He was ignorant even of the existence of this con-
spiracy desired by Lacheneur; but I knew of it, and wished to
succeed, because on it the success, the happiness of my life
depended. And then — wretch that I was ! — at times when I
wished to gain a waverer in our ranks, I mentioned the hon-
ored name of D'Escorval. Ah ! I was mad ! — I was mad ! And
yet, even now, I have not the courage to curse my folly! Oh.
mother, mother, if you knew — "
The young fellow paused, the sobs which convulsively rose
in his throat choking all further utterances. Just then a faint
moan was heard. Marie-Anne was slowly regaining conscious-
ness. She seemed intensely puzzled by the scene around her,
and passed her hands before her wandering eyes as if to ascer-
tain whether she were really awake or not. At one moment
she opened her mouth as if to speak, but the Abbe Midon
398 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
checked her with a hasty gesture. Maurice's confession and his
mother's remarks had fully enlightened the priest as to the
danger threatening the D'Escorvals. How could it he averted?
There was no time for reflection. He must decide and act at
once. Accordingly, he darted to the door and summoned the
servants, still clustering in the hall and on the staircase. "Lis-
ten to me attentively," said he, in that quick imperious voice
which unhesitatingly impresses the hearer with the certainty
of approaching peril, "and remember that your master's life
depends, perhaps, upon your discretion. We can rely upon you,
can we not?"
Simultaneously the little group of dependents raised their
hands, as if to call upon Heaven to witness their fidelity.
"In less than an hour," continued the priest, "the soldiers
sent in pursuit of the fugitives will be here. Not a word must
be said concerning what has happened this evening. Whoever
questions you must be led to suppose that I went away with the
baron, and returned alone. Not one of you must have seen
Mademoiselle Lacheneur. We are going to conceal her. Re-
member, my friends, that all is lost if the slightest suspicion of
her presence here is roused. Should the soldiers question you,
try and convince them that M. Maurice has not left the house
this evening." The priest paused for a moment, trying to think
if he had forgotten any other precaution that human prudence
could suggest ; then he added again : "One word more ; to see
you standing about at this hour of the night will awaken sus-
picion at once. However, we must plead in justification the
alarm we feel at the baron's prolonged absence. Besides, Ma-
dame d'Escorval is ill and that will furnish another excuse.
She must go to bed at once, for by this means she may escape
all awkward questioning. As for you, Maurice, run and change
your clothes ; and above all, wash your hands, and sprinkle some
scent over them."
Those who heard the abbe were so impressed with the immi-
nence of the danger that they were more than willing to obey
his orders. As soon as Marie-Anne could be moved, she was
carried to a tiny garret under the roof ; while Madame d'Escor-
val retired to her own room, and the servants went back to the
kitchen. Maurice and the abbe remained alone in the drawing-
room. They were both cruelly oppressed by anxiety, and shared
the opinion that the Baron d'Escorval had been made a prisoner.
In that event, the Abbe Midon felt that all he could usefully at-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 399
tempt was to try and save Maurice from any charge of com-
plicity. "And who knows," he muttered, "the son's freedom
may save the father's life?"
At that moment, his meditations were interrupted by a violent
pull at the bell of the front gate. The gardener could be heard
hastening to answer the summons, the gate grated on its hinges,
and then the measured tread of soldiers resounded over the
gravel. Half a minute later a loud voice commanded : "Halt !"
The priest looked at Maurice and saw that he was as
pale as death. "Be calm," he entreated, "don't be alarmed.
Don't lose your self-possession — and, above all, don't forget my
instructions."
"Let them come," replied Maurice. "I am prepared."
Scarcely had he spoken than the drawing-room door was
flung violently open, and a captain of grenadiers entered the
apartment. He was a young fellow of five-and-twenty, tall,
fair-haired, with blue eyes, and a little, carefully waxed mus-
tache. No doubt on ordinary occasions this military dandy's
features wore the coxcomb's usual look of self-complacency, but
for the time being he had a really ferocious air. The soldiers
by whom he was accompanied awaited his orders in the hall.
After glancing suspiciously round the apartment, he asked in
a harsh voice: "Who is the master of this house?"
"The Baron d'Escorval, my father, who is absent," replied
Maurice.
"Where is he ?"
The abbe, who had hitherto remained seated, now rose to
his feet. "On hearing of the unfortunate outbreak of this even-
ing," he replied, "the baron and myself went after the peasants
in the hope of inducing them to relinquish their foolish under-
taking. They would not listen to us. In the confusion that
ensued, I became separated from the baron ; I returned here
very anxious, and am now waiting for his return."
The captain twisted his mustache with a sneering air. "Not
a bad invention !" said he. "Only I don't believe a word of it."
A threatening light gleamed in the priest's eyes, and his lips
trembled for a moment. However, he prudently held his peace.
"Who are you?" rudely asked the officer.
"I am the cure of Sairmeuse."
"Honest men ought to be in bed at this hour. And you are
racing about the country after rebellious peasants. Really, I
don't know what prevents me from ordering your arrest."
7 — Vol. II — Gab.
400 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
What did prevent him was the priestly robe, all powerful
under the Restoration. With Maurice, however, the swagger-
ing swashbuckler was more at ease. "How manv are there in
this family of yours?" he asked.
"Three; my father, my mother — ill at this moment — and
myself."
"And how many servants?"
"Seven — four men and three women."
"You haven't housed or concealed any one here this evening?"
"No one."
"It will be necessary to prove that," rejoined the captain;
and, turning toward the door, he called: "Corporal Bavois,
step here !"
This corporal proved to be one of the old soldiers who had
followed the emperor all over Europe. Two tiny, but piercing
gray eyes lighted his tanned, weather-beaten face, and an im-
mense hooked nose surmounted a heavy, bristling mustache.
"Bavois," commanded the officer, "take half a dozen men and
search this house from top to bottom. You are an old fox,
and if there be any hiding-place here, you will be sure to dis-
cover it. If you find any one concealed here, bring the person
to me. Go, and make haste !"
The corporal saluted and turned on his heels ; while the cap-
tain walked toward Maurice : "And now," said he, "what have
you been doing this evening?"
The young man hesitated for a moment : then, with well-
feigned indifference, replied : "I have not put my head out of
doors."
"Hum ! that must be proved. Let me see your hands."
The soldier's tone was so offensive that Maurice felt the
blood rise to his forehead. Fortunately a warning glance from
the abbe made him restrain himself. He offered his hands for
inspection, and the captain, after examining them carefully on
either side, took the final precaution to smell them. "Ah !"
quoth he, "these hands are too white and smell too sweet to
have been dabbling with powder."
At the same time he was somewhat surprised that this young
man should have so little courage as to remain by the fireside
at home, while his father was leading the peasants on to battle.
"Another thing," said he: "you must have some weapons here?"
"Yes, a few hunting rifles."
"Where are they?"
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 401
"In a small room on the ground floor."
"Take me there."
They conducted him to the room, and on finding that none
of the guns had been used, at least for some days, he seemed
considerably annoyed. But his disappointment reached a climax
when Corporal Bavois returned and stated that he had searched
everywhere, without finding anything of a suspicious character.
"Send for the servants," was the officer's next order ; but all
the dependents faithfully confined themselves to the story in-
vented by the Abbe Midon, and the captain perceived that even
if a mystery existed, as he suspected, he was not likely to fathom
it. Swearing that all the inmates of the house should pay a
heavy penalty if they were deceiving him, he again called Bavois
and told him that he should resume the search himself. "You,"
he added, "will remain here with two men, and I shall expect
you to render a strict account of all you see and hear. If
M. d'Escorval returns, bring him to me at once ; do not allow
him to escape. Keep your eyes open and good luck to you!"
He added a few words in a low voice, and then left the room
as abruptly as he had entered it. Scarcely had the sound of
his footsteps died away than the corporal gave vent to his dis-
gust in a frightful oath. "Hein!" said he to his men, "did you
hear that cadet ? Listen, watch, arrest, report. So he takes
us for spies ! Ah ! if the Little Corporal only knew how his
old soldiers were degraded !"
The two men responded with sullen growls.
"As for you," pursued the old trooper, addressing Maurice
and the abbe, "I, Bavois, corporal of the grenadiers, declare
in my own name and in that of my comrades here, that you
are as free as birds, and that we shall arrest no one. More
than that, if we can aid you in any way, we are at your service.
The little fool who commands us this evening thought we were
fighting. Look at my gun — I have not fired a shot from it —
and my comrades only fired blank cartridges." The statement
might possibly be a sincere one, but was scarcely probable.
"We have nothing to conceal," replied the cautious priest.
The old corporal gave a knowing wink. "Ah ! you distrust
me !" said he. "You are wrong, as I'll show you. It may be
easy to gull that fool who has just left here, but it's not so
easy to deceive Corporal Bavois. And if you had intended to
do so, you shouldn't have left a gun in the courtyard, which
was certainly never loaded for firing at swallows."
402 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
The cure and Maurice exchanged glances of consternation.
Maurice now recollected, for the first time, that on alighting
from the cabriolet on his return he had hastily propped the
loaded gun against the wall. The weapon had subsequently
escaped the servants' notice.
"Secondly!" resumed Bavois, "there is some one concealed
in the attic. I have excellent ears. Thirdly, I arranged matters
so that no one should enter the sick lady's room."
Maurice needed no further proof. He held out his hand to
the corporal, and, in a voice trembling with emotion, replied :
"You are a noble fellow !"
A few moments later — the three grenadiers having retired to
another room, where they were served with supper — Maurice,
the abbe, and Madame d'Escorval were again deliberating con-
cerning their future action, when Marie-Anne entered the apart-
ment with a pale face, but firm step. "I must leave this house,"
she said to the baroness in a tone of quiet resolution. "Had I
been conscious. I would never have accepted hospitality which
is likely to bring such misfortune on your family. Your ac-
quaintance with me has cost you too much sorrow already.
Don't you understand now why I wished you to look on us
as strangers? A presentiment told me that my family would
prove fatal to yours!"
"Poor child!" exclaimed Madame d'Escorval; "where will
you go?"
Marie-Anne raised her beautiful eyes to heaven. "I don't
know, madame," she replied, "but duty commands me to go.
I must learn what has become of my father and brother, and
share their fate."
"What!" exclaimed Maurice, "still this thought of death.
You, who no longer — " He paused, for a secret which was
not his own had almost escaped his lips. But visited by a
sudden inspiration, he threw himself at his mother's feet. "Oh,
my mother ! my dearest mother, do not allow her to go," he
cried. "I may perish in my attempt to save my father. She
will be your daughter then — she whom I have loved so dearly.
She can not leave us. You will encircle her with your tender
and protecting love; and maybe, after all these trials, happier
times will come."
Touched by her son's despair, Madame d'Escorval turned to
Marie-Anne, and with her winning words soon prevailed upon
her to remain.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
403
HP HE baroness knew nothing of the secret which Marie-Anne
■*• had revealed at the Croix d'Arcy, when she proclaimed
her desire to die by her father's side.; but Maurice was scarcely
uneasy on that score, for his faith in his mother was so great
that he felt sure she would forgive them both when she learned
the truth. Not unfrequently does it happen, that of all women,
chaste and loving wives and mothers are precisely the most
indulgent toward those whom the voice of passion has led
astray.
Comforted by this reflection, which reassured him as to
the future of the girl he loved, Maurice now turned all his
thoughts toward his father.
The day was breaking, and he declared that he would dis-
guise himself as best he could, and go to Montaignac at once.
It was not without a feeling of anxiety that Madame d'Escorval
heard him speak in this manner. She was trembling for her
husband's life, and now her son must hurry into danger. Per-
haps before the day was over neither husband nor son would
be left to her. And yet she did not forbid his going; for she
felt that he was only fulfilling a sacred duty. She would have
loved him less had she supposed him capable of cowardly hesi-
tation, and would have dried her tears if necessary to bid him
"go." Moreover, was not anything preferable to the agony of
suspense which they had been enduring for hours?
Maurice had reached the drawing-room door when the abbe
called him back. "You must certainly go to Montaignac," said
he, "but it would be folly to disguise yourself. You would
surely be recognized, and the saying, 'He who conceals himself
is guilty,' would at once be applied to you. You must proceed
openly, with head erect, and you must even exaggerate the
assurance of innocence. Go straight to the Due de Sairmeuse
and the Marquis de Courtornieu. I will accompany you; we
will go together in the carriage."
"Take this advice, Maurice," said Madame d'Escorval, see-
404 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
ing that her son seemed undecided ; "the abbe knows what is
best much better than we do."
The cure had not waited for the assent which Maurice gave
to his mother's words, but had already gone to order the car-
riage to be got ready. On the other hand, Madame d'Escorval
now left the room to write a few lines to a lady friend, whose
husband had considerable influence in Montaignac ; and Maurice
and Marie-Anne were thus left alone. This was the first mo-
ment of freedom they had found since Marie-Anne's confes-
sion. "My darling," whispered Maurice, clasping the young
girl to his heart, "I did not think it was possible to love more
fondly than I loved you yesterday ; but now — And you — you
wish for death when another precious life depends on yours."
"I was terrified," faltered Marie-Anne. "I was terrified at
the prospect of shame which I saw — which I still see before
me; but now I am resigned. My frailty deserves punishment,
and T must submit to the insults and disgrace awaiting me."
"Insults ! Let any one dare insult you ! But will you not
now be my wife in the sight of men, as you are in the sight of
heaven? The failure of your father's scheme sets you free!"
"No, no, Maurice, I am not free ! Ah ! it is you who are
pitiless ! I see only too well that you curse me, that you curse
the day when we met for the first time ! Confess it !" And
so speaking, Marie-Anne lifted her streaming eyes to his. "As
for me," she resumed, "I could not say so. Grievous my fault
is, no doubt I am disgraced and humiliated, but still — "
She could not finish ; Maurice drew her to him, and their
lips and their tears met in one long embrace. "You love me,"
he exclaimed, "you love me in spite of everything ! We shall
succeed. I will save your father, and mine — I will save your
brother too."
He had no time to say more. The baron's berlin, to which
a couple of horses had been harnessed, that they might reach
Montaignac with greater speed, was waiting in the courtyard ;
and the abbe's voice could be heard calling on Maurice to make
haste, and Madame d'Escorval, moreover, now returned, carry-
ing a letter which she handed to her son. One long, last
embrace, and then leaving the two women to their tears and
prayers, Maurice and the abbe sprang into the carriage, which
was soon dashing along the highroad toward Montaignac.
"If, by confessing your own guilt, you could save your
father," said the Abbe Midon as they rolled through the vil-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 405
lage of Sairmeuse, "I should tell you to give yourself up and
confess the whole truth. Such would be your duty. But such
a sacrifice would be not only useless, but dangerous. Your
confessions of guilt would only implicate your father still more.
You would be arrested, but they would not release him, and
you would both be tried and convicted. Let us then allow —
I will not say justice, for that would be blasphemy — but these
bloodthirsty men, who call themselves judges, to pursue their
course, and attribute all that you yourself have done to your
father. When the trial comes on you will be able to prove
his innocence, and to produce alibis of so unimpeachable a
character that they will be forced to acquit him. And I under-
stand the people of our province well enough to feel sure that
none of them will reveal our stratagem."
"And if we should not succeed in that way," asked Maurice,
gloomily, "what could I do then ?"
The question was so grave a one that the priest did not even
try to answer it, and, tortured with anxiety and cruel forebod-
ings, he and Maurice remained silent during the rest of the
journey. When they reached the town young D'Escorval real-
ized the abbe's wisdom in preventing him from assuming a dis-
guise ; for, armed as they were with absolute power, the Due
de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu had closed all
the gates of Montaignac but one, through which all those who
desired to leave or enter the town were obliged to pass; two
officers being, moreover, stationed beside it, to examine and
question all comers and goers. Maurice noticed these officers'
surprise when, on being asked who he was, he gave them the
name of D'Escorval. "Ah ! you know what has become of my
father!" he exclaimed.
"The Baron d'Escorval is a prisoner," replied one of the
officers.
Although Maurice had expected this reply, he turned pale with
suppressed emotion. "Is he wounded ?" he asked, eagerly.
"He hasn't a scratch," was the answer; "but please pass on."
From the tone of this last remark, and the anxious looks the
officers exchanged one might have supposed that they feared
they might compromise themselves by conversing with the son
of so great a criminal.
The carriage rolled under the archway, and had gone a
couple of hundred yards or so along the Grand Rue when
Maurice noticed a large poster affixed to one of the walls, and
406 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
which an elderly man was busy perusing. Instinctively both
the occupants of the vehicle felt that this notice must have some
connection with the revolt; and they were not mistaken, for
on springing to the ground they themselves read as follows :
"We, commander of the Military Division of Montaignac, in
virtue of the State of Siege, decree: Article I. The inmates of
the house in which the elder Lacheneur is found shall be handed
over to a military commission for trial. Article II. Whoever
shall deliver up the body of the elder Lacheneur, dead or alive,
will receive a reward of twenty thousand francs. Signed:
Due de Sairmeuse."
"God be praised !" exclaimed Maurice when he had finished
his perusal. "Then Marie-Anne's father has escaped ! He had
a good horse, and in two hours — "
A glance and a nudge from the abbe checked him ; and in
turning he recognized that the man standing near them was
none other than Father Chupin. The old scoundrel had also
recognized them, for he took off his hat to the cure, and with
an expression of intense covetousness remarked : "Twenty thou-
sand francs ! What a sum ! A man could live comfortably all
his life on the interest."
The abbe and Maurice shuddered as they reentered the car-
riage. "Lacheneur is lost if that man discovers his where-
abouts," murmured the priest.
"Fortunately he must have crossed the frontier before now,"
replied Maurice. "A hundred to one he is beyond reach."
"And if you should be mistaken? What, if wounded and
faint from loss of blood, Lacheneur only had strength enough
to drag himself to the nearest house and implore the hospitality
of its inmates?"
"Oh ! even in that case he is safe ; I know our peasants.
There is not one who is capable of selling the life of a pro-
scribed man."
This youthful enthusiasm elicited a sad smile from the priest.
"You forget the dangers to be incurred by those who shelter
him," he said. "Many a man who would not soil his hands with
the price of blood might deliver up a fugitive from fear."
They were passing through the principal street, and were
struck with the mournful aspect of the little city, usually so
gay and full of bustle. The shops were closed, and even the
window shutters of the houses had not been opened. So lugu-
brious was the silence that one might have supposed there was
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 407
a general mourning, and that each family had lost one or more
of its members. The manner of the few persons passing along
the footways testified to their deep anxiety. They hurried along,
casting suspicious glances on every side ; and two or three who
were acquaintances of the Baron d'Escorval averted their heads
directly they saw his carriage, so as to avoid the necessity of
bowing.
The terror prevailing in the town was explained when Mau-
rice and the abbe reached the Hotel de France, where they
proposed taking up their quarters ; and which establishment the
former's father had always patronized whenever he visited Mon-
taignac, the landlord being Laugeron — Lacheneur's friend, who
had been so anxious to warn him of the Due de Sairmeuse's
return to France. On catching sight of his visitors, this worthy
man hastened into the courtyard, cap in hand, to give them a
fitting greeting. In such a situation politeness amounted tc
heroism ; but it has always been supposed that Laugeron was
in some way connected with the conspiracy. He at once in-
vited Maurice and the abbe to take some refreshments, doing
so in such a way as to make them understand that he was
anxious to speak to them in private. Thanks to one of the
Due de Sairmeuse's valets who frequented the house, the land-
lord knew as much as the authorities ; and, indeed, he knew
even more, since he had also received information from sev-
eral rebels who had escaped capture. He conducted Maurice
and the abbe to a room looking on to the back of the house,
where he knew they would be secure from observation, and
then it was that they obtained their first positive information.
In the first place, nothing had been heard either of Lacheneur
or his son Jean, who had so far eluded all pursuit. Secondly,
there were, at that moment, no fewer than two hundred pris-
oners in the citadel, including both the Baron d'Escorval and
Chanlouineau. And finally, that very morning there had been
at least sixty additional arrests in Montaignac. It was gen-
erally supposed that these arrests were due to traitorous de-
nunciations, and all the inhabitants were trembling with fear.
M. Laugeron knew the real cause, however, for it had been
confided to him under pledge of secrecy by his customer, the
duke's valet. "It certainly seems an incredible story, gentle-
men," he remarked ; "but yet it is quite true. Two officers,
belonging to the Montaignac militia, were returning from the
expedition this morning at daybreak, when on passing the
408 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
Croix d'Arcy they perceived a man, wearing the uniform of
the emperor's bodyguard, lying dead in s. ditch. Not unnat-
urally they examined the body, and to their great astonishment
they found a slip of paper between the man's clenched teeth.
It proved to be a list of Montaignac conspirators, which this
old soldier, finding himself mortally wounded, had endeavored
to destroy; but the agonies of death had prevented him from
swallowing it — "
The abbe and Maurice had no time to listen to the general
news the landlord might have to impart. They requested
him to procure a messenger, who was at once despatched to
Escorval, so that the baroness and Marie-Anne might be made
acquainted with the information they had obtained concerning
both the baron and Lacheneur. They then left the hotel and
hastened to the house occupied by the Due de Sairmeuse.
There was a crowd at the door ; a crowd of a hundred per-
sons or so — men with anxious faces, women in tears — all of
them begging for an audience. These were the friends and
relatives of the unfortunate men who had been arrested. Two
footmen, wearing gorgeous liveries, of haughty mien, stood in
the doorway, their time being fully occupied in keeping back
the struggling throng. Hoping that his priestly dress would
win him a hearing, the Abbe Midon approached and gave his
name. But he was repulsed like the others. "M. le Due is
busy, and can receive nobody," said one of the servants. "M. le
Due is preparing his report to his majesty." And in support
of his assertion he pointed to the horses standing saddled in
the courtyard, and waiting for the couriers who were to carry
the despatches.
The priest sadly rejoined his companions. "We must wait !'
said he. And yet, intentionally or not, the servants were de-
ceiving these poor people, for just then the duke was in no
wise troubling himself about his despatches. In point of fact,
he happened to be engaged in a violent altercation with the
Marquis de Courtornieu. Each of these noble personages wa
anxious to play the leading part — that which would meet with
the highest reward at the hands of the supreme authorities at
Paris. This quarrel had begun on some petty point, but soon
they both lost their tempers, and stinging words, bitter allu-
sions, and even threats were rapidly exchanged. The marquis
declared it necessary to inflict the most frightful, he said the
most salutary, punishment upon the offenders ; while the duke,
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 409
on the contrary, was inclined to be indulgent. The marquis
opined that since Lacheneur, the prime mover, and his son,
had both eluded pursuit, it was absolutely requisite that Marie-
Anne should be arrested. M. de Sairmeuse, however, would
not listen to the suggestion. To his mind it would be most
impolitic to arrest this young girl. Such a course would ren-
der the authorities odious, and would exasperate all the rebels
who were still at large.
"These men must be put down with a strong hand!" urged
M. de Courtornieu.
"I don't wish to exasperate the populace," replied the
duke.
"Bah! what does public sentiment matter?"
"It matters a great deal when you can not depend upon your
soldiers. Do you know what happened last night? There was
enough powder burned to win a battle, and yet there were only
fifteen peasants wounded. Our men fired in the air. You for-
get that the Montaignac Corps is for the most part composed
of men who formerly fought under Bonaparte, and who are
burning to turn their weapons against us."
Thus did the dispute continue, ostensibly for motives of
public policy, though, in reality, both the duke and the mar-
quis had a secret reason for their obstinacy. Blanche de Cour-
tornieu had reached Montaignac that morning and had confided
her anxiety and her sufferings to her father, with the result
that she had made him swear to profit by this opportunity to
rid her of Marie-Anne. On his side, the duke was convinced
that Marie-Anne was his son's mistress, and wished, at any
cost, to prevent her appearance at the tribunal. Finding that
words had no influence whatever on his coadjutor, his grace
at last finished the dispute by a skilful stratagem. "As we
are of different opinions we can't possibly work together."
quoth he ; "we are one too many." And speaking in this fash-
ion he glanced so meaningly at a pair of pistols that the noble
marquis felt a disagreeable chilliness creep up his spine. He
had never been noted for bravery, and did not in the least
relish the idea of having a bullet lodged in his brains. Accord-
ingly he waived his proposal, and eventually agreed to go to
the citadel with the duke to inspect the prisoners.
The whole day passed by without M. de Sairmeuse consent-
ing to give a single audience, and Maurice spent his time in
watching: the moving arms of the semaphore perched on the
410 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
tall keep-tower. "What orders are traveling through space?"
he said to the abbe. "Are these message, of life or death?"
The messenger despatched from the Hotel de France had
been instructed to make haste, and yet he did not reach Escorval
until nightfall. Beset by a thousand fears, he had taken the
longest but less frequented roads, and had made numerous cir-
cuits to avoid the people he had seen approaching in the dis-
tance. Scarcely had the baroness read the letter written to
her by Maurice than, turning to Marie-Anne, she exclaimed:
"We must go to Montaignac at once !"
But this was easier said than done, for they only kept three
horses at Escorval. The one which had been harnessed to the
cabriolet the preceding night was lame — indeed, nearly dead;
while the other two had been taken to Montaignac that morn-
ing by Maurice and the priest. What were the ladies to do?
They appealed to some neighbors for assistance, but the latter,
having heard of the baron's arrest, firmly refused to lend a
horse, believing they should gravely compromise themselves if
they in any way helped the wife of a man charged with such
grievous offenses as high treason and revolt. Madame d'Es-
corval and Marie-Anne were talking of making the journey
on foot when Corporal Bavois, still left on guard at the chateau,
swore by the sacred name of thunder that this should not be.
He hurried off with his two men, and, after a brief absence,
returned leading an old plow-horse by the mane. He had, more
or less forcibly, requisitioned this clumsy steed, which he har-
nessed to the cabriolet as best he could. This was not his only
demonstration of good-will. His duties at the chateau were
over now that M. d'Escorval had been arrested, and nothing
remained for him but to rejoin his regiment. Accordingly he
declared that he would not allow these ladies to travel un-
attended at night-time along a road where they might be ex-
posed to many disagreeable encounters, but should escort them
to their journey's end with his two subordinates. "And it will
go hard with soldier c; civilian who ventures to molest them,
will it not, comrades?" he exclaimed.
As usual, his companions assented with an oath ; and as
Madame d'Escorval and Marie-Anne journeyed onward, they
could perceive the three men preceding or following the vehicle,
or oftener walking beside it. Not until they reached the gates
of Montaignac did the old soldier forsake his protegees, and
then not without bidding them a respectful farewell, in his
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 411
own name and that of his subordinates, adding that if they
had need of his services they had only to call upon Bavois,
corporal of grenadiers in Company No. I, stationed at the
citadel.
The clocks were striking half-past ten when Madame d'Es-
corval and Marie-Anne alighted at the Hotel de France. They
found Maurice in despair, and even the abbe disheartened, for
since the morning events had progressed with fearful rapidity.
The semaphore signals were now explained ; orders had come
from Paris ; and there they could be read in black and white,
affixed to the walls of the town. "Montaignac must be re-
garded as in a state of siege. The military authorities have
been granted discretionary powers. A military commission will
exercise jurisdiction in lieu of all other courts. Let peaceable
citizens take courage ; let the evil-disposed tremble ! As for
the rabble, the sword of the law is about to strike !" Only six
lines in all — but each word fraught with menace !
The abbe most regretted that trial before a military commis-
sion had been substituted for the customary court-martial. In-
deed this upset all the plans he had devised in the hope of
saving his friend. A court-martial is, of course, hasty and often
unjust in its decisions; but still it observes some of the forms
of procedure practised in judicial tribunals. It still retains
some of the impartiality of legal justice, which asks to be
enlightened before condemning. But the military commission
now to be appointed would naturally neglect all legal forms,
and the prisoners would be summarily condemned and punished
after the fashion in which spies are treated in time of war.
"What !" exclaimed Maurice, "would they dare to condemn
without investigating, without listening to testimony, without
allowing the prisoners time to prepare their defense?" The
abbe remained silent. The turn events had taken exceeded his
worst apprehensions. Now, indeed, he believed that anything
was possible.
Maurice had spoken of investigation. Investigation, if such
it could be called, had indeed begun that very day, and was
still continuing by the light of a jailer's lantern. That is to
say, the Due de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu
were passing the prisoners in review. They now numbered
three hundred, and the duke and his companion had decided to
begin by summoning before the commission thirty of the most
dangerous conspirators. How were they to select them? By
412 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
what method could they hope to discover the extent of each
prisoner's guilt? It would have been difficult for them to ex-
plain the course they took. They simply went from one man
to another, asking any question that entered their minds, and
when the terrified captive had answered them they either said
to the head jailer, "Keep this one until another time," or "This
one for to-morrow," their decision being guided by the impres-
sion the man's language and demeanor had created. By day-
light they had thirty names upon their list, at the head of which
figured those of the Baron d'Escorval and Chanlouineau.
Although the unhappy party at the Hotel de France were
not aware of this circumstance, they passed a sleepless, anxious
night; and it was relief, indeed, when the daylight peered
through the windows and the reveille could be heard beating
at the citadel ; for now at least they might renew their efforts.
The abbe intimated his intention of going alone to the duke's
house, declaring that he would find a way to force an entrance.
He had just bathed his red and swollen eyes in fresh water,
and was preparing to start, when a rap was heard at the door.
Directly afterward M. Laugeron, the landlord, entered the room.
His face betokened some dreadful misfortune; and indeed he
had just been made acquainted with the composition of the
military commission. In defiance of all equity and justice, the
presidency of this tribunal of vengeance had been offered to
the Due de Sairmeuse, who had unblushingly accepted it —
he who was at the same time both witness and executioner.
Moreover, he was to be assisted by other officers hitherto
placed under his immediate orders.
"And when does the commission enter upon its functions?"
inquired the abbe.
"To-day," replied the host, hesitatingly; "this morning — in
an hour — perhaps sooner!"
The priest understood well enough what M. Laugeron meant,
but what he dared not say: "The commission is assembling,
make haste." "Come!" said the Abbe Midon, turning to Mau-
rice, "1 wish to be present when your father is examined."
The baroness would have given anything to accompany the
priest and her son, but this could not be; she understood it
and submitted. As Maurice and his companion stepped into
the street they saw a soldier a short distance off who made a
friendly gesture. Recognizing Corporal Bavois, they paused
instinctively. But he, now passing them by with an air of the
THE HOXOR OF THE NAME 413
utmost indifference, and apparently without observing them,
hastily exclaimed : "I have seen Chanlouineau. Be of good
cheer : he promises to save the baron !"
T17ITHIN the limits of the citadel of Montaignac stands an
old building known as the chapel. Originally consecrated
to purposes of worship, this structure had at the time of which
we write fallen into disuse. It was so damp that it could not
even be utilized for storage purposes, and yet this was the
place selected by the Due de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de
Courtornieu for the assembling of the military commission.
When Maurice and the abbe entered this gloomy building they
found that the proceedings had not yet commenced. The little
trouble taken to transform the old chapel into a hall of justice
impressed them sadly, for it testified beyond power of mistake
to the precipitation of the judges, and revealed their deter-
mination to carry out the work of vengeance without either
delay or mercy. Three large tables taken from a soldier's
mess-room, and covered with horse blankets instead of baize,
stood on a raised platform formerly occupied by the chief altar
Behind these tables were ranged a few rush-seated chairs, wait-
ing the president's assessors, and in the midst glittered a richly
carved and gilt armchair, which his grace had had sent from
his own house for his personal accommodation. In front of
the tables three or four long wooden benches had been placed
in readiness for the prisoners, while several strong ropes were
stretched from one wall to the other, so as to divide the chapel
into two parts and allow considerable room for the public.
This last precaution had proved quite superfluous, for, con-
trary to expectation, there were not twenty persons in the
building. Prominent among these were ten or twelve men of
martial mien, but clad in civilian attire. Their scarred and
weather-beaten features testified to many an arduous campaign
fought in imperial times ; and indeed they had all served Napo-
leon — this one as a lieutenant, that other as a captain — but the
4}4 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
Restoration had dismissed them with scanty pensions and given
their well-earned commissions to cadets of the old nobility.
Their pale faces and the sullen fire gleaming in their eyes
showed plainly enough what they thought of the Due de Sair-
meuse's proceedings. In addition to these retired officers there
were three men dressed in professional black, who stood con-
versing in low tones near the chapel door ; while in a corner
one could perceive several peasant women with their aprons
thrown over their faces ; they were the mothers, wives, and
daughters of some of the imprisoned rebels. Save for their con-
stant sobs the silence would have been well-nigh undisturbed.
Nine o'clock had just struck when a rolling of drums shook
the window-panes ; a loud voice was heard outside exclaiming,
"Present arms !" and then the members of the commission en-
tered, followed by the Marquis de Courtornieu and various civil
functionaries. The Due de Sairmeuse was in full uniform, his
face rather more flushed, and his air a trifle more haughty, than
usual. "The sitting is open !" he announced, and adding in a
rough voice : "Bring in the culprits."
They came in, one by one, to the number of thirty, and sat
themselves down an the benches at the foot of the platform.
Chanlouineau held his head proudly erect, and looked about him
with an air of great composure. The Baron d'Escorval was
calm and grave ; but not more so than when, in days gone by,
he had been called upon to express his opinion in the councils
of the empire. Both of them perceived Maurice, who was so
overcome that he had to lean upon the abbe for support. But
while the baron greeted his son with a simple bend of the head,
Chanlouineau made a gesture that clearly signified : "Have con-
fidence in me — fear nothing." The attitude of the other pris-
oners indicated surprise rather than fear. Perhaps they were
unconscious of the peril they had braved, and the extent of the
danger that now threatened them.
When the prisoners had taken their places, a colonel who
filled the office of commissary for the prosecution rose to his
feet. His presentation of the case was violent but brief. He
narrated a few leading facts, exalted the merits of the govern-
ment of his majesty King Louis XVIII, and concluded by de-
manding that sentence of death should be pronounced upon the
culprits. When he had ceased speaking, the duke rudely bade
the first prisoner on the nearest bench to stand up and give his
name, age, and profession.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 415
"Eugene Michel Chanlouineau," was the reply ; "aged twenty-
nine, a farmer by occupation."
"An owner of national lands, probably?"
"The owner of lands which, having been paid for with good
money and made fertile by my own labor, are rightfully mine."
The duke did not wish to waste time m useless discussion.
"You took part in this rebellion?" he asked; and receiving
an affirmative reply, pursued : "You are right in confessing,
for witnesses will be introduced who will prove this fact
conclusively."
Five grenadiers entered — the same that Chanlouineau held at
bay while Maurice, the abbe, and Marie-Anne were getting into
the cabriolet near the cross-roads. They, all of them, declared
upon oath that they recognized the prisoner; and one of them
even went so far as to say he was a solid fellow of remark-
able courage. During this evidence Chanlouineau's eyes be-
trayed an agony of anxiety. Would the soldiers allude to the
circumstance of the cabriolet and Marie- Anne's escape? Per-
haps they might have done so had not the Due de Sairmeuse
abruptly stated that as the prisoner confessed he had heard quite
enough.
"What were your motives in fomenting this outbreak?" asked
his grace, turning to Chanlouineau.
"We hoped to free ourselves from a government brought back
by foreign bayonets ; to free ourselves from the insolence of the
nobility, and to retain the lands that are justly ours."
"Enough! You were one of the leaders of the revolt?"
"One of the leaders — yes."
"Who were the others ?"
A faint smile flitted over the young farmer's lips as he replied :
"The others were M. Lacheneur, his son Jean, and the Marquis
de Sairmeuse."
The duke bounded from his carved armchair. "You wretch !
you rascal ! you vile scoundrel !" he exclaimed, catching up a
heavy inkstand that stood on the table before him. Every one
supposed that he was about to hurl it at the prisoner's head.
But Chanlouineau stood perfectly unmoved in the midst of
the assembly, which had been excited to the highest pitch by
his startling declaration. "You questioned me," he resumed,
"and I replied. You may gag me if my answers don't please
you. If there were witnesses for me as there are against me,
I could prove the truth of what I say. As it is, all the pris-
416 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
oners here will tell you that I am speaking the truth. Is it
not so, you others?"
With the exception of the Baron d'Escorval, there was not
one of the other prisoners who was capable of understanding
the real bearing of these audacious allegations; nevertheless,
they all nodded assent.
"The Marquis de Sairmeuse was so truly our leader." ex-
claimed the daring peasant, "that he was wounded by a sabre-
thrust while fighting by my side."
The duke's face was as purple as if he had been struck with
apoplexy; and his fury almost deprived him of the power of
speech. "You lie, scoundrel ! you lie !" he gasped.
"Send for the marquis," said Chanlouineau quietly, "and see
whether he's wounded or not."
A refusal on the duke's part was bound to arouse suspicion.
But what could he do? Martial had concealed his wound on
the previous day, and it was now impossible to confess that
he had been wounded. Fortunately for his grace, one of the
commissioners relieved him of his embarrassment. "I hope,
sir," he said, "that you will not give this arrogant rebel the
satisfaction he desires. The commission opposes his demand."
"Very naturally," retorted Chanlouineau. "To-morrow my
head will be off, and you think nothing will then remain to
prove what I say. But, fortunately, I have other proof — mate-
rial and indestructible proof — which it is beyond your power
to destroy, and which will speak when my body is six feet
under ground."
"What is this proof?" asked another commissioner, on whom
the duke looked askance.
The prisoner shook his head. "You shall have it," he said,
"when you promise me my life in exchange for it. It is now
in the hands of a trusty person, who knows its value. It will
go to the king if necessary. We should like to understand the
part which the Marquis de Sairmeuse played in this affair —
whether he was truly with us, or whether he was only an insti-
gating agent."
A tribunal regardful of the simplest rules of justice, or even
of its own honor, would have instantly required the Marquis
de Sairmeuse's attendance. But the military commission con-
sidered such a course quite beneath its dignity. These men
arrayed in glittering uniforms were not judges charged with
the vindication of the law, but simply agents selected by the
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 417
conquerors to strike the conquered in virtue of that savage say-
ing, "Wo to the vanquished!" The president, the nohle Due
de Sairmeuse, would not have consented to summon Martial
on any consideration. Nor did his associate judges wish him
to do so. Had Chanlouineau foreseen this result? Probably
he had ; and yet, why haa he ventured on so hazardous a course ?
The tribunal, after a short deliberation, decided that it would
not admit this "unjustifiable" denunciation, which, while ex-
citing the whole audience, had quite stupefied Maurice and the
Abbe Midon.
The examination was continued, therefore, with increased bit-
terness. "Instead of designating imaginary leaders," resumed
the duke, "you would do well to name the real instigator of
this revolt — not Lacheneur, but an individual seated at the other
end of the bench, the elder D'Escorval — "
"Monsieur le Baron d'Escorval was entirely ignorant of the
conspiracy; I swear it by all that I hold most sacred — "
"Hold your tongue !" interrupted the emissary for the prose-
cution. "Instead of trying the patience of the commission with
such ridiculous stories, you should endeavor to merit its in-
dulgence."
Chanlouineau's glance and gesture expressed such disdain
that his interrupter was abashed. "I wish for no indulgence."
said the young farmer. "I have played my game and lost it;
here is my head. But if you are not wild beasts you will take
pity on the poor wretches who surround me. I see at least
ten among them who were not our accomplices, and who cer-
tainly did not take up arms. Even the others did not know what
they were doing."
With these words he resumed his seat, proud, indifferent, and
apparently oblivious of the murmur which ran through the audi-
ence, the soldiers of the guard, and even to the platform, at
the sound of his ringing voice. His appeal for clemency toward
his fellow prisoners had reawakened the grief of the poor peas-
ant women, whose sobs and moans now filled the hall. The
retired officers had grown paler than before, and as they ner-
vously pulled at their long mustaches they murmured among
themselves, "That's a man, and no mistake!" Just then, more-
over, the abbe leaned toward Maurice and whispered in his
ear: '"Chanlouineau evidently has some plan. He intends to
save your father, though I don't at all understand how."
The judges were conversing with considerable animation,
418 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
although in an undertone. A difficulty had presented itself.
The prisoners, ignorant of the charges which would be brought
against them, and not expecting instant trial, had not thought
of procuring defenders. And this circumstance, bitter mockery !
caused great annoyance to this iniquitous tribunal, despite the
complacency with which it was prepared to trample justice under
foot. The commissioners had made up their minds, they had
already determined on their verdict, and yet they wished to
hear a voice raised in defense of those who were already doomed.
It chanced that three lawyers, retained by the friends of a few
prisoners, were in the hall. They were the three men whom
Maurice had noticed conversing near the door when he entered
the chapel. The duke was informed of their presence. He
turned to them, and motioned them to approach ; then, point-
ing to Chanlouineau, asked: "Will you undertake this culprit's
defense ?"
For a moment the lawyers hesitated. They were disgusted
with these monstrous proceedings, and looked inquiringly at one
another. "We are all disposed to undertake the prisoner's de-
fense." at last replied the eldest of the three, "but we see him
for the first time : we do not know what defense he can pre-
sent. He must ask for a delay ; it is indispensable, in order
to confer with him."
"The court can grant you no delay," interrupted M. de Sair-
meuse ; "will you undertake his defense, yes or no?"
The advocate hesitated, not that he was afraid, for he was a
brave man: but he was endeavoring to find some argument
strong enough to turn these mock judges from the course on
which they seemed bent. "I will speak on his behalf," said the
advocate at last, "but not without first protesting with all my
strength against these unheard-of modes of trial."
"Oh ! spare us your homilies, and be brief."
After Chanlouineau's examination, it was difficult to impro-
vise any plea for him, and especially so on the spur of the
moment. Still, in his indignation, the courageous advocate
managed to present a score of arguments which would have
made any other tribunal reflect. But all the while he was
speaking the Due de Sairmeuse fidgeted in his armchair, with
every sign of angry impatience. "Your speech was very long,"
he remarked when the lawyer had finished, "terribly long. We
shall never get through with this business if each prisoner takes
up as much time !"
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 419
He turned to his colleagues and proposed that they should
unite all the cases, in fact try all the culprits in a body, with
the exception of the elder d'Escorval. "This will shorten our
task," said he, "and there will then be but two judgments to
be pronounced. This will not, of course, prevent each indi-
vidual from defending himself."
The lawyers protested against such a course; for a general
judgment such as the duke suggested would destroy all hope
of saving any one of these unfortunate men. "How can we
defend them," pleaded one advocate, "when we know nothing
of their precise situations ; why, we do not even know their
names. We shall be obliged to designate them by the cut of
their coats or by the color of their hair."
They implored the tribunal to grant a week for preparation,
four days, even twenty-four hours ; but all their efforts were
futile, for the president's proposition was adopted by his col-
leagues. Consequently each prisoner was called to the table,
according to the place which he occupied on the different
benches. Each man gave his name, age, dwelling place, and
profession, and received an order to return to his seat. Six
or seven of the prisoners were actually granted time to say
that they were absolutely ignorant of the conspiracy, and that
they had been arrested while conversing quietly on the public
highway. They begged to be allowed to furnish proof of the
truth of their assertions, and they invoked the testimony of the
soldiers who had arrested them. M. d'Escorval, whose case
had been separated from the others, was not summoned to the
table. He would be examined last of all.
"Xow the counsel for the defense will be heard," said the
duke ; "but make haste ; lose no time, for it is already twelve
o'clock."
Then began a shameful and revolting scene. The duke inter-
rupted the lawyers every other moment, bidding them be silent,
questioning them, or jeering at their arguments. "It seems in-
credible," said he, "that any one can think of defending such
wretches !" Or again : "Silence ! You should blush with shame
for having constituted yourself the defender of such rascals !*'
However, the advocates courageously persevered, even al-
though they realized the utter futility of their efforts. But
what could they do under such circumstances ? The defense of
these twenty-nine prisoners lasted only one hour and a half.
Before the last word was fairly uttered, the Due de Sairmeuse
420 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
gave a sigh of relief, and in a tone which betrayed his inward
delight, exclaimed : "Prisoner d'Escorval, stand up."
Thus called upon, the baron rose to his feet, calm and digni-
fied. Terrible as his sufferings must have been, there was no
trace of them on his noble face. He had even repressed the
smile of disdain which the duke's paltry spite in not giving him
the title he had a right to almost brought to his lips. But Chan-
louineau sprang up at the same time, trembling with indignation,
and his face all aglow with anger.
"Remain seated," ordered the duke, "or you shall be removed
from the courtroom."
Despite this order the young farmer declared that he would
speak : that he had some remarks to add to the plea made by
the defending counsel. At a sign from the duke, two gendarmes
approached him and placed their hands on his shoulders. He
allowed them to force him back into his seat, though he could
easily have crushed them with one blow of his brawny arm.
An observer might have supposed that he was furious; but in
reality he was delighted. He had attained the end he had in
view. While standing he had been able to glance at the Abbe
Midon, and the latter had plainly read in his eyes : "Whatever
happens, watch over Maurice; restrain him. Do not allow him
to defeat my plans by any outburst."
This caution was not unnecessary, for Maurice was terribly
agitated; his sight failed him, his head swam, he felt that he
was suffocating, that he was losing his reason. "Where is the
self-control you promised me?" murmured the priest.
But no one observed the young man's condition. The atten-
tion of the audience was elsewhere, and the silence was so
perfect that one could distinctly hear the measured tread of
the sentinels pacing to and fro in the courtyard outside. It
was plain to every one that the decisive moment for which the
tribunal had reserved all its attention and efforts had now ar-
rived. The conviction and condemnation of the poor peasants
were, after all, mere trifles ; otherwise, indeed, was the task of
humbling a prominent statesman, who had been the emperor's
faithful friend and counselor. Seldom could circumstances offer
so splendid an opportunity to satisfy the cravings of royalist
prejudice and ambition; and the Due de Sairmeuse and his col-
leagues had fully determined not to allow it to slip by. If
they had acted informally in the case of the obscure con-
spirators, they had carefully prepared their suit against the
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 421
baron. Thanks to the activity of the Marquis de Courtornieu,
the prosecution had found no fewer than seven charges against
him, the least notable of which was alone punishable with death.
"Which of you," asked the president, turning to the lawyers,
"will consent to defend this great culprit?"
"I !" exclaimed the three advocates all in one breath.
"Take care," said the duke, with a malicious smile; "the
task may prove a difficult one."
"Difficult, indeed!" It would have been better to have said
dangerous, for the defender risked his career, his peace, his
liberty, and very probably — his life.
"Our profession has its exigencies," nobly replied the oldest
of the advocates. And then the two courageously took their
places beside the baron, thus avenging the honor of their robe.
"Prisoner," resumed M. de Sairmeuse, "state your name and
profession."
"Louis Guillaume. Baron d'Escorval, Commander of the
Order of the Legion of Honor, formerly Councilor of State
under the Empire."
"So you avow these shameful services? You confess — "
"Excuse me ; I am proud of having had the honor of serving
my country, and of being useful to her in proportion to my
abilities — "
"Ah, ha! very good indeed!" interrupted the duke with a
furious gesture. "These gentlemen, my fellow commissioners,
will appreciate those words of yours. No doubt it was in the
hope of regaining your former position that you entered into
this shameful conspiracy against a magnanimous prince."
"You know as well as I do myself, sir, that I have had no
hand in this conspiracy."
"Why, you were arrested in the ranks of the conspirators
with weapons in your hands!"
"I was unarmed, as you are well aware ; and if I was among
the peasantry, it was only because I hoped to induce them to
relinquish their senseless enterprise."
"You lie !"
The baron paled beneath the insult, but he made no response.
There was, however, one man in the assemblage who could no
longer endure such abominable injustice, and this was the Abbe
Midon, who only a moment before had advised Maurice to re-
main calm. Abruptly leaving his place, he advanced to the foot
of the platform.
422 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
"The Baron d'Escorval speaks the truth," he cried in a ring-
ing voice: "as each of the three hundred piisoners in the cita-
del will swear. Those who are here would say the same, even
if they stood upon the guillotine ; and I, who accompanied him,
who walked beside him, I, a priest, swear before the God who
one day will judge us all, Monsieur de Sairmeuse, I swear we
did everything that was humanly possible to do to arrest this
movement !"
The duke listened with an ironical smile. "I was not de-
ceived, then," he answered, "when I was told that this army of
rebels had a chaplain ! Ah ! sir, you should sink to the earth
with shame. What ! You, a priest, mingle with such scoun-
drels as these — with these enemies of our good king and of
our holy religion ! Do not deny it ! Your haggard features,
your swollen eyes, your disordered attire, plainly betray your
guilt. Must I, a soldier, remind you of what is due to your
sacred calling? Hold your peace, sir, and depart!"
But the prisoner's advocates were on their feet. "We de-
mand," cried they, "we demand that this witness be heard.
He must be heard ! Military commissions are not above the
laws that regulate ordinary tribunals."
"If I do not speak the truth," resumed the abbe, "I am a
perjured witness — worse yet, an accomplice. It is your duty, in
that case, to have me arrested."
The duke's face assumed a look of hypocritical compassion.
"No, Monsieur le Cure," said he, "I shall not arrest you. I wish
to avert the scandal which you are trying to cause. We will
show your priestly garb the respect the wearer does not deserve.
Again, and for the last time, retire, or I shall be obliged to
employ force."
What would further resistance avail? Nothing. The abbe,
with a face whiter than the plastered walls, and eyes filled with
tears, returned to his place beside Maurice.
In the mean while, the advocates were protesting with in-
creasing energy. But the duke, hammering on the table with
both fists, at last succeeded in reducing them to silence. "Ah !
you want evidence !" he exclaimed. "Very well then, you shall
have it. Soldiers, bring in the first witness."
There was some little movement among the guards, and
then Father Chupin made his appearance. He advanced with
a deliberate step, but his restless, shrinking eyes showed plainly
enough that he was ill at ease. And there was a very per-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 423
ceptible tremor in his voice when, with hand uplifted, he swore
to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
"What do you know concerning the prisoner D'Escorval ?"
asked the duke.
"I know that he took part in the rising the other night."
"Are you sure of this?"
"I can furnish proofs."
"Submit them to the consideration of the commission."
The old scoundrel began to grow more confident. "First of
all," he replied, "directly Lacheneur had given up your grace's
family estates, much against his will, he hastened to M. d'Es-
corval's house, where he met Chanlouineau. It was then that
they plotted this insurrection between them."
"I was Lacheneur's friend," observed the baron ; "and it was
perfectly natural that he should come to me for consolation after
a great misfortune."
M. de Sairmeuse turned to his colleagues. "Do you hear
that !" said he. "This D'Escorval calls the restitution of a
deposit a great misfortune ! Proceed, witness."
"In the second place," resumed Chupin, "M. d'Escorval was
always prowling round about Lacheneur's house."
"That's false," interrupted the baron. "I never visited the
house but once, and on that occasion I implored him to re-
nounce — " He paused, understanding only when it was too
late the terrible significance of these few words. However,
having begun, he would not retract, but calmly added : "I
implored him to renounce all idea of provoking an insur-
rection."
"Ah! then you knew of his infamous intentions?"
"I suspected them."
"At all events you must be perfectly well aware that the
fact of not revealing this conspiracy made you an accomplice,
which implies the guillotine."
The Baron d'Escorval had just signed his death-warrant.
How strange is destiny ! He was innocent, and yet he was
the only one among all the prisoners whom a regular tribunal
could have legally condemned. Maurice and the abbe were
overcome with grief ; but Chanlouineau, who turned toward
them, had still the same smile of confidence on his lips. How
could he hope when all hope seemed absolutely lost?
The commissioners made no attempt to conceal their satis-
faction, and M. de Sairmeuse, especially, evinced an indecent
8 — Vol. II— Gab.
424 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
joy. "Ah, well! gentlemen, what do yo-> say to that?" he
remarked to the lawyers in a sneering tone.
The counsel for the defense were unable to conceal their
discouragement ; though they still endeavored to question the
validity of their client's declaration. He had said that he
suspected the conspiracy, not that he knezv of it, which was a
very different thing.
"Say at once that you wish for still more overwhelming tes-
timony," interrupted the duke. "Very well ! You shall have it.
Continue your evidence, witness."
"The prisoner," continued Chupin, "was present at all the
conferences held at Lacheneur's house ; and having to cross the
Oiselle each time, and fearing lest the ferryman might speak
about his frequent nocturnal journeys, he had an old boat
repaired, which he had not used for years."
"Ah ! that's a remarkable circumstance, prisoner ; do you
recollect having your boat repaired?"
"Yes; but not for the purpose this man mentions."
"For what purpose, then?"
The baron made no reply. Was it not in compliance with
Maurice's request that this boat had been put in order?
"And finally," continued Chupin, "when Lacheneur set fire
to his house as a signal for the insurrection, the prisoner was
with him."
"That," exclaimed the duke, "is conclusive evidence."
"Yes, I was at La Reche," interrupted the baron ; "but, as I
have already told you, it was with the firm determination of
preventing this outbreak."
M. de Sairmeuse laughed disdainfully. "Ah, gentlemen !" he
said, addressing his fellow commissioners, "you see that the
prisoner's courage does not equal his depravity. But I will
confound him. What did you do, prisoner, when the insurgents
left La Reche?"
"I returned home with all possible speed, took a horse and
hastened to the Croix d'Arcy."
"Then you knew that this was to be the general meeting
place?"
"Lacheneur had just informed me of it."
"Even if I believed your story," retorted the duke, "I should
have to remind you that your duty was to have hastened to
Montaignac and informed the authorities. But what you say
is untrue. You did not leave Lacheneur, you accompanied him."
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 425
"No, sir, no !"
"And what if I could prove that you did so beyond all
question ?"
"Impossible, since such was not the case."
By the malicious satisfaction that sparkled in M. de Sair-
meuse's eyes, the Abbe Midon divined that he had some ter-
rible weapon in reserve, and that he was about to overwhelm
the Baron d'Escorval with false evidence, or fatal coincidence,
which would place Maurice's father beyond all possibility of
being saved. At a sign from the commissary for the prosecu-
tion the Marquis de Courtornicu now left his seat and advanced
to the front of the platform. "I must request you, Monsieur
le Marquis," said the duke, "to be kind enough to read us the
statement your daughter has prepared and signed."
This scene had evidently been prepared beforehand. M. de
Courtornieu cleared his glasses, produced a paper which he
slowly unfolded, and then amid a death-like silence, emphat-
ically read as follows : "I, Blanche de Courtornieu, do declare
upon oath that, on the evening of the 4th of March, between
ten and eleven o'clock, on the public road leading from Sair-
meuse to Montaignac, I was assailed by a band of armed brig-
ands. While they were deliberating as to whether they should
take possession of my person and pillage my carriage. I over-
heard one of them say to another, speaking of me : 'She must
get out, must she not, M. d'Escorval ?' I believe that the brigand
who uttered these words was a peasant named Chanlouineau,
but I can not assert this on oath."
At this moment a loud cry ot anguish abruptly interrupted
the marquis's perusal. The tria. was too great for Maurice's
reason, and if the Abbe Midon had not restrained him, he would
have sprung forward and exclaimed : "It was to me, not to my
father, that Chanlouineau addressed those words. I alone am
guilty; my father is innocent!' But fortunately the abbe had
sufficient presence of mind to hold the young fellow back and
place his hand before his mouth. One or two of the retired
officers standing near also tendered their help and, probably
divining the truth, seized hold of Maurice, and despite all his
attempts at resistance carried him from the room by main force.
The whole incident scarcely occupied ten seconds.
"What is the cause of this disturbance?" asked the duke,
looking angrily at the spectators, none of whom uttered a word.
"At the least noise the hall shall be cleared," added his grace.
426 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
"And you, prisoner, what have you to say in self-justification
after Mademoiselle de Courtornieu's crushing evidence?"
"Nothing," murmured the baron.
But to return to Maurice. Once outside the courtroom, the
Abbe Midon confided him to the care of the three officers, who
promised to go with him, to carry him by main force, if need
be, to the Hotel de France, and keep him there. Relieved on
this score, the priest reentered the hall just in time to see the
baron reseat himself without replying to M. de Sairmeuse's
final sneer, that by leaving Mademoiselle Blanche's testimony
unchallenged, M. d'Escorval had virtually confessed his guilt.
But then, in truth, how could he have challenged it? How
could he defend himself without betraying his son? Until this
moment every one present had believed in the baron's innocence.
Could it be that he was guilty? His silence seemed to imply
that such was the case ; and this alone was a sufficient triumph
for the Due de Sairmeuse and his friends. His grace now
turned to the lawyers, and, with an air of weariness and dis-
dain, remarked : "At present you may speak, since it is abso-
lutely necessary ; but no long phrases, mind ! we ought to have
finished here an hour ago."
The eldest of the three advocates rose, trembling with indig-
nation, and prepared to dare anything for the sake of giving
free utterance to his thoughts, but before a word was spoken
the baron hastily checked him. "Do not try to defend me," he
said calmly ; "it would be labor wasted. I have only one word
to say to my judges. Let them remember what noble Marshal
Moncey wrote to the king: "The scaffold does not make friends."
But this reminder was not of a nature to soften the judges'
hearts. For that very phrase the marshal had been deprived
of his office and condemned to three months' imprisonment. As
the advocates made no further attempt to argue the case, the
commission retired to deliberate. This gave M. d'Escorval an
opportunity to speak with his defenders. He shook them warmly
by the hand, and thanked them for their courage and devotion.
Then drawing the eldest among them on one side, he quickly
added in a low voice : "I have a last favor to ask of you. When
sentence of death has been pronounced upon me, go at once to
my son. Say to him that his dying falher commands him to
live — he will understand you. Tell him that it is my last wish ;
that he live — live for his mother !"
He said no more; the judges were returning. Of the thirty
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
427
prisoners, nine were declared not guilty, and released. The
remaining twenty-one, including both M. d'Escorval and Chan-
louineau, were then formally condemned to death. But Chanlou-
ineau's lips still retained their enigmatical smile.
'T'HE three military men to whose care the Abbe Midon had
•*■ entrusted Maurice had considerable difficulty in getting
him to the Hotel de France, for he made continual attempts
to return to the courtroom, having the fallacious idea that by
telling the truth he might yet save his father. In point of fact.
however, the only effect of his confession would have been to
provide the Due de Sairmeuse with another welcome victim.
When he and his custodians at length entered the room where
Madame d'Escorval and Marie-Anne were waiting in cruel sus-
pense, the baroness eagerly asked whether the trial were over.
"Nothing is decided yet," replied one of the retired officers.
"The cure will come here as soon as the verdict is given."
Then as the three military men had promised not to lose sight
of Maurice, they sat themselves down in gloomy silence. Not
the slightest stir could be heard in the hotel, which seemed in-
deed as if it were deserted. At last, a little before four o'clock,
the abbe came in, followed by the lawyer, to whom the baron
had confided his last wishes.
"My husband !" exclaimed Madame d'Escorval, springing
wildly from her chair. The priest bowed his head. "Death !"
she faltered, fully understanding the significance of this im-
pressive gesture. "What? they have condemned him!'' And
overcome with the terrible blow, she sank back, with hanging
arms. But this weakness did not last long. "We must save
him !" she exclaimed, abruptly springing to her feet again, her
eyes bright with some sudden resolution, "we must wrest him
from the scaffold. Up, Maurice ! up, Marie- Anne ! No more
lamentations. To work ! You also, gentlemen, will assist me ;
and I can count on your help. Monsieur le Cure. I do not
quite know how to begin, but something must be done. The
428 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
murder of so good, so noble a man as he would be too great
a crime. God will not permit it." She paused, with clasped
hands, as if seeking for inspiration. "And the king," she re-
sumed — "can the king consent to such a crime? No. A king
can refuse mercy, but he can not refuse justice. I will go to
him. I will tell him everything. Ah ! why didn't this thought
occur to me sooner? We must start for Paris without losing
an instant. Maurice, you must accompany me; and one of you
gentlemen go at once and order post-horses." Then, thinking
they would obey her, she hastened into the next room to make
preparations for her journey.
"Poor woman !" whispered the lawyer to the abbe, "she does
not know that the sentence of a military commission is exe-
cuted in twenty-four hours, and that it requires four days to
make the journey to Paris." He reflected a moment, and then
added: "But, after all, to let her go would be an act of mercy.
Did not Ney, on the morning of his execution, implore the
king to order the removal of his wife, who was sobbing and
moaning in his cell?"
The abbe shook his head. "No," said he; "Madame d'Es-
corval would never forgive us if we prevented her from receiv-
ing her husband's last farewell."
At that very moment the baroness reentered the room, and
the priest was trying to gather sufficient courage to tell her
the cruel truth when a loud knock was heard at the door. One
of the retired officers went to open it, and our old friend Bavois,
the corporal of grenadiers, entered, raising his right hand to
his cap, as if he were in his captain's presence. "Is Mademoi-
selle Lacheneur here?" he asked.
Marie-Anne stepped forward. "I am she, sir," she replied;
"what do you want with me?"
"I am ordered to conduct you to the citadel, mademoiselle."
"What?" exclaimed Maurice, in a tone of anger; "so they
imprison women as well ?"
The worthy corporal struck his forehead with his open hand.
"I am an old fool !" he exclaimed, "and don't know how to
express myself. I meant to say that I came to fetch mademoi-
selle at the request of one of the prisoners, a man named Chan-
louineau, who wishes to speak with her."
"Impossible, my good fellow," said one of the officers; "they
would not allow this lady to visit one of the prisoners without
special permission — "
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 429
"Well, she has this permission," said the old soldier. And
then persuaded he had nothing to fear from any one present,
he added in lower tones : "This Chanlouineau told me that the
cure would understand his reasons."
Had the brave peasant really found some means of salvation?
The abbe almost began to believe that such was the case. "You
must go with this worthy fellow, Marie-Anne," said he.
The poor girl shuddered at the thought of seeing Chanlouineau
again, but the idea of refusing never once occurred to her.
"Let me go," she said quietly.
But the corporal did not budge. Winking in a desperate
fashion, as was his wont whenever he wished to attract atten-
tion, he exclaimed: "Wait a bit. I've something else to tell
you. This Chanlouineau, who seems to be a shrewd fellow, told
me to say that all was going well. May I be hung if I can see
how ! Still such is his opinion. He also told me to tell you
not to stir from this place, and not to attempt anything until
mademoiselle comes back again, which will be in less than an
hour. He swears that he will keep his promise, and only asks
you to pledge your word that you will obey him — "
"We will wait for an hour," replied the abbe. "I can prom-
ise that — "
"Then that'll do," rejoined Bavois. "Salute, company. And
now, mademoiselle, on the double-quick march ! The poor devil
over there must be on coals of fire."
That a condemned conspirator should be allowed to receive
a visit from his leader's daughter — from the daughter of that
Lacheneur who had succeeded in making his escape — was indeed
surprising. But Chanlouineau had been ingenious enough to
discover a means of procuring this special permission; and with
this aim in view he had feigned the most abject terror on hear-
ing the sentence of death passed upon him. He even contrived
to weep in a bellowing fashion, and the guards could scarcely
believe their eyes when they saw this robust young fellow, so
insolent and defiant a few hours before, now utterly overcome,
and even unable to walk back to his cell. They had to carry
him there, and then his lamentations became still more boister-
ous, concluding with an urgent prayer that one of the guard
should go to the Due de Sairmeuse, or the Marquis de Cour-
tornieu, and tell them he had revelations of the greatest im-
portance to make.
That potent word "revelations" made M. de Courtornieu
430 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
hasten to the prisoner's cell. He found Chanlouineau on his
knees, his features distorted by what appeared to be an agony
of fear. The crafty fellow dragged himself toward the marquis,
took hold of his hands and kissed them, imploring mercy and
forgiveness, and swearing that to save his own life he was ready
to do anything, yes, anything, even to deliver Lacheneur up to
the authorities. Such a prospect had powerful attractions for
the Marquis de Courtornieu. "Do you know, then, where this
brigand is concealed ?" he asked.
Chanlouineau admitted that he did not know, but declared
that Marie-Anne, Lacheneur's daughter, was well acquainted
with her father's hiding-place. She had, he said, perfect confi-
dence in him, Chanlouineau; and if they would only send for
her, and allow him ten minutes' private conversation with her,
he was positive he could ascertain where the leader of the
insurrection was concealed. So the bargain was quickly con-
cluded; and Chanlouineau's life was promised him in exchange
for Lacheneur's. A soldier, who fortunately chanced to be Cor-
poral Bavois, was then sent to summon Marie-Anne ; and the
young farmer awaited her coming with feelings of poignant
anxiety. He loved her, remember, and the thought of seeing
her once more — for the last time on earth — made his heart
throb wildly with mingled passion and despair. At last, at the
end of the corridor, he could hear footsteps approaching. The
heavy bolts securing the entrance to his cell were drawn back,
the door opened, and Marie-Anne appeared, accompanied by
Corporal Bavois. "M. de Courtornieu promised me that we
should be left alone !" exclaimed Chanlouineau.
"Yes, I know he did, and I am going," replied the old sol-
dier. "But I have orders to return for mademoiselle in half
an hour."
When the door closed behind the worthy corporal, Chan-
louineau took hold of Marie-Anne's hand and drew her to the
tiny grated window. "Thank you for coming," said he, "thank
you. I can see you and speak to you once more. Now that
my hours are numbered, I may reveal the secret of my soul and
of my life. Now, I can venture to tell you how ardently I have
loved you — how much I still love you."
Involuntarily Marie-Anne drew away her hand and stepped
back ; for this outburst of passion, at such a moment and in such
a place, seemed at once unspeakably sad and shocking.
"Have I, then, offended you?" asked Chanlouineau sadly.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 431
"Forgive me — for I am about to die ! You can not refuse to
listen to the voice of one who, to-morrow, will vanish from
earth forever. I have loved you for a long time, Marie-Anne,
for more than six years. Before I saw you I only cared for
my belongings, and to raise fine crops and gather money to-
gether seemed to me the greatest possible happiness here below.
And when at first I did meet you — you were so high, and I so
low, that in my wildest dreams I did not dare to aspire to you.
I went to the church each Sunday only that I might worship
you as peasant women worship the Virgin ; I went home with
my eyes and heart full of you — and that was all. But then
came your father's misfortunes, which brought us nearer to
each other ; and your father made me as insane, yes, as insane
as himself. After the insults he received from the Due de
Sairmeuse, M. Lacheneur resolved to revenge himself upon all
these arrogant nobles, and selected me for his accomplice. He
had read my heart as easily as if it had been an open book;
and when we left the baron's house that Sunday evening, we
both have such good reason to remember, he said to me: 'You
love my daughter, my boy. Very well, assist me, and I prom-
ise you that if we succeed she shall be your wife. Only,' he
added, 'I must warn you that you risk your life.' But what
was life in comparison with the hopes that dazzled me ? From
that night I gave body, soul, and fortune to his cause. Others
were influenced by hatred or ambition, but I was actuated by
neither of these motives. What did the quarrels of these great
folks matter to me — a simple laborer? I knew that the great-
est were powerless to give my crops a drop of rain in seasons
of drought or a ray of sunshine during long spells of rain. I
took part in the conspiracy, it was because I loved you — "
It seemed to Marie-Anne that he was reproaching her for
the deception she had been forced to practise, and for the cruel
fate to which Lacheneur's wild designs had brought him. "Ah,
you are cruel," she cried, "you are pitiless !"
But Chanlouineau scarcely heard her words. All the bitter-
ness of the past was rising to his brain like fumes of alcohol ;
and he was scarcely conscious of what ne said himself. "How-
ever, the day soon came," he continued, "when my foolish illu-
sions were destroyed. You could not be mine since you belonged
to another. I might have broken my compact ! I thought of
doing so, but I did not have the courage. To see you, to hear
your voice, to spend my time under the same roof as you. was
432 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
happiness enough. I longed to see you happy and honored; I
fought for the triumph of another, for him you had chosen — "
A sob rose in his throat and choked his utterance; he buried
his face in his hands to hide his tears, and for a moment seemed
completely overcome. But he mastered his weakness after a
brief interval, and in a firm voice exclaimed: "We must not
linger any longer over the past. Time flies, and the future is
ominous."
As he spoke he went to the door and applied first his eyes
and then his ear to the grating, to see that there were no spies
outside. But he could perceive no one, nor could he hear a
sound. He came back to Marie-Anne's side, and tearing the
sleeve of his jacket open with his teeth, he drew from the lining
two letters, wrapped carefully in a piece of cloth. "Here," he
said in a low voice, "is a man's life !"
Marie-Anne knew nothing of Chanlouineau's promises and
hopes, and she was, moreover, so distressed by what the young
farmer had previously said that at first she did not understand
his meaning. All she could do was to repeat mechanically,
"This is a man's life !"
"Hush, speak lower!" interrupted Chanlouineau. "Yes, one
of these letters might, perhaps, save the life of a prisoner now
under sentence of death."
"Unfortunate man ! Why do you not make use of it and save
yourself?"
The young farmer shook his head. "Would it ever be possi-
ble for you to love me? he said. "No, it wouldn't be possible;
and so what wish can I have to live? At least I shall be able
to forget everything when I am underground. Moreover, I have
been justly condemned. I knew what I was doing when I left
La Reche with my gun over my shoulder and my sword by my
side; I have no right to complain. But these judges of ours
have condemned an innocent man — "
"The Baron d'Escorval?"
"Yes — Maurice's father!" His voice changed as he pro-
nounced the name of his envied rival — envied, no doubt, and yet
to assure this rival's happiness and Marie-Anne's he would have
given ten lives had they been his to give. "I wish to save the
baron," he added, "and I can do so."
"Oh! if what you said were true? But you undoubtedly
deceive yourself."
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
PART II
'T KNOW what I am saying," rejoined Chanlouineau ; and still
fearful lest some spy might be concealed outside, he now
came close to Marie-Anne and in a low voice spoke rapidly as
follows: "I never believed in the success of this conspiracy, and
when I sought for a weapon of defense in case of failure, the
Marquis de Sairmeuse furnished it. When it became necessary
to send out a circular, warning our accomplices of the date
decided upon for the rising, I persuaded M. Martial to write
a model. He suspected nothing. I told him it was for a wed-
ding, and he did what I asked. This letter, which is now in
my possession, is the rough draft of the circular we sent; and
it is in the Marquis de Sairmeuse's handwriting. It is im-
possible for him to deny it. There is an erasure in every line,
and every one would look at the letter as the handiwork of a
man seeking to convey his real meaning in ambiguous phrases."
With these words Chanlouineau opened the envelope and
showed her the famous letter he had dictated, in which the
space for the date of the insurrection was left blank. "My
dear friend, we are at last agreed, and the marriage is decided
on, etc."
The light that had sparkled in Marie- Anne's eyes was sud-
denly bedimmed. "And you think that this letter can be of any
use?" she inquired with evident discouragement.
"I don't think so !"
"But—"
With a gesture he interrupted her. "We must not lose time
ii discussion — listen to me. Of itself, this letter might be un-
important, but I have arranged matters in such a wav that it
will produce a powerful effect. I declared before the commis-
sion that the Marquis de Sairmeuse was one of the leaders of
the movement. They laughed; and I read incredulity on all
the judges' faces. But calumny is never without its effect.
(433)
434 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
When the Due de Sairmeuse is about to receive a reward for
his services, there will be enemies in plenty to remember and
repeat my words. He knew this so well that he was greatly
agitated, even while his colleagues sneered at my accusation."
"It's a great crime to charge a man falsely," murmured Marie-
Anne with simple honesty.
"No doubt," rejoined Chanlouineau, "but I wish to save the
baron, and I can not choose my means. As I knew that the
marquis had been wounded, I declared that he was fighting
against the troops by my side, and asked that he should be
summoned before the tribunal ; swearing that I had in my
possession unquestionable proofs of his complicity."
"Did you say that the Marquis de Sairmeuse had been
wounded?" inquired Marie-Anne.
Chanlouineau's face wore a look of intense astonishment.
"What!" he exclaimed, "don't you know—?" Then after an
instant's reflection: "Fool that I am!" he resumed. "After
all, who could have told you what happened? However, you
remember that while we were on our way to the Croix d'Arcy,
after your father had rode on in advance, Maurice placed him-
self at the head of one division, and you walked beside him,
while your brother Jean and myself stayed behind to urge the
laggards forward. We were performing our duty conscien-
tiously enough, when suddenly we heard the gallop of a horse
behind us. 'We must know who is coming,' said Jean to me.
So we paused. The horse soon reached us ; we caught the bridle
and held him. Can you guess who the rider was ? Why, Mar-
tial de Sairmeuse. It would be impossible to describe your
brother's fury when he recognized the marquis. 'At last I find
you, you wretched noble !' he exclaimed, 'and now we will set-
tle our account ! After reducing my father, who had just given
you a fortune, to despair and penury, you tried to degrade my
sister. I will have my revenge ! Down, we must fight !' "
Marie-Anne could scarcely tell whether she were awake or
dreaming. "What, my brother challenged the marquis!" she
murmured; "is it possible?"
"Brave as the marquis may be," pursued Chanlouineau, "he
did not seem inclined to accept the invitation. He stammered
out something like this: 'You are mad — you are jesting — haven't
we always been friends? What does all this mean?' Jean
ground his teeth in rage. 'This means that we have endured
your insulting familiarity long enough,' he replied, 'and if you
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 435
don't dismount and fight me fairly, I will blow your brains out!'
Your brother, as he spoke, manipulated his pistol in so threat-
ening a manner that the marquis jumped off his horse and
addressing me: 'You see, Chanlouineau,' he said, 'I must fight
a duel or submit to murder. If Jean kills me there is no more
to be said — but if I kill him, what is to b? done?' I told him
he would be free to go off unmolested on condition that he gave
me his word not to proceed to Montaignac before two o'clock.
'Then I accept the challenge,' said he; 'give me a weapon. 'I
gave him my sword, your brother drew his, and they took th«ir
places in the middle of the highway."
The young farmer paused to take breath, and then more
slowly he resumed: "Marie-Anne, your father and I misjudged
your brother. Poor Jean's appearance is terribly against him.
His face indicates a treacherous, cowardly nature, his smile is
cunning, and his eyes always shun yours. We distrusted him,
but we should ask his forgiveness for having done so. A man
who fights as I saw him fight deserves all our confidence. For
this combat in the road, and in the darkness, was terrible. They
attacked each other furiously, and at last Jean fell."
"Ah ! my brother is dead !" exclaimed Marie-Anne.
"No," promptly replied Chanlouineau ; "at least I have reason
to hope not ; and I know he has been well cared for. The duel
had another witness, a man named Poignot, whom you must
remember, as he was one of your father's tenants. He took
Jean away with him, and promised me that he would conceal
him and care for him. As for the marquis, he showed me that
he was wounded as well, and then he remounted his horse,
saying: 'What could I do? He would have it so.'"
Marie-Anne now understood everything. "Give me the let-
ter," she said to Chanlouineau; "I will go to the duke. I will
find some way of reaching him, and then God will guide me
in the right course to pursue."
The noble-hearted young farmer calmly handed her the scrap
of paper which might have been the means of his own salva-
tion. "You must on no account allow the duke to suppose that
you have the proof with which you threaten him about your
person. He might be capable of any infamy under such cir-
cumstances. He will probably say at first that he can do noth-
ing — that he sees no way to save the baron ; but you must tell
him that he must find a means if he does not wish this letter
sent to Paris, to one of his enemies — "
436 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
He paused, for the bolt outside was being withdrawn. A
moment later Corporal Bavois reappeared. "The half-hour ex-
pired ten minutes ago," said the old soldier sadly, "and I must
obey my orders."
"Coming," replied Chanlouineau ; "we have finished." And
then handing Marie-Anne the second letter he had taken from
his sleeve, "This is for you," he added. "You will read it when
I am no more. Pray, pray, do not cry so ! Be brave ! You
will soon be Maurice's wife. And when you are happy, think
sometimes of the poor peasant who loved you so."
Marie-Anne could not utter a word, but she raised her face
to his. "Ah ! I dare not ask it !" he exclaimed. And for the
first and only time in life he clasped her in his arms, and pressed
his lips to her pallid cheek. "Now, good-by," he said once
more. "Do not lose a moment. Good-by, forever !"
The prospect of capturing Lacheneur, the chief conspirator,,
had so excited the Marquis de Courtornieu that he had
not been able to tear himself away from the citadel to go home
to dinner. Stationed near the entrance of the dark corridor
leading to Chanlouineau's cell, he watched Marie-Anne hasten
away ; but as he saw her go out into the twilight with a quick,
alert step, he felt a sudden doubt concerning Chanlouineau's
sincerity. "Can it be that this miserable peasant has deceived
me ?" thought he ; and so strong was this new-born suspicion
that he hastened after the young girl, determined to question
her — to ascertain the truth — to arrest her even, if need be. But
he no longer possessed the agility of youth, and when he reached
the gateway the sentinel told him that Mademoiselle Lacheneur
had already left the citadel. He rushed out after her, looked
about on every side, but could see no trace of the nimble fugi-
tive. Accordingly, he was constrained to return again, inwardly
furious with himself for his own credulity. "Still, I can visit
Chanlouineau," thought he, "and to-morrow will be time enough
to summon this creature and question her."
"This creature" was, even then, hastening up the long, ill-
paved street leading to the Hotel de France. Regardless of
the inquisitive glances of the passers-by, she ran on, thinking
only of shortening the terrible suspense which her friends at
the hotel must be enduring. "All is not lost !" she exclaimed
as she reentered the room where they were assembled.
"My God, Thou hast heard my prayers!" murmured the bar-
oness. Then, suddenly seized by a horrible dread, she added:
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 437
"But do not try to deceive me. Are you not trying to comfort
me with false hopes?"
"No ! I am not deceiving you, madame. Chanlouineau has
placed a weapon in my hands, which, I hope and believe, will
place the Due de Sairmeuse in our power. He only is omnipo-
tent at Montaignac, and the only man who would oppose him,
M. de Courtornieu, is his friend. I believe that M. d'Escorval
can be saved."
"Speak!" cried Maurice; "what must we do?"
"Pray and wait, Maurice ; I must act alone in this matter,
but be assured that I will do everything that is humanly pos-
sible. It is my duty to do so, for am I not the cause of all
your misfortune?"
Absorbed in the thought of the task before her, Marie-Anne
had failed to remark a stranger who had arrived during her
absence — an old white-haired peasant.
The abbe now drew her attention to him. "Here is a cour-
ageous friend," said he, "who ever since morning has been
searching for you everywhere, in order to give you some news
of your father."
Marie-Anne could scarcely falter her gratitude. "Oh, you
need not thank me," said the old peasant. "I said to myself :
'The poor girl must be terribly anxious, and I ought to relieve
her of her misery.' So I came to tell you that M. Lacheneur
is safe and well, except for a wound in the leg, which causes
him considerable suffering, but which will be healed in a few
weeks. My son-in-law, who was hunting yesterday in the moun-
tains, met him near the frontier in company of two of his
friends. By this time he must be in Piedmont, beyond the
reach of the gendarmes."
"Let us hope now," said the abbe, "that we shall soon hear
what has become of Jean."
"I know already," replied Marie-Anne, "that my brother
has been badly wounded, but some kind friends are caring
for him."
Maurice, the abbe, and the retired officers now surrounded
the brave young girl. They wished to know what she was about
to attempt, and to dissuade her from incurring useless danger.
But she refused to reply to their pressing questions; and when
they suggested accompanying her, or, at least, following her at
a distance, she declared that she must go alone. "However, I
shall be here again in a couple of hours," she said, "and then
438 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
I shall be able to tell you if there is anyth'ng else to be done."
With these words she hastened away.
To obtain an audience of the Due de Sairmeuse was certainly
a difficult matter, as Maurice and the abbe had ascertained on
the previous day. Besieged by weeping and heart-broken fam-
ilies, his grace had shut himself up securely, fearing, perhaps,
that he might be moved by their entreaties. Marie-Anne was
aware of this, but she was not at all anxious, for by employing
the same word that Chanlouineau had used — that same word
"revelation" — she was certain to obtain a hearing. When she
reached the Due de Sairmeuse's mansion she found three or
four lackeys talking in front of the principal entrance.
"I am the daughter of M. Lacheneur," said she, speaking
to one of them. "I must see the duke at once, on matters con-
nected with the revolt."
"The duke is absent."
"I come to make a revelation."
The servant's manner suddenly changed. "In that case
follow me, mademoiselle," said he.
She did follow him up the stairs and through two or three
rooms. At last he opened a door and bade her enter; but, to
her surprise, it was not the Due de Sairmeuse who was in the
room, but his son, Martial, who, was stretched upon a sofa,
reading a paper by the light of a large candelabra. On per-
ceiving Marie-Anne he sprang up, pale and agitated. "You
here !" he stammered ; and then, swiftly mastering his emotion,
he bethought himself of the possible motive of such a visit:
"Lacheneur must have been arrested," he continued, "and
wishing to save him from the military commission you have
thought of me. Thank you for doing so, dear Marie-Anne,
thank you for your confidence in me. I will not abuse it. Be re-
assured. We will save your father, I promise you — I swear it.
We will find a means, for he must be saved. I will have it so!"
As he spoke his voice betrayed the passionate joy that was
surging in his heart.
"My father has not been arrested," said Marie-Anne, coldly.
"Then," said Martial, with some hesitation — "Then it is
Jean who is a prisoner."
"My brother is in safety. If he survives his wounds he will
evade all attempts at capture."
The pale face of the Marquis de Sairmeuse turned a deep
crimson. Marie-Anne's manner showed him that she was ac-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 439
quainted with the duel. It would have been useless to try and
deny it; still he endeavored to excuse himself. "It was Jean
who challenged me," he said; "I tried to avoid fighting, and I
only defended my life in fair combat, and with equal weapons — *'
Marie-Anne interrupted him. "I do not reproach you,
Monsieur le Marquis," she said, quietly.
"Ah ! Marie-Anne, I am more severe than you. Jean was
right to challenge me. I deserved his anger. He knew my
guilty thoughts, of which you were ignorant. Oh ! Marie-
Anne, if I wronged you in thought it was because I did not
know you. Now I know that you, above all others, are pure
and chaste — "
He tried to take her hands, but she instantly repulsed him,
and broke into a fit of passionate sobbing. Of all the blows
she had received this last was most terrible. What shame and
humiliation ! Now, indeed, her cup of sorrow was filled to
overflowing. "Chaste and pure !" he had said. Oh, the bitter
mockery of those words !
But Martial misunderstood the meaning of her grief. "Your
indignation is just," he resumed, with growing eagerness. "But
if I have injured you even in thought, I now offer you repara-
tion. I have been a fool — a miserable fool — for I love you; I
love, and can love you only. I am the Marquis de Sairmeuse.
I am wealthy. I entreat you, I implore you to be my wife."
Marie-Anne listened in utter bewilderment. But an hour
before Chanlouineau in his cell cried aloud that he died for
love of her, and now it was Martial, who avowed his willing-
ness to sacrifice his ambition and his future for her sake. And
the poor peasant condemned to death, and the son of the all-
powerful Due de Sairmeuse, had confessed their passions in
almost the same words.
Martial paused, awaiting some reply — a word, a gesture.
None came; and then with increased vehemence, "You are
silent," he cried. "Do you question my sincerity? No, it is
impossible! Then why this silence? Do you fear my father's
opposition? You need not. I know how to gain his consent.
Besides, what does his approbation matter to us? Have we any
need of him? Am I not my own master? Am I not rich — im-
mensely rich? I should be a miserable fool, a coward, if
I hesitated between his stupid prejudices and the happiness of
my life." He was evidently weighing all the possible objec-
tions, in order to answer and overrule them beforehand. "Is
440 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
it on account of your family thnt you hesitate?" he continued.
"Your father and brother are pursued, and France is closed
against them. But we will leave France, and they shall come
and live near you. Jean will no longer dislike me when you
are my wife. We will all live in England or in Italy. Now I
am grateful for the fortune that will enable me to make your
life a continual enchantment. I love you — and in the happiness
and tender love which shall be yours in the future, I will make
you forget all the bitterness of the past !"
Marie- Anne knew the Marquis de Sairmeuse well enough to
understand the intensity of the love revealed by these astound-
ing proposals. And for that very reason she hesitated to tell
him that he had triumphed over his pride in vain. She was
anxiously wondering to what extremity his wounded vanity
would carry him, and if a refusal might not transform him
into a bitter foe.
"Why do you not answer?" asked Martial, with evident
anxiety.
She felt that she must reply, that she must speak, say some-
thing; and yet it was with intense reluctance that she at last
unclosed her lips. "I am only a poor girl, Monsieur le Marquis,"
she murmured. "If I accepted your offer, you would regret it
for ever."
"Never !"
"But you are no longer free. You have already plighted
your troth. Mademoiselle Blanche de Courtornieu is your
promised wife."
"Ah ! say one word — only one — and this engagement which
I detest shall be broken."
She was silent. It was evident that her mind was fully made
up, and that she refused his offer.
"Do you hate me, then?" asked Martial, sadly.
If she had allowed herself to tell the whole truth, Marie-
Anne would have answered "Yes" ; for the Marquis de Sair-
meuse did inspire her with almost insurmountable aversion.
"I no more belong to myself than you belong to yourself," she
faltered.
A gleam of hatred shone for a second in Martial's eyes.
"Always Maurice !" said he.
"Always."
She expected an angry outburst, but he remained perfectly
calm. "Then," said he, with a forced smile, "I must believe
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 441
this and other evidence. I must believe that you forced me
to play a ridiculous part. Until now I doubted it."
Marie-Anne bowed her head, blushed with shame to the roots
of her hair; still she made no attempt at denial. "I was not
my own mistress," she stammered; "My father commanded
and threatened, and I — I obeyed him."
"That matters little," he interrupted ; "a pure minded young
girl should not have acted so." This was the only reproach he
allowed himself to utter, and he even regretted it, perhaps
because he did not wish her to know how deeply he was
wounded, perhaps because — as he afterward declared — he could
not overcome his love for her. "Now," he resumed, "I under-
stand your presence here. You come to ask mercy for M.
d'Escorval."
"Not mercy, but justice. The baron is innocent."
Martial drew close to Marie-Anne, and lowering his voice:
"If the father is innocent," he whispered, "then it is the son
who is guilty."
She recoiled in terror. What ! he knew the secret which
the judges could not, or would not penetrate !
But seeing her anguish, he took pity on her. "Another
reason," said he, "for attempting to save the baron ! If his
blood were shed upon the guillotine there would be an abyss
between you and Maurice which neither of you could cross.
So I will join my efforts to yours."
Blushing and embarrassed, Marie-Anne dared not thank him ;
for was she not about to requite his generosity by charging
him with a complicity of which, as she well knew, he was in-
nocent. Indeed, she would have by far preferred to find him
angry and revengeful.
Just then a valet opened the door, and the Due de Sairmeuse
entered. "Upon my word !" he exclaimed, as he crossed the
threshold, "I must confess that Chupin is an admirable hunter.
Thanks to him — " He paused abruptly: he had not perceived
Marie-Anne until now. "What ! Lacheneur's daughter !" said
he, with an air of intense surprise. "What does she want here ?"
The decisive moment had come — the baron's life depended
upon Marie-Anne's courage and address. Impressed by this
weighty responsibility, she at once recovered all her presence
of mind. "I have a revelation to sell to you, sir," she said, with
a resolute air.
The duke looked at her with mingled wonder and curiosity;
442 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
then, laughing heartily, he threw himself on to the sofa, ex-
claiming: "Sell it, my pretty one — sell it! I can't speak of
that until I am alone with you."
At a sign from his father, Martial left the room. "Now tell
me what it is," said the duke.
She did not lose a moment. "You must have read the circu-
lar convening the conspirators," she began.
"Certainly ; I have a dozen copies of it in my pocket."
"Who do you suppose wrote it?"
"Why, the elder D'Escorval, or your father."
"You are mistaken, sir ; that letter was prepared by the Mar-
quis de Sairmeuse, your son."
The duke sprang to his feet, his face purple with anger.
"Zounds ! girl ! I advise you to bridle your tongue !" cried he.
"There is proof of what I assert; and the lady who sends
me here," interrupted Marie-Anne, quite unabashed, "has the
original of this circular in safe keeping. It is in the handwrit-
ing of Monsieur le Marquis, and I am obliged to tell you — "
She did not have time to complete her sentence, for the duke
sprang to the door, and, in a voice of thunder, called his son.
As soon as Martial entered the room his grace turned to Marie-
Anne: "Now. repeat," said he, "repeat before my son what you
have just said to me."
Boldly, with head erect, and in a clear, firm voice, Marie-
Anne repeated her charge. She expected an indignant denial,
a stinging taunt, or, at least, an angry interruption from the
marquis ; but he listened with a nonchalant air, and she almost
believed she could read in his eyes an encouragement to pro-
ceed, coupled with a promise of protection.
"Well, what do you say to that?" imperiously asked the duke,
when Marie-Anne had finished.
"First of all," replied Martial, lightly, "I should like to see
this famous circular."
The duke handed him a copy. "Here — read it," said he.
Martial glanced over the paper, laughed heartily, and ex-
claimed: "A clever trick."
"What do you say?"
"I say that this Chanlouineau is a sly rascal. Who the devil
would have thought the fellow so cunning to see his honest
face? Another lesson to teach one not to trust in appear-
ances."
In all his life the Due de Sairmeuse had never received so
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 443
severe a shock. "So Chanlouineau was not lying, then," he
ejaculated, in a choked, unnatural voice, "you were one of the
instigators of this rebellion ?"
Martial's brow bent as, in a tone of marked disdain, he slowly
replied : "This is the fourth time that you have addressed that
question to me, and for the fourth time I answer : 'Xo.' That
should suffice for you. If the fancy had seized me to take part
in this movement, I should frankly confess it. What possible
reason could I have for concealing anything from you?"
"The facts!" interrupted the duke, in a frenzy of passion;
"the facts !"
"Very well," rejoined Martial, in his usual indifferent tone;
"the fact is that the original of this circular does exist, that
it was written in my best hand on a very large sheet of very
poor paper. I recollect that in trying to find appropriate ex-
pressions I erased and re-wrote several words. Did I date
this writing? I think I did. but I could not swear to it."
"How do you reconcile this with your denials?" exclaimed
M. de Sairmeuse.
"I can do this easily. Did I not tell you just now that
Chanlouineau had made a tool of me ?"
The duke no longer knew what to believe ; but what exasper-
ated him more than everything else was his son's imperturbable
coolness. "You had much better confess that you were led
into this by your mistress," he retorted, pointing at Marie-Anne.
"Mademoiselle Lacheneur is not my mistress," replied Martial,
in an almost threatening tone. "Though it only rests with her
to become the Marquise de Sairmeuse, if she chooses, to-
morrow. But let us leave recriminations on one side, they can
not further the progress of our business."
It was with difficulty that the duke checked another insulting
rejoinder. However, he had not quite lost all reason. Trem-
bling with suppressed rage, he walked round the room several
times, and at last paused in front of Marie-Anne, who had re-
mained standing in the same place, as motionless as a statute.
"Come, my girl," said he, "give me the writing."
"It is not in my possession, sir."
"Where is it?"
"In the hands of a person who will only give it to you under
certain conditions."
"Who is this person?"
"I am not at liberty to tell you."
444 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
There was both admiration and jealousy in the look that
Martial fixed upon Marie-Anne. He was amazed by her cool-
ness and presence of mind. Ah ! indeed powerful must be the
passion that imparted such a ringing clearness to her voice,
such brilliancy to her eyes, and such precision to her words !
"And if I should not accept the — the conditions, what then?"
asked M. de Sairmeuse.
"In that case the writing will be utilized."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean, sir, that early to-morrow morning a trusty messenger
will start for Paris, with the view of submitting this document
to certain persons who are not exactly friends of yours. He
will show it to M. Laine, for example — or to the Due de Rich-
elieu ; and he will, of course, explain to them its significance
and value. Will this writing prove the Marquis de Sairmeuse's
complicity? Yes, or no? Have you, or have you not, dared to
condemn to death the unfortunate men who were only your
son's tools?"
"Ah, you little wretch, you hussy, you little viper!" inter-
rupted the duke in a passionate rage. "You want to drive me
mad ! Yes, you know that I have enemies and rivals who would
gladly give anything for this execrable letter. And if they
obtain it they will demand an investigation, and then farewell
to the rewards due to my services. It will be shouted from the
housetops that Chanlouineau, in the presence of the tribunal,
declared that you, marquis, were his leader and his accomplice.
You will be obliged to submit to the scrutiny of physicians, who,
finding a freshly-healed wound, will require you to state how
and where you received it, and why you concealed it. And
then, of course, I shall be accused ! It will be said I expedited
matters in order to silence the voices raised against my son.
Perhaps my enemies will even say that I secretly favored the
insurrection. I shall be vilified in the newspapers. And re-
member that it is you, you alone, marquis, who have ruined the
fortunes of our house, our brilliant prospects, in this foolish
fashion. You pretend to believe in nothing, to doubt everything
— you are cold, skeptical, disdainful. But only let a pretty
woman make her appearance on the scene, and you grow as
wild as a schoolboy, and you are ready to commit any act of
folly. It is you that I am speaking to, marquis. Don't you hear
me ? Speak ! what have you to say ?"
Martial had listened to this tirade with unconcealed scorn,
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 445
and without even attempting to interrupt it. But now he slowly-
replied : "I think, sir, that if Mademoiselle Lacheneur had any
doubts of the value of the document she possesses, she certainly
can have them no longer."
This answer fell upon the duke's wrath like a bucket of iced
water. He instantly realized his folly; and frightened by his
own words, stood literally stupefied with astonishment.
Without deigning to speak any further to his father, the mar-
quis turned to Marie-Anne. "Will you be kind enough to
explain what is required in exchange for this letter?" he said.
"The life and liberty of M. d'Escorval."
The duke started as if he had received an electric shock.
"Ah !" he exclaimed. "I knew they would ask for something
that is impossible !" He sank back into an armchair ; and his
despair now seemed as deep as his frenzy had been violent. He
hid his face in his hands, evidently seeking for some expedient.
"Why didn't you come to me before judgment was pronounced?"
he murmured. "Then, I could have done anything — now, my
hands are bound. The commission has spoken, and the sentence
must be executed — " He rose, and added in the tone of a man
who is utterly resigned : "Decidedly, I should risk more in at-
tempting to save the baron" — in his anxiety he gave M. d'Escor-
val his title — "a thousand times more than I have to fear from
my enemies. So, mademoiselle" — he no longer said, "my good
girl" — "you can utilize your document."
Having spoken, he was about to leave the room, when
Martial detained him. "Think again before you decide," said the
marquis. "Our situation is not without a precedent. Don't
you remember that a few months ago the Count de Lavalette
was condemned to death? How the king wished to pardon him,
but the ministers had contrary views. No doubt his majesty
was the master; still what did he do? He affected to remain
deaf to all the supplications made on the prisoner's behalf.
The scaffold was even erected, and yet Lavalette was saved!
And no one was compromised — yes, a jailer lost his position;
but he is living on his pension now."
Marie-Anne caught eagerly at the idea which Martial had
so cleverly presented. "Yes," she exclaimed, "the Count de
Lavalette was favored by royal connivance, and succeeded in
making his escape."
The simplicity of the expedient, and the authority of the
example, seemed to make a vivid impression on the duke. He
446 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
remained silent for a moment, but Marie-Anne fancied she
could detect an expression of relief steal over his face. "Such
an attempt would be very hazardous," he murmured; "yet,
with care, and if one were sure that it would remain a secret — "
"Oh ! the secret will be religiously kept, sir," interrupted
Marie-Anne.
With a glance Martial recommended her to remain silent,
then turning to his father, he said: "We can always consider
this expedient, and calculate the consequences — that won't bind
us. When is this sentence to be carried into effect?"
"To-morrow," replied the duke. Terrible as this curt an-
swer seemed, it did not alarm Marie-Anne. She had perceived
by the duke's acute anxiety that she had good grounds for
hope and she was now aware that Martial would favor her
designs.
"We have, then, only the night before us," resumed the mar-
quis. "Fortunately, it is only half-past seven, and until ten
o'clock my father can visit the citadel without exciting suspi-
cion." He paused and seemed embarrassed. The fact was, he
had just realized the existence of a difficulty which might thwart
all his plans. "Have we any intelligent men in the citadel?" he
murmured. "A jailer or a soldier's assistance is indispensable."
Turning to his father, he abruptly asked him: "Have you any
man whom one can trust?"
"I have three or four spies — they can be bought — "
"No ! the wretch who betrays his comrade for a few sous
would betray you for a few louis. We must have an honest
man who sympathizes with Baron d'Escorval's opinions — an
old soldier who fought under Napoleon, if possible."
"I know the man you require !" exclaimed Marie-Anne with
sudden inspiration, and noticing Martial's surprise. "Yes, a
man at the citadel."
"Take care," observed the marquis. "Remember he will have
a great deal to risk, for should this be discovered the accom-
plices must be sacrificed."
"The man I speak of is the one you need. I will be re-
sponsible for him. His name is Bavois, and he is a corporal in
the first company of grenadiers."
"Bavois," repeated Martial, as if to fix the name in his
memory; "Bavois. Very well, I will confer with him. My
father will find some pretext for having him summoned here."
"It is easy to find a pretext," rejoined Marie- Anne. "He
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 447
was left on guard at Escorval after the searching party left
the house."
"That's capital," said Martial, walking toward his father's
chair. "I suppose," he continued, addressing the duke, "that
the baron has been separated from the other prisoners."
"Yes, he is alone, in a large, comfortable room, on the second
floor of the corner tower."
"The corner tower !" said Martial, "is that the very tall one,
built on the edge of the cliff, where the rock rises almost
perpendicularly ?"
"Precisely," answered M. de Sairmeuse, whose promptness
plainly implied that he was ready to risk a good deal to enable
the prisoner to escape.
"What kind of a window is there in the baron's room?"
inquired Martial.
"Oh, a tolerably large one, with a double row of iron bars,
securely riveted into the stone walls. It overlooks the prec-
lpice.
"The deuce ! The bars can easily be cut through, but that
precipice is a serious difficulty, and yet, in one respect, it is
an advantage, for no sentinels are stationed there, are they?"
"No, never. Between the walls and the citadel and the edge
of the rock there is barely standing room. The soldiers don't
venture there even in the day time."
"There is one more important question. What is the distance
from M. d'Escorval's window to the ground?"
"I should say it is about forty feet from the base of the tower."
"Good ! And from the base of the tower to the foot of the
cliff— how far is that?"
"I really scarcely know. However, I should think fully
sixty feet."
"Ah, that's terribly high; but fortunately the baron is still
pretty vigorous."
The duke was growing impatient. "Now," said he to his
son, "will you be so kind as to explain your plan?"
"My plan is simplicity itself," replied Martial. "Sixty and
forty are one hundred; so it is necessary to procure a hundred
feet of strong rope. It will make a very large bundle ; but no
matter. I will twist it round me, wrap myself up in a large
cloak, and accompany you to the citadel. You will send for
Corporal Bavois, leave me alone with him in a quiet place;
and I will explain our wishes to him."
9 — Vol. II — Gab.
448
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
The Due de Sairmeuse shrugged his shrulders. "And hovr
will you procure a hundred feet of rope at this hour in Mon-
taignac? Will you go about from shop to shop? You might
as well trumpet your project all over France at once."
"I shall attempt nothing of the kind. What I can't do, the
friends of the D'Escorval family will do." Then seeing that
the duke was about to offer some fresh objections, Martial
earnestly added: "Pray don't forget the danger that threatens
us, nor the little time that is left us. I have made a blunder,
let me repair it." And turning to Marie- Anne: "You may
consider the baron saved," he pursued; "but it is necessary for
me to confer with one of his friends. Return at once to the
Hotel de France and tell the cure to meet me on the Place
d'Armes, where I shall go at once and wait for him."
"p\IRECTLY the Baron d'Escorval was arrested, although
*-* he was unarmed and although he had taken no part in the
insurrection, he fully realized the fact that he was a lost man.
He knew how hateful he was to the royalist party, and having
made up his mind that he would have to die, he turned all his
attention to the danger threatening his son. The unfortunate
blunder he made in contradicting Chupin's evidence was due
to his preoccupation, and he did not breathe freely until he
saw Maurice led from the hall by the Abbe Midon and the
friendly officers; for he feared that his son would be unable to
restrain himself, that he would declare his guilt all to no purpose
since the commission in its blind hate would never forgive the
father, but rather satisfy its rancor by ordering the execution of
the son as well. When Maurice was eventually got away, the
baron became more composed, and with head erect, and stead-
fast eye, he listened to his sentence. In the confusion that
ensued in removing the prisoners from the hall M. d'Escorval
found himself beside Chanlouineau, who had begun his noisy
lamentations. "Courage, my boy," he said indignantly at such
apparent cowardice.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 449
"Ah ! it is easy to talk," whined the young farmer, who, see-
ing that he was momentarily unobserved, leaned toward the
baron, and whispered : "It is for you that I am working. Save
all your strength for to-night."
Chanlouineau's words and his burning glance surprised M.
d'Escorval, but he attributed both to fear. When the guards
took him back to his cell, he threw himself on to his pallet,
and became absorbed in that vision of the last hour, which is
at once the hope and despair of those who are about to die.
He knew the terrible laws that govern a military commission.
The next day — in a few hours — at dawn, perhaps, he would be
taken from his cell, and placed in front of a squad of soldiers,
an officer would lift his sword, and then all would be over.
All over ! ay, but what would become of his wife and son ?
His agony on thinking of those he loved was terrible. He
was alone; he wept. But suddenly he started up, ashamed of
his weakness. He must not allow these thoughts to unnerve
him. Had he not already determined to meet death without
flinching? Resolved to shake off this fit of melancholy, he
walked round and round his cell, forcing his mind to occupy
itself with material objects.
The room which had been allotted to him was very large. It
had once communicated with an adjoining apartment, but the
door had long since been walled up. The cement which held
the stone together had crumbled away, leaving crevices through
which one might look from one room into the other. M.
d'Escorval mechanically applied his eye to one of these crevices.
Perhaps he had a friend for a neighbor, some wretched man
who was to share his fate. No. He could not see any one.
He called, first in a whisper, and then louder; but no voice
replied. "If I could only tear down this thin partition," he
thought. He trembled, then shrugged his shoulders. And if
he did, what then? He would only find himself in another
apartment similar to his own, and communicating like his with
a corridor full of guards, whose monotonous tramp he could
plainly hear as they passed to and fro. What folly to think
of escape ! He knew that every possible precaution must have
been taken to guard against it. Yes, he knew this, and yet he
could not refrain from examining his window. Two rows of
iron bars protected it. These were placed in such a way that
it was impossible for him to protrude his head and see how
far he was above the ground. The height, however, must be
450 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
considerable, judging from the extent of the view. The sun
was setting; and through the violet haze the baron could dis-
cern an undulating line of hills, the culminating point of which
must be the waste land of La Reche. The dark mass of foliage
that he saw on the right was probably the forest of Sairmeuse.
On the left, he divined rather than saw, nestling between the
hills, the valley of the Oiselle and Escorval. Escorval, that
lovely retreat where he had known such happiness, where he
had hoped to die in peace. And remembering past times, and
thinking of his vanished dreams, his eyes once more filled with
tears. But he quickly dried them as he heard some one draw
back the bolts securing the door of his room.
Two soldiers entered, one of whom carried a torch, while
the other had with him one of those long baskets divided into
compartments which are used in carrying meals to officers on
guard. These men were evidently deeply moved, and yet,
obeying a sentiment of instinctive delicacy, they affected a
semblance of gaiety. "Here is your dinner, sir," said one sol-
dier, "it ought to be good, since it comes from the commander's
kitchen."
M. d'Escorval smiled sadly. Some attentions have a sinister
significance coming from your jailer. Still, when he seated
himself before the little table prepared for him, he found that
he was really hungry. He ate with a relish, and was soon
chatting quite cheerfully with the soldiers. "Always hope for
the best, sir," said one of these worthy fellows. "Who knows?
Stranger things have happened !"
When the baron had finished his meal, he asked for pen, ink,
and paper, which were almost immediately brought to him. He
found himself again alone ; but his conversation with the sol-
diers had been 01 service, for his weakness had passed away,
his self-possession had returned, and he could now reflect. He
was surprised that he had heard nothing from his wife or son.
Had they been refused admittance to the prison ? No, that
could not be; he could not imagine his judges sufficiently cruel
to prevent him from pressing his wife and son to his heart, in
a last embrace. Yet, how was it that neither the baroness nor
Maurice had made an attempt to see him! Something must
have prevented them from doing so. What could it be ? He
imagined the worst misfortunes. He saw his wife writhing in
agony, perhaps dead. He pictured Maurice, wild with grief,
on his knees at his mother's bedside. Still they might come yet,
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 451
for on consulting his watch, he found that it was only seven
o'clock. But alas, he waited in vain. No one came. At last,
he took up his pen, and was about to write, when he heard a
bustle in the corridor outside. The clink of spurs resounded
over the flagstones, and he heard the sharp clink of a musket
as the sentinel presented arms. Trembling in spite of himself,
the baron sprang up. "They have come at last !" he exclaimed.
But he was mistaken ; the footsteps died away in the dis-
tance, and he reflected that this must have been some round
of inspection. At the same moment, however, two objects,
thrown through the little grated opening in the door of his
cell, fell on to the floor in the middle of the room. M. d'Escor-
val caught them up. Somebody had thrown him two files. His
first feeling was one of distrust. He knew that there were
jailers who left no means untried to dishonor their prisoners
before delivering them over to the executioner. Who had sent
him these instruments of deliverance, a friend or an enemy?
Chanlouineau's last words and the look that accompanied them
recurred to his mind, perplexing him still more. He was
standing with knitted brows, turning and returning the files
in his hands, when he suddenly noticed on the floor a scrap of
paper which at first had escaped his attention. He picked it
up, unfolded it, and read : "Your friends are at work. Every-
thing is prepared for your escape. Make haste and saw the
bars of your window. Maurice and his mother embrace you.
Hope, courage !"
Beneath these few lines was the letter M.
But the baron did not need this initial to feel assured, for
he had at once recognized the Abbe Midon's handwriting.
"Ah ! he is a true friend," he murmured. "And this explains
why neither my wife nor son come to visit me ; and yet I
doubted their energy — and was complaining of their neglect !"
Intense joy filled his heart, he raised the letter that promised
him life and liberty to his lips, and enthusiastically exclaimed:
"To work ! to work !"
He had chosen the finest of the two files, which were both
well tempered, and was about to attack the bars, when he fan-
cied he heard some one open the door of the next room. Some
one had opened it, certainly, and had closed it again, but with-
out locking it. The baron could hear this person moving cau-
tiously about. What did it all mean? Were they incarcerat-
ing some fresh prisoner, or were they stationing a spy there?
452 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
Holding his breath and listening with the greatest attention,
the baron now heard a singular sound, the cause of which it
was quite impossible to explain. He stealthily advanced to the
door that had been walled up, knelt down and peered through
one of the crevices in the masonry. The sight that met his
eyes amazed him. A man was standing in a corner of the
room, and the baron could see the lower part of his body by the
light of a large lantern which he had deposited on the floor
at his feet. He was turning quickly round and round, thus
unwinding a long rope which had been twined round his body
as thread is wound about a bobbin. M. d'Escorval rubbed his
eyes as if to assure himself that he was not dreaming. Evi-
dently this rope was intended for him. It was to be attached
to the broken bars. But how had this man succeeded in gain-
ing admission to this room? Who could it be that enjoyed
such liberty in the prison ? He was not a soldier — or, at least,
he did not wear a uniform. Unfortunately, the highest crevice
was so situated that the baron could not see the upper part of
the man's body ; and despite all his efforts, he failed to distin-
guish the features of this friend — he judged him to be such —
whose boldness verged on folly. Unable to resist his intense
curiosity, M. d'Escorval was on the point of rapping against the
wall to question him, when the door of the room where this
man stood was impetuously thrown open. Another man en-
tered, but his lineaments also were beyond the baron's range
of vision. However, his voice could be heard quite plainly, and
M. d'Escorval was seized with despair when this newcomer
ejaculated in a tone of intense astonishment: "Good heavens!
what are you about ?"
"All is discovered !" thought the baron, growing sick at
heart ; while to his increased surprise the man he believed to
be his friend calmly continued unwinding the rope, and quietly
replied : 'As you see, I am freeing myself from this burden,
which I find extremely uncomfortable. There are at least sixty
yards of it, I should think — and what a bundle it makes ! I
feared they would discover it under my cloak."
"And what are you going to do with all this rope?" inquired
the newcomer.
"I am going to hand it to the Baron d'Escorval, to whom
I have already given a file. He must make his escape to-
night."
The scene was so improbable that the baron could not ba-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 453
Heve his own ears. "I can't be awake; I must be dreaming,"
he thought.
But the newcomer uttered a terrible oath, and, in an almost
threatening tone, exclaimed : "We will see about that ! If you
have gone mad, thank God I still possess my reason ! I will
not permit — "
"Excuse me !" interrupted the other, coldly, "you will per-
mit it. This is merely the result of your own — credulity. The
time to say, 'I won't permit it,' was when Chanlouineau asked
you to allow him to receive a visit from Mademoiselle Lache-
neur. Do you know what that cunning fellow wanted ? Simply
to give Mademoiselle Lacheneur a letter of mine, so compro-
mising in its nature that if it ever reaches the hands of a
certain person of my acquaintance, my father and I will be
obliged to reside in London for the future. Then good-by to
all our projects of an alliance between our two families!" The
newcomer heaved a mighty sigh, followed by a half angry, half
sorrowful exclamation; but the man with the rope, without giv-
ing him any opportunity to reply, resumed: "You yourself,
marquis, would no doubt be compromised. Were you not a
chamberlain during Bonaparte's reign ? Ah, marquis ! how
could a man of your experience, so subtle, penetrating, and
acute, allow himself to be duped by a low, ignorant peasant?"
Now M. d'Escorval understood everything. He was not
dreaming; it was the Marqui?. de Courtornieu and Martial de
Sairmeuse who were talking on the other side of the wall. The
former had been so crushed by Martial's revelation that he
made no effort to oppose him. "And this terrible letter?" he
groaned.
"Marie-Anne Lacheneur gave it to the Abbe Midon, who
came to me and said: 'Either the baron will escape, or this
letter will be taken to the Due de Richelieu.' I voted for the
baron's escape, I assure you. The abbe procured all that was
necessary; he met me at a rendezvous I appointed in a quiet
place; he coiled all this rope round my body, and here I am."
"Then you think that if the baron escapes they will give
you back your letter?"
"Most assuredly I do."
"You deluded man ! Why, as soon as the baron is safe,
they will demand the life of another prisoner, with the same
threats."
"By no means."
454 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
"You will see."
"I shall see nothing of the kind, for a very simple reason.
I have the letter now in my pocket. The abbe gave it to me
in exchange for my word of honor."
M. de Courtornieu uttered an ejaculation which showed that
he considered the abbe to be an egregious fool. "What !" he
exclaimed. "You hold the proof, and — But this is madness!
Burn this wretched letter in your lantern, and let the baron
go where his slumbers will be undisturbed."
Martial's silence betrayed something like stupefaction. "Ah !
so that's what you would do?" he asked at last.
"Certainly — and without the slightest hesitation."
"Ah, well ! I can't say that I quite congratulate you."
The sneer was so apparent that M. de Courtornieu was sorely
tempted to make an angry reply. But he was not a man to
yield to his first impulse — this ex-imperial chamberlain, now
a grand prevot under his Majesty King Louis XVIII. He re-
flected. Should he, on account of a sharp word, quarrel with
Martial — with the only suitor who had ever pleased his daugh-
ter? A quarrel and he would be left without any prospect of
a son-in-law! When would heaven send him such another?
And how furious Blanche would be! He concluded to swal-
low the bitter pill ; and it was in a tone of paternal indulgence
that he remarked: "I see that you are very young, my dear
Martial."
The baron was still kneeling beside the partition, holding
his breath in an agony of suspense, and with his right ear
against one of the crevices.
"You are only twenty, my dear Martial," pursued the Mar-
quis de Courtornieu; "you are imbued with all the enthusiasm
and generosity of youth. Complete your undertaking; I shall
not oppose you ; but remember that all may be discovered —
and then — "
"Have no fear, sir, on that score," interrupted the young
marquis; "I have taken every precaution. Did you see a
single soldier in the corridor just now? No. That is be-
cause my father, at my request, has just assembled all the
officers and guards together under pretext of ordering excep-
tional precautions. He is talking to them now. This gave me
an opportunity to come here unobserved. No one will see me
when I go out. Who, then, will dare suspect me of having
any hand in the baron's escape?"
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 455
"If the baron escapes, justice will require to know who aided
him."
Martial laughed. "If justice seeks to know, she will find a
culprit of my providing. Go now ; I have told you everything.
I had but one person to fear — yourself. A trusty messenger
requested you to join me here. You came; you know all, you
have agreed to remain neutral. I am at ease, and the baron
will be safe in Piedmont when the sun rises." He picked up
his lantern, and added, gaily: "But let us go — my father can't
harangue those soldiers forever."
"But you have not told me — " insisted M. de Courtornieu.
"I will tell you everything, but not here. Come, come !"
They went out, locking the door behind them; and then the
baron rose from his knees. All sorts of contradictory ideas,
doubts, and conjectures filled his mind. What could this letter
have contained? Why had not Chanlouineau used it to pro-
cure his own salvation? Who would have believed that Mar-
tial would be so faithful to a promise wrested from him by
threats? But this was a time for action, not for reflection.
The bars were heavy, and there were two rows of them. M.
d'Escorval set to work. He had supposed that the task would
be difficult, but, as he almost immediately discovered, it proved
a thousand times more arduous than he had expected. It was
the first time that he had ever worked with a file, and he did
not know how to use it. His progress was despairingly slow.
Nor was that all. Though he worked as cautiously as possible,
each movement of the instrument across the iron caused a
harsh, grating sound which made him tremble. What if some
one overheard this noise? And it seemed to him impossible
for it to escape notice, since he could plainly distinguish the
measured tread of the guards, who had resumed their watch
in the corridor. So slight was the result of his labors that at
the end of twenty minutes he experienced a feeling of pro-
found discouragement. At this rate, it would be impossible for
him to sever the first bar before daybreak. What, then, was
the use of spending his time in fruitless labor? Why mar the
dignity of death by the disgrace of an unsuccessful effort to
escape ?
He was hesitating when footsteps approached his cell. At
once he left the window and seated himself at the table. Al-
most directly afterward the door opened and a soldier entered*
an officer who did not cross the threshold, remarking at the
466 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
same moment: "You have your instructions, corporal, keep a
close watch. If the prisoner needs anything, call."
M. d'Escorval's heart throbbed almost to bursting. What
was coming now? Had M. de Courtornieu's advice carried the
day, or had Martial sent some one to assist him? But the door
was scarcely closed when the corporal whispered: "We must
not be dawdling here."
M. d'Escorval sprang from his chair. This man was a friend.
Here was help and life.
"I am Bavois," continued the corporal. "Some one said to
me just now: 'One of the emperor's friends is in danger; are
you willing to lend him a helping hand?' I replied: 'Present,'
and here I am."
This certainly was a brave fellow. The baron held out his
hand, and in a voice trembling with emotion: "Thanks," said
he; "thanks. What, you don't even know me, and yet you
expose yourself to the greatest danger for my sake."
Bavois shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. "Positively my
old hide is no more precious than yours. If we don't succeed
they will chop off our heads with the same ax. But we shall
succeed. Now, let's stop talking and proceed to business."
As he spoke he drew from under his long overcoat a strong
iron crowbar and a small vial of brandy, both of which he laid
upon the bed. He then took the candle and passed it five or
six times before the window.
"What are you doing?" inquired the baron in suspense.
"I am signaling to your friends that everything is progress-
ing favorably. They are down there waiting for us; and see,
they are now answering." The baron looked, and three times
they both perceived a little flash of flame, such as is produced
by burning a pinch of gunpowder.
"Now," said the corporal, "we are all right. Let us see
what progress you have made with the bars."
"I have scarcely begun," murmured M. d'Escorval.
The corporal inspected the work. "You may indeed say that
you have made no progress," said he; "but never mind, I was
'prenticed to a locksmith once, and I know how to handle a
file." Then drawing the cork from the vial of brandy, he fas-
tened it to the end of one of the files, and swathed the handle
of the tool with a piece of damp linen. "That's what they call
putting a stop on the instrument," he remarked, by way of ex-
planation. Immediately afterward he made an energetic attack
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 457
on the bars, and it was at once evident that he had by no
means exaggerated either his knowledge of the task, or the
efficacy of his precautions for deadening the sound. The harsh
grating which had so alarmed the baron was no longer heard,
and Bavois, finding he had nothing more to dread from the
keenest ears, now made preparations to shelter himself from
observation. Suspicion would be at once aroused if the grat-
ings in the door were covered over, so the corporal hit upon
another expedient. Moving the little table to another part of
the room, he stood the candlestick on it in such a position that
the window remained entirely in shadow. Then he ordered the
baron to sit down, and handing him a paper, said : "Now read
aloud, without pausing for a minute, until you see me stop
work."
By this method they might reasonably hope to deceive the
guards outside in the corridor; some of whom, indeed, did
come to the door and look in ; but after a brief glance they
walked away, and remarked to their companions : "We have
just taken a look at the prisoner. He is very pale, and his
eyes are glistening feverishly. He is reading aloud to divert
his mind. Corporal Bavois is looking out of the window. It
must be dull music for him."
They little suspected why the baron's eyes glistened in this
feverish fashion; and had no idea that if he read aloud it was
with the view of overpowering any suspicious sound which
might result from Corporal Bavois's labor. The time passed
on, and while the latter worked M. d'Escorval continued read-
ing. He had completed the perusal of the entire paper, and
was about to begin it again, when the old soldier, leaving the
window, motioned him to stop.
"Half the task is completed," he said in a whisper. "The
lower bars are cut."
"Ah ! how can I ever repay you for your devotion !"' mur-
mured the baron.
"Hush ! not a word !" interrupted Bavois. "If I escape with
you, I can never return here; and I shan't know where to go,
for the regiment, you see, is my only family. Ah, well ! if
you give me a home with you I shall be very well content."
Thereupon he swallowed some of the brandy, and set to work
again with renewed ardor.
He had cut one of the bars of the second row, when he was
interrupted by M. d'Escorval, who, without pausing in his re-
458 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
newed perusal, was pulling him by the ccat tails to attract
attention. The corporal turned round at once. "What's up?"
said he.
"I heard a singular noise just now in the adjoining room
where the ropes are."
Honest Bavois muttered a terrible oath. "Do they intend
to betray us?" he asked. "I risked my life, and they promised
me fair play." He placed his ear against a crevice in the par-
tition, and listened for a long while. Nothing, not the slightest
sound could be detected. "It must have been some rat that
you heard," he said at last. "Go on with your reading." And
he turned to his work again.
This was the only interruption, and a little before four o'clock
everything was ready. The bars were cut, and the ropes,
which had been drawn through an opening in the wall, were
coiled under the window. The decisive moment had come.
Bavois took the counterpane from the bed, fastened it over
the opening in the door, and filled up the keyhole. "Now,"
said he, in the same measured tone he would have used in
instructing a recruit, "attention ! sir, and obey the word of
command."
Then he calmly explained that the escape would consist of
two distinct operations ; first, one would have to gain the nar-
row platform at the base of the tower ; next one must descend
to the foot of the precipitous rock. The abbe, who understood
this, had brought Martial two ropes; the one to be used in the
descent of the precipice being considerably longer than the
other. "I will fasten the shortest rope under your arms," said
Bavois to the baron, "and I will let you down to the base of
the tower. When you have reached it I will pass you the
longer rope and the crowbar. Don't miss them. If we find our-
selves without them on that narrow ledge of rock we shall
either be compelled to deliver ourselves up, or throw ourselves
down the precipice. I shan't be long in joining you. Are you
ready?"
In reply M. d'Escorval lifted his arms, the rope was fastened
securely about him, and he crawled through the window.
From above the height seemed immense. Below, on the bar-
ren fields surrounding the citadel, eight persons were waiting,
silent, anxious, breathless with suspense. They were Madame
d'Escorval and Maurice, Marie-Anne, the Abbe Midon, and
four retired officers. There was no moon, but the night was
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
459
very clear, and they could see the tower plainly. Soon after
four o'clock struck from the church steeples, they perceived
a dark object glide slowly down the side of the tower — this was
the baron. A short interval and then another form followed
rapidly — this was Bavois. Half of the perilous journey was
accomplished. The watchers below could see the two figures
moving about on the narrow platform. The corporal and the
baron were exerting all their strength to fix the crowbar securely
in a crevice of the rock. Suddenly one of the figures stepped
forward and glided gently down the side of the precipice. It
could be none other than M. d'Escorval. Transported with
happiness, his wife sprang forward with open arms to receive
him. Alas ! at that same moment a terrible cry rent the still
night air.
M. d'Escorval was falling from a height of fifty feet ; he was
being hurled to the foot of the precipice. The rope had
parted. Had it broken naturally ? Maurice examined it ; and
then with a vow of vengeance exclaimed that they had been
betrayed — that their enemy had arranged to deliver only a dead
body into their hands — that the rope had been foully tampered
with, intentionally cut with a knife beforehand !
RATHER CHUPIN, the false witness and the crafty spy,
*■ had refrained from sleeping and almost from drinking ever
since that unfortunate morning when the Due de Sairmeuse
affixed to the walls of Montaignac the decree in which he
promised twenty thousand francs to the person who delivered
up Lacheneur, dead or alive. "Twenty thousand francs," mut-
tered the old rascal gloomily ; "twenty sacks with a hundred
golden pistoles in each ! Ah ! if I could only discover this
Lacheneur, even if he were dead and buried a hundred feet
under ground, I should gain the reward."
He cared nothing for the shame which such a feat would
entail. His sole thought was the reward — the blood-money.
Unfortunately for his greed he had nothing whatever to guide
460 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
him in his researches; no clue, however vpgue. All that was
known in Montaignac was that Lacheneur's horse had been
killed at the Croix d'Arcy. But no one could say whether
Lacheneur himself had been wounded, or whether he had es-
caped from the fray uninjured. Had he gained the frontier?
Or had he found an asylum in some friend's house? Chupin
was thus hungering for the price of blood, when, on the day
of the baron's trial, as he was returning from the citadel, after
giving his evidence, he chanced to enter a wine-shop. He was
indulging in a strong potation when he suddenly heard a peas-
ant near him mention Lacheneur's name in a low voice. This
peasant was an old man, who sat at an adjoining table, empty-
ing a bottle of wine in a friend's company, and he was telling
the latter that he had come to Montaignac on purpose to give
Mademoiselle Lacheneur some news of her father. He said
that his son-in-law had met the chief conspirator in the moun-
tains which separate the arrondissement of Montaignac from
Savoy, and he even mentioned the exact place of meeting,
which was near Saint Pavin-des-Grottes, a tiny village of only
a few houses. Certainly the worthy fellow did not think he
was committing a dangerous indiscretion, for in his opinion
Lacheneur had already crossed the frontier, and put himself
out of danger. But in this surmise he was grievously mistaken.
The frontier bordering on Savoy was guarded by soldiers,
who had received orders to prevent any of the conspirators
passing into Italian territory. And even if Piedmont was
gained, it seemed likely that the Italian authorities would them-
selves arrest the fugitive rebels, and hand them over to their
judges. Chupin was aware of all this, and resolved to act at
once. He threw a coin on the counter, and without waiting
for his change, rushed back to the citadel, and asked a sergeant
at the gate for pen and paper. Writing was for him usually
a most laborious task, but to-day it only took him a moment
to pen these lines:
"I know Lacheneur's retreat, and beg monseigneur to order
some mounted soldiers to accompany me, so that we may cap-
ture him. Chupin."
This letter was given to one of the guards, with a request
to take it to the Due de Sairmeuse, who was then presiding
over the military commission. Five minutes later the soldier
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 461
returned with the same note, on the margin of which the duke
had written an order, placing a lieutenant and eight men of
the Montaignac chasseurs, who could be relied upon, at Chu-
pin's disposal. The old spy also asked the loan of a horse for
his own use, and this was granted him ; and the party then
started off at once in the direction of St. Pavin.
When, at the finish of the final stand made by the insur-
gents at the Croix d'Arcy, Lacheneur's horse received a bay-
onet wound in the chest, and reared and fell, burying its rider
underneath, the latter lost consciousness, and it was not till
some hours later that, restored by the fresh morning air, he
regained his senses and was able to look about him. All he
perceived was a couple of dead bodies lying some little distance
off. It was a terrible moment, and in his soul he cursed the
fate which had left him still alive. Had he been armed, he
would no doubt have put an end to the mental tortures he
was suffering by suicide — but then he had no weapon. So he
must resign himself to life. Perhaps, too, the voice of honor
whispered that it was cowardice to strive to escape responsi-
bility by self-inflicted death. At last he endeavored to draw
himself from under his horse, which proved no easy task, as
his foot was still in the stirrup, and his limbs were so cramped
that he could scarcely move them. Finally, however, he suc-
ceeded in freeing himself, and, on examination, discovered that
he had only one wound, inflicted by a bayonet thrust, in the
left leg. It caused him considerable pain, and he was trying
to bandage it with his handkerchief when he heard the sound
of approaching footsteps. He had no time for reflection : but
at once darted into the forest that lies to the left of the Croix
dArcy. The troops were returning to Montaignac after pur-
suing the rebels for more than three miles. There were some
two hundred soldiers, who were bringing back a score of peas-
ants as prisoners. Crouching behind an oak tree scarcely fif-
teen paces from the road, Lacheneur recognized several of the
captives in the gray light of dawn. It was only by the merest
chance that he escaped discovery: and he fully realized how
difficult it would be for him to gain the frontier without fall-
ing into the hands of the many detachments of soldiery, who
were doubtless scouring the country in every direction.
Still he did not despair. The mountains lay only two leagues
away: and he firmly believed that he would be able to success-
fully elude his pursuers could he only gain the shelter of the
462 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
hills. He began his journey courageously, but soon he was
obliged to admit that he had greatly overestimated his strength,
which was well-nigh quite exhausted by the excessive labor and
excitement of the past few days, coupled with the loss of blood
occasioned by his wound. He tore up a stake in an adjacent
vineyard, and using it as a staff, slowly dragged himself along,
keeping in the shelter of the woods as much as possible, and
creeping beside the hedges and in the ditches whenever he was
obliged to cross an open space. Physical suffering and mental
anguish were soon supplemented by the agony of hunger. He
had eaten nothing for thirty hours, and felt terribly weak from
lack of nourishment. Soon the craving for food became so
intolerable that he was willing to brave anything to appease it.
At last he perceived the thatched roofs of a little hamlet. He
was going forward, decided to enter the first house and ask for
food; the outskirts of the village were reached, and a cottage
stood within a few yards, when suddenly he heard the rolling
of a drum. Surmising that a party of troops was near at hand,
he instinctively hid himself behind a wall. But the drum
proved to be that of a public crier, summoning the village folk
together; and soon he could hear a clear, penetrating voice
reciting the following words: "This is to give notice that the
authorities of Montaignac promise a reward of twenty thou-
sand francs to whosoever delivers up the man known as Lache-
neur, dead or alive. Dead or alive ! Understand, that if he
be dead, the compensation will be the same ; twenty thousand
francs ! to be paid in gold. God save the king."
Then came another roll of the drum. But with a bound,
Lacheneur had already risen ; and though he had believed him-
self utterly exhausted, he now found superhuman strength to
fly. A price had been set upon his head ; and the circumstance
awakened in his breast the frenzy that renders a hunted beast
so dangerous. In all the villages around him he fancied he
could hear the rolling of drums, and the voices of criers pro-
claiming him an outlaw. Go where he would now, he was a
tempting bait offered to treason and cupidity. Whom could he
dare confide in? Whom could he ask for shelter? And even
if he were dead, he would still be worth a fortune. Though
he might die from lack of nourishment and exhaustion under
a bush by the wayside, yet his emaciated body would still be
worth twenty thousand francs. And the man who found his
corpse would not give it burial. He would place it on his cart
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 463
and convey it to Montaignac, present it to the authorities, and
say: "Here is Lacheneur's body — give me the reward."
How long and by what paths he pursued his flight he could
not tell. But several hours afterward, while he w'as wander-
ing through the wooded hills of Charves, he espied two men,
who sprang up and fled at his approach. In a terrible voice
he called after them : "Eh ! you fellows ! do you each want to
earn a thousand pistoles? I am Lacheneur."
They paused when they recognized him, and Lacheneur saw
that they were two of his former followers, both of them well-
to-do farmers, whom it had been difficult to induce to join in
the revolt. They happened to have with them some bread and
a little brandy, and they gave both to the famished man. They
sat down beside him on the grass, and while he was eating
they related their misfortunes. Their connection with the con-
spiracy had been discovered, and soldiers were hunting for
them, but they hoped to reach Italy with the help of a guide
who was waiting for them at an appointed place.
Lacheneur held out his hand. "Then I am saved," said he.
"Weak and wounded as I am, I should have perished all alone."
But the two farmers did not take the hand he offered. "We
ought to leave you," said the younger man gloomily, "for you
are the cause of our misfortunes. You deceived us, Monsieur
Lacheneur."
The leader of the revolt dared not protest : the reproach was
so well deserved. However, the other farmer gave his com-
panion a peculiar glance and suggested that they might let
Lacheneur accompany them all the same. So they walked on
all three together, and that same evening, after nine hours'
journey through the mountains, they crossed the frontier. But,
in the mean while, many and bitter had been the reproaclies
they had exchanged. On being closely questioned by his com-
panions, Lacheneur, exhausted both in mind and body, finally
admitted the insincerity of his promises, by means of which
he had inflamed his followers' zeal. He acknowledged that he
had spread the report that Marie-Louise and the young king
of Rome were concealed in Montaignac, and that it was a gross
falsehood. He confessed that he had given the signal for the
revolt without any chance of success, and without any precise
means of action, leaving everything to chance. In short, he
confessed that nothing was real except the hatred, the bitter
hatred he felt against the Sairmeuse family. A dozen times
464 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
at least during this terrible confession the peasants who accom-
panied him were on the point of hurling aim over the preci-
pice by the banks of which they walked. "So it was to gratify
his own spite," they thought, quivering with rage, "that he set
every one fighting and killing each other — that he has ruined
us and driven us into exile. We'll see if he is to escape
unpunished."
After crossing the frontier the fugitives repaired to the first
hostelry they could find, a lonely inn, a league or so from the
little village of Saint-Jean-de-Coche, and kept by a man named
Balstain. It was past midnight when they rapped, but, despite
the lateness of the hour, they were admitted, and ordered sup-
per. Lacheneur, weak from loss of blood, and exhausted by
his long tramp, went off to bed, however, without eating. He
threw himself on to a pallet in an adjoining room and soon fell
asleep. For the first time since meeting him, the two farmers
now found an opportunity to talk in private. The same idea
had occurred to both of them. They believed that by delivering
Lacheneur up to the authorities, they might secure pardon for
themselves. Neither of them would have consented to receive
a single sou of the blood-money, but they did not consider there
would be any disgrace in exchanging their own lives and lib-
erty for Lacheneur's, especially as he had so deceived them.
Eventually they decided to go to Saint-Jean-de-Coche directly
supper was over and inform the Piedmontese guards.
But they reckoned without their host. They had spoken loud
enough to be overheard by Balstain, the innkeeper, who dur-
ing the day had been told of the magnificent reward promised
for Lacheneur's capture. On learning that the exhausted man,
now quietly sleeping under his roof, was the famous conspirator,
he was seized with a sudden thirst for gold, and whispering a
word to his wife he darted through the window of a back room
to run and fetch the carabineers, as the Italian gendarmes are
termed. He had been gone half an hour or so when the two
peasants left the house, for they had drunk heavily with the
view of mustering sufficient courage to carry their purpose into
effect. They closed the door so violently on going out that
Lacheneur woke up. He rose from his bed and came into the
front room, where he found the innkeeper's wife alone. "Where
are my friends?" he asked anxiously. "And where is your
husband ?"
Moved by sympathy, the woman tried to falter some excuse,
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 465
but finding none, she threw herself at his feet, exclaiming:
"Fly, save yourself — you are betrayed !"
Lacheneur rushed back into his bedroom, trying to find a
weapon with which to defend himself, or a mode of egress
by which he could escape unperceived. He had thought they
might abandon him, but betray him — no, never ! "Who has sold
me ?" he asked in an agitated voice.
"Your friends — the two men who supped at that table."
"That's impossible !" he retorted : for he ignored his com-
rades' designs and hopes ; and could not, would not, believe them
capable of betraying him for lucre.
"But," pleaded the innkeeper's wife, still on her knees before
him, "they have just started for Saint- Jean-de-Coche, where
they mean to denounce you. I heard them say that your life
would purchase theirs. They certainly mean to fetch the cara-
bineers ; and, alas, must I also say that my own husband has
gone to betray you."
Lacheneur understood everything now! And this supreme
misfortune, after all the misery he had endured, quite pros-
trated him. Tears gushed from his eyes, and, sinking on to a
chair, he murmured : "Let them come ; I am ready for them.
No, I will not stir from here ! My miserable life is not worth
such a struggle."
But the landlady rose, and grasping at his clothing, shook
and dragged him to the door — she would have carried him had
she possessed sufficient strength. "You shall not be taken here ;
it will bring misfortune on our house !"
Bewildered by this violent appeal, and urged on by the in-
stinct of self-preservation, so powerful in every human heart,
Lacheneur advanced to the threshold. The night was very dark,
and a chilly fog intensified the gloom.
"See, madame," said he in a gentle voice, "how can I find
my way through these mountains, which I do not know, where
there are no roads — where the footpaths are scarcely traced?"
But Balstain's wife would not argue : oushing him forward and
turning him as one does a blind man to set him on the right
track. "Walk straight before you," said she. "always against
the wind. God will protect you. Farewell !"
He turned to ask further directions, but she had reentered
the house and closed the door. Upheld by a feverish excite-
ment, he walked on during long hours. Soon he lost his way.
and wandered among the mountains, benumbed with cold, stum-
466 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
bling over the rocks, at times falling to the ground. It was a
wonder that he was not precipitated over the brink of some
precipice. He had lost all idea of his whereabouts, and the
sun was already high in the heavens when at last he met some
one of whom he could ask his way. This was a little shepherd
boy, who was looking for some stray goats, but the lad, fright-
ened by the stranger's wild and haggard aspect, at first refused
to approach. At last the offer of a piece of money induced
him to come a little nearer. "You are just on the frontier line,"
said he. "Here is France, and there is Savoy."
"And which is the nearest village ?"
"On the Savoy side, Saint-Jean-de-Coche : on the French side,
Saint-Pavin."
So after all his terrible exertions, Lacheneur was not a league
from the inn. Appalled by this discovery, he remained for a
moment undecided which course to pursue. Still, after all what
did it matter? Was he not doomed, and would not every road
lead him to death ? However, at last he remembered the cara-
bineers the innkeeper's wife had warned him against, and
slowly crawled down the steep mountainside leading back into
France. He was near Saint-Pavin. when he espied a cottage
standing alone, and in front of it a young peasant woman spin-
ning in the sunshine. He dragged himself toward her, and in
a weak voice begged her hospitality.
The woman rose, surprised and somewhat alarmed by the
aspect of this stranger, whose face was ghastly pale, and whose
clothes were torn and soiled with dust and blood. She looked
at him more closely, and then perceived that his age, stature,
and features corresponded with the descriptions of Lacheneur,
which had been distributed round about the frontier. "Why,
you are the conspirator they are hunting for, and for whom
they promise a reward of twenty thousand francs," she said.
Lacheneur trembled. "Yes," he replied after a moment's
hesitation, "I am Lacheneur. Betray me if you will, but in
charity's name give me a morsel of bread and allow me to rest
a little."
"We betray you, sir !" said she. "Ah ! you don't know the
Antoines ! Come into our house, and lie down on the bed while
I prepare some refreshment for you. When my husband comes
home, we will see what can be done."
It was nearly sunset when the master of the house, a sturdy
mountaineer, with a frank face, entered the cottage. On per-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 467
ceiving the stranger seated at his fireside he turned frightfully
pale. "Unfortunate woman !" he murmured to his wife, "don't
you know that any one who shelters this fugitive will be shot,
and his house leveled to the ground?"
Lacheneur overheard these words ; he rose with a shudder.
He knew that a price had been set upon his head, but until
now he had not realized the danger to which his presence
exposed these worthy people. "I will go at once," said he,
gently.
But the peasant laid his broad hand kindly on the outlaw's
shoulder and forced him to resume his seat. "It was not to
drive you away that I said that," he remarked. "You are at
home, and you shall remain here until I can find some means
of insuring your safety."
The woman flung her arms round her husband's neck, and,
in a loving voice, exclaimed : "Ah ! you are a noble man,
Antoine."
He smiled, tenderly kissed her, then, pointing to the open
door: "Watch!" said he, and turning to Lacheneur: "It won't
be easy to save you, for the promise of that big reward has
set a number of evil-minded people on the alert. They know
that you are in the neighborhood, and a rascally innkeeper has
crossed the frontier for the express purpose of betraying your
whereabouts to the French gendarmes."
"Balstain?"
"Yes, Balstain ; and he is hunting for you now. But that's
not everything; as I passed through Saint-Pavin, coming back
a little while ago, I saw eight mounted soldiers, with a peas-
ant guide, who was also on horseback. They declared that
they knew you were concealed in the village, and were going
to search each house in turn."
These soldiers were the Montaignac chasseurs, placed at
Chupin's disposal by the Due de Sairmeuse. The task was cer-
tainly not at all to their taste, but they were closely watched
by the lieutenant in command, who hoped to receive some sub-
stantial reward if the expedition was crowned with success.
But to return to Lacheneur. "Wounded and exhausted as
you are," continued Antoine, "you can't possibly make a long
march for a fortnight hence, and till then you must conceal
yourself. Fortunately, I know a safe retreat in the mountain,
not far from here. I will take you there to-night, with provi-
sions enough to last you for a week."
468 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
Tust then he was interrupted by a stifled cry from his wife.
He turned, and saw her fall almost fainting against the door,
her face white as her linen cap, her finger pointing to the
path that led from Saint-Pavin to the cottage. "The soldiers —
they are coming!" she gasped.
Quicker than thought, Lacheneur and the peasant sprang
to the door to see for themselves. The young woman had
spoken the truth; for here came the Montaignac chasseurs,
slowly climbing the steep footpath. Chupin walked in advance,
urging them on with voice, gesture, and example. An im-
prudent word from the little shepherd boy had decided the
fugitive's fate; for on returning to Saint-Pavin, and hearing
that the soldiers were searching for the chief conspirator, the
lad had chanced to say : "I met a man just now on the moun-
tain who asked me where he was; and I saw him go down the
footpath leading to Antoine's cottage." And in proof of his
words, he proudly displayed the piece of silver which Lacheneur
had given him.
"One more bold stroke and we have our man !" exclaimed
Chupin. "Come, comrades !" And now the party were not
more than two hundred feet from the house in which the
outlaw had found an asylum.
Antoine and his wife looked at each other with anguish in
their eyes. They saw that their visitor was lost.
"We must save him ! we must save him !" cried the woman.
"Yes, we must save him!" repeated the husband gloomily.
"They shall kill me before I betray a man in my own house."
"If he could hide in the stable behind the bundles of straw — "
"Oh, they would find him ! These soldiers are worse than
tigers, and the wretch who leads them on must have a blood-
hound's scent." He turned quickly to Lacheneur. "Come, sir,"
said he, "let us leap from the back window and fly to the moun-
tains. They will see us, but no matter! These horsemen are
always clumsy runners. If you can't run, I'll carry you. They
will probably fire at us, but miss their aim."
"And your wife?" asked Lacheneur.
The honest mountaineer shuddered ; still he simply said :
"She will join us."
Lacheneur grasped his protector's hand. "Ah ! you are a
noble people," he exclaimed, "and God will reward you for your
kindness to a poor fugitive. But you have done too much
already. I should be the basest of men if I exposed you to
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 469
useless danger. I can bear this life no longer; I have no wish
to escape." Then drawing the sobbing woman to him and
kissing her on the forehead, "I have a daughter, young and
beautiful like yourself," he added. "Poor Marie-Anne ! And
I pitilessly sacrificed her to my hatred ! I must not complain ;
come what may, I have deserved my fate "
The sound of the approaching footsteps became more and
more distinct. Lacheneur straightened himself up, and seemed
to be gathering all his energy for the decisive moment. "Re-
main inside," he said imperiously, to Antoine and his wife.
"I am going out; they must not arrest me in your house."
And as he spoke, he crossed the threshold with a firm tread.
The soldiers were but a few paces off. "Halt !" he exclaimed,
in a loud, ringing voice. "Are you not seeking for Lacheneur?
I am he ! I surrender myself."
His manner was so dignified, his tone so impressive, that
the soldiers involuntarily paused. This man before them was
doomed; they knew the fete awaiting him, and seemed as awed
as if they had been in the presence of death itself. One there
was among the searching party whom Lacheneur's ringing
words had literally terrified, and this was Chupin. Remorse
filled his cowardly heart, and pale and trembling, he sought
to hide himself behind the soldiers.
But Lacheneur walked straight toward him. "So it is you
who have sold my life, Chupin?" he said scornfully. "You
have not forgotten, I perceive, how often my daughter filled
your empty larder — so now you take your revenge."
The old scoundrel seemed crushed by these words. Xow that
he had done this foul deed, he knew what betrayal really was.
"So be it," resumed Lacheneur. "You will receive the price
of my blood ; but it will not bring you good fortune — traitor !"
Chupin, however, indignant with his own weakness, was
already making a vigorous effort to recover a semblance of self-
composure. "You have conspired against the king," he stam-
mered. "I only did my duty in denouncing you." And turning
to the soldiers, he added: "As for you, comrades, you may be
sure the Due de Sairmeuse will remember your services."
Lacheneur's hands were bound, and the party was about to
descend the slope, when a man. roughly clad, bareheaded,
covered with perspiration, and panting for breath, suddenly
made his appearance. The twilight was falling, but Lacheneur
recognized Balstain. "Ah! you have him!" exclaimed the inn-
470 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
keeper, pointing to the prisoner, as soon as he was within
speaking distance. "The reward belongs to me — I denounced
him first on the other side of the frontier, as the carabineers at
Saint-Jean-de-Coche will testify. He would have been captured
last night in my house if he hadn't managed to run away in
my absence. I've been following the bandit for sixteen hours."
He spoke with extraordinary vehemence, being full of fear lest
he might lose his reward, and only reap disgrace and obloquy
in recompense for his treason.
"If you have any right to the money, you must prove it
before the proper authorities," said the officer in command.
"If I have any right !" interrupted Balstain ; "who contests
my right, then?" He looked threateningly around him, and
casting his eyes on Chupin, "Is it you?" he asked. "Do you
dare to assert that you discovered the brigand?"
"Yes, it was I who discovered his hiding-place."
"You lie, you impostor!" vociferated the innkeeper; "you
lie !" The soldiers did not budge. This scene repaid them for
the disgust they had experienced during the afternoon. "But,"
continued Balstain, "what else could one expect from such a
knave as Chupin? Every one knows that he's been obliged to
fly from France over and over again on account of his crimes.
Where did you take refuge when you crossed the frontier,
Chupin? In my house, in Balstain's inn. You were fed and
protected there. How many times haven't I saved you from
the gendarmes and the galleys? More times than I can count.
And to reward me you steal my property; you steal this man
who was mine — "
"The fellow's insane!" ejeculated the terrified Chupin, "he's
mad !"
"At least you will be reasonable," exclaimed the innkeeper,
suddenly changing his tactics. "Let's see, Chupin, what you'll
do for an old friend? Divide, won't you? No, you say no?
How much will you give me, comrade? A third? Is that too
much ? A quarter, then — "
Chupin felt that the soldiers were enjoying his humiliation.
They were indeed, sneering at him, and only an instant before
they had, with instinctive loathing, avoided coming in contact
with him. The old knave's blood was boiling, and pushing
Balstain aside, he cried to the chasseurs : "Come — are we going
to spend the night here?"
On hearing these words, Balstain's eyes sparkled with re-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
471
vengeful fury, and suddenly drawing his knife from his pocket
and making the sign of the cross in the air: "Saint-Jean-de-
Coche," he exclaimed, in a ringing voice, "and you, Holy
Virgin, hear my vow. May my soul burn in hell if I ever use
a knife at meals until I have plunged the one I now hold into
the heart of the scoundrel who has defrauded me I" With
these words he hurried away into the woods, and the soldiers
took up their line of march.
But Chupin was no longer the same. His impudence had
left him and he walked along with hanging head, his mind full
of sinister presentiments. He felt sure that such an oath as
Balstain's, and uttered by such a man, was equivalent to a
death warrant, or at least to a speedy prospect of assassination.
The thought tormented him so much indeed, that he would
not allow the detachment to spend the night at Saint-Pavin, as
had been agreed upon. He was impatient to leave the neigh-
borhood. So after supper he procured a cart; the prisoner
was placed in it, securely bound, and the party started for
Montaignac. The great bell was tolling two in the morning
when Lacheneur was conducted into the citadel ; and at that
very moment M. d'Escorval and Corporal Bavois were making
their final preparations for escape.
/*\ N being left alone in his cell after Marie- Anne's departure,
^-^ Chanlouineau gave himself up to despair. He loved Marie-
Anne most passionately, and the idea that he would never see
her again on earth proved heart-rending. Some little comfort
he certainly derived from the thought that he had done his
duty, that he had sacrificed his own life to secure her happiness,
but then this result had only been obtained by simulating the
most abject cowardice, which must disgrace him forever in
the eyes of his fellow prisoners, and the guards. Had he not
offered to sell Lacheneur's life for his own, moreover? True
it was but a ruse, and yet those who knew nothing of his secret
would always brand him as a traitor and a coward. To a man
10 — Vol. II— Gab
472 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
of his true, valiant heart such a prospect was particularly dis-
tressing, and he was still brooding over the idea when the Mar-
quis de Courtornieu entered his cell to ascertain the result of
Marie-Anne's visit. "Well, my good fellow — " began the old
nobleman, in his most condescending manner; but Chanlouineau
did not allow him time to finish. "Leave," he cried, in a fit
of rage. "Leave or — "
Without waiting to hear the end of the sentence the marquis
made his escape, greatly surprised and not a little dismayed
by this sudden change in the prisoner's manner. "What a
dangerous, bloodthirsty rascal !" he remarked to the guard. "It
would, perhaps, be advisable to put him into a strait-jacket!"
But there was no necessity for that ; for scarcely had the
marquis left, than the young farmer threw himself on to his
pallet, oppressed with feverish anxiety. Would Marie-Anne
know how to make the best use of the weapon he had placed
in her hands? He hoped so, for she would have the Abbe
Midon's assistance, and besides he considered that the pos-
session of this letter would frighten the Marquis de Sairmeuse
into any concessions. In this last surmise Chanlouineau was
entirely mistaken. The fear which Martial seemingly evinced
during the interview with Marie-Anne and his father was
all affected. He pretended to be alarmed, in order to frighten
the duke, for he really wished to assist the girl he so passion-
ately loved, and besides the idea of saving an enemy's life, of
wresting him from the executioner on the very steps of the
scaffold, was very pleasing to his mind which at times took
a decidedly chivalrous turn. Poor Chanlouineau, however, was
ignorant of all this, and consequently his anxiety was perfectly
natural. Throughout the afternoon he remained in anxious
suspense, and when the night fell, stationed himself at the
window of his cell gazing on to the plain below, and trusting
that if the baron succeeded in escaping, some sign would warn
him of the fact. Marie-Anne had visited him, she knew the
cell he occupied and surely she would find some means of letting
him know that his sacrifice had not been in vain. Shortly after
two o'clock in the morning he was alarmed by a great bustle
in the corridor outside. Doors were thrown open, and then
slammed to; there was a loud rattle of keys; guards hurried
to and fro, calling each other; the passage was lighted up,
and then as Chanlouineau peered through the grating in the
door of his cell he suddenly perceived Lacheneur as pale as a
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 473
ghost walk by conducted by some soldiers. The young farmer
almost doubted his eyesight ; for he really believed his former
leader had escaped. Another hour, and another hour passed
by and yet did he prolong his anxious vigil. Not a sound, save
the tramp of the guards in the corridor, and the faint echo of
some distant challenge as sentinels were relieved outside. At
last, however, there abruptly came a despairing cry. What
was it? He listened; but it was not repeated. After all, the
occurrence was not so surprising. There were twenty men in
that citadel under sentence of death, and the agony of that,
their last night, might well call forth a lamentation. At length
the gray light of dawn stole through the window bars, the
sun rose rapidly and Chanlouineau, hopeful for some sign, till
then murmured in despair, that the letter must have been use-
less. Poor generous peasant ! His heart would have leaped
with joy if as he spoke those words he could only have cast
a glance on the courtyard of the citadel.
An hour after the reveille had sounded, two countrywomen,
carrying butter and eggs to market, presented themselves at
the fortress gate, and declared that while passing through the
fields below the cliff on which the citadel was built, they had
perceived a rope dangling from the side of the rock. A rope!
Then one of the condemned prisoners must have escaped.
The guards hastened from cell to cell and soon discovered
that the Baron d'Escorval's room was empty. And not merely
had the baron fled, but he had taken with him the man who
had been left to guard him — Corporal Bavois, of the grenadiers.
Every one's amazement was intense, but their fright was still
greater. There was not a single officer who did not tremble
on thinking of his responsibility ; not one who did not see his
hopes of advancement forever blighted. What should be said
to the formidable Due de Sairmeuse and to the Marquis de
Courtornieu, who in spite of his calm polished manners, was
almost as much to be feared? It was necessary to warn them,
however, and so a sergeant was despatched with the news.
Soon they made their appearance, accompanied by Martial ;
and to look at all three it would have been said that they
were boiling over with anger and indignation. The Due de
Sairmeuse's rage was especially conspicuous. He swore at
everybody, accused everybody, and threatened everybody. He
began by consigning all the keepers and guards to prison,
and even talked of demanding the dismissal of all the officers.
474 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
"As for that miserable Bavois." he exclaimed — "as for that
cowardly deserter, he shall be shot as soo _ i as we capture him,
and we will capture him, you may depend upon it !"
The officials had hoped to appease the duke's wrath a little
by informing him of Lacheneur's arrest ; but he knew of this
already, for Chupin had ventured to wake him up in the
middle of the night to tell him the great news. The baron's
escape afforded his grace an opportunity to exalt Chupin's
merits. "The man who discovered Lacheneur will know how
to find this traitor D'Escorval," he remarked.
As for M. de Courtornieu, he took what he called "measures
for restoring this great culprit to the hands of justice." That
is to say, he despatched couriers in every direction, with
orders to make close inquiries throughout the neighborhood.
His commands were brief, but to the point ; they were to watch
the frontier, to submit all travelers to a rigorous examination,
to search the houses and sow the description of D'Escorval's
appearance broadcast through the land. But first of all he issued
instructions for the arrest of the Abbe Midon and Maurice
d'Escorval.
Among the officers present there was an old lieutenant,
who had felt deeply wounded by some of the imputations which
the Due de Sairmeuse had cast right and left in his affected
wrath. This lieutenant heard the Marquis de Courtornieu
give his orders, and then stepped forward with a gloomy air,
remarking that these measures were doubtless all very well,
but at the same time it was urgent that an investigation should
take place at once, so as to learn for certain how the baron
had escaped and who were his accomplices if he had any. At
the mention of this word "investigation," both the Due de
Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu shuddered. They
could not ignore the fact that their reputations were at stake,
and that the merest trifle might disclose the truth. A neglected
precaution, any insignificant detail, an imprudent word or
gesture might ruin their ambitious hopes forever. They trem-
bled to think that this officer might be a man of unusual
shrewdness, who "had suspected their complicity, and was im-
patient to verify his presumptions. In point of fact, they
were unnecessarily alarmed, for the old lieutenant had not
the slightest suspicion of the truth. He had spoken on the
impulse of the moment, merely to give vent to his displeasure.
He was not even keen enough to remark a rapid glance which
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 475
the duke and the marquis exchanged. Martial noticed this
look, however, and with studied politeness, remarked: "Yes,
we must institute an investigation; that suggestion is as shrewd
as it is opportune."
The old lieutenant turned away with a muttered oath. "That
coxcomb is poking fun at me," he thought; "and he and his
father and that prig the marquis deserve a box on the ears."
In reality, however, Martial was not poking fun at him.
Bold as was his remark it was made advisedly. To silence all
future suspicions it was absolutely necessary that an investi-
gation should take place immediately. But then it would, by
reason of their position and functions, naturally devolve on
the duke and the marquis, who would know just how much
to conceal, and how much to disclose. They began their task
immediately, with a haste which could not fail to dispel all
doubts, if indeed any existed in the minds of their subordinates.
Martial thought he knew the details of the escape as well as
the fugitives themselves, ior even if they had been the actors,
he was at any rate the author of the drama played that night.
However, he was soon obliged to admit that he was mistaken
in his opinion ; for the investigation revealed several incompre-
hensible particulars. It had been determined beforehand that
the baron and the corporal would have to make two successive
descents. Hence the necessity of having two ropes. These
ropes had been provided, and the prisoners must have used
them. And yet only one rope could be found — the one which
the peasant woman had perceived hanging from the rocky
platform at the base of the citadel where it was made fast to
an iron crowbar. From the window of the cell, to the platform,
there was no rope, however. "This is most extraordinary !"
murmured Martial, thoughtfully.
"Very strange !" approved M. de Courtornieu.
"How the devil could they have reached the base of the
tower ?"
"That is what I can't understand."
But Martial soon found other causes for surprise. On ex-
amining the rope that remained — the one which had been used
in making the descent of the cliff — he discovered that it was
not of a single piece. Two pieces had been knotted together.
The longest piece had evidently been too short How did this
happen? Could the duke have made a mistake in the height
of the cliff? or had the abbe measured the rope incorrectly?
476 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
But Martial had also measured it with his eye, while it was
wound round him, and it had then seen, ^d to him that the
rope was much longer, fully a third longer, than it now
appeared.
"There must have been some accident," he remarked to his
father and the marquis; "what I can't say."
"Well, what does it matter?" replied M. de Courtornieu,
"you have the compromising letter, haven't you?"
But Martial's mind was one of these that never rest until
they have solved the problem before them. Accordingly, he
insisted on going to inspect the rocks at the foot of the preci-
pice. Here they discovered several stains, formed of coagu-
lated blood. "One of the fugitives must have fallen," said
Martial, quickly, "and been dangerously wounded!"
"Upon my word !" exclaimed the Due de Sairmeuse, "if it
is the Baron d'Escorval who has broken his neck, I shall be
delighted I"
Martial turned crimson, and looked searchingly at his father.
"I suppose, sir, that you do not mean one word of what you
are saying," he observed, coldly. "We pledged ourselves upon
the honor of our name to save the baron. If he has been
killed it will be a great misfortune for us, a very great
misfortune."
When his son addressed him in this haughty, freezing tone
of his, the duke never knew how to reply. He was indignant,
but his son's was the stronger nature.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed M. de Courtornieu; "if the rascal
had merely been wounded we should have known it."
Such also was Chupin's opinion. He had been sent for by
the duke, and had just made his appearance. But the old
scoundrel, usually so loquacious and officious, now replied in
the briefest fashion; and, strange to say, he did not offer his
services. His habitual assurance and impudence, and his cus-
tomary cunning smile, had quite forsaken him; and in lieu
thereof his brow was overcast, and his manners strangely per-
turbed. So marked was the change that even the Due de
Sairmeuse observed it. "What misfortune have you had, Mas-
ter Chupin?" he asked.
"Why, while I was coming here," replied the old knave in
a sullen tone, "a band of ragamuffins pelted me with mud and
stones, and ran after me, shouting : 'Traitor ! traitor !' as loud
as they could." He clenched his fists as he spoke, as if he were
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 477
meditating vengeance; then suddenly he added: "The people
of Montaignac are quite pleased this morning. They know
that the baron has escaped, and they are rejoicing."
Alas ! the joy which Chupin spoke of was destined to be of
short duration, for the execution of the conspirators sentenced
on the preceding afternoon was to take place that very day.
At noon the gate of the citadel was closed, and the drums rolled
loudly as a preface to the coming tragedy. Consternation spread
through the town. Doors were carefully secured, shutters
closed, and window-blinds pulled down. The streets became
deserted, and a death-like silence prevailed. At last, just as
three o'clock was striking, the gate of the fortress was reopened,
and under the lofty archway came fourteen doomed men, each
with a priest by his side. One-and-twenty had been condemned
to death, but the Baron d'Escorval had eluded the executioner,
and remorse or fear had tempered the Due de Sairmeuse's
thirst for blood. He and M. de Courtornieu had granted re-
prieves to six of the prisoners, and at that very moment a
courier was starting for Paris \.ith six petitions for pardon,
signed by the military commission.
Chanlouineau was not among those for whom royal clem-
ency was solicited. When he left his cell, without knowing
whether his plan for saving the Baron d'Escorval had proved
of any use or not, he counted and examined his thirteen com-
rades with keen anxiety. His eyes betrayed such an agony of
anguish that the priest who accompanied him asked him in a
whisper: "Whom are you looking for, my son?"
"For the Baron d'Escorval."
"He escaped last night."
"Ah ! now I shall die content !" exclaimed the heroic peasant.
And he died as he had sworn he would — without even changing
color — calm and proud, the name of Marie-Anne upon his lips.
There was one woman, a fair young girl, who was not in the
least degree affected by the tragic incidents attending the re-
pression of the Montaignac revolt. This was Blanche de Cour-
tornieu, who smiled as brightly as ever, and who, although her
father exercised almost dictatorial power in conjunction with
the Due de Sairmeuse, did not raise as much as her little finger
to save any one of the condemned prisoners from execution.
These rebels had dared to stop her carriage on the public road,
and this was an offense which she could neither forgive nor
forget. She also knew that she had only owed her liberty to
478 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
Marie-Anne's intercession, and to a woman of such jealous
pride this knowledge was galling in the extreme. Hence it was
with bitter resentment that, on the morning following her arri-
val in Montaignac, she denounced to her father what she styled
that Lacheneur girl's inconceivable arrogance, and the peas-
antry's frightful brutality. And when the Marquis de Courtor-
nieu asked her if she would consent to give evidence against
the Baron d'Escorval, she coldly replied that she considered it
was her duty to do so. She was fully aware that her testimony
would send the baron to the scaffold, and yet she did not
hesitate a moment. True, she carefully concealed her personal
:pite, and declared she was only influenced by the interests of
justice. Impartiality compels us to add, moreover, that she
really believed the Baron d'Escorval to be a leader of the
rebels. Chanlouineau had pronounced the name in her pres-
ence, and her error was all the more excusable as Maurice was
usually known in the neighborhood by his Christian name.
Had the young farmer called to "Monsieur Maurice" for in-
structions, Blanche would have understood the situation, but
he had exclaimed, "M. d'Escorval," and hence her mistake.
After she had delivered to her father her written statement
of what occurred on the highroad on the night of the revolt,
the heiress assumed an attitude of seeming indifference, and
when any of her friends chanced to speak of the rising, she
alluded to the plebeian conspirators in tones of proud disdain.
In her heart, however, she blessed this timely outbreak, which
had removed her rival from her path. "For now," thought she,
"the marquis will return to me, and I will make him forget the
bold creature who bewitched him !" In this she was somewhat
mistaken. True, Martial returned and paid his court, but he
no longer loved her. He had detected the calculating ambition
she had sought to hide under a mask of seeming simplicity.
He had realized how vain and selfish she was, and his former
admiration was now well-nigh transformed into repugnance;
for he could but contrast her character with the noble nature
of Marie-Anne, now lost to him forever. It was mainly the
knowledge that Lacheneur's daughter could never be his which
prompted him to a seeming reconciliation with Blanche. He
said to himself that the duke, his father, and the Marquis de
Courtornieu had exchanged a solemn pledge ; that he, too, had
given his word, and that after all Blanche was his promised
wife. Was it worth while to break off the engagement ? Would
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 479
he not be compelled to marry some day or another? His rank
and name required him to do so, and such being the case what
did it matter whom he married, since the only woman he had
ever truly loved — the only woman he ever could love — was
never to be his? To a man of Martial's education it was no
very difficult task to pay proper court to the jealous Blanche,
to surround her with every attention, and to affect a love he
did not really feel ; and, indeed, so perfectly did he play his
part that Mademoiselle de Courtornieu might well flatter her-
self with the thought that she reigned supreme in his affections.
While Martial seemed wholly occupied with thoughts of his
approaching marriage, he was really tortured with anxiety as
to the fate which had overtaken the Baron d'Escorval and the
other fugitives. The three members of the D'Escorval family,
the abbe, Marie- Anne, Corporal Bavois, and four half-pay
officers had all disappeared, leaving no trace behind them.
This was very remarkable, as the search prescribed by MM.
de Sairmeuse and Courtornieu had been conducted with feverish
activity, greatly to the terror of its promoters. Still what could
they do? They had imprudently excited the zeal of their sub-
ordinates, and now they were unable to allay it. Fortunately,
however, all the efforts to discover the fugitives proved unsuc-
cessful ; and the only information that could be obtained came
from a peasant, who declared that on the morning of the escape,
just before daybreak, he had met a party of a dozen persons,
men and women, who seemed to be carrying a dead body. This
circumstance, taken in connection with the broken rope and
the stains of blood at the bottom of the cliff, made Martial
tremble. He was also strongly impressed by another circum-
stance, which came to light when the soldiers on guard the
night of the escape were questioned as to what transpired. "I
was on guard in the corridor communicating with the pris-
oner's quarters in the tower," said one of these soldiers, "when
at about half-past two o'clock, just after Lacheneur had been
placed in his cell, I saw an officer approaching me. I challenged
him ; he gave me the countersign, and, naturally, I let him pass.
He went down the passage, and entered the empty room next
to M. d'Escorval's. He remained there about five minutes."
"Did you recognize this officer?" asked Martial eagerly.
"No," answered the soldier. "He wore a large cloak, the
collar of which was turned up so high that it hid his face to
the very eyes."
480 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
"Whom could this mysterious officer have been?" thought
Martial, racking his brains. "What was he doing in the room
where I left the ropes?"
The Marquis de Courtornieu, present at the examination,
seemed much disturbed. Turning to the witness, he asked him
angrily: "How could you be ignorant that there were so many
sympathizers with this movement among the garrison? You
might have known that this visitor, who concealed his face so
carefully, was an accomplice warned by Bavois, who had come
to see if he needed a helping hand."
This seemed a plausible explanation, but it did not satisfy
Martial. "It is very strange," he thought, "that M. d'Escorval
has not even deigned to let me know he is in safety. The
service I rendered him deserves that acknowledgment, at
least."
Such was the young marquis's anxiety that, despite his re-
pugnance for Chupin, the spy, he resolved to seek that arch-
traitor's assistance, with the view of discovering what had
become of the fugitives. It was no longer easy, however, to
secure the old rascal's services, for since he had received the
price of Lacheneur's blood — these twenty thousand francs which
had so fascinated him — he had deserted the Due de Sair-
meuse's house, and taken up his quarters in a small inn at the
outskirts of the town; where he spent his days alone in a large
room on the second floor. At night-time he barricaded the
door, and drank, drank, drank ; and till daybreak he might be
heard cursing and singing, or struggling against imaginary ene-
mies. Still he dared not disobey the summons which a soldier
brought him to hapten to the Hotel de Sairmeuse at once.
"I wish to discover what has become of the Baron d'Escor-
val," said Martial when the old spy arrived.
Chupin trembled, and a fleeting color dyed his cheeks. "The
Montaignac police are at your disposal," he answered sulkily.
"They, perhaps, can satisfy your curiosity, Monsieur le Mar-
quis, but I don't belong to the police."
Was he in earnest, or was he merely simulating a refusal
with the view of obtaining a high price for his services? Mar-
tial inclined to the latter opinion. "You shall have no reason to
complain of my generosity," said he. "I will pay you well."
That word "pay" would have made Chupin's eyes gleam
with delight a week before, but on hearing it now he at once
flew into a furious passion. "So it was to tempt me again
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 481
that you summoned me here!" he exclaimed. "You would do
much better to leave me quietly at my inn."
"What do you mean, you fool?"
But Chupin did not even hear the interruption. "People
told me," quoth he, with increasing fury, "that, by betraying
Lacheneur, I should be doing my duty and serving the king.
I betrayed him, and now I am treated as if I had committed
the worst of crimes. Formerly, when I lived by stealing and
poaching, folks despised me, perhaps ; but they didn't shun me
as they do the pestilence. They called me rascal, robber, and
the like ; but they would drink with me all the same. To-day
I've twenty thousand francs in my pocket, and yet I'm treated
as if I were a venomous beast. If I approach any one he draws
back, and if I enter a room, those who are there hasten out of
it." At the recollection of the insults heaped upon him since
Lacheneur's capture, the old rascal's rage reached a climax.
"Was what I did so abominable?" he pursued. "Then why did
your father propose it? The shame should fall on him. He
shouldn't have tempted a poor man with wealth like that. If,
on the contrary, I did my duty, let them make laws to pro-
tect me."
Martial perceived the necessity of reassuring this troubled
mind. "Chupin. my boy," said he, "I don't ask you to discover
M. d'Escorval in order to denounce him ; far from it — I only
want you to ascertain if any one at Saint-Pavin, or at Saint-
Jean-de-Coche. knows of his having crossed the frontier."
The mention of Saint-Jean-de-Coche made Chupin shudder.
"Do you want me to be murdered ?" he exclaimed, remembering
Balstain's vow. "I must let you know that I value my life now
that I'm rich." And seized with a sort of panic he fled
precipitately.
Martial was stupefied with astonishment. "One might really
suppose that the rascal was sorry for what he had done,"
thought he.
If that were really the case. Chupin was not the only person
afflicted with qualms of conscience, for both M. de Courtornieu
and the Due de Sairmeuse were secretly blaming themselves
for the exaggeration of their first reports, and the manner in
which they had magnified the proportions of the rebellion.
They accused each other of undue haste, of neglecting the
proper forms of process, and had to admit in their hearts that
the sentences were most uniust. They each tried to make the
482 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
other responsible for the blood which had been spilled ; and
were certainly doing all that they could to obtain a pardon for
the six prisoners who had been reprieved. But their efforts
did not succeed ; for one night a courier arrived at Montaignac,
bearing the following laconic despatch: "The twenty-one con-
victed prisoners must all be executed." That is to say, the Due
de Richelieu and M. Decazes, with their colleagues of the
council of ministers, had decided that the petitions for clemency
must be refused.
This despatch was a terrible blow for the Due de Sairmeuse
and M. de Courtornieu. They knew, better than any one else,
how little these poor fellows were deserving of death. They
knew it would soon be publicly proved that two of these six
men had taken no part whatever in the conspiracy. What was
to be done? Martial wished his father to resign his authority;
but the duke had not the strength of mind to do so. Besides,
M. de Courtornieu encouraged him to retain his functions, re-
marking that no doubt all this was very unfortunate, but, since
the wine was drawn, it was necessary to drink it; indeed, his
grace could not now draw back without causing a terrible
scandal.
Accordingly, the next day a dismal roll of drums was heard
again, and the six doomed men, two of whom were known to be
innocent, were led outside the walls of the citadel and shot,
on the same spot where, only a week before, fourteen of their
comrades had fallen.
The prime mover in the conspiracy had not, however, yet
been tried. He had fallen into a state of gloomy despondency,
which lasted during his whole term of imprisonment. He
was terribly broken, both in body and mind. Once only did
the blood mount to his pallid cheeks, and that was on the
morning when the Due de Sairmeuse entered the cell to ex-
amine him. "It was you who drove me to do what I did,"
exclaimed Lacheneur. "God sees us and judges us both !"
Unhappy man! his faults had been great: his chastisement
was terrible. He had sacrificed his children on the altar of his
wounded pride ; and did not even have the consolation of press-
ing them to his heart and of asking their forgiveness before he
died. Alone in his cell, he could not turn his mind from his son
and daughter; but such was the terrible situation in which he
had placed himself that he dared not ask what had become of
them. Through a compassionate keeper, however, he learned
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
4*3
that nothing had been heard of Jean, and that it was supposed
Marie-Anne had escaped to some foreign country with the
D'Escorval family. When summoned before the court for trial,
Lacheneur was calm and dignified in manner. He made no at-
tempt at defense, but answered every question with perfect
frankness. He took all the blame upon himself, and would not
give the name of any one accomplice. Condemned to be be-
headed, he was executed on the following day, walking to the
scaffold and mounting to the platform with a firm step. A few
seconds later the blade of the guillotine fell with a loud whir,
and the rebellion of the fourth of March counted its twenty-
first victim.
That same evening the townsfolk of Montaignac were busy
talking of the magnificent rewards which were to be bestowed
on the Due de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu for
their services to the royal cause, and a report was flying abroad
to the effect that Martial and Mademoiselle Blanche were now
to be married with great pomp, and with as little delay as
possible.
AFTER Lacheneur had been executed, the codictators, re-
**■ gretting, as we have already said, the precipitation with
which they had sentenced many of the minor partizans of the
revolt, sought to propitiate public opinion by treating the re-
maining prisoners with unexpected clemency. Out of a hun-
dred peasants still confined in the citadel, only eighteen or
twenty were tried, and the sentences pronounced upon them
were light in the extreme; all the others were released. Major
Carini, the leader of the military conspirators in Montaignac,
had expected to lose his head, but to his own astonishment he
was only sentenced to two years' imprisonment. This tardy
indulgence did not, however, efface popular recollections of
previous severity, and the townsfolk of Montaignac openly de-
clared that if MM. de Sairmeuse and De Courtornieu were
clement, it was only because they were afraid of the conse-
484 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
quences that might await continued tyranny. So thus it came
to pass that people execrated them for thei r past cruelty, and
despised them for their subsequent cowardice. However, both
the duke and the marquis were ignorant of the true current
of public opinion, and hurried on with their preparations for
their children's wedding. It was arranged that the ceremony
should take place on the 17th of April, at the village church of
Sairmeuse, and that a grand entertainment should be given to
the guests in the duke's chateau, which was indeed transformed
into a fairy palace for the occasion.
A new priest, who had taken the Abbe Midon's place, cele-
brated the nuptial mass, and then addressed the newly-wedded
pair in congratulatory terms. "You will be, you must be
happy !" he exclaimed in conclusion, fully believing for the
moment that he spoke the words of prophecy. And who would
not have believed as he did? Where could two young people
be found more richly dowered with all the attributes of worldly
happiness? — youth, health, opulence, and rank. And yet, al-
though the new marquise's eyes sparkled joyfully, the bride-
groom seemed strangely preoccupied. Blanche was before him
radiant with beauty, proud with success; but his mind, despite
all efforts, wandered back to Marie-Anne — to the Marie-Anne
he had lost, who had disappeared, whom he might never behold
again. "Ah ! if she had but loved him," thought Martial, "what
happiness would have been his. But now he was bound for life
to a woman whom he did not love."
At dinner, however, he succeeded in shaking off his sadness,
thanks, perhaps, to the exhilarating influence of several glasses
of champagne, and when the guests rose from table he had
almost forgotten his forebodings. He was rising in his turn,
when a servant approached him and whispered : "There is a
young peasant in the hall who wishes to speak with Monsieur
le Marquis. He would not give me his name."
"Wouldn't give his name?" ejaculated Martial. "Ah, well,
on one's wedding-day one must grant an audience to every-
body." And with a smile he descended the staircase. Beside
the fragrant flowering plants with which the vestibule was
lined he found a young man with a pale face, whose eyes glit-
tered with feverish brilliancy. On recognizing him Martial
could not restrain an exclamation of surprise. "Jean Lache-
neur!" he exclaimed; "you imprudent fellow!"
Young Lacheneur stepped forward. "You thought you were
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 485
rid of me," he said, bitterly. "But you see you were mistaken.
However, you can order your people to arrest me if you
choose."
Martial's brow lowered on hearing these insulting words.
"What do you want?" he asked coldly.
"I am to give you this on behalf of Maurice d'Escorval,"
replied Jean, drawing a letter from his pocket.
With an eager hand. Martial broke the seal ; but scarcely had
he glanced at the contents than he turned as pale as death and
staggered back, exclaiming: "Infamous!"
"What am I to say to Maurice?" insisted Jean. "What do
you intend to do?"
"Come — you shall see," replied the young marquis, seizing
Jean by the arm and dragging him up the staircase. The ex-
pression of Martial's features had so changed during his brief
absence that the wedding guests looked at him with astonish-
ment when he reentered the grand saloon holding an open
letter in one hand, and leading with the other a young peasant
whom no one recognized. "Where is my father?" he asked, in
a husky voice; 'where is the Marquis de Courtornieu?"
The duke and the marquis were with Blanche in a little
drawing-room leading out of the main hall. Martial hastened
there, followed by a crowd of wondering guests, who, foresee-
ing a stormy scene, were determined to witness it. He walked
straight toward M. de Courtornieu, who was standing by the
fireplace, and handing him the letter: "Read!" said he, in a
threatening voice.
M. de Courtornieu mechanically obeyed the injunction; but
suddenly he turned livid ; the paper trembled in his hands : he
averted his glance, and was obliged to lean against the mantel-
piece for support. "I don't understand," he stammered : "no,
I don't understand."
The duke and Blanche had both sprung forward. "What is
the matter?" they both asked in one breath; "what has hap-
pened ?"
Martial's reply was to tear the letter from the Marquis de
Courtornieu's hands, and to turn to his father with these words:
"Listen to this note I have just received."
Three hundred people were assembled in the room, or clus-
tering round the doorway, but the silence was so perfect that
Martial's voice reached the farthest extremity of the grand hall
as he read:
486 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
"Monsieur le Marquis — Upon the honor of your name,
and in exchange for a dozen lines that hreatened you with
ruin, you promised us the Baron d'Escorval's life. You did,
indeed, bring the ropes by which he was to make his escape,
but they had been previously cut, and my father was pre-
cipitated on to the rocks below. You have forfeited your
honor, sir. You have soiled your name with opprobrium, and
while a drop of blood remains in my veins, I will leave no
means untried to punish you for your cowardice and treason.
By killing me you would, it is true, escape the chastisement I
am reserving for you. I challenge you to fight with me. Shall
I wait for you to-morrow on La Reche ? At what hour ? With
what weapons ? If you are the vilest of men, you can appoint
a meeting, and then send your gendarmes to arrest me. That
would be an act worthy of you. Maurice d'Escorval;
)»
On hearing these words the Due de Sairmeuse was seized
with despair. He saw the secret of the baron's flight made
public, and his own political prospects ruined. "Hush !" he
hurriedly exclaimed in a low voice; "hush, wretched fellow,
you will ruin us !"
But Martial did not even seem to hear him. He finished his
perusal, and then looking the Marquis de Courtornieu full in the
face: "Now, what do you think?" he asked.
"I am still unable to comprehend," replied the old nobleman,
coldly.
Martial raised his hand; and every one present believed that
he was about to strike his father-in-law. "You don't compre-
hend," he exclaimed sarcastically. "Ah, well, if you don't, /
do. I know who that officer was who entered the room where
I deposited the ropes — and I know what took him there." He
paused, crumpled the letter between his hands, and threw it
in M. de Courtornieu's face, with these last words: "Here, take
your reward, you cowardly traitor !"
Overwhelmed by this denouement the marquis sank back
into an armchair, and Martial, still holding Jean Lacheneur by
the arm, was on the point of leaving the room, when his young
wife, wild with despair, tried to detain him. "You shall not
go!" she exclaimed, "you can not! Where are you going?
That young fellow with you is Jean Lacheneur. I recognize
him. You want to join his sister — your mistress !"
Martial indignantly pushed his wife aside. "How dare you
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
487
insult the noblest and purest of women/' he exclaimed. "Ah,
well — yes — I am going to find Marie-Anne. Farewell !" And
with these words he left the chateau.
•TpHE ledge of rock on which the Baron d'Escorval and Cor-
* poral Bavois rested on descending from the tower was not
more than a yard and a half across its widest part. It sloped
down toward the edge of the precipice, and its surface was so
rugged and uneven that it was considered very imprudent to
stand there, even in the daytime. Thus it will be understood
that the task of lowering a man from this ledge, at dead of
night, was perilous in the extreme. Before allowing the baron
to descend, Bavois took every possible precaution to save him-
self from being dragged over the verge of the precipice by his
companion's weight. He fixed his crowbar firmly in a crevice
of the rock, seated himself, braced his feet against the bar,
threw his shoulders well back, and then, feeling that his posi-
tion was secure, he bid the baron let himself down. The sud-
den parting of the rope hurled the corporal against the tower
wall, and then he rebounded forward on his knees. For an
instant he hung suspended over the abyss, his hands clutching
at the empty air. A nasty movement, and he would have fallen.
But he possessed a marvelous power of will, and had faced
danger so often in his life that he was able to restrain himself.
Prudently, but with determined energy, he screwed his feet and
knees into the crevices of the rock, feeling with his hands for
some point of support ; then gradually sinking on to one side,
he at last succeeded in dragging himself from the verge of the
precipice.
The effort had been a terrible one, his limbs were quite
cramped, and he was obliged to sit down and rest himself.
He fully believed that the baron had been killed by his fall,
but this catastrophe did not produce much effect upon the old
soldier, who had seen so many comrades fall by his side on
fields of battle. What did amaze him, however, was the break-
488 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
ing of the rope — a rope so thick that one would have supposed it
capable of sustaining the weight of ten men like the baron.
It was too dark to examine the fragment remaining in his pos-
session, but on feeling it at the lower end with his finger, the
corporal was surprised to find it quite smooth and even, not
rough and ragged as is usual after a break. "It must have been
cut — yes, cut nearly through," exclaimed Bavois with an oath.
And at the same time a previous incident recurred to his mind.
"This," thought he, "explains the noise which the poor baron
heard in the next room ! And I said to him : 'Nonsense ! it
is a rat !' "
With the view of verifying his conjectures, Bavois passed
the cord round about the crowbar and pulled at it with all his
strength. It parted in three places. The discovery appalled
him. A part of the rope had fallen with the baron, and it was
evident that the remaining fragments, even if tied together,
would not be long enough to reach the base of the rock. What
was to be done? How could he escape? If he could not de-
scend the precipice he must remain on the ledge from which
there was no other mode of escape. "It's all up, corporal," he
murmured to himself. "At daybreak they will find the baron's
cell empty. They will poke their heads out of the window, and
see you here perched like a stone saint on his pedestal. Of
course you'll be captured, tried, and condemned, and have to
take your turn in the ditches. Ready ! Aim ! Fire ! That'll
be the end of your story."
He stopped short, for a vague idea had just entered his
mind, which he felt might lead to salvation. It had come to
him in touching the rope which he and the baron had used in
their descent from the latter's cell to the rocky ledge, and which,
firmly attached to the bars above, hung down the side of the
tower. "If you had that rope which hangs there, corporal,"
said he, you could tie it to these bits, and then the cord would
be long enough to take you down the precipice. But how can
one obtain it? If one goes back after it, one can't bring it
down and come down again one's self at the same time. He
pondered for a moment and then began talking to himself again.
"Attention, corporal," said he. "You are going to knot the
five pieces of rope you've got here together, and you're going
to fasten them to your waist; next you're going to climb up
to that window, hand over hand. Not an easy matter ! A
staircase would be preferable. But no matter, you mustn't be
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 489
finical, corporal. So you will climb up and find yourself in the
cell again. What are you going to do there? A mere nothing.
You will unfasten the cord secured to the window bars, you
will tie it to this one and that will give you eighty feet of good
strong rope. Then you will pass the rope about one of the
bars that remain intact, you will tie the two ends together, and
then the rope will be doubled. Next you must let yourself down
here again, and when you are here, you will only have to untie
one of the knots, and the rope will be at your service. Do you
understand, corporal ?"
The corporal did understand so well that in less than twenty
minutes he was back again upon the narrow shelf of rock, hav-
ing successfully accomplished the dangerous feat which he had
planned. Not without a terrible effort, however, not without
torn and bleeding hands and knees. Still he had succeeded in
obtaining the rope, and now he was certain that he could make
his escape from his dangerous position. He was chuckling
gleefully at the prospect when suddenly he bethought himself
of M. d'Escorval. whom he had forgotten first in his anxiety,
and then in his joy. "Poor baron," murmured the corporal
remorsefully. "I shall succeed in saving my miserable life, for
which no one cares, but I was unable to save his. No doubt
by this time his friends have carried him away."
As he uttered these words he leaned forward, and to his in-
tense amazement perceived a faint light moving here and there
in the depths below. What could have happened? Something
extraordinary, that was evident ; or else intelligent men like
the baron's friends would never have displayed this light, which,
if noticed from the citadel, would betray their presence and
ruin them. However, the corporal's time was too precious to
be wasted in idle conjectures. "Better go down on the double-
quick," he said aloud, as if to spur on his courage. "Come,
my friend, spit on your hands and be off!"
As he spoke the old soldier threw himself flat on his belly
and crawled slowly backward to the verge of the precipice.
The spirit was strong, but the flesh shuddered. To march
upon a battery had been a mere pastime for him in days of
imperial glory, but to face an unknown peril, to suspend one's
life upon a cord, was a very different matter. Great drops of
perspiration, caused by the horror of his situation, stood out
upon his brow when he felt that half his body had passed over
the edge of the precipice, and that the slightest movement
490 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
would now launch him into space. Still he did not hesitate,
but allowed himself to glide on, murmuiing, "If there is a
God who watches over honest people, let Him open His eyes
this instant!"
Providence was watching; and Bavois arrived at the end of
his dangerous journey alive and safe. He fell like a mass of
rock ; and groaned aloud when at last, after a swift flight
through space, he sank heavily on to the rugged soil below.
For a minute he lay stunned and dizzy on the ground. He
was rising when he felt himself seized by either arm. "No
foolishness," he cried quickly. "It is I, Bavois."
But his captors did not loosen their hold. "How does it
happen," asked one of them in a threatening tone, "that the
Baron d'Escorval is precipitated half-way down the cliff and
that you alight in safety a few moments later?"
The old soldier was too shrewd not to understand the import
of this insinuation ; and the indignation he felt gave him suffi-
cient strength to free himself with a violent jerk from his
captor's hand. "A thousand thunderclaps !" he cried ; "so I
pass for a traitor, do I? No, it is impossible; well, just listen
to me." Then rapidly, but with great clearness, he recounted
all the phases of his escape, his despair, his perilous situation,
and the almost insurmountable obstacles which he had over-
come. His tone was so sincere, the details he gave so cir-
cumstantial, that his questioners — two of the retired officers
who had been waiting for the baron — at once held out their
hands, sorry that they had wounded the feelings of a man so
worthy of their respect and gratitude. "Forgive us, corporal,"
said one of them sadly. "Misery makes men suspicious and
unjust, and we are very unhappy."
"No offense," he growled. "If I had trusted poor M. d'Es-
corval, he would be alive now."
"The baron still breathes," observed one of the officers.
This was such astounding news that for a moment Bavois
was utterly confounded. "Ah ! I will give my right hand, if
necessary, to save him !" he exclaimed at last.
"If it is possible to save him, he will be saved, my friend.
That worthy priest whom you see there is an excellent physi-
cian. He is examining M. d'Escorval's wounds at this moment.
It was by his order that we procured and lighted that candle,
which may bring our enemies upon us at any moment ; but this
is not a time for hesitation."
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 491
Bavois looked with all his eyes, but from where he was
standing he could only distinguish a confused group of mov-
ing figures. On stepping forward, however, he perceived that
Marie-Anne was holding a candle over the baron, who lay
stretched upon the ground, his head reclining on his wife's
knees. His face was not disfigured ; but he was extremely
pale, and his eyes were closed at intervals. He shuddered,
and then the blood would trickle from his mouth. His cloth-
ing was hacked — literally hacked to pieces ; and it was easy to
see that he had been frightfully mauled and wounded. Kneel-
ing beside the unconscious man, the Abbe Midon was dexter-
ously stanching the blood and applying bandages, torn from
the linen of those present. Maurice and one of the officers
were assisting him. "Ah ! if I had my hands on the scoundrel
who cut the rope," cried the corporal with passionate indigna-
tion ; "but patience. I shall have him yet."
"Do you know who it was?"
"Only too well !" He said no more. The abbe had done
all it was possible to do, and was now lifting the wounded
man a little higher on Madame d'Escorval's knees. This change
of position elicited a moan which betrayed the baron's intense
sufferings. He opened his eyes and faltered a few words — the
first he had uttered. "Firmin!" he murmured, "Firmin!" This
was the name of his former secretary, a devoted helpmate who
had been dead for several years. It was evident that the baron's
mind was wandering. Still he had some vague idea of his
terrible situation, for in a stifled, almost inaudible, voice, he
added : "Oh ! how I suffer ! Firmin, I will not fall into the
hands of the Marquis de Courtornieu alive. I would rather
kill myself."
This was all ; his eyes closed again, and his head fell back
a dead weight. The officers clustering round believed that he
had expired, and it was with poignant anxiety that they drew
the abbe aside. "Is it all over?" they asked. "Is there any
hope?"
The priest shook his head sadly, and pointing to heaven : "My
hope is in God !" he said reverently.
The hour, the place, the catastrophe, the present danger, the
threatening future, all combined to impart solemnity to the
priest's few words; and so profound was the impression that
for a moment these men, familiar with death and peril, stood
in awed silence. Maurice, who approached, followed by Cor-
492 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
poral Bavois, brought them back to the exigencies of the situa-
tion. ''Ought we not to make haste and cany my father away?"
he asked. "Mustn't we be in Piedmont before evening?"
"Yes!" exclaimed one of the. officers; "let us start at once."
But the priest did not move, and it was in a despondent voice
that he remarked: "Any attempt to carry M. d'Escorval across
the frontier in his present condition would cost him his life."
This seemed so inevitably a death-warrant for them all that
they shuddered. "My God ! what shall we do ?" faltered Mau-
rice. "What course shall we adopt?"
No one replied. It was clear that they hoped for salvation
through the priest alone. He was lost in thought, and it was
some time before he spoke. "About an hour's walk from here,"
he said at last, "beyond the Croix d'Arcy, lives a peasant on
whom I can rely. His name is Poignot, and he was formerly
in M. Lacheneur's employ. With the assistance of his three
sons, he now tills quite a large farm. We must procure a
litter and carry M. d'Escorval to this honest peasant's house."
"What ?" interrupted one of the officers, "you want us to pro-
cure a litter at this hour of the night, and in this neighborhood?"
"It must be done."
"But won't it awake suspicion?"
"Most assuredly."
"The Montaignac police will follow us."
"I am certain of it."
"The baron will be recaptured?"
"No." The abbe spoke in the tone of a man who, having
assumed all the responsibility, feels that he has a right to be
obeyed. "When the baron has been conveyed to Poignot's
house," he continued, "one of you gentlemen will take the
wounded man's place on the litter; the others will carry him,
and the party will remain together until you have reached Pied-
montese territory. Then you must separate and pretend to
conceal yourselves, but do it in such a way that you are seen
everywhere."
The priest's simple plan was readily understood. The royal-
ist emissaries must be thrown off the track ; and at the very
moment when it seemed to them that the baron was in the
mountains, he would be safe in Poignot's house.
"One word more," added the cure. "The party which will
accompany the pretended baron must look as much like the
people one would expect to find with him as possible. So
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 493
Mademoiselle Lacheneur will go with you, and Maurice also.
Again, people know that I would not leave the baron; and as
my priestly robe would attract attention, one of you must
assume it. God will forgive the deception on account of its
worthy motive."
It was now necessary to procure the litter; and the officers
were trying to decide where they should go to obtain it when
Corporal Bavois interrupted them. "Give yourselves no un-
easiness," he remarked; "I know an inn not far from here
where I can procure one."
He started off on the run, and a few minutes later returned
with a small litter, a thin mattress, and a coverlid. He had
thought of everything. The baron was lifted carefully from
the ground and placed on the mattress — a long and difficult
operation, which, in spite of extreme caution, provoked many
terrible groans from the wounded man. When everything was
ready, each officer took an end of the litter, and the little pro-
cession, headed by the abbe, started on its way. They were
obliged to proceed slowly, as the least jolting increased the
baron's sufferings. Still they made some progress, and by
daybreak they were about half-way to Poignot's house. They
then chanced to meet some peasants going to their daily toil.
The latter paused to look at them, and when the group had
passed by stood gazing curiously after these strange folks who
were apparently carrying a dead body. However, these meet-
ings did not at all seem to worry the Abbe Midon. At all
events he made no attempt to avoid them. At last they came
in sight of Poignot's cottage. There was a little grove not
far from the house, and here the party halted, the priest bidding
his companions conceal themselves while he went forward to
reconnoitre and confer with the man upon whose decision the
safety of the whole party depended.
As the priest approached the house, a short, slim peasant
with gray hair and a sunburnt face emerged from the stable.
This was Father Poignot himself. "What ! is this you, Mon-
sieur le Cure !" he exclaimed delightedly. "Heavens ! how
pleased my wife will be. We have a great favor to ask of
you — " And then, without giving the abbe an opportunity to
open his lips, the farmer began to relate his perplexities. The
night of the revolt he had given shelter to a poor fellow who
had received an ugly swordthrust. Neither his wife nor him-
self knew how to dress the wound, and he did not dare to send
494 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
for a doctor. "And this wounded man," he added, "is Jean
Lacheneur, my old employer's son."
This recital made the priest feel very anxious. This peasant
had already given an asylum to one wounded conspirator, but
would he consent to receive another? He could not say, but
his voice trembled as he presented his petition. The farmer
turned very pale and shook his head gravely more than once,
while the priest was speaking. When the abbe had finished,
he coldly asked : "Do you know, sir, that I incur a great risk
by converting my house into a hospital for these rebels?" The
abbe dared not answer. "They told me," continued Father
Poignot, "that I was a coward because I would not join in the
revolt. Such was not my opinion. Now, however, I choose to
shelter these wounded men. In my opinion, it requires quite
as much courage to do that as to go and fight."
"Ah ! you are a brave fellow !" cried the abbe.
"Never mind about that, but bring M. d'Escorval here.
There is no one but my wife and boys, and they won't
betray him !"
The offer was at once accepted, and half an hour later the
baron was lying in a small loft, where Jean Lacheneur was
already installed. From the window the Abbe Midon and
Madame d'Escorval watched the little party, organized for the
purpose of deceiving the Due de Sairmeuse's spies, as it moved
rapidly away. Corporal Bavois, with his head bound up with
blood-stained linen, had taken the baron's place on the litter
carried by the retired officers. These latter only knew the
baron by name and reputation. But then he was the friend
of their former ruler — the friend of that great captain whom
they had made their idol, and they rejoiced with all their hearts
when they saw him reposing under Father Poignot's roof in
comparative security. After this there was the task of mislead-
ing the government emissaries, and they took various skilful
precautions, not knowing that they were quite unnecessary.
Public sentiment had declared itself in an unmistakable man-
ner, and the police did not ascertain a single detail of the
escape. They did not even hear of the little party that trav-
eled nearly three leagues in the full light of day, bearing a
wounded man upon a litter. Among the two thousand peas-
ants who believed that this wounded man was the Baron
d'Escorval, there was not one who turned informer or made
an indiscreet remark.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 495
The fugitives were ignorant of this willing connivance, and
on approaching the frontier, which they heard was strictly
guarded, they became extremely cautious. They waited until
nightfall before presenting themselves at a lonely inn, where
they hoped to procure a guide to lead them through the moun-
tain passes. Sad news awaited them there, for the innkeeper
informed them of the executions that had taken place that day
at Montaignac, giving the particulars as he had heard them
from an eye-witness. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he knew
nothing of M. d'Escorval's flight or of M. Lacheneur's arrest.
But he was well acquainted with Chanlouineau, and was quite
inconsolable concerning the death of that "handsome young
fellow, the best farmer in the country."
Finding this man's views so favorable, the officers, who had
left the litter a short distance from the inn, decided to confide
in him, at least in some degree. "We are carrying one of our
wounded comrades," they said. "Can you guide us across the
frontier to-night?"
The innkeeper replied that he would do so willingly, that he
could promise to take them safely past the military posts; but
that he could not think of starting before the moon rose. At
midnight the fugitives were on their way, and at daybreak they
set foot on the territory of Piedmont. They had dismissed their
guide some time before. They now proceeded to break the
litter to pieces; and handful by handful cast the wool of the
mattress to the wind.
"Our task is accomplished," said one of the officers to Mau-
rice. "We will now return to France. May God protect you !
Farewell !"
It was with tears in his eyes that Maurice parted from these
brave fellows who had proved so instrumental in saving his
father's life. Now he was the sole protector of Marie-Anne,
who, pale and overcome with fatigue and emotion, trembled
on his arm. But no — for Corporal Bavois still lingered by his
side. "And you, my friend," he asked sadly, "what are you
going to do?"
"Follow you," replied the old soldier. "I have a right to a
home with you ; that was agreed between your father and my-
self ! so don't hurry, for the young lady does not seem well, and
I can see a village only a short distance off."
11— Vol. II— Gab.
496
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
U* SSENTIALLY a woman in grace and beauty, as well as
in devotion and tenderness, Marie-Anne, as we have shown,
was moreover capable of truly virile bravery. Her energy and
coolness during those trying days had been the admiration and
astonishment of all around her. But human endurance has its
limits, and after excessive efforts there invariably comes a mo-
ment when the shrinking flesh fails the firmest will. Thus, when
Marie-Anne tried to resume her journey she found that her
strength was exhausted ; her swollen feet and limbs scarcely
supported her, her head whirled, and she shivered feverishly.
Maurice and the old soldier were both obliged to support her,
almost to carry her ; but fortunately they were not far from a
village, as was evident from an old church tower just discern-
ible through the morning mist.
Soon, however, they distinguished several cottages, and with
the prospect of speedy rest before them they were hastening
forward, when suddenly Bavois stopped short. "A thousand
thunderclaps!" he exclaimed; "why, I'm in uniform ! It would
excite suspicion at once if I went into the village dressed
like this ; before we had a chance to sit down, the Pied-
montese gendarmes would arrest us." He reflected for a
moment, twirling his mustache furiously ; then, in a tone
that would have made a passer-by tremble, he remarked:
'All things are fair in love and war. The next person who
passes — "
"But I have money with me," interrupted Maurice, unbuck-
ling a belt filled with gold, which he had put on under his cloth-
ing on the night of the revolt.
"Eh ! then we are fortunate !" cried Bavois. "Give me some,
and I will soon find a shop where I can purchase a change of
clothing."
He started ; and it was not long before he reappeared clad
in peasant's garb, his thin, weazened countenance well-nigh
hidden by a large, broad-brimmed slouch-hat. "Now, steady,
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 497
forward, march !" he said to Maurice and Marie-Anne, who
scarcely recognized him in this disguise.
What they had taken to be a mere village proved to be almost
a small town, called Saliente, as they almost immediately after-
ward ascertained from a sign-post. The fourth house they met
with was a hostelry, the Traveler's Rest. They went in, and
at once asked the hostess to take the young lady to a room,
and to assist her in undressing. While these instructions were
being complied with, Maurice and the corporal proceeded to
the dining-room and ordered something to eat. Refreshments
were served at once, but the glances cast upon the new arrivals
were by no means friendly. They were evidently regarded
with suspicion. A tall man, who was apparently the landlord,
hovered round them, and at last embraced a favorable oppor-
tunity to ask their names. "My name is Dubois," replied Mau-
rice without the slightest hesitation. "I am traveling on busi-
ness, and this man with me is a farmer of mine."
The landlord seemed somewhat reassured by this reply. "And
what is your business?" he inquired.
"I have come into this land of inquisitive people to buy
mules," laughed Maurice, striking his belt of money.
On hearing the jingle of the coin the landlord deferentially
raised his cap. Breeding mules was the chief industry of the
district. This would-be purchaser was very young, but he had
a well-filled purse, and that was enough. "You will excuse
me," resumed the landlord in quite a different tone. "You see,
we are obliged to be very careful. There has been some trouble
at Montaignac."
The imminence of the peril and the responsibility devolving
upon him gave Maurice unusual assurance; and it was in the
most careless, offhand manner possible that he concocted quite
a plausible story to explain his early arrival on foot with his
wife, who had been taken poorly on the way. He congratulated
himself upon his address, but the old corporal was far from sat-
isfied. "We are too near the frontier to bivouac here," he
grumbled. "As soon as the young lady is on her feet again
we must hurry on."
He believed, and Maurice hoped, that twenty-four hours' rest
would set Marie-Anne right again. But they were both mis-
taken. She could not move, but remained in a state of torpor
from which it was impossible to rouse her. When she was
spoken to she made no reply, and it seemed very doubtful
498 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
whether she could even hear and understand. Fortunately the
landlord's mother proved to be a good, kina-hearted old woman,
who would not leave the so-called Madame Dubois's bedside,
but nursed her with the greatest care during three long days,
while Marie-Anne remained in this strange and alarming con-
dition. When at last she spoke, Maurice could at first scarcely
understand the import of her words. "Poor girl !" she sighed ;
"poor, wretched girl !" In point of fact she was alluding to
herself. By a phenomenon which often manifests itself after a
crisis in which reason has been temporarily imperiled, it seemed
to her that it was some one else who had been the victim of
all these misfortunes, the recollection of which gradually re-
turned to her like the memory of a painful dream. What
strange and terrible events had taken place since that August
Sunday when, on leaving church with her father, she first heard
of the Due de Sairmeuse's return to France. And that was
only nine months ago. What a difference between the past —
when she lived happy and envied in that beautiful Chateau
de Sairmeuse, of which she believed herself the mistress — and
the present, when she found herself lying in the comfortless
room of a miserable country inn, attended by an old woman
whom she did not know, and with no other protectors than
her proscribed lover and an old soldier — a deserter whose life
was in constant peril. Hope, fortune, and future happiness had
all been wrecked, and she had not even saved her honor. But
was she alone responsible? Who was it that had forced her
to play that odious part with Maurice, Martial, and Chan-
louineau? As this last name darted through her mind, she
recalled with startling clearness all the incidents of her last
meeting with the young farmer. She saw him at her feet in
that clingy cell of the citadel at Montaignac ; she felt his first
and only kiss upon her cheek, and remembered that he had
given her a second letter, saying as he did so: "You will read
this when I am dead."
She might read it now, for he had already cruelly expiated
his share in her father's enterprise. But then what had be-
come of it? She had not given it a thought till now; but at
present, raising herself up in bed, she exclaimed in an eager,
imperious voice : "My dress, give me my dress."
The old nurse obeyed her, and Marie-Anne could not restrain
an exclamation of delight when, on examining the pocket, she
found the letter there. She opened it and read it slowly, then,
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 499
sinking back on her pillows, she burst into tears. Maurice
hastily approached her. "What is the matter?" he inquired
anxiously. Her only reply was to hand him the missive.
Chanlouineau, it should be remembered, was only a poor
peasant, scarcely possessing the rudiments of education, as
his letter (written on common paper and closed with a huge
wafer, especially purchased from a grocer in Sairmeuse) evinced
plainly enough. The heavy, labored, distorted characters had
evidently been traced by a man who was more at home when
guiding a plow than a pen. There was but one straight line,
and every third word, at least, was misspelt. And yet the
thoughts expressed were noble and generous, well worthy of
the true heart that had beat in the young farmer's breast.
"Marie- Anne" — so the letter began. "The outbreak is at hand,
and whether it succeeds or fails, at all events, I shall die. I
decided that on the day when I learned that you could marry
no other man than Maurice d'Escorval. The conspiracy can not
succeed ; and I understand your father well enough to know
that he will not survive defeat. And if Maurice and your
brother should both be killed, what would become of you? Oh,
my God, would you not be reduced to beggary? The thought
has haunted me continually. I have reflected, and this is my
last will : I give and bequeath to you all my property, every-
thing that I possess : My house, the Borderie, with its gardens
and vineyards, the woodland and pastures of Berarde, and five
lots of lands at Valrollier. An inventory of this property and
of the other possessions I leave to you is deposited with the
notary at Sairmeuse. You can accept this bequest without fear,
for I have no relatives, and am at liberty to dispose of my
belongings as I please. If you do not wish to remain in France,
the property can be sold for at least forty thousand francs.
But it would, it seems to me, be better for you to remain in
your own province. The house on the Borderie is comfortable
and convenient, for I have had it thoroughly repaired. Up-
stairs you will find a room that has been fitted up by the best
upholsterer in Montaignac. I intended it for you. Under the
hearthstone in this same room I have deposited a box contain-
ing three hundred and twenty-seven louis d'or and one hundred
and forty-six livres. If you refuse this gift, it will be because
you scorn me even after I am dead. Accept it, if not for your
own sake, for the sake of — I dare not finish, but you will un-
500 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
derstand my meaning only too well. If Maurice is not killed,
and I shall try my best to stand between him and danger, he
will marry you. Then, perhaps, you will be obliged to ask his
consent in order to accept my gift. I hope that he will not
refuse his permission. One is not jealous of the dead ! Be-
sides, he knows well enough that you scarcely ever vouchsafed
a glance to the poor peasant who loved you so much. Do not
be offended at anything I have said, I am in such agony that
I can not weigh my words. Farewell, Marie-Anne. Farewell
forever. Chanlouineau."
Maurice read this letter carefully, at times pausing with sup-
pressed emotion. After finishing its perusal he remained silent
for a moment, and then in a husky voice exclaimed : "You can
not refuse; it would be wrong." Then, fearing lest he might
betray his feelings, he hastily left the room. Chanlouineau's
words had evidently made a deep impression on his mind. This
noble peasant had saved their lives at the Croix d'Arcy, he had
wrested the Baron d'Escorval from the hands of the execu-
tioner, and he had never allowed either a complaint or a re-
proach to escape his lips. His abnegation had been sublime ;
and yet, as if what he had done in life were not sufficient, he
sought to protect the woman he loved even after he was dead.
When Maurice recalled all that he and Marie-Anne owed to
Chanlouineau, he could not help reproaching himself with in-
feriority and unworthiness. But, good heavens ! what if this
same comparison should arise in Marie-Anne's mind as well?
How could he compete with the memory of such nobility of
soul and such self-sacrifice ? Ay, Chanlouineau was mistaken ;
one may, perhaps, be jealous of the dead ! However Maurice
took good care to conceal his anxiety, and when he returned to
Marie-Anne's room his face was calm and even cheerful.
Although, as we have seen, Marie-Anne had recovered the
full possession of her mental faculties, her strength had not
yet returned. She was almost unable to sit up ; and Maurice
had to relinquish all thought of leaving Saliente for the pres-
ent. The so-called Madame Dubois's persistent weakness began
to astonish the old nurse, and her faith in herbs, gathered
by moonlight, was considerably shaken. Fortunately, however,
Bavois had succeeded in finding a medical man in the neigh-
borhood — a physician of great ability, who, after being at one
time attached to Prince Eugene Beauharnais's viceregal court
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 501
at Milan, had, for political reasons, been forced to take refuge
in this secluded spot. The corporal's discovery was a happy
one, for in these days the smaller towns and villages of Italy
rarely possessed any other doctors than some ignorant barber,
who invariably treated all complaints with a lancet and a stock
of leeches. Bavois's physician was at once summoned, and he
promptly made his appearance. He was a man of uncertain
age, with a furrowed brow and a keen and piercing glance.
After visiting the sick-room, he drew Maurice aside. "Is this
young lady really your wife, Monsieur — Dubois?" he asked,
hesitating so strangely over his name, Dubois, that Maurice's
face crimsoned to the roots of his hair.
"I do not understand your question," he retorted angrily.
"I beg your pardon, of course, but you seem very young for
a married man, and your hands are too soft for a farmer's.
And when I spoke to this young lady about her husband, she
turned scarlet. The man who accompanies you, moreover, has
terrible mustaches for a farmer, and besides you must re-
member that there have been troubles across the frontier at
Montaignac."
From crimson Maurice had turned white. He felt that he
was discovered — that he was in this man's power. What should
he do? What was the use of denial? At times it is only pru-
dent to confess, and extreme confidence often meets with sym-
pathy and protection. He weighed these considerations in his
mind, and then in an anxious voice replied : "You are not mis-
taken, monsieur. My friend and myself are both fugitives, un-
doubtedly condemned to death in France by this time." And
then, without giving the doctor an opportunity to respond, he
briefly narrated the terrible events that had recently happened
at Sairmeuse. He neither concealed his own name nor Marie-
Anne's and when his recital was completed, the physician, whom
his confidence had plainly touched, warmly shook his hand.
"It is just as I supposed," said the medical man. "Believe
me, Monsieur Dubois, you must not tarry here. What I have
discovered others will discover as well. And, above everything,
don't warn the hotel-keeper of your departure. He has not
been deceived by your explanation. Self-interest alone has kept
his mouth shut. He has seen your money, and so long as you
spend it at his house he will hold his tongue; but if he discovers
that you are going away, he will probably betray you."
"Ah! sir, but how is it possible for us to leave this place?"
502 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
"In two days the young lady will be on her feet again," in-
terrupted the physician. "And take my advice. At the next
village, stop and give your name to Mademoiselle Lacheneur."
"Ah ! sir," exclaimed Maurice, "have you considered the
advice you offer me? How can I, a proscribed man — a man
condemned to death perhaps — how can I obtain, how can I dis-
play the proofs of identity necessary for marriage?"
"Excuse me," observed the physician, shaking his head, "but
you are no longer in France, Monsieur d'Escorval; you are in
Piedmont."
"Another difficulty !"
"No, because in this country people marry, or at least they
can marry, without all the formalities that cause you so much
anxiety."
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Maurice.
"Yes, if you can find a consenting priest, when he has in-
scribed your name on his parish register and given you a cer-
tificate, you will be so undoubtedly married, Mademoiselle Lache-
neur and yourself, that the court of Rome would never grant
you a divorce."
"That may be," said Maurice hesitatingly, "but how could
I find a priest — "
The physician was silent, and it might have been supposed
he was blaming himself for meddling with matters that did
not concern him. Suddenly, however, he abruptly said: "Listen
to me attentively, Monsieur d'Escorval. I am about to take
my leave, but before I go I shall find occasion to recommend
your wife to take as much exercise as possible — I will do this
in the landlord's presence. Consequently, on the day after to-
morrow, Wednesday, you must hire mules, and you, Mademoi-
selle Lacheneur, and your old friend, the soldier, must start
from the hotel as if you were going on a pleasure excursion.
You will push on to Vigano, three leagues from here, where
I live. Then I will take you to a priest, one of my friends;
and upon my recommendation he will perform the marriage
ceremony. Now, reflect, shall I expect you on Wednesday?"
"Oh, yes, yes. How can I ever thank you sufficiently?"
"By not thanking me at all. See, here is the innkeeper; you
are M. Dubois again."
Maurice was intoxicated with joy. He understood the ir-
regularity of such a marriage, but he knew it would reassure
Marie-Anne's troubled conscience. Poor girl ! she was suffer-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 503
ing an agony of remorse. It was that which was killing her.
However, he did not speak to her on the matter, fearing lest
something might occur to interfere with the project. But the
old physician had not spoken lightly, and everything took place
as he had promised. The priest at Vigano blessed the mar-
riage of Maurice d'Escorval and Marie-Anne Lacheneur, and,
after inscribing their names upon the church register, he gave
them a certificate, which the physician and Corporal Bavois
signed as witnesses. That same evening the mules were sent
back to Saliente, and the fugitives resumed their journey. The
Abbe Midon had advised them to reach Turin as quickly as
possible. "It is a large city," he had said when bidding them
good-by near Father Poignot's house; "you will be lost in the
crowd. I have several friends there, whose names and addresses
are on this paper. Go to them, for through them I will try to
send you news of M. d'Escorval."
So it was toward Turin that Maurice, Marie-Anne, and Cor-
poral Bavois directed their steps. Their progress was slow,
however, for they were obliged to avoid the more frequented
roads and renounce all ordinary modes of transport. Still the
fatigue of travel, instead of exhausting Marie-Anne, seemed
to revive her, and when five or six days had elapsed the color
came back to her cheeks, and her strength had fully returned.
"Fate seems to have abandoned the pursuit," said Maurice one
day. "Who knows but what the future may have many com-
pensations in store for us !"
But he was mistaken. Fate far from forgetting them had
merely granted them a short respite. One April morning the
fugitives stopped to breakfast at an inn in the outskirts of a
large town. Maurice had finished eating, and was just leaving
the table to settle with the landlady, when Marie-Anne uttered
a loud shriek and fell back on her chair. She held in her hand
a French newspaper about a fortnight old, which she had found
lying on the sideboard where some traveler had probably left
it. Maurice seized the print rapidly, and read as follows:
"Lacheneur, the leader of the revolt in Montaignac, was
executed yesterday. The miserable mischief-maker exhib-
ited on the scaffold the audacity for which he had always been
famous."
"My father has been put to death !" cried Marie-Anne, "and
I — his daughter — was not there to receive his last farewell !"
She rose, and in an imperious voice: "I will go no farther,"
504
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
she said ; "we must turn back now without losing an instant.
I wish to return to France."
To return to France was to expose themselves to frightful
peril. What good would it do? Was not the misfortune irrep-
arable? So Corporal Bavois suggested, very tmidily it is true,
for the old soldier trembled at the thought that they might
suspect him of being afraid. But Maurice would not listen.
He shuddered. He did not know what had transpired since
their flight, but it seemed to him that the Baron d'Escorval
must have been discovered and rearrested at the same time that
Lacheneur was captured. Accordingly they at once procured a
vehicle to convey them to the frontier. One important question,
however, remained to be decided. Should Maurice and Marie-
Anne make their marriage public? She wished to do so, but
Maurice with tears in his eyes entreated her to conceal it. "Our
marriage certificate will not silence those who are disposed
against us," said he. "Let us keep our secret for the present.
Xo doubt we shall only remain in France for a few days."
Unfortunately, Marie-Anne yielded. "Since you wish it," said
she. "I will obey you. No one shall know of it."
It was the evening of the 17th of April, the same day that
Martial was married to Blanche, when the fugitives at last
reached Father Poignot's house. Maurice and Corporal Bavois
were disguised as peasants, and the old soldier had made a
sacrifice that drew tears from his eyes; he had shaved off his
mustaches.
TITHEN the Abbe Midon and Martial de Sairmeuse held
their conference, to decide upon the arrangements for the
Baron d'Escorval's escape, a difficulty presented itself which
threatened to break off the negotiations. "Return my letter,"
said Martial, "and I will save the baron."
"Save the baron," replied the abbe, "and your letter shall
be returned."
The idea that any one should suppose him to be influenced
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 505
by danger when in reality he was only yielding to Marie-
Anne's tears, angered Martial beyond endurance. "These are
my last words, sir," he retorted, emphatically. "Give me the
letter now, and I swear to you, by the honor of my name, that
I will do everything that is possible for any human being to do
to save the baron. If you distrust my word, good evening."
The situation was desperate, the danger imminent, the time
limited, and Martial's tone betrayed an inflexible determina-
tion. The abbe could not hesitate. He drew the letter from his
pocket and handing it to Martial : "Here it is, sir," he said,
solemnly, "remember that you have pledged the honor of your
name."
"I will remember it, Monsieur le Cure. Go and obtain the
ropes."
Thus the abbe's sorrow and amazement were intense, \vhen,
after the baron's terrible fall, Maurice declared that the cord
had been cut beforehand. And yet the priest could not make
up his mind that Martial was guilty of such execrable duplicity,
which is rarely found in men under twenty-five years of age.
However, no one suspected the abbe's secret thoughts. It was
with perfect composure that he dressed the baron's wounds and
made arrangements for the flight, though not until he saw M.
d'Escorval installed in Poignot's house did he breathe freely.
The fact that the baron had been able to endure the journey
proved that he retained a power of vitality for which the priest
had scarcely dared to hope. Some way must now be discov-
ered to procure the surgical instruments and pharmaceutical
remedies which the wounded man's condition would necessitate.
But where and how could they be procured? The police kept
a close watch over all the medical men and druggists in Mon-
taignac, in hopes of discovering the wounded conspirators
through one or the other medium. However, the cure had
for ten years acted as physician and surgeon for the poor of
his parish, and he possessed an almost complete set of surgical
instruments, and a well-filled medicine chest. Accordingly at
nightfall he put on a long blue blouse, concealed his features
under a large slouch-hat, and wended his way toward Sair-
meuse. There was not a single light in the parsonage; Bibiane,
the old housekeeper, having gone out to gossip with some of
the neighbors. The priest effected an entrance into the house
by forcing the lock of the garden door; he speedily found the
things he wanted and was able to retire without having been
506 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
perceived. That night the abbe hazarded a cruel but indispen-
sable operation. His heart trembled, but although he had
never before attempted so difficult a task, the hand that held
the knife was firm. "It is not upon my weak powers that I
rely," he murmured, "I have placed my trust in One who is on
High."
His faith was rewarded. Three days later the wounded man,
after a comfortable night, seemed to regain consciousness. His
first glance was for his devoted wife, who was sitting by
the bedside; his first word was for his son. "Maurice?" he
asked.
"Is in safety," replied the abbe. "He must be on the road
to Turin."
M. d'Escorval's lips moved as if he were murmuring a
prayer; then, in a feeble voice: "We owe you a debt of grati-
tude which we can never pay," he murmured, "for I think I
shall pull through."
He did "pull through," but not without terrible suffering,
and not without severe lapses that made those around him
tremble with anxiety. Jean Lacheneur was more fortunate,
for he was on his legs by the end of the week.
On the evening of the seventeenth of April the abbe was
seated in the loft reading a newspaper to the baron when sud-
denly the door was quietly opened, and one of the Poignot boys
looked into the room. He did not speak, however, but merely
gave the cure a glance, and then quickly withdrew.
! The priest finished the paragraph he was perusing, laid down
the paper, and went out on to the landing. "What's the mat-
ter?" he inquired.
"Ah!" answered the young fellow, "M. Maurice, Mademoi-
selle Lacheneur, and the old corporal have just arrived; they
want to come upstairs."
Three bounds and the abbe reached the ground floor. "You
imprudent children!" he exclaimed, addressing the three trav-
elers, "what has induced you to return here?" Then turning
to Maurice: "Isn't it enough that your father has nearly died
for you and through you? Are you so anxious for his recap-
ture that you return here to set our enemies on his track ? Be
off at once !"
Utterly abashed, it was as much as Maurice could do to
falter his excuses; uncertainty, he said, had seemed worse to
him than death; he had heard of M. Lacheneur's execution;
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 507
he had started off at once without reflection and only asked
to see his father and embrace his mother before leaving again.
The priest was inflexible. "The slightest emotion might kill
your father," he declared ; "and I should cause your mother
the greatest anxiety if I told her of your return, and the
dangers to which you have foolishly exposed yourself. Come,
go at once, and cross the frontier again this very night."
The scene had been witnessed by Jean Lacheneur, who now
approached. "The time has come for me to take my leave,"
said he, "I shall go with Maurice. But I scarcely think that
the highway's the right place for my sister. You would cap
all your kindness, Monsieur le Cure, if you would only per-
suade Father Poignot to let her remain here, and if you would
watch over her yourself."
The abbe deliberated for a moment, and then hurriedly re-
plied : "So be it ; but go at once ; your name is not on the
proscribed list. You will not be pursued."
Suddenly separated from his wife in this fashion, Maurice
wished to confer with her, to give her some parting advice ;
but the abbe did not allow him an opportunity to do so. "Go,
go at once," he insisted. "Farewell !"
The priest's intentions were excellent, no doubt, but in point
of fact he was too hasty. At the very moment when Maurice
stood sorely in need of wise and temperate counsel he was
handed over to Jean Lacheneur's pernicious influence. Scarcely
were they outside the house than the latter remarked : "We
have to thank the Sairmeuses and the Marquis de Courtornieu
for all this. I don't even know where they have thrown my
father's corpse. I, his son, was even debarred from embracing
him before he was traitorously murdered." He spoke in a
harsh, bitter voice, laughing the while in a strange discordant
fashion. "And yet," he continued, "if we climbed that hill we
should be able to see the Chateau de Sairmeuse brightly illumi-
nated. They are celebrating the marriage of Martial de Sair-
meuse and Blanche de Courtornieu. We are friendless outcasts,
succorless and shelterless, but they are feasting and making
merry."
Less than this would have sufficed to rekindle Maurice's
wrath. Yes, these Sairmeuses and these Courtornieus had killed
the elder Lacheneur, and they had betrayed the Baron d'Escor-
val, and delivered him up — a mangled corpse — to his suffering
relatives. "It would be a rightful vengeance to disturb their
508 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
merrymaking now, and in the midst of hundreds of assembled
guests denounce their cruelty and perfid"." "I will start at
once," exclaimed Maurice, "I will challenge Martial in the
presence of the revalers."
But Jean interrupted him. "No, don't do that ! The cowards
would arrest you. Write to the young marquis, and I will take
your letter."
Corporal Bavois, who heard the conversation, did not make
the slightest attempt to oppose this foolish enterprise. Indeed,
he thought the undertaking quite natural, under the circum-
stances, and esteemed his young friends all the more for their
rashness. They all three entered the first wine-shop they came
across, and Maurice wrote the challenge which was confided to
Jean Lacheneur.
The only object which Jean had in view was to disturb the
bridal ball at the Chateau de Sairmeuse. He merely hoped to
provoke a scandal which would disgrace Martial and his rela-
tives in the eyes of all their friends ; for he did not for one
moment imagine that the young marquis would accept Mau-
rice's challenge. While waiting for Martial in the hall of the
chateau, he sought to compose a fitting attitude, striving to
steel himself against the sneering scorn with which he expected
the young nobleman would receive him. Martial's kindly greet-
ing was so unlooked for that Jean was at first quite discon-
certed, and he did not recover his assurance until he perceived
how cruelly Maurice's insulting letter made the marquis suffer.
When the latter seized him by the arm and led him upstairs,
he offered no resistance ; and as they crossed the brightly-lighted
drawing-rooms and passed through the throng of astonished
guests, his surprise was so intense that he forgot both his
heavy shoes and peasant's blouse. Breathless with anxiety, he
wondered what was coming. Then standing on the threshold
of the little saloon leading out of the grand hall he heard Mar-
tial read Maurice d'Escorval's letter aloud, and finally saw him,
frantic with passion, throw the missive in his father-in-law's
face. It might have been supposed that these incidents did not
in the least affect Jean Lacheneur, who stood by cold and un-
moved, with compressed lips and downcast eyes. However,
appearances were deceitful, for in reality his heart throbbed
with exultation ; and if he lowered his eyes, it was only to
conceal the joy that sparkled in them. He had not hoped for
so prompt and so terrible a revenge.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 509
Nor was this all. After brutally pushing Blanche, his newly-
wedded wife, aside when she attempted to detain him, Martial
again seized Jean Lachcneur's arm. "Now," said he, "follow
me!"
Jean still obeyed him without uttering a word. They again
crossed the grand hall, and on passing out into an anteroom,
Martial took a candle burning on a side table, and opened a
little door leading to a private staircase. "Where are you
taking me?" inquired Jean.
Martial, in his haste, was already a third of the way up the
flight. "Are you afraid?" he asked, turning round.
The other shrugged his shoulders. "If you put it in that
way, let us go on," he coldly replied.
They entered the room which Martial had occupied since
taking possession of the chateau. It was the same room that
had once belonged to Jean Lacheneur ; and nothing in it had
been changed. The whilom steward's son recognized the
brightly-flowered curtains, the figures on the carpet, and even
an old armchair ensconced wherein he had read many a novel
in secret. Martial hastened to a small writing-desk, and drew
therefrom a folded paper which he slipped into his pocket.
"Now," said he, "let us be off. We must avoid another scene.
My father and my wife will be looking for me. I will explain
everything when we are outside."
They hastily descended the staircase, passed through the
gardens, and soon reached the long avenue. Then Jean Lache-
neur suddenly paused. "After all," said he, "it was scarcely
necessary for me to wait so long for a simple yes or no. Have
you decided? What answer am I to give Maurice d'Escorval?"
"None at all. You will take me to him. I must see him
and speak with him in order to justify myself. Let us
proceed !"
But Jean did not move. "What you ask is impossible !" he
replied.
"Why so?"
"Because Maurice is pursued. If he is captured, he will be
tried and undoubtedly condemned to death. He is now in a
safe retreat, and I have no right to disclose it." In point of
fact, Maurice's safe retreat, for the time being, was only a
neighboring wood, where, in the corporal's company, he was
waiting for Jean's return. But the latter could not resist the
temptation to make this insinuating remark, which, by reason
510 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
of its covert character, was far more insulting than if he had
simply said : "We fear informers !"
Strange as it may appear, and proud and violent as was
Martial's nature, he did not resent the insult. "So you distrust
me !" he merely said. Jean Lacheneur was silent — another in-
sult. "And yet," insisted Martial, "after what you've just seen
and heard you can't possibly suspect me of having cut the ropes
I carried to the baron."
"No ! I'm convinced that you didn't do it."
"You saw how I punished the man who had dared to com-
promise my honor. And this man is the father of the girl I
married to-day."
"Oh, I saw and heard everything, but as for taking you to
Maurice, I must still reply: 'Impossible!'"
No doubt the younger Lacheneur's severity was unjust ; how-
ever, Martial did not rebel against it. He merely drew from
his pocket the paper which he had taken from his desk a few
minutes previously, and handed it to Jean. "You doubt my
word," he said grimly. "I shall not forget to punish those
whose fault it is. However, here is a proof of my sincerity
which I expect you to give to Maurice, and which must convince
even you."
"What proof is it?"
"Why, the very letter in exchange for which we facilitated
the baron's escape. A presentiment I can't explain prevented
me from burning it, and now I'm very glad I didn't. Take it,
and do what you choose with it."
Any one but Jean Lacheneur would have appreciated the
young marquis's candor, and have been touched by the con-
fidence he displayed. But Jean's hatred was implacable, and
the more humble his enemy showed himself, the more deter-
mined he was to carry out the project of vengeance maturing
in his brain. His only reply to Martial's last remark was a
promise to give the letter to Maurice.
"It should be a bond of alliance, it seems to me," said Mar-
tial, gently.
"A bond of alliance !" rejoined Jean with a threatening
gesture. "You are too fast, Monsieur le Marquis ! Have you
forgotten all the blood that flows between us? You didn't cut
the ropes; but who condemned the Baron d'Escorval to death?
Wasn't it your father, the Due de Sairmeuse? An alliance!
why, you must have forgotten that you and yours sent my
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 511
father to the scaffold ! How have you rewarded the man whose
honesty gave you back a fortune? By murdering him and
ruining his daughter's reputation."
"I offered my name and fortune to your sister."
"I would have killed her with my own hand had she accepted
your offer. Take that as a proof that I don't forget; and if
any great disgrace ever tarnishes the proud name of Sairmeuse,
think of Jean Lacheneur. My hand will be in it." He was
so frantic with passion that he forgot his usual caution. How-
ever, after a great effort he recovered his self-possession, and
added in calmer tones : "If you are so desirous of seeing Mau-
rice, be at La Reche to-morrow at noon. He will be there."
With these words he turned abruptly aside, sprang over the
fence skirting the avenue, and vanished into the darkness.
"Jean," cried Martial, in almost supplicating tones; "Jean,
come back — listen to me !" There was no reply- The young
marquis stood bewildered in the middle of the road; and little
short of a miracle prevented his being run over by a horseman
galloping in the direction of Montaignac. The latter's shouts
to get out of the way awakened him from his dream, and as
the cold night breeze fanned his forehead he was able to collect
his thoughts and judge his conduct. Ah, there was no denying
it. He, the professed skeptic, a man who, despite his youth,
boasted of his indifference and insensibility, had forgotten all
self-control. He had acted generously, no doubt, but after all
he had created a terrible scandal, all to no purpose. When
Blanche, his wife, had accused Marie-Anne of being the cause
of his frenzy, she had not been entirely wrong. For though
Martial might regard all other opinions with disdain, the thought
that Marie-Anne despised him, and considered him a traitor
and a coward, had, in truth, made him perfectly frantic. It
was for her sake that on the impulse of the moment he had
resorted to such a startling justification. And if he had begged
Jean to lead him to Maurice d'Escorval, it was because he
hoped to find Marie-Anne not far off, and to say to her: "Ap-
pearances were against me, but I am innocent ; and have proved
it by unmasking the real culprit." It was to Marie-Anne that
he wished Chanlouineau's circular to be given, thinking that
she, at least, would be surprised at his generosity. And yet
all his expectations had been disappointed. "It will be the
devil to arrange !" he thought ; "but nonsense ! it will be for-
gotten in a month. The best way is to face those gossips at
512 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
once: I will return immediately." He said: "I will return,"
in the most deliberate manner; but his courage grew weaker
at each successive step he took in the direction of the chateau.
The guests must have already left, and Martial concluded that
he would probably find himself alone with his young wife, his
father, and the Marquis de Courtornieu, whose reproaches,
tears, and threats he would be obliged to encounter. "No,"
muttered he. "After all, let them have a night to calm them-
selves. I will not appear until to-morrow."
But where should he sleep? He was in evening dress and
bareheaded, and the night was chilly. On reflection he recol-
lected his father's house at Montaignac. "I shall find a bed
there," he thought, "servants, a fire, and a change of clothing
— and to-morrow, a horse to come back again." The walk was
a long one, no doubt ; however, in his present mood, this cir-
cumstance did not displease him. The servant who came to
open the door when he knocked was at first speechless with
astonishment. "You, Monsieur le Marquis !" he exclaimed at
last.
"Yes, it's I. Light a good fire in the drawing-room, and
bring me a change of clothes." The valet obeyed, and soon
Martial found himself alone, stretched on a sofa in front of
the blazing logs. "It would be a good thing to sleep and forget
my troubles," he thought ; and accordingly he tried to do so,
but it was almost dawn when at last he fell into a feverish
slumber.
He woke up again at nine o'clock, gave the necessary instruc-
tions for breakfast, and was eating with a good appetite, when
suddenly he remembered his rendezvous with Maurice. He
ordered a horse and set out at once, reaching La Reche at half-
past eleven o'clock. The others had not yet arrived ; so he
fastened his horse by the bridle to a tree near by, and leisurely
climbed to the summit of the hill. It was here that Lacheneur's
cottage had formerly stood, and the four walls still remained
standing, blackened by fire. Martial was gazing at the ruins,
not without a feeling of emotion, when he heard the branches
crackle in the adjacent cover. He turned, and perceived that
Maurice, Jean, and Corporal Bavois were approaching. The
old soldier carried under his arm, in a piece of green serge, a
couple of swords which Jean Lacheneur had borrowed from a
retired officer at Montaignac during the night. "We are sorry
to have kept you waiting," began Maurice, "but you will
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 513
observe that it is not yet noon. Since we scarcely expected to
see you — "
"I was too anxious to justify myself not to be here early,"
interrupted Martial.
Maurice shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. "This is not
a question of self- justification, but one of fighting," he abruptly
replied.
Insulting as were the words and the gesture that accom-
panied them, Martial never so much as winced. "Grief has
made you unjust," said he, gently, "or M. Lacheneur has not
told you everything."
"Yes, Jean has told me everything."
"Well, then?"
Martial's coolness drove Maurice frantic. "Well," he re-
plied, with extreme violence, "my hatred is unabated even if
my scorn is diminished. I have waited for this occasion ever
since the day we met on the square at Sairmeuse in Mademoi-
selle Lacheneur's presence. You said to me then : 'We shall
meet again.' And now here we stand face to face. What
insults must I heap upon you to decide you to fight?"
With a threatening gesture Martial seized one of the swords
which Bavois offered him, and assumed an attitude of defense.
"You will have it so," said he in a husky voice. "The thought
of Marie-Anne can no longer save you."
But the blades had scarcely crossed before a cry from Jean
arrested the combat. "The soldiers !" he exclaimed ; "we are
betrayed." A dozen gendarmes were indeed approaching at full
speed.
"Ah! I spoke the truth!" exclaimed Maurice. "The coward
came, but the guards accompanied him." He bounded back,
and breaking his sword over his knee, hurled the fragments in
Martial's face. "Here, miserable wretch !" he cried.
"Wretch !" repeated Jean and Corporal Bavois. "traitor !
coward !" And then they fled, leaving Martial literally thun-
derstruck.
He struggled hard to regain his composure. The soldiers
were swiftly approaching; he ran to meet them, and addressing
the officer in command, imperiously inquired : "Do you know
who I am?"
"Yes," replied the brigadier, respectfully, "you are the Due
de Sairmeuse's son."
"Very well ! I forbid you to follow those men."
514
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
The brigadier hesitated at first; then in a decided tone he
replied : "I can't obey you, sir. I have my orders." And turn-
ing to his men, he added, "Forward !"
He was about to set the example, when Martial seized him
by the arm: "At least you will not refuse to tell me who sent
you here?"
"Who sent us ? The colonel, of course, in obedience to orders
from the grand provost, M. d'Courtornieu. He sent the order
last night. We have been hidden near here ever since daybreak.
But thunder ! let go your hold, I must be off."
He galloped away, and Martial, staggering like a drunken
man, descended the slope, and remounted his horse. But in-
stead of repairing to the Chateau of Sairmeuse, he returned
to Montaignac, and passed the remainder of the afternoon in
the solitude of his own room. That evening he sent two letters
to Sairmeuse — one to his father, and the other to his wife.
\4'ARTIAL certainly imagined that he had created a terrible
■L**- scandal on the evening of his marriage ; but he had no
conception of the reality. Had a thunderbolt burst in these
gilded halls, the guests at Sairmeuse could not have been more
amazed and horrified than they were by the scene presented
to their view. The whole assembly shuddered when Martial,
in his wrath, flung the crumpled letter full in the Marquis de
Courtornieu's face. And when the latter sank back into an
armchair, several young ladies of extreme sensibility actually
fainted away. The young marquis had departed, taking Jean
Lacheneur with him, and yet the guests stood as motionless as
statues, pale, mute, and stupefied. It was Blanche who broke
the spell. While the Marquis de Courtornieu was panting for
breath — while the Due de Sairmeuse stood trembling and speech-
less with suppressed anger — the young marquise made an
heroic attempt to save the situation. With her hand still aching
from Martial's brutal clasp, her heart swelling with rage and
hatred, and her face whiter than her bridal veil, she yet had
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 515
sufficient strength to restrain her tears and force her lips to
smile. "Really this is placing too much importance on a trifling
misunderstanding which will be explained to-morrow," she
said, almost gaily, to those nearest her. And stepping into the
middle of the hall she made a sign to the musicians to play a
country dance.
But scarcely had the first note sounded, than, as if by unani-
mous consent, the whole company hastened toward the door.
It might have been supposed that the chateau was on fire, for
the guests did not withdraw, they actually fled. An hour
previously, the Marquis de Courtornieu and the Due de Sair-
ineuse had been overwhelmed with the most obsequious homage
and adulation. But now there was not one in all the assembly
daring enough to take them openly by the hand. Just when they
both believed themselves all-powerful they were rudely pre-
cipitated from their lordly eminence. Indeed disgrace, and per-
haps punishment, were to be their portion. Heroic to the last,
however, the abandoned bride endeavored to stay the tide of
retreating guests. Standing near the door, and with her most
bewitching smile upon her lips, Blanche spared neither flattering
words nor entreaties in her efforts to retain the deserters.
The attempt was vain ; and, in point of fact, many were not
sorry of this opportunity to repay the young Marquise de
Sairmeuse for all her past disdain and criticism. Soon, of
all the guests, there only remained one old gentleman who, on
account of his gout, had deemed it prudent not to mingle with
the crowd. He bowed as he passed before Blanche, and could
not even restrain a blush, for he rightly considered that
this swift flight was a cruel insult for the abandoned bride.
Still, what could he do alone? Under the circumstances, his
presence would prove irksome, and so he departed like the
others.
Blanche was now alone, and there was no longer any necessity
for constraint. There were no more curious witnesses to enjoy
her sufferings and comment upon them. With a furious gesture
she tore her bridal veil and wreath of orange flowers from her
head, and trampled them under foot. "Extinguish the lights
everywhere !" she cried to a servant passing by, stamping her
foot angrily, and speaking as imperiously as if she had been in
her father's house and not at Sairmeuse. The lackey obeyed
her, and then, with flashing eyes and disheveled hair, she
hastened to the little drawing-room at the end of the hall.
616 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
Several servants stood round the marquis, who was lying back
in his chair with a swollen, purple face, as if he had been
stricken with apoplexy.
"All the blood in his body has flown to his head," remarked
the duke, with a shrug of his shoulders. His grace was furious.
He scarcely knew whom he was most angry with — with Martial
or the Marquis de Courtornieu. The former, by his public
confession, had certainly imperiled, if not ruined, their political
future. But, on the other hand, the Marquis de Courtornieu
had cast on the Sairmeuses the odium of an act of treason
revolting to any honorable heart. The duke was watching the
clustering servants with a contracted brow when his daughter-
in-law entered the room. She paused before him, and angrily
exclaimed : "Why did you remain here while I was left alone
to endure such humiliation. Ah ! if I had been a man ! All
our guests have fled, monsieur — all of them !"
M. de Sairmeuse sprang up. "Ah, well 1 what if they have.
Let them go to the devil I" Among all the invited ones who
had just left his house, there was not one whom his grace
really regretted — not one whom he regarded as an equal. In
giving a marriage feast for his son, he had invited all the
petty nobility and gentry of the neighborhood. They had come —
very well! They had fled — bon voyage' If the duke cared at
all for their desertion, it was only because it presaged with
terrible eloquence the disgrace that was to come. Still he tried
to deceive himself. "They will come back again, madame,"
said he; "you will see them return, humble and repentant 1
But where can Martial be?"
Blanche's eyes flashed but she made no reply.
"Did he go away with the son of that rascal, Lacheneur?"
"I believe so." '
"It won't be long before he returns — "
"Who can say?"
M. de Sairmeuse struck the mantelpiece with his clenched
fist. "My God !" he exclaimed, "this is an overwhelming mis-
fortune." The young wife believed that he was anxious and
angry on her account. But she was mistaken ; for his grace
was only thinking of his disappointed ambition. Whatever
he might pretend, the duke secretly admitted his son's intel-
lectual superiority and genius for intrigue, and he was now
extremely anxious to consult him. "He has wrought this evil,"
he murmured: "it is for him to repair it! And he is capable
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 517
of doing so if he chooses." Then, aloud, he resumed: "Martial
must be found — he must be found — "
With an angry gesture Blanche interrupted him. "You
must look for Marie-Anne Lacheneur if you wish to find my
husband," said she.
The duke was of the same opinion, but he dared not admit
it. "Anger leads you astray, marquise," said he.
"I know what I say," was the curt response.
"No, believe me, Martial will soon make his appearance.
If he went away, he will soon return. The servants shall go
for him at once, or I will go for him myself — "
The duke left the room with a muttered oath, and Blanche
approached her father, who still seemed to be unconscious. She
seized his arm and shook it roughly, peremptorily exclaiming,
"Father, father !" This voice, which had so often made the
Marquis de Courtornieu tremble, proved more efficacious than
eau de Cologne. "I wish to speak with you," added Blanche:
"do you hear me?"
The marquis dared not disobey ; he slowly opened his eyes
and raised himself from his recumbent position. "Ah ! how
I suffer !" he groaned, "how I suffer !"
His daughter glanced at him scornfully, and then in a tone of
bitter irony remarked: "Do you think that I'm in paradise?"
"Speak," sighed the marquis. "What do you wish to say?"
The bride turned haughtily to the servants and imperiously
ordered them to leave the room. When they had done so and
she had locked the door : "Let us speak of Martial," she began.
At the sound of his son-in-law's name the marquis bounded
from his chair with clenched fists. "Ah, the wretch !" he
exclaimed.
"Martial is my husband, father."
"And you ! after what he has done — you dare to defend
him?"
"I don't defend him; but I don't wish him to be murdered."
At that moment the news of Martial's death would have given
the Marquis de Courtornieu infinite satisfaction. "You heard,
father," continued Blanche, "that young D'Escoval appointed
a meeting for to-morrow, at midday, at La Reche. I know
Martial; he has been insulted, and will go there. Will he en-
counter a loyal adversary? No. He will find a band of assas-
sins. You alone can prevent him from being murdered."
"I— and how ?"
518 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
"By sending some soldiers to La Reche, with orders to con-
ceal themselves in the grove — with orders to arrest these mur-
derers at the proper moment."
The marquis gravely shook his head. "If I do that," said
he, "Martial is quite capable — "
"Of anything! — yes, I know it. But what does it matter to
you, since I am willing to assume the responsibility?"
M. de Courtomieu looked at his daughter inquisitively, and
if she had been less excited as she insisted on the necessity of
sending instructions of Montaignac at once, she would have
discerned a gleam of malice in his eye. The marquis was
thinking that this would afford him an ample revenge, since
he could easily bring dishonor on Martial, who had shown so
little regard for the honor of others. "Very well, then; since
you will have it so, it shall be done," he said, with feigned
reluctance.
His daughter hastily procured ink and pens, and then with
trembling hands he prepared a series of minute instructions for
the commander at Montaignac. Blanche herself gave the
letter to a servant, with directions to start at once; and it
was not until she had seen him set off at a gallop that bhe went
to her own apartment, that luxurious bridal chamber which
Martial had so sumptuously adorned. But now its splendor
only aggravated the misery of the deserted wife, for that
she was deserted she did not for a moment doubt. She felt
sure that her husband would not return, and had no faith
whatever in the promises of the Due de Sairmeuse, who at
that moment was searching through the neighborhood with a
party of servants. Where could the truant be? With Marie-
Anne most assuredly — and at the thought a wild desire to
wreak vengeance on her rival took possession of Blanche's
heart. She did not sleep that night, she did not even undress,
but when morning came she exchanged her snowy bridal robe
for a black dress, and wandered through the grounds like a
restless spirit. Most of the day, however, she spent shut up
in her room, refusing to allow either the duke or her father
to enter.
At about eight o'clock in the evening tidings came from
Martial. A servant brought two letters ; one sent by the young
marquis to his father, and the other to his wife. For a moment
Blanche hesitated to open the one addressed to her. It would
determine her destiny, and she felt afraid. At last, however,
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 519
she broke the seal and read : "Madame — Between you and me
all is ended ; reconciliation is impossible. From this moment
you are free. I esteem you enough to hope that you will respect
the name of Sairmeuse, from which I can not relieve you. You
will agree with me, I am sure, in thinking a quiet separation
preferable to the scandal of legal proceedings. My lawyer will
pay you an allowance befitting the wife of a man whose income
amounts to five hundred thousand francs. — Martial de Sair-
meuse."
Blanche staggered beneath the terrible blow. She was indeed
deserted — and deserted, as she supposed, for another. "Ah !"
she exclaimed, "that creature ! that creature ! I will kill her !"
While Blanche was measuring the extent of her misfortune
his grace the Due de Sairmeuse raved and swore. After a
fruitless search for his son he returned to the chateau, and
began a continuous tramp to and fro in the great hall. On the
morrow he scarcely ate, and was well-nigh sinking from weari-
ness when his son's letter was handed him. It was very brief.
Martial did not vouchsafe any explanation ; he did not even
mention the conjugal separation he had determined on, but
merely wrote : "I can not return to Sairmeuse, and yet it is
of the utmost importance that I should see you. You will, I
trust, approve the resolution I have taken when I explain the
reasons that have guided me in adopting it. Come to Montai-
gnac, then, the sooner the better. I am waiting for you."
Had he listened to the prompting of his own impatience, his
grace would have started at once. But he could not abandon
the Marquis de Courtornieu and his son's wife in this abrupt
fashion. He must at least see them, speak to them, and warn
them of his intended departure. He attempted to do this in
vain. Blanche had shut herself up in her own apartments,
and remained deaf to all entreaties for admittance. Her father
had been put to bed, and the physician who had been summoned
to attend him, declared that the marquis was well-nigh at
death's door. The duke was therefore obliged to resign himself
to the prospect of another night of suspense, which was almost
intolerable to such a nature as his. "However," thought he,
"to-morrow, after breakfast, I will find some pretext to escape,
without telling them I am going to see Martial."
He was spared this trouble, for on the following morning at
about nine o'clock, while he was dressing, a servant came to
inform him that M. de Courtornieu and his daughter were wait-
12— Vol. II — Gab.
520 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
ing to speak with him in the drawing-room. Much surprised,
he hastened downstairs. As he entered the room, the marquis,
who was seated in an armchair, rose to his feet, leaning for
support on Aunt Medea's shoulder ; while Blanche, who was as
pale as if every drop of blood had been drawn from her veins,
stepped forward: "We are going, Monsieur le Due," she said
coldly, "and we wish to bid you farewell."
"What ! you are going ? Will you not — "
The young bride interrupted him with a mournful gesture,
and drew Martial's letter from her bosom. "Will you do me
the favor to peruse this?" she said, handing the missive to
his grace.
The duke glanced over the short epistle, and his astonish-
ment was so intense that he could not even find an oath. "In-
comprehensible !" he faltered ; "incomprehensible !"
"Incomprehensible, indeed," repeated the young wife sadly,
but without bitterness. "I was married yesterday ; to-day I am
deserted. It would have been more generous to have reflected
the evening before and not the next day. Tell Martial, how-
ever, that I forgive him for having destroyed my life, for hav-
ing made me the most unhappy of women. I also forgive him
for the supreme insult of speaking to me of his fortune. I
trust he may be happy. Farewell, Monsieur le Due, we shall
never meet again. Farewell !"
With these words she took her father's arm, and they were
about to retire when M. de Sairmeuse hastily threw himself
between them and the door. "You shall not go away like this !"
he exclaimed. "I will not suffer it. Wait at least until I have
seen Martial. Perhaps he is not so guilty as you suppose — "
"Enough!" interrupted the marquis; "enough! This is one
of those outrages which can never be repaired. May your con-
science forgive you, as I myself forgive you. Farewell !"
This was said with such a conventional air of benevolence,
and with such entire harmony of intonation and gesture, that
M. de Sairmeuse was perfectly bewildered. With a dazed air
he watched the marquis and his daughter depart, and they had
been gone some moments before he recovered himself suffi-
ciently to exclaim : "The old hypocrite ! does he believe me to
be his dupe?" His dupe! M. de Sairmeuse was so far from
being his dupe that his next thought was: "What's going to
follow this farce? If he says he forgives us, that means that
he has some crushing blow in store for us." This idea soon
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 521
ripening into conviction made his grace feel apprehensive, for
he did not quite sec how he would cope successfully with the
perfidious marquis. "But Martial is a match for him !" he at
last exclaimed. "Yes, I must see Martial at once."
So great was his anxiety that he lent a helping hand in har-
nessing the horses he had ordered, and vvhen the vehicle was
ready he announced his determination to drive himself. As he
urged the horses furiously onward, he tried to reflect, but the
most contradictory ideas were seething in his brain, and he
lost all power of looking at the situation calmly. He burst into
Martial's room like a bombshell. "I certainly think you must
have gone mad, marquis," he exclaimed. "That is the only
valid excuse you can offer."
But Martial, who had been expecting the visit, had fully pre-
pared himself for some such remark. "Never, on the contrary,
have I felt more calm and composed in mind," he replied, "than
I am now. Allow me to ask you one question. Was it you
who sent the gendarmes to the meeting which Maurice d'Es-
corval appointed?"
"Marquis !"
"Very well ! Then it was another act of infamy to be scored
against the Marquis de Courtornieu."
The duke made no reply. In spite of all his faults and vices,
this haughty nobleman retained those characteristics of the old
French aristocracy — fidelity to his word and undoubted valor.
He thought it perfectly natural, even necessary, that Martial
should fight with Maurice ; and he considered it a contemptible
proceeding to send armed soldiers to seize an honest and con-
fiding opponent.
"This is the second time," resumed Martial, "that this scoun-
drel has tried to dishonor our name ; and if I am to convince
people of the truth of this assertion, I must break off all con-
nection with him and his daughter. I have done so, and I
don't regret it, for I only married her out of deference to your
wishes, and because it seemed necessary for me to marry, and
because all women, excepting one, who can never be mine, are
alike to me."
Such utterances were scarcely calculated to reassure the
duke. "This sentiment is very noble, no doubt," said he ; "but
it has none the less ruined the political prospects of our house."
An almost imperceptible smile curved Martial's lips. "I
believe, on the contrary, I have saved them," replied he. "It
522
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
is useless for us to attempt to deceive ourselves; this affair of
the insurrection has been abominable, and you ought to bless
the opportunity this quarrel gives you to free yourself from
all responsibility in it. You must go to Paris at once, and see
the Due de Richelieu — nay, the king himself, and with a little
address, you can throw all the odium on the Marquis de Cour-
tornieu, and retain for yourself only the prestige of the valuable
services you have rendered."
The duke's face brightened. "Zounds, marquis I" he ex-
claimed ; "that is a good idea ! In the future I shall be infinitely
less afraid of Courtornieu."
Martial remained thoughtful. "It is not the Marquis de
Courtornieu that I fear," he murmured, "but his daughter — my
wife."
T N the country, news flies from mouth to mouth with incon-
-*• ceivable rapidity, and, strange as it may seem, the scene
at the Chateau de Sairmeuse was known of at Father Poignot's
farmhouse that same night. After Maurice, Jean Lacheneur,
and Bavois left the farm, promising to recross the frontier as
quickly as possible, the Abbe Midon decided not to acquaint
M. d'Escorval either with his son's return, or Marie-Anne's
presence in the house. The baron's condition was so critical
that the merest trifle might turn the scale. At about ten o'clock
he fell asleep, and the abbe and Madame d'Escorval then went
downstairs to talk with Marie-Anne. They were sitting together
when Poignot's eldest son came home in a state of great ex-
citement. He had gone out after supper with some of his
acquaintances to admire the splendors of the Sairmeuse fete,
and he now came rushing back to relate the strange events of
the evening to his father's guests. "It is inconceivable !" mur-
mured the abbe when the lad had finished his narrative. The
worthy ecclesiastic fully understood that these strange events
would probably render their situation more perilous than ever.
"I can not understand," added he, "how Maurice could commit
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 523
such an act of folly after what I had just said to him. The
baron has no worse enemy than his own son."
In the course of the following day the inmates of the farmhouse
heard of the meeting at La Reche ; a peasant who had witnessed
the preliminaries of the duel from a distance being able to give
them the fullest details. He had seen the two adversaries take
their places, and had then perceived the soldiers hasten to the
spot. After a brief parley with the young Marquis de Sair-
meuse, they had started off in pursuit of Maurice, Jean, and
Bavois, fortunately, however, without overtaking them ; for this
peasant had met the same troopers again five hours later, when
they were harassed and furious ; the officer in command declar-
ing that their failure was due to Martial, who had detained them.
That same day, moreover, Father Poignot informed the abbe
that the Due de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu
were at variance. Their quarrel was the talk of the district.
The marquis had returned home with his daughter, and the
xluke had gone to Montaignac. The abbe's anxiety on receiv-
ing this intelligence was so intense that, strive as he might, he
could not conceal it from the Baron d'Escorval. "You have
heard some bad news, my friend," said the latter.
"Nothing, absolutely nothing."
"Some new danger threatens us."
"None, none at all."
But the priest's protestations did not convince the wounded
■man. "Oh, don't deny it!" he exclaimed. "On the night be-
fore last, when you came into my room after I woke up, you
were paler than death, and my wife had certainly been crying.
What does all this mean?" As a rule, when the cure did not
wish to reply to his patient's questions, it sufficed to tell him
that conversation and excitement would retard his recovery;
but this time the baron was not so docile. "It will be very
easy for you to restore my peace of mind," he continued. "Con-
fess now, you are afraid they may discover my retreat. This fear
is torturing me also. Very well, swear to me that you will not
let them take me alive, and then my mind will be at rest."
"I can't take such an oath as that," said the cure, turning pale.
"And why not?" insisted M. d'Escorval. "If I am recap-
tured, what will happen? They will nurse me, and then, as
soon as I can stand on my feet, they will shoot me down again.
Would it be a crime to save me from such suffering? You are
my best friend ; swear you will render me this supreme service.
524 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
Would you have me curse you for saving my life?" The abbe
offered no verbal reply; but his eye, voluntarily or involun-
tarily, turned with a peculiar expression to the medicine chest
standing upon the table near by.
Did he wish to be understood as saying: "I will do nothing
myself, but you will find a poison there?"
At all events M. d'Escorval understood him so; and it was
in a tone of gratitude that he murmured : "Thanks !" He
breathed more freely now that he felt he was master of his
life, and from that hour his condition, so long desperate, began
steadily to improve.
Day after day passed by, and yet the abbe's gloomy appre-
hensions were not realized. Instead of fomenting reprisals,
the scandal at the Chateau de Sairmeuse, and the imprudent
temerity of which Maurice and Jean Lacheneur had been guilty,
seemed actually to have frightened the authorities into in-
creased indulgence; and it might have been reasonably sup-
posed that they quite had forgotten, and wished every one else
to forget, all about Lacheneur's conspiracy, and the slaughter
which had folLowed it. The inmates of the farmhouse soon learned
that Maurice and his friend the corporal had succeeded in
reaching Piedmont ; though nothing was heard of Jean Lache-
neur, who had probably remained in France. However, his
safety was scarcely to be feared for, as he was not upon the
proscribed list. Later on it was rumored that the Marquis de
Courtornieu was ill, and that Blanche, his daughter, did not
leave his bedside; and then just afterward Father Poignot. re-
turning from an excursion to Montaignac, reported that the
Due de Sairmeuse had lately passed a week in Paris, and that
he was now on his way home with one more decoration — a
convincing proof that he was still in the enjoyment of royal
favor. What was of more importance was, that his grace suc-
ceeded in obtaining an order for the release of all the conspira-
tors still detained in prison. It was impossible to doubt this
news which the Montaignac papers formally chronicled on the
following day. The abbe attributed this sudden and happy
change of prospects to the quarrel between the duke and the
Marquis de Courtornieu, and such indeed was the universal
opinion in the neighborhood. Even the retired officers re-
marked: "The duke is decidedly better than he was supposed
to be; if he was so severe, it is only because he was influenced
by his colleague, the odious provost marshal."
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 525
Marie-Anne alone suspected the truth. A secret presenti-
ment told her that it was Martial de Sairmeuse who was work-
ing all these changes, by utilizing his ascendency over his
father's mind. "And it is for your sake," whispered an inward
voice, "that Martial is working in this fashion. He cares noth-
ing for the obscure peasant prisoners, whose names he does
not even know ! If he protects them, it is only that he may
have a right to protect you, and those whom you love !" With
these thoughts in her mind she could but feel her aversion for
Martial diminish. Was not his conduct truly noble? She had
to confess it was, and yet the thought of this ardent passion
which she had inspired never once quickened the throbbing
of Marie-Anne's heart. Alas ! it seemed as if nothing were
capable of touching her heart now. She was but the ghost of
her former self. She would sit for whole days motionless in
her chair, her eyes fixed upon vacancy, her lips contracted as
if by a spasm, while great tears rolled silently down her cheeks.
The Abbe Midon, who was very anxious on her account, often
tried to question her. "You are suffering, my child," he said
kindly one afternoon. "What is the matter?"
""Nothing, Monsieur le Cure. I am not ill."
"Won't you confide in me? Am I not your friend? What
do you fear?"
She shook her head sadly and replied: "I have nothing to
confide." She said this, and yet she was dying of sorrow and
anguish. Faithful to the promise she had made to Maurice,
she had never spoken of her condition, or of the marriage sol-
emnized in the little church at Vigano. And she saw with in-
expressible terror the moment when she could no longer keep
her secret slowly approaching. Her agony was frightful, but
what could she do? Fly! but where could she go? And by
going, would she not lose all chance of hearing from Maurice,
which was the only hope that sustained her in this trying hour ?
Still she had almost determined on flight when circumstances
— providentially, it seemed to her — came to her aid.
Money was needed at the farm. The fugitives were unable
to obtain any without betraying their whereabouts, and Father
Poignot's little store was almost exhausted. The Abbe Midon
was wondering what they could do, when Marie-Anne told him
of the will which Chanlouineau had made in her favor, and of the
money concealed under the hearthstone in the room on the first
floor. "I might go to the Borderie one night," she suggested,
526 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
"enter the house, which is unoccupied, obtain the money and
bring it here. I have a right to do so, haven't I ?"
"You might be seen," replied the priest, "and — who knows? —
perhaps arrested. If you were questioned, what plausible ex-
planation could you give ?"
"What shall I do, then?"
"Act openly; you yourself are not compromised. You must
appear at Sairmeuse to-morrow as if you had just returned
from Piedmont ; go at once to the notary, take possession of
your property, and instal yourself at the Borderie."
Marie-Anne shuddered. "What, live in Chanlouineau's
house?" she faltered. "Live there alone?"
"Heaven will protect you, my dear child. I can only see an
advantage in your living at the Borderie. It will be easy to
communicate with you; and with ordinary precautions there
can be no danger. Before you start we will decide on a meet-
ing place, and two or three times a week you can join Father
Poignot there. And in the course of two or three months you
can be still more useful to us. When people have grown accus-
tomed to your living at the Borderie, we will take the baron
there. Such an arrangement would hasten his convalescence ;
for in the narrow loft, where we are obliged to conceal him
now, he is really suffering for want of light and air."
Accordingly it was decided that Father Poignot should ac-
company Marie-Anne to the frontier that very night; and that
she should take the diligence running between Piedmont and
Montaignac, via Sairmeuse. Before she started, the Abbe Midon
gave her minute instructions as to the story she should tell of
her sojourn in foreign lands. The peasantry, possibly even the
authorities, would question her, and all her answers must tend
to prove that the Baron d'Escorval was concealed near Turin.
The plan was carried out as projected; and at eight o'clock
on the following morning, the people of Sairmeuse were greatly
astonished to see Marie-Anne alight from the passing diligence.
"M. Lacheneur's daughter has come back again !" they ex-
claimed. The words flew from lip to lip with marvelous rapid-
ity, and soon all the villagers stood at their doors and windows
watching the poor girl as she paid the driver, and entered the
local hostelry, followed by a lad carrying a small trunk. Urban
curiosity has some sense of shame, and seeks to hide itself
when prying into other people's affairs, but country folks are
openly and outrageously inquisitive. Thus when Marie-Anne
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 527
emerged from the inn, she found quite a crowd of sightseers
awaiting her with gaping mouths and staring eyes. And fully
a score of chattering gossips thought fit to escort her to the
notary's door. This notary was a man of importance, and he
welcomed Marie-Anne with all the deference due to the heiress
of a house and farm worth from forty to fifty thousand francs.
However, being jealous of his renown for perspicuity, he gave
her clearly to understand that, as a man of experience, he fully
divined that love alone had influenced Chanlouineau in drawing
up this last will and testament. He was no doubt anxious to
obtain some information concerning the young farmer's pas-
sion, and Marie-Anne's composure and reticence disappointed
him immensely.
"You forget what brings me here," she said; "you don't tell
me what I have to do!"
The notary, thus interrupted, made no further attempts at
divination. "Plague on it !" he thought, "she is in a hurry to
get possession of her property — the avaricious creature !" Then
he added aloud : "The business can be finished at once, for the
magistrate is at liberty to-day, and can go with us to break
the seals this afternoon."
So, before evening, all the legal requirements were complied
with, and Marie- Anne was formally installed at the Borderie. She
was alone in Chanlouineau's house, and as the darkness gath-
ered round her, a great terror seized hold of her heart. She
fancied that the doors were about to open, that this man who
had loved her so much would suddenly appear before her, and
that she should hear his voice again as she heard it for the
last time in his grim prison cell. She struggled hard against
these foolish fears, and at last, lighting a lamp, she ventured
to wander through his house — now hers — but wherein every-
thing spoke so forcibly of its former owner. She slowly ex-
amined the different rooms on the ground floor, noting the re-
cent repairs and improvements, and at last climbed the stairs
to the room above which Chanlouineau had designed to be the
altar of his love. Strange as it may seem, it was really lux-
uriously upholstered — far more so than Chanlouineau's letter
had led her to suppose. The young farmer, who for years had
breakfasted off a crust and an onion, had lavished a small
fortune on this apartment, which he meant to be his idol's
sanctuary.
"How he loved me !" murmured Marie- Anne, moved by that
528
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
emotion, the bare thought of which had awakened Maurice's
jealousy. But she had neither the time nor the right to yield
to her feelings. At that very moment Father Poignot was no-
doubt waiting for her at the appointed meeting-place. Accord-
ingly, she swiftly raised the hearthstone, and found the money
which Chanlouineau had mentioned. She handed the larger
part of it to Poignot, who in his turn gave it to the abbe on
reaching home.
The days that followed were peaceful ones for Marie-Anne,
and this tranquillity, after so many trials, seemed to her almost
happiness. Faithful to the priest's instructions, she lived alone ;
but, by frequent visits to Sairmeuse, she accustomed people to
her presence. Yes, she would have been almost happy if she
could only have had some news of Maurice. What had become
of him? Why did he give no sign of life? She would have
given anything in exchange for one word of love and counsel
from him. Soon the time approached when she would require
a confidant; and yet there was no one in whom she dared
confide. In her dire need she at last remembered the old physi-
cian at Vigano, who had been one of the witnesses at her mar-
riage. She had no time to reflect whether he would be willing
or not; but wrote to him immediately, entrusting her letter to
a youth in the neighborhood. "The gentleman says you may
rely upon him," said the lad on his return. And that very
evening Marie-Anne was roused by a rap at her door. It was
the kind-hearted old man, who had hastened to her relief. He
remained at the Borderie nearly a fortnight, and when he left
one morning before daybreak, he took away with him under his
cloak an infant — a little boy — whom he had sworn to cherish
as his own child.
T T had cost Blanche an almost superhuman effort to leave
* Sairmeuse without treating the duke to a display of violence,
such as would have fairly astonished even that irascible noble-
man. She was tortured with inward rage at the very moment.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 529
when, with an assumption of melancholy dignity, she murmured
the words of forgiveness we have previously recorded. But
vanity, after all, was more powerful than resentment. She
thought of the gladiators who fall in the arena with a smile on
their lips, and resolved that no one should see her weep, that
no one should hear her threaten or complain. Indeed, on her
return to the Chateau de Courtornieu her behavior was truly
worthy of a stoic philosopher. Her face was pale, but not a
muscle of her features moved as the servants glanced at her
inquisitively. "I am to be called mademoiselle as formerly,"
she said imperiously. "Any of you forgetting this order will
be at once dismissed."
One maid did forget the injunction that very day, address-
ing her young mistress as "madame," and the poor girl was
instantly dismissed, in spite of her tears and protestations. All
the servants were indignant. "Does she hope to make us for-
get that she's married, and that her husband has deserted her?"
they queried.
Ah ! that was what she wished to forget herself. She wished
to annihilate all recollection of the day that had seen her suc-
cessively maiden, wife, and widow. For was she not really a
widow? A widow, not by her husband's death, it is true; but,
thanks to the machinations of an odious rival, an infamous,
perfidious creature, lost to all sense of shame. And yet, though
she had been disdained, abandoned, and repulsed, she was no
longer free. She belonged to this man whose name she bore
like a badge of servitude — to this man who hated her, who
had fled from her. She was not yet twenty; still her youth,
her hopes, her dreams were ended. Society condemned her to
seclusion, while Martial was free to rove wheresoever he listed.
It was now that she realized the disadvantages of isolation.
She had not been without friends in her schoolgirl days; but
after leaving the convent she had estranged them by her haugh-
tiness, on finding them not as high in rank or as wealthy as
herself. So she was now reduced to the irritating consolations
of Aunt Medea, a very worthy person, no doubt, but whose
tears flowed as freely for the loss of a cat as for the death
of a relative. However, Blanche firmly persevered in her de-
termination to conceal her grief and despair in the deepest
recesses of her heart. She drove about the country, wore her
prettiest dresses, and forced herself to assume a gay and in-
different air. But on going to church at Sairmeuse on the
530 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
following Sunday she realized the futility of her efforts. Her
fellow worshipers did not look at her haughaly, or even inquisi-
tively, but they turned aside to smile, and she overheard re-
marks concerning "the maiden widow" which pierced her very
soul. So she was an object of mockery and ridicule. "Oh I
I will have my revenge !" she muttered to herself.
She had indeed already thought of vengeance; and had found
her father quite willing to assist her. For the first time the
father and the daughter shared the same views. "The Due de
Sairmeuse shall learn what it costs to favor a prisoner's escape
and to insult a man like me," said the Marquis bitterly. "For-
tune, favor, position — he shall lose everything, and I will not
rest content till I see him ruined and dishonored at my feet.
And, mind me, that day shall surely come !"
Unfortunately, however, for M. de Courtornieu's project, he
was extremely ill for three days after the scene at Sairmeuse;
and then he wasted three days more in composing a report,
which was intended to crush his former ally. This delay ruined
him, for it gave Martial time to perfect his plans, and to des-
patch the Due de Sairmeuse to Paris with full instructions.
And what did the duke say to the king, who gave him such
a gracious reception ? He undoubtedly pronounced the first
reports to be false, reduced the rising at Montaignac to its
proper proportions, represented Lacheneur as a fool, and his
followers as inoffensive idiots. It was said, moreover, that he
led his majesty to suppose that the Marquis de Courtornieu
might have provoked the outbreak by undue severity. He had
served under Napoleon, and had possibly thought it necessary
to make a display of his zeal, so that his past apostasy might
be forgotten. As far as the duke himself was concerned, he
deeply deplored the mistakes into which he had been led by
his ambitious colleague, on whom he cast most of the respon-
sibility of so much bloodshed. To be brief, the result of the
duke's journey was, that when the Marquis de Courtornieu's
report reached Paris, it was answered by a decree depriving
him of his office as provost-marshal of the province.
This unexpected blow quite crushed the old intriguer. What !
he had been duped in this fashion, he so shrewd, so adroit, so
subtle-minded and quick-witted ; he who had successfully bat-
tled with so many storms; who, unlike most of his fellow patri-
cians, had been enriched, not impoverished, by the Revolution,
and who had served with the same obsequious countenance each
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 531
master who was willing to accept his services. "It must be
that old imbecile, the Due de Sairmeuse, who has maneuvred
so skilfully," he groaned. "But who advised him? I can't
imagine who it could have been."
Who it was Blanche knew only too well. Like Marie-Anne,
she recognized Martial's hand in all this business. "Ah ! I was
not deceived in him," she thought; "he is the great diplomatist
I believed him to be. To think that at his age he has out-
witted my father, an old politician of such experience and ac-
knowledged skill ! And he does all this to please Marie- Anne,"
she continued, frantic with rage. "It is the first step toward
obtaining pardon for that vile creature's friends. She has un-
bounded influence over him, and so long as she lives there is
no hope for me. But patience, my time will come."
She had not yet decided what form the revenge she con-
templated should take ; but she already had her eye on a man
who she believed would be willing to do anything for money.
And, strange as it may seem, this man was none other than
our old acquaintance, Father Chupin. Burdened with remorse,
despised and jeered at, stoned whenever he ventured in the
streets, and horror-stricken whenever he thought of Balstain's
vow, Chupin had left Montaignac and sought an asylum at the
Chateau de Sairmeuse. In his ignorance he fancied that the
great nobleman who had incited him to discover Lacheneur
owed him, over and above the promised reward, all needful
aid and protection. But the duke's servants shunned the so-
called traitor. He was not even allowed a seat at the kitchen
table, nor a straw pallet in the stables. The cook threw him
a bone, as he would have thrown it to a dog; and he slept just
where he could. However, he bore all these hardships uncom-
plainingly, deeming himself fortunate in being able to purchase
comparative safety even at such a price. But when the duke
returned from Paris with a policy of forgetfulness and con-
ciliation in his pocket, his grace could no longer tolerate in
his establishment the presence of a man who was the object of
universal execration. He accordingly gave instructions for
Chupin to be dismissed. The latter resisted, however, swear-
ing that he would not leave Sairmeuse unless he were forcibly
expelled or unless he received the order from the lips of the
duke himself. This obstinate resistance was reported to the
duke, and made him hesitate ; but a word from Martial con-
cerning the necessities of the situation eventually decided him.
632 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
He sent for Chupin and told him that he must not visit Sair-
meuse again under any pretext whatever, softening the harsh-
ness of expulsion, however, by the offer of a small sum of
money. But Chupin, sullenly refusing the proffered coins, gath-
ered his belongings together and departed, shaking his clenched
fist at the chateau, and vowing vengeance on the Sairmeuse
family. He then went to his old home, where his wife and his
two boys still lived. He seldom left this filthy den, and then
only to satisfy his poaching proclivities. On these occasions,
instead of stealthily firing at a squirrel or a partridge from
some safe post of concealment, as he had done in former times,
he walked boldly into the Sairmeuse or the Courtornieu forests,
shot his game, and brought it home openly, displaying it in an
almost defiant manner. He spent the rest of his time in a state
of semi-intoxication, for he drank constantly, and more and
more immoderately. When he had taken more than usual, his
wife and his sons usually attempted to obtain money from him,
and if persuasion failed they often resorted to blows. For he
had never so much as shown them the blood-money paid to
him for betraying Lacheneur ; and though he had squandered
a small sum at Montaignac, no one knew what he had done
with the great bulk of the twenty thousand francs in gold paid
to him by the Due de Sairmeuse. His sons believed he had
buried it somewhere; but they tried in vain to wrest his secret
from him. All the people in the neighborhood were aware of
this state of affairs, and one day when the head gardener at
Courtornieu was telling the story to two of his assistants,
Blanche, seated on a bench near by, chanced to overhear
him.
"Ah, he's an old scoundrel !" said the gardener indignantly.
"And he ought to be at the galleys, instead of at large among
respectable people."
At the same moment the voice of hatred was whispering to
Blanche: "That's the man to serve your purpose." But how
an opportunity was to be found to confer with him ? she won-
dered, being too prudent to think of hazarding a visit to his
house. However, she remembered that he occasionally went
shooting in the Courtornieu woods, and that it might be pos-
sible for her to meet him there. "It will only require," thought
she, "a little perseverance and a few long walks." But, in
point of fact, it cost poor Aunt Medea, the inevitable chaperon,
two long weeks of almost constant perambulation. "Another
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 533
freak!" groaned the impoverished relative, overcome with fa-
tigue ; "my niece is certainly crazy !"
However, at last, one lovely afternoon in May, Blanche came
across the object of her quest. She chanced to be standing in
a sequestered nook nigh the mere, situated in the depths of the
forest of Courtornieu, when she perceived Chupin, tramping
sullenly along with his gun in his hand and glancing suspi-
ciously on either side. Not that he feared either gamekeeper
or judicial proceedings, but go wherever he would, still and
ever he fancied he could see Balstain, the Piedmontese inn-
keeper, walking in his shadow and brandishing the terrible
knife which, by Saint-Jean-de-Coche, he had consecrated to his
vengeance. Seeing Blanche in turn, the old rascal would have
fled into the cover, but before he could do so she had called to
him : "Eh, Father Chupin !"
He hesitated for a moment, then paused, dropped his gun,
and waited.
Aunt Medea was pale with fright. "Blessed Jesus!" she
murmured, pressing her niece's arm ; "what are you calling that
terrible man for?"
"I want to speak to him."
"What, Blanche, do you dare — "
"I must!"
"No, I can't allow it. I must not — "
"There, that's enough !" said Blanche with one of those im-
perious glances that deprive a dependent of all strength and
courage; "quite enough." Then, in gentler tones: "I must talk
with this man," she added. "And you, Aunt Medea, must re-
main some little distance off. Keep a close watch on every
side, and if you see any one approaching, call me at once."
Aunt Medea, submissive as was her wont, immediately
obeyed; and Blanche walked straight toward the old poacher.
"Well, my good Father Chupin, and what sort of sport have
vou had to-day?" she began directly she was a few steps from
him."
"What do you want with me?" growled Chupin; "for you
do want something, or you wouldn't trouble yourself about a
man like me."
The old ruffian's manner was so surly and aggressive that
Blanche needed all ber strength of mind to carry out her pur-
pose. "Yes, it is true that I have a favor to ask you," she
replied in a resolute tone.
534 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
"Ah, ha ! I supposed so."
"A mere trifle, which will cost you no trouble, and for which
you shall be well paid." She said this so carelessly that an
ordinary person would have supposed she was really asking for
some unimportant service; but cleverly as she played her part,
Chupin was not deceived.
"No one asks trifling services of a man like me," he said
coarsely. "Since I served the good cause, at the peril of my
life, people seem to suppose they've a right to come to me with
money in their hands whenever they want any dirty work done.
It's true that I was well paid for that other job; but I would
like to melt all the gold and pour it down the throats of those
who gave it to me. Ah ! I know now what it costs the poor
to listen to the words of the great ! Go your way, and if you
have any wickedness in your head, do it yourself !"
He shouldered his gun and was moving off when Blanche
coldly observed: "It was because I knew of your wrongs that
I stopped you ; I thought you would be glad to serve me, because
I hate the Sairmeuses as you do."
These words excited the old poacher's interest, and he paused.
"I know very well that you hate the Sairmeuses now — but — "
"But what?"
"Why, in less than a month you will be reconciled. And
then that old wretch, Chupin — "
"We shall never be reconciled."
"Hum !" growled the wily rascal after deliberating a while.
"And if I do assist you, what compensation will you give me?"
"I will give you whatever you wish for — money, land, a
house — "
"Many thanks. I want something quite different."
"What do you want then ? Tell me."
Chupin reflected for a moment, and then replied: "This is
what I want. I have a good many enemies, and I don't even
feel safe in my own house. My sons abuse me when I've been
drinking, and my wife is quite capable of poisoning my wine.
I tremble for my life and for my money. I can't endure such
an existence much longer. Promise me an asylum at the Cha-
teau de Courtornieu and I'm yours. I shall be safe in your
house. But let it be understood I won't be ill-treated by the
servants as I was at Sairmeuse."
"Oh, I can promise you all that."
"Swear it then by your hope of heaven."
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 535
"I swear it."
There was such evident sincerity in her accent that Chupin
-felt reassured. He leaned toward her, and in a low voice re-
marked : "Now tell me your business." His small gray eyes
glittered in a threatening fashion ; his thin lips were drawn
tightly over his sharp teeth ; he evidently expected some propo-
sition of murder, and was ready to accomplish it.
His attitude evinced his feelings so plainly that Blanche
shuddered. "Really, what I want of you is almost nothing,"
she replied. "I only want you to watch the Marquis de Sair-
meuse."
"Your husband."
"Yes; my husband. I want to know what he does, where
he goes, and what persons he sees ; I want to know how he
spends all his time."
"What ! now is that really all you want me to do ?" asked
Chupin eagerly.
"For the present, yes. My plans are not yet decided ; but cir-
cumstances will guide me."
"You can rely upon me," replied Chupin at once ; "but I
must have a little time."
"Yes, I understand that. To-day is Saturday; can you give
me a first report on Thursday?"
"In five days ? Yes, probably."
"In that case, meet me here on Thursday, at the same hour."
The conversation might have continued a few moments
longer, but at this very moment Aunt Medea was heard ex-
claiming: "Some one is coming!"
"Quick ! we must not be seen together. Conceal yourself,"
ejaculated Blanche, and while the old poacher disappeared with
one bound into the forest, she hastily rejoined her chaperone.
A few paces off she could perceive one of her father's servants
approaching.
"Ah ! mademoiselle," exclaimed the lackey, "we have been
looking for you everywhere during the last three hours. Your
father, M. le Marquis — good heavens ! what a misfortune ! A
physician has been sent for."
"Whatever has happened? Is my father dead?"
"No, mademoiselle, no; but — how can I tell you? When the
marquis went out this morning his actions were very strange,
and — and — when he returned — " As he spoke, the servant
tapped his forehead with his forefinger. "You understand me,
536 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
mademoiselle — when he came home his reason seemed to — to
have left him !"
Without waiting for the servant to finish, or for her terrified
aunt to follow her, Blanche darted off in the direction of the
chateau. "How is the marquis?" she inquired of the first ser-
vant she met.
"He is in bed, and is quieter than he was," answered the
maid.
But Blanche had already reached her father's room. He
was sitting up in bed, under the supervision of his valet and
a footman. His face was livid, and a white foam had gathered
on his lips. Still, he recognized his daughter. "Here you are,"
said he. "I was waiting for you."
She paused on the threshold, and though she was neither
tender-hearted nor impressionable, the sight seemed to appal
her: "My father!" she faltered. "Good heavens! what has
happened ?"
"Ah, ha !" exclaimed the marquis, with a discordant laugh.
"I met him! what, you doubt me? I tell you that I saw the
wretch. I know him well ; haven't I seen his cursed face before
my eyes for more than a month? — for it never leaves me. I
saw him. It was in the forest near the Sanguille rocks. You
know the place; it is always dark there, on account of the
trees. I was slowly walking home thinking of him, when sud-
denly he sprang up before me, holding out his arms as if to
bar my passage. 'Come,' said he, 'you must join me.' He was
armed with a gun ; he fired — "
The marquis paused, and Blanche summoned up sufficient
courage to approach him. For more than a minute she looked
at him attentively, with a cold, magnetic glance, such as often
exercises great influence over those who have lost their reason,
then shaking him roughly by the arm, she exclaimed : "Control
yourself, father. You are the victim of an hallucination. It is
impossible that you can have seen the man you speak of."
Blanche knew only too well who was the man that M. de
Courtornieu alluded to; but she dared not, could not, utter his
name.
However, the marquis had resumed his scarcely coherent nar-
rative. "Was I dreaming?" he continued. "No, it was Lache-
neur, Lacheneur and none other who stood in front of me. I
am sure of it, and the proof is that he reminded me of a cir-
cumstance which occurred in my youth, and which was known
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 537
only to him and me. It happened during the Reign of Terror.
He was all-powerful in Montaignac; and I was accused of being
in correspondence with the emigres. My property had been
confiscated ; and I was every moment expecting to feel the exe-
cutioner's hand on my shoulder, when Lacheneur took me to his
house. He concealed me; furnished me with a passport; saved
my money, and saved my life as well ; and yet — and yet I sen-
tenced him to death. That's the reason why I've seen him
again. I must join him; he told me so — I'm a dying man!"
With these words the marquis fell back on his pillows, pulled
the bedclothes over his face, and lay there so rigid and mo-
tionless that one might readily have supposed the counterpane
covered some inanimate corpse.
Mute with horror, the servants exchanged frightened glances.
Such baseness and ingratitude amazed them. They could not
understand why, under such circumstances, the marquis had not
pardoned Lacheneur. Blanche alone retained her presence of
mind. Turning to her father's valet, she said: "Hasn't some
one tried to injure my father?"
"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, some one most certainly
has: a little more and Monsieur le Marquis would have been
killed."
"How do you know that?"
"In undressing the marquis I noticed that he had received
a wound in the head. I also examined his hat, and I found
three holes in it, which could only have been made by bullets."
"Then some one must have tried to murder my father," mur-
mured Blanche, "and this attack of delirium has been brought
on by fright. How can we find out who the would-be mur-
derer was?"
The valet shook his head. "I suspect that old poacher, who
is always prowling about here, a man named — Chupin."
"No, it couldn't have been he."
"Ah ! I am almost sure of it. There's no one else in the
neighborhood capable of such an evil deed."
Blanche could not give her reasons for declaring Chupin in-
nocent. Nothing in the world would have induced her to
admit that she had met him, talked with him for more than half
an hour, and only just parted from him. So she remained
silent.
Soon afterward the medical man arrived. He removed the
coverlet from M. de Courtornieu's face, being almost com-
638 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
pelled to use force in doing so — examined the patient with evi-
dent anxiety, and then ordered mustard plasters, applications
of ice to the head, leeches, and a potion, for which a servant
was to gallop to Montaignac at once. Immediately afterward
all was bustle and confusion in the house. When the physician
left the sick-room, Blanche followed him. "Well, doctor?" she
said, with a questioning look.
The physician hesitated, but at last he replied : "People some-
times recover from such attacks."
It really mattered little to Blanche whether her father recov-
ered or died, but she felt that an opportunity to recover her lost
influence was now afforded her. If she was to fight successfully
against Martial's desertion, she must improvise a very differ-
ent reputation to that which she at present enjoyed. Now, if
she could only appear to the world in the character of a patient
victim, and devoted daughter, public opinion, which, as she had
recently discovered, was after all worth having, might yet turn
in her favor. Such an occasion offering itself must not be
neglected. Accordingly, she lavished the most touching and
delicate attentions on her suffering father. It was impossible
to induce her to leave his bedside for a moment, and it was
only with great difficulty that she would be persuaded to sleep
for a couple of hours in an armchair in the sick-room. But
while she was playing this self-imposed role of sister of charity
with a talent worthy of a healthier mind, her chief thoughts
were for Chupin. What was he doing at Montaignac? Was
he watching Martial as he had promised? How slowly the
time passed ! Would that Thursday which had been appointed
for their meeting never come?
It came at last, and momentarily entrusting her father to.
Aunt Medea's care, Blanche made her escape. The old poacher
was waiting for her at the appointed place near the lake. "Well,
what have you got to tell me?" asked Blanche.
"Next to nothing, I'm sorry to say."
"What! haven't you been watching the marquis?"
"Your husband? Excuse me, I have followed him like his
own shadow. But I'm afraid the news I have of him won't
interest you very much. Since the duke left for Paris, your
husband has charge of everything. Ah ! you wouldn't recog-
nize him ! He's always busy now. He's up at cock-crow ; and
goes to bed with the chickens. He writes letters all the morn-
ing. In the afternoon he receives every one who calls upon
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 539
him. The retired officers are hand and glove with him. He
has reinstated five or six of them, and has granted pensions to
two others. He seldom goes out, and never in the evening."
He paused, and for a moment Blanche remained silent. A
question rose to her lips, and yet she scarcely dared to pro-
pound it. She blushed with shame, and it was only after a
supreme effort she managed to articulate: "But he must surely
have a mistress?"
Chupin burst into a noisy laugh. "Well, we have come to
it at last," he said, with an air of audacious familiarity that
made Blanche positively shudder. "You mean that scoundrel
Lacheneur's daughter, don't you? that stuck-up minx Marie-
Anne?"
Blanche felt that denial was useless. "Yes," she answered;
"I do mean Marie-Anne."
"Ah, well ! she's neither been seen nor heard of. She must
have fled with her other lover, Maurice d'Escorval."
"You are mistaken."
"Oh, not at all ! Of all the Lacheneurs, the only one re-
maining about here is Jean, the son, who leads a vagabond life,
poaching much as I do. He's always in the woods, day and
night, with his gun slung over his shoulder. I caught sight
of him once. He's quite frightful to look at, a perfect skeleton,
with eyes that glitter like live coals. If he ever meets me and
sees me, my account will be settled then and there."
Blanche turned pale. Plainly enough it was Jean Lacheneur
who had fired at her father. However, concealing her agita-
tion, she replied : "I myself feel sure that Marie-Anne is in the
neighborhood, concealed at Montaignac, probably. I must
know. Try and find out where she is by Monday, when I will
meet you here again."
"All right, I'll try," answered Chupin, and he did indeed
try ; exerting all his energy and cunning, but in vain. He was
fettered by the precautions which he took to shield himself
against Balstain and Jean Lacheneur; while, on the other hand,
he had to prosecute his search personally, as no one in the
neighborhood would have consented to give him the least infor-
mation. "Still no news !" he said to Blanche at each succeed-
ing interview. But she would not admit the possibility of
Marie-Anne having fled with Maurice. Jealousy will not yield
even to evidence. She had declared that Marie-Anne had
taken her husband from her, that Martial and Marie-Anne
540 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
loved each other, and it must be so, all proofs to the contrary
notwithstanding. At last, one morning, she found her spy
jubilant. "Good news!" he cried, as soon as he perceived her;
"we have caught the minx at last."
'T'HIS was three days after Marie- Anne's arrival at the Bor-
■*■ derie, which event was the general topic of conversation
throughout the neighborhood, Chanlouineau's will especially
forming the subject of countless comments. The old folks
looked grave, and repeated to one another: "Ah, well, here's
M. Lacheneur's daughter with an income of more than two
thousand francs, without counting the house." While the un-
attractive maidens who had not been fortunate enough to se-
cure husbands muttered in their turn: "An honest girl would
have had no such luck as that !"
When Chupin brought this great news to Blanche she trem-
bled with anger, and clenched her soft white hands, exclaiming:
"What audacity ! What impudence !"
The old poacher seemed to be of the same opinion. "If each
of her lovers gives her as much she will be richer than a queen,"
quothed he maliciously. "She will be able to buy up Sairmeuse,
and Courtornieu as well if she chooses."
"And this is the woman who has estranged Martial from
me !" ejaculated Blanche. "He abandons me for a filthy drab
like that !" She was so incensed that she entirely forgot Chu-
pin's presence, making no attempt to restrain herself, or to hide
the secret of her sufferings. "Are you sure that what you tell
me is true?" she asked.
"As sure as you stand there."
"Who told you all this?"
"No one — I have eyes. That is, I overheard two villagers
talking about Mademoiselle Lacheneur's return ; so then I went
to the Borderie to see for myself, and I found all the shutters
open. Marie-Anne was leaning out of a window. She doesn't
even wear mourning, the heartless hussy !" Chupin spoke the
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 541
truth, but then the only dress the poor girl possessed was the
one that Madame d'Escorval had lent her on the night of the
insurrection, when it became necessary for her to doff her
masculine attire.
The old poacher was about to increase Blanche's irritation
by some further malicious remarks, when she checked him with
the inquiry: "Whereabouts is the Borderie?"
"Oh, about a league and a half from here, opposite the water
mills on the Oiselle, and not far from the river bank."
"Ah, yes ! I remember now. Were you ever in the house ?"
"Oh, scores and scores of times while Chanlouineau was
living."
"Then you can describe it to me?"
"I should think I could. It stands in an open space a little
distance from the road. There's a small garden in front and an
orchard behind. They are both hedged in. In the rear of the
orchard, on the right, are the vineyards ; while on the left
there's a small grove planted round about a spring." Chupin
paused suddenly in his description, and, with a knowing wink,
inquired: "But what use do you mean to make of all this
information ?"
"That's no matter of yours. But tell me, what is the house
like inside?"'
"There are three large square rooms on the ground floor,
besides the kitchen and pantry. I can't say what there is up-
stairs, as I've never been there."
"And what are the rooms you've seen furnished like?''
"Why, like those in any peasant's house, to be sure." Chu-
pin, it should be observed, knew nothing of the luxurious
apartment which Chanlouineau had intended for Marie-Anne.
Indeed, the only stranger who was aware of its existence was
the leading upholsterer of Montaignac, for the young farmer
had never confided his secret to any one in the neighborhood,
and the furniture had been brought to the Borderie one night
in the stealthiest fashion.
"How many doors are there to the house ?" inquired Blanche.
"Three : one opening into the garden, one into the orchard,
and another communicating with the stables. The staircase is
in the middle room."
"And is Marie-Anne quite alone at the Borderie?"
"Quite alone at present; but I expect her brigand of a
brother will join her before long."
542 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
After this reply, Blanche fell into so deep and prolonged a
reverie that Chupin at last became impatient. He ventured to
touch her on the arm, and, in a wily voice, inquired : "Well,
what shall we decide?"
Blanche drew back shuddering. "My mind is not yet made
up," she stammered. "I must reflect — I will see." And then
noting the old poacher's discontented face, she added: "I will
do nothing lightly. Don't lose sight of the marquis. If he
goes to the Borderie, and he will go there, I must be informed
of it. If he writes, and he will write, try to procure one of
his letters. I must see you every other day. Don't rest ! Try
to deserve the good place I am reserving for you at Courtor-
nieu. Now go !"
The old rascal trudged off without attempting a rejoinder,
but his manner plainly showed that he was intensely disap-
pointed. "It serves me deucedly well right," he growled. "I
oughtn't to have listened to such a silly, affected woman. She
fills the air with her ravings, wants to kill everybody, burn and
destroy everything. She only asks for an opportunity. Well,
the occasion presents itself, and then of course her heart fails
her. She draws back, and gets afraid !"
In these remarks Chupin did Blanche great injustice. If, as
he had noted, she had shrunk back shuddering when he urged
her to decide, it was not because her will wavered, but rather
because her flesh instinctively revolted against the deed she
had in her mind. The old spy's unwelcome touch, his per-
fidious voice and threatening glance, may also in a minor de-
gree have prompted this movement of repulsion. At all events,
Blanche's reflections were by no means calculated to appease
her rancor. Whatever Chupin and the Sairmeuse villagers
might say to the contrary, she regarded the story which Marie-
Anne, in obedience to the Abbe Midon's instructions, had told
of her travels in Piedmont as a ridiculous fable, and nothing
more. In her opinion, Marie-Anne had simply emerged from
some retreat where Martial had previously deemed it prudent
to conceal her. But why this sudden reappearance? Vindic-
tive Blanche was ready to swear that it was out of mere bravado,
and intended only as an insult to herself. "Ah, I will have my
revenge," she thought. "I would tear my heart out if it were
capable of cowardly weakness under such provocation !"
The voice of conscience was unheard, unheeded, in this
tumult of passion. Her sufferings, and Jean Lacheneur's at-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 543
tempt upon her father's life, seemed to justify the most terrible
reprisals. She had plenty of time now to brood over her
wrongs, and to concoct schemes of vengeance ; for her father
no longer required her care. He had passed from the frenzied
ravings of delirium to the stupor of idiocy. And yet the physi-
cian had confidently declared his patient to be cured. Cured !
The body was cured, perhaps, but reason had utterly fled. All
traces of intelligence had left the marquis's once mobile face,
so ready in former times to assume the precise expression
which his hypocrisy and duplicity required. His eyes, which
had gleamed with cunning, wore a dull, vacant stare, and his
under lip hung low, as is customary with idiots. Worst of all,
no hope of any improvement was to be entertained. A single
passion — indulgence at table — had taken the place of all those
which in former times had swayed the life of this ambitious
man. The marquis, in previous years most temperate in his
habits, now ate and drank with disgusting voracity, and was
rapidly becoming extremely corpulent. Between his meals he
would wander about the chateau and its surroundings in a
listless fashion, scarcely knowing what he did. His memory
had gone, and he had lost all sense of dignity, all knowledge
of good and evil. Even the instinct of self-preservation, the
last which dies within us, had departed, and he had to be
watched like a child. Often, as he roamed about the grounds,
his daughter would gaze at him from her window with a
strange terror in her heart. But after all, this warning of
providence only increased her desire for revenge. "Who would
not prefer death to such a misfortune ?" she murmured. 'Ah !
Jean Lacheneur's revenge is far more terrible than if his bullet
had pierced my father's heart. It is a similar revenge that I
must have, and I will have it !"
She saw Chupin every two or three days ; sometimes going
alone to the meeting-place, and at others in Aunt Medea's com-
pany. The old poacher came punctually enough, although he
was beginning to tire of his task. "I am risking a great deal,"
he growled. "I fancied that Jean Lacheneur would go and live
at the Borderie with his sister. Then I should have been safe.
But no; the brigand continues to prowl about with his gun
under his arm: and sleeps in the woods at night-time. What
game is he after? Why, Father Chupin, of course. On the
other hand, I know that my rascally innkeeper over there has
abandoned his inn and disappeared. Where is he? Hidden
13 — Vol. II — Gab.
544
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
behind one of these trees, perhaps, in settling what part of my
body he shall plunge his knife into." What irritated the old
poacher most of all was, that after two months' watching he
had come to the conclusion that whatever might have been
Martial's connection with Marie-Anne in former times, every-
thing was now all over between them.
But Blanche would not admit this. ,T Own that they are more
cunning than you are, Father Cbupin, but don't tell me they
don't see each other," she observed one day.
"Cunning — and how?" was the retort. "Since I have been
watching the marquis, he hasn't once passed outside the for-
tifications of Montaignac, while, on the other hand, the post-
man at Sairmeuse, whom my wife cleverly questioned, declares
that he hasn't taken a single letter to the Borderie."
After this, if it had not been for the hope of a safe and pleas-
ant retreat at Courtornieu, Chupin would have abandoned his
task altogether; as it was, he relaxed his surveillance consid-
erably ; coming to the rendezvous with Blanche, chiefly because
he had fallen into the habit of claiming some money for his
expenses, on each occasion. And when Blanche asked him for
an account of everything that Martial had done since their
previous meeting, he generally told her anything that came
into his head. However, one day, early in September, she in-
terrupted him as he began the same old story, and, looking
him steadfastly in the eyes, exclaimed: "Either you are betray-
ing me, Father Chupin, or else you are a fool. Yesterday Mar-
tial and Marie-Anne spent a quarter of an hour together at the
Croix d'Arcy."
AFTER the old physician of Vigano had left the Borderie
with his precious burden, Marie-Anne fell into a state of
bitter despondency. Many in her situation would perhaps have
experienced a feeling of relief, for had she not succeeded in
concealing the outcome of her frailty, which none, save perhaps
the Abbe Midon, so much as suspected? Hence, her despond-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 545
ency may at first sight seem to have been uncalled for. But
then let it be remembered that the sublime instinct of maternity
had been awakened in her breast; and when she saw the phy-
sician leave her, carrying away her child, she felt as if her
soul and body were being rent asunder. When might she hope
to set her eyes again on this poor babe, who was doubly dear
to her by reason of the very sorrow and anguish he had cost
her? Ah, if it had not been for her promise to Maurice, she
would have braved public opinion and kept her infant son at
the Borderie. Had she not braved calumny already? She had
been accused of having three lovers, Chanlouineau, Martial,
and Maurice. The comments of the villagers had not affected
her; but she had been tortured, and was still tortured by the
thought that these people didn't know the truth. Maurice was
her husband, and yet she dare not proclaim the fact; she was
"Mademoiselle Lacheneur" to all around — a maiden — a living
lie. Surely such a situation accounted only too completely for
her despondency and distress. And when she thought of her
brother she positively shuddered with dismal apprehensions.
Having learned that Jean was roving about the country, she
sent for him; but it was not without considerable persuasion
that he consented to come and see her at the Borderie. A
glance at his appearance sufficed to explain all Chupin's terror.
The young fellow's clothes were in tatters, and the expression
of his weather-stained, unshaven, unkempt face was ferocious
in the extreme. When he entered the cottage, Marie-Anne
recoiled with fear. She did not recognize him until he spoke.
"It is I, sister," he said gloomily.
"What, you — my poor Jean ! you !"
He surveyed himself from head to foot, and with a sneering
laugh retorted: "Well, really, I shouldn't like to meet myself
at dusk in the forest."
Marie-Anne fancied she could detect a threat behind this
ironical remark, and her apprehensions were painful in the
extreme. "What a life you must be leading, my poor brother !"
she said after a brief pause. "Why didn't you come here
sooner? Now I have you here, I shall not let you go. You
will not desert me. I need protection and love so much. You
will remain with me?"
"That's impossible, Marie-Anne."
"And why ?"
Jean averted his glance; his face colored, and it was with
546 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
evident hesitation that he replied: "Because I've a right to dis-
pose of my own life, but not of yours. Wc can't be anything
to each other any longer. I deny you to-day, so that you may
be able to deny me to-morrow. Yes, although you are now the
only person on earth I love. I must and do renounce you.
Your worst enemies haven't slandered you more foully than I
have done, for before numerous witnesses I have openly de-
clared that I would never set my foot inside a house given you
by Chanlouineau."
"What, you said that — you, Jean — you, my brother?"
"Yes, I said it, and with a purpose; for it must be supposed
that there is a deadly feud between us, so that neither you nor
Maurice d'Escorval may be accused of complicity in any deed
of mine."
Marie- Anne gazed at her brother wonderingly. "He is mad !"
she murmured, and then with a burst of energy she added:
"What do you mean to do ? Tell me ; I must know."
"Nothing! leave me to myself."
"Jean !"
"Leave me to myself," he repeated roughly.
Marie-Anne felt that her apprehensions were correct. "Take
care, take care," she said entreatingly. "Do not tamper with
such matters. God's justice will punish those who have
wronged us."
But nothing could move Jean Lacheneur, or divert him from
his purpose. With a hoarse, discordant laugh, he clapped his
hand on his gun and retorted: "That's my justice!"
Marie-Anne almost tottered as she heard these words. She
discerned in her brother's mind the same fixed, fatal idea which
had lured her father on to destruction — the idea for which he
had sacrificed everything — family, friends, fortune, and even
his daughter's honor, the idea which had caused so much blood-
shed, which had cost the lives of so many innocent men, and had
finally led him to the scaffold himself. "Jean," she murmured,
"remember our father."
The young fellow's face turned livid, and instinctively he
clenched his fists. But the words he uttered were the more
impressive, as his voice was calm and low. "It is just because
I do remember my father that I am determined justice shall
be done. Ah ! these wretched nobles wouldn't display such
audacity if all sons had my will and determination. A scoun-
drel like the Due de Sairmeuse would hesitate before he at-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 547
tacked an honest man if he were only obliged to say to himself :
'If I wrong this man, and even should I kill him, I can not escape
retributive justice, for his children will surely call me to ac-
count. Their vengeance will fall on me and mine ; they will
pursue us by day and night, at all hours and in all seasons.
We must ever fear their hatred, for they will be implacable
and merciless. I shall never leave my house without fear of
a bullet ; never lift food to my lips without dread of poison.
And until I and mine have succumbed, these avengers will prowl
round about our home, threatening us at every moment with
death, dishonor, ruin, infamy, and misery !' " The young fel-
low paused, laughed nervously, and then, in a still slower voice,
he added: "That is what the Sairmeuses and the Courtornieus
have to expect from me." It was impossible to mistake the
import of these words. Jean Lacheneur's threats were not the
wild ravings of anger. His was a cold, deep-set, premeditated
desire for vengeance, which would last as long as he lived —
and he took good care that his sister should understand him,
for between his teeth he added: "Undoubtedly these people are
very high, and I am very low, but when a tiny insect pierces
the root of a giant oak, that tree is doomed."
Marie-Anne realized that all her entreaties would fail to turn
her brother from his purpose, and yet she could not allow him
to leave without making one more effort. It was with clasped
hands and in a supplicating voice that she begged him to re-
nounce his projects, but he still remained obdurate, and when
changing her tactics she asked him to remain with her at least
that evening and share her frugal supper, adding in trembling
tones that it might be the last time they would see each other for
long years, he again repeated : "You ask me an impossibility !"
And yet he was visibly moved, and if his voice was stern, a
tear trembled in his eye. She was clinging to him implor-
ingly, when, yielding for one moment to the impulse of nature,
he took her in his arms and pressed her to his heart. "Poor
sister — poor Marie-Anne," he said, "you will never know what
it costs me to refuse your supplications. But I can not yield
to them. I have been most imprudent in coming here at all.
You don't realize the danger to which you may be exposed if
folks suspect that there is any connection between us. I trust
that you and Maurice may lead a calm and happy life. It
would be a crime for me to mix you up with my wild schemes.
Think of me sometimes, but don't try to see me, or even to
648 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
find out what has become of me. A man like me struggles,
triumphs, or perishes alone." He kissed Marie-Anne passion-
ately, and freed himself from her detaining hands. "Farewell !"
he cried ; "when you see me again, our father will be avenged !"
Then with one bound he reached the door. She sprang out
after him, meaning to call him back, but he had already dis-
appeared. "It is all over," murmured the wretched girl ; "my
brother is lost. Nothing will restrain him now." And a vague,
inexplicable dread invaded her heart. She felt as if she were
being slowly but surely drawn into a whirlpool of passion,
rancor, vengeance, and crime, and a voice whispered that she
would be crushed.
Some days had elapsed after this incident, when one even-
ing, while she was preparing her supper, she heard a rustling
sound outside. She turned and looked; some one had slipped
a letter under the front door. Without a moment's hesitation
she raised the latch and courageously sprang out on to the
threshold. No one could be seen. The gloom was well-nigh
impenetrable, and when she listened not a sound broke the still-
ness. With a trembling hand she picked up the letter, walked
toward the lamp burning on her supper table, and looked at
the address. "From the Marquis de Sairmeuse !" she exclaimed
in amazement as she recognized Martial's handwriting. So he
had written to her! He had dared to write to her! Her first
impulse was to burn the letter; and she was already holding
it over the stove when she suddenly thought of her friends con-
cealed at Father Poignot's farm. "For their sake," she thought,
"I must read it, and see if they are threatened with danger."
Then hastily opening the missive, she found that it was as
follows :
"My dear Marie-Anne — Perhaps you have suspected who it
is that has given an entirely new and certainly surprising turn
to events. Perhaps you have also understood the motives that
guided him. In that case I am amply repaid for my efforts,
for you can no longer refuse me your esteem. But my work
of reparation is not yet perfect. I have prepared everything
for a revision of the judgment that condemned the Baron d'Es-
corval to death, or for having him pardoned. You must know
where the baron is concealed. Acquaint him with my plans and
ascertain whether he prefers a revision of judgment or a sim-
ple pardon. If he wishes for a new trial, I will give him a
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 549
letter of license from the king. I await your reply before
acting. Martial de Sairmeuse."
Marie-Anne's head whirled. This was the second time that
Martial had astonished her by the chivalrous spirit of his love.
How noble the two men who had loved her and whom she had
rejected had proved themselves to be. One of them, Chan-
louineau, after dying for her sake, had sought to protect her
from beyond the grave. The other, Martial de Sairmeuse, had
sacrificed the connections and prejudices of his caste, and haz-
arded with noble recklessness the political fortunes of his
house, so as to insure as far as possible her own happiness and
that of those she loved. And yet the man whom she had
chosen, the father of her child, Maurce d'Escorval, had not
given as much as a sign of life since he left her five months
before. But suddenly and without reason Marie-Anne passed
from profound admiration to deep distrust. "What if Martial's
offer were only a trap?" This was the suspicion that darted
through her mind. "Ah!" she thought, "the Marquis de Sair-
meuse would be a hero if he were sincere !" And she did not
wish him to be a hero.
The result of her suspicions was that she hesitated five days
before repairing to the meeting-place where Father Poignot
usually awaited her. When she did go, in lieu of the worthy
farmer she found the Abbe Midon, who had been greatly
alarmed by her prolonged absence. It was night-time, but
Marie-Anne, fortunately, knew Martial's letter by heart. The
abbe made her repeat it twice, the second time very slowly,
and when she had concluded he remarked: "This young man
no doubt has the prejudices of his rank and his education:
but his heart is noble and generous." And when Marie-Anne
disclosed her suspicions : "You are wrong, my child," he added :
"the marquis is certainly sincere, and it would be unwise not
to take advantage of his generosity. Such, at least, is my opin-
ion. Entrust this letter to me. I will consult the baron, and
to-morrow you shall know our decision."
Four and twenty hours later the abbe and Marie-Anne met
again at the same spot. "M. d'Escorval," said the priest, "agrees
with me that we must trust ourselves to the Marquis de Sair-
meuse. Only the baron, being innocent, can not, will not, accept
a pardon. He demands a revision of the iniquitous judgment
which condemned him — in one word, a new trial."
560 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
Marie-Anne had foreseen this determination, and yet she
could not help exclaiming: "What! M. d Escorval means to
give himself up to his enemies ! To risk his life on the chance
of acquittal?" The priest nodded assent, and then knowing
that it was quite useless to attempt arguing the point, Marie-
Anne submissively remarked: "In this case, I must ask you for
a rough draft of the letter I ought to write to the marquis."
For a moment the priest did not reply. He evidently had
some misgivings. At last, summoning all his courage, he an-
swered: "It would be better not to write."
"But—"
"It is not that I distrust the marquis, not by any means, but
a letter is dangerous; it doesn't always reach the person it's
addressed to. You must see M. de Sairmeuse."
Marie-Anne recoiled. "Never ! never !" she exclaimed.
The abbe did not seem surprised. "I understand your re-
pugnance, my child," he said gently; "your reputation has suf-
fered greatly through the marquis's attentions. But duty calls,
and this is not the time to hesitate. You know that the baron
is innocent, and you know, alas, that your father's mad enter-
prise has ruined him. You must, at least, make this atoning
sacrifice." He then explained to her everything she would have
to say, and did not leave her until she had promised to see the
marquis in person.
It must not be supposed that Marie-Anne's aversion to this
interview was due to the reason which the abbe assigned. Her
reputation ! Alas, she knew that it was lost forever. A fort-
night before the prospect of such a meeting would have in
no wise disquieted her. Then, though she no longer hated
Martial, she thought of him with indifference, whereas now —
Perhaps, in choosing the Croix d'Arcy for the rendezvous, she
hoped that this spot with its cruel memories would restore
aversion to her heart. As she walked along toward the meet-
ing-place, she said to herself that no doubt Martial would
wound her feelings by his usual tone of careless gallantry.
But in this she was mistaken. The young marquis was greatly
agitated, but he did not utter a word unconnected with the
purport of the meeting. It was only when the conference was
over, and he had consented to all the conditions suggested by
the abbe, that he sadly remarked: "We are friends, are we not?"
And in an almost inaudible voice she answered, "Yes."
And lhat was all. He remounted his horse, which had been
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 551
held by a servant, and galloped off in the direction of Mon-
taignac. Breathless, with cheeks on fire, Marie-Anne watched
him as, bending low in the saddle, he urged his horse onward
over the dusty highway, until at last a bend and some pro-
jecting trees finally hid him from view. Then, all of a sud-
den, she became as it were conscious of her thoughts. "Ah,
wretched woman that I am," she exclaimed, "is it possible I
could ever love any other man than Maurice, my husband, the
father of my child?"
Her voice was still trembling with emotion when she related
the particulars of the interview to the abbe. But he did not
perceive her trouble, his thoughts being busy with the baron's
interests. "I felt sure," said he, "that Martial would agree to
our conditions. I was, indeed, so certain that I even made
every arrangement for the baron to leave the farm. He will
leave it to-morrow night and wait at your house till we re-
ceive the letters of license from the king. The heat and bad
ventilation of Poignot's loft are certainly retarding his recov-
ery. One of Poignot's boys will bring our baggage to-morrow
evening, and at eleven o'clock or so we will place M. d'Escorval
in a vehicle and all sup together at the Borderie."
"Heaven comes to my aid !" murmured Marie- Anne as she
walked home, reflecting that now she would no longer be alone.
With Madame d'Escorval at her side to talk to her of Maurice,
and the cheerful presence of her other friends, she would soon
be able to chase away those thoughts of Martial now haunt-
ing her.
When she awoke the next morning she was in better spirits
than she had been for months, and once, while putting her
little house in order, she was surprised to find herself singing
at her work. Just as eight o'clock in the evening was strik-
ing she heard a peculiar whistle. This was a signal from the
younger Poignot, who soon appeared laden with an armchair
for the sick man, the abbe's medicine chest, and a bag of books.
They were all placed in the room upstairs — the room which
Chanlouineau had decorated at such cost, and which Marie-
Anne now intended for the baron. Young Poignot told her
that he had several other things to bring, and nearly an hour
afterward, fancying that he might be overloaded, she ventured
out to meet him. The night was very dark, and as she hast-
ened on, Marie-Anne failed to notice two figures stooping
behind a clump of lilac bushes in her little garden.
552
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
/"* HUPIN was at first quite crestfallen when Blanche told
^ him of Martial's meeting with Marie-Anne at the Croix
d'Arcy. He was detected with a falsehood on his lips, and
feared that the discovery of his duplicity would forever wreck
his prospects. He must say good-by to a safe and pleasant
retreat at Courtornieu, and good-by also to frequent gifts which
had enabled him to spare his hoarded treasure, and even to
increase it. However, his discomfiture only lasted for a mo-
ment. It seemed best to put a bold face on the matter, and
accordingly raising his head, he remarked with an affectation of
frankness: "I may be stupid no doubt, but I wouldn't deceive
a child. I scarcely fancy your information can be correct.
Some one must have told you falsely."
^ Blanche shrugged her shoulders. "I obtained my informa-
tion from two persons, who were ignorant of the interest it
possessed for me."
"As truly as the sun is in the heavens, I swear — "
"Don't swear; simply confess that you have been very
negligent."
Blanche spoke so authoritatively that Chupin considered it
best to change his tactics. With an air of abject humility, he
admitted that he had relaxed his surveillance on the previous
day; he had been very busy in the morning; then one of his
boys had injured his foot; and, finally, he had met some friends
who persuaded him to go with them to a wine-shop, where he
had taken more than usual, so that — He told his story in a
whining tone, frequently interrupting himself to affirm his re-
pentance and cover himself with reproaches. "Old drunkard !"
he said, "this will teach you not to neglect your duties."
But far from reassuring Blanche, his protestations only made
her more suspicious. "All this is very good, Father Chupin,"
she said dryly, "but what are you going to do now to repair
your negligence?"
"What do I intend to do?" he exclaimed, feigning the most
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 66S
violent anger. "Oh ! you shall see. I will prove that no one
can deceive me with impunity. There is a small grove near
the Borderie, and I shall station myself there ; and may the devil
seize me if a cat enters that house without my knowing it."
Blanche drew her purse from her pocket, and handed three
louis to Chupin, saying as she did so, "Take these, and be
more careful in future. Another blunder of the kind, and I
shall have to obtain some other person's assistance."
The old poacher went away whistling contentedly. He felt
quite reassured. In this, however, he was wrong, for Blanche's
generosity was only intended to prevent him fancying that she
doubted his veracity. In point of fact, she did doubt it. She
believed his promises to be on a par with his past conduct,
which, as events had shown, had at the very best been negli-
gent in the extreme. This miserable wretch made it his busi-
ness to betray others — so why shouldn't he have betrayed her
as well? What confidence could she place in his reports? She
certainly paid him, but the person who paid him more would
unquestionably have the preference. Still, she must know the
truth, the whole truth, and how was she to ascertain it? There
was but one method — a certain, though a very disagreeable
one — she must play the spy herself.
With this idea in her head, she waited impatiently for even-
ing to arrive, and then, directly dinner was over, she summoned
Aunt Medea, and requested her company, as she was going out
for a walk. The impoverished chaperone made a feeble pro-
test concerning the lateness of the hour. But Blanche speed-
ily silenced her, and bade her get ready at once, adding that
she did not wish any one in the chateau to know that they
had gone out. Aunt Medea had no other resource than to
obey, and in the twinkling of an eye she was ready. The
marquis had just been put to bed, the servants were at din-
ner, and Blanche and her companion reached a little gate
leading from the grounds into the open fields without being
observed. "Good heavens! Where are we going?" groaned
the astonished chaperone.
"What does that matter to you? Come along!" replied
Blanche, who, as it may have been guessed, was going to the
Borderie. She could have followed the banks of the Oiselle,
but she preferred to cut across the fields, thinking she would be
less likely to meet any one. The night was very dark, and
the hedges and ditches often impeded their progress. On two
664 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
occasions Blanche lost her way, while Aunt Medea stumbled
again and again over the rough ground, bruising herself against
the stones. She groaned; she almost wept; but her terrible
niece was pitiless. "Come along!" she cried, "or else I shall
leave you to find your way as best you can." And so the poor
dependent struggled on.
At last, after more than an hour's tramp, Blanche ventured
to breathe. She recognized Chanlouineau's house, a short dis-
tance off, and soon afterward she paused in the little grove
of which Chupin had spoken. Aunt Medea now timidly in-
quired if they were at their journey's end — a question which
Blanche answered affirmatively. "But be quiet," she added,
"and remain where you are. I wish to look about a little."
"What! you are leaving me alone?" ejaculated the fright-
ened chaperon. "Blanche, I entreat you ! What are you
going to do ? Good heavens ! you frighten me. You do indeed,
Blanche !"
But her niece had gone. She was exploring the grove, look-
ing for Chupin, whom she did not find. This convinced her
that the old poacher was deceiving her, and she angrily asked
herself if Martial and Marie-Anne were not in the house hard
by at that very hour, laughing at her credulity. She then re-
joined Aunt Medea, whom she found half-dead with fright,
and they both advanced to the edge of the copse, where they
could view the front of the house. A flickering, ruddy light
illuminated two windows on the upper floor. There was evi-
dently a fire in the room upstairs. "That's right," murmured
Blanche bitterly, "Martial is such a chilly personage." She
was about to approach the house when a peculiar whistle made
her pause. She looked about her, and, through the darkness,
she managed to distinguish a man walking toward the Bor-
derie, and carrying a weighty burden. Almost immediately
afterward a woman, certainly Marie-Anne, opened the door of
the house, and the stranger was admitted. Ten minutes later
he reappeared, this time without his burden, and walked briskly
away. Blanche was wondering what all this meant, but for
the time being she did not venture to approach, and nearly an
hour elapsed before she decided to try to satisfy her curi-
osity by peering through the windows. Accompanied by Aunt
Medea, she had just reached the little garden when the door
of the cottage opened so suddenly that Blanche and her rela-
tive had scarcely time to conceal themselves behind a clump
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 555
of lilac bushes. At the same moment Marie-Anne crossed the
threshold and walked down the narrow garden path, gained the
road, and disappeared. "Wait for me here," said Blanche to
her aunt in a strained, unnatural voice, "and whatever hap-
pens, whatever you hear, if you wish to finish your days at
Courtornieu, not a word ! Don't stir from this spot ; I will
come back again." Then pressing the frightened spinster's
arm, she left her alone and went into the cottage.
Marie-Anne, on going out, had left a candle burning on the
table in the front room. Blanche seized it and boldly began
an exploration of the dwelling. Owing to Chupin's descrip-
tion, she was tolerably familiar with the arrangements on the
ground floor, and yet the aspect of the rooms surprised her.
They were roughly floored with tiles, and the walls were
poorly whitewashed. A massive linen-press, a couple of heavy
tables, and a few clumsy chairs, constituted the only furniture
in the front apartment, while from the beams above hung
numerous bags of grain and bunches of dried herbs. Marie-
Anne evidently slept in the back room, which contained an
old-fashioned country bedstead, very high and broad, the tall,
fluted posts of which were draped with green serge curtains,
sliding on iron rings. Fastened to the wall at the head of the
bed was a receptacle for holy water. Blanche dipped her fin-
ger in the bowl, and found it full to the brim. Then beside
the window on a wooden shelf she espied a jug and basin of
common earthenware. "It must be confessed that my husband
doesn't provide his idol with a very sumptuous abode," she
muttered with a sneer. And for a moment, indeed, she was
almost on the point of asking herself if jealousy had not led
her astray. Remembering Martial's fastidious tastes, she failed
to reconcile them with these meagre surroundings. The pres-
ence of the holy water, moreover, seemed incompatible with
her suspicions. But the latter revived again when she entered
the kitchen. A savory soup was bubbling in a pot over the
fire, and fragrant stews were simmering in two or three sauce-
pans. Such preparations could not be made for Marie-Anne
alone. Whom, then, were they for? At this moment Blanche
remembered the ruddy glow which she had noticed through
the windows on the floor above. Hastily leaving the kitchen,
she climbed the stairs and opened a door she found in front
of her. A cry of mingled anger and surprise escaped her
lips. She stood on the threshold of the room which Chan-
666 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
louineau in the boldness of his passion had designed to be
the sanctuary of his love. Here everything was beautiful and
luxurious: "Ah, so after all it's true," exclaimed Blanche in
a paroxysm of jealousy. "And I was fancying that everything
was too meagre and too poor. Downstairs everything is so
arranged that visitors may not suspect the truth ! Ah, now I
recognize Martial's astonishing talent for dissimulation; he is
so infatuated with this creature that he is even anxious to
shield her reputation. He keeps his visits secret and hides
himself up here. Yes, here it is that they laugh at me, the
deluded, forsaken wife whose marriage was but a mockery !"
She had wished to know the truth, and now she felt she knew
it. Certainty was less cruel than everlasting suspicion, and she
even took a bitter delight in examining the appointments of the
apartment, which to her mind proved how deeply Martial must
be infatuated. She felt the heavy curtains of brocaded silken
stuff with trembling hands; she tested the thickness of the
rich carpet with her feet ; the embroidered coverlid on the palis-
sandre bedstead, the mirrors, the hundred knickknacks on the
tables and the mantelshelf — all in turn met with her attentive
scrutiny. Everything indicated that some one was expected —
the bright fire — the cozy armchair beside it, the slippers on the
rug. And whom would Marie-Anne expect but Martial? No
doubt the man whom Blanche had seen arriving had come to
announce the marquis's approach, and Marie-Anne had gone to
meet him.
Curiously enough, on the hearth stood a bowl of soup, still
warm, and which Marie-Anne had evidently been about to
drink when she heard the messenger's signal. Blanche was
still wondering how she could profit of her discoveries, when
she espied a chest of polished oak standing open on a table
near a glass door leading into an adjoining dressing-room. She
walked toward it and perceived that it contained a number of
tiny vials and boxes. It was indeed the Abbe Midon's medicine
chest, which Marie-Anne had placed here in readiness, should
it be needed when the baron arrived, weak from his nocturnal
journey. Blanche was examining the contents when suddenly
she noticed two bottles of blue glass, on which "poison" was
inscribed. "Poison !" — the word seemed to fascinate her, and
by a diabolical inspiration she associated these vials with the
bowl of soup standing on the hearth. "And why not?" she
muttered. "I could escape afterward." Another thought made
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 557
her pause, however. Martial would no doubt return with
Marie-Anne, and perhaps he would drink this broth. She hesi-
tated for a moment, and then took one of the vials in her hand,
murmuring as she did so : "God will decide ; it is better he
should die than belong to another." She had hitherto acted
like one bewildered, but this act, simple in its performance, but
terrible in its import, seemed to restore all her presence of mind.
"What poison is it ?" thought she ; "ought I to administer a large
or a small dose?" With some little difficulty she opened the
bottle and poured a small portion of its contents into the palm
of her hand. The poison was a fine, white powder, glistening
like pulverized glass. "Can it really be sugar?" thought
Blanche ; and with the view of making sure she moistened a
finger-tip, and gathered on it a few atoms of the powder, which
she applied to her tongue. Its taste was not unlike that of an
apple. She wiped her tongue with her handkerchief, and then
without hesitation or remorse, without even turning pale, she
poured the entire contents of the bottle into the bowl. Her
self-possession was so perfect that she even stirred the broth,
so that the powder might more rapidly dissolve. She next
tasted it, and found that it had a slightly bitter flavor — not suf-
ficiently perceptible, however, to awaken distrust. All that now
remained was to escape, and she was already walking toward
the door when, to her horror, she heard some one coming up the
stairs. What should she do? Where could she conceal her-
self? She now felt so sure that she would be detected that she
almost decided to throw the contents of the bowl into the fire,
and then face the intruders. But no — a chance remained — the
dressing-room ? She darted into it, without daring, however,
to close the door, for the least click of the lock might betray
her.
Immediately afterward Marie-Anne entered the apartment,
followed by a peasant carrying a large bundle. "Ah ! here is
my candle !" she exclaimed, as she crossed the threshold. "Joy
must be making me lose my wits ! I could have sworn that I
left it on the table downstairs."
Blanche shuddered. She had not thought of this circum-
stance before.
"Where shall I put these clothes?" asked the peasant.
"Lay them down here. I will arrange them by and by." re-
plied Marie-Anne.
The youth dropped his heavy burden with a sigh of relief.
558 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
"That's the last," he exclaimed. "Now our gentleman can
come."
"At what o'clock will he start?" inquired Marie-Anne.
"At eleven. It will be nearly midnight when he gets here."
Marie-Anne glanced at the magnificent timepiece on the man-
telshelf. "I have still three hours before me," said she; "more
time than I need. Supper is ready, I am going to set the table
here by the fire. Tell him to bring a good appetite with him."
"I won't forget, mademoiselle ; thank you for having come to
meet me. The load wasn't so very heavy, but it was awkward
to handle."
"Won't you take a glass of wine?"
"No, thanks. I must make haste back, Mademoiselle Lache-
neur."
"Good night, Poignot."
Blanche had never heard this name of Poignot before; it
had no meaning for her. Ah, if she had heard M. d'Escorval
or the abbe mentioned, she might perhaps have doubted the
truth ; her resolution might have wavered and — who knows ?
But unfortuately, young Poignot, in referring to the baron, had
spoken of him as "our gentleman," while Marie-Anne said,
"he." And to Blanche's mind they both of them referred to
Martial. Yes, unquestionably it must be the Marquis de Sair-
meuse, who would arrive at midnight. She was sure of it. It
was he who had sent this messenger with a parcel of clothes —
a proceeding which could only mean that he was going to es-
tablish himself at the Borderie. Perhaps he would cast aside
all secrecy and live there openly, regardless of his rank, his
dignity, and duties; forgetful even of his prejudices as well.
These conjectures could only fire Blanche's jealous fury. Why
should she hesitate or tremble after that? The only thing she
had to fear now was that Marie-Anne might enter the dressing-
room and find her there. She had but little anxiety concerning
Aunt Medea, who, it is true, was still in the garden; but after
the orders she had received the poor dependent would remain
as still as a stone behind the lilac bushes, and, if needs be,
during the whole night. On the other hand, Marie-Anne would
remain alone in the house during another two hours and a half,
and Blanche reflected that this would give her ample time to
watch the effects of the poison on her hated rival. When the
crime was discovered she would be far away. No one knew she
was not at Courtornieu; no one had seen her leave the chateau;
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 559
Aunt Medea would be as silent as the grave. And, besides,
who would dare to accuse the Marquise de Sairmeuse, nee
Blanche de Courtornieu, of murder? One thing that worried
Blanche was that Marie-Anne seemed to pay no attention to
the broth. She had, in fact, forgotten it. She had opened the
bundle of clothes, and was now busily arranging them in a
wardrobe near the bed. Who talks of presentiments ! She was
as gay and vivacious as in her happiest days ; and while she
folded the clothes hummed an air that Maurice had often sung.
She felt that her troubles were nearly over, for her friends
would soon be round her, and a brighter time seemed near at
hand. When she had put all the clothes away, she shut the
wardrobe and drew a small table up before the fire. It was
not till then that she noticed the bowl standing on the hearth.
"How stupid I am !" she said, with a laugh ; and taking the
bowl in her hands, she raised it to her lips.
Blanche heard Marie- Anne's exclamation plainly enough ; she
saw what she was doing; and yet she never felt the slightest
remorse. However, Marie-Anne drank but one mouthful, and
then, in evident disgust, she set the bowl down. A horrible
dread made the watcher's heart stand still, and she wondered
whether her victim had detected any peculiar taste in the soup.
No, she had not; but, owing to the fire having fallen low, it
had grown nearly cold, and a slight coating of grease floated on
its surface. Taking a spoon, Marie-Anne skimmed the broth
carefully, and stirred it up. Then, being thirsty, she drank the
liquid almost at one draft, laid the bowl on the mantelpiece,
and resumed her work.
The crime was perpetrated. The future no longer depended
on Blanche de Courtornieu's will. Come what would, she was
a murderess. But though she was conscious of her crime, the
excess of her jealous hatred prevented her from realizing its
enormity. She said to herself that she had only accomplished
an act of justice, that in reality her vengeance was scarcely
cruel enough for the wrongs she had suffered, and that nothing
could indeed fully atone for the tortures inflicted on her. But
in a few moments grievous misgivings took possession of her
mind. Her knowledge of the effects of poison was extremely
limited. She had expected to see Marie-Anne fall dead before
her, as if stricken down by a thunderbolt. But no, several min-
utes passed, and Marie-Anne continued her preparations for
supper as if nothing had occurred. She spread a white cloth
660 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
over the table, smoothed it with her hands, and placed a cruet-
stand and salt-cellar on it. Blanche's heart was beating so vio-
lently that she could scarcely realize why its throbbings were not
heard in the adjoining room. Her assurance had been great,
but now the fear of punishment which usually precedes remorse
crept over her mind; and the idea that her victim might enter
the dressing-room made her turn pale with fear. At last she
saw Marie-Anne take the light and go downstairs. Blanche
was left alone, and the thought of escaping again occurred to
her; but how could she possibly leave the house without being
seen? Must she wait there, hidden in that nook, forever?
"That couldn't have been poison. It doesn't act," she muttered
in a rage.
Alas ! it did act, as she herself perceived when Marie-Anne
reentered the room. The latter had changed frightfully during
the brief interval she had spent on the ground floor. Her face
was livid and mottled with purple spots, her distended eyes
glittered with a strange brilliancy, and she let a pile of plates
she carried fall on the table with a crash.
"The poison ! it begins to act at last !" thought Blanche.
Marie-Anne stood on the hearthrug, gazing wildly round her,
as if seeking for the cause of her incomprehensible sufferings.
She passed and repassed her hand across her forehead, which
was bathed in cold sweat ; she gasped for breath, and then sud-
denly overcome with nausea, she staggered, pressed her hands
convulsively to her breast, and sank into the armchair, crying:
"Oh, God ! how I suffer !"
Kneeling by the door of the dressing-room which was only
partly closed, Blanche eagerly watched the workings of the
poison she had administered. She was so near her victim that
she could distinguish the throbbing of her temples, and some-
times she fancied she could feel on her own cheek her rival's
breath, scorching her like flame. An utter prostration followed
Marie- Anne's paroxysm of agony ; and if it had not been for
the convulsive working of her mouth and labored breathing, it
might have been supposed that she was dead. But soon the
nausea returned, and she was seized with vomiting. Each effort
seemed to contract her body ; and gradually a ghastly tint crept
over her face, the spots on her cheeks became of a deeper tint,
her eyes seemed as if they were about to burst from their
sockets, and great drops of perspiration rolled down her cheeks.
Her sufferings must have been intolerable. She moaned feebly
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 561
at times, and at intervals gave vent to truly heartrending
shrieks. Then she faltered fragmentary sentences; she begged
piteously for water, or entreated Heaven to shorten her tor-
tures. "Ah, it is horrible ! I suffer too much ! My God !
grant me death !" She invoked all the friends she had ever
known, calling for aid in a despairing voice. She called on
Madame d'Escorval, the abbe, Maurice, her brother, Chanloui-
neau, and Martial !
Martial ! — that name more than sufficed to chase all pity from
Blanche's heart. "Go on ! call your lover, call !" she said to
herself, bitterly. "He will come too late." And as Marie-Anne
repeated the name, in a tone of agonized entreaty: "Suffer!"
continued Blanche, "suffer, you deserve it ! You imparted to
Martial the courage to forsake me. his wife, as a drunken
lackey would abandon the lowest of degraded creatures ! Die,
and my husband will return to me repentant." No, she had
no pity. She felt a difficulty in breathing, but that merely re-
sulted from the instinctive horror which the sufferings of others
inspire — a purely physical impression, which is adorned with
the fine name of sensibility, but which is, in reality, the grossest
selfishness.
And yet, Marie-Anne was sinking perceptibly. She had fallen
on to the floor, during one of her attacks of sickness, and now
she even seemed unable to moan ; her eyes closed, and after a
spasm which brought a bloody foam to her lips, her head sank
back, and she lay motionless on the hearthrug.
"It is over," murmured Blanche, rising to her feet. To her
surprise her own limbs trembled so acutely that she could
scarcely stand. Her will was still firm and implacable; but her
flesh failed her. She had never even imagined a scene like that
she had just witnessed. She knew that poison caused death ;
but she had not suspected the agony of such a death. She no
longer thought of increasing her victim's sufferings by upbraid-
ing her. Her only desire now was to leave the house, the very
floor of which seemed to scorch her feet. A strange, inexplica-
ble sensation was creeping over her ; it was not yet fright, but
rather the stupor that follows the perpetration of a terrible
crime. Still, she compelled herself to wait a few moments
longer ; then seeing that Marie- Anne still remained motionless,
with closed eyes, she ventured to open the door softly, and
enter the room in which her victim was lying. But she had
not taken three steps forward before Marie-Anne, as if she had
562 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
been galvanized by an electric battery, suddenly rose and ex-
tended her arms to bar her enemy's passage. This movement
was so unexpected and so appalling that Blanche recoiled.
"The Marquise de Sairmeuse," faltered Marie-Anne. "You,
Blanche — here !" And finding an explanation of her sufferings
in the presence of this young woman, who once had been her
friend, but who was now her bitterest enemy, she exclaimed:
"It is you who have murdered mc !"
Blanche de Courtornieu's nature was one of those that break
but never bend. Since she had been detected, nothing in the
world would induce her to deny her guilt. She advanced boldly,
and in a firm voice replied: "Yes, I have taken my revenge.
Do you think I didn't suffer that evening when you sent your
brother to take my newly-wedded husband away, so that I have
never since gazed upon his face?"
"Your husband ! I sent my brother to take him away ! I do
not understand you."
"Do you dare deny, then, that you are not Martial's mis-
tress?"
"The Marquis de Sairmeuse's mistress ! Why, I saw him
yesterday for the first time since the Baron d'Escorval's escape."
The effort which Marie-Anne had made to rise and speak had
exhausted her strength. She fell back in the armchair.
But Blanche was pitiless. "You only saw Martial then," she
said. "Pray, tell me, who gave you this costly furniture, these
silk hangings, all the luxury that surrounds you?"
"Chanlouineau."
Blanche shrugged her shoulders. "So be it," she said, with
an ironical smile. "But you are not waiting for Chanlouineau
this evening? Have you warmed these slippers and laid this
table for Chanlouineau? Was it Chanlouineau who sent his
clothes by a peasant named Poignot? You see that I know
everything?" She paused for some reply; but her victim was
silent. "Whom are you waiting for?" insisted Blanche. "An-
swer me !"
"I can not !"
"Ah, of course not, because you know that it is your
lover who is coming, you wretched woman — my husband,
Martial !"
Marie-Anne was considering the situation as well as her in-
tolerable sufferings and troubled mind would permit. Could
she name the persons she was expecting? Would not any
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 563
mention of the Baron d'Escorval to Blanche ruin and betray
him? They were hoping for a letter of license for a revision
of judgment, but he was none the less under sentence of death,
and liable to be executed in twenty-four hours.
"So you refuse to tell me whom you expect here — at mid-
night," repeated the marquise.
"I refuse," gasped Marie-Anne; but at the same time she
was seized with a sudden impulse. Although the slightest
movement caused her intolerable agony, she tore her dress
open, and drew a folded paper from her bosom. "I am not the
Marquis de Sairmeuse's mistress," she said, in an almost inaudi-
ble voice. "I am Maurice d'Escorval's wife. Here is the proof
—read."
Blanche had scarcely glanced at the paper than she turned
as pale as her victim. Her sight failed her ; there was a strange
ringing in her ears, and a cold sweat started from every pore
in her skin. This paper was the marriage certificate of Mau-
rice d'Escorval and Marie-Anne Lacheneur, drawn up by the
cure of Vigano, witnessed by the old physician and Bavois. and
sealed with the parish seal. The proof was indisputable. She
had committed a useless crime; she had murdered an innocent
woman. The first good impulse of her life made her heart beat
more quickly. She did not stop to consider; she forgot the
danger to which she exposed herself, and in a ringing voice she
cried : "Help ! help !""
Eleven o'clock was just striking in the country; every one
was naturally abed, and, moreover, the nearest farmhouse was
half a league away. Blanche's shout was apparently lost in the
stillness of the night. In the garden below Aunt Medea per-
haps heard it ; but she would have allowed herself to be cut to
pieces rather than stir from her place. And yet there was one
other who heard that cry of distress. Had Blanche and her
victim been less overwhelmed with despair, they would have
heard a noise on the stairs, which at that very moment were
creaking under the tread of a man, who was cautiouslv climb-
ing them. But he was not a savior, for he did not answer the
appeal. However, even if there had been help at hand, it would
now have come too late.
Marie-Anne felt that there was no longer any hope for her.
and that it was the chill of death which was creeping toward
her heart. She felt that her life was fast ebbing away. So,
when Blanche turned as if to rush out in search of assistance,
564 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
she detained her with a gesture, and gently called her by her
name. The murderess paused. "Do not summon any one,"
murmured Marie-Anne ; "it would do no good. Let me at least
die in peace. It will not be long now."
"Hush ! do not speak so. You must not — you shall not die !
If you should die — great God ! what would my life be after-
ward !"
Marie-Anne made no reply. The poison was rapidly com-
pleting its work. The sufferer's breath literally whistled as it
forced its way through her inflamed throat. When she moved
her tongue, it scorched her palate as if it had been a piece of
hot iron; her lips were parched and swollen; and her hands,
inert and paralyzed, would no longer obey her will.
But the horror of the situation restored Blanche's calmness.
"All is not yet lost," she exclaimed. "It was in that great box
there on the table that I found the white powder I poured into
the bowl. You must know what it is; you must know the
antidote."
Marie-Anne sadly shook her head. "Nothing can save me
now," she murmured, in an almost inaudible voice; "but I don't
complain. Who knows the misery from which death may pre-
serve me? I don't crave life; I have suffered so much during
the past year ; I have endured such humiliation ; I have wept so
much ! A curse was on me !" She was suddenly endowed with
that clearness of mental vision so often granted to the dying.
She saw how she had wrought her own undoing by consenting
to play the perfidious part her father had assigned her, and how
she herself had paved the way for the slander, crimes, and
misfortunes of which she had been the victim.
Her voice grew fainter and fainter. Worn out with suffer-
ing, a sensation of drowsiness stole over her. She was falling
asleep in the arms of death. But suddenly such a terrible
thought found its way into her failing mind that she gasped
with agony: "My child!" And then, regaining, by a super-
human effort, as much will, energy, and strength as the poison
would allow her, she straightened herself in the armchair, and
though her features were contracted by mortal anguish, yet
with an energy of which no one would have supposed her capa-
ble, she exclaimed: "Blanche, listen to me. It is the secret of
my life which I am going to reveal to you; no one suspects it
I have a son by Maurice. Alas ! many months have elapsed
since my husband disappeared. If he is dead, what will become
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 565
of my child? Blanche, you, who have killed me, swear to me
that you will be a mother to my child !"
Blanche was utterly overcome. "I swear !" she sobbed ; "I
swear !"
"On that condition, but on that condition alone, I pardon
you. But take care ! Do not forget your oath ! Blanche,
Heaven sometimes allows the dead to avenge themselves. You
have sworn, remember. My spirit will allow you no rest if you
do not fulfil your vow !"
"I will remember," sobbed Blanche; "I will remember. But
the child—"
"Ah ! I was afraid — cowardly creature that I was ! I dreaded
the shame — then Maurice insisted — I sent my child away — your
jealousy and my death are the punishment of my weakness.
Poor child ! abandoned to strangers ! Wretched woman that I
am ! Ah ! this suffering is too horrible. Blanche, remember — "
She spoke again, but her words were indistinct, inaudible.
Blanche frantically seized the dying woman's arm, and en-
deavored to arouse her. "To whom have you confided your
child ?" she repeated ; "to whom ? Marie-Anne — a word more —
a single word — a name, Marie-Anne!"
The unfortunate woman's lips moved, but the death-rattle
already sounded in her throat; a terrible convulsion shook her
frame; she slid down from the chair, and fell full length upon
the floor. Marie-Anne was dead — dead, and she had not dis-
closed the name of the old physician at Vigano to whom she
had entrusted her child. She was dead, and the terrified mur-
deress stood in the middle of the room as rigid and motionless
as a statue. It seemed to her that madness — a madness like that
which had stricken her father — was working in her brain. She
forgot everything; she forgot that some one was expected at
midnight; that time was flying, and that she would surely be
discovered if she did not fly. But the man who had entered the
house when she cried for help was watching over her. As soon
as he saw that Marie-Anne had breathed her last, he pushed
against the door, and thrust his leering face into the room.
"Chupin!" faltered Blanche.
"In the flesh," he responded. "This was a grand chance for
you. Ah, ha! The business riled your stomach a little; but
nonsense ! that will soon pass off. But we must not dawdle
here : some one may come in. Let us make haste."
Mechanically the murderess stepped forward, but Marie-
566 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
Anne's dead body lay between her and the door, barring the
passage. To leave the room it was necessary to step over her
victim's lifeless form. She had not courage to do so, and
recoiled with a shudder. But Chupin was troubled by no such
scruples. He sprang across the body, lifted Blanche as if she
had been a child, and carried her out of the house. He was
intoxicated with joy. He need have no fears for the future
now ; for Blanche was bound to him by the strongest of chains
— complicity in crime. He saw himself on the threshold of a
life of constant revelry. All remorse anent Lacheneur's be-
trayal had departed. He would be sumptuously fed, lodged, and
clothed; and, above all, effectually protected by an army of
servants.
While these agreeable thoughts were darting through his
mind, the cool night air was reviving the terror-stricken Mar-
quise de Sairmeuse. She intimated that she should prefer to
walk, and accordingly Chupin deposited her on her feet some
twenty paces from the house. Aunt Medea was already with
them after the fashion of a dog left at the door by its master
while the latter goes into the house. She had instinctively fol-
lowed her niece, when she perceived the old poacher carrying
her out of the cottage.
"We must not stop to talk," said Chupin. "Come, I will lead
the way." And taking Blanche by the arm, he hastened toward
the grove. "Ah ! so Marie-Anne had a child," he remarked, as
they hurried. "She pretended to be such a saint! But where
the deuce has she placed it?"
"I shall find it," replied Blanche.
"Hum ! that is easier said than done," quoth the old poacher,
thoughtfully.
Scarcely had he spoken than a shrill laugh resounded in the
darkness. In the twinkling of an eye Chupin had released his
hold on Blanche's arm, and assumed an attitude of defense.
The precaution was fruitless; for at the same moment a man
concealed among the trees bounded upon him from behind, and,
plunging a knife four times into his writhing body, exclaimed:
"Holy Virgin ! now is my vow fulfilled ! I shall no longer have
to eat with my fingers!"
"Balstain ! the innkeeper !" groaned the wounded man. sink-
ing to the ground.
Blanche seemed rooted to the spot with horror; but Aunt
Medea for once in her life had some energy in her fear.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
567
"Come!" she shrieked, dragging her niece away. "Come — he
is dead !"
Not quite, for the old traitor had sufficient strength remain-
ing to crawl home and knock at the door. His wife and young-
est boy were sleeping soundly, and it was his eldest son, who
had just returned home, who opened the door. Seeing his
father prostrate on the ground, the young man thought he was
intoxicated, and tried to lift him and carry him into the house,
but the old poacher begged him to desist. "Don't touch me,"
said he. "It is all over with me ! but listen : Lacheneur's daugh-
ter has just been poisoned by Madame Blanche. It was to tell
you this that I dragged myself here. This knowledge is worth
a fortune, my boy, if you are not a fool !" And then he died
without being able to tell his family where he had concealed
the price of Lacheneur's blood.
T T will be recollected that of all those who witnessed the
*■ Baron d'Escorval's terrible fall over the precipice below the
citadel of Montaignac, the Abbe Midon was the only one who
did*not despair. He set about his task with more than courage,
with a reverent faith in the protection of Providence, remem-
bering Ambroise Pare's sublime phrase: "I dress the wound
— God heals it." That he was right to hope was conclusively
shown by the fact that after six months' sojourn in Father
Poignot's house, the baron was able to sit up and even to limp
about with the aid of crutches. On reaching this stage of
recovery, however, when it was essential he should take some
little exercise, he was seriously inconvenienced by the diminu-
tive proportions of Poignot's loft, so that he welcomed with
intense delight the prospect of taking up his abode at the Bor-
derie with Marie- Anne ; and when indeed the abbe fixed the day
for moving, he grew as impatient for it to arrive as a school-
boy is for the holidays. "I am suffocating here," he said to his
wife, "literally suffocating. The time passes slowly. When
will the happy day come?"
14 — Vol. II— fiab.
568 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
It came at last. The morning was spent in packing up such
things as they had managed to procure dur'ng their stay at the
farm ; and soon after nightfall Poignot's elder son began carry-
ing them away. "Everything is at the Borderie," said the hon-
est fellow, on returning from his last trip, "and Mademoiselle
Lacheneur bids the baron bring a good appetite."
"I shall have one, never fear !" responded M. d'Escorval
gaily. "We shall all have one."
Father Poignot himself was busy harnessing his best horse
to the cart which was to convey the baron to his new home.
The worthy man felt sad as he thought that these guests, for
whose sake he had incurred such danger, were now going to
leave him. He felt he should acutely miss them, that the house
would seem gloomy and deserted after they had left. He would
allow no one else to arrange the mattress intended for M.
d'Escorval comfortably in the cart; and when he had done this
to his satisfaction, he murmured, with a sigh: "It's time to
start !" and turned to climb the narrow staircase leading to the
loft.
M. d'Escorval with a patient's natural egotism had not
thought of the parting. But when he saw the honest farmer
coming to bid him good-by, with signs of deep emotion on his
face, he forgot all the comforts that awaited him at the Bor-
derie, in the remembrance of the royal and courageous hospi-
tality he had received in the house he was about to leave. The
tears sprang to his eyes. "You have rendered me a service
which nothing can repay, Father Poignot," he said, with intense
feeling. "You have saved my life."
"Oh ! we won't talk of that, baron. In my place, you would
have done the same — neither more nor less."
"I shall not attempt to express my thanks, but I hope to live
long enough to show my gratitude."
The staircase was so narrow that they had considerable diffi-
culty in carrying the baron down ; but finally they had him
stretched comfortably on his mattress in the cart ; a few hand-
fuls of straw being scattered over his limbs so as to hide him
from the gaze of any inquisitive passers-by. The latter was
scarcely to be expected, it is true, for it was now fully eleven
o'clock at night. Parting greetings were exchanged, and then
the cart which young Poignot drove with the utmost caution
started slowly on its way.
On foot, some twenty paces in the rear, came Madame
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 569
d'Escorval, leaning on the abbe's arm. It was very dark, but
even if they had been in the full sunshine, the former cure of
Sairmeuse might have encountered any of his old parishioners
without the least danger of detection. He had allowed his hair
and beard to grow ; his tonsure had entirely disappeared, and
his sedentary life had caused him to become much stouter. He
was clad like all the well-to-do peasants of the neighborhood,
his face being partially hidden by a large slouch-hat. He had
not felt so much at ease for months past. Obstacles which had
originally seemed to him insurmountable had now vanished,
and in the near future he saw the baron's innocence proclaimed
by an impartial tribunal, while he himself was reinstalled in the
parsonage of Sairmeuse. If it had not been for his recollec-
tion of Maurice he would have had nothing to trouble his mind.
Why had young D'Escorval given no sign of life? It seemed
impossible for him to have met with any misfortune without
hearing of it, for there was brave old Corporal Bavois, who
would have risked anything to come and warn them if Maurice
had been in danger. The abbe was so absorbed in these reflec-
tions that he did not notice Madame d'Escorval was leaning
more heavily on his arm and gradually slackening her pace.
"I am ashamed to confess it," she said at last, "but I can go
no farther. It is so long since I was out of doors that I have
almost forgotten how to walk."
"Fortunately we are almost there," replied the priest; and
indeed a moment afterward young Poignot drew up at the
corner of the foot-path leading to the Borderie. Telling the
baron that the journey was ended, he gave a low whistle, like
that which had warned Marie-Anne of his arrival a few hours
before. No one appeared or replied, so he whistled again in
a louder key, and then a third time with all his might — still
there was no response. Madame d'Escorval and the abbe had
now overtaken the cart. "It's very strange that Marie-Anne
doesn't hear me," remarked young Poignot, turning to them.
"We can't take the baron to the house until we have seen her.
She knows that very well. Shall I run up and warn her?"
"She's asleep, perhaps," replied the abbe; "stay with your
horse, my boy, and I'll go and wake her."
He certainly did not feel the least uneasiness. All was calm
and still outside, and a bright light shone through the windows
of the upper floor. Still, when he perceived the open door, a
vague presentiment of evil stirred his heart. "What can this
570 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
mean?" he thought. There was no light in the lower rooms,
and he had to feel for the staircase with his hands. At last
he found it and went up. Another open door was in front of
him ; he stepped forward and reached the threshold. Then,
so suddenly that he almost fell backward, he paused horror-
stricken at the sight before him. Poor Marie-Anne was lying
on the floor. Her eyes, which were wide open, were covered
with a white film; her tongue was hanging black and swollen
from her mouth. "Dead!" faltered the priest; "dead!" But
this could not be. The abbe conquered his weakness, and
approaching the poor girl, he took her by the hand. "Poi-
soned !" he murmured : "poisoned with arsenic." He rose to
his feet, and was casting a bewildered glance around the room
when his eyes fell on his medicine chest standing open on a
side-table. He rushed toward it, took out a vial, uncorked it,
and turned it over on the palm of his hand — it was empty.
"I was not mistaken !" he exclaimed.
But he had no time to lose in conjectures. The first thing
to be done was to induce the baron to return to the farmhouse
without telling him of the terrible misfortune which had oc-
curred. It would not be very difficult to find a pretext. Sum-
moning all his courage, the priest hastened back to the wagon,
and with well-affected calmness told M. d'Escorval that it would
be impossible for him to take up his abode at the Borderie at
present, that several suspicious-looking characters had been
seen prowling about, and that they must be more prudent than
ever now, so as not to render Martial's intervention useless.
At last, but not without considerable reluctance, the baron
yielded. "As you desire it, cure," he sighed, "I must obey.
Come, Poignot, my boy, drive me back to your father's house."
Madame d'Escorval took a seat in her cart beside her hus-
band. The priest stood watching them as they drove off, and
it was not until the sound of the wheels had died away in
the distance that he ventured to return to the Borderie. He
was climbing the stairs again when he heard a faint moan in
the room where Marie-Anne was lying. The sound sent all
his blood wildly rushing to his heart, and with one bound he
had reached the upper floor. Beside the corpse a young man
was kneeling, weeping bitterly. The expression of his face, his
attitude, his sobs betrayed the wildest despair. He was so
lost in grief that he did not observe the abbe's entrance. Who
was this mourner who had found his way to the house of
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 571
death? At last, however, though he did not recognize him,
the priest divined who he must be. "Jean !" he cried, "Jean
Lacheneur !" The young fellow sprang to his feet with a
pale face and threatening look. "Who are you?" he asked
vehemently. "What are you doing here? What do you want
with me?"
The former cure of Sairmeuse was so effectually disguised
by his peasant dress and long beard that he had to name
himself. "You, Monsieur Abbe," exclaimed Jean. "It is God
who has sent you here ! Marie- Anne can not be dead ! You,
who have saved so many others, will save her." But as the
priest sadly pointed to heaven, the young fellow paused, and
his face became more ghastly looking than before. He under-
stood now that there was no hope. "Ah !" he murmured in
a desponding tone, "fate shows us no mercy. I have been
watching over Marie-Anne from a distance; and this evening
I was coming to warn her to be cautious, for I knew she was
in great danger. An hour ago, while I was eating my supper
in a wine-shop at Sairmeuse, Grollet's son same in. 'Is that
you, Jean?' said he. 'I just saw Chupin hiding near your
sister's house; when he observed me, he slunk away.' When
I heard that, I hastened here like a crazy man. I ran, but
when fate is against you. what can you do? I arrived too
late !"
The abbe reflected for a moment. "Then you suppose it
was Chupin?" he asked.
"I don't suppose ; I feel certain that it was he — the miserable
traitor ! — who committed this foul deed."
"Still, what motive could he have had?"
With a discordant laugh that almost seemed a yell, Jean
answered: "Oh, you may be certain that the daughter's blood
will yield him a richer reward than did the father's. Chupin
has been the instrument ; but it was not he who conceived the
crime. You will have to seek higher for the culprit, much
higher, in the finest chateau of the country, in the midst of
an army of retainers at Sairmeuse."
"Wretched man, what do you mean?"
"What I say." And he coldly added: "Martial de Sairmeuse
is the assassin."
The priest recoiled. "You are mad !" he said severely.
But Jean gravely shook his head. "If I seem so to you, sir,"
he replied, "it is only because you are ignorant of Martial's
572 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
wild passion for Marie-Anne. He wanted to make her his
mistress. She had the audacity to refuse the honor; and that
was a crime for which she must be punished. When the Mar-
quis de Sairmeuse became convinced that Lacheneur's daughter
would never be his, he poisoned her, that she might not belong
to any one else." All efforts to convince Jean of the folly of
his accusations would at that moment have been vain. No
proofs would have convinced him. He would have closed his
eyes to all evidence.
"To-morrow, when he is more calm, I will reason with him,"
thought the abbe; and then he added aloud: "We can't allow
the poor girl's body to remain here on the floor. Help me,
and we will place it on the bed."
Jean trembled from head to foot, and his hesitation was per-
ceptible; but at last, after a severe struggle, he complied. No
one had ever yet slept on this bed which Chanlouineau had
destined for Marie-Anne, saying to himself that it should be
for her, or for no one. And Marie-Anne it was who rested
there the first — sleeping the sleep of death. When the sad task
was accomplished, Jean threw himself into the same armchair
in which Marie-Anne had breathed her last, and with his face
buried in his hands, and his elbows resting on his knees, he
sat there as silent and motionless as the statues of sorrow
placed above the last resting places of the dead.
In the mean while the abbe knelt by the bedside and began
reciting the prayers for the departed, entreating God to grant
peace and happiness in heaven to her who had suffered so
much on earth. But he prayed only with his lips, for in spite
of all his efforts, his mind would persist in wandering. He
was striving to solve the mystery that enshrouded Marie-Anne's
death. Had she been murdered? Was it possible that she had
committed suicide? The latter idea occurred to him without
his having any great faith in it; but, on the other hand, how
could her death possibly be the result of crime? He had care-
fully examined the room, and had discovered nothing that be-
trayed a stranger's visit. All he could prove was that his vial
of arsenic was empty, and that Marie-Anne had been poisoned
by absorbing it in the broth, a few drops of which were left
in the bowl standing on the mantelpiece. "When morning
comes," thought the abbe, "I will look outside."
Accordingly, at daybreak he went into the garden and made
a careful examination of the premises. At first he saw nothing
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 573
that gave him the least clue, and he was about to abandon his
investigations when, on entering the little grove, he espied a
large dark stain on the grass a few paces off. He went nearer
— it was blood ! In a state of great excitement, he summoned
Jean, to inform him of the discovery.
"Some one has been murdered here," said young Lacheneur;
"and only last night, for the blood has scarcely had time
to dry."
"The victim must have lost a great deal of blood," remarked
the priest; "it might be possible to discover who he was by
following these stains."
"Yes, I will try," replied Jean with alacrity. "Go into the
house, sir; I will soon be back again."
A child might have followed the trail of the wounded man,
for the blood-stains left along his line of route were so fre-
quent and distinct. These telltale marks led to Chupin's hovel,
the door of which was closed. Jean rapped, however, without
the slightest hesitation, and when the old poacher's eldest son
opened the door, he perceived a very singular spectacle. The
dead body had been thrown on to the ground, in a corner of
the hut, the bedstead was overturned and broken, all the straw
had been torn from the mattress, and the dead man's wife and
sons, armed with spades and pickaxes, were wildly overturn-
ing the beaten soil that formed the hovel's only floor. They were
seeking for the hidden treasure, for the twenty thousand francs
in gold, paid for Lacheneur's betrayal ! "What do you want ?"
asked the widow roughly.
"I want to see Father Chupin."
"Can't you see that he's been murdered," replied one of the
sons. And brandishing his pick close to Jean's head, he added:
"And you're the murderer, perhaps. But that's for justice to
determine. Now decamp if you don't want me to do for
you."
Jean could scarcely restrain himself from punishing young
Chupin for his threat, but under the circumstances a conflict
was scarcely permissible. Accordingly, he turned without an-
other word, hastened back to the Borderie. Chupin's death
upset all his plans, and greatly irritated him. "I swore that
the wretch who betrayed my father should perish by my hand,"
he murmured ; "and now I am deprived of my vengeance. Some
one has cheated me out of it. Who could it be? Can Martial
have assassinated Chupin after he murdered Marie- Anne? Th?
574 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
best way to assure one's self of an accomplice's silence is cer-
tainly to kill him."
Jean had reached the Borderie, and was on the point of going
upstairs when he fancied he heard some one talking in the back
room. "That's strange," he said to himself. "Who can it be?"
And yielding to the impulse of curiosity, he tapped against the
communicating door.
The abbe instantly made his appearance, hurriedly closing
the door behind him. He was very pale and agitated.
"Who's there?" inquired Jean eagerly.
"Why, Maurice d'Escorval and Corporal Bavois."
"My God !"
"And it's a miracle that Maurice has not been upstairs."
"But whence does he come from? Why have we had no
news of him?"
"I don't know. He has only been here five minutes. Poor
boy ! after I told him his father was safe, his first words were :
And Marie-Anne?' He loves her more devotedly than ever.
He comes home with his heart full of her, confident and hope-
ful; and I tremble — I fear to tell him the truth."
"Yes, it's really too terrible!"
"Now I have warned you; be prudent — and come in." They
entered the room together; and both Maurice and the old sol-
dier greeted Jean warmly. They had not seen one another
since the duel at La Reche, interrupted by the arrival of the
soldiers ; and when they separated that day they scarcely ex-
pected to meet again.
Now Maurice, however, was in the best of spirits, and it was
with a smile on his face that he remarked : "I am glad you've
come. There's nothing to fear now." Then turning to the
abbe, he remarked: "But I just promised to let you know the
reason of my long silence. Three days after we crossed the
frontier — Corporal Bavois and I — we reached Turin. We were
tired out. We went to a small inn, and they gave us a room
with two beds. While we were undressing, the corporal said
to me : T am quite capable of sleeping two whole days with-
out waking,' while I promised myself at least a good twelve
hours' rest; but we reckoned without our host, as you'll see.
It was scarcely daybreak when we were suddenly woke up.
There were a dozen men in our room, one or two of them in
some official costume. They spoke to us in Italian, and ordered
us to dress ourselves. They were so numerous that resistance
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 575
was useless, so we obeyed; and an hour after we were both in
prison, confined in the same cell. You may well imagine what
our thoughts were. The corporal remarked to me, in that cool
way of his: 'It will require four days to obtain our extradi-
tion, and three days to take us back to Montaignac — that's
seven ; then there'll be one day more to try us, so we've in all
just eight days to live.' Bavois said that at least a hundred
times during the first five or six days of our confinement, but
five months passed by, and every night we went to bed expect-
ing they'd come for us on the following morning. But they
didn't come. We were kindly treated. They did not take away
my money; and they willingly sold us various little luxuries.
We were allowed two hours of exercise every day in the court-
yard, and the keepers even lent us several books to read. In
short, I shouldn't have had any particular cause for complaint
if I had only been allowed to receive or to forward letters, or
if I had been able to communicate with my father or Marie-
Anne. But we were in the secret cells, and were not allowed
to have any intercourse with the other prisoners. At length
our detention seemed so strange and became so insupportable
that we resolved to obtain some explanation of it at any cost.
We changed our tactics. We had hitherto been quiet and sub-
missive : but now we became as violent and unmanageable as
possible. The whole prison resounded with our cries and pro-
testations ; we were continually sending for the superintendent,
and claiming the intervention of the French ambassador. These
proceedings at last had the desired effect. One fine afternoon
the governor of the jail released us, not without expressing his
regret at being deprived of the society of such amiable and
charming guests. Our first act, as you may suppose, was to
hasten to the ambassador. We didn't see that dignitary, but
his secretary received us. He knit his brows when I told my
story, and became excessively grave. I remember each word
of his reply. 'Sir,' said he, 'I can assure you most positively
that any proceedings instituted against you in France have had
nothing whatever to do with your detention here.' And I ex-
pressed my astonishment frankly. 'One moment,' he added, 'I
will give you my opinion. One of your enemies — I leave you
to discover which — must exert a powerful influence in Turin.
You were in his way, perhaps, and he had you imprisoned by
the Piedmontese police."
Jean Lacheneur struck the table beside him with his clenched
576 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
fist. "Ah ! the secretary was right !" he exc'aimed. "Maurice,
it was Martial de Sairmeuse who caused your arrest — "
"Or the Marquis de Courtornieu," interrupted the abbe with
a warning glance at Jean.
In a moment Maurice's eyes gleamed brilliantly, then, shrug-
ging his shoulders carelessly, he said: "Never mind; I don't
wish to trouble myself any more about the past. My father
is well again — that is the main thing. We can easily find some
way of getting him safely across the frontier. And then Marie-
Anne and I — we will tend him so devotedly that he will soon
forget it was my rashness that almost cost him his life. He
is so good, so indulgent for the faults of others. We will go
and reside in Italy or Switzerland, and you shall accompany
us, Monsieur le Abbe, and you as well, Jean. As for you. cor-
poral, it's already decided that you belong to our family."
While Maurice spoke in this fashion, so hopefully, so confi-
dently, Jean and the abbe, realizing the bitter truth, sought to
avert their faces; but they could not conceal their agitation
from young d'Escorval's searching glance. "What is the mat-
ter?" he asked with evident surprise.
They trembled, hung their heads, but did not say a word.
Maurice's astonishment changed to a vague, inexpressible fear.
He enumerated all the misfortunes which could possibly have
befallen him.
"What has happened?" he asked in a husky voice. "My
father is safe, is he not? You said that my mother would want
nothing more if I were only by her side again. Is it Marie-
Anne, then — " He hesitated.
"Courage, Maurice," murmured the abbe. "Courage !"
The young fellow tottered as if he were about to fall. He
had turned intensely pale. "Marie-Anne is dead !" he exclaimed.
Jean and the abbe were silent.
"Dead !" repeated Maurice ; "and no secret voice warned me !
Dead! When?"
"She died only last night," replied Jean.
Maurice rose. "Last night?" said he. "In that case, then,
she is still here. Where? — upstairs?" And without waiting for
a reply he darted toward the staircase so quickly that neither
Jean nor the abbe had time to intercept him. With three bounds
he reached the room above; he walked straight to the bed, and
with a firm hand turned back the sheet that hid his loved one's
face. But at the same moment he recoiled with a heart-broken
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 577
cry. What ! was this the beautiful, the radiant Marie-Anne —
she whom he had loved so fervently ! He did not recognize her.
He could not recognize these distorted features — that swollen,
discolored face — these eyes, now almost hidden by the purple
swelling round them. When Jean and the priest entered the
room they found him standing with his head thrown back,
his eyes dilated with terror, his right arm rigidly extended
toward the corpse. "Maurice," said the priest gently, "be
calm. Courage !"
The young fellow turned with an expression of complete be-
wilderment upon his features. "Yes," he faltered ; "that is what
I need — courage !" He staggered as he spoke, and they were
obliged to support him to an armchair.
"Be a man," continued the priest. "Where is your energy?
To live is to suffer."
He listened, but did not seem to understand. "Live !" he mur-
mured ; "why should I live since she is dead ?"
His eyes gleamed so strangely that the abbe was alarmed.
"If he does not weep, he will most certainly lose his reason !"
thought the priest. Then in a commanding voice he added
aloud. "You have no right to despair; you owe a sacred duty
to your child."
The same remembrance which had given Marie-Anne strength
to hold even death itself at bay for a moment saved Maurice
from the dangerous trance into which he was sinking. He
shuddered as if he had received an electric shock, and spring-
ing from his chair, "That is true," he cried. "Take me to my
child !"
"Not just now, Maurice; wait a little."
"Where is it? Tell me where it is."
"I can not ; I do not know."
An expression of unspeakable anguish stole over Maurice's
face, and in a broken voice he said: "What! you don't know?
Did she not confide in you?"
"No. I suspected her secret. I alone — "
"You alone! Then the child is perhaps dead. Even if it is
living, who can tell where it is?"
"We shall no doubt find a clue."
"You are right," faltered Maurice. "When Marie-Anne
knew that her life was in danger, she could not have forgotten
her little one. Those who cared for her in her last moments
must have received some message for me. I must see those
578 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
who watched over her. Who were they?" The priest averted
his face. "I asked you who was with her when she died," re-
peated Maurice in a sort of frenzy. And, as the abbe remained
silent, a terrible light dawned on the young fellow's mind. He
understood the cause of Marie-Anne's distorted features now.
"She perished the victim of a crime!" he exclaimed. "Some
monster killed her. If she died such a death, our child is lost
forever ! And it was I who recommended, who commanded the
greatest precautions ! Ah ! we are all of us cursed !" He sank
back in his chair, overwhelmed with sorrow and remorse, and
with big tears rolling slowly down his cheeks.
"He is saved !" thought the abbe, whose heart bled at the
sight of such intense sorrow.
Jean Lacheneur stood by the priest's side with gloom upon
his face. Suddenly he drew the Abbe Midon toward one of the
windows: "What is this about a child?" he inquired harshly.
The priest's face flushed. "You have heard," he answered
laconically.
"Am I to understand that Marie-Anne was Maurice's mis-
tress, and that she had a child by him? Is that the case? I
won't, I can't, believe it ! She whom I revered as a saint !
What ! you would have me believe that her eyes lied — her eyes
so chaste, so pure? And he — Maurice — he whom I loved as a
brother ! So his friendship was only a cloak, which he assumed
so as to rob us of our honor !" Jean hissed these words through
his set teeth in such low tones that Maurice, absorbed in his
agony of grief, did not overhear him. "But how did she con-
ceal her shame?" he continued. "No one suspected it — abso-
lutely no one. And what has she done with her child? Did
the thought of disgrace frighten her? Did she follow the ex-
ample of so many ruined and forsaken women? Did she mur-
der her own child? Ah, if it be alive, I will find it, and in any
case Maurice shall be punished for his perfidy as he deserves."
He paused ; the window was open, and the sound of galloping
horses could be plainly heard approaching along the adjacent
highway. Both Jean and the abbe leaned forward and looked
out. Two horsemen were riding toward the Borderie — the first
some ten yards in advance of the other. The former halted at
the corner of the garden path, threw his reins to his follower —
a groom — and then strode on foot toward the house. On recog-
nizing this visitor, Jean bounded from the window with a yell.
He clutched Maurice by the shoulders, and, shaking him vio-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 579
lently, exclaimed: "Up! here comes Martial, Marie-Anne's mur-
derer ! Up ! he is coming ! He is at our mercy !"
Maurice sprang to his feet, infuriated ; but the abbe darted
to the door and intercepted both young fellows as they were
about to leave the room. "Not a word ! not a threat !" he said,
imperiously. "I forbid it. At least respect the presence of
death J" He spoke with such authority, and his glance was so
commanding, that both Jean and Maurice involuntarily paused.
Before the priest had time to add another word, Martial was
there. He did not cross the threshold. One look and he real-
ized the siutation. He turned very pale, but not a word escaped
his lips. Wonderful as was his usual power of self-control he
could not articulate a syllable; and it was only by pointing to
the bed on which Marie-Anne's lifeless form was reposing that
he asked for an explanation.
"She was infamously poisoned last evening," sadly replied
the abbe.
Then Maurice, forgetting the priest's demands, stepped for-
ward. "She was alone and defenseless," he said vehemently.
"I have only been at liberty during the last two days. But I
know the name of the man who had me arrested at Turin, and
thrown into prison. They told me the coward's name ! Yes, it
was you, you infamous wretch ! Ah ! you dare not deny it ; you
confess your guilt, you scoundrel !"
Once again the abbe interposed; he threw himself between
the rivals, fearing lest they should come to blows. But the
Marquis de Sairmeuse had already resumed his usual haughty
and indifferent manner. He took a bulky envelope from his
pocket, and threw it on the table. "This," said he coldly, "is
what I was bringing to Mademoiselle Lacheneur. It contains,
first of all, royal letters of license from his majesty for the
Baron d'Escorval, who is now at liberty to return to his old
home. He is, in fact, free and saved, for he is granted a new
trial, and there can be no doubt of his acquittal. In the same
envelope you will also find a decree of non-complicity rendered
in favor of the Abbe Midon, and an order from the bishop of
the diocese reinstating him as cure of Sairmeuse ; and, finally,
Corporal Bavois's discharge from the service, drawn up in
proper form, with the needful memorandum securing his right
to a pension."
He paused, and as his hearers stood motionless with wonder,
he turned and approached Marie-Anne's bedside. Then, with
580
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
his hand raised to heaven over the lifeless form of her whom
he had loved, and in a voice that would have made the mur-
deress tremble in her innermost soul, he solemnly exclaimed :
"I swear to you, Marie-Anne, that I will avenge you !" For a
few seconds he stood motionless, then suddenly he stooped,
pressed a kiss on the dead girl's brow, and left the room.
"And you think that man can be guilty !" exclaimed the
abbe. "You see, Jean, that you are mad!"
"And this last insult to my dead sister is an honor, I sup-
pose?" said Jean, with a furious gesture.
"And the wretch binds my hands by saving my father!" ex-
claimed Maurice.
From his place by the window, the abbe saw Martial vault
into the saddle. But the marquis did not take the road to
Montaignac. It was toward the Chateau de Courtornieu that
he now hastened.
BLANCHE'S reason had sustained a frightful shock, when
•*"* Chupin was obliged to lift and carry her out of Marie-
Anne's room. But she well-nigh lost consciousness altogether
when she saw the old poacher struck down by her side. How-
ever, as will be remembered, Aunt Medea, at least, had some
energy in her fright. She seized her bewildered niece's arm,
and by dint of dragging and pushing had her back at the cha-
teau in much less time than it had taken them to reach the
Borderie. It was half-past one in the morning when they
reached the little garden gate, by which they had left the
grounds. No one in the chateau had noticed their long absence.
This was due to several different circumstances. First of all,
to the precautions which Blanche herselt had taken in giving
orders, before going out, that no one should come to her room,
on any pretext whatever, unless she rang. Then it also chanced
to be the birthday of the marquis s valet de chambre, and the
servants had dined more sumptuously than usual. They had
toasts and songs over their dessert; and at the finish of the
THE HONOR OF THE NAME S81
repast, they amused themselves with an improvised ball. They
were still dancing when Blanche and her aunt returned. None
of the doors had yet been secured for the night, and the
pair succeeded in reaching Blanche's room without being
observed. When the door had been securely closed, and
there was no longer any fear of listeners, Aunt Medea
attacked her niece.
"Now will you explain what happened at the Borderie; and
what you were doing there ?" she inquired, in a tone of unusual
authority.
Blanche shuddered. "Why do you wish to know?" she
asked.
"Because I suffered agony during the hours I was waiting
for you in the garden. What was the meaning of those dread-
ful cries I heard? Why did you call for help? I heard a
death-rattle that made my hair stand on end with terror. Why
did Chupin have to bring you out in his arms?" She paused
for a moment, and then finding that Blanche did not reply:
"You don't answer me !" she exclaimed.
The young marquise was longing to annihilate her dependent
relative, who might ruin her by a thoughtless word, and whom
she would ever have beside her — a living memento of her crime.
However, what should she say? Would it be better to reveal
the truth, horrible as it was, or to invent some plausible ex-
planation? If she confessed everything she would place her-
self at Aunt Medea's mercy. But, on the other hand, if she
deceived her aunt, it was more than probable that the latter
would betray her by some involuntary remark when she heard
of the crime committed at the Borderie? Hence, under the
circumstances, the wisest plan, perhaps, would be to speak out
frankly, to teach her relative her lesson, and try and imbue her
with some firmness. Having come to this conclusion, Blanche
disdained all concealment. "Ah, well !" she said, "I was jealous
of Marie-Anne. I thought she was Martial's mistress. I was
half-crazed, and I poisoned her."
She expected a despairing cry, or even a fainting fit, but,
to her surprise, Aunt Medea merely shed a few tears — such as
she often wept for any trifle — and exclaimed: "How terrible.
What if it should be discovered?" In point of fact, stupid as
the neglected spinster might be, she had guessed the truth be-
fore she questioned her niece. And not merely was she pre-
pared for some such answer, but the tyranny she had endured
582 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
for years had well-nigh destroyed all the real moral sensibility
she had ever possessed.
On noting her aunt's comparative composure, Blanche
breathed more freely. She never imagined that her impover-
ished relative was already meditating some sort of revenge for
all the slights heaped on her in past years; but felt quite
convinced that she could count on Aunt Medea's absolute silence
and submission. With this idea in her head she began to relate
all the circumstances of the frightful drama enacted at the
Borderie. In so doing she yielded to a desire stronger than
her own will: to the wild longing that often seizes the most
hardened criminal, and forces — irresistibly impels him to talk
of his crimes, even when he distrusts his confidant. But when
she came to speak of the proofs which had convinced her of
her lamentable mistake, she suddenly paused in dismay.
What had she done with the marriage certificate signed by
the cure of Vigano, and which she remembered holding in her
hands? She sprang up, and felt in the pocket of her dress.
Ah, she had it safe. It was there. Without again unfolding
it she threw it into a drawer, and turned the key.
Aunt Medea wished to retire to her own room, but Blanche
entreated her to remain. She was unwilling to be left alone —
she dared not — she was afraid. And as if she desired to silence
the inward voice tormenting her, she talked on with extreme
volubility, repeating again and again that she was ready to do
anything in expiation of her crime, and vowing that she would
overcome all impossibilities in her quest for Marie-Anne's child.
The task was both a difficult and dangerous one, for an open
search for the child would be equivalent to a confession of
guilt. Hence, she must act secretly, and with great caution.
"But I shall succeed," she said. "I will spare no expense."
And remembering her vow, and her dying victim's threats, she
added : "I must succeed. I swore to do so, and I was forgiven
under those conditions."
In the mean while. Aunt Medea sat listening in astonishment.
It was incomprehensible to her that her niece, with her dread-
ful crime still fresh in her mind, could coolly reason, deliberate,
and make plans for the future. "What an iron will !" thought
the dependent relative ; but in her bewilderment she quite over-
looked one or two circumstances that would have enlightened
any ordinary observer.
Blanche was seated on her bed with her hair unbound; her
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 583
eyes were glistening with delirium, and her incoherent words
and excited gestures betrayed the frightful anxiety that was
torturing her. And she talked and talked, now narrating, and
now questioning Aunt Medea, and forcing her to reply, only
that she might escape from her own thoughts. Morning had
already dawned, and the servants could be heard bustling about
the chateau, while Blanche, oblivious of everything around her,
was still explaining how, in less than a year, she could hope
to restore Marie-Anne's child to Maurice d'Escorval. She
paused abruptly in the middle of a sentence. Instinct had sud-
denly warned her of the danger she incurred in making the
slightest change in her habits. Accordingly, she sent Aunt
Medea away; then, at the usual hour, rang for her maid. It
was nearly eleven o'clock, and she was just completing her
toilet, when the ring of the outer bell announced a visitor. Al-
most immediately her maid, who had just previously left her,
returned, evidently in a state of great excitement.
"What is the matter?" inquired Blanche, eagerly. "Who
has come?"
"Ah, madame — that is, mademoiselle, if you only knew — "
"Will you speak ?"
"The Marquis de Sairmeuse is downstairs in the blue
drawing-room ; and he begs mademoiselle to grant him a few
minutes' conversation."
Had a thunderbolt riven the earth at her feet, the murderess
could not have been more terrified. Her first thought was that
everything had been discovered ; for what else could have
brought Martial there? She almost decided to send word that
she was not at home, or that she was extremely ill, when reason
told her that she was perhaps alarming herself needlessly, and
that in any case the worst was preferable to suspense. "Tell
the marquis that I will be with him in a moment," she at last
replied.
She desired a few minutes solitude to compose her features,
to regain her self-possession, if possible, and conquer the ner-
vous trembling that made her shake like a leaf. But in the
midst of her uneasiness a sudden inspiration brought a malicious
smile to her lip. "Ah !" she thought, "my agitation will seem
perfectly natural. It may even be of service." And yet, as she
descended the grand staircase, she could not help saying to her-
self: "Martial's presence here is incomprehensible."
It was certainly very extraordinary; and he himself had not
584 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
come to Courtornieu without considerable hesitation. But it
was the only means he had of procuring several important docu-
ments which were indispensable in the revision of M. d'Escor-
val's case. These documents, after the baron's condemnation,
had been left in the Marquis de Courtornieu's hands. Now that
the latter had gone out of his mind, it was impossible to ask
him for them; and Martial was obliged to apply to his wife for
permission to search for them among her father's papers. He
had said to himself that morning: "I will carry the baron's
letters of license to Marie-Anne, and then I will push on to
Courtornieu."
He arrived at the Borderie gay and confident, his heart full
of hope ; and found that Marie- Anne was dead. The discovery
had been a terrible blow for Martial ; and his conscience told
him that he was not free from blame; that he had, at least,
facilitated the perpetration of the crime. For it was indeed
he who. by an abuse of influence, had caused Maurice's arrest
at Turin. But though he was capable of the basest perfidy
when his love was at stake, he was incapable of virulent ani-
mosity. Marie-Anne was dead; he had it in his power to re-
voke the benefits he had conferred, but the thought of doing so
never once occurred to him. And when Jean and Maurice up-
braided him, his only revenge was to overwhelm them by his
magnanimity. When he left the Borderie, pale as a ghost, his
lips still cold from the kiss still printed on the dead girl's brow,
he said to himself: "For her sake, I will go to Courtornieu. In
memory of her, the baron must be saved."
By the expression of the servants' faces as he leaped from
the saddle in the courtyard of the chateau and asked to see
Madame Blanche, he was again reminded of the sensation
which this unexpected visit would necessarily cause. How-
ever, he cared little for it. He was passing through a crisis in
which the mind can conceive no further misfortune, and be-
comes indifferent to everything. Still he trembled slightly when
they ushered him into the blue drawing-room. He remem-
bered the room well, for it was here that Blanche had been
wont to receive him in days gone by, when his fancy was
wavering between her and Marie-Anne. How many pleasant
hours they had passed together here ! He seemed to see
Blanche again, as she was then, radiant with youth, gay and
smiling. Her manner was affected, perhaps, but still it had
seemed charming at the time.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 585
At this very moment, Blanche entered the room. She looked
so sad and careworn that her husband scarcely knew her. His
heart was touched by the look of patient sorrow seemingly
stamped upon her features. "How much you must have suf-
fered, Blanche," he murmured, scarcely knowing what he said.
It cost her an effort to repress her secret joy. She at once
realized that he knew nothing of her crime; and noting his
emotion, she perceived the profit she might derive from it. "I
can never cease to regret having displeased you," she replied,
in a sad, humble voice. "I shall never be consoled."
She had touched the vulnerable spot in every man's heart.
For there is no man so skeptical, so cold, or so heartless but his
vanity is not flattered with the thought that a woman is dying
for his sake. There is no man who is not moved by such a
flattering idea; and who is not ready and willing to give, at
least, a tender pity in exchange for such devotion.
"Is it possible that you could forgive me?" stammered Mar-
tial. The wily enchantress averted her face as if to prevent
him from reading in her eyes a weakness of which she felt
ashamed. This simple gesture was the most eloquent of an-
swers. But Martial said no more on this subject. He asked
for permission to inspect M. de Courtornieu's papers with the
view of finding the documents he required for M. d'Escorval's
case, and Blanche readily complied with his request. He then
turned to take his leave, and fearing perhaps the consequences
of too formal a promise he merely added: "Since you don't
forbid it, Blanche, I will return — to-morrow — another day."
However, as he rode back to Montaignac, his thoughts were
busy. "She really loves me," he mused ; "that pallor, that weari-
ness could not be feigned. Poor girl ! she is my wife, after all.
The reasons that influenced me in my quarrel with her father
exist no longer, for the Marquis de Courtornieu may be consid-
ered as dead."
All the inhabitants of Sairmeuse were congregated on the
market-place when Martial rode through the village. They
had just heard of the murder at the Border ie, and the abbe
was now closeted with the magistrate, relating as far as he
could the circumstances of the crime. After a prolonged in-
quiry, it was eventually reported that a man known as Chupin,
a notoriously bad character, had entered the house of Marie-
Anne Lacheneur, and taken advantage of her absence to
mingle poison with her food; and the said Chupin had been
586
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
himself assassinated soon after his crime by i certain Balstain,
whose whereabouts were unknown.
However, this affair soon interested the district far less than
the constant visits which Martial was paying to Madame
Blanche. Shortly afterward it was rumored that the Marquis
and the Marquise de Sairmeuse were reconciled; and indeed a
few weeks later, they left for Paris with an intention of resid-
ing there permanently. A day or two after their departure,
the eldest of the Chupins also announced his determination of
taking up his abode in the same great city. Some of his friends
endeavored to dissuade him, assuring him that he would cer-
tainly die of starvation; but with singular assurance, he re-
plied : "On the contrary, I have an idea that I shan't want for
anything as long as I live there."
HPIME gradually heals all wounds; and its effacing fingers
■ spare but few traces of events; which in their season may
have absorbed the attention of many thousand minds. What
remained to attest the reality of that fierce whirlwind of passion
which had swept over the peaceful valley of the Oiselle? Only
a charred ruin on La Reche, and a grave in the cemetery, on
which was inscribed: "Marie- Anne Lacheneur, died at the age
of twenty. Pray for her !" Recent as were the events of which
that ruin and that gravestone seemed as it were the prologue and
the epilogue, they were already relegated to the legendary past.
The peasantry of Sairmeuse had other things to think about —
the harvest, the weather, their sheep and cattle, and it was only
a few old men, the politicians of the village, who at times
turned their attention from agricultural incidents to remember
the rising of Montaignac. Sometimes, during the long winter
evenings, when they were gathered together at the local hos-
telry of the Boeuf Couronne, they would lay down their greasy
cards and gravely discuss the events of the past year. And
they never failed to remark that almost all the actors of that
bloody drama at Montaignac had, in common parlance, "come
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 587
to a bad end." The victors and the vanquished seemed to en-
counter the same fate. Lacheneur had been beheaded ; Chan-
louineau, shot ; Marie- Anne, poisoned ; and Chupin, the traitor,
the Due de Sairmeuse's spy, stabbed to death. It was true that
the Marquis de Courtornieu lived, or rather survived, but death
would have seemed a mercy in comparison with such a total
annihilation of intelligence. He had fallen below the level of
a brute beast, which at least is endowed with instinct. Since
his daughter's departure he had been ostensibly cared for by
two servants, who did not allow him to give them much
trouble, for whenever they wished to go out they complacently
confined him, not in his room, but in the back cellar, so as
to prevent his shrieks and ravings from being heard out-
side. If some folks supposed for a while that the Sairmeuses
would escape the fate of the others, they were grievously mis-
taken, for it was not long before the curse fell upon them
as well.
One fine December morning, the duke left the chateau to
take part in a wolf-hunt in the neighborhood. At nightfall, his
horse returned, panting, covered with foam, and riderless.
What had become of his master? A search was instituted at
once, and all night long a score of men, carrying torches, wan-
dered through the woods, shouting and "ailing at the top of
their voices. Five days went by, and the search for the missing
man was almost abandoned, when a shepherd lad, pale with
fear, came to the chateau to tell the steward that he had dis-
covered the Due de Sairmeuse's body — lying all bloody and
mangled at the foot of a precipice. It seemed strange that so
excellent a rider should have met with ruch a fate; and there
might have been some doubt as to its being an accident, had it
not been for the explanation given by several of his grace's
grooms. "The duke was riding an exceedingly vicious beast,"
these men remarked. "She was always taking fright and shying
at everything."
A few days after this occurrence Jean Lacheneur left the
neighborhood. This singular fellow's conduct had caused con-
siderable comment. When Marie-Anne died, although he was
her natural heir, he at first refused to have anything to do with
her property. "I don't want to take anything that came to her
through Chanlouineau," he said to every one right and left, thus
slandering his sister's memory, as he had slandered her when
alive. Then, after a short absence from the district, and with-
588 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
out any apparent reason, he suddenly charged his mind. He
not only accepted the property, but made all possible haste to
obtain possession of it. He excused his past conduct as best
he could ; but if he was to be believed, instead of acting in his
own interest, he was merely carrying his sister's wishes into
effect, for he over and over again declared that whatever price
her property might fetch not a sou of its value would go into
his own pockets. This much is certain, as soon as he obtained
legal possession of the estate, he sold it, troubling himself but
little as to the price he received, provided the purchasers paid
cash. However, he reserved the sumptuous furniture of the
room on the upper floor of the Borderie and burnt it — from
the bedstead to the curtains and the carpet — one evening in the
little garden in front of the house. This singular act became
the talk of the neighborhood, and the villagers universally
opined that Jean had lost his head. Those who hesitated to
agree with this opinion, expressed it a short time afterward,
when it became known that Jean Lacheneur had engaged him-
self with a company of strolling players who stopped at Mon-
taignac for a few days. The young fellow had both good
advice and kind friends. M. d'Escorval and the abbe had ex-
erted all their eloquence to induce him to return to Paris, and
complete his studies; but in vain.
The priest and the baron no longer had to conceal themselves.
Thanks to Martial de Sairmeuse, they were now installed, the
former at the parsonage and the latter at Escorval, as in days
gone by. Acquitted at his new trial, reinstalled in possession
of his property, reminded of his frightful fall only by a slight
limp, the baron would have deemed himself a fortunate man
had it not been for his great anxiety on his son's account. Poor
Maurice ! The nails that secured Marie-Anne's coffin ere it was
lowered into the sod seemed to have pierced his heart; and his
very life now seemed dependent on the hope of finding his
child. Relying already on the Abbe Midon's protection and as-
sistance, he had confessed everything to his father, and had
even confided his secret to Corporal Bavois, who was now an
honored guest at Escorval; and all three had promised him
their best assistance. But the task was a difficult one, and
such chances of success as might have existed were greatly
diminished by Maurice's determination that Marie-Anne's name
should not be mentioned in prosecuting the search. In this he
acted very differently to Jean. The latter slandered his mur-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 589
dered sister right and left, while Maurice sedulously sought to
prevent her memory being tarnished.
The Abbe Midon did not seek to turn Maurice from his idea.
"We shall succeed all the same," he said kindly; "with time
and patience any mystery can be solved." He divided the de-
partment into a certain number of districts; and one of the
little band went day by day from house to house questioning
the inmates, in the most cautious manner, for fear of arousing
suspicion; for a peasant becomes intractable if his suspicions
are but once aroused. However, weeks went by, and still the
quest was fruitless. Maurice was losing all hope. "My child
must have died on coming into the world," he said, again and
again.
But the abbe reassured him. "I am morally certain that such
was not the case," he replied. "By Marie-Anne's absence I
can tell pretty nearly the date of her child's birth. I saw her
after her recovery ; she was comparatively gay and smiling.
Draw your own conclusions."
"And yet there isn't a nook or corner for miles round which
we haven't explored."
"True ; but we must extend the circle of our investigations."
The priest was now only striving to gain time, which, as he
knew full well, is the sovereign balm for sorrow. His con-
fidence had been very great at first, but it had sensibly dimin-
ished since he had questioned an old woman, who had the repu-
tation of being one of the greatest gossips of the community.
On being skilfully catechised by the abbe, this worthy dame
replied that she knew nothing of such a child, but that there
must be one in the neighborhood, as this was the third time
she had been questioned on the subject. Intense as was his sur-
prise, the abbe succeeded in concealing it. He set the old
gossip talking, and after two hours' conversation, he arrived at
the conclusion that two persons in addition to Maurice were
searching for Marie-Anne's child. Who these persons were,
and what their aim was, were points which the abbe failed to
elucidate. "Ah," thought he, "after all, rascals have their use
on earth. If we only had a man like Chupin to set on the
trail 1"
The old poacher was dead, however, and his eldest son — the
one who knew Blanche's secret — was in Paris. Only the widow
and the second son remained at Sairmeuse. They had npt, as
yet, succeeded in discovering the twenty thousand francs, but
5©0
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
the fever for gold was still burning in their veins, and they
persisted in their search. From morn till night the mother and
son toiled on, until the earth round their hut had been fully
explored to the depth of six feet. However, a peasant passed
by one day and made a remark which suddenly caused them
to abandon their search. "Really, my boy," he said, addressing
young Chupin, "I didn't think you were such a fool as to per-
sist in bird's-nesting after the chick was hatched and had flown.
Your brother in Paris can no doubt tell you where the treas-
ure was concealed."
"Holy Virgin ! you're right !" cried the younger Chupin.
"Wait till I get money enough to take me to Paris, and
we'll see."
A^ARTIAL DE SAIRMEUSE'S unexpected visit to the
**•"■'• Chateau de Courtornieu had alarmed Aunt Medea even
more than it had alarmed Blanche. In five minutes, more
ideas passed through the dependent relative's mind than during
the last five years. In fancy she already saw the gendarmes
at the chateau; her niece arrested, confined in the Montaignac
prison, and brought before the Assize Court. She might her-
self remain quiet if that were all there was to fear! But
suppose she was compromised, suspected of complicity as
well, dragged before the judges, and even accused of being
the only culprit! At this thought her anxiety reached a
climax, and finding the suspense intolerable, she ventured
downstairs. She stole on tiptoe into the great ballroom, and
applying her ear to the keyhole of the door leading into the
blue salon, she listened attentively to Blanche and Martial's
conversation. What she heard convinced her that her fears
were groundless. She drew a long breath, as if a mighty
burden had been lifted from her breast. But a new idea,
which was to grow, flourish, and bear fruit, had just taken
root in her mind. When Martial left the room, she at once
opened the door by which she was standing, and entered the
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 591
blue reception-room, thus admitting as it were that she had
been a listener. Twenty-four hours earlier she would not
even have dreamed of committing such an audacious act.
"Well." she exclaimed, "Blanche, we were frightened .for
nothing."
Blanche did not reply. The young marquise was weighing
in her mind the probable consequences of all these events
which had succeeded each other with such marvelous rapidity.
"Perhaps the hour of my revenge is nigh," she murmured,
as if communing with herself.
"What do you say?" inquired Aunt Medea, with evident
curiosity.
"I say, aunt, that in less than a month I shall be the Mar-
quese de Sairmeuse in reality as well as in name. My husband
will return to me, and then — oh ! then."
"God grant it !" said Aunt Medea, hypocritically. In her
secret heart she had but scant faith in this prediction, and
cared very little whether it was realized or not. However,
in that low tone which accomplices habitually employ, she
ventured to add : "If what you say proves true, it will only
be another proof that your jealousy led you astray; and that —
that what you did at the Borderie was a perfectly unnecessary
act."
Such had indeed been Blanche's opinion ; but now she shook
her head, and gloomily replied: "You are wrong; what took
place at the Borderie has brought my husband back to me
again. I understand everything now. It is true that Marie-
Anne was not his mistress; but he loved her. He loved her,
and her repulses only increased his passion. It was for her
sake that he abandoned me ; and while she lived he would
never have thought of me. His emotion on seeing me was
the remnant of an emotion which she had awakened. His
tenderness was only the expression of his grief. Whatever
happens, I shall only have her leavings — the leavings of what
she disdained !" The young marquise spoke bitterly, her eyes
flashed, and she stamped her foot as she added: "So I shan't
regret what I have done ! no, never — never !" As she spoke
she felt herself again brave and determined.
But the horrible fears assailed her when the inquiry into the
circumstances of the murder commenced. Officials had been
sent from Montaignac to investigate the affair. They exam-
ined a host of witnesses, and there was even some talk of
i5 — Vol. II — Gab.
592 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
sending to Paris for one of those detectives skilled in unravel-
ing all the mysteries of crime. This proipect quite terrified
Aunt Medea; and her fear was so apparent that it caused
Blanche great anxiety. "You will end by betraying us," she
remarked, one evening.
"Ah ! I can't control my fears."
"If that is the case, don't leave your room."
"It would be more prudent, certainly."
"You can say you are not well; your meals shall be served
you upstairs."
Aunt Medea's face brightened. In her heart, she was
delighted. It had long been her dream and ambition to have
her meals served in her own room, in bed in the morning and
on a little table by the fire in the evening; but as yet she had
never been able to realize this fancy. On two or three oc-
casions, feeling slightly indisposed, she had asked to have
her breakfast brought to her room, but. her request had each
time been harshly refused. "If Aunt Medea is hungry, she
will come downstairs, and take her place at the table as
usual," had been Blanche's imperious reply.
It was hard, indeed, to be treated in this way in a chateau
where there were always a dozen servants idling about. But
now, in obedience to the young marquise's formal orders, the
head cook himself came up every morning into Aunt Medea's
room, to receive her instructions; and she was at perfect
liberty to dictate each day's bill of fare, and to order the
particular dishes she preferred. This change in the dependent
relative's situation awakened many strange thoughts in her
mind, and stifled such regret as she had felt for the crime at
the Borderie. Still both she and her niece followed the inquiry
which had been set on foot with a keen interest. They ob-
tained all the latest information concerning the investigation
through the butler of the chateau, who seemed much inter-
ested in the case, and who had won the good-will of the
Montaignac police agents, by making them familiar with the
contents of his wine cellar. It was from this major-domo
that Blanche and her aunt learned that all suspicions pointed
to the deceased Chupin, who had been seen prowling round
about the Borderie on the very night the crime was com-
mitted. This testimony was given by the same young peasant
who had warned Jean Lacheneur of the old poacher's doings.
As regards the motive of the crime, fully a score of persons
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 593
had heard Chupin declare that he should never enjoy any
peace of mind as long as a single Lacheneur was left on
earth. So thus it happened that the very incidents which
might have ruined Blanche, saved her; and she really came
to consider the old poacher's death as a providential occur-
rence, for she at least had no reason to suspect that he had
revealed her secret before expiring. When the butler told
her that the magistrate and police agents had returned to
Montaignac, she could scarcely conceal her joy; and drawing
a long breath of relief, she turned toward Aunt Medea with
the remark: "Ah, now there's nothing more to be feared."
She had, indeed, escaped the justice of man; but the justice
of God remained. A few weeks previously the thought of
divine retribution would perhaps have made Blanche smile,
for she then considered the punishment of Providence as an
imaginary evil, invented to hold timorous minds in check. On
the morning that followed her crime, and after her long
random talk with Aunt Medea, she almost shrugged her
shoulders at the thought of Marie-Anne's dying threats. She
remembered her promise; and yet, despite all she had said,
she did not intend to fulfil it. After careful consideration, she
had come to the conclusion that in trying to find the missing
child she would expose herself to terrible risks; and on the
other hand she felt certain that the child's father would dis-
cover it. So she dismissed the matter from her mind, and
chiefly busied herself with what Martial had said during his
visit, and the prospect that presented itself of a reconciliation.
But she was destined to realize the power of her victim's
threats that same night. Worn out with fatigue, she retired
to her own room at an early hour, and jumped into bed, ex-
claiming ; "I must sleep !" But sleep had fled. Her crime
was ever in her thoughts; and rose before her in all its horror
and atrocity. She knew that she was lying on her bed. at
Courtornieu; and yet it seemed as if she were still in Chan-
louineau's house, first pouring out the poison, and then watch-
ing its effects, while concealed in the dressing-room. She was
struggling against the idea; exerting all her strength of will
to drive away these terrible memories, when she imagined
she heard the key turn in the lock. Raising her head from the
pillow with a start, she fancied she could perceive the door
open noiselessly, and then Marie-Anne glided into the room
like a fantom. She seated herself in an armchair near the
594 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
bed, and while the tears rolled down her cheeks, she looked
sadly yet threateningly around her. The murderess hid her
face under the counterpane. She shivered with terror, and a
cold sweat escaped from every pore in her skin. For this
seemed no mere apparition, but the frightful reality itself.
Blanche did not submit to these tortures without resisting.
Making a vigorous effort, she tried to reason with herself
aloud, as if the sound of her voice would reassure her. "I
am dreaming!" she said. "The dead don't return to life. To
think that I'm childish enough to be frightened at fantoms
which only exist in my own imagination."
She said this, but the vision did not fade. When she shut
her eyes the fantom still faced her — even through her closed
eyelids, and through the coverlids drawn up over her face.
Say what she would, she did not succeed in sleeping till day-
break. And, worst of all, night after night, the same vision
haunted her, reviving the terror which she forgot during the
daytime in the broad sunlight. For she would regain her
courage and become skeptical again as soon as the morning
broke. "How foolish it is to be afraid of something that does
not exist!" she would remark, railing at herself. "To-night I
will conquer this absurd weakness." But when evening came
all her resolution vanished, and scarcely had she retired to
her room than the same fears seized hold of her, and the same
fantom rose before her eyes. She fancied that her nocturnal
agonies would cease when the investigation anent the murder
was over — that she would forget both her crime and promise;
but the inquiry finished, and yet the same vision haunted her,
and she did not forget. Darwin has remarked that it is when
their safety is assured that great criminals really feel remorse,
and Blanche might have vouched for the truth of this as-
sertion, made by the deepest thinker and closest observer
of the age.
And yet her sufferings, atrocious as they were, did not in-
duce her for one moment to abandon the plan she had formed
on the occasion of Martial's visit. She played her part so
well that, moved with pity, if not with love, he returned to
see her frequently, and at last, one day, besought her to allow
him to remain. But even this triumph did not restore her
peace of mind. For between her and her husband rose the
dreadful vision of Marie-Anne's distorted features. She knew
only too well that Martial had no love to give her, and that
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 595
she would never have the slightest influence over him. And
to crown her already intolerable sufferings came an incident
which filled her with dismay. Alluding one evening to Marie-
Anne's death, Martial forgot himself, and spoke of his oath
of vengeance. He deeply regretted that Chupin was dead, he
said, for he should have experienced an intense delight in
making the wretch who murdered her die a lingering death
in the midst of the most frightful tortures. As he spoke his
voice vibrated with still powerful passion, and Blanche, in
terror asked herself what would be her fate if her husband
ever discovered that she was the culprit — and he might dis-
cover it. Now it was that she began to regret she had not
kept her promise; and she resolved to commence the search
for Marie-Anne's child. But to do this effectually it was
essential she should be in a large city — in Paris, for instance —
where she could procure discreet and skilful agents. Thus it
was necessary to persuade Martial to remove to the capital.
But with the Due de Sairmeuse's assistance she did not find
this a very difficult task; and one morning, with a radiant
face, she informed Aunt Medea that she and her husband
would leave Courtornieu at the end of the coming week.
In the midst of her anxiety, Blanche had failed to notice
that Aunt Medea was no longer the same. The change in the
dependent relative's tone and manner had, it is true, been a
gradual one ; it had not struck the servants, but it was none
the less positive and real, and now it showed itself continually.
For instance, the ofttime tyrannized-over chaperon no longer
trembled when any one spoke to her, as formerly had been
her wont, and there was occasionally a decided ring of inde-
pendence in her voice. If visitors were present, she had been
used to remain modestly in the background, but now she drew
her chair forward, and unhesitatingly took part in the con-
versation. At table, she gave free expression to her prefer-
ences and dislikes; and on two or three occasions she had
ventured to differ from her niece in opinion, and had even
been so bold as to question the propriety of some of her orders.
One day, moreover, when Blanche was going out, she asked
Aunt Medea to accompany her; but the latter declared she
had a cold, and remained at home. And, on the following
Sunday, although Blanche did not wish to attend vespers.
Aunt Medea declared her intention of going; and as it rained
she requested the coachman to harness the horses to the car-
696 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
riage, which was done. All these little incidents could hare
been nothing separately, but taken together they plainly showed
that the once humble chaperon's character had changed. When
her niece announced that she and Martial were about to leave
the neighborhood, Aunt Medea was greatly surprised, for the
project had never been discussed in her presence. "What!
you are going away," she repeated; "you are leaving Cour-
tornieu ?"
"And without regret."
"And where are you going to, pray?"
"To Paris. We shall reside there permanently; that's
decided. The capital's the proper place for my husband, and,
with his name, fortune, talents and the king's favor, he will
secure a high position there. He will repurchase the Hotel
de Sairmeuse, and furnish it magnificently, so that we shall
have a princely establishment."
Aunt Medea's expression plainly indicated that she was suf-
fering all the torments of envy. "And what is to become
of me?" she asked, in plaintive tones.
"You — aunt! You will remain here; you will be mistress
of the chateau. A trustworthy person must remain to watch
over my poor father. You will be happy and contented here,
I hope."
But no; Aunt Medea did not seem satisfied. "I shall never
have courage to stay all alone in this great chateau," she
whined.
"You foolish woman ! won't you have the servants, the gar-
deners, and the concierge to protect you?"
"That makes no difference. I am afraid of insane people.
When the marquis began to rave and howl this evening, I felt
as if I should go mad myself."
Blanche shrugged her shoulders. "What do you wish then?"
she asked sarcastically.
"I thought — I wondered — if you wouldn't take me with you."
"To Paris ! You are crazy, I do believe. What would you
do there?"
"Blanche, I entreat you, I beseech you, to do so!"
"Impossible, aunt, impossible !"
Aunt Medea seemed to be in despair. "And what if I told
you that I can't remain here — that I dare not — that I should
die!"
Blanche flushed with impatience. "You weary me beyond
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 597
endurance," she said roughly. And with a gesture that in-
creased the harshness of her words, she added: "If Courtornieu
displeases you so much, there is nothing to prevent you from
seeking a home more to your taste. You are free and of age."
Aunt Medea turned very pale, and bit her lips. "That is to
say," she said at last, "that you allow me to take my choice
between dying of fear at Courtornieu and ending my days in
a hospital. Thanks, my niece, thanks. That is like you. I
expected nothing less from you. Thanks !" She raised her
head, and her once humble eyes gleamed in a threatening fash-
ion. "Very well ! this decides me," she continued. "I en-
treated you, and you brutally refused my request, so now I
command you and I say, 'I will go !' Yes, I intend to go with
you to Paris — and I shall go. Ah ! so it surprises you to hear
poor, meek, much-abused Aunt Medea speak like this; but I've
endured a great deal in silence for a long time, and now I
rebel. My life in this house has been like life in hell. It is
true you've given me shelter — fed and lodged me, but you've
taken my entire life in exchange. What servant ever endured
what I've had to endure? Have you ever treated one of your
maids as you have treated me — your own flesh and blood ? And
I have had no wages ; on the contrary, I was expected to be
grateful since I lived by your tolerance. Ah, you have made
me pay dearly for the crime of being poor. How you have
insulted me — humiliated me — trampled me under foot !"
The rebellious chaperon paused again. The bitter rancor
which had been accumulating in her heart for years fairly
choked her ; but after a moment she resumed in a tone of
irony: "You ask me what / should do in Paris? I should enjoy
myself, like you. You will go to court, to the play — into soci-
ety, won't you ? Very well, I will accompany you. I will attend
these fetes. I will have handsome toilets, too. I have rarely
seen myself in anything but shabby black woolen dresses. Have
you ever thought of giving me the pleasure of possessing a
handsome dress ? Twice a year, perhaps, you have given me
a black silk, recommending me to take good care of it. But
it was not for my sake that you went to this expense. It was
for your own sake, and in order that your poor relation should
do honor to your generosity. You dressed me in it, like you
put your lackeys in livery, through vanity. And I endured
all this; I made myself insignificant and humble; and when I
was buffeted on one cheek, I offered the other. For after all
598 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
I must live — I must have food. And you. Blanche, how often
you have said to me so that I might do your bidding, 'You
must obey me if you wish to remain at Courtornieu !' And I
obeyed you — I was forced to obey, as I didn't know where else
to go. Ah ! you have abused my poverty in every way ; but now
my turn has come !"
Blanche was so amazed that she could scarcely articulate a
syllable, and it was in a scarcely audible voice that at last
she faltered : "I don't understand you, aunt ; I don't under-
stand you."
The poor dependent shrugged her shoulders as her niece had
done a few moments before. "In that case," said she slowly,
"I may as well tell you, that since you have made me your
accomplice against my will, we must share everything in com-
mon. I share the danger; so I will share the pleasure. Sup-
pose everything should be discovered? Do you ever think of
that ? Yes, I've no doubt you do, and that's why you are seek-
ing diversion. Very well ! I desire diversion also, so I shall go
to Paris with you."
With a desperate effort Blanche managed to regain some
degree of self-possession. "And if I still said no?" she coldly
queried.
"But you won't say no."
"And why not, if you please?"
"Because—"
"Will you go to the authorities and denounce me?"
Aunt Medea shook her head. "I am not such a fool," she
retorted. "I should only compromise myself. No. I shouldn't
do that ; but I might, perhaps, tell your husband what hap-
pened at the Borderie."
Blanche shuddered. No other threat could have had such
influence over her. "You shall accompany us, aunt," said she ;
"I promise it." And then in a gentle voice she added: "But
it's quite unnecessary to threaten me. You have been cruel,
aunt, and at the same time unjust. If you have been un-
happy in our house, you have only yourself to blame. Why
haven't you ever said anything? I attributed your complais-
ance to your affection for me. How was I to know that a
woman so quiet and modest as yourself longed for fine dresses.
Confess that it was impossible. Had I known — But rest easy,
aunt, I will atone for my neglect." And as Aunt Medea, hav-
ing obtained all she desired, stammered an excuse, "Non-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 599
sense!" rejoined Blanche; "let us forget this foolish quarrel.
You forgive me, don't you?" And the two ladies embraced each
other with the greatest effusion, like two friends united after a
misunderstanding.
Neither of them, however, was in the least degree deceived by
this mock reconciliation. "It will be best for me to keep on the
alert," thought the dependent relative. "God only knows with
what joy my dear niece would send me to join Marie-Anne."
Perhaps a similar thought flitted through Blanche's mind.
"I'm bound to this dangerous, perfidious creature forever now,"
she reflected. "I'm no longer my own mistress; I belong to
her. When she commands me, I must obey, no matter what
may be her fancy — and she has forty years' humiliation and
servitude to avenge." The prospect of such a life made the
young marquise tremble ; and she racked her brain to discover
some way of freeing herself from such intolerable thraldom.
Would it be possible to induce Aunt Medea to live independ-
ently in her own house, served by her own servants? Might
she succeed in persuading this silly old woman, who still longed
for finery, to marry? A handsome marriage portion will always
attract a husband. However, in either case, Blanche would
require money — a large sum of money, which no one must be
in a position to claim an account of. With this idea she took
possession of over two hundred and fifty thousand francs, in
bank-notes and coin, belonging to her father, and put away in
one of his private drawers. This sum represented the Marquis
de Courtornieu's savings during the past three years. No one
knew he had laid it aside, except his daughter; and now that
he had lost his reason, Blanche could take it for her own use
without the slightest danger. "With this," thought she. "I can
enrich Aunt Medea whenever I please without having recourse
to Martial."
After these incidents there was a constant exchange of deli-
cate attentions and fulsome affection between the two ladies.
It was "my dearest little aunt," and "my dearly beloved niece."
from morning until night ; and the gossips of the neighborhood,
who had often commented on the haughty disdain with which
Blanche treated her relative, would have found abundant food
for comment had they known that during the journey to Paris
Aunt Medea was protected from the possibility of cold by a
mantle lined with costly fur. exactly like the marquise's own,
and that instead of traveling in the cumbersome berlin with
600 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
the servants, she had a seat in the postchaise with the Marquis
dc Sairmeuse and his wife.
Before their departure Martial had noticed the great change
which had come over Aunt Medea and the many attentions
which his wife lavished on her, and one day, when he was alone
with Blanche, he exclaimed in a tone of good-natured raillery:
"What's the meaning of all this attachment? We shall finish
by encasing this precious aunt in cotton, shan't we?"
Blanche trembled and flushed. "I love good Aunt Medea so
much !" said she. "I never can forget all the affection and
devotion she lavished on me when I was so unhappy."
It was such a plausible explanation that Martial took no
further notice of the matter; and, indeed, just then his mind
was fully occupied. The agent he had despatched to Paris in
advance, to purchase the Hotel de Sairmeuse, if it were pos-
sible, had written asking the marquis to hasten his journey, as
there was some difficulty about concluding the bargain. "Plague
take the fellow !" angrily said Martial on receiving this news.
"He is quite stupid enough to let this opportunity, which we've
been waiting for during the last ten years, slip through his
fingers. I shan't find any pleasure in Paris if I can't own our
old residence."
He was so impatient to reach the capital that, on the second
day of their journey, he declared that if he were alone he would
travel all night. "Do so now," said Blanche graciously; "I don't
feel the least tired, and a night of travel does not frighten me."
So they journeyed on without stopping, and the next morning
at about nine o'clock they alighted at the Hotel Meurice.
Martial scarcely took time to eat his breakfast. "I must go
and see my agent at once," he said as he hurried off. "I will
soon be back." Two hours afterward he reappeared with a
radiant face. "My agent was a simpleton," he exclaimed. "Pie
was afraid to write me word that a man, on whom the con-
clusion of the sale depends, requires a bonus of fifty thousand
francs. He shall have it and welcome." Then, in a tone of
gallantry, habitual to him whenever he addressed his wife, he
added : "Tt only remains for me to sign the papers, but I won't
do so unless the house suits you. Tf you are not too tired, I
would like you to visit it at once. Time presses, and we have
many competitors."
This visit was, of course, one of pure form ; but Blanche
would have been hard to please if she had not been satisfied
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
601
with this mansion, then one of the most magnificent in Paris,
with a monumental entrance facing the Rue de Grenelle St.
Germain and large umbrageous gardens, extending to the Rue
de Varennes. Unfortunately, this superb dwelling had not been
occupied for several years, and required considerable repair.
"It will take at least six months to restore everything," said
Martial, "perhaps more; though in three months, possibly, a
portion of it might be arranged very comfortably."
"It would be living in one's own house, at least," observed
Blanche, divining her husband's wishes.
"Ah ! then you agree with me ! In that case, you may rest
assured that I will expedite matters as swiftly as possible."
In spite, or rather by reason of his immense fortune, the
Marquis de Sairmeuse knew that one is never so well, nor so
quickly, served as when one serves one's self, and so he re-
solved to take the matter into his own hands. He conferred
with the architect, interviewed the contractors, and hurried on
the workmen. As soon as he was up in the morning he started
out without waiting for breakfast, and seldom returned before
dinner. Although Blanche was compelled to pass most of her
time indoors, on account of the bad weather, she was not in-
clined to complain. Her journey, the unaccustomed sights and
sounds of Paris, the novelty of life in a hotel, all combined to
divert her thoughts from herself. She forgot her fears, a sort
of haze enveloped the terrible scene at the Borderie, and the
clamors of conscience were sinking into faint whispers. Indeed
the past seemed fading away, and she was beginning to enter-
tain hopes of a new and better life, when one day a servant
knocked at the door and said : "There is a man downstairs who
wishes to speak with madame."
T5LANCHE was reclining on a sofa listening to a new book
which Aunt Medea was reading aloud, and she did not even
raise her head as the servant delivered his message. "A man?"
she said carelessly; "what man?" She was expecting no one;
602 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
it must be one of the assistants or overseers employed by
Martial.
"I can't inform madame who he is," replied the servant. "He
is quite young; he is dressed like a peasant, and is, perhaps,
seeking a place."
"It is probably the marquis he wishes to see."
"Madame will excuse me, but he particularly said that he
wished to speak with her."
"Ask his name and business then. Go on, aunt," she added;
"we have been interrupted in the most interesting part."
But Aunt Medea had not time to finish the page before the
servant returned. "The man says madame will understand his
business when she hears his name."
"And his name?"
"Chupin."
It seemed as if a bombshell had burst into the room. Aunt
Medea dropped her book with a shriek, and sank back, half
feinting in her chair. Blanche sprang up with a face as color-
less as her white cashmere morning dress, her eyes dazed, and
her lips trembling. "Chupin," she repeated, as if she almost
hoped the servant would tell her she had not understood him
correctly ; "Chupin !" Then, angrily, she added : "Tell this man
I won't see him, I won't see him, do you hear?" But before
the servant had time to bow and retire, the young marquise
changed her mind. "One moment," said she ; "on reflection I
think I will see him. Bring him up."
The servant then withdrew, and the two ladies looked at each
other in silent consternation. "It must be one of Chupin's sons,"
faltered Blanche at last.
"No doubt; but what does he desire."
"Money, probably."
Aunt Medea raised her eyes to heaven. "God grant that he
knows nothing of your meetings with his father !" said she.
"You are not going to despair in advance, are you, aunt?
We shall know everything in a few minutes. Pray remain
calm. Turn your back to us; look out of the window into the
street and don't let him see your face."
Blanche was not deceived. This unexpected visitor was in-
deed Chupin's eldest son ; the one to whom the dying poacher
had confided his secret. Since his arrival in Paris, the young
fellow had been running in every direction, inquiring every-
where and of everybody for the Marquis de Sairmeuse's address.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 603
At last he obtained it ; and he lost no time in presenting him-
self at the Hotel Meurice. He was now awaiting the result of
his application at the entrance downstairs, where he stood whis-
tling, with his hands in his pockets, when the servant returned
and bade him follow. Chupin obeyed; but the servant, who
was on fire with curiosity, loitered by the way in hope of
obtaining from this country youth some explanation of the
surprise, not to say fright, with which Madame de Sairmeuse
had greeted the mention of his name. "I don't say it to flatter
you, my boy," he remarked, "but your name produced a great
effect on madame." The prudent peasant carefully concealed
the joy he felt on receiving this information. "How does she
happen to know you?" continued the servant. "Are you both
from the same place?"
"I am her foster-brother."
The servant did not believe this reply for a moment, and as
they had now reached the marquise's apartment, he opened the
door and ushered Chupin into the room. The latter had pre-
pared a little story beforehand, but he was so dazzled by the
magnificence around him that for a moment he stood motionless
with staring eyes and gaping mouth. His wonder was increased
by a large mirror opposite the door, in which he could survey
himself from head to foot, and by the beautiful flowers on the
carpet, which he feared to crush with his heavy boots.
After a moment, Blanche decided to break the silence.
"What do you want of me?" she asked.
In a rambling fashion young Chupin then explained that he
had been obliged to leave Sairmeuse on account of the numerous
enemies he had there, that he had been unable to find his
father's hidden treasure, and that he was consequently without
resources.
"That'll do," interrupted Blanche, and then in far from a
friendly manner, she remarked : "I don't at all understand why
you should apply to me. You and all the rest of your family
have anything but an enviable reputation at Sairmeuse; still,
as you are from that part of the country, I am willing to aid
you a little on condition you don't apply to me again."
Chupin listened to this homily with a half cringing, half im-
pudent air; but when Blanche had finished he raised his head,
and proudly said : "I don't ask for alms."
"What do ask for. then ?"
"My dues "
604 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
Blanche's heart sank, and yet she had courage enough to
glance disdainfully at Chupin, and reply : "What ! do I owe you
anything?"
"You don't owe me anything personally, madame ; but you
owe a heavy debt to my deceased father. Whose service did
he perish in ? Poor old man ! he loved you devotedly. His
last words were about you. 'A terrible thing has just happened
at the Borderie, my boy,' said he. 'The young marquise hated
Marie-Anne, and she has poisoned her. If it hadn't been for
me she would have been lost. I am about to die, so let the
whole blame rest on me; for it won't hurt me when I'm under
the sod, and it will save the young lady. And by and by she
will reward you; so that as long as you keep the secret you
will want for nothing.' " Great as was young Chupin's im-
pudence he paused abruptly, amazed by the air of perfect com-
posure with which Blanche listened to him. In face of such
wonderful dissimulation he almost doubted the truth of his
father's story.
The marquise's self-possession was indeed surprising. She
felt that if she once yielded she would always be at this wretch's
mercy, as she already was at Aunt Medea's. "In other words,"
said she calmly, "you accuse me of having murdered Mademoi-
selle Lacheneur ; and you threaten to denounce me if I don't
yield to your demands." Chupin nodded his head in acquies-
cence. "Very well !" added Blanche, "since that's the case, you
may go."
It seemed, indeed, that by audacity she might win this dan-
gerous game on which her future peace depended. Chupin,
greatly abashed, was standing before her undecided what course
to pursue, when Aunt Medea, who was listening by the window,
turned in affright, exclaiming: "Blanche! your husband — Mar-
tial ! He is coming!"
The game was lost. Blanche fancied her husband entering and
finding Chupin there, conversing with him, and so discovering
everything! Her brain whirled; she yielded. Hastily thrust-
ing her purse into Chupin's hand, she dragged him through an
inner door to the servants' staircase. "Take this," she said in
a hoarse whisper. "I will see you again. And not a word —
not a word to my husband, remember !"
She had been wise to yield in time. When she returned to
the drawing-room she found Martial there. He was gazing on
the ground, and held an open letter in his hand. But he raised
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 605
his head when his wife entered the room, and she could detect
signs of great emotion in his features. "What has happened?"
she faltered.
Martial did not remark her troubled manner. "My father
is dead, Blanche," he replied.
"The Due de Sairmeuse ! Good heavens ! how did it happen?"
"He was thrown from his horse in the forest near the San-
guille rocks."
"Ah ! it was there where my poor father was nearly mur-
dered."
"Yes, the very place."
There was a moment's silence. Martial's affection for his
father had not been very deep, and he was well aware that
the duke had but little love for him. Hence he was astonished
at the bitter grief he felt on hearing of his death. "From this
letter, which was forwarded by a messenger from Sairmeuse,"
he continued, "I gather that everybody believes it to have been
an accident; but I — I — "
"Well?"
"I believe he was murdered."
An exclamation of horror escaped Aunt Medea, and Blanche
turned pale. "Murder!" she whispered.
"Yes, Blanche ; and I could name the murderer. Oh ! I am
not deceived. My father's murderer is the same man who tried
to kill the Marquis de Courtornieu — "
"Jean Lacheneur !"
Martial gravely bowed his head. It was his only reply.
"And will you not denounce him? Will you not demand
justice?"
Martial's face grew gloomy. "What good would it do?" he
replied. "I have no material proofs to furnish, and justice
requires unimpeachable evidence." Then, as if communing with
his own thoughts, rather than addressing his wife, he added,
despondingly : "The Due de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de
Courtornieu have reaped what they sowed. The blood of mur-
dered innocence always calls for vengeance. Sooner or later
the guilty must expiate their crimes."
Blanche shuddered. Each word found an echo in her own
soul. Had her husband intended his words for her, he would
scarcely have expressed himself differently. "Martial," said
she, trying to arouse him from his gloomy reverie; "Martial!"
But he did not seem to hear her, and it was in the same tone
606 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
that he continued: "These Lacheneurs were happy and honored
before our arrival at Sairmeuse. Their corduct was above all
praise; their probity amounted to heroism. We might have
made them our faithful and devoted friends. It was our duty,
as well as our interest, to have done so. But we did not
understand it; we humiliated, ruined, exasperated them. It
was a fault for which we must atone. Who knows but what
in Jean Lacheneur's place I should have done exactly what he
has done ?" He was again silent for a moment ; then, with one
of those sudden inspirations that sometimes enable one almost
to read the future, he resumed: "I know Jean Lacheneur. I
can fathom his hatred, and I know that he lives only in the
hope of vengeance. It is true that we are very high and he
is very low, but that matters little. We have everything to
fear. Our millions form a rampart around us, but he will know
how to open a breach. And no precautions will save us. At
the very moment when we feel ourselves secure, he will be
ready to strike. What he will attempt, I don't know; but his
will be a terrible revenge. Remember my words, Blanche, if
ruin ever overtakes our house, it will be Jean Lacheneur's
work."
Aunt Medea and her niece were too horror-stricken to articu-
late a word, and for five minutes no sound broke the stillness
save Martial's monotonous tread, as he paced up and down the
room. At last he paused before his wife. "I have just ordered
post-horses," he said. "You will excuse me for leaving you
here alone. I must go to Sairmeuse at once, but I shall not be
absent more than a week."
He left Paris a few hours later, and Blanche became a prey
to the most intolerable anxiety. She suffered more than she
had done during the days that immediately followed her crime.
It was not against fantoms that she had to shield herself now ;
Chupin existed, and his voice, even if it were not as terrible
as the voice of conscience, might make itself heard at any
moment. If she had known where to find him, she would have
gone to him, and endeavored, by the payment of a large sum
of money, to persuade him to leave France. But he had left
the hotel without giving her his address. Then again Martial's
gloomy apprehensions combined to increase her fears, and the
mere thought of Jean Lacheneur made her shrink with terror.
She could not rid herself of the idea that Jean suspected her
guilt, and was watching her, waiting for revenge. Her wish
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 607
to find Marie-Anne's child now became stronger than ever; it
seemed to her that the abandoned infant might be a protection
to her some day. However, where could she find an agent in
whom she could confide ? At last she remembered that she had
heard her father speak of a detective named Chefteux as an
exceedingly shrewd fellow, capable of anything, even of hon-
esty if he were well paid. This man was really a perfect
scoundrel, one of Fouche's vilest instruments, who had served
and betrayed all parties, and who, at last, after the most bare-
faced perjury, had been dismissed from the police force. He
had then established a private inquiry office, and after some
little search Blanche ascertained that he lived in the Place
Dauphine. One morning, taking advantage of her husband's
absence, she donned her simplest dress, and, accompanied by
Aunt Medea, repaired to Chefteux's residence. He proved to
be a middle-aged man of medium height and inoffensive mien,
and he cleverly affected an air of good humor. He ushered his
client into a neatly furnished drawing-room, and Blanche at
once told him that she was a married woman ; that she lived
with her husband in the Rue St. Denis; and that one of her
sisters who had lately died had been led astray by a man who
had disappeared. A child was living, however, whom she was
very anxious to find. In short, she narrated an elaborate story
which she had prepared in advance, and which, after all, sounded
very plausible. Chefteux. however, did not believe a word of
it; for as soon as it was finished he tapped Blanche familiarly
on the shoulder, and remarked: "In short, my dear, we had our
little escapades before our marriage."
Blanche shrank back as if some venomous reptile had touched
her. To be treated in this fashion ! she — a Courtornieu, now
Duchess de Sairmeuse ! "I think you are laboring under a
wrong impression," she haughtily replied.
He made haste to apologize ; but while listening to the further
details he asked for, he could not help remarking to himself :
'"What eyes ! what a voice ! — they can't belong to a denizen of
the Rue Saint-Denis!" His suspicions were confirmed by the
reward of twenty thousand francs, which Blanche imprudently
promised him in case of success, and by the five hundred francs
which she paid in advance. "And where shall I have the honor
of writing to you, madame?" he inquired.
"Nowhere," replied Blanche. "I shall be passing by here
from time to time, and I will call."
608 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
When the two women left the house, Chefteux followed them.
"For once," thought he, "I believe that fortune smiles on me."
To discover his new client's name and rank was but child's
play for Fouche's former pupil; and indeed his task was all the
easier since they had no suspicion whatever of his designs.
Blanche, who had heard his powers of discernment so highly
praised, was confident of success, and all the way back to the
hotel she was congratulating herself on the step she had taken.
"In less than a month," she said to Aunt Medea, "we shall have
the child ; and it will be a protection to us."
But the following week she realized the extent of her im-
prudence. On visiting Chefteux again, she was received with
such marks of respect that she at once saw she was known.
Still, she would have made another attempt to deceive the
detective, but he checked her. "First of all," he said, with a
good-humored smile, "I ascertain the identity of the persons
who honor me with their confidence. It is a proof of my ability,
which I give gratis. But madame need have no fears. I am
discreet by nature and by profession. Many ladies of the high-
est rank are in the position of Madame la Duchesse."
So Chefteux still believed that the Duchess de Sairmeuse was
searching for her own child. She did not try to convince him
to the contrary, for it was better he should believe this than
suspect the truth.
Blanche's position was now truly pitiable. She found herself
entangled in a net, and each movement, far from freeing her,
tightened the meshes round her. Three persons were ac-
quainted with the secret which threatened her life and honor ;
and under these circumstances, how could she hope to prevent
it from becoming more widely known ? She was, moreover, at
the mercy of three unscrupulous masters; and at a word, a
gesture, or a look from them, her haughty spirit must bow in
meek subservience. And her time, moreover, was no longer
at her own disposal; for Martial had returned, and they had
taken up their abode at the Hotel de Sairmeuse, where the
young duchess was compelled to live under the scrutiny of
fifty servants, more or less interested in watching her, in
criticizing her acts, and discovering her thoughts. Aunt Medea,
it is true, was of great assistance. Blanche purchased a new
dress for her whenever she bought one for herself, took her
about with her on all occasions, and the dependent relative
expressed her satisfaction in the most enthusiastic terms, de-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 609
daring her willingness to do anything for her benefactress.
Nor did Chefteux give Blanche much more annoyance. Every
three months he presented a memorandum of investigation ex-
penses, which usually amounted to some ten thousand francs;
and so long as she paid him it was plain he would be silent.
He had given her to understand, however, that he should ex-
pect an annuity of twenty-four thousand francs; and once,
when Blanche remarked that he must abandon the search if
nothing had been discovered at the end of two years : "Never,"
replied he ; "I shall continue the search as long as I live."
In addition to these two there was Chupin, who proved a
constant terror. Blanche had been compelled to give him
twenty thousand francs to begin with. He declared that his
younger brother had come to Paris in pursuit of him, accusing
him of having stolen their father's hoard, and demanding his
share with his knife in his hand. There had been a battle,
and it was with his head bound up in blood-stained linen that
Chupin made his appearance before Blanche. "Give me the
sum that the old man buried," said he, "and I will allow my
brother to think I stole it. It is not very pleasant to be re-
garded as a thief, when one's an honest man, but I will bear
it for your sake. If you refuse, however, I shall be compelled
to tell him where I've obtained my money, and how." Natu-
rally enough Blanche complied with this demand, for how
could she do otherwise?
If her tormentor possessed all his father's vices, depravity,
and cold-blooded perversity, he had certainly not inherited the
parental intelligence or tact. Instead of taking the precautions
which his interests required, he seemed to find a brutal pleasure
in compromising the duchess. He was a constant visitor at the
Hotel de Sairmeuse. He called at all hours, morning, noon,
and night, without in the least troubling himself about Martial.
And the servants were amazed to see their haughty mistress
unhesitatingly leave everything to receive this suspicious-look-
ing character, who smelled so strongly of tobacco and alcohol.
One evening, while a grand entertainment was progressing at
the Hotel de Sairmeuse, he made his appearance, half drunk,
and imperiously ordered the servants to go and tell Madame
Blanche that he was there, waiting for her. She hastened to
him in her magnificent evening dress, her face white with ragj
and shame beneath her tiara of diamonds. And when, in her
exasperation, she refused to give the wretch what he demanded :
610 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
"So that's to say I'm to starve while you are reveling here !"
he exclaimed. "I am not such a fool. Give me some money at
once, or I will tell everything I know on the spot !" What
could she do? She was obliged to yield, as she had always
done before. And yet he grew more and more insatiable every
day. Money filtered through his fingers as fast as water filters
through a sieve. But he did not think of raising his vices to the
height of the fortune which he squandered. He did not even
provide himself with decent clothing, and from his appearance
he might have been supposed to be a penniless beggar. One
night he was arrested for fomenting a row in a low drinking-
den, and the police, surprised at finding so much gold in such
a beggarly-looking rascal's possession, accused him of being a
thief. But he mentioned the name of the Duchesse de Sair-
meuse, and on the following morning — Martial fortunately was
in Vienna at the time — an inspector of police presented himself
at the mansion in the Rue de Grenelle, and Blanche had to
undergo the humiliation of confessing that she had given a
large sum of money to this man, whose family she had known,
and who, she added, had once rendered her an important
service.
Sometimes her pertinacious tormentor changed his tactics.
For instance, he declared that he disliked coming to the Hotel
de Sairmeuse, as the servants treated him as if he were a men-
dicant ; so whenever he required money he would write. And
effectively, every week or so, there came a letter bidding
Blanche bring such a sum, to such a place, and at such an
hour. And the proud duchess was always punctual at the ren-
dezvous. Soon afterward the rascal met, heaven knows where !
a certain Aspasie Clapard, to whom he took a violent fancy,
and although she was much older than himself, he wished to
marry her. It was Blanche who paid for the wedding feast.
Then Chupin again announced his desire of establishing him-
self in business, having resolved, he said, to live by his own
exertions. So he purchased a wine merchant's stock, which
the duchess paid for, and which he drank in no time. Next, his
wife gave birth to a child, and Madame de Sairmeuse must pay
for the baptism as she had paid for the wedding, only too
happy that Chupin did not require her to stand as godmother
to little Polyte, which idea he had at first entertained. On two
occasions Blanche accompanied her husband to Vienna and to
London, where he went on important diplomatic missions. She
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
611
remained abroad during three years, and during all that time
she received at least one letter every week from Chupin. Ah !
many a time she envied her victim's lot ! What was Marie-
Anne's death compared with the life she led ! Her sufferings
were measured by years, Marie-Anne's by minutes ; and she
said to herself, again and again, that the tortures of poison
could not be so intolerable as was her agony.
IT may be asked how it was that Martial had failed to dis-
cover or to suspect this singular state of affairs; but a mo-
ment's reflection will explain his ignorance. The head of a
family, whether he dwells in an attic or in a palace, is always
the last to know what is going on in his own home. He does
not even suspect circumstances, with which every one else is
fully acquainted ; and, in Martial's case, the life he led was
scarcely likely to lead him to the truth ; for after all he and
his wife were virtually strangers to one another. His manner
toward her was perfect, full of deference and chivalrous cour-
tesy; but they had nothing in common except a name and cer-
tain interests. Each lived his own life. They met only at
dinner, or at the entertainments they gave — which were consid-
ered the most brilliant of Parisian society. The duchess had
her own apartments, her private servants, carriages, horses, and
table. At five-and-twenty. Martial, the last descendant of the
great house of Sairmeuse — a man on whom destiny had appar-
ently lavished every blessing — who was young, who possessed
unbounded wealth, and a brilliant intellect, found himself lit-
erally overburdened with ennui. Marie-Anne's death had de-
stroyed all his hopes of happiness ; and realizing the emptiness
of his life, he sought to fill the void with bustle and excitement.
He threw himself headlong into politics, striving to find some
relief from his despondency in the pleasures of power and
satisfied ambition.
It is only just to say that Blanche had remained superior to
circumstances; and that she had played the part of a happy,
612 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
contented woman with consummate skill. Her frightful suf-
ferings and anxiety never marred the haugnty serenity of her
features. She soon won a place as one of the queens of Paris-
ian society; and plunged into dissipation with a sort of frenzy.
Was she endeavoring to divert her mind? Did she hope to
overpower thought by excessive fatigue ? To Aunt Medea alone
did Blanche reveal her secret heart. "I am like a culprit who
has been bound to the scaffold, and abandoned there by the exe-
cutioner to live, as it were, till the ax falls of its own accord."
And the ax might fall at any moment. A word, a trifle, an
unlucky chance — she dared not say "a decree of Providence,"
and Martial would know everything. Such, in all its unspeak-
able horror, was the position of the beautiful and envied Du-
chesse de Sairmeuse. "She must be perfectly happy," said the
world ; but she felt herself sliding down the precipice to the
awful depths below. Like a shipwrecked mariner clinging to
a floating spar, she scanned the horizon with a despairing eye,
and could only see the threatening clouds that betokened the
coming tempest. Once it happened that six weeks went by
without any news coming from Chupin. A month and a half !
What had become of him? To Madame Blanche this silence
was as ominous as the calm that precedes the storm. A line in
a newspaper solved the mystery, however. Chupin was in
prison. After drinking more heavily than usual one evening,
he had quarreled with his brother, and killed him by a blow on
the head with an iron bar. Lacheneur's blood was being visited
on his betrayer's children. Chupin was tried, condemned to
twenty years' hard labor, and sent to Brest. But this sentence
afforded the duchess no relief. The culprit had written to her
from his Paris prison ; and he found the means to write to her
from Brest. He confided his letters to comrades, whose terms
of imprisonment had expired, and who came to the Hotel de
Sairmeuse demanding an interview with the duchess. And she
received them. They told her all the miseries they had endured
"out there"; and usually ended by requesting some slight
assistance.
One morning a man whose desperate manner quite fright-
ened her brought the duchess this laconic note: "I am tired of
starving here ; I wish to make my escape. Come to Brest ; you
can visit the prison, and we will decide on some plan. If you
refuse to do this, I shall apply to the duke, who will obtain
my pardon in exchange for what I will tell him." Blanche was
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 613
dumb with horror. It was impossible, she thought, to sink
lower than this.
"Well !" said the returned convict, harshly. 'What answer
shall I take to my comrade?''
"1 will go — tell him I will go !" she said, driven to despera-
tion. And in fact she made the journey, and visited the prison,
but without finding Chupin. There had been a revolt the pre-
vious week, the troops had fired on the prisoners, and Chupin
had been killed. Still the duchess dared not rejoice, for she
feared that her tormentor had told his wife the secret of his
power.
Indeed the widow — the Aspasie Clapard already mentioned
— promptly made her appearance at the house in the Rue de
Grenelle; but her manner was humble and supplicating. She
had often heard her dear dead husband say that madame was
his benefactress, and now she came to beg a little aid to enable
her to open a small wine-shop. Her son Polyte — ah ! such a
good son! just eighteen years old, and such a help to his poor
mother — had found a little house in a good situation for busi-
ness, and if they only had three or four hundred francs —
Blanche cut the story short by handing her supplicant a five
hundred-franc note. "Either that woman's humility is a mask,"
thought the duchess, "or her husband has told her nothing."
Five days later Polyte Chupin presented himself. They
needed three hundred francs more before they could commence
business, he said, and he came on behalf of his mother to
entreat the kind lady to advance them that amount. But being
determined to discover exactly how she was situated, with re-
gard to the widow, the duchess curtly refused, and the young
fellow went off without a word. Evidently the mother and
son were ignorant of the facts. Chupin's secret had died with
him.
This happened early in January. Toward the close of Feb-
ruary, Aunt Medea contracted inflammation of the lungs on
leaving a fancy ball, which she attended in an absurd cos-
tume, in spite of all the attempts which her niece made to dis-
suade her. Her passion for dress killed her. Her illness lasted
only three days ; but her sufferings, physical and mental, were
terrible. Constrained by fear of death to examine her own
conscience, she saw plainly enough that profiting by her niece's
crime had been as culpable as if she had actually aided her in
committing it. Aunt Medea had been very devout in former
614 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
years, and now her superstitious fears were reawakened and
intensified. Her faith returned, followed by a train of terrors.
"I am lost, I am lost !" she cried, tossing to and fro on her
bed ; writhing and shrieking as if she already saw hell opening
to engulf her. She called on the Holy Virgin and all the
saints to protect her. She entreated Heaven to grant her time
for repentance and expiation ; and she even begged to see a
priest, swearing she would make a full confession.
Paler than the dying woman, but still implacable, Blanche
watched over her, aided by one of her maids in whom she had
most confidence. "If this lasts long, I shall be ruined," she
thought. "I shall be obliged to call for assistance, and she will
betray me."
But it did not last long. The patient's delirium was followed
by such utter prostration that it seemed as if each moment
would be her last. But toward midnight she revived a little,
and in a voice of intense feeling, she faltered : "You have had
no pity on me, Blanche. You have deprived me of all hope
in the life to come. Heaven will punish you. You will die
like a dog yourself, and alone without a word of Christian coun-
sel or encouragement. I curse you !" And she expired, just as
the clock was striking two.
The time when Blanche would have given almost anything
to know that Aunt Medea was under the ground had long since
passed away. Now the poor old woman's death deeply affected
her. She had lost an accomplice who had often consoled her,
and she had gained nothing in return. Every one who was inti-
mately acquainted with the Duchesse de Sairmeuse noticed her
dejection, and was astonished by it. "Is it not strange," re-
marked her friends, "that the duchess — such a very superior
woman — should grieve so much for that absurd relative of
hers?" But Blanche's dejection was due in great measure to
the sinister prophecies faltered by her dying aunt, to whom for
self-protection she had denied the last consolations of religion.
And as her mind reviewed the past she shuddered as the Sair-
meuse peasants had done, when thinking of the fatality which
pursued those who had shed, or helped to shed, so much inno-
cent blood. What misfortunes had overtaken them all — from
Chupin's sons to her father, the Marquis de Courtornieu, in
whose mind not one spark of reason had gleamed for ten long
years before his death. The Baron and the Baroness d'Escor-
val and old Corporal Bavois had departed this life within a
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 615
month of each other the previous year, mourned by every one,
so that of all the people of diverse condition who had been con-
nected with the troubles of Montaignac, Blanche knew of only
four who were still alive: Maurice d'Escorval, who having
studied the law, was now an investigating magistrate attached
to the tribunal of the Seine ; the Abbe Midon, who had come
to Paris with Maurice, and Martial and herself.
There was another person at the recollection of whom she
trembled, and whose name she dared not utter. This was Jean
Lacheneur, Marie-Anne's brother. He had disappeared, and
so completely that it might have been fancied he was dead, but
an inward voice, more powerful than reason, told Blanche that
this enemy was still alive, watching for his hour of vengeance.
More troubled by her presentiments now than she had been by
Chupin's persecutions in days gone by, Madame de Sairmeuse
decided to apply to Chefteux in order to ascertain, if possible,
what she had to expect. Fouche's former agent had not wavered
in his devotion to the duchess. Every three months he pre-
sented his bill, which was paid without discussion ; and to ease
his conscience, he sent one of his men two or three times a
year to prowl round Sairmeuse for a while. Animated by the
hope of a magnificent reward, the spy promised his client, and
— what was more to the purpose — promised himself, that he
would discover this dreaded enemy. He started in quest of
him, and had already begun to collect proofs of Jean's exist-
ence, when his investigations abruptly came to a close. One
morning a man's body, literally hacked to pieces, was found
in an old well not far from Sairmeuse. It was Chefteux, who
had been murdered by some one who remained unknown.
When Blanche read this news in a local journal she felt as a
culprit might feel on hearing his death-warrant read. "The
end is near," she murmured. "Lacheneur is coming."
The duchess was not mistaken. Jean had told the truth
when he declared that he was not disposing of his sister's
estate for his own benefit. In his opinion, Marie-Anne's for-
tune must be consecrated to one sacred purpose ; and he would
not divert the slightest portion of it to his personal require-
ments. He was absolutely penniless when the manager of a
traveling theatrical company sojourning at Montaignac engaged
him for a consideration of forty-five francs a month. From
that day he lived the precarious life of a strolling player. He
was poorly paid, and often reduced to abject poverty by lack
10 — Voi. li — Gab.
610 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
of engagements, or the impecuniosity of managers. His hatred
had lost none of its virulence ; but to wreak the vengeance he
wished to wreak, he must have time and money at his disposal.
But how could he accumulate money when he was often too poor
even to appease his hunger? Still he did not renounce his
hopes. His was a rancor which was only intensified by years.
He was biding his time while he watched from the depths of
his misery the brilliant fortunes of the house of Sairmeuse.
He had waited sixteen years, when one of his friends procured
him an engagement in Russia. The engagement was nothing;
but during his stay at St. Petersburg the poor comedian was
fortunate enough to obtain an interest in a theatrical enterprise,
from which he realized a clear profit of a hundred thousand
francs in less than six years. "Now," said he, "I can give up
this life, for I have money enough to begin the struggle." And
six weeks later he arrived at his native village.
Before carrying any of his designs into execution, he went
to Sairmeuse to visit Marie-Anne's grave, the sight of which
he felt would fan his smoldering animosity, and give him all
the determination he needed as the cold, stern avenger of crime.
This was his only motive in going, but, on the very evening
of his arrival he learned through a garrulous old peasant woman
that ever since his departure — that is to say, for a period of
twenty years — two parties had been making persistent inquiries
for a child which had been placed somewhere in the neighbor-
hood. Jean knew that it was Marie-Anne's child they were
seeking, and why they had not succeeded in finding it. But
why were there two persons prosecuting these investigations?
One was Maurice d'Escorval, of course, but who was the other?
This information induced Jean to prolong his stay at Sair-
meuse, where he tarried a whole month. By the expiration of
that time he had traced the inquiries, which he could not at
first comprehend, to one of Chefteux's agents. Through the
latter, he reached Fouche's former spy himself; and finally suc-
ceeded in discovering that the second search had been instituted
by no less a person than the Duchesse de Sairmeuse. This dis-
covery bewildered him. How could Blanche have known that
Marie-Anne had given birth to a child ; and, knowing it, what
possible interest could she have had in finding this abandoned
babe, now grown to manhood? These two questions puzzled
Jean considerably, and he could give them no satisfactory an-
swer. "Chupin's son could tell me perhaps," he thought, "but
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 617
to obtain information from that quarter, I must pretend to be
reconciled to the sons of the wretch who betrayed my father."
However, the traitor's children had been dead for several
years, and after a long search, Jean only found the Widow
Chupin, nee Aspasie Clapard, and her son Polyte. They were
keeping a drinking-den not far from the Rue des Chateau-des-
Rentiers; and their establishment, known as the Poivriere, en-
joyed anything but an enviable reputation. Lacheneur cau-
tiously questioned the widow and her son. He asked them if
they knew of the crime at the Borderie — if they had heard that
grandfather Chupin had committed murder and had been assas-
sinated in his turn — if they had ever been told of an abandoned
child, and of searches prosecuted to find it. But neither of
these two had ever been at Sairmeuse in their lives, and when
Lacheneur mentioned his name in hopes it might recall some
recollection, they declared they had never heard it before. Jean
was about to take his departure, despondently enough, when
Mother Chupin, probably in the hope of pocketing a few pence,
began to deplore her present misery, which was, she declared,
all the harder to bear as she had wanted for nothing during her
poor husband's lifetime, for he had always obtained as much
money as he wanted from a lady of high degree, called the
Duchesse de Sairmeuse.
Lacheneur uttered such a frightful oath that the old woman
and her son started back in astonishment. He saw at once
the close connection between Blanche's search for the child
and her generosity to Chupin. "It was she who poisoned
Marie-Anne," he said to himself. "It must have been through
my sister herself that she became aware of the child's exist-
ence. She loaded the young Chupin with favors because he
knew the crime she had committed — that crime in which his
father had been only an accomplice."
He remembered Martial's oath at the murdered girl's bed-
side, and his heart overflowed with savage exultation. For
he could already see his two enemies, the last of the Sair-
meuses and the last of the Courtornieus, consummating his
work of vengeance themselves. However, after all, this was
mere conjecture; he must at any price ascertain whether his
suppositions were correct. Drawing from his pocket several
pieces of gold, and, throwing them on the table, he said: "I
am rich; if you will obey me and keep my secret, your fortune
is made."
61S
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
A shrill cry of delight from mother and son outweighed
any protestations of obedience. The Widow Chupin knew
how to write, and Lacheneur then dictated this letter to her:
"Madame la Duchesse — I shall expect you at my establishment
to-morrow between twelve and four o'clock. It is on business
connected with the Borderie. If at five o'clock I have not
seen you, I shall carry to the post a letter for the duke."
"And if she comes, what am I to say to her?" asked the
astonished widow.
"Nothing; you will merely ask her for money."
"If she comes, it is as I have guessed," he reflected.
She came. Hidden in the loft of the Poivriere, Jean,
through an opening in the floor, saw the duchess hand Mother
Chupin a bank-note. "Now, she is in my power !" he thought
exultantly. "And I will drag her through sloughs of degra-
dation before I deliver her up to her husband's vengeance !"
A FEW lines of the article consecrated to Martial in the
"General Biography of Men of the Time," fittingly epito-
mize the history of his public life. "Martial de Sairmeuse,"
says the writer, "placed at the service of his party a highly
cultivated intellect, unusual penetration, and extraordinary
abilities. A leader at the time when political passion was
raging highest, he had the courage to assume the sole re-
sponsibility of the most unpopular measures. But the hostility
he encountered, the danger in which he placed the throne,
compelled him to retire from office, leaving behind him ani-
mosities which will only be extinguished with his life." In
thus summing up Martial's public career, his biographer omits
to say that if the Due de Sairmeuse was wrong in his policy
— and that depends entirely on the point of view from which
his conduct is regarded — he was doubly wrong, since he was
not possessed of that ardent conviction verging on fanaticism
which makes men fools, heroes, and martyrs. He was not
even truly ambitious. When those associated with him wit-
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 619
nessed his passionate struggles and unceasing activity, they
thought him actuated by an insatiable thirst for power. But,
in reality, he cared little or nothing for it. He considered
its burdens heavy; its compensations slight. His pride was
too lofty to feel any satisfaction in applause ; and flattery dis-
gusted him. Often, during some brilliant fete, his acquaint-
ances and subordinates, finding him thoughtful and pre-
occupied, respectfully refrained from disturbing him. "His
mind is occupied with momentous questions," they fancied.
"Who can tell what important decisions may result from his
reverie?" But in this surmise they were mistaken. And
indeed, at that very moment when royal favor filled his rivals'
hearts with envy, when occupying the highest position a
subject can aspire to, and it seemed he could have nothing
left to wish for in this world. Martial was saying to himself:
•'What an empty life ! What weariness and vexation of spirit !
To live for others — what a mockery !"
He looked at his wife, radiant in her beauty, worshiped
like a queen, and sighed. He thought of her who was dead —
Marie-Anne — the only woman he had ever loved. She was
never absent from his mind, and after all these years he saw
her yet, stretched cold, rigid, lifeless, on the canopied bed-
stead, in that luxurious room at the Borderie. Time, far from
effacing from his heart the image of the fair girl whose
beauty unwittingly had wrought such wo — had only intensified
youthful impressions, endowing the lost idol with almost super-
human grace of person and character. Ah ! if fate had but
given him Marie-Anne for his wife ! Thus said Martial,
again and again, picturing the happiness which then would
have been his. They would have remained at Sairmeuse.
They would have had children playing round them ! And he
would not be condemned to this continual warfare — to this
hollow, unsatisfying, restless life. The truly happy are not
those who parade their dignities and opulence before the eyes
of the multitude. They rather hide themselves from the
curious gaze, and they are right : for here on earth happiness
is almost a crime. So thought Martial: and he. * the envied
statesman, often said to himself, with a feeling of vexation:
•'To love, and to be loved — that is everything! All else is
vanity."'
He had really tried to love his wife : he had done his best
to resuscitate the feeling of admiration with which she had
620 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
inspired him at their first meeting; but he had not succeeded.
It seemed as if there was between them a wall of ice which
nothing could melt, and which only grew and expanded as time
went on. "Why is it?" he wondered, again and again. "It
is incomprehensible. There are days when I could swear she
loves me. Her character, formerly so irritable, is entirely
changed ; she is gentleness itself." But still he could not
conquer his aversion ; it was stronger than his own will.
These unavailing regrets, the disappointment and sorrow that
preyed upon his mind, undoubtedly aggravated the bitterness
and severity of Martial's policy. At least he knew how to
fall nobly. He passed, even without a change of countenance,
from all but omnipotence to a position so compromising that
his very life was endangered. On perceiving his antechambers,
formerly thronged with flatterers and place-hunters, now empty
and deserted, he laughed — naturally, sincerely, without the least
affectation. "The ship is sinking," said he; "the rats have
deserted it." He did not even turn pale when the mob gathered
outside his house, hurling stones at his windows, and hooting
and cursing the fallen statesman ; and when Otto, his faithful
valet de chambre, entreated him to assume a disguise, and make
his escape through the gardens, he quietly replied : "By no
means ! I am simply odious ; I don't wish to become ridiculous !"
They could not even dissuade him from going to a window
and looking down on the rabble in the street below. A singular
idea had just occurred to him. "If Jean Lacheneur is still
alive," he thought, "how much he would enjoy this ! And if
he is alive, no doubt he is there in the foremost rank, urging
on the crowd." And he wished to see. But Jean Lacheneur
was in Russia at that epoch.
The excitement eventually subsided ; and the Hotel de Sair-
meuse was not seriously threatened. However, Martial real-
ized that it would be better for him to go away for a while,
and allow people to forget him. He did not ask the duchess
to accompany him. "The fault has been mine entirely," he
said to her, "and it would be most unjust to make you suffer
for it by cbnde»«ing you to exile. Remain here; I think it
will be much better for you to remain." She did not offer
to go with him, although she longed to do so, but then she
dared not leave Paris. She knew that she must remain in
order to secure her persecutor's silence. On the two occa-
sions when she had left Paris before, everything was near
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 621
being discovered, and yet then she had had Aunt Medea to
take her place. Martial went away, accompanied only by his
servant, Otto. In intelligence, this man was decidedly superior
to his position; he was indeed decently well-off, and he had a
hundred reasons — one, by the way, was a very pretty one — for
desiring to remain in Paris; but his master was in trouble,
and so he did not hesitate. During four years the Due de
Sairmeuse wandered through Europe, always chafing beneath
the burden of a life no longer animated by interest or sus-
tained by hope. He remained for a time in London, then he
went to Vienna, and afterward to Venice. One day he was
seized by an irresistible desire to see Paris again, and he re-
turned. It was not a very prudent step, perhaps, for his bitter-
est enemies — personal enemies, whom he had mortally offended
and persecuted — were in power; but still he did not hesitate.
Besides, how could they injure him, since he had no favors
to ask, no cravings of ambition to satisfy?
The exile which had weighed so heavily on him, the lone-
liness he had endured, had softened his nature and inclined his
heart to tenderness ; and he returned firmly resolved to over-
come his aversion to his wife, and seek a reconciliation. "Old
age is coming," he thought. "If I have not the love of youth
by my fireside, I may at least have a friend." Blanche was
astonished by his manner toward her when he returned. She
almost believed she had found again the Martial of the old
days at Courtornieu, but the realization of the dream, so fondly
cherished and so long deferred, now proved only another tor-
ture added to all the others. Still, Martial was striving to
carry his plan into execution, when one day the following brief
note came to him through the post: "Monsieur le Due — If I
were in your place, I would watch my wife."
It was only an anonymous letter, and yet on perusing it
Martial's blood mounted to his forehead. "Can she have a
lover?" he thought. Then reflecting on his own conduct toward
his wife since their marriage, he said to himself: "And if she
has, what right have I to complain? Did I not tacitly give
her back her liberty?" However, he was greatly troubled; and
yet he did not once think of playing the spy.
A few mornings afterward, at about eleven o'clock, he was
returning from a ride on horseback, and was not thirty paces
from the Hotel de Sairmeuse when he suddenly perceived a
lady hurriedly emerge from the house. She was very plainly
622 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
dressed — entirely in black — but her whole appearance recalled
that of the duchess in a striking fashion. "That's certainly
my wife," thought Martial, "but why is she dressed in that
fashion?" Then, yielding to a sudden impulse, he walked his
horse up the Rue de Grenelle behind the woman in black.
Blanche it was. She was tripping swiftly over the pavement,
keeping her face shrouded by a thick veil, and she never once
turned her head. On reaching the Rue Taranne, she spoke
hurriedly to a cab-driver on the stand, and then sprang into
his vehicle. The Jehu was already on his box, and he at once
gave his bony horse such a vigorous cut of the whip that it
was evident he had just been promised a princely gratuity.
The cab had already turned into the Rue du Dragon, and Mar-
tial, ashamed of what he had already done and irresolute as
to what he should do now, was still tarrying at the corner of
the Rue des Saint-Peres, where he had originally stopped
his horse. Scarcely daring to entertain the suspicions that
flitted across his mind, he tried to deceive himself. "After
all," he muttered, "it is of no use advancing. The cab's a
long way off by now, and I couldn't overtake it." Still he
mechanically gave his horse the rein, and when he reached the
Croix Rouge he espied Blanche's vehicle among a crowd of
others. He recognized it by its green body and wheels striped
with white. This decided him. The cab-driver had just man-
aged to extricate himself from the block which traffic so fre-
quently causes hereabout, and whipping up his horse once more
turned literally at a gallop up the Rue du Vieux Colombier —
leading into the Place St. Sulpice. Thence he took the short-
est cut to gain the outer boulevards.
Martial's thoughts were busy as he trotted along a hundred
yards or so behind the vehicle. "She's in a terrible hurry," he
said to himself. "But this is scarcely the quarter for a lover's
rendezvous." The cab had indeed now reached the squalid
region extending beyond the Place d'ltalie. It turned into the
Rue du Chateau des Rentiers and soon drew up before a tract
of waste ground. The Duchesse de Sairmeuse then hastily
alighted, and, without stopping to look to the right or to the
left, hurried across the open space. Martial had prudently
paused in the rear. Not far from him he espied a man sit-
ting on a block of stone and apparently immersed in the task
of coloring a clay pipe. "Will you hold my horse a moment?"
inquired Martial.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 623
"Certainly," answered the man, rising to his feet. He wore
a workman's blouse and a long beard, and his aspect altogether
was scarcely prepossessing. Had Martial been less preoccu-
pied, his suspicions might have been aroused by the malicious
smile that curved the fellow's lips; and had he scrutinized him
closely, he would perhaps have recognized him. For the seem-
ing vagrant was Jean Lacheneur. Since forwarding that anony-
mous letter to the Due de Sairmeuse, he had compelled the
duchess to multiply her visits to the Widow Chupin's den, and
on each occasion he had watched for her arrival. "So, if her
husband decides to follow her I shall know it," he thought.
It was indispensable for the success of his plans that Blanche*
should be watched by her husband. For from among a thou-
sand schemes of revenge, Jean had chosen the most frightful
his fevered brain could conceive. He longed to see the haughty
Duchesse de Sairmeuse subjected to the vilest ignominy, and
Martial in the hands of the lowest of the low. He pic-
tured a bloody struggle in this miserable den ; the sudden
arrival of the police, summoned by himself, and the indis-
criminate arrest of all the parties present. He gloated over
the thought of a trial in which the crime committed at the
Borderie would be brought to light; he saw the duke and the
duchess in prison, and the great names of Sairmeuse and Cour-
tornieu shrouded in eternal disgrace. And he believed that
nothing was wanting to insure the success of his plans. He
had two miserable wretches who were capable of any crime
at his disposal ; and an unfortunate youth named Gustave, whom
poverty and cowardice had made his willing slave, was in-
tended to play the part of Marie-Anne's son. These three
accomplices had no suspicions of Lacheneur's real intentions,
while, as for the Widow Chupin and her son, if they suspected
some infamous plot, all they really knew in regard to it was
the duchess's name. Moreover, Jean held Polyte and his mother
completely under his control by the wealth he had promised
them if they served him faithfully. If Martial decided to fol-
low his wife into the Poivriere the first time he watched her,
Jean had, moreover, so arranged matters that the duke would
at first suppose that Blanche had been led there by charity.
"But he will not go in," thought the seeming vagrant, as, hold-
ing Martial's horse some little distance off, he looked in the
direction of the hovel. "Monsieur le Due it too cunning for that."
And Martial did not go in. Though he was horrified when
624 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
he saw his wife enter so vile a den, as if she were at home
there, he said to himself that he should learn nothing by fol-
lowing her. He, therefore, contented himself by making a
thorough examination of the hovel from outside, and then re-
mounting his horse, and throwing Lacheneur a silver coin, he
started back home at a gallop. He was completely mystified:
he did not know what to think, what to imagine, what to be-
lieve. But, at the same time, he was fully resolved to fathom
the mystery; and as soon as he returned home he sent Otto
out in search of information. He could confide everything to
this devoted servant from whom he had no secrets. At four
o'clock in the afternoon the faithful valet de chambre returned
with an expression of consternation on his face. "What is it?"
asked Martial, divining some great misfortune.
"Ah, sir, the mistress of that wretched den is the widow of
Chupin's son — "
Martial's face turned ghastly pale. He knew life well enough
to understand that since the duchess had been compelled to
submit to these people's power, they must be masters of some
secret which she was anxious at any price to keep unrevealed.
But what secret could it be? The years which had furrowed
Martial's brow had not cooled the ardor of his blood. He was,
as he had always been, a man of impulse, and so, without paus-
ing, he rushed to his wife's apartments.
"Madame has just gone downstairs to receive the Comtesse
de Mussidan and the Marquise d'Arlange," said the maid whom
he met on the landing.
"Very well ; I will wait for her here. You may retire."
So saying. Martial entered Blanche's dressing-room. It was
in disorder, for, after returning from the Poivriere, the duchess
was still engaged at her toilet when visitors were announced.
The wardrobe doors stood open, two or three chairs were en-
cumbered with wearing apparel, and Blanche's watch, her purse,
and several bunches of keys were lying on the dressing table
and the mantelpiece. Martial did not sit down. His self-pos-
session was returning. "I will commit no - act of folly," he
thought; "if I question her, I shall learn nothing. I must be
silent and watchful."
He was about to retire, when, on glancing round the room,
he noticed a large casket, inlaid with silver, which had belonged
to his wife ever since she was a girl, and which accompanied
her everywhere. "That, no doubt, contains the solution of the
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 625
mystery," he said to himself. This was one of those moments
when a man obeys the dictates of passion without pausing to
reflect. Seeing the keys on the mantelpiece, he seized them,
and endeavored to find one that would fit the lock of the casket.
The fourth key opened it. It was full of papers. With feverish
haste, Martial examined their contents. He had thrown aside
several unimportant letters, when he came to a bill that read
as follows : "Search made for Madame de Sairmeuse's child.
Expenses for the third quarter of the year 18 — ." Martial's
brain reeled. A child ! His wife had a child ! But he read
on : "For the services of two agents at Sairmeuse, . For
expenses attending my own journey. . Divers gratuities.
. Etc., etc." The total amounted to six thousand francs ;
and it was receipted "Chefteux." With a sort of cold rage.
Martial continued his examination of the casket's contents, and
found a miserably written note, which said : "Two thousand
francs this evening, or I will tell the duke the history of the
affair at the Borderie." Then there were several more of
Chefteux's bills; next, a letter from Aunt Medea, in which she
spoke of prison and remorse ; and, finally, at the bottom of the
casket, he found the marriage certificate of Marie-Anne Lache-
neur and Maurice d'Escorval, drawn up by the cure of Vigano
and signed by the old physician and Corporal Bavois.
The truth was as clear as daylight. Stunned, frozen with
horror, Martial scarcely had strength enough to place the let-
ters in the casket again and restore it to its place. Then he
tottered back to his own room, clinging to the walls for sup-
port. "It was she who murdered Marie-Anne," he murmured.
He was confounded, terror-stricken, by the perfidy of this
woman who was his wife — by her criminal audacity, cool
calculation and assurance, and her marvelous powers of
dissimulation.
Still he swore he would discover everything, either through
the duchess or through the Widow Chupin ; and he ordered
Otto to procure him a costume such as was generally worn
by the frequenters of the Poivriere. He did not know how
soon he might have need of it. This happened early in Feb-
ruary, and from that moment Blanche did not take a single
step without being watched. Not a letter reached her that her
husband had not previously read. And she had not the slight-
est suspicion of the constant supervision to which she was sub-
jected. Martial did not leave his room; he pretended to be ill.
626 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
He felt he could not meet his wife and remain silent. He re-
membered the oath of vengeance which lie had sworn over
Marie-Anne's lifeless form only too well. However, the watch
which Otto kept over the duchess, and the perusal of the let-
ters addressed to her, did not yield any fresh information, and
for this reason : Polyte Chupin had been arrested on a charge of
theft, and this accident caused a delay in the execution of
Lacheneur's plans.
But at last the latter prepared everything for Shrove Sunday,
the 20th of February. On the previous day, in accordance with
her instructions, the Widow Chupin wrote to the duchess that
she must come to the Poivriere on Sunday night at eleven
o'clock. On that same evening Jean was to meet his accom-
plices at a ball at the Rainbow — a wine-shop bearing a very
unenviable reputation — and give them their final instructions.
These accomplices were to open the scene ; he was only to
appear at the denouement. "All is well arranged; the mech-
anism will work of its own accord," he said to himself. But, as
is already known, the "mechanism," as he styled it, failed to act.
On receiving the Widow Chupin's summons, Blanche revolted
for a moment. The lateness of the hour, the distance, the iso-
lation of the appointed meeting-place, frightened her. Still,
she was obliged to submit, and on Sunday evening she fur-
tively left the house, accompanied by Camille, the same maid
who had been present when Aunt Medea died. The duchess
and Camille were attired like women of the lowest order, and
felt no fear of being recognized. And yet a man was watch-
ing who quickly followed them. This was Martial. He had
perused the note appointing this rendezvous even before his
wife, and had disguised himself in the costume Otto had pro-
cured for him — that of a laborer about the quays. Then, in
hope of making himself absolutely unrecognizable, he had soiled
and matted his hair and beard ; his hands were grimed with dirt ;
and he really seemed to belong to the class of which he wore
the attire. Otto had begged to be allowed to accompany his
master; but the duke refused, remarking that his revolver would
prove quite sufficient protection. He knew Otto well enough,
however, to feel certain he would disobey him.
Ten o'clock was striking when Blanche and Camille left the
house, and it did not take them five minutes to reach the Rue
Taranne. There was only one cab on the stand, which they
at once hired. This circumstance drew from Martial an oath
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 627
worthy of his costume. But he reflected that, since he knew
where to find his wife, a slight delay in obtaining a vehicle
would not matter. He soon found one, and, thanks to a gra-
tuity of ten francs, the driver started off to the Rue du Cha-
teau-des-Rentiers as fast as his horse could go. However, the
duke had scarcely alighted before he heard the rumbling of
another vehicle, which pulled up abruptly a little distance be-
hind. "Otto is evidently following me," he thought. And he
then started across the open, space in the direction of the
Poivriere. The prevailing silence and absence of life were
rendered still more oppressive by a chill fog which heralded
an approaching thaw. Martial stumbled and slipped at almost
every step he took over the rough, snow-covered ground ; but
at last through the mist he distinguished a building in the dis-
tance. This was the Poivriere. The light burning inside fil-
tered through the heart-shaped apertures cut in the upper part
of the shutters, and it almost seemed as if a pair of lurid eyes
were striving to peer through the fog.
Could it really be possible that the Duchesse de Sairmeuse
was there ! Martial cautiously approached the window, and,
clinging to the hinges of the shutters, raised himself up so
that he could glance through one of the apertures. Yes, there
was no mistake. His wife and Camille were seated at a table
before a large punch-bowl, in the company of two ragged, leer-
ing scoundrels, and a soldier of youthful appearance. In the
centre of the room stood the Widow Chupin, with a small glass
in her hand. She was talking with great volubility, and punc-
tuating her sentences with occasional sips of brandy. The im-
pression this scene produced on Martial was so acute that his
hold relaxed and he dropped to the ground. A ray of pity
stole into his soul, for he vaguely realized the frightful suffer-
ing which had been the murderess's chastisement. But he
wished for another glance, and so once more he lifted himself
up to the opening and looked in. The old woman had dis-
appeared; the young soldier had risen from the table, and was
talking and gesticulating earnestly. Blanche and Camille were
listening to him with the closest attention. The two men
who were sitting face to face, with their elbows on the table,
were looking at each other; and Martial saw them exchange
a significant glance. He was not wrong. The scoundrels were
plotting "a rich haul." Blanche, who had dressed herself with
much care, and to render her disguise perfect had encased her
628 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
feet in large, coarse shoes, that were causing her well-nigh
intolerable agony — Blanche had neglected to remove her superb
diamond earrings. She had forgotten them, but Lacheneur's
accomplices had noticed them, and were now glancing at them
with eyes that glittered more brilliantly than the diamonds
themselves. While awaiting Lacheneur's coming, these wretches,
as had been agreed upon, were playing the part which he had
imposed upon them. For this and their assistance afterward
they were to receive a certain sum of money. But they were
thinking that this sum did not represent a quarter of the value
of these jewels, and their looks only too plainly said: "What
if we could secure them and go off before Lacheneur comes !"
The temptation was too strong to be resisted. One of the
scoundrels suddenly rose, and seizing the duchess by the back
of the neck, forced her head down on the table. The dia-
monds would have been at once torn from her ears if it had
not been for Camille, who bravely came to her mistress's assist-
ance. Martial could endure no more. He sprang to the door
of the hovel, opened it, and entered, bolting it behind him.
"Martial !" "Monsieur le Due !" cried Blanche and Camille
in the same breath, for, despite his disguise, they had both
recognized him. Their exclamations turned the momentary
stupor of their assailants into fury; and both ruffians pre-
cipitated themselves on Martial, determined to kill him. But,
springing to one side, the duke avoided them. He had his
revolver in his hand ; he fired" twice, and both the scoundrels
fell. However, he was not yet safe, for the young soldier
rushed forward and attempted to disarm him. Then began a
furious struggle, in the midst of which Martial did not leave
off crying, in a panting voice, "Fly ! Blanche, fly ! Otto is
not far off. The name — save the honor of the name !"
The two women obeyed him, making their escape through
the back door, which opened into the garden; and they had
scarcely done so before a violent knocking was heard at the
front entry. The police were coming! This increased Mar-
tial's frenzy; and in a supreme effort to free himself from
his assailant, he hurled him backward so violently that, strik-
ing his head against a corner of the table, the young soldier
fell on to the floor, and lay there to all appearance dead. In
the mean while, the Widow Chupin, who had hastened from
the room above on hearing the uproar, was shrieking on the
staircase, while at the front door a voice was crying: "Open
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
629
in the name of the law!" Martial might have fled; but if he
fled the duchess might be captured, for he would certainly be
pursued. He saw the peril at a glance, and determined to
remain. Shaking the Widow Chupin by the arm, he said to
her in an imperious voice: "If you know how to hold your
tongue you shall have a hundred thousand francs." Then,
drawing a table before the door opening into the back room,
he intrenched himself behind it as a rampart, and awaited the
enemy's approach.
The next moment the door was forced open, and a squad of
police agents, headed by Inspector Gevrol, entered the room.
"Surrender!" cried the inspector.
Martial did not move; his revolver was turned toward the
intruders. "If I can parley with them and hold them in check
only two minutes, all may yet be saved," he thought. He
obtained the required delay ; then throwing his weapon to the
ground, he was about to bound through the back door when
a police agent, who had gone round to the rear of the house,
seized him about the body and threw him to the floor. From
this side he expected only assistance, hence he exclaimed:
"Lost ! It is the Prussians who are coming !"
In the twinkling of an eye he was bound ; and two hours
later he was an inmate of the station-house at the Place d'ltalie.
He had played his part so perfectly that he had deceived even
Gevrol. His assailants were dead, and he could rely upon the
Widow Chupin. But he knew that the trap had been set for
him by Jean Lacheneur; and he read a whole volume of sus-
picion in the eyes of the young officer who had cut off his
retreat, and who was called Lecoq by his companions.
' I 'HE Due de Sairmeuse was one of those men who remain
* superior to circumstances. He was possessed of vast ex-
perience and great natural shrewdness. His mind was quick
to act and fertile in resources. But when he found himself
immured in the damp and loathsome station-house at the Place
630 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
d'ltalie, after the terrible scene we have just recalled, he felt
inclined to relinquish all hope. He knew that justice does not
trust to appearances, and that when an investigating magistrate
finds himself in the presence of a mystery, he does not rest until
he has fathomed it. He knew only too well, moreover, that if
his identity were established the authorities would endeavor to
discover the reason that had led him to the Poivriere ; now he
could scarcely doubt but what this reason would soon be dis-
covered, and in that case the crime at the Borderie, and the
duchess's guilt, would undoubtedly be made public. This meant
the Assize Court for the woman who bore his name — imprison-
ment, perhaps execution ; at all events, a frightful scandal, dis-
honor, eternal disgrace ! And the power he had wielded in
former days was a positive disadvantage to him now, when his
past position was filled by his political adversaries. Among
them were two personal enemies, whose vanity he once had
wounded, and who had never forgiven him. They would cer-
tainly not neglect the present opportunity for revenge. At the
thought of such an ineffaceable stain on the great name of
Sairmeuse, which was his pride and glory, reason almost for-
sook him. "My God, inspire me," he murmured. "How shall
I save the honor of the name?"
He saw but one chance of salvation — death. They now be-
lieved him to be one of the miserable loafers who haunt the
suburbs of Paris ; if he were dead they would not trouble them-
selves about his identity. "It is the only way!" he thought, and
he was indeed endeavoring to find some means of committing
suicide when suddenly he heard a bustle outside his cell. A
few moments afterward the door was opened and a man was
thrust in — a man who staggered a few steps, fell heavily on
to the floor, and then began to snore. The new arrival was
apparently only some vulgar drunkard.
A minute or so elapsed, and then a vague, strange hope
touched Martial's heart — no, he must be mistaken — and yet —
yes, certainly this drunkard was Otto — Otto in disguise, and
almost unrecognizable ! It was a bold ruse and no time must be
lost in profiting by it. Martial stretched himself on a bench, as if
to sleep, and in such a way that his head was close to Otto's.
"The duchess is out of danger," murmured the faithful servant.
"For to-day, perhaps. But to-morrow, through me, every-
thing will be discovered."
"Have you told them who you are?"
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 631
"No; all the police agents but one took me for a vagabond."
"You must continue to personate that character."
"What good will it do? Jean Lacheneur will betray me."
But Martial, though he little knew it, had no need to fear
Lacheneur for the present, at least. A few hours previously,
on his way in the dark from the Rainbow to the Poivriere,
Jean had fallen to the bottom of a stone quarry, and fractured
his skull. The laborers, on returning to their work early in the
morning, found him lying there senseless ; and that very mo-
ment they were carrying him to the hospital.
Although Otto also was ignorant of this circumstance, he
did not seem discouraged. "There will be some way of getting
rid of Lacheneur," said he, "if you will only sustain your pres-
ent character. An escape is an easy matter when a man has
millions at his command."
"Thev will ask me who I am, where I've come from, and how
I've lived."
"You speak English and German, don't you? Tell them that
you have just returned from foreign parts; that you were a
foundling, and that you have always lived a roving life."
"How can I prove that?"
Otto drew a little nearer his master, and said, impressively:
"We must agree on our plans, for success depends on a perfect
understanding between us. I have a sweetheart in Paris — and
no one knows of our connection. She is as sharp as steel. Her
name is Milner, and she keeps the Hotel de Mariembourg, in
the Rue Saint-Quentin. You can say that you arrived here
from Leipsic on Sunday; that you went to that hotel, that you
left your trunk there, and that it has a card nailed to the top
with your name — say May, foreign artist."
"Capital !" said Martial, approvingly. And then, with ex-
traordinary quickness and precision, they agreed, point by point,
on their plan of defense. When everything had been arranged,
Otto pretended to awake from the heavy sleep of intoxication;
he clamored to be released, and the keeper finally opened the
door and set him at liberty. Before leaving the station-house,
however, he succeeded in throwing a note to the Widow Chu-
pin, who was imprisoned in the opposite cell. So, when Lecoq,
after his skilful investigations at the Poivriere, rushed to the
Place d'ltalie, panting with hope and ambition, he found him-
self outwitted by these men, who were inferior to him in pene-
tration, but whose tact was superior to his own.
632 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
Martial's plans being fully formed, he intended to carry them
out with absolute perfection of detail, and, after his removal to
the Depot, he was preparing himself for the investigating
magistrate's visit, when Maurice d'Escorval entered his cell.
They recognized each other. They were both terribly agitated,
and the examination was an examination only in name. After
Maurice's departure Martial attempted to destroy himself; for
he had no faith in his former enemy's generosity. But when
he found M. Segmuller occupying Maurice's place the next
morning, he really believed that he was saved.
Then began that struggle between the magistrate and Lecoq
on one side, and the prisoner on the other — a struggle in which
neither conquered. Martial knew that Lecoq was the only per-
son he had to fear, still he bore him no ill-will. Faithful to
his nature, which compelled him to be just even to his ene-
mies, he could not help admiring the astonishing penetration
and perseverance of this young police agent, who, undismayed
by the obstacles surrounding him, struggled on, unassisted, to
reach the truth. But Lecoq was always outwitted by Otto, the
mysterious accomplice, who seemed to know his every move-
ment in advance. At the Morgue, at the Hotel de Mariem-
bourg, with Toinon, the wife of Polyte Chupin, as well as with
Polyte himself, Lecoq was always just a little too late. He
detected the secret correspondence between the prisoner and
his accomplice, and he was even ingenious enough to discover
the key to it, but this served no purpose. A man, who had seen
a rival, or rather a future master, in Lecoq — in short, Gevrol
— had betrayed him. If his efforts to arrive at the truth through
the jeweler and the Marquise d'Arlange had failed, it was
only because Blanche had not purchased the diamond earrings
she wore at the Poivriere at any shop, but from one of her
friends, the Baroness de Watchau. And finally, if no one in
Paris had missed the Due de Sairmeuse, it was because — thanks
to an understanding between the duchess, Otto, and Camille —
no other inmates of the Hotel de Sairmeuse suspected his ab-
sence. All the servants supposed that the duke was confined
to his room by illness. His breakfast and dinner were taken
up to his private apartments every day; and soups and tisanes
were prepared ostensibly for his benefit.
So the weeks went by, and Martial was expecting to be sum-
moned before the Assize Court and condemned under the name
of May, when he was afforded an opportunity to escape. Too
THE HONOR OF THE NAME
633
shrewd not to discern the trap that had been set for him, it
was only after horrible hesitation that he decided to alight from
the prison-van, determined to run the risk, and commending
himself for protection to his lucky star. And he decided
wisely, for that same night he leaped over his own garden wall,
leaving an escaped convict, Joseph Couturier by name, whom
he had picked up in a low eating-house, as a hostage in Lecoq's
hands. Warned by Madame Milner, thanks to a blunder which
Lecoq committed, Otto was waiting for his master. In the
twinkling of an eye Martial's beard fell under the razor; he
plunged into the bath which was already prepared, and his
clothes were burned. And he it was who, during the search
a few minutes later, had the hardihood to call out: "Otto, by
all means allow these men to do their duty." But he did not
breathe freely until the police agents had departed. "At last,"
he exclaimed, "honor is saved ! We have outwitted Lecoq !"
He had just left his bath, and assumed a dressing-gown,
when Otto handed him a letter from the duchess. He hastily
opened the envelope and read : "You are safe. You know
everything. I am dying. Farewell. I loved you."
With two bounds he reached his wife's apartments. The
outer door was locked : he burst it open ; but he came too late.
Blanche was dead — poisoned, like Marie-Anne: but she had
procured a drug having an instantaneous effect, and extended
on her couch, clad in her wonted apparel, her hands folded
over her breast, she seemed only asleep. A tear glistened in
Martial's eye. "Poor, unhappy woman!" he murmured; "may
God forgive you as I forgive you — you whose crime has been
so frightfully expiated here below !"
O AFE. in his own princely mansion, and surrounded by an
*^ army of retainers, the Due de Sairmeuse had triumphantly
exclaimed : "We have outwitted Lecoq !"
In this he was right ; for the young detective was certainly
nonplused for the time being; but when his grace fancied him-
634 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
self forever beyond this wily, keen-witted, aspiring agent's
reach, he was most decidedly wrong. Leccq was not the man
to sit down with folded hands and brood over the humiliation
of defeat. Before he went to old Tabaret, he was beginning to
recover from his despondency; and when he left that expe-
rienced detective's presence, he had regained his courage, en-
ergy, and command over his faculties. "Well, my worthy
friend," he remarked to Father Absinthe, who was trotting
along by his side, "you heard what the great Monsieur Tabaret
said, didn't you? So, you see, I was right."
But his companion evinced no enthusiasm. "Yes, you were
right," he responded, in wobegone tones.
"Do you think we are ruined by two or three mistakes?
Nonsense ! I will soon turn to-day's defeat into a glorious
victory."
"Ah ! you might do so perhaps, if — they don't dismiss us
from the force."
This doleful remark recalled Lecoq to a sense of his present
position. He and Absinthe had allowed a prisoner to slip
through their fingers. That was vexatious, it is true ; but, on
the other hand, they had captured a most notorious criminal —
Joseph Couturier. Surely there was some comfort in that.
Still, of course, they both might be dismissed — and yet Lecoq
could have borne the prospect, dismal as it was, if it had not
been for the thought that dismissal would forever prevent him
from following up the Poivriere affair. What would his supe-
riors say when he told them that May and the Due de Sair-
meuse were one and the same person. They would, no doubt,
shrug their shoulders and turn up their noses. "Still, M. Seg-
muller will believe me," he thought. "But will he dare to take
any action in the matter without plain evidence before him?"
This was very unlikely, as Lecoq fully realized, and for a
moment he asked himself if he and his fellows could not make
a descent on the Hotel de Sairmeuse, and, on some pretext or
other, compel the duke to show himself. It would then be easy
to identify him as the prisoner May. However, after a little
thought he dismissed the idea. "It would be a stupid expedi-
ent !" he exclaimed. "Two such men as the duke and his
accomplice are not likely to be caught napping. They are pre-
pared for such a visit, and we should only have our labor for
our pains."
He made these reflections in a low tone of voice ; and Father
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 635
Absinthe's curiosity was aroused. "Excuse me," said the old
veteran, "I don't quite understand you."
"I say that we must find some tangible proof before asking
permission to proceed further — " Lecoq paused with knitted
brows. An idea had occurred to him. He fancied he could
prove complicity between at least one of the witnesses sum-
moned to give evidence, and some member of the duke's house-
hold. He was indeed thinking of Madame Milner, the land-
lady of the Hotel de Mariembourg, and of his first meeting
with her. He saw her again, in his mind's eye, standing on
a chair, her face on a level with a cage, covered with a large
piece of black silk, while she persistently repeated three or four
German words to a starling, who with equal persistency re-
torted : "Camille ! Where is Camille ?" "One thing is certain,"
exclaimed Lecoq aloud, "if Madame Milner — who is a German,
and who speaks French with the strongest possible German
accent — had reared this bird, it would either have spoken in
German or else in French, and in the latter case with the
same accent as its mistress. So it can't have been in her pos-
session long; but then who can have given it to her?"
"Father Absinthe was beginning to grow impatient. "In
sober earnest, what are you talking about?" he asked, petulantly.
"I say that if there is any one at the Hotel de Sairmeuse
named Camille, I have the proof I wish for. Come, Papa
Absinthe, let us hurry on." And without another word of
explanation, he dragged his companion rapidly toward the
Seine.
When they reached the Rue de Grenelle, Lecoq perceived
a commissionaire leaning against the door of a wine-shop. He
walked straight toward him. "Come, my good fellow," said
he. "I want you to go to the Hotel de Sairmeuse and ask for
Camille. Tell her that her uncle is waiting for her here."
"But, sir—"
"What, you haven't gone yet?"
The messenger started off, and the two police agents entered
the wine-shop, Father Absinthe scarcely having time to swal-
low a glass of brandy before the envoy returned. "I was
unable to see Mademoiselle Camille," said he. "The house is
closed from top to bottom. The duchess died very suddenly
this morning."
"Ah ! the wretch !" exclaimed the young police agent. Then
controlling himself, he mentally added: "He must have killed
636 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
his wife on returning home, but his fate is sealed. Now, I
shall be allowed to continue my investigation;."
In less than twenty minutes they arrived at the Palais de
Justice. M. Segmuller did not seem to be immoderately sur-
prised by Lecoq's revelations, though he listened with evident
doubt to the young police agent's ingenious deductions ; it was
the circumstance of the starling which at last decided him.
"Perhaps you are right, my dear Lecoq," he said, "and to tell
the truth, I quite agree with you. But I can take no further
action in the matter until you can furnish proof so convincing
in its nature that the Due de Sairmeuse will be unable tq
think of denying it."
"Ah ! my superiors won't allow me — "
"On the contrary," interrupted the magistrate, "they will
allow you the fullest liberty after I have spoken to them."
Such action on M. Segmuller's part required no little courage;
for in official circles there had been considerable merriment
over the magistrate's mysterious man with the iron mask, dis-
guised as a mountebank ; and the former by his persistent sup-
port of the young detective's theories had almost become an
object of ridicule.
"And when will you speak to them?" timidly inquired Lecoq.
"At once."
The magistrate had already turned toward the door when
the young police agent stopped him. "I have one more favor
to ask you, sir," he said, entreatingly. "You are so kind, you
are the first person who has given me any encouragement — who
has had any faith in me."
"Speak, my good fellow."
"Ah ! sir, will you give me a message for M. d'Escorval ?
Any insignificant message — inform him of the prisoner's escape.
I will take it myself, and then — Oh! fear nothing, sir; I will
be very prudent."
"Very well !" replied the magistrate, "I will write him a
note."
When he finally left the office, Lecoq was fully authorized
to proceed with his investigations, and he carried in his pocket
M. Segmuller's letter to M. d'Escorval. His satisfaction was
so intense that he did not deign to notice the sneers bestowed
upon him as he passed along the corridors ; but on the thres-
hold downstairs he encountered Gevrol, the general, who was
evidently watching for him. "Ah, ha!" laughed the inspector.
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 637
as Lecoq passed out, "here's one of those simpletons who fish
for whales and don't even catch a gudgeon."
For an instant Lecoq felt angry. He turned round abruptly
and looked Gevrol full in the face. "At all events," retorted
he in the tone of a man who knows what he's saying, "that's
better than assisting prisoners to carry on a surreptitious cor-
respondence with people outside."
In his surprise, Gevrol almost lost countenance, and his blush
was equivalent to a confession. But Lecoq did not add
another word. What did it matter to him now if Gevrol
had betrayed him ! Was he not about to win a glorious
revenge !
He spent the remainder of the day in preparing his plan of
action, and in thinking what he should say when he took M.
Segmuller's note to Maurice d'Escorval. The next morning,
at about eleven o'clock, he presented himself at the latter's
house. "M. d'Escorval is in his study with a young man," re-
plied the servant to the young detective's inquiry, "but, as he
gave me no orders to the contrary, you may go in."
Lecoq entered, but found the study unoccupied. From the
adjoining room, however, only separated from the study by
velvet hangings, came a sound of stifled exclamations, of sobs
mingled with kisses. Not knowing whether to remain or to
retire, the young police agent stood for a moment undecided ;
when suddenly he perceived an open letter lying on the carpet.
Impelled by an impulse stronger than his will, Lecoq picked the
letter up, and his eyes meeting the signature, he started back in
surprise. He could not now refrain from reading this missive,
which ran as follows:
"The bearer of this letter is Marie-Anne's son — your son,
Maurice. I have given him all the proofs necessary to estab-
lish his identity. It was to his education that I consecrated
poor Marie-Anne's inheritance. Those to whose care I con-
fided him have made a noble man of him. If I restore him to
you, it is only because the life I lead is not a fitting life for
him. Yesterday, the miserable woman who murdered my sister
died from poison administered by her own hand. Poor Marie-
Anne ! she would have been far more terribly avenged had not
an accident which happened to me saved the Due and the
Duchesse de Sairmeuse from the snare into which I had drawn
them. Jean Lacheneur."
638 THE HONOR OF THE NAME
Locoq stood as if petrified. Now he understood the terrible
drama enacted in the Widow Chupin's cabin. "I must go to
Sairmeuse at once," he said to himself; "there I can discover
everything." He left the room without seeing M. d'Escorval,
and even successfully resisted the temptation to take Lache-
neur's letter with him.
Exactly a month had transpired since Blanche's death. His
grace the Due de Sairmeuse was reclining on a divan in his
library, reading one of his favorite authors, when Otto, his
valet de chambre, came in to inform him that a messenger was
below, charged with delivering into his grace's own hands a
letter from M. d'Escorval.
Martial sprang to his feet. "It is impossible," he exclaimed;
and then he quickly added: "Let the messenger come up."
A tall man, with florid complexion, and red hair and beard,
timidly handed the duke a letter. Martial instantly broke the
seal, and read :
"I saved you, monsieur, by not recognizing the prisoner, May.
In your turn assist me. By noon on the day after to-morrow, I
must have two hundred and sixty thousand francs. I have
sufficient confidence in your honor to apply to you.
"Maurice d'Escorval."
For a moment Martial stood bewildered, then springing to
a table he began writing, without noticing that the messenger
was looking over his shoulder: "Monsieur — Not the day after
to-morrow, but this evening, what you ask will be at your
service. My fortune and my life are at your disposal. It is
but a slight return for the generosity shown by you in with-
drawing, when, under the rags of May, you recognized your
former enemy, but now your devoted friend.
"Martial de Sairmeuse."
The duke folded this letter with a feverish hand, and giving
it to the messenger with a louis, he said: "Here is the
answer, make haste !"
But the messenger did not stir. He slipped the letter into
his pocket, and then hastily cast his red beard and wig on the
floor.
"Lecoq!" exclaimed Martial, paler than death.
"Lecoq, yes, sir," replied the young detective. "I was obliged
THE HONOR OF THE NAME 639
to take my revenge ; my future depended on it, and so I ventured
to imitate M. d'Escorval's writing." And as Martial offered
no remark: "I must also say to Monsieur le Due," he con-
tinued, "that if your grace will transmit a confession of your
presence at the Poivriere in your own handwriting to the
investigating magistrate I can and will at the same time
furnish proofs of your grace's innocence — that you were
dragged into a snare, and that you only acted in self-defense."
Martial looked up in fair astonishment, but to show that
he was acquainted with everything, Lecoq slowly added: "As
madame is dead, there will be nothing said concerning what
took place at the Borderie."
A week later a private report setting forth that there were
no grounds to proceed against the Due de Sairmeuse was
forwarded by M. Segmuller to the public prosecutor.
Appointed to the position of inspector, which he coveted,
Lecoq had the good taste, or perhaps, the shrewdness, to wear
his honors modestly. But on the day of his promotion, he
ordered a seal, on which was engraved the exultant rooster,
his chosen armorial design, with a motto to which be ever
remained faithful: "Semper Vigilans."
THE END
17 — Vol. II — Gab.
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
1— Vol. Ill — Gab.
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
ON Thursday, the 6th of March, 1862, two days after
Shrove Tuesday, five women belonging to the village of
La Jonchere presented themselves at the police station,
at Bougival. They stated that for two days past no one had
seen the Widow Lerouge, one of their neighbors, who lived by
herself in an isolated cottage. They had several times knocked
at the door, but all in vain. The window-shutters as well as
the door were closed ; and it was impossible to obtain even a
glimpse of the interior. This silence, this sudden disappearance,
alarmed them. Apprehensive of a crime, or at least of an acci-
dent, they requested the interference of the police to satisfy
their doubts by forcing the door and entering the house.
Bougival is a pleasant riverside village, peopled on Sundays
by crowds of boating parties. Trifling offenses are frequently
heard of in its neighborhood, but crimes are rare. The com-
missary of police at first refused to listen to the women, but
their importunities so fatigued him that he at length acceded
to their request. He sent for the corporal of gendarmes, with
two of his men, called into requisition the services of a lock-
smith, and, thus accompanied, followed the neighbors of the
Widow Lerouge.
La Jonchere owes some celebrity to the inventor of the slid-
ing railway, who for some years past has, with more enterprise
than profit, made public trials of his system in the immediate
neighborhood. It is a hamlet of no importance, resting upon
the slope of the hill which overlooks the Seine between La
Malmaison and Bougival. It is about twenty minutes' walk
from the main road, which, passing by Rueil and Port-Marly,
goes from Paris to St. Germain : and is reached by a steep
and rugged lane, quite unknown to the government engineers.
The party, led by the gendarmes, followed the main road which
here bordered the river until it reached this lane, into which
it turned, and stumbled over the rugged inequalities of the
643
644 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
ground for about a hundred yards, when it arrived in front of
a cottage of extremely modest yet respectable appearance. This
cottage had probably been built by some little Parisian shop-
keeper in love with the beauties of nature ; for all the trees had
been carefully cut down. It consisted merely of two apart-
ments on the ground floor with a loft above. Around it ex-
tended a much-neglected garden, badly protected against mid-
night prowlers by a very dilapidated stone wall about three feet
high, and broken and crumbling in many places. A light
wooden gate, clumsily held in its place by pieces of wire, gave
access to the garden.
"It is here," said the women.
The commissary stopped. During his short walk, the num-
ber of his followers had been rapidly increasing, and now in-
cluded all the inquisitive and idle persons of the neighborhood.
He found himself surrounded by about forty individuals burn-
ing with curiosity.
"No one must enter the garden." said he; and, to insure
obedience, he placed the two gendarmes on sentry before the
entrance, and advanced toward the house, accompanied by the
corporal and the locksmith.
He knocked several times loudly with his leaded cane, first
at the door, and then successively at all the window-shutters.
After each blow, he placed his ear against the wood and lis-
tened. Hearing nothing, he turned to the locksmith.
"Open !" said he.
The workman unstrapped his satchel, and produced his im-
plements. He had already introduced a skeleton key into the
lock, when a loud exclamation was heard from the crowd out-
side the gate.
"The key!" they cried. "Here is the key!"
A boy about twelve years old, playing with one of his
companions, had seen an enormous key in a ditch by the
roadside ; he had picked it up and carried it to the cottage
in triumph.
"Give it to me, youngster," said the corporal. "We shall
see."
The key was tried, and it proved to be the key of the house.
The commissary and the locksmith exchanged glances full of
sinister misgivings. "This looks bad," muttered the corporal.
They entered the house, while the crowd, restrained with diffi-
culty by the gendarmes, stamped with impatience, or leaned
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 645
over the garden wall, stretching their necks eagerly, to see or
hear something of what was passing within the cottage.
Those who anticipated the discovery of a crime were unhap-
pily not deceived. The commissary was convinced of this as
soon as he crossed the threshold. Everything in the first room
pointed with a sad eloquence to the recent presence of a
malefactor. The furniture was knocked about, and a chest of
drawers and two large trunks had been forced and broken
open. In the inner room, which served as a sleeping apart-
ment, the disorder was even greater. It seemed as though some
furious hand had taken a fiendish pleasure in upsetting every-
thing. Near the fireplace, her face buried in the ashes, lay the
dead body of Widow Lerouge. All one side of the face and the
hair were burnt; it seemed a miracle that the fire had not
caught her clothing.
"Wretches !" exclaimed the corporal. "Could they not have
robbed without assassinating the poor woman?"
"But where has she been wounded?" inquired the commis-
sary ; "I do not see any blood."
"Look ! here between the shoulders." replied the corporal :
two fierce blows, by my faith. I'll wager my stripes she had
no time to cry out."
He stooped over the corpse and touched it. "She is quite
cold." he continued, "and it seems to me that she is no longer
very stiff. It is at least thirty-six hours since she received her
death-blow."
The commissary began writing, on the corner of a table, a
short official report. "We are not here to talk, but to discover
the guilty," said he to the corporal. "Let information be at
once conveyed to the justice of the peace and the mayor, and
send this letter without delay to the Palais de Justice. In a
couple of hours an investigating magistrate can be here. In
the mean while. I will proceed to make a preliminary inquiry."
"Shall I carry the letter?" asked the corporal of gendarmes.
"No, send one of your men ; you will be useful to me here
in keeping these people in order, and in finding any witnesses
I may want. We must leave everything here as it is. I will
install myself in the other room."
A gendarme departed at a run toward the station at Rueil;
and the commissary commenced his investigations in regular
form, as prescribed by law.
"Who was Widow Lerouge? Where did she come from?
64« THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
What did she do? Upon what means, and how did she live?
What were her habits, her morals, and what sort of company
did she keep? Was she known to have enemies? Was she a
miser? Did she pass for being rich?" The commissary knew
the importance of ascertaining all this: but although the wit-
nesses were numerous enough, they possessed but little infor-
mation. The depositions of the neighbors, successively interro-
gated, were empty, incoherent, and incomplete. No one knew
anything of the victim, who was a stranger in the country.
Many presented themselves as witnesses, moreover, who came
forward less to afford information than to gratify their curi-
osity. A gardener's wife, who had been friendly with the de-
ceased, and a milkwoman with whom she dealt, were alone able
to give a few insignificant though precise details. In a word,
after three hours of laborious investigation, after having un-
dergone the infliction of all the gossip of the country, after
receiving evidence the most contradictory, and listening to
commentaries the most ridiculous, the following is what ap-
peared the most reliable to the commissary:
Twelve years before, at the beginning of 1850, the woman
Lerouge had made her appearance at Bougival with a large
wagon piled with furniture, linen, and her personal effects.
She had alighted at an inn, declaring her intention of settling
in the neighborhood, and had immediately gone in quest of a
house. Finding this one unoccupied, and thinking it would
suit her, she had taken it without trying to beat down the
terms, at a rental of three hundred and twenty francs, payable
half yearly and in advance, but had refused to sign a lease.
The house taken, she occupied it the same day, and expended
about a hundred francs on repairs.
She was a woman about fifty-four or fifty-five years of age,
well preserved, active, and in the enjoyment of excellent health.
No one knew her reasons for taking up her abode in a country
where she was an absolute stranger. She was supposed to have
come from Normandy, having been frequently seen in the early
morning to wear a white cotton cap. This night-cap did not
prevent her dressing very smartly during the day; indeed, she
ordinarily wore very handsome dresses, very showy ribbons in
her caps, and covered herself with jewels like a saint in a
chapel. Without doubt she lived on the coast, for ships and
the sea recurred incessantly in her conversation.
She did not like speaking of her husband, who had, she said,
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR f>47
perished in a shipwreck. But she had never given the slightest
detail. On one particular occasion she had remarked, in pres-
ence of the milkwoman and three other persons: "No woman
was ever more miserable than I during my married life." And
at another she had said : "All new, all fine ! My defunct hus-
band only loved me for a year I"
Widow Lerouge passed for rich, or at least for being very
well off, and she was not a miser. She had lent a woman at
La Malmaison sixty francs with which to pay her rent, and
would not let her return them. At another time she had ad-
vanced two hundred francs to a fisherman of Port-Marly. She
was fond of good living, spent a good deal on her food, and
bought wine by the half-cask. She took pleasure in treating
her acquaintances, and her dinners were excellent. If compli-
mented on her easy circumstances, she made no very strong
denial. She had frequently been heard to say : "I have nothing
in the funds, but I have everything I want. If I wished for
more, I could have it."
Beyond this, the slightest allusion to her past life, her coun-
try, or her family had never escaped her. She was very talka-
tive, but all she would say would be to the detriment of her
neighbors. She was supposed, however, to have seen the world,
and to know a great deal. She was very distrustful and bar-
ricaded herself in her cottage as in a fortress. She never
went out in the evening, and it was well known that she got
tipsy regularly at her dinner and went to bed very soon
afterward.
Rarely had strangers been seen to visit her ; four or five times
a lady accompanied by a young man had called, and upon one
occasion two gentlemen, one young, the other old and decorated,
had come in a magnificent carriage.
In conclusion, the deceased was held in but little esteem by
her neighbors. Her remarks were often most offensive and
odious in the mouth of a woman of her age. She had been
heard to give a young girl the most detestable counsels. A pork
butcher, belonging to Bougival, embarrassed in his business,
and tempted by her supposed wealth, had at one time paid her
his addresses. She, however, repelled his advances, declaring
that to be married once was enough for her. On several occa-
sions men had been seen in her house : first of all, a young
one, who had the appearance of a clerk of the railway com-
pany: then another, a tall, elderly man, very sunburnt, who
64b THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
was dressed in a blouse, and looked very villainous. These men
were reported to be her lovers.
While questioning the witnesses, the commissary wrote down
their depositions in a more condensed form, and he had got
so far, when the investigating magistrate arrived, attended by
the chief of the detective police, and one of his subordinates.
M. Daburon was a man thirty-eight years of age, and of pre-
possessing appearance ; sympathetic notwithstanding his cold-
ness ; wearing upon his countenance a sweet and rather sad
expression. This settled melancholy had remained with him
ever since his recovery, two years before, from a dreadful
malady, which had well-nigh proved fatal. Investigating mag-
istrate since 1859, he had rapidly acquired the most brilliant
reputation. Laborious, patient, and acute, he knew with sin-
gular skill how to disentangle the skein of the most complicated
affair, and from the midst of a thousand threads lay hold of
the right one. None better than he, armed with an implacable
logic, could solve those terrible problems in which x represents
the criminal. Clever in deducing the unknown from the known,
he excelled in collecting facts, and in uniting in a bundle of
overwhelming proofs circumstances the most trifling, and in
appearance the most insignificant.
Although possessed of qualifications for his office so numer-
ous and valuable, he was tremblingly distrustful of his own
abilities and exercised his terrible functions with diffidence and
hesitation. He wanted audacity to risk those sudden surprises
so often resorted to by his colleagues in the pursuit of truth.
Thus it was repugnant to his feelings to deceive even an ac-
cused person, or to lay snares for him : in fact, the mere idea
of the possibility of a judicial error terrified him. They said
of him in the courts: "He is a trembler." What he sought was
not conviction, nor the most probable presumptions, but the
most absolute certainty. No rest for him until the day when
the accused was forced to bow before the evidence ; so much so
that he had been jestingly reproached with seeking not to
discover criminals but innocents.
The chief of detective police was none other than the cele-
brated Gevrol. He was really an able man, but wanting in per-
severance, and liable to be blinded by an incredible obstinacy.
If he lost a clue, he could not bring himself to acknowledge it,
still less to retrace his steps. His audacity and coolness, how-
ever, rendered it impossible to disconcert him; and being pos-
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 649
sessed of immense personal strength, hidden under a most
meagre appearance, he never hesitated to confront the most
daring of malefactors. But his specialty, his triumph, his glory,
was a memory of faces, so prodigious as to exceed belief. If
he saw a face for five minutes, it was enough. Its possessor
was catalogued, and would be recognized at any time. The
impossibilities of place, the unlikelihood of circumstances, the
most incredible disguises would not lead him astray. The rea-
son for this, so he pretended, was because he only looked at a
man's eyes, without noticing any other features. This faculty
was severly tested some months back at Poissy by the follow-
ing experiment. Three prisoners were draped in coverings so
as to completely disguise their height. Over their faces were
thick veils, allowing nothing of the features to be seen except
the eyes, for which holes had been made ; and in this state they
were shown to Gevrol. Without the slightest hesitation he
recognized the prisoners and named them. Had chance alone
assisted him?
The subordinate Gevrol had brought with him was an old
offender, reconciled to the law. A smart fellow in his profes-
sion, crafty as a fox, and jealous of his chief, whose abilities
he held in light estimation. His name was Lecoq.
The commissary, by this time heartily tired of his responsi-
bilities, welcomed the investigating magistrate and his agents
as liberators. He rapidly related the facts collected and read
his official report.
"You have proceeded very well," observed the investigating
magistrate. "All is stated clearly; yet there is one fact you
have omitted to ascertain."
"What is that, sir?" inquired the commissary.
"On what day was Widow Lerouge last seen, and at what
hour?"
"I was coming to that presently. She was last seen and
spoken to on the evening of Shrove Tuesday, at twentv minutes
past five. She was then returning from Bougival with a
basketful of purchases."
"You are sure of the hour, sir?" inquired Gevrol.
"Perfectly, and for this reason; the two witnesses who fur-
nished me with this fact, a woman named Tellier and a cooper
who lives hard by, alighted from the omnibus which leaves
Marly every hour, when they perceived the widow in the cross-
road, and hastened to overtake her. Thev conversed with her
650 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
and only left her when they reached the door of her own
house."
"And what had she in her basket?" asked the investigating
magistrate.
"The witnesses can not say. They only know that she car-
ried two sealed bottles of wine, and another of brandy. She
complained to them of headache, and said: 'Though it is cus-
tomary to enjoy one's self on Shrove Tuesday, I am going
to bed.' "
"So, so !" exclaimed the chief of detective police. "I know
where to search !"
"You think so?" inquired M. Daburon.
"Why, it is clear enough. We must find the tall, sunburnt
man, the gallant in the blouse. The brandy and the wine were
intended for his entertainment. The widow expected him to
supper. He came, sure enough, the amiable gallant !"
"Oh !" cried the corporal of gendarmes, evidently scandalized,
"she was very old, and terribly ugly !"
Gevrol surveyed the honest fellow with an expression of
contemptuous pity. "Know, corporal," said he, "that a woman
who has money is always young and pretty, if she desires to
be thought so !"
"Perhaps there is something in that," remarked the magis-
trate ; "but it is not what strikes me most. I am more impressed
by the remark of this unfortunate woman : 'If I wished for
more, I could have it.' "
"That also attracted my attention," acquiesced the com-
missary.
But Gevrol no longer took the trouble to listen. He stuck
to his own opinion, and began to inspect minutely every corner
of the room. Suddenly he turned toward the commissary.
"Now that I think of it," cried he, "was it not on Tuesday
that the weather changed ? It had been freezing for a fortnight
past, and on that evening it rained. At what time did the rain
commence here?"
"At half-past nine," answered the corporal. "I went out
from supper to make my circuit of the dancing halls, when I
was overtaken opposite the Rue des Pecheurs by a heavy
shower. In less than ten minutes there was half an inch of
water in the road."
"Very well," said Gevrol. "Then if the man came after half-
past nine his shoes must have been very muddy. If they were
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 651
dry, he arrived sooner. This must have been noticed, for the
floor is a polished one. Were there any imprints of footsteps,
Mr. Commissary?"
"I must confess we never thought of looking for them."
"Ah !" exclaimed the chief detective, in a tone of irritation,
""that is vexatious !"
"Wait," added the commissary; "there is yet time to see if
there are any, not in this room, but in the other. We have
disturbed absolutely nothing there. My footsteps and the cor-
poral's will be easily distinguished. Let us see."
As the commissary opened the door of the second chamber,
Gevrol stopped him. "I ask permission, sir," said he to the
investigating magistrate, "to examine the apartment before any
one else is permitted to enter. It is very important for me."
"Certainly," approved M. Daburon.
Gevrol passed in first, the others remaining on the threshold.
They all took in at a glance the scene of the crime. Every-
thing, as the commissary had stated, seemed to have been over-
turned by some furious madman. In the middle of the room
was a table covered with a fine linen cloth, white as snow.
Upon this was placed a magnificent wineglass of the rarest
manufacture, a very handsome knife, and a plate of the finest
porcelain. There was an opened bottle of wine, hardly touched,
and another of brandy, from which about five or six small glass-
fuls had been taken. On the right, against the wall, stood two
handsome walnut-wood wardrobes, with ornamental locks ; they
were placed one on each side of the window ; both were empty,
and the contents scattered about on all sides. There were
clothing, linen, and other effects unfolded, tossed about, and
crumpled. At the end of the room, near the fireplace, a large
cupboard used for keeping the crockery was wide open. On
the other side of the fireplace, an old secretary with a marble
top had been forced, broken, smashed into bits, and rummaged,
no doubt, to its inmost recesses. The desk, wrenched away,
hung by a single hinge. The drawers had been pulled out and
thrown upon the floor. To the left of the room stood the bed,
which had been completely disarranged and upset. Even the
straw of the mattress had been pulled out and examined.
"Not the slightest imprint," murmured Gevrol, disappointed.
"He must have arrived before half-past nine. You can all
come in now."
He walked right up to the corpse of the widow, near which
652 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
he knelt. "It can not be said," grumbled h<*, "that the work is
not properly done ! the assassin is no apprentice !" Then look-
ing right and left, he continued: "Oh! oh! the poor devil was
busy with her cooking when he struck her ; see her pan of ham
and eggs upon the hearth. The brute hadn't patience enough
to wait for the dinner. The gentleman was in a hurry, he
struck the blow fasting; therefore he can't invoke the gaiety of
dessert in his defense !"
"It is evident," said the commissary to the investigating
magistrate, "that robbery was the motive of the crime."
"It is probable," answered Gevrol in a sly way; "and that
accounts for the absence of the silver spoons from the table."
"Look here ! Some pieces of gold in this drawer !" exclaimed
Lecoq, who had been searching on his own account, "just three
hundred and twenty francs !"
"Well, I never!" cried Gevrol, a little disconcerted. But he
soon recovered from his embarrassment, and added: "He must
have forgotten them; that often happens. I have known an
assassin, who, after accomplishing the murder, became so utterly
bewildered as to depart without remembering to take the
plunder, for which he had committed the crime. Our man
became excited perhaps, or was interrupted. Some one may
have knocked at the door. What makes me more willing to
think so is that the scamp did not leave the candle burning.
You see, he took the trouble to put it out."
"Pooh !" said Lecoq. "That proves nothing. He is probably
an economical and careful man."
The investigations of the two agents were continued all over
the house ; but their most minute researches resulted in dis-
covering absolutely nothing; not one piece of evidence to con-
vict; not the faintest indication which might serve as a point
of departure. Even the dead woman's papers, if she possessed
any, had disappeared. Not a letter, not a scrap of paper even,
to be met with. F"rom time to time Gevrol stopped to swear or
grumble. "Oh ! it is cleverly done ! It is a tiptop piece of
work ! The scoundrel is a cool hand !"
"Well, what do you make of it?" at length demanded the
investigating magistrate.
"It is a drawn game, monsieur," replied Gevrol. "We are
baffled for the present. The miscreant has taken his measures
with great precaution ; but I will catch him. Before night, I
shall have a dozen men in pursuit. Besides, he is sure to fall
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 653
into our hands. He has carried off the plate and the jewels.
He is lost !"
"Despite all that," said M. Daburon, "we are no further
advanced than we were this morning !"
"Well !" growled Gevrol, "a man can only do what he can !"
"Ah !" murmured Lecoq in a low tone, perfectly audible, how-
ever, "why is not old Tirauclair here?"
"What could he do more than we have done?" retorted
Gevrol, directing a furious glance at his subordinate. Lecoq
bowed his head and was silent, inwardly delighted at having
wounded his chief.
"Who is old Tirauclair?" asked M. Daburon. "It seems to
me that I have heard the name, but I can't remember where.'"
"He is an extraordinary man !" exclaimed Lecoq.
"He was formerly a clerk at the Mont de Piete," added
Gevrol ; "but he is now a rich old fellow, whose real name
is Tabaret. He goes in for playing the detective by way of
amusement."
"And to augment his revenues," insinuated the commissary.
"He ?" cried Lecoq. "No danger of that. He works so much
for the glory of success that he often spends money from his
own pocket. It's his amusement, you see ! At the Prefecture
we have nicknamed him 'Tirauclair,' from a phrase he is con-
stantly in the habit of repeating. Ah ! he is sharp, the old
weasel ! It was he who in the case of that banker's wife, you
remember, guessed that the lady had robbed herself, and who
proved it."
"True!" retorted Gevrol; "and it was also he who almost
had poor Dereme guillotined for killing his wife, a thorough
bad woman; and all the while the poor man was innocent."
"We are wasting our time, gentlemen," interrupted M. Dabu-
ron. Then, addressing himself to Lecoq, he added: "Go and
find M. Tabaret. I have heard a great deal of him, and shall be
glad to see him at work here."
Lecoq started off at a run. Gevrol was seriously humiliated.
"You have, of course, sir, the right to demand the services of
whom you please," commenced he, "but yet — "
"Do not," interrupted M. Daburon, "let us lose our tempers,
M. Gevrol. I have known you for a long time, and I know
your worth ; but to-day we happen to differ in opinion. You
hold absolutely to your sunburnt man in the blouse, and I, on
my side, am convinced that you are not on the right track !"
654 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"I think I am right," replied the detective, "and I hope to
prove it. I shall find the scoundrel, be he whom he may !"
"I ask nothing better," said M. Daburon.
"Only permit me, sir, to give — what shall I say without fail-
ing in respect — a piece of advice?"
"Speak !"
"I would advise you, sir, to distrust old Tabaret."
"Really? And for what reason?"
"The old fellow allows himself to be carried away too much
by appearances. He has become an amateur detective for the
sake of popularity, just like an author; and, as he is vainer
than a peacock, he is apt to lose his temper and be very obsti-
nate. As soon as he finds himself in the presence of a crime,
like this one, for example, he pretends he can explain every-
thing on the instant. And he manages to invent a story that
will correspond exactly with the situation. He professes, with
the help of one single fact, to be able to reconstruct all the
details of an assassination, as a savant pictures an antediluvian
animal from a single bone. Sometimes he divines correctly;
very often, though, he makes a mistake. Take, for instance,
the case of the tailor, the unfortunate Dereme, without me — "
"I thank you for your advice," interrupted M. Daburon, "and
will profit by it. Now, commissary," he continued, "it is most
important to ascertain from what part of the country Widow
Lerouge came."
The procession of witnesses under the charge of the corporal
of gendarmes were again interrogated by the investigating mag-
istrate. But nothing new was elicited. It was evident that
Widow Lerouge had been a singularly discreet woman ; for,
although very talkative, nothing in any way connected with her
antecedents remained in the memory of the gossips of La Jon-
chere. All the people interrogated, however, obstinately tried
to impart to the magistrate their own convictions and personal
conjectures. Public opinion sided with Gevrol. Every voice
denounced the tall sunburnt man with the gray blouse. He
must surely be the culprit. Every one remembered his ferocious
aspect, which had frightened the whole neighborhood. He had
one evening menaced a woman, and another day beaten a child.
They could point out neither the child nor the woman ; but no
matter: these brutal acts were notoriously public. M. Daburon
began to despair of gaining the least enlightenment, when some
one brought the wife of a grocer of. Bougival, at whose shop
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 655
the victim used to deal, and a child thirteen years old, who
knew, it was said, something positive.
The grocer's wife first made her appearance. She had heard
Widow Lerouge speak of having a son still living.
"Are you quite sure of that?" asked the investigating mag-
istrate.
"As of my existence," answered the woman, "for, on that
evening, yes, it was evening, she was, saving your presence,
a little tipsy. She remained in my shop more than an hour."
"And what did she say?"
"I think I see her now," continued the shopkeeper: "she
was leaning against the counter near the scales, jesting with
a fisherman of Marly, old Husson, who can tell you the same ;
and she called him a fresh-water sailor. 'My husband,' said
she, 'was a real sailor, and the proof is, he would sometimes
remain years on a voyage, and always used to bring me back
cocoanuts. I have a son who is also a sailor, like his dead
father, in the imperial navy.' "
"Did she mention her son's name?"
"Not that time, but another evening, when she was, if I may
say so, very drunk. She told us that her son's name was
Jacques, and that she had not seen him for a very long time."
"Did she speak ill of her husband?"
"Never! She only said he was jealous and brutal, though
a good man at bottom, and that he led her a miserable life. He
was weak-headed, and forged ideas out of nothing at all. In
fact, he was too honest to be wise."
"Did her son ever come to see her while she lived here?"
"She never told me of it."
"Did she spend much money with you?"
"That depends. About sixty francs a month ; sometimes
more, for she always buys the best brandy. She paid cash for
all she bought."
The woman, knowing no more, was dismissed. The child,
who was now brought forward, belonged to parents in easy
circumstances. Tall and strong for his age, he had bright,
intelligent eyes, and features expressive of watchfulness and
cunning. The presence of the magistrate did not seem to in-
timidate him in th« least.
"Let us hear, my boy," said M. Daburon, "what you know?"
"Well, sir, a few days ago, on Sunday last, I saw a man at
Madame Lerouge's garden gate."
botf THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"At what time of the day?"
"Early in the morning. I was going to church, to serve in
the second mass."
"Well," continued the magistrate, "and this man was tall and
sunburnt, and dressed in a blouse?"
"No, sir; on the contrary, he was short, very fat, and
old."
"You are sure you are not mistaken?"
"Quite sure," replied the urchin ; "I saw him close face to
face, for I spoke to him."
"Tell, me, then, what occurred?"
"Well, sir, I was passing when I saw this fat man at the
gate. He appeared very much vexed, oh ! but awfully vexed \
His face was red, or rather purple, as far as the middle of
his head, which I could see very well, for it was bare, and had
very little hair on it."
"And did he speak to you first?"
"Yes, sir, he saw me, and called out, 'Halloa ! youngster !'
as I came up to him, and he asked me if I had got a good
pair of legs. I answered yes. Then he took me by the ear,
but without hurting me, and said: 'Since that is so, if you will
run an errand for me, I will give you ten sous. Run as far
as the Seine ; and when you reach the quay, you will notice
a large boat moored. Go on board, and ask to see Captain
Gervais : he is sure to be there. Tell him that he can prepare
to leave, that I am ready.' Then he put ten sous in my hand,
and off I went."
"If all the witnesses were like this bright little fellow," mur-
mured the commissary, "what a pleasure it would be !"
"Now," said the magistrate, "tell us how you executed your
commission."
"I went to the boat, sir, found the man. and I told him;
and that's all."
Gevrol, who had listened with the most lively attention,
leaned over toward the ear of M. Daburon, and said in a
low voice : "Will you permit me, sir. to ask the brat a few
questions?"
"Certainly, M. Gevrol."
"Come now, my little friend," said Gevrol. "if you saw this
man again, would vou know him?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Then there was something remarkable about him?"
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 657
"Yes, I should think so ! his face was the color of a
brick."
"And is that all ?"
"Well, yes, sir."
"But you must remember how he was dressed ; had he a
blouse on ?"
"No; he wore a jacket. Under the arms were very large
pockets, and from out of one of them peeped a blue-spotted
handkerchief."
"What kind of trousers had he on ?"
"I do not remember."
"And his waistcoat?"
"Let me see," answered the child. "I don't think he wore
a waistcoat. And yet — but no. I remember he did not wear
one; he had a long cravat, fastened near his neck bv a large
ring."
"Ah!" said Gevrol with an air of satisfaction, "you are a
bright boy: and I wager that if you try hard to remember you
will find a few more details to give us."
The boy hung down his head and remained silent. From
the knitting of his young brows it was plain he was making
a violent effort of memory. "Yes," cried he suddenly, "I re-
member another thing."
"What?"
"The man wore very large rings in his ears."
"Bravo !" cried Gevrol, "here is a complete description. I
shall find the fellow now. M. Daburon can prepare a warrant
for his appearance whenever he likes."
"I believe, indeed, the testimony of this child is of the high-
est importance," said M. Daburon; and turning to the boy,
added: "Can you tell us, my little friend, with what this boat
was loaded?"
"No, sir, I couldn't see, because it was decked."
"Which way was she going, up the Seine or down?"
"Neither, sir ; she was moored."
"We know that," said Gevrol. "The magistrate asks you
which way the prow of the boat was turned — toward Paris or
toward Marly?"
"The two ends of the boat seemed alike to me."
The chief of the detective police made a gesture of dis-
appointment.
"At least," said he, addressing the child again, "you noticed
658 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
the name of the boat? you can read, I suppose. One should
always know the names of the boats one goes aboard of."
"No, I didn't see any name," said the little boy.
"If this boat was moored at the quay," remarked M. Daburon,
"it was probably noticed by the inhabitants of Bougival."
"That is true, sir," approved the commissary.
"Yes," said Gevrol, "and the sailors must have come ashore.
I shall find out all about it at the wine-shop. But what sort
of a man was Gervais, the master, my little friend?"
"Like all the sailors hereabouts, sir."
The child was preparing to depart when M. Daburon re-
called him.
"Before you go, my boy, tell me, have you spoken to any
one of this meeting before to-day?"
"Yes, sir, I told all to mama when I got back from church,
and gave her the ten sous."
"And you have told us the whole truth?" continued the
magistrate. "You know that it is a very grave matter to
attempt to impose on justice. She always finds it out, and it
is my duty to warn you that she inflicts the most terrible
punishment upon liars."
The little fellow blushed as red as a cherry, and held down
his head.
"I see," pursued M. Daburon, "that you have concealed some-
thing from us. Don't you know that the police know every-
thing?"
"Pardon ! sir," cried the boy, bursting into tears ; "pardon.
Don't punish me, and I will never do so again."
"Tell us, then, how you have deceived us?"
"Well, sir, it was not ten sous that the man gave me; it was
twenty sous. I only gave half to mama ; and I kept the rest
to buy marbles with."
"My little friend," said the investigating magistrate, "for
this time I forgive you. But let it be a lesson for the re-
mainder of your life. You may go now, and remember it is
useless to try and hide the truth; it always comes to light!"
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
659
HP HE two last depositions awakened in M. Daburon's mind
•*• some slight gleams of hope. In the midst of darkness the
humblest rushlight acquires brilliancy.
"I will go at once to Bougival, sir, if you approve of this
step," suggested Gevrol.
"Perhaps you would do well to wait a little," answered M.
Daburon. "This man was seen on Sunday morning; we will
inquire into Widow Lerouge's movements on that day."
Three neighbors were called. They all declared that the
widow had kept her bed all Sunday. To one woman who,
hearing she was unwell, had visited her, she said : "Ah ! I had
last night a terrible accident." Nobody at the time attached
any significance to these words.
"The man with the rings in his ears becomes more and more
important," said the magistrate when the woman had retired.
"To find him again is indispensable : you must see to this,
M. Gevrol."
"Before eight days I shall have him," replied the chief of
detective police, "if I have to search every boat on the Seine,
from its source to the ocean. I know the name of the captain,
Gervais. The navigation office will tell me something."
He was interrupted by Lecoq, who rushed into the house
breathless. "Here is old Tabaret," he said. "I met him just
as he was going out. What a man ! He wouldn't wait for the
train, but gave I don't know how much to a cabman ; and we
drove here in fifty minutes !"
Almost immediately a man appeared at the door whose aspect
it must be admitted was not at all what one would have ex-
pected of a person who had joined the police for honor alone.
He was certainly sixty years old, and did not look a bit younger.
Short, thin, and rather bent, he leaned on the carved ivory
handle of a stout cane. His round face wore that expression
of perpetual astonishment, mingled with uneasiness, which has
made the fortunes of two comic actors of the Palais Royal
660 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
Theatre. Scrupulously shaved, he presented a very short chin,
large and good-natured lips, and a nose disagreeably elevated,
like the broad end of one of Sax's horns. His eyes, of a dull
gray, were small and red at the lids, and absolutely void of
expression ; yet they fatigued the observer by their insupport-
able restlessness. A few straight hairs shaded his forehead,
which receded like that of a greyhound, and through their scan-
tiness barely concealed his long, ugly ears. He was very com-
fortably dressed, clean as a new franc piece, displaying linen
of dazzling whiteness, and wearing silk gloves and leather
gaiters. A long and massive gold chain, very vulgar looking,
was twisted thrice round his neck, and fell in cascades into
the pocket of his waistcoat.
M. Tabaret, surnamed Tirauclair, stood at the threshold, and
bowed almost to the ground, bending his old back into an arch,
and in the humblest of voices asked: "The investigating mag-
istrate has deigned to send for me?"
"Yes !" replied M. Daburon, adding under his breath ; "and
if you are a man of any ability, there is at least nothing to
indicate it in your appearance."
"I am here," continued the old fellow, "completely at the
service of justice."
"I wish to know," said M. Daburon, "whether you can dis-
cover some clue that will put us upon the track of the assassin.
I will explain the — "
"Oh, I know enough of it !" interrupted old Tabaret. "Lecoq
has told me the principal facts, just as much as I desire to
know."
"Nevertheless — " commenced the commissary of police.
"If you will permit me, I prefer to proceed without receiving
any details, in order to be more fully master of my own im-
pressions. When one knows another's opinion it can't help
influencing one's judgment. I will, if you please, at once com-
mence my researches, with Lecoq's assistance."
As the old fellow spoke his little gray eyes dilated and be-
came brilliant as carbuncles. His face reflected an internal
satisfaction ; even his wrinkles seemed to laugh. His figure
became erect, and his step was almost elastic, as he darted into
the inner chamber. He remained there about half an hour;
then came out running, then reentered, and then again came
out ; once more he disappeared and reappeared again almost
immediately. The magistrate could not help comparing him
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 661
to a pointer on the scent, his turned-up nose even moved about
as if to discover some subtle odor left by the assassin. All
the while he talked loudly and with much gesticulation, apos-
trophizing himself, scolding himself, uttering little cries of tri-
umph or self-encouragement. He did not allow Lecoq to have
a moment's rest. He wanted this or that or the other thing.
He demanded paper and pencil. Then he wanted a spade;
and finally he cried out for plaster of Paris, some water, and
a bottle of oil. When more than an hour had elapsed, the
investigating magistrate began to grow impatient, and asked
what had become of the amateur detective.
"He is on the road," replied the corporal, "lying flat in the
mud, and mixing some plaster in a plate. He says he has
nearly finished, and that he is coming back presently."
He returned in fact almost instantly, joyous, triumphant, look-
ing at least twenty years younger. Lecoq followed him, carrying
with the utmost precaution a large basket. "I have solved the
riddle !" said Tabaret to the magistrate. "It is all clear now,
and as plain as noonday. Lecoq, my lad, put the basket on
the table."
Gevrol at this moment returned from his expedition equally
delighted. "I am on the track of the man with the earrings,"
said he; "the boat went down the river. I have obtained an
exact description of the master Gervais."
"What have you discovered, M. Tabaret?" asked the mag-
istrate.
The old fellow carefully emptied upon the table the contents
of the basket — a big lump of clay, several large sheets of paper,
and three or four small lumps of plaster yet damp. Standing
behind this table, he presented a grotesque resemblance to those
mountebank conjurers who in the public squares juggle the
money of the lookers-on. His clothes had greatly suffered : he
was covered with mud up to his chin. "In the first place,"
said he at last in a tone of affected modesty, "robbery has had
nothing to do with the crime that occupies our attention."
"Oh ! of course not !" muttered Gevrol.
"I shall prove it." continued old Tabaret, "by the evidence.
By and by I shall offer my humble opinion as to the real motive.
In the second place, the assassin arrived here before half-past
nine ; that is to say, before the rain fell. No more than M.
Gevrol have I been able to discover traces of muddy footsteps;
but under the table, on the spot where his feet rested, I find
662 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
dust. We are thus assured of the hour. The widow did not in
the least expect her visitor. She had commenced undressing,
and was winding up her cuckoo clock when he knocked."
"These are absolute details !" cried the commissary.
"But easily established." replied the amateur. "You see this
cuckoo clock above the secretary : it is one of those which run
fourteen or fifteen hours at most, for I have examined it. Now
it is more than probable, it is certain, that the widow wound
it up every evening before going to bed. How, then, is it that
the clock has stopped at five? Because she must have touched
it. As she was drawing the chain the assassin knocked. In
proof. I show this chair standing under the clock, and on the
seat a very plain footmark. Now look at the dress of the vic-
tim ; the body of it is off. In order to open the door more
quickly, she did not wait to put it on again, but hastily threw
this old shawl over her shoulders.
"By Jove !" exclaimed the corporal, evidently struck.
"The widow," continued the old fellow, "knew the person
who knocked. Her haste to open the door gives rise to this
conjecture; what follows proves it. The assassin then gained
admission without difficulty. He is a young man, a little above
the middle height, elegantly dressed. He wore on that even-
ing a high hat. He carried an umbrella, and smoked a trabucos
cigar in a holder."
"Ridiculous !" cried Gevrol. "This is too much."
"Too much, perhaps," retorted old Tabaret. "At all events,
it is the truth. If you are not minute in your investigations,
I can not help it; anyhow, I am. I search, and I find. Too
much, say you ? Well deign to glance at these lumps of damp
plaster. They represent the heels of the boots worn by the
assassin, of which I found a most perfect impression near the
ditch where the key was picked up. On these sheets of paper
I have marked in outline the imprint of the foot which I can
not take up, because it is on some sand. Look ! heel high,
instep pronounced, sole small and narrow — an elegant boot,
belonging to a foot well cared for evidently. Look for this
impression all along the path, and you will find it again twice.
Then you will find it five times repeated in the garden where
no one else had been; and these footprints prove, by the way,
that the stranger knocked not at the door, but at the window-
shutter, beneath which shone a gleam of light. At the entrance
to the garden the man leaped to avoid a flower-bed! the point
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 663
of the foot, more deeply imprinted than usual, shows it. He
leaped more than two yards with ease, proving that he is active,
and theiefore young."
Old Tabaret spoke in a low voice, clear and penetrating; and
his eye glanced from one to the other of his auditors, watching
the impression he was making. "Does the hat astonish you,
M. Gevrol ?" he pursued. "Just l°°k at the circle traced in the
dust on the marble top of the secretary. Is it because I have
mentioned his height that you are surprised? Take the trouble
to examine the tops of the wardrobes and you will see that
the assassin passed his hands across them. Therefore he is taller
than I am. Do not say that he got on a chair, for in that case he
would have seen and would not have been obliged to feel. Are
you astonished about the umbrella ? This lump of earth shows an
admirable impression not only of the end of the stick, but even
of the little round piece of wood which is always placed at the
end of the silk. Perhaps you can not get over the statement
that he smoked a cigar? Here is the end of a trabucos that I
found among the ashes. Has the end been bitten ? No. Has
it been moistened with saliva? No. Then he who smoked it
used a cigar-holder."
Lecoq was unable to conceal his enthusiastic admiration, and
noiselessly rubbed his hands together. The commissary ap-
peared stupefied, while M. Daburon was delighted. Gevrol's
face, on the contrary, was sensibly elongated. As for the cor-
poral, he was overwhelmed.
"Now," continued the old fellow, "follow me closely. We
have traced the young man into the house. How he explained
his presence at this hour, I do not know; this much is certain,
he told the widow he had not dined. The worthy woman was
delighted to hear it, and at once set to work to prepare a meal.
This meal was not for herself ; for in the cupboard I have
found the remains of her own dinner. She had dined off fish ;
the autopsy will confirm the truth of this statement. Besides
you can see yourselves, there is but one glass on the table
and one knife. But who is this young man ? Evidently the
widow looked upon him as a man of superior rank to her own ;
for in the cupboard is a table-cloth still very clean. Did she
use it? No. For her guest she brought out a clean linen one,
her very best. It is for him this magnificent glass, a present,
no doubt, and it is evident she did not often use this knife with
the ivory handle."
664 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"That is all true," murmured M. Daburon, "very true."
"Now then we have got the young man seated. He began
by drinking a glass of wine, while the widow was putting her
pan on the fire. Then, his heart failing him, he asked for
brandy, and swallowed about five small glassfuls. After an
internal struggle of ten minutes (the time it must have taken
to cook the ham and eggs as much as they are), the young
man arose and approached the widow, who was squatting
down and leaning forward over her cooking. He stabbed her
twice in the back; but she was not killed instantly. She half
arose seizing the assassin by the hands; while he drew back,
lifting her suddenly, and then hurling her down in the position
in which you see her. This short struggle is indicated by the
posture of the body ; for, squatting down and being struck in
the back, it is naturally on her back that she ought to have
fallen.
"The murderer used a sharp narrow weapon, which was.
unless I am deceived, the end of a foil, sharpened, and with
the button broken off. By wiping the weapon upon his vic-
tim's skirt, the assassin leaves us this indication. He was
not, however, hurt in the struggle. The victim must have
clung with a death-grip to his hands ; but, as he had not taken
off his lavender kid gloves — "
"Why this is romance," exclaimed Gevrol.
"Have you examined the dead woman's finger-nails, M.
Gevrol ? - No. Well, do so, and then tell me whether I am mis-
taken. The woman, now dead, we come to the object of her
assassination. What did this well-dressed young gentleman
want? Money? Valuables? No! no! a hundred times no!
What he wanted, what he sought, and what he found, were
papers, documents, letters, which he knew to be in the pos-
session of the victim. To find them, he overturned everything,
upset the cupboards, unfolded the linen, broke open the secre-
tary, of which he could not find the key, and even emptied
the mattress of the bed. At last he found these documents.
And then do you know what he did with them ? Why, burned
them, of course; not in the fire-place, but in the little stove in
the front room. His end accomplished, what does he do next?
He flies, carrying with him all that he finds valuable, to baffle
detection, by suggesting a robbery. He wrapped everything
he found worth taking in the napkin which was to have served
him at dinner, and blowing out the candle, he fled, locking the
1 — Vol. Ill — Gab.
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 665
door on the outside, and throwing the key into a ditch. And
that is all."
"M. Tabaret," said the magistrate, "your investigation is ad-
mirable; and I am persuaded your inferences are correct."
"Ah!" cried Lecoq, "is he not colossal, my old Tirauclair?"
"Pyramidal !" cried Gevrol ironically. "I fear, however, your
well-dressed young man must have been just a little embar-
rassed in carrying a bundle covered with a snow white napkin,
which could be so easily seen from a distance."
"He did not carry it a hundred leagues," responded old
Tabaret. "You may well believe, that, to reach the railway
station, he was not fool enough to take the omnibus. No, he
returned on foot by the shortest way, which borders the river.
Now on reaching the Seine, unless he is more knowing than
I take him to be, his first care was to throw this telltale bundle
into the water."
"Do you believe so, M. Tirauclair?" asked Gevrol.
"I don't mind making a bet on it ; and the best evidence of
my belief is, that I have sent three men, under the surveillance
of a gendarme, to drag the Seine at the nearest spot from here.
If they succeed in finding the bundle, I have promised them a
recompense."
"Out of your own pocket, old enthusiast?"
"Yes, M. Gevrol, out of my own pocket."
"If they should, however, find this bundle!" murmured M.
Daburon.
He was interrupted by the entrance of a gendarme, who
said: "Here is a soiled table-napkin, filled with plate, money,
and jewels, which these men have found ; they claim the hun-
dred francs' reward, promised them."
Old Tabaret took from his pocket-book a bank-note, which
he handed to the gendarme. "Now," demanded he. crushing
Gevrol with one disdainful glance, "what thinks the investigat-
ing magistrate after this?"
"That, thanks to your remarkable penetration, we shall dis-
cover, and — "
He did not finish. The doctor summoned to make the post-
mortem examination entered the room. That unpleasant task
accomplished, it only confirmed the assertions and conjectures
of old Tabaret. The doctor explained, as the old man had
done, the position of the body. In his opinion also, there had
been a struggle. He pointed out a bluish circle, hardly per-
2— Vol. Ill — Gab.
666 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
ceptible, round the neck of the victim, produced apparently by
the powerful grasp of the murderer; fina'ly he declared that
Widow Lerouge had eaten about three hours before being
struck.
Nothing now remained except to collect the different objects
which would be useful for the prosecution, and might at a
later period confound the culprit. Old Tabaret examined with
extreme care the dead woman's finger nails; and, using infinite
precaution, he even extracted from behind them several small
particles of kid. The largest of these pieces was not above
the twenty-fifth part of an inch in length; but all the same
their color was easily distinguishable. He put aside also the
part of the dress upon which the assassin had wiped his weapon.
These with the bundle recovered from the Seine, and the
different casts taken by the old fellow, were all the traces the
murderer had left behind him. It was not much ; but this little
was enormous in the eyes of M. Daburon ; and he had strong
hopes of discovering the culprit. The greatest obstacle to
success in the unraveling of mysterious crimes is in mistaking
the motive. If the researches take at the first step a false
direction, they are diverted further and further from the truth,
in proportion to the length they are followed. Thanks to old
Tabaret, the magistrate felt confident that he was on the right
path.
Night had come on. M. Daburon had now nothing more
to do at La Jonchere; but Gevrol, who still clung to his own
opinion of the guilt of the man with the rings in his ears,
declared he would remain at Bougival. He determined to
employ the evening in visiting the different wine-shops, and
finding, if possible, new witnesses. At the moment of departure,
after the commissary and the entire party had wished M.
Daburon good night, the latter asked M. Tabaret to accom-
pany him.
"I was about to solicit that honor," replied the old fellow.
They set out together; and naturally the crime which had
been discovered, and with which they were mutually preoc-
cupied, formed the subject of their conversation.
"Shall we, or shall we not, ascertain the antecedents of this
woman !" repeated old Tabaret. "All depends upon that now I"
"We shall ascertain them, if the grocer's wife has told the
truth," replied M. Daburon. "If the husband of Widow Le-
rouge was a sailor, and if her son Jacques is in the navy, the
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 667
minister of marine can furnish information that will soon
lead to their discovery. I will write to the minister this very
night."
They reached the station at Rueil, and took their places in
the train. They were fortunate enough to secure a first-class
carriage to themselves. But old Tabar^t was no longer dis-
posed for conversation. He reflected, he sought, he combined;
and in his face might easily be read the working of his thoughts.
M. Daburon watched him curiously and felt singularly attracted
by this eccentric old man, whose very original taste had led
him to devote his services to the secret police of the Rue de
Jerusalem. "M. Tabaret," he suddenly asked, "have you been
long associated with the police?"
"Nine years, M. Daburon, more than nine years; and permit
me to confess I am a little surprised that you have never before
heard of me."
"I certainly knew you by reputation," answered M. Daburon;
"but your name did not occur to me, and it was only in conse-
quence of hearing you praised that I had the excellent idea
of asking your assistance. But what, I should like to know, is
your reason for adopting this employment?"
"Sorrow, sir, loneliness, weariness. Ah ! I have not always
been happy !"
"I have been told, though, that you are rich."
The old fellow heaved a deep sigh, which revealed the
most cruel deceptions. "I am well off, sir," he replied; "but I
have not always been so. Until I was forty-five years old, my
life was a series of absurd and useless privations. I had a
father who wasted my youth, ruined my life, and made me the
most pitiable of human creatures."
There are men who can never divest themselves of their
professional habits. M. Daburon was at all times and seasons
more or less an investigating magistrate. "How, M. Taba-
ret?" he inquired; "your father the author of all your mis-
fortunes ?"
"Alas, yes, sir ! I have forgiven him at last ; but I used to
curse him heartily. In the first transports of my resentment,
I heaped upon his memory all the insults that can be inspired
by the most violent hatred, when I learnt . . . But I will
confide my history to you, M. Daburon. When I was five and
twenty years of age, I was earning two thousand francs a year,
as a clerk at the Monte de Piete. One morning my father
668 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
entered my lodging, and abruptly announced to me that he
was ruined, and without food or shelter. He appeared in
dispair, and talked of killing himself. I loved my father.
Naturally, I strove to reassure him ; I boasted of my situation,
and explained to him as some length, that, while I earned the
means for living, he should want for nothing; and. to commence,
I insisted that henceforth we should live together. No sooner
said than done, and during twenty years I was encumbered
with the old—"
"What! you repent of your admirable conduct, M. Tabaret?"
"Do I repent of it ! That is to say he deserved to be poisoned
by the bread I gave him."
M. Daburon was unable to repress a gesture of surprise,
which did not escape the old fellow's notice.
"Hear, before you condemn me," he continued. "There was
I at twenty-five, imposing upon myself the severest privations
for the sake of my father, — no more friends, no more flirta-
tions, nothing. In the evenings, to augment our scanty
revenues, I worked at copying law papers for a notary. I denied
myself even the luxury of tobacco. Notwithstanding this, the
old fellow complained without ceasing; he regretted his lost
fortune; he must have pocket-money, with which to buy this,
or that; my utmost exertions failed to satisfy him. Ah,
Heaven alone knows what I suffered. I was not born to live
alone and grow old like a dog. I longed for the pleasures of
a home and a family. My dream was to marry, to adore a
good wife, by whom I might be loved a little, and to see inno-
cent healthy little ones gamboling about my knees. But pshaw !
when such thoughts entered my heart and forced a tear or two
from my eyes, I rebelled against myself. I said: 'My lad,
when you earn but three thousand francs a year, and have an
old and cherished father to support, it is your duty to stifle
such desires, and remain a bachelor.' And yet I met a young
girl. It is thirty years now since that time; well! just look
at me, I am sure I am blushing as red as a tomato. Tier name
was Hortense. Who can tell what has become of her! She
was beautiful and poor. Well, I was quite an old man when
my father died, the wretch, the — "
"M. Tabaret !" interrupted the magistrate, "for shame, M.
Tabaret !"
"But I have already told you, I have forgiven him. sir.
However you will soon understand my anger. On the day of
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 66$
bis death, looking in his secretary, I found a memorandum
of an income of twenty thousand francs !"
"How so ! was he rich ?"
"Yes, very rich; for that was not all; he owned near
Orleans a property leased for six thousand francs a year. He
owned, besides, the house I now live in, where we lived to-
gether; and I, fool, sot, imbecile, stupid animal that I was,
used to pay the rent every three months to the concierge!"
"That was too much !" M. Daburon could not help saying.
"Was it not, sir? I was robbing myself of my own money!
To crown his hypocrisy, he left a will wherein he declared, in
the name of the Holy Trinity, that he had no other aim in view,
in thus acting, than my own advantage. He wished, so he wrote,
to habituate me to habits of good order and economy, and
keep me from the commission of follies. And I was forty-five
years old, and for twenty years I had been reproaching myself
if ever I spent a single sou uselessly. In short, he had specu-
lated on my good heart, he had — Bah ! on my word, it is
enough to disgust the human race with filial piety !"
M; Tabaret's anger, albeit very real and justified, was so
highly ludicrous, that M. Daburon had much difficulty to
restrain his laughter, in spite of the real sadness of the recital.
'"At least," said he, "this fortune must have given you
pleasure." \
"Not at all, sir, it came too late. Of what avail to have the
bread when one has no longer the teeth? The marriageable
age had passed. I resigned my situation, however, to make
way for some one poorer than myself. At the end of a month
I was sick and tired of life; and, to replace the affections that
had been denied me, I resolved to give myself a passion, a
hobby, a mania. I became a collector of books. You think,
sir, perhaps that to take an interest in books a man must have
studied, must be learned?"
"I know, dear M. Tabaret, that he must have money. I
am acquainted with an illustrious bibliomaniac who may be
able to read, but who is most certainly unable to sign his own
name."
"This is verv likely. I, too. can read; and I read all the
books I bought. T collected all T could find which related, no
matter how little to the police. Memoirs, reports, pamphlets,
speeches, letters, novels — all stated me; and I devoured them.
So much so, that little by little I became attracted toward the
670 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
mysterious power which, from the obscurity of the Rue de
Jerusalem, watches over and protects society, which penetrates
everywhere, lifts the most impervious veils, sees through every
plot, divines what is kept hidden, knows exactly the value of a
man, the price of a conscience, and which accumulates in its
portfolios the most terrible, as well as the most shameful
secrets ! In reading the memoirs of celebrated detectives, more
attractive to me than the fables of our best authors, I became
inspired by an enthusiastic admiration for those men, so keen
scented, so subtle, flexible as steel, artful and penetrating, fertile
in expedients, who follow crime on the trail, armed with the
law, through the brushwood of legality, as relentlessly as the
savages of Cooper pursue their enemies in the depths of the
American forests. The desire seized me to become a wheel
of this admirable machine — a small assistance in the punish-
ment of crime and the triumph of innocence. I made the essay;
and I found I did not succeed too badly."
"And does this employment please you?"
"I owe to it, sir, my liveliest enjoyments. Adieu weariness !
since I have abandoned the search for books to the search
for men. I shrug my shoulders when I see a foolish fellow
pay twenty-five francs for the right of hunting a hare. What
a prize ! Give me the hunting of a man ! That, at least, calls
tfte faculties into play, and the victory is not inglorious ! The
game in my sport is equal to the hunter; they both possess
intelligence, strength, and cunning. The arms are nearly
equal. Ah ! if people but knew the excitement of these games
of hide and seek which are played between the criminal and
the detective, everybody would be wanting employment at the
office of the Rue de Jerusalem. The misfortune is, that the
art is becoming lost. Great crimes are now so rare. The race
of strong fearless criminals has given place to the mob of
vulgar pick-pockets. The few rascals who are heard of oc-
casionally are as cowardly as foolish. They sign their names
to their misdeeds, and even leave their cards lying about.
There is no merit in catching them. Their crime found out,
you have only to go and arrest them."
"It seems to me. though," interrupted M. Daburon, smiling,
"that our assassin is not such a bungler."
"He, sir, is an exception; and I shall have greater delight
in tracking him. I will do everything for that, I will even
compromise myself if necessary. For I ought to confess, M.
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
671
Daburon," added he, slightly embarrassed, "that I do not
boast to my friends of my exploits ; I even conceal them as
carefully as possible. They would perhaps shake hands with
me less warmly did they know that Tirauclair and Tabaret
were one and the same."
Insensibly the crime became again the subject of conversa-
tion. It was agreed, that, the first thing in the morning, M.
Tabaret should install himself at Bougival. He boasted that in
eight days he should examine all the people round about. On
his side M. Daburon promised to keep him advised of the
least evidence that transpired, and recall him, if by any chance
he should procure the papers of Widow Lerouge.
"To you, M. Tabaret," said the magistrate in conclusion,
"I shall be always at home. If you have any occasion to speak
to me, do not hesitate to come at night as well as during the
day. I rarely go out, and you will always find me either at my
home, Rue Jacob, or in my office at the Palais de Justice. I
will give orders for your admittance whenever you present
yourself."
The train entered the station at this moment. M. Daburon,
having called a cab, offered a seat to M. Tabaret. The old
fellow declined. "It is not worth while," he replied, "for I
live, as I have had the honor of telling you, in the Rue St.
Lazare, only a few steps from here."
"Till to-morrow, then !" said M. Daburon.
"Till to-morrow," replied old Tabaret ; and he added, "We
shall succeed."
TVyf TABARET'S house was in fact not more than four min-
*y«l« utes' walk from the railway terminus of St. Lazare. It
was a fine building carefully kept, and which probably yielded
a fine income, though the rents were not too high. The old
fellow found plenty of room in it. He occupied on the first
floor, overlooking the street, some handsome apartments, well
arranged and comfortably furnished, the principal of which was
672 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
his collection of books. He lived very simply from taste, as
well as habit, waited on by an old servant, to whom on great
occasions the concierge lent a helping hand.
No one in the house had the slightest suspicion of the avoca-
tions of the proprietor. Besides, even the humblest agent of
police would be expected to possess a degree of acuteness for
which no one gave M. Tabaret credit. Indeed, they mistook for
incipient idiocy his continual abstraction of mind. It is true
that all who knew him remarked the singularity of his habits.
His frequent absences from home had given to his proceedings
an appearance at once eccentric and mysterious. Never was
young libertine more irregular in his habits than this old man.
He came or failed to come home to his meals, ate it mattered
not what or when. He went out at every hour of the day and
night, often slept abroad, and even disappeared for entire weeks
at a time. Then, too, he received the strangest visitors, odd-
looking men of suspicious appearance, and fellows of ill-favored
and sinister aspect. This irregular way of living had robbed
the old fellow of much consideration. Many believed they saw
in him a shameless libertine, who squandered his income in dis-
reputable places. They would remark to one another: "Is it
not disgraceful in a man of his age ?" He was aware of all this
tittle-tattle, and laughed at it. This did not, however, prevent
many of his tenants from seeking his society and paying court
to him. They would invite him to dinner, but he almost in-
variably refused.
He seldom visited but one person of the house, but with that
one he was very intimate, so much so, indeed, that he was
more often in her apartment than in his own. She was a widow
lady, who for fifteen years had occupied an apartment on the
third floor. Her name was Madame Gerdy, and she lived with
her son Noel, whom she adored.
Noel Gerdy was a man thirty-three years of age, but looking
older; tall and well made, he had a noble and intelligent face,
large black eyes, and black hair which curled naturally. A
barrister, he passed for having great talent, and greater industry,
and had already gained a certain amount of notoriety. He was
an obstinate worker, cold and meditative, though devoted to his
profession, and affected, with some ostentation, perhaps, a great
rigidity of principle, and austerity of manners.
In Madame Gerdy's apartment, old Tabaret felt himself quite
at home. He considered her as a relation, and looked upon
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 673
Noel as a son. In spite of her fifty years, he had often thought
of asking the hand of his charming widow, and was restrained
less by the fear of a refusal than its consequence. To propose
and to be rejected would sever the existing relations, so pleas-
urable to biin. However, he had by his will, which was de-
posited with his notary, constituted this young barrister his sole
legatee ; with the single condition of founding an annual prize
of two thousand francs to be bestowed on the police agent who
during the year had unraveled the most obscure and myste-
rious crime.
Short as was the distance to his house, old Tabaret was a
good quarter of an hour in reaching it. On leaving M. Dabu-
ron his thoughts reverted to the scene of the murder ; and so
blinded was the old fellow to external objects that he moved
along the street, first jostled on the right, then on the left, by
the busy passers-by, advancing one step and receding two. He
repeated to himself for the fiftieth time the words uttered by
Widow Lerouge, as reported by the milkwoman. "If I wished
for any more, I could have it." ,
"All is in that," murmured he. "Widow Lerouge possessed
some important secret, which persons rich and powerful had the
strongest motives for concealing. She had them in her power,
and that was her fortune. She made them sing to her tune ;
she probably went too far, and so they suppressed her. But
of what nature was this secret, and how did she become pos-
sessed of it? Most likely she was in her youth a servant in
some great family ; and while there, she saw, heard, or dis-
covered something. What? Evidently there is a woman at the
bottom of it. Did she assist her mistress in some love intrigue ?
What more probable? And in that case the affair becomes even
more complicated. Not only must the woman be found but her
lover also ; for it is the lover who has moved in this affair.
He is, or I am greatly deceived, a man of noble birth. A per-
son of inferior rank would have simply hired an assassin.
This man has not hung back: he himself has struck the blow,
and by that means avoiding the indiscretion or the stupidity of
an accomplice. He is a courageous rascal, full of audacity and
coolness, for the crime has been admirably executed. The fel-
low left nothing behind of a nature to compromise him seri-
ously. But for me, Gevrol, believing in the robbery, would have
seen nothing. Fortunately, however, I was there. . . . But yet
it can be hardly that," continued the old man. "It must be
674 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
something worse than a mere love affair." Old Tabaret entered
the porch of the house. The concierge, seated by the window
of his lodge, saw him as he passed beneath the gas-lamp. "Ah,"
said he, "the proprietor has returned at last."
"So he has," replied his wife, "but it looks as though his
princess would have nothing to do with him to-night. He
seems more loose than ever."
"Is it not positively indecent?" said the concierge, "and isn't
he in a state ! His fair ones do treat him well ! One of these
fine mornings I shall have to take him to a lunatic asylum in
a strait waistcoat."
"Look at him now !" interrupted his wife, "just look at him
now, in the middle of the courtyard !"
The old fellow had stopped at the extremity of the porch.
He had taken off his hat, and, while talking to himself, ges-
ticulated violently. "No," said he, "I have not yet got hold
of the clue. I am getting near it ; but have not yet found it
out."
He mounted the staircase, and rang his bell, forgetting that
he had his latch-key in his pocket. His housekeeper opened
the door. "What, is it you, sin*' said she, "and at this hour!"
"What's that you say?" asked the old fellow.
"I say," replied the housekeeper, "that it is more than half-
past eight o'clock. I thought you were not coming back this
evening. Have you at least dined?"
"No, not yet."
"Well, fortunately I have kept your dinner warm. You can
sit down to it at once."
Old Tabaret took his place at the table, and helped himself
to soup, but mounting his hobby-horse again, he forgot to eat,
and remained, his spoon in the air, as though suddenly struck
by an idea.
"He is certainly touched in the head," thought Manette, the
housekeeper. "Look at that stupid expression. Who in his
senses would lead the life he does?" She touched him on the
shoulder, and blawled in his ear, as if he were leaf: "You do not
eat. Are you not hungry?"
"Yes, yes," muttered he, trying mechanically to escape the
voice that sounded in his ears, "I am very hungry, for since
the morning I have been obliged — " He interrupted himself,
remaining with his mouth open, his eyes fixed on vacancy.
"You were obliged — ?" repeated Manette.
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 675
"Thunder !" cried he, raising his clenched fists toward the
ceiling — "heaven's thunder ! I have it !"
His movement was so violent and sudden that the house-
keeper was a little alarmed, and retired to the further end of
the dining-room, near the door. "Yes," continued he, "it is
certain there is a child!"
Manette approached him quickly. "A child?" she asked in
astonishment.
"What next !" cried he in a furious tone. "What are you
doing there? Has your hardihood come to this that you pick
up the words which escape me? Do me the pleasure to retire
to your kitchen, and stay there until I call you."
"He is going crazy !" thought Manette, as she disappeared
very quickly.
Old Tabaret resumed his seat. He hastily swallowed his
soup which was completely cold. "Why," said he to himself,
"did I not think of it before? Poor humanity! I am growing
old, and my brain is worn out. For it is clear as day; the cir-
cumstances all point to that conclusion." He rang the bell
placed on the table beside him; the servant reappeared. "Bring
the roast," he said, "and leave me to myself."
"Yes," continued he, furiously carving a leg of presale mut-
ton — "yes, there is a child, and here is his history ! Widow
Lerouge is in the service of a great lady, immensely rich. Her
husband, a sailor probably, departs on a long voyage. The
lady, who has a lover, finds herself enceinte. She confides in
Widow Lerouge, and with her assistance is clandestinelv con-
fined."
He rang again. "Manette, bring the dessert, and then leave
the room !"
Certainly such a master was unworthy of so excellent a cook.
He would have been puzzled to say what he had eaten for his
dinner, or even what he was eating at that moment; it was some
preserved pears.
"But the child; what has become of the child?" murmured
he. "Has it been destroyed ? No ; for Widow Lerouge, an
accomplice in an infanticide, would be no longer formidable.
The lover wished it to live, and it was confided to the care of
our widow, by whom it has been reared. They have been able
to take the child from her, but not the proofs of its birth and its
existence. That's what bothered them. The father is the man
with the fine carriage ; the mother is no other than the woman
676 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
who came with the handsome young man. Ha ! ha ! I can well
believe the dear old dame wanted for nothing ! Some secrets
are worth a farm in Brie. Two persons to fleece. It is true,
though, that indulging in a lover, her expenses were bound to
increase every year. Poor humanity ! the heart has its wants.
She turned the screw too much and it broke. She has threat-
ened. They have been frightened, and said : 'Let's put a stop
to it!' But who has been charged with the commission? The
papa ? No ; he is too old. It is the son ! of course. He wished
to save his mother, the pretty boy ! He has killed the widow
and burned the proofs !"
Manette all this time had her ear to the keyhole, and listened
intently. From time to'time she gleaned a word, an oath, the
noise of a blow upon the table; but that was all. "For cer-
tain," thought she, "he is worried about his women. They
want him to believe he is a father." Her curiosity so over-
came her prudence that, being no longer able to withstand the
temptation, she ventured to open the door a little way. "Did
you call for your coffee, sir?" she stammered timidly.
"No, but you may bring it to me," replied old Tabaret. He
attempted to swallow it at a gulp, but scalded himself so
severely that the pain brought him suddenly from speculation
to reality.
"Thunder!" growled he: "but it is hot! Devil take the case!
it has set me beside myself. They are right when they say I
am too enthusiastic. But who among the whole lot of them
could have, by the sole exercise of observation and reason, es-
tablished the whole history of the assassination? Certainly not
Gevrol, poor man ! Won't he feel vexed and humiliated, being
altogether out of it. Shall I seek M. Daburon? No, not yet.
The night is necessary to me to sift to the bottom all the par-
ticulars, and arrange my ideas systematically. But. on the
other hand, if I sit here all alone, this confounded case will
keep me in a fever of speculation, and as I have just eaten a
great deal, I may get an attack of indigestion. My faith ! I
will call upon Madame Gerdy: she has been ailing for some
days past. I will have a chat with Noel, and that will change
the course of my ideas." He got up from the table, put on his
overcoat, and took his hat and cane.
"Are you going out, sir?" asked Manette.
"Yes."
"Shall you be late?"
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 677
"Possibly."
"But you will return to-night?"
"I do not know." One minute later, M. Tabaret was ringing
his friend's bell.
Madame Gerdy lived in respectable style. She possessed suf-
ficient for her wants ; and her son's practise, already large, had
made them almost rich. She lived very quietly, and with the
exception- of one or two friends, whom Noel occasionally in-
vited to dinner, received very few visitors. During more than
fifteen years that M. Tabaret came familiarly to the apartments,
he had only met the cure of the parish, one of Noel's old pro-
fessors, and Madame Gerdy's brother, a retired colonel. When
these three visitors happened to call on the same evening, an
event somewhat rare, they played at a round game called Bos-
ton ; on other evenings piquet or all-fours was the rule. Noel,
however, seldom remained in the drawing-room, but shut him-
self up after dinner in his study, which with his bedroom formed
a separate apartment to his mother's, and immersed himself in
his law papers. He was supposed to work far into the night.
Often in winter his lamp was not extinguished before dawn.
Mother and son absolutely lived for one another, as all who
knew them took pleasure in repeating. They loved and honored
Noel for the care he bestowed upon his mother, for his more
than filial devotion, for the sacrifices which all supposed he
made in living at his age like an old man. The neighbors were
in the habit of contrasting the conduct of this exemplary young
man with that of M. Tabaret, the incorrigible old rake, the
hairless dangler. As for Madame Gerdy, she saw nothing but
her son in all the world. Her love had actually taken the form
of worship. In Noel she believed she saw united all the physi-
cal and moral perfections. To her he seemed of a superior
order to the rest of humanity. If he spoke, she was silent and
listened : his word was a command, his advice a decree of Provi-
dence. To care for her son. study his tastes, anticipate his
wishes, was the sole aim of her life. She was a mother.
"Is Madame Gerdy visible?" asked old Tabaret of the girl
who opened the door; and. without waiting for an answer, he
walked into the room like a man assured that his presence can
not be inopportune, and ought to be agreeable.
A single candle lighted the drawing-room, which was not in
its accustomed order. The small marble-top table, usuallv in
the middle of the room, had been rolled into a corner. Madame
678 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
Gerdv's large armchair was near the window ; a newspaper, all
crumpled, lay before it on the carpet. The amateur detective
took in the whole at a glance. "Has any accident happened ?"
he asked of the girl.
"Do not speak of it, sir: we have just had a fright! oh, such
a fright !"
"What was it ? Tell me quickly !"
"You know that madame has been ailing for the last month.
She has eaten I may say almost nothing. This morning, even,
she said to me — "
"Yes, yes! but this evening?"
"After her dinner, madame went into the drawing-room as
usual. She sat down and took up one of M. Noel's newspapers.
Scarcely had she begun to read, when she uttered a great cry
— oh, a terrible cry ! We hastened to her ; madame had fallen
on to the floor, as one dead, M. Noel raised her in his arms,
and carried her into her room. I wanted to fetch the doctor,
sir, but he said there was no need ; he knew what was the
matter with her."
"And how is she now?"
"She has come to her senses; that is to say, I suppose so;
for M. Xoel made me leave the room. All that I do know is,
that a little while ago she was talking, and talking very loudly
too, for I heard her. Ah, sir, it is all the same, very strange?"
"What is strange?"
"What I heard Madame Gerdy say to M. Noel."
"Ah, ha! my girl!" sneered old Tabaret ; "so you listen at
keyholes, do you ?"
"No, sir, I assure you; but madame cried out like one lost.
She said — "
"My girl !" interrupted old Tabaret severely, "one always
hears wrong through keyholes. Ask Manette if that is not so."
The poor girl, thoroughly confused, sought to excuse herself.
"Enough, enough !" said the old man. "Return to your work:
you need not disturb M. Noel ; I can wait for him very well
here."
And satisfied with the reproof he had administered, he picked
up the newspaper, and seated himself beside the fire, placing th«
candle near him so as to read with ease. A minute had scarcely
elapsed when he in his turn bounded in his chair, and stifled
a cry of instinctive terror and surprise. These were the first
words that met his eye :
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 679
"A horrible crime has plunged the village of La Jonchere in
consternation. A poor widow, named Lerouge, who enjoyed
the general esteem and love of the community, has been assas-
sinated in her home. The officers of the law have made the
usual preliminary investigations, and everything leads us to
believe that the police are already on the track of the author
of this dastardly crime."
"Thunder !" said old Tabaret to himself, "can it be that Ma-
dame Gerdy — ?" The idea but flashed across his mind; he fell
back into his chair, and, shrugging his shoulders, murmured :
"Really, this affair of La Jonchere is driving me out of my
senses ! I can think of nothing but this Widow Lerouge. I
shall be seeing her in everything now." An uncontrollable curi-
osity caused him to peruse the entire paper. He found nothing,
however, with the exception of those lines, to justify or explain
a fainting fit, a cry, or even the slightest emotion.
"This coincidence is extremely singular," thought the incor-
rigible police agent. Then, noticing that the newspaper was
slightly torn at the lower part, and crumpled, as if by a con-
vulsive grasp, he repeated : "It is very strange !"
At this moment the door of Madame Gerdy's bedroom opened,
and Noel appeared on the threshold. Without doubt the
accident to his mother had greatly excited him ; for he was
very pale, and his countenance, ordinarily so calm, wore an
expression of great worry. He appeared surprised to see M.
Tabaret.
"Ah, my dear Noel !" cried the old fellow. "Ease my anxiety.
How is your mother?"
"Madame Gerdy is as well as can be expected."
"Madame Gerdy !" repeated the old fellow with an air of
astonishment ; then he continued : "It is plain you have been
seriously alarmed."
"In truth," replied the barrister, seating himself, "I have
experienced a rude shock."
Noel was visibly making the greatest effort to appear calm,
to listen to the old fellow, and to answer him. M. Tabaret,
full of anxiety, perceived nothing. "At least, my dear boy,"
said he, "tell me how this happened !"
The young man hesitated a moment, as if debating with him-
self. No doubt he was unprepared for this point-blank ques-
tion, and knew not what answer to make ; at last he replied :
"Madame Gerdy has received a severe blow in learning from
680 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
a paragraph in this paper that a woman in whom she took a
strong interest has been murdered."
"Well, 1 never!" cried old Tabaret.
The old fellow was so astonished that he almost betrayed
himself and revealed his connection with the police. He was
on the point of saying: "What! your mother knew the Widow
Lerouge?" By an effort he restrained himself. He had more
trouble to hide his satisfaction, for he was delighted to find
himself so unexpectedly on the trace of the antecedents of the
victim of La Jonchere.
"She was." continued Noel, "the slave of Madame Gerdy,
devoted to her in every way ! She would have sacrificed her-
self for her at a sign from her hand."
"Then you, my dear friend, you knew this poor woman !"
"I had not seen her for a very long time," replied Noel, whose
voice seemed broken by emotion ; "but I knew her well. I ought
even to say I loved her tenderly. She was my nurse."
"She, this woman?" stammered old Tabaret.
This time he was thunderstruck. Widow Lerouge Noel's
nurse ? He was most fortunate. Providence had evidently
chosen him for its instrument, and was leading him by the
hand. He was about to obtain all the information, which half
an hour ago he had almost despaired of procuring. He re-
mained seated before Noel, amazed and speechless. Yet he
understood that, unless he would compromise himself, he must
speak. "It is a great misfortune," he murmured at last.
"What it is for Madame Gerdy, I can not say," replied Noel
with a gloomy air ; "but for me it is an overwhelming misfor-
tune ! I am struck to the heart by the blow which has slain
this poor woman. Her death, M. Tabaret, has annihilated
all my dreams of the future, and probably overthrown my
most cherished hopes. I had to avenge myself for cruel
injuries; her death breaks the weapon in my hands, and
reduces me to despair, to impotence. Alas ! I am indeed
unfortunate."
"You unfortunate?" cried old Tabaret, singularly affected by
his dear Noel's sadness. "In heaven's name, what has hap-
pened to you ?"
"I suffer," murmured the barrister, "and very cruelly. Not
only do T fear that the injustice is irreparable; but here am
I totally without defense delivered over to the shafts of
calumny. I may be accused of inventing falsehood, of being
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
681
an ambitious intriguer, having no regard for truth, no scruples
of conscience."
Old Tabaret was puzzled. What connection could possibly
exist between Noel's honor and the assassination at La Jon-
chere? His brain was in a whirl. A thousand troubled and
confused ideas jostled one another in inextricable confusion
"Come, come, Noel," said he. "compose yourself. Who would
believe any calumny uttered about you ? Take courage, have
you not friends? am I not here? Have confidence, tell me
what troubles you, and it will be strange, indeed, if between
us two — "
The barrister started to his feet, impressed by a sudden
resolution.
"Well ! yes," interrupted he ; "yes, you shall know all. In
fact, I am tired of carrying all alone a secret that is stifling
me. The part I have been playing irritates and wearies me.
I have need of a friend to console me. I require a counselor
whose voice will encourage me, for one is a bad judge of his
mvn cause, and this crime has plunged me into an abyss of
hesitations."
"You know," replied M. Tabaret kindly, "that I regard you
as my own son. Do not scruple to let me serve you."
"Know then," commenced the barrister — "but no, not here:
what I have to say must not be overheard. Let us go into
my study."
T^THEN Noel and old Tabaret were seated face to face in
Noel's study, and the door had been carefully shut, the
old fellow felt uneasy, and said : "What if your mother should
require anything."
"If Madame Gerdy rings." replied the young man dryly, "the
servant will attend to her."
This indifference, this cold disdain, amazed old Tabaret, ac-
customed as he was to the affectionate relations always existing
between mother and son. "For heaven's sake, Noel," said he,
682 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"calm yourself. Do not allow yourself to be overcome by a
feeling of irritation. You have, I see, some little pique against
your mother, which you will have forgotten to-morrow. Don't
speak of her in this icy tone; but tell me what you mean by
calling her Madame Gerdy."
"What I mean?" rejoined the barrister in a hollow tone;
"what I mean?" Then rising from his armchair, he took sev-
eral strides about the room, and, returning to his place near
the old fellow, said: "Because, M. Tabaret, Madame Gerdy is
not my mother !"
This sentence fell like a heavy blow on the head of the
amateur detective. "Oh !" he said in the tone one assumes
when rejecting an absurd proposition, "do you really know
what you are saying, Noel? Is it credible? Is it probable?"
"It is improbable," replied Noel with a peculiar emphasis
which was habitual to him ; "it is incredible, if you will, but
yet it is true. That is to say, for thirty-three years, ever since
my birth, this woman has played a most marvelous and un-
worthy comedy, to ennoble and enrich her son — for she has a
son — at my expense !"
"My friend." commenced old Tabaret, who in the background
of the picture presented by this singular revelation saw again
the fantom of the murdered Widow Lerouge.
But Noel heard not, and seemed hardly in a state to hear.
The young man, usually so cold, so self-contained, could no
longer control his anger. At the sound of his own voice he
became more and more animated, as a good horse might at the
jingling of his harness. "Was ever man," continued he, "more
cruelly deceived, more miserably duped, than I have been? I,
who loved this woman, who knew not how to show my affec-
tion for her, who, for her sake, sacrificed my youth ! How
she must have laughed at me ! Her infamy dates from the
moment when for the first time she took me on her knees;
and, until these few days past, she has sustained without fal-
tering her execrable role. Her love for me was nothing but
hypocrisy ! her devotion, falsehood ! her caresses, lies ! And I
adored her ! Ah ! why can I not take back all the embraces
I bestowed on her in exchange for her Judas kisses? And
for what was all this heroism of deception, this caution, this
duplicity? To betray me more securely, to despoil me, to rob
me, to give to her bastard all that lawfully appertained to me:
my name, a noble name, my fortune, a princely inheritance \"
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 683
"We are getting near it !" thought old Tabaret, who was
fast relapsing into the colleague of M. Gevrol ; then aloud he
said : "This is very serious, all that you have been saying, my
dear Noel, terribly serious. We must believe Madame Gerdy
possessed of an amount of audacity and ability rarely to be
met with in a woman. She must have been assisted, advised,
compelled perhaps. Who have been her accomplices ? She
could never have managed this unaided : perhaps her husband
himself."
"Her husband !" interrupted the barrister with a laugh. "Ah !
you too have believed her a widow. Pshaw ! She never had a
husband ; the defunct Gerdy never existed. I was a bastard,
dear M. Tabaret. very much a bastard; Xoel, son of the girl
Gerdy and an unknown father !"'
"Ah!" cried the old fellow; "that. then, was the reason why
your marriage with Mademoiselle Levernois was broken off
four years ago?"
"Yes, my friend, that was the reason. And what misfortunes
might have been averted by this marriage with a young girl
whom I loved ! However, I did not complain to her whom I
then called my mother. She wept, she accused herself, she
seemed ready to die of grief ; and I, poor fool ! I consoled her
as best I could ; I dried her tears and excused her in her own
eyes. Xo, there was no husband. Do such women as she
have husbands? She was my father's mistress; and on the
day when he had had enough of her, he took up his hat and
threw her three hundred thousand francs, the price of the
pleasures she had given him."
Xoel would probably have continued much longer to pour
forth his furious denunciations, but M. Tabaret stopped him.
The old fellow felt he was on the point of learning a history
in every way similar to that which he had imagined ; and his
impatience to know whether he had guessed aright almost
caused him to forget to express any sympathy for his friend's
misfortunes.
"My dear boy," said he, "do not let us digress. You ask
me for advice ; and I am perhaps the best adviser you could
have chosen. Come, then, to the point. How have you learned
this? Have you any proofs? where are they?"
The decided tone in which the old fellow spoke should, no
doubt, have awakened Xoel's attention : but he did not notice
it. He had not leisure to reflect. He therefore answered :
684 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"I have known the truth for three weeks oast. I made the
discovery by chance. I have important moral proofs, but they
are mere presumptive evidence. A word from Widow Lerouge,
one single word, would have rendered them decisive. This
word she can not now pronounce, since they have killed her;
but she had said it to me. Now Madame Gerdy will deny all.
I know her; with her head on the block she will deny it.
My father doubtless will turn against me. I am certain, and
I possess proofs; now this crime makes my certitude but a
vain boast, and renders my proofs null and void !"
"Explain it all to me," said old Tabaret after a pause— "all.
you understand. We old ones are sometimes able to give good
advice. We will decide what's to be done afterward."
"Three weeks ago," commenced Noel, "searching for some
old documents, I opened Madame Gerdy's secretary. Accident-
ally I displaced one of the small shelves: some papers tum-
bled out, and a packet of letters fell in front of my eyes. A
mechanical impulse, which I can not explain, prompted me to
untie the string, and, impelled by an invincible curiosity, I read
the first letter which came to my hand."
"You did wrong," remarked M. Tabaret.
"Be it so; anyhow, I read. At the end of ten lines I was
convinced that these letters were from my father, whose name,
Madame Gerdy, in spite of my prayers, had always hidden
from me. You can understand my emotion. I carried off"
the packet, shut myself up in this room, and devoured the
correspondence from beginning to end."
"And you have been cruelly punished, my poor boy !"
"It is true; but who in my position could have resisted?
These letters have given me great pain ; but they afford the
proof of what I just now told you."
"You have at least preserved these letters?"
"I have them here, M. Tabaret," replied Noel, "and, that
you may understand the case in which I have requested your
advice, I am going to read them to you."
The barrister opened one of the drawers of his bureau,
pressed an invisible spring, and from a hidden receptacle con-
structed in the thick upper shelf he drew out a bundle of let-
ters. "You understand, my friend," he resumed, "that I will
spare you all insignificant details, which, however, add their
own weight to the rest. I am only going to deal with the more
important facts, treating directly of the affair."
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 685
Old Tabaret nestled in his armchair, burning with curiosity ;
his face and his eyes expressing the most anxious attention.
After a selection, which he was some time in making, the bar-
rister opened a letter and commenced reading in a voice which
trembled at times, in spite of his efforts to render it calm.
" 'My dearly loved Valerie' — Valerie," said he, "is Madame
Gerdy."
"I know, I know. Do not interrupt yourself."
Noel then resumed.
" 'My dearly loved Valerie :
" 'This is a happy day. This morning I received your dar-
ling letter ; I have covered it with kisses, I have reread it a
hundred timea; and now it has gone to join the others, here
upon my heart. This letter, oh, my love ! has nearly killed
me with joy. You were not deceived then; it was true!
Heaven has blessed our love. We shall have a son.
" 'I shall have a son, the living image of my adored Valerie !
Oh ! why are we separated by such an immense distance ?
Why have I not wings, that I might fly to your feet and fail
into your arms, full of the sweetest voluptuousness ! No !
never as at this moment have I cursed the fatal union im-
posed upon me by an inexorable family, whom my tears could
not move.
" 'I can not help hating this woman, who, in spite of me.
bears my name, innocent victim though she is of the barbarity
of our parents. And, to complete my misery, she too will soon
render me a father. Who can describe my sorrow when I com-
pare the fortunes of these two children?
" The one, the son of the object of my tenderest love, will
have neither father nor family, nor even a name, since a law
framed to make lovers unhappy prevents my acknowledging
him. While the other, the son of my detested wife, by the
sole fact of his birth, will be rich, noble, surrounded by devo-
tion and homage, with a great position in the world. I can
not bear the thought of this terrible injustice ! How it is to
be prevented, I do not know ; but rest assured I shall find a
way. It is to him who is the most desired, the most cherished,
the most beloved, that the greater fortunes should come ; and
come to him it shall, for I so will it.' "
"From where is that letter dated ?" asked old Tabaret. The
style in which it was written had already settled one point in
his mind.
686 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"See," replied Noel. He handed the letter to the old fellow,
who read: "Venice, December, 1828."
"You perceive," resumed the barrister, "all the importance
of this first letter. It is like a brief statement of the facts.
My father, married in spite of himself, adores his mistress and
detests his wife. Both find themselves enceinte at the same
time, and his feelings toward the two infants about to be born
are not at all concealed. Toward the end one almost sees
peeping forth the germ of the idea which later on he will
not be afraid to put into execution, in defiance of all law,
human or divine !"
He was speaking as though pleading the cause, when old
Tabaret interrupted him. "It is not necessary to explain it,"
said he. "Thank goodness, what you have just read is explicit
enough. I am not an adept in such matters, I am as simple as
a juryman; however, I understand it admirably so far."
"I pass over several letters," continued Noel, "and I come
to this one, dated January 23, 1829. It is very long, and filled
with matters altogether foreign to the subject which now oc-
cupies us. However, it contains two passages, which attest the
slow but steady growth of my father's project. 'A destiny
more powerful than my will, chains me to this country ; but
my soul is with you, my Valerie ! Without ceasing, my
thoughts rest upon the adored pledge of our love which moves
within you. Take care, my darling, take care of yourself, now
doubly precious. It is the lover, the father, who implores you.
The last part of your letter wounds my heart. Is it not an
insult to me for you to express anxiety as to the future of our
child? Oh, heaven! she loves me, she knows me, and yet she
doubts !'
"I skip," said Noel, "two pages of passionate rhapsody, and
stop at these few lines at the end. 'The comtesse's condition
causes her to suffer very much ! Unfortunate wife ! I hate
and at the same time pity her. She seems to divine the reason
of my sadness and my coldness. By her timid submission and
unalterable sweetness one would think she sought pardon for
our unhappy union. Poor, sacrificed creature! She also may
have given her heart to another before being dragged to the
altar. Our fates would then be the same. Your good heart
will pardon my pitying her.'
"That one was my mother," cried the barrister in a trem-
bling voice. "A saint ! And he asks pardon for the pity she
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 68?
inspires ! Poor woman." He passed his hands over his eyes,
as if to force back his tears, and added : "She is dead !"
In spite of his impatience, old Tabaret dared not utter a
word. Besides, he felt keenly the profound sorrow of his
young friend, and respected it. After a rather long silence,
Noel raised his head, and returned to the correspondence.
"All the letters which follow," said he, "carry traces of the
preoccupation of my father's mind on the subject of his bas-
tard son. I lay them, however, aside. But this is what strikes
me in the one written from Rome, on March 5, 1829. 'My son,
our son, that is my great, my only anxiety. How to secure for
him the future position of which I dream? The nobles of
former times were not worried in this way. In those days I
would have gone to the king, who, with a word, would have
assured the child's position in the world. To-day the king who
governs with difficulty his disaffected subjects can do nothing.
The nobility has lost its rights, and the highest in the land are
treated the same as the meanest peasants!' Lower down I find:
'My heart loves to picture to itself the likeness of our son. He
will have the spirit, the mind, the beauty, the grace, all the
fascinations of his mother. He will inherit from his father,
pride, valor, and the sentiments of a noble race. And the
other, what will he be like? I tremble to think of it. Hatred
can only engender a monster. Heaven reserves strength and
beauty for the children of love !' The monster, that is I !"
said the barrister with intense rage. "While the other — But
let us ignore these preliminaries to an outrageous action. I
only desired up to the present to show you the aberration of
my father's reason under the influence of his passion. We shall
soon come to the point."
M. Tabaret was astonished at the strength of this passion,
of which Noel was disturbing the ashes. Perhaps he felt it
all the more keenly on account of those expressions which re-
called his own youth. He understood how irresistible must
have been the strength of such a love ; and he trembled to
speculate as to the result.
"Here is," resumed Noel, holding up a sheet of paper, "not
one of those interminable epistles from which I have read you
short extracts, but a simple billet. It is dated from Venice at
the beginning of May ; it is short but nevertheless decisive :
'Dear Valerie — Tell me, as near as possible, the probable date
of your confinement. I await your reply with an anxiety you
688 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
would imagine could you but guess my projects with regard to
our child !'
"I do not know," said Xoel, "whether Madame Gerdy under-
stood; anyhow she must have answered at once, for this is
what my father wrote on the 14th: 'Your reply, my darling, is
what I did not dare expect it to be. The project I had con-
ceived is now practicable. I begin to feel more calm and secure.
Our son shall bear my name ; I shall not be obliged to separate
myself from him. He shall be reared by my side, in my man-
sion, under my eyes, on my knees, in my arms. Shall I have
strength enough to bear this excess of happiness? I have a
soul for grief, shall I have one for joy? Oh! my adored one,
oh ! my precious child, fear nothing, my heart is vast enough
to love you both ! I set out to-morrow for Naples, from whence
I shall write to you at length. Happen what may, however,
though I should have to sacrifice the important interests con-
fided to me, I shall be in Paris for the critical hour. My pres-
ence will double your courage: the strength of my love will
diminish your sufferings.' "
"I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Noel," said old
Tabaret, "do you know what important affairs detained your
father abroad ?"
"My father, my old friend," replied the barrister, "was. in
spite of his youth, one of the friends, one of the confidants, of
Charles X ; and he had been entrusted by him with a secret
mission to Italy. My father is Comte Rheteau de Commarin."
"Whew!" exclaimed the old fellow; and the better to engrave
the name upon his memory, he repeated several times, between
his teeth, "Rheteau de Commarin."
For a few minutes Noel remained silent. After having ap-
peared to do everything to control his resentment, he seemed
utterly dejected, as though he had formed the determination to
attempt nothing to repair the injury he had sustained. "In the
middle of the month of May, then," he continued, "my father
is at Naples. It is while there that he, a man of prudence and
sense, a dignified diplomatist, a nobleman, prompted by an in-
sensate passion, dares to confide to paper this most monstrous
of projects. Listen! 'My adored one — It is Germain, my old
valet, who will hand you this letter. I am sending him to Nor-
mandy, charged with a commission of the most delicate nature.
He is one of those servitors who may be trusted implicitly.
The time has come for me to explain to you my projects respect-
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 689
ing my son. In three weeks, at the latest, I shall be in Paris.
If my previsions are not deceived, the comtesse and you will
be confined at the same time. An interval of three or four
days will not alter my plan. This is what I have resolved. My
two children will be entrusted to two nurses of N , where my
estates are nearly all situated. One of these women, known to
Germain, and to whom I am sending him. will be in our in-
terests. It is to this person, Valerie, that our son will be con-
fided. These two women will leave Paris the same clay, Ger-
main accompanying her who will have charge of the son of the
comtesse. An accident, devised beforehand, will compel these
two women to pass one night on the road. Germain will ar-
range so they will have to sleep in the same inn and in the
same chamber ! During the night our nurse will change the
infants in their cradles. I have foreseen everything, as I will
explain to you. and every precaution has been taken to prevent
our secret from escaping. Germain has instructions to procure,
while in Paris, two sets of baby linen exactly similar. Assist
him with your advice.
" 'Your maternal heart, my sweet Valerie, may perhaps bleed
at the thought of being deprived of the innocent caresses of
your child. You will console yourself by thinking of the posi-
tion secured to him by your sacrifice. What excess of tender-
ness can serve him as powerfully as this separation? As to
the other. I know your fond heart, you will cherish him. Will
it not be another proof of your love for me ? Besides, he will have
nothing to complain of. Knowing nothing, he will have noth-
ing to regret ; and all that money can secure in this world he
shall have. Do not tell me that this attempt is criminal. No,
my well beloved, no. The success of our plan depends upon so
many unlikely circumstances, so many coincidences, independent
of our will, that, without the evident protection of Providence,
we can not succeed. If, then, success crowns our efforts, it
will be because heaven decreed it. Meanwhile I hope.' '
"Just what I expected," murmured old Tabaret.
"And the wretched man," cried Noel, "dares to invoke
the aid of Providence! He would make heaven his accom-
plice !"
"But," asked the old fellow, "how did your mother — par-
don me, I would say, how did Madame Gerdy receive this
proposition ?"
"She would appear to have rejected it at first, for here are
3— Vol. Ill— Oab.
690 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
twenty pages of eloquent persuasion from the comte, urging her
to agree to it, trying to convince her. Oh, that woman !"
"Come, my child," said M. Tabaret softly, "try not to be too
unjust. You seem to direct all your resentment against Madame
Gerdy. Really, in my opinion, the comte is far more deserving
of your anger than she is."
"True," interrupted Noel, with a certain degree of violence —
"true, the comte is guilty, very guilty. He is the author of the
infamous conspiracy, and yet I feel no hatred against him. He
has committed a crime, but he has an excuse, his passion. More-
over, my father has not deceived me, like this miserable woman,
every hour of my life, during thirty years. Besides, M. de Com-
marin has been so cruelly punished that, at the present moment,
I can only pardon and pity him."
"Ah ! so he has been punished ?" interrogated the old fellow.
"Yes, fearfully, as you will admit. But allow me to continue.
Toward the end of May, or, rather, during the first days of
June, the comte must have arrived in Paris, for the correspond-
ence ceases. He saw Madame Gerdy, and the final arrange-
ments of the conspiracy were decided on. Here is a note which
removes all uncertainty on that point. On the day it was written
the comte was on service at the Tuileries, and unable to leave
his post. He has written it even in the king's study, on the
king's paper ; see the royal arms ! The bargain has been con-
cluded, and the woman who has consented to become the instru-
ment of my father's projects is in Paris. He informs his mis-
tress of the fact. 'Dear Valerie — Germain informs me of the
arrival of your son's, our son's, nurse. She will call at your
house during the day. She is to be depended upon ; a magnifi-
cent recompense insures her discretion. Do not, however, men-
tion our plans to her; for she has been given to understand
that you know nothing. I wish to charge myself with the sole
responsibility of the deed; it is more prudent. This woman is
a native of N . She was born on our estate, almost in our
house. Her husband is a brave and honest sailor. Her name
is Claudine Lerouge. Be of good courage, my dear love ! I
am exacting from you the greatest sacrifice that a lover can
hope for from a mother. Heaven, you can no longer doubt it,
protects us. Everything depends now upon our skill and our
prudence, so that we are sure to succeed !' "
On one point, at least, M. Tabaret was sufficiently enlight-
ened. The researches into the past life of Widow Lerouge were
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 691
no longer difficult. He could not restrain an exclamation of
satisfaction, which passed unnoticed hy Noel.
"This note," resumed the barrister, "closes the comte's cor-
respondence with Madame Gerdy."
"What !" exclaimed the old fellow, "you are in possession
of nothing more ?"
"I have also ten lines, written many years later, which cer-
tainly have some weight, but after all are only a moral proof."
"What a misfortune !" murmured M. Tabaret. Noel laid on
the bureau the letters he had held in his hand, and turning
toward his old friend, he looked at him steadily.
"Suppose," said he slowly and emphasizing every syllable —
"suppose that all my information ends here. We will admit,
for a moment, that I know nothing more than you do now.
What is your opinion ?"
Old Tabaret remained some minutes without answering; he
was estimating the probabilities resulting from M. de Com-
marin's letters. "For my own part," said l.e at length, "I believe
on my conscience that you are not Madame Gerdy's son."
"And you are right !" answered the barrister forcibly. "You
will easily believe, will you not, that I went and saw Claudine.
She loved me, this poor woman who had given me her milk ;
she suffered from the knowledge of the injustice that had been
done me. Must I say it, her complicity in the matter weighed
upon her conscience; it was a remorse too great for her old
age. I saw her, I interrogated her, and she told me all. The
comte's scheme, simply and yet ingeniously conceived, succeeded
without any effort. Three days after my birth the crime was
committed, and I, poor, helpless infant, was betrayed, despoiled,
and disinherited by my natural protector, by my own father !
Poor Claudine ! She promised me her testimony for the day on
which I should reclaim my rights !"
"And she is gone, carrying her secret with her !" murmured
the old fellow in a tone of regret.
"Perhaps !" replied Noel, "for I have yet one hope. Claudine
had in her possession several letters which had been written
to her a long time ago, some by the comte, some by Madame
Gerdy, letters both imprudent and explicit. They will be found,
no doubt, and their evidence will be decisive. I have held these
letters in my hands, I have read them ; Claudine particularly
wished me to keep them ; why did I not do so ?"
No ! there was no hope on that side, and old Tabaret knew
692 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
so better than any one. It was these very letters, no doubt,
that the assassin of La Jonchere wanted. He had found them
and burned them with the other papers in the little stove. The
old amateur detective was beginning to understand. "All the
same," said he, "from what I know of your affairs, which I
think I know as well as my own, it appears to me that the
comte has not overwell kept the dazzling promises of fortune
he made Madame Gerdy on your behalf."
"He never even kept them in the least degree, my old friend."
"That now," cried the old fellow indignantly, "is even more
infamous than all the rest."
"Do not accuse my father," answered Noel gravely ; "his con-
nection with Madame Gerdy lasted a long time. I remember a
haughty looking man who used sometimes to come and see me
at school, and who could be no other than the comte. But the
rupture came."
"Naturally," sneered M. Tabaret, "a great nobleman — "
"Wait before judging," interrupted the barrister. "M. de
Commarin had his reasons. His mistress was false to him, he
learned it, and cast her off with just indignation. The ten lines
which I mentioned to you were written then."
Noel searched a considerable time among the papers scat-
tered upon the table, and at length selected a letter more faded
and creased than the others. Judging from the number of
folds in the paper, one could guess that it had been read and
reread many times. The writing even was here and there partly
obliterated. "In this," said he in a bitter tone, "Madame Gerdy
is no longer the adored Valerie : 'A friend, cruel as all true
friends, has opened my eyes. I doubted. You have been
watched, and to-day, unhappily, I can doubt no more. You,
Valerie, you to whom I have given more than n„y life, you
deceive me and have been deceiving me for a long time past.
Unhappy man that I am ! I am no longer certain that I am
the father of your child.' "
"But this note is a proof," cried old Tabaret ; "an overwhelm-
ing proof. Of what importance to the comte would be a doubt
of his paternity had he not sacrificed his legitimate son to his
bastard ? Yes, you have said truly, his punishment has been
severe."
"Madame Gerdy." resumed Noel, "wished to justify herself.
She wrote to the comte ; but he returned her letters unopened.
She called on him, but he would not receive her. At length
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 693
she grew tired of her useless attempts to see him. She knew
that all was well over when the comte's steward brought her
for me a legal settlement of fifteen thousand francs a year. The
son had tak^n my place, and the mother had ruined me !"
Three or four light knocks at the door of the study inter-
rupted Noel. "Who is there?" he asked without stirring.
"Sir," answered the servant from the other side of the door,
"madame wishes to speak to you."
The barrister appeared to hesitate. "Go, my son," advised
M. Tabaret ; "do not be merciless ; only bigots have that right."
Noel arose with visible reluctance, and passed into Madame
Gerdy's sleeping apartment.
"Poor boy !" thought M. Tabaret when left alone. "What a
fatal discovery ! and how he must feel it. Such a noble young
man ! such a brave heart ! In his candid honesty he does not
even suspect from whence the blow has fallen. Fortunately
I am shrewd enough for two, and it is just when he despairs
of justice, I am confident of obtaining it for him. Thanks to
his information, I am now on the track. A child might now
divine whose hand struck the blow. But how has it happened?
He will tell me without knowing it. Ah ! if I had one of those
letters for four and twenty hours. He has probably counted
them. If I ask for one, I must acknowledge my connection
with the police. I had better take one, no matter which, just
to verify the handwriting."
Old Tabaret had just thrust one of the letters into the depths
of his capacious pocket when the barrister returned. He was
one of those men of strongly formed character, who never lose
their self-control. He was very cunning and had long accus-
tomed himself to dissimulation, that indispensable armor of the
ambitious. As he entered the room nothing in his manner be-
trayed what had taken place between Madame Gerdy and him-
self. He was absolutely as calm as when, seated in his arm-
chair, he listened to the interminable stories of his clients.
"Well," asked old Tabaret, "how is she now?"
"Worse," answered Noel. "She is now delirious, and no
longer knows what she says. She has just assailed me with
the most atrocious abuse, upbraiding me as the vilest of man-
kind ! I really believe she is going out of her mind."
"One might do so with less cause," murmured M. Tabaret;
"and I think you ought to send for the doctor."
"I have just done so."
694 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
The barrister had resumed his seat before his bureau, and
was rearranging the scattered letters accoroing to their dates.
He seemed to have forgotten that he had asked his old friend's
advice ; nor did he appear in any way desirous of renewing the
interrupted conversation. This was not at all what old Tabaret
wanted. 'The more I ponder over your history, my dear Noel,"
he observed, "the more I am bewildered. I really do not know
what resolution I should adopt were I in your situation."
"Yes, my old friend," replied the barrister sadly, "it is a
situation that might well perplex even more profound experi-
ences than yours."
The old amateur detective repressed with difficulty the sly
smile, which for an instant hovered about his lips. "I confess
it humbly," he said, taking pleasure in assuming an air of in-
tense simplicity, "but you, what have you done ? Your first im-
pulse must have been to ask Madame Gerdy for an explanation."
Noel made a startled movement, which passed unnoticed by
old Tabaret, preoccupied as he was in trying to give the turn
he desired to the conversation. "It was by that," answered
Noel, "that I began."
"And what did she say?"
"What could she say ! Was she not overwhelmed by the dis-
covery ?''
"What! did she not attempt to exculpate herself?" inquired
the detective, greatly surprised.
"Yes ! she attempted the impossible. She pretended she could
explain the correspondence. She told me — But can I remem-
ber what she said ? Lies, absurd, infamous lies." The barrister
had finished gathering up his letters, without noticing the ab-
straction. He tied them together carefully, and replaced them
in the secret drawer of his bureau.
"Yes," continued he, rising and walking backward and for-
ward across his study, as if the constant movement could calm
his anger, "yes, she pretended she could show me I was wrong.
It was easy, was it not, with the proofs I held against her?
The fact is, she adores her son, and her heart is breaking at
the idea that he may be obliged to restitute what he has stolen
from me. And I. idiot, fool, coward, almost wished not to
mention the matter to her. I said to myself: I will forgive, for
after all she has loved me ! Loved ? No. She would see me
suffer the most horrible tortures, without shedding a tear, to
prevent a single hair falling from her son's head."
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 695
"She has probably warned the comte," observed old Tabaret.
still pursuing his idea.
"She may have tried, but can not have succeeded, for the
comte has been absent from Paris for more than a month and
is not expected to return until the end of the week."
"How do you know that?"
"I wished to see the comte, my father, to speak with him — "
"You?"
"Yes, I. Do you think that I shall not reclaim my own? Do
you imagine that I shall not raise my voice? On what account
should I keep silent? Whom have I to consider? I have rights,
and I will make them good. What do you find surprising in that ?"
"Nothing, certainly, my friend. So then you called at M. de
Commarin's house?"
"Oh ! I did not decide on doing so all at once," continued
Noel. "At first my discovery almost drove me mad. Then I
required time to reflect. A thousand opposing sentiments agi-
tated me. At one moment, my fury blinded me ; the next, my
courage deserted me. I would, and I would not. I was unde-
cided, uncertain, wild. The scandal that must arise from the
publicity of such an affair terrified me. I desired, I still desire
to recover my name, that much is certain. But on the eve of
recovering it, I wish to preserve it from stain. I was seek-
ing a means of arranging everything, without noise, without
scandal."
"At length, however, you made up your mind?"
"Yes, after a struggle of fifteen days, fifteen days of torture,
of anguish ! Ah ! what I suffered in that time ! I neglected
my business, being totally unfit for work. During the day, I
tried by incessant action to fatigue my body, that at night I
might find forgetfulness in sleep. Vain hope ! Since I found
these letters, I have not slept an hour."
From time to time, old Tabaret slyly consulted his watch.
"M. Daburon will be in bed," thought he.
"At last, one morning," continued Noel, "after a night of
rage, I determined to end all uncertainty. I was in that des-
perate state of mind, in which the gambler, after successive
losses, stakes upon a card his last remaining coin. I plucked
up courage, sent for a cab, and was driven to the De Com-
marin mansion."
The old amateur detective here allowed a sigh of satisfac-
tion to escape him.
696 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"It is one of the most magnificent houses in the Faubourg
St. Germain, my friend, a princely dwelling, worthy a great
noble twenty times a millionaire ; almost a palace in fact. One
enters at first a vast courtyard, to the right and left of which
are the stables, containing twenty most valuable horses, and
the coach-houses. At the end rises the grand facade of the
main building, majestic and severe, with its immense windows,
and its double flight of marble steps. Behind the house is a
magnificent garden, I should say a park, shaded by the oldest
trees which perhaps exist in all Paris."
This enthusiastic description was not at all what M. Tabaret
wanted. But what could he do, how could he press Noel for
the result of his visit ! An indiscreet word might awaken the
barrister's suspicions, and reveal to him that he was speaking
not to a friend, but to a detective.
"Were you then shown over the house and grounds?" asked
the old fellow.
"Xo, but I have examined them alone. Since I discovered
that I was the only heir of the Rheteau de Commarins. I have
found out the antecedents of my new family. I have studied
our history at the Bibliotheque ; it is a noble history. At night,
utterly distracted, I have again and again wandered round the
dwelling of my ancestors. Ah ! you can not understand my
emotions ! 'It is there,' said I to myself, 'that I was born ; there
that I should have been brought up ; there that I ought to reign
to-day !' I tasted that awful bitterness of which banished men
have died. I compared the bastard's brilliant destinies with my
own sad and laborious career ; and my indignation well-nigh
mastered me. A mad impulse stirred me to force the doors,
to rush into the principal drawing-room and drive out the in-
truder, the girl Gerdy's son, crying: 'Get out, bastard, get out,
I am the master here !' The uncertainty of obtaining my rights
whenever I wished alone restrained me. Oh ! yes, I know it
well, this dwelling of my ancestors ! I love its old sculptures,
its grand old trees, even the flagstones of the courtyard worn
by the footsteps of my mother ! I love all ; especially the proud
escutcheon, which frowns down from above the principal en-
trance and flings a haughty defiance to the stupid theories of
this age of levelers."
This last phrase contrasted so strongly with the opinions
usually expressed by the young barrister that M. Tabaret
was obliged to turn away his head to conceal his amusement.
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 697
"Poor humanity !" thought he. "He sees himself a grand lord
already."
"When I arrived," resumed Noel, "a Swiss porter, dressed
in a gorgeous livery, was standing at the door. I asked to see
the Comte de jTommarin. The Swiss replied that the comte was
traveling, but that the vicomte was at home. This interfered
with my plans; however, as I had gone so far, I insisted on
speaking to the son in default of the father. The Swiss stared
at me with astonishment. He had seen me alight from a hired
vehicle and so deliberated with himself for some moments as to
whether I was not too insignificant a person to have the honor
of appearing before the vicomte."
"However, you were able to speak with him?"
"What, like that, all at once !" replied the barrister in a tone
of bitter raillery: "can you possibly think so, my dear M. Taba-
ret ! The inspection, however, was favorable to me; my white
cravat and black clothes produced an effect. The Swiss en-
trusted me to the guidance of a huntsman with a plumed hat,
who led the way across the courtyard to a superb vestibule,
where five or six footmen were lolling and gaping on their
seats. One of these gentlemen asked me to follow him. He
ted me up a spacious staircase, wide enough for a carriage to
ascend, preceded me along an extensive picture gallery, guided
me across vast apartments, the furniture of which was fading
under its coverings, and finally delivered me into the hands of
M. Albert's valet. That is the name by which Madame Gerdy's
son is known, that is to say, my name."
"I understand, I understand."
"I had passed an inspection; now I had to undergo an ex-
amination. The valet desired to be informed who I was, whence
I came, what was my profession, what I wanted, and all the
rest. I answered simply that, quite unknown to the vicomte, I
desired five minutes' conversation with him on a matter of im-
portance. He left me, requesting me to sit down and wait. I
had waited more than a quarter of an hour, when he reap-
peared. His master graciously deigned to receive me."
It was easy to perceive that the barrister's reception rankled
in his breast, and that he considered it an insult. He could not
forgive Albert his lackeys and his valet. He forgot the words
of the illustrious duke, who said: "I pay my lackeys to be inso-
lent, to save myself the trouble and ridicule of being so " Old
Tabaret was surprised at his voung friend's display of bitter-
698 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
ness, in speaking of these trivial details. "What narrow-
mindedness," thought he, "for a man of such intelligence ! Can
it be true that the arrogance of lackeys is the secret of the
people's hatred of an amiable and polite aristocracy?"
"I was ushered into a small apartment," continued Noel,
"simply furnished, the only ornaments of which were weapons.
These, ranged against the walls, were of all times and coun-
tries. Never have I seen in so small a space so many muskets,
pistols, swords, sabres, and foils. One might have imagined
himself in a fencing master's arsenal."
The weapon used by Widow Lerouge's assassin naturally re-
curred to the old fellow's memory.
"The vicomte," said Noel, speaking slowly, "was half lying
on a divan when I entered. He was dressed in a velvet jacket
and loose trousers of the same material, and had around his
neck an immense white silk scarf. I do not cherish any resent-
ment against this young man ; he has never to his knowledge
injured me: he was in ignorance of our father's crime; I am
therefore able to speak of him with justice. He is handsome,
bears himself well, and nobly carries the name which does not
belong to him. He is about my height, of the same dark com-
plexion, and would resemble me, perhaps, if he did not wear a
beard. Only he looks five or six years younger; but this is
readily explained, he has neither worked, struggled, nor suf-
fered. He is one of the fortunate ones who arrive without
having to start, or who traverse life's road on such soft cush-
ions that they are never injured by the jolting of their car-
riage. On seeing me, he arose and saluted me graciously."
"You must have been dreadfully excited," remarked old
Tabaret.
"Less than I am at this moment. Fifteen preparatory days
of mental torture exhausts one's emotions. I answered the
question I saw upon his lips. 'Sir,' said I, 'you do not know
me ; but that is of little consequence. I come to you, charged
with a very grave, a very sad mission, which touches the honor
of the name you bear.' Without doubt he did not believe me,
for, in an impertinent tone, he asked me: 'Shall you be long?'
I answered simply: 'Yes.'"
"Pray," interrupted old Tabaret, now become very attentive,
"do not omit a single detail ; it may be very important, you
understand."
"The vicomte," continued Noel, "appeared very much put
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 699
out. 'The fact is,' he explained, 'I had already disposed of my
time. This is the hour at which I call on the young lady to
whom I am engaged, Mademoiselle d'Arlange. Can we not
postpone this conversation?"
"Good ! another woman !" said the old fellow to himself.
"I answered the vicomte that an explanation would admit of
no delay; and, as I saw him prepare to dismiss me, I drew from
my pocket the comte's correspondence, and presented one of the
letters to him. On recognizing his father's handwriting, he
became more tractable, declared himself at my service, and
asked permission to write a word of apology to the lady by
whom he was expected. Having hastily written the note, he
handed it to his valet, and ordered him to send it at once to
Madame d'Arlange. He then asked me to pass into the next
room, which was his library."
"One word," interrupted the old fellow ; "was he troubled
on seeing the letters?"
"Not the least in the world. After carefully closing the
door, he pointed to a chair, seated himself, and said : 'Now, sir,
explain yourself.' I had had time to prepare myself for this
interview while waiting in the anteroom. I had decided to go
straight to the point. 'Sir,' said I, 'my mission is painful. The
facts I am about to reveal to you are incredible. I beg you, do
not answer me until you have read the letters I have here. I
beseech you, above all, to keep calm.' He looked at me with
an air of extreme surprise, and answered: 'Speak! I can hear
all.' I stood up, and said: 'Sir, I must inform you that you
are not the legitimate son of M. de Commarin, as this corre-
spondence will prove to you. The legitimate son exists ; and
he it is who sends me.' I kept my eyes on his while speaking,
and I saw there a passing gleam of fury. For a moment I
thought he was about to spring at my throat. He soon recov-
ered himself. 'The letters,' said he in a short tone. I handed
them to him."
"How !" cried old Tabaret, "these letters — the true ones ?
How imprudent!"
"And why?"
"If he had— I don't know ; but—" the old fellow hesitated.
The barrister laid his hand upon his friend's shoulder. "I
was there," said he in a hollow tone ; "and I promise you the
letters were in no danger."
Noel's features assumed such an expression of ferocity that
700 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
the old fellow was almost afraid, and recoiled instinctively.
"He would have killed him," thought he.
"That which I have done for you this evening, my friend,"'
resumed the barrister, "I did for the vicomte. I obviated, at
least for the moment, the necessity of reading all of these one
hundred and fifty-six letters. I told him only to stop at those
marked with a cross, and to carefully read the passages indi-
cated with a red pencil."
"It was an abridgment of his penance," remarked old Tabaret.
"He was seated," continued Noel, "before a little table, too
fragile even to lean upon. I was standing with my back to the
fireplace in which a fire was burning. I followed his slightest
movements ; and I scanned his features closely. Never in my
life have I seen so sad a spectacle, nor shall I forget it. if I
live for a thousand years. In less than five minutes his face
changed to such an extent that his own valet would not have
recognized him. He held his handkerchief in his hand, with
which from time to time he mechanically wiped his lips. He
grew paler and paler, and his lips became as white as his hand-
kerchief. Large drops of sweat stood upon his forehead, and
his eyes became dull and clouded, as if a film had covered
them ; but not an exclamation, not a sigh, not a groan, not even
a gesture, escaped him. At one moment, I felt such pity for
him that I was almost on the point of snatching the letters
from his hands, throwing them into the fire and taking him
in my arms, crying : 'No, you are my brother ! Forget all ; let
us remain as we are and love one another !' "
M. Tabaret took Noel's hand, and pressed it. "Ah!" he
said, "I recognize my generous boy."
"If I have not done this, my friend, it is because I thought
to myself: 'Once these letters destroyed, would he recognize
me as his brother?'"
"Ah! very true."
"In about half an hour, he had finished reading; he arose,
and facing me directly, said: 'You are right, sir. If these let-
ters are really written by my father, as I believe them to be,
they distinctly prove that I am not the son of the Comtesse de
Commarin.' I did not answer. 'Meanwhile,' continued he,
'these are only presumptions. Are you possessed of other
proofs?' I expected, of course, a great many other objections.
'Germain,' said I, 'can speak.' He told me that Germain had
been dead for several years. Then I spoke of the nurse, Widow
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 701
Lerouge. I explained how easily she could be found and ques-
tioned, adding- that she lived at La Jonchere."
"And what said he, Noel, to this ?" asked old Tabaret anxiously.
"He remained silent at first, and appeared to reflect. All on
a sudden he struck his forehead, and said : 'I remember ; I know
her. I have accompanied my father to her house three times,
and in my presence he gave her a considerable sum of money.'
I remarked to him that this was yet another proof. He made
no answer, but walked up and down the room. At length he
turned toward me, saying: 'Sir, you know M. de Commarin's
legitimate son ?' I answered : 'I am he.' He bowed his head
and murmured : 'I thought so.' He then took my hand and
added : 'Brother, I bear you no ill will for this.' "
"It seems to me," remarked old Tabaret, that he might have
left that to you to say, and with more reason and justice."
"No, my friend, for he is more ill-used than I. I have not
been lowered, for I did not know, while he ! . . ."
The old police agent nodded his head, he had to hide his
thoughts, and they were stifling him.
"At length," resumed Noel, after a rather long pause, "I
asked him what he proposed doing. 'Listen,' he said, 'I expect
my father in about eight or ten days. You will allow me this
delay. As soon as he returns I will have an explanation with
him, and justice shall be done. I give you my word of honor.
Take back your letters and leave me to myself. This news
has utterly overwhelmed me. In a moment I lose everything:
a great name that I have always borne as worthily as possible,
a magnificent position, an immense fortune, and, more than all
that, perhaps, the woman who is dearer to me than life. In
exchange, it is true, I shall find a mother. We will console
each other. And I will try, sir, to make her forget you, for she
must love you, and will miss you.' "
"Did he really say that?"
"Almost word for word."
"Hypocrite !" growled the old fellow between his teeth.
"What did you say?" asked Noel.
"I say that he is a fine young man ; and I shall be delighted
to make his acquaintance."
"I did not show him the letter referring to the rupture,"
added Noel ; "it is best that he should ignore Madame Gerdy's
misconduct. I voluntarily deprived myself of this proof rather
than give him further pain."
702 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"And now?"
"What am I to do? I am waiting the comte's return. I shall
act more freely after hearing what he has to say. To-morrow
I shall ask permission to examine the papers belonging to
Claudine.- If I find the letters, I am saved; if not — but, as I
have told you, I have formed no plan since I heard of the
assassination. Now, what do you advise?"
"The briefest counsel demands long reflection," replied the
old fellow, who was in haste to depart. "Alas ! my poor boy,
what worry you have had !"
"Terrible ! and, in addition, I have pecuniary embarrassments."
"How! you who spend nothing?"
"I have entered into various engagements. Can I now make
use of Madame Gerdy's fortune, which I have hitherto used as
my own? I think not."
"You certainly ought not to. But listen ! I am glad you have
spoken of this ; you can render me a service."
"Very willingly. What is it?"
"I have, locked up in my secretary, twelve or fifteen thou-
sand francs, which trouble me exceedingly. You see, I am old,
and not very brave, if any one heard I had this money — "
"I fear I can not — " commented the barrister.
"Nonsense !" said the old fellow. "To-morrow I will give
them you to take care of." But remembering he was about
to put himself at M. Daburon's disposal, and that perhaps he
might not be free on the morrow, he quickly added : "No, not
to-morrow ; but this very evening. This infernal money shall
not remain another night in my keeping."
He hurried out, and presently reappeared, holding in his hand
fifteen notes of a thousand francs each. "If that is not suffi-
cient," said he, handing them to Noel, "you can have more."
"Anyhow," replied the barrister, "I will give you a receipt
for these."
"Oh ! never mind. Time enough to-morrow."
"And if I die to-night?"
Then said the old fellow to him, thinking of his will : "I shall
still be your debtor. Good night!" added he aloud. "You have
asked my advice, I shall require the night for reflection. At
present my brain is whirling; I must go into the air. If I go
to bed now, I am sure to have a horrible nightmare. Come,
my boy ; patience and courage. Who knows whether at this
very hour Providence is not working for you?"
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
703
He went out, and Noel, leaving his door open, listened to the
sound of his footsteps as he descended the stairs. Almost im-
mediately the cry of, "Open, if you please," and the banging
of the door apprised him that M. Tabaret had gone out. He
waited a few minutes and refilled his lamp. Then he took a
small packet from one of his bureau drawers, slipped into his
pocket the bank-notes lent him by his old friend, and left his
study, the door of which he double-locked. On reaching the
landing, he paused. He listened intently, as though the sound
of Madame Gerdy's moans could reach him where he stood.
Hearing nothing, he descended the stairs on tiptoe. A minute
later, he was in the street.
INCLUDED in Madame Gerdy's lease was a coach-house,
•*■ which was used by her as a lumber room. Here were heaped
together all the old rubbish of the household, broken pieces of
furniture, utensils past service, articles become useless or cum-
brous. It was also used to store the provision of wood and
coal for the winter. This old coach-house had a small door
opening on the street, which had been in disuse for many
years; but which Noel had had secretly repaired and provided
with a lock. He could thus enter or leave the house at any
hour without the concierge or any one else knowing. It was by
this door that the barrister went out, though not without using
the utmost caution in opening and closing it. Once in the
street, he stood still a moment, as if hesitating which way to
go. Then, he slowly proceeded in the direction of the St.
Lazare railway station, where a cab happening to pass, he
hailed it. "Rue du Faubourg Montmartre, at the corner of the
Rue de Provence," said Noel, entering the vehicle, "and drive
quick."
The barrister alighted at the spot named, and dismissed the
cabman. When he had seen him drive off, Noel turned into
the Rue de Provence, and, after walking a few yards, rang the
bell of one of the handsomest houses in the street. The door
704 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
was immediately opened. As Noel passed before him the con-
cierge made a most respectful, and at the same time patroniz-
ing, bow, one of those salutations which Parisian concierges
reserve for their favorite tenants, generous mortals always ready
to give. On reaching the second floor, the barrister paused,
drew a key from his pocket, and opening the door facing him,
entered as if at home. But at the sound of the key in the
lock, though very faint, a lady's maid, rather young and pretty,
with a bold pair of eyes, ran toward him. "Ah ! it is you, sir,"
cried she. This exclamation escaped her just loud enough to
be audible at the extremity of the apartment, and serve as a
signal if needed. It was as if she had cried: "Take care!"
Noel did not seem to notice it. "Madame is there ?" asked he.
"Yes, sir, and very angry too. This morning she wanted
to send some one to you. A little while ago she spoke of going
to find you, sir, herself. I have had much difficulty in prevail-
ing on her not to disobey your orders."
"Very well," said the barrister.
"Madame is in the smoking-room," continued the girl. "I
am making her a cup of tea. Will you have one, sir?"
"Yes," replied Noel. "Show me a light, Charlotte."
He passed successively through a magnificent dining-room,
a splendid gilded drawing-room in Louis XIV style and entered
the smoking-room. This was a rather large apartment with a
very high ceiling. Once inside one might almost fancy one's
self three thousand miles from Paris, in the house of some
opulent mandarin of the Celestial Empire. Furniture, carpet,
hangings, pictures, all had evidently been imported direct from
Hong Kong or Shanghai. A rich silk tapestry, representing
brilliantly colored figures, covered the walls, and hid the doors
from view. All the empire of the sun and moon was depicted
thereon in vermilion landscapes ; corpulent mandarins sur-
rounded by their lantern-bearers ; learned men lay stupefied with
opium, sleeping under their parasols; young girls, with elevated
eyebrows, stumbled upon their diminutive feet, swathed in ban-
dages. The carpet of a manufacture unknown to Europeans
was strewn with fruits and flowers, so true to nature that they
might have deceived a bee. Some great artist of Peking had
painted on the silk which covered the ceiling numerous fan-
tastic birds, opening on azure ground their wings of purple and
gold. Slender rods of lacker, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, bor-
dered the draperies, and marked the angles of the apartment.
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 705
Two fantastic-looking chests entirely occupied one side of the
room. Articles of furniture of capricious and incoherent forms,
tables with porcelain tops, and chiffoniers of precious woods
encumbered every recess or angle. There were also ornamental
cabinets and shelves purchased of Lien-Tsi, the Tahan of Sou-
Tcheou, the artistic city, and a thousand curiosities, both mis-
cellaneous and costly, from the ivory sticks which are used
instead of forks, to the porcelain teacups, thinner than soap
bubbles — miracles of the reign of Kien-Loung. A very large
and very low divan piled up with cushions, covered with tapes-
try similar to the hangings, occupied one end of the room.
There was no regular window, but instead a large single pane
of glass, fixed into the wall of the house; in front of it was
a double glass door with movable panels, and the space between
was filled with the most rare flowers. The grate was replaced
by registers adroitly concealed, which maintained in the apart-
ment a temperature fit for hatching silkworms, thus truly har-
monizing with the furniture.
When Noel entered, a womr.n, still young, was reclining on
the divan, smoking a cigarette. In spite of the tropical heat,
she was enveloped in heavy Cashmere shawls. She was small,
but then only small women can unite in their persons every
perfection. Women who are above the medium height must
be either essays or errors of nature. No matter how lovely
they may look, they invariably present some defect, like the
work of a statuary, who, though possessed of genius, attempts
for the first time sculpture on a grand scale. She was small,
but her neck, her shoulders, and her arms had the most ex-
quisite contours. Her hands with their tapering fingers and
rosy nails looked like jewels preciously cared for. Her feet,
encased in silken stockings almost as thin as a spider's web,
were a marvel; not that they recalled the very fabulous foot
which Cinderella thrust into the glass slipper; but the other,
very real, very celebrated, and very palpable foot, of which the
fair owner (the lovely wife of a well-known banker) used to
present the model either in bronze or in marble to her numer-
ous admirers. Her face was not beautiful, nor even pretty ; but
her features were such as one seldom forgets ; for, at the first
glance, they startled the beholder like a flash of lightning. Her
forehead was a little high, and her mouth unmistakably large,
notwithstanding the provoking freshness of her lips. Her eye-
brows were so perfect they seemed to have been drawn with India
706 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
ink ; but, unhappily the pencil had been used too heavily ; and
they gave her an unpleasant expression when she frowned. On
the other hand, her smooth complexion had a rich golden
pallor; and her black and velvety eyes possessed enormous
magnetic power. Her teeth were of a pearly brilliancy and
whiteness, and her hair, of prodigious opulence, was black and
fine, and glossy as a raven's wing.
On perceiving Noel, as he pushed aside the silken hangings,
she half arose and leaned upon her elbow. "So you have come
at last ?" she observed in a tone of vexation ; "you are verv
kind."
The barrister felt almost suffocated by the oppressive tem-
perature of the room. "How warm it is !" said he ; "it is
enough to stifle one !"
"Do you find it so?" replied the young woman. "Well, I
am actually shivering! It is true, though, that I am very un-
well. Waiting is unbearable to me, it acts upon my nerves;
and I have been waiting for you ever since yesterday."
"It was quite impossible for me to come," explained Noel,
"quite impossible !"
"You knew, however," continued the lady, "that to-day was
my settling day; and that I had several heavy accounts to set-
tle. The tradesmen all came, and I had not a halfpenny to give
them. The coachmaker sent his bill, but there was no money.
Then that old rascal Clergot, to whom I had given an accept-
ance for three thousand francs, came and kicked up a row.
How pleasant all this is !"
Noel bowed his head like a schoolboy rebuked for having
neglected his lessons. "It is but one day behind," he murmured.
"And that is nothing, is it?" retorted the young woman. "A
man who respects himself, my friend, may allow his own sig-
nature to be dishonored, but never that of his mistress ! Do
you wish to destroy my credit altogether? You know very
well that the only consideration I receive is what my money
pays for. So as soon as I am unable to pay, it will be all up
with me."
"My dear Juliette," began the barrister gently.
"Oh, yes ! that's all very fine," interrupted she. "Your dear
Juliette ! Your adored Juliette ! So long as you are here it
is really charming; but no sooner are you outside than you
forget everything. Do you ever remember then that there is
such a person as Juliette?"
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 707
"How unjust you are !" replied Noel. "Do you not know
that I am always thinking of you? Have I not proved it to
you a thousand times ? Look here ! I am going to prove it to
you again this very instant." He withdrew from his pocket
the small packet he had taken out of his bureau drawer, and,
undoing it, showed her a handsome velvet casket. "Here,"
said he exultingly, "is the bracelet you longed for so much a
week ago at Beaugran's."
Madame Juliette, without rising, held out her hand to take
the casket, and, opening it with the utmost indifference, just
glanced at the jewel, and merely said: "Ah!"
"Is this the one you wanted ?" asked Noel.
"Yes, but it looked much prettier in the shop window." She
closed the casket, and threw it carelessly on to a small table
near her.
"I am unfortunate this evening," said the barrister, much
mortified.
"How so?"
"I see plainly the bracelet does not please you."
"Oh, but it does. I think it lovely . . . besides, it will com-
plete the two dozen."
It was now Noel's turn to say : "Ah ! . . ." and as Juliette
said nothing, he added : "Well, if you are pleased, you do not
show it."
"Oh ! so that is what you are driving at I" cried the lady.
"I am not grateful enough to suit you ! You bring me a
present, and I ought at once to pay cash, fill the house with
cries of joy, and throw myself upon my knees before you,
calling you a great and magnificent lord !"
Noel was unable this time to restrain a gesture of impatience,
which Juliette perceived plainly enough, to her great delight.
"Would that be sufficient?" continued she. "Shall I call
Charlotte, so that she may admire this superb bracelet, this
monument of your generosity ? Shall I have the concierge up,
and call the cook to tell them how happy I am to possess such
a magnificent lover?"
The barrister shrugged his shoulders like a philosopher, in-
capable of noticing a child's banter. "What is the use of these
insulting jests?" said he. "If you have any real complaint
against me, better to say so simply and seriously."
"Very well," said Juliette, "let us be serious. And that
being so, I will tell you it would have been better to have
708 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
forgotten the bracelet, and to have brought me last night or
this morning the eight thousand francs I wanted."
"I could not come."
"You should have sent them; messengers are still to be found
at the' street corners."
"If I neither brought nor sent them, my dear Juliette, it was
because I did not have them. I had trouble enough in getting
them promised me for to-morrow. If I have the sum this
evening, I owe it to chance upon which I could not have
counted an hour ago ; but by which I profited, at the risk of
compromising myself."
"Poor man !" said Juliette, with an ironical touch of pity in
her voice. "Do you dare to tell me you have had difficulty in
obtaining ten thousand francs — you?"
"Yes— I !"
The young woman looked at her lover, and burst into a fit
of laughter. "You are really superb when you act the poor
young man !" said she.
"I am not acting."
"So you say, my own. But I see what you are aiming at.
This amiable confession is the preface. To-morrow you will
declare that your affairs are very much embarrassed, and the
day after to-morrow. . . . Ah ! you are becoming very avari-
cious. It is a virtue you used not to possess. Do you not
already regret the money you have given me?"
"Wretched woman !' murmured Noel, fast losing patience.
"Really," continued the lady, "I pity you, oh ! so much. Un-
fortunate lover ! Shall I get up a subscription for you ? In
your place, I would appeal to public charity."
Xoel could stand it no longer, in spite of his resolution to
remain calm. "You think it a laughing matter?" cried he.
"Well ! let me tell you, Juliette, I am ruined, and I have ex-
hausted my last resources ! I am reduced to expedients !"
The eyes of the young woman brightened. She looked at
her lover tenderly. "Oh, if 'twas only true, my big pet !" said
she. "If I only could believe you !"
The barrister was wounded to the heart. "She believes me,"
thought he; "and she is glad. She detests me."
He was mistaken. The idea that a man had loved her suffi-
ciently to ruin himself for her, without allowing even a re-
proach to escape him, filled this woman with joy. She felt
herself on the point of loving the man, now poor and humbled,
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 709
whom she had despised when rich and proud. But the expres-
sion of her eyes suddenly changed. "What a fool I am," cried
she, "I was on the point of believing all that, and of trying to
console you. Don't pretend that you are one of those gentle-
men who scatter their money broadcast. Tell that to somebody
else, my friend ! All men in our days calculate like money-
lenders. There are only a few fools who ruin themselves now,
some conceited youngsters, and occasionally an amorous old
dotard. Well, you are a very calm, very grave, and very seri-
ous fellow, but above all, a very strong one."
"Not with you, anyhow," murmured Noel.
"Come now, stop that nonsense ! You know very well what
you are about. Instead of a heart, you have a great big double
zero, just like a Homburg. When you took a fancy to me, you
said to yourself: 'I will expend so much on passion,' and you
have kept your word. It is an investment, like any other, in
which one receives interest in the form of pleasure. You are
capable of all the extravagance in the world, to the extent of
your fixed price of four thousand francs a month ! If it re-
quired a franc more you would very soon take back your heart
and your hat, and carry them elsewhere; to one or other of
my rivals in the neighborhood."
"It is true," answered the barrister, coolly. "I know how to
count, and that accomplishment is very useful to me ! It enables
me to know exactly how and where I have got rid of my fortune."
"So you really know?" sneered Juliette.
"And I can tell you, madame," continued he. "At first you
were not very exacting, but the appetite came with eating.
You wished for luxury, you have it; splendid furniture, you
have it; a complete establishment, extravagant dresses, I could
refuse you nothing. You required a carriage, a horse, I gave
them you. And I do not mention a thousand other whims. I
include neither this Chinese cabinet nor the two dozen brace-
lets. The total is four hundred thousand francs !"
"Are you sure?"
"As sure as any one can be who has had that amount, and
has it no longer."
"Four hundred thousand francs, only fancy ! Are there
no centimes?"
"No."
"Then, my dear friend, if I make up my bill, you will still
owe me something."
710 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
The entrance of the maid with the tea-tray interrupted this
amorous duet, of which Noel had experienced more than one
repetition. The barrister held his tongue on account of the
servant. Juliette did the same on account of her lover, for
she had no secrets for Charlotte, who had been with her three
years, and with whom she had shared everything, sometimes
even her lovers.
Madame Juliette Chaffour was a Parisian. She was born
about 1839, somewhere in the upper end of the Faubourg Mont-
martre. Her father was unknown. Her infancy was a long
alternation of beatings and caresses, equally furious. She had
lived as best she could, on sweetmeats and damaged fruit;
so that now her stomach could stand anything. At twelve
years old she was as thin as a nail, as green as a June apple,
and more depraved than the inmates of the prison of St.
Lazare. Prudhomme would have said that this precocious little
hussy was totally destitute of morality. She had not the
slightest idea what morality was. She thought the world
was full of honest people living like her mother, and her
mother's friends. She feared neither God nor devil, but she
was afraid of the police. She dreaded also certain mysterious
and cruel persons, whom she had heard spoken of, who dwelt
near the Palais de Justice, and who experienced a malicious
pleasure in seeing pretty girls in trouble. As she gave no
promise of beauty, she was on the point of being placed in a
shop, when an old and respectable gentleman, who had known
her mama some years previously, accorded her his protection.
This old gentleman, prudent and provident, like all old gentle-
men, was a connoisseur, and knew that to reap one must sow.
He resolved first of all to give his protege just a varnish of
education. He procured masters for her, who in less than three
years taught her to write, to play the piano, and to dance.
What he did not procure for her, however, was a lover. She
therefore found one for herself, an artist who taught her
nothing very new, but who carried her off to offer her half of
what he possessed, that is to say, nothing. At the end of
three months, having had enough of it, she left the nest of her
first love, with all she possessed tied up in a cotton pocket
handkerchief.
During the four years which followed, she led a precarious
existence, sometimes with little else to live upon but hope,
which never wholly abandons a young girl who knows she
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 711
has pretty eyes. By turns she sunk to the bottom, or rose to
the surface of the stream in which she found herself. Twice
had fortune in new gloves come knocking at her door, but she
had not the sense to keep her. With the assistance of a
strolling player, she had just appeared on the stage of a
small theatre, and spoken her lines rather well, when Noel by
chance met her, loved her, and made her his mistress. Her
barrister, as she called him, did not displease her at first.
After a few months, though, she could not bear him. She
detested him for his polite and polished manners, his manly
bearing, his distinguished air, his contempt, which he did
not care to hide, for all that is low and vulgar, and, above all,
for his unalterable patience, which nothing could tire. Her
great complaint against him was that he was not at all funny,
and also, that he absolutely declined to conduct her to those
places where one can give a free vent to one's spirits. To
amuse herself, she began to squander money; and her aversion
for her lover increased at the same rate as her ambition and
his sacrifices. She rendered him the most miserable of men,
and treated him like a dog; and this not from any natural bad-
ness of disposition, but from principle. She was persuaded that
a woman is beloved in proportion to the trouble she causes
and the mischief she does.
Juliette was not wicked, and she believed she had much to
complain of. The dream of her life was to be loved in a
way which she felt, but could scarcely have explained. She
had never been to her lovers more than a plaything. She
understood this; and, as she was naturally proud, the idea
enraged her. She dreamed of a man who would be devoted
enough to make a real sacrifice for her, a lover who would
descend to her level, instead of attempting to raise her to his.
She despaired of ever meeting such a one. Noel's extravagance
left her as cold as ice. She believed he was very rich, and sin-
gularly, in spite of her greediness, she did not care much for
money. Noel would have won her easier by a brutal frankness
that would have shown her clearly his situation. He lost her
love by the delicacy of his dissimulation, that left her ignorant
of the sacrifices he was making for her.
Noel adored Juliette. Until the fatal day he saw her, he
had lived like a sage. This, his first passion, burned him
up ; and, from the disaster, he saved only appearances.
The four walls remained standing, but the interior of the
712 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
edifice was destroyed. Even heroes have their vulnerable parts,
Achilles died from a wound in the heel. The most artfully
constructed armor has a flaw somewhere. Noel was assail-
able by means of Juliette, and through her was at the mercy
of everything and every one. In four years, this model
young man, this barrister of immaculate reputation, this austere
moralist, had squandered not only his own fortune on her, but
Madame Gerdy's also. He loved her madly, without reflection,
without measure, with his eyes shut. At her side, he forgot
all prudence, and thought out loud. In her boudoir, he dropped
his mask of habitual dissimulation, and his vices displayed
themselves at ease, as his limbs in a bath. He felt himself
so powerless against her, that he never essayed to struggle.
She possessed him. Once or twice he attempted to firmly op-
pose her ruinous caprices; but she had made him pliable as
the osier. Under the dark glances of this girl, his strongest
resolutions melted more quickly than snow beneath an April
sun. She tortured him; but she had also the power to make
him forget all by a smile, a tear, or a kiss. Away from the
enchantress, reason returned at intervals, and, in his lucid
moments, he said to himself, "She does not love me. She is
amusing herself at my expense !" But the belief in her love
had taken such deep root in his heart that he could not pluck
it forth. He made himself a monster of jealousy, and then
argued with himself respecting her fidelity. On several occa-
sions he had strong reasons to doubt her constancy, but he
never had the courage to declare his suspicions. "If I am
not mistaken, I shall either have to leave her," thought he,
"or accept everything in the future." At the idea of a sep-
aration from Juliette, he trembled, and felt his passion strong
enough to compel him to submit to the lowest indignity. He
preferred even these heartbreaking doubts to a still more
dreadful certainty.
The presence of the maid who took a considerable time in
arranging the tea-table gave Noel an opportunity to recover
himself. He looked at Juliette ; and his anger took flight.
Already he began to ask himself if he had not been a little
cruel to her. When Charlotte retired, he came and took a seat
on the divan beside his mistress, and attempted to put his arms
round her. "Come," said he in a caressing tone, "you have been
angry enough for this evening. If I have done wrong, you have
punished me sufficiently. Kiss me, and make it up."
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 713
She repulsed him angrily, and said in a dry tone: "Let me
alone ! How many times must I tell you that I am very unwell
this evening:"
"You suffer, my love ?" resumed the barrister, "where ? Shall
I send for the doctor?"
"There is no need. I know the nature of my malady; it is
called ennui. You are not at all the doctor who could do any-
thing for me."
Noel rose with a discouraged air, and took his place at the
side of the tea-table, facing her. His resignation bespoke how
habituated he had become to these rebuffs. Juliette snubbed
him ; but he returned always, like the poor dog who lies in
wait all day for the time when his caresses will not be in-
opportune. "You have told me very often during the last few
months, that I bother you. What have I done?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"Well, then, why—?"
"My life is nothing more than a continual yawn," answered
the young woman; "is it my fault? Do you think it very
amusing to be your mistress ? Look at yourself. Does there
exist another being as sad, as dull as you, more uneasy, more
suspicious, devoured by a greater jealousy?"
"Your reception of me, my dear Juliette," ventured Noel,
"is enough to extinguish gaiety and freeze all effusion. Then
one always fears when one loves !"
"Really ! Then one should seek a woman to suit one's self, or
have her made to order ; shut her up in the cellar, and have her
brought upstairs once a day, at the end of dinner, during
dessert, or with the champagne just by way of amusement."
"I should have done better not to have come," murmured
the barrister.
"Of course. I am to remain alone here, without anything to
occupy me except a cigarette and a stupid book, that I go
to sleep over? Do you call this an existence, never to budge
out of the house even?"
"It is the life of all the respectable women that I know,"
replied the barrister dryly.
"Then I can not compliment them on their enjoyment.
Happily, though, I am not a respectable woman, and I can
tell you that I am tired of living more closely shut up than
the wife of a Turk, with your face for sole amusement."
"You live shut up, you?"
4— Vol. Ill— Gab.
714 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"Certainly !" continued Juliette, with increased bitterness.
"Come, have you ever brought one of your friends here? No,
you hide me. When have you offered me your arm for a
walk? Never, your dignity would be sullied, if you were
seen in my company. I have a carriage. Have you entered
it half a dozen times? Perhaps; but then you let down the
blinds ! I go out alone. I walk about alone !"
"Always the same refrain," interrupted Noel, anger getting the
better of him, "always these uncalled-for complaints. As though
you had still to learn the reason why this state of things exists."
"I know well enough," pursued the young woman, "that
you are ashamed of me. Yet I know many bigger swells than
you who do not mind being seen with their mistresses. My
lord trembles for his fine name of Gerdy that I might sully,
while the sons of the most noble families are not afraid of
showing themselves in public places in the company of the
stupidest of kept women."
At last Noel could stand it no longer, to the great delight
of Madame Chaffour. "Enough of these recriminations!"
cried he, rising. "If I hide our relations, it is because I am
constrained to do so. Of what do you complain? You have
unrestrained liberty; and you use it, too, and so largely that
your actions altogether escape me. You accuse me of creat-
ing a vacuum around you. Who is to blame? Did I grow tired
of a happy and quiet existence? My friends would have come
to see us in a home in accordance with a modest competence.
Can I bring them here? On seeing all this luxury, this in-
solent display of my folly, they would ask each other where I
obtained all the money I have spent on you. I may have a
mistress, but I have not the right to squander a fortune that
does not belong to me. If my acquaintances learned to-mor-
row that it is I who keep you, my future prospects would be
destroyed. What client would confide his interests to the
imbecile who ruined himself for the woman who has been
the talk of all Paris? I am not a great lord, I have neither
an historical name to tarnish, nor an immense fortune to lose.
I am plain Noel Gerdy, a barrister. My reputation is all
that I possess. It is a false one, I admit. Such as it is, how-
ever, I must keep it, and I will keep it."
Juliette who knew her Noel thoroughly, saw that she had
gone far enough. She determined, therefore, to put him in
a good humor again. "My friend," said she, tenderly, "I did
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 715
not wish to cause you pain. You must be indulgent, I am so
horribly nervous this evening."
This sudden change delighted the barrister, and almost
sufficed to calm his anger. "You will drive me mad with your
injustice," said he. "While I exhaust my imagination to
find what can be agreeable to you, you are perpetually attacking
my gravity; yet it is not forty-eight hours since we were
plunged in all the gaiety of the carnival. I kept the fete of
Shrove Tuesday like a student. We went to a theatre; I then
put on a domino, and accompanied you to the ball at the opera,
and even invited two of my friends to sup with us."
"It was very gay indeed !" answered the young woman,
making a wry face.
"So I think."
"Do you ! Then you are not hard to please. We went to
the Vaudeville, it is true, but separately, as we always do, I
alone above, you below. At the ball you looked as though you
were burying the devil. At the supper-table your friends were
as melancholy as a pair of owls. I obeyed your orders by
affecting hardly to know you. You imbibed like a sponge, with-
out my being able to tell whether you were drunk or not."
"That proves," interrupted Noel, "that we ought not to
force our tastes. Let us talk of something else." He took a
few steps in the room, then looking at his watch said : "Almost
one o'clock ; my love, I must leave you."
"What ! you are not going to remain ?"
"No, to my great regret; my mother is dangerously ill. He
unfolded and counted out on the table the bank-notes he had
received from old Tabaret.
"My little one," said he, "here are not eight thousand francs,
but ten thousand. You will not see me again for a few days."
"Are you leaving Paris, then?"
"No; but my entire time will be absorbed by an affair of
immense importance to myself. If I succeed in my undertaking,
my dear, our future happiness is assured, and you will then see
whether I love you !"
"Oh, my dear Noel, tell me what it is."
"I can not now."
"Tell me. I beseech you," pleaded the young woman, hanging
round his neck, raising herself upon the tips of her toes to press
her lips to his. The barrister embraced her; and his resolution
seemed to waver.
716 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"No." said he at length; "seriously, I can not. Of what use
to awaken in you hopes which can never be realized? Now,
mv darling, listen to me. Whatever may happen, understand,
you must under no pretext whatever again come to my house,
as you once had the imprudence to do. Do not even write to
me. By disobeying, you may do me an irreparable injury. If
any accident occurs, send that old rascal Clergot to me. I shall
have a visit from him the day after to-morrow, for he holds
some bills of mine."
Juliette recoiled, menacing Noel with a mutinous gesture.
"You will not tell me anything?" insisted she.
"Not this evening, but very soon," replied the barrister, em-
barrassed by the piercing glance of his mistress.
"Always some mystery!" cried Juliette, piqued at the want
of success attending her blandishments.
"This will be the last, I swear to you !"
"Noel, my good man." said the young woman in a serious
tone, "you are hiding something from me. I understand you,
as you know; for several days past there has been something
or other the matter with you ; you have completely changed."
"I swear to you, Juliette — "
"No, swear nothing ; I should not believe you. Only remem-
ber, no attempt at deceiving me, I forewarn you. I am a woman
capable of revenge."
The barrister was evidently ill at ease. "The affair in ques-
tion," stammered he, "can as well fail as succeed."
"Enough," interrupted Juliette; "your will shall be obeyed.
I promise that. Come, sir, kiss me. I am going to bed."
The door was hardly shut upon Noel when Charlotte was
installed on the divan near her mistress. Had the barrister been
listening at the door, he might have heard Madame Juliette say-
ing, "No, really, I can no longer endure him. What a bore he
is, my girl. Ah ! if I was not so afraid of him, wouldn't I leave
him at once? But he is capable of killing me!"
The girl vainly tried to defend Noel ; but her mistress did
not listen. She murmured: "Why does he absent himself, and
what is he plotting? An absence of eight days is suspicious.
Can he by any chance intend to be married? Ah! if I only
knew. You weary me to death, my good Noel, and I am deter-
mined to leave you to yourself one of these fine mornings; but
I can not permit you to quit me first. Supposing he is going to
get married? But I will not allow it. I must make inquiries."
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 717
Noel, however, was not listening at the door. He went along
the Rue de Provence as quickly as possible, gained the Rue St.
Lazare, and entered the house as he had departed, by the stable
door. He had but just sat down in his sutdy when the servant.
knocked. '"Sir," cried she, "in heaven's name, answer me!"
He opened the door and said impatiently: "What is it now ?"
"Sir," stammered the girl in tears, "this is the third time I
have knocked, and you have not answered. Come, I implore
you. I am afraid madame is dying !"
He followed her to Madame Gerdy's room. He must have
found the poor woman terribly changed, for he could not re-
strain a movement of terror. The invalid struggled painfully
beneath her coverings. Her face was of a livid paleness, as
though there was not a drop of blood left in her veins ; and her
eyes, which glittered with a sombre light, seemed filled with a
fine dust. Her hair, loose and disordered, falling over her
cheeks and upon her shoulders, contributed to her wild appear-
ance. She uttered from time to time a groan hardly audible,
or murmured unintelligible words. At times a fiercer pang than
the former ones forced a cry of anguish from her. She did not
recognize Noel.
"You see, sir," said the servant.
"Yes. Who would have supposed her malady could advance
so rapidly? Quick, run to Dr. Herve's ; tell him to get up and
to come at once ; tell him it is for me." And he seated himself
in an armchair, facing the suffering woman.
Dr. Herve was one of Noel's friends, an old school-fellow,
and the companion of his student days. The doctor's history
differed in nothing from that of most young men, who, without
fortune, friends, or influence, enter upon the practise of the most
difficult, the most hazardous of professions that exist in Paris,
where one sees so many talented young doctors forced, to earn
the bread, to place themselves at the disposition of infamous
drug vendors. A man of remarkable courage and self-reliance,
Herve, his studies over, said to himself, "No, I will not go and
bury myself in the country; I will remain in Paris; I will there
become celebrated. I shall be surgeon-in-chief of a hospital and
a knight of the Legion of Honor." To enter upon this path
of thorns, leading to a magnificent triumphal arch, the future
academician ran himself twenty thousand francs in debt to fur-
nish a small apartment. Here, armed with a patience which
nothing could fatigue, an iron resolution that nothing could
718 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
subdue, he struggled and waited. Only those who have experi-
enced it can understand what sufferings are endured by the
poor, proud man, who waits in a black coat, freshly shaven, with
smiling lips, while he is starving of hunger ! The refinements
of civilization have inaugurated punishments which put in the
shade the cruelties of the savage. The unknown physician must
begin by attending the poor who can not pay him. Sometimes,
too, the patient is ungrateful. He is profuse in promises while
in danger ; but when cured he scorns the doctor, and forgets to
pay him his fee.
After seven years of heroic perseverance, Herve has secured
at last a circle of patients who pay him. During this he lived
and paid the exorbitant interest of his debt, but he is getting on.
Three or four pamphlets, and a prize won without much in-
trigue, have attracted public attention to him. But he is no
longer the brave young enthusiast, full of the faith and hope
that attended him on his first visits. He still wishes, and more
than ever, to acquire distinction, but he no longer expects any
pleasure from his success. He used up that feeling in the days
when he had not wherewith to pay for his dinner. No matter
how great his fortune may be in the days to come, he has al-
ready paid too dearly for it. For him future success is only a
kind of revenge. Less than thirty-five years old, he is already
sick of the world, and believes in nothing. Under the appear-
ance of universal benevolence he conceals universal scorn. His
finesse, sharpened by the grindstone of adversity, has become
mischievous. And, while he sees through all disguises worn
by others, he hides his penetration carefully under a mask of
cheerful good nature and jovialness. But he is kind, he loves
his friends, and is devoted to them.
He arrived, hardly dressed, so great had been his haste. His
first words on entering were: "What is the matter?"
Noel pressed his hand in silence, and, by way of answer,
pointed to the bed. In less than a minute, the doctor seized
the lamp, examined the sick woman, and returned to his friend.
"What has happened?" he asked sharply. "It is necessary I
should know."
The barrister started. "Know what?" stammered he.
"Everything!" answered Herve. "She is suffering from in-
flammation of the brain. There is no mistaking that. It is by
no means a common complaint, in spite of the constant work-
ing of that organ. What can have caused it? There appears
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
719
to be no injury to the brain or its bony covering; the mischief,
then, must have been caused by some violent emotion, a great
grief, some unexpected catastrophe — "
Noel interrupted his friend by a gesture, and drew him into
the embrasure of the window. "Yes, my friend," said he in a
low tone, "Madame Gerdy has experienced great mental suf-
fering; she has been frightfully tortured by remorse. Listen,
Herve. I will confide our secret to your honor and your friend-
ship. Madame Gerdy is not my mother; she despoiled me, to
enrich her son with my fortune and my name. Three weeks
ago I discovered this unworthy fraud ; she knows it, and the
consequences terrify her. Ever since she has been dying min-
ute by minute."
The barrister expected some exclamations of astonishment
and a host of questions from his friend; but the doctor received
the explanation without remark, as a simple statement, indis-
pensable to his understanding the case. "Three weeks," he
murmured ; "then that explains everything. Has she appeared
to suffer much during the time?"
"She complained of violent headaches, dimness of sight, and
intolerable pains in her ears ; she attributed all that though to
megrims. Do not, however, conceal anything from me, Herve ;
is her complaint very serious?"
"So serious, my friend, so invariably fatal, that I am almost
undertaking a hopeless task in attempting a cure."
"Ah ! good heaven !"
"You asked for the truth, and I have told it you. If I had
that courage, it was because you told me this poor woman is
not your mother. Nothing short of a miracle can save her ; but
this miracle we hay hope and prepare for. And now to work !"
THE clock of the St. Lazare terminus was striking eleven
as old Tabaret, after shaking hands with Noel, left his
house, still bewildered by what he had just heard. Obliged to
restrain himself at the time, he now fully appreciated his liberty
720 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
of action. It was with an unsteady gait that he took his first
steps in the street, like the toper who, after jeing shut up in a
warm room, suddenly goes out into the open air. He was beam-
ing with pleasure, but at the same time felt rather giddy, from
that rapid succession of unexpected revelations, which, so he
thought, had suddenly placed him in possession of the truth.
Notwithstanding his haste to arrive at M. Daburon's, he did
not take a cab. He felt the necessity of walking. He was one
of those who require exercise to see things clearly. When he
moved about his ideas fitted and classified themselves in his
brain, like grains of wheat when shaken in a bushel. Without
hastening his pace, he reached the Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin,
crossed the Boulevard with its resplendent cafes, and turned to
the Rue Richelieu. He walked along, unconscious of external
objects, tripping and stumbling over the inequalities of the side-
walk, or slipping on the greasy pavement. If he followed the
proper road, it was a purely mechanical impulse that guided
him. His mind was wandering at random through the field
of probabilities, and following in the darkness the mysterious
thread, the almost imperceptible end of which he had seized at
La Jonchere. Like all persons laboring under strong emotion
without knowing it, he talked aloud, little thinking into what
indiscreet ears his exclamations and disjointed phrases might
fall. At every step we meet in Paris people babbling to them-
selves, and unconsciously confiding to the four winds of heaven
their dearest secrets, like cracked vases that allow their con-
tents to steal away. Often the passers-by mistake these eccen-
tric monologuists for lunatics. Sometimes the curious follow
them, and amuse themselves by receiving these strange confi-
dences. It was an indiscretion of this kind which told the ruin
of Riscara, the rich banker. Lambreth, the assassin of the Rue
de Venise, betrayed himself in a similar manner.
"What luck !" exclaimed old Tabaret. "What an incredible
piece of good fortune ! Gevrol may dispute it if he likes, but
after all chance is the cleverest agent of the police. Who would
have imagined such a history? I was not, however, very far
from the reality. I guessed there was a child in the case. But
who would have dreamed of a substitution ? — an old sensational
effect, that playwrights no longer dare make use of. This is a
striking example of the danger of following preconceived ideas
in police investigation. We are affrighted at unlikelihood ; and,
as in this case, the greatest unlikelihood often proves to be the
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 721
truth. We retire before the absurd, and it is the absurd that
we should examine. Everything is possible. I would not take
a thousand crowns for what I have learned this evening. I shall
kill two birds with one stone. I deliver up the criminal, and
I give Noel a hearty lift up to recover his title and his for-
tune. There, at least, is one who deserves what he will get.
For once I shall not be sorry to see a lad get on who has been
brought up in the school of adversity. But, pshaw ! he will be
like all the rest. Prosperity will turn his brain. Already he
begins to prate of his ancestors — Poor humanity ! he almost
made me laugh — But it is Mother Gerdy who surprises me
most. A woman to whom I would have given absolution with-
out waiting to hear her confess. When I think that I was on
the point of proposing to her, ready to marry her! B-r-r-r!"
At this thought the old fellow shivered. He saw himself mar-
ried, and all on a sudden, discovering the antecedents of Ma-
dame Tabaret, becoming mixed up with a scandalous prosecu-
tion, compromised, and rendered ridiculous. "When I think,"
he continued, "that my worthy Gevrol is running after the man
with the earrings ! Run, my boy, run ! Travel is a good thing
for youth. Won't he be vexed? He will wish me dead. But
I don't care. If any one wishes to do me an injury, M. Daburon
will protect me. Ah ! there is one to whom I am going to do
a good turn. I can see him now opening his eyes like saucers
when I say to him, 'I have the rascal !' He can boast of owing
me something. This investigation will bring him honor, or jus-
tice is not justice. He will, at least, be made an officer of the
Legion of Honor. So much the better ! I like Kim. If he is
asleep, I am going to give him an agreeable waking. Won't he
just overpower me with questions ! He will want to know every-
thing at once." Old Tabaret, who was now crossing the Pont
des Saints-Peres, stopped suddenly. "But the details !" said he.
"By Jove ! I have none. I only know the bare facts." He re-
sumed his walk, and continued : "They are right at the office,
I am too enthusiastic; I jump at conclusions, as Gevrol says.
When I was with Noel, I should have cross-examined him, got
hold of a quantity of useful details ; but I did not even think of
doing so. I drank in his words. I would have had him tell the
story in a sentence. All the same, it is but natural : when one
is pursuing a stag, one does not stop to shoot a blackbird. But
I see very well now, I did not draw him out enough. On the
other hand, by questioning him more. I might have awakened
722 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
suspicions in Noel's mind, and led him to discover that I am
working for the Rue de Jerusalem. To be sure, I do not blush
for my connection with the police, I am even vain of it; but
at the same time I prefer that no one should know of it. People
are so stupid that they detest the police, who protect them. I
must be calm and on my best behavior, for here I am at the
end of my journey."
M. Daburon had just gone to bed, but had given orders to
his servant; so that M. Tabaret had but to give his name to
be at once conducted to the magistrate's sleeping apartment.
At sight of his amateur detective, M. Daburon raised himself
in his bed, saying: "There is something extraordinary! What
have you discovered? have you got a clue?"
"Better than that," answered the old fellow, smiling with
pleasure.
"Speak quickly!"
"I know the culprit !"
Old Tabaret ought to have been satisfied ; he certainly pro-
duced an effect. The magistrate bounded in his bed. "Al-
ready !" said he. "Is it possible?"
"I have the honor to repeat to you, sir," resumed the old fel-
low, "that I know the author of the crime of La Jonchere."
"And I," said M. Daburon, "I proclaim you the greatest of
all detectives, past or future. I shall certainly never hereafter
undertake an investigation without your assistance."
"You are too kind. sir. I have had little or nothing to do
in the matter. The discovery is due to chance alone."
"You are modest. M. Tabaret. Chance assists only the clever,
and it is that which annoys the stupid. But I beg you will be
seated and proceed."
Then with the lucidness and precision of which few would
have believed him capable, the old fellow repeated to the mag-
istrate all that he had learned from Noel. He quoted from
memory the extracts from the letters, almost without changing
a word. "These letters," added he, "I have seen; and I have
even taken one, in order to verify the writing. Here it is."
"Yes," murmured the magistrate. "Yes, M. Tabaret. you
have discovered the criminal. The evidence is palpable, even
to the blind. Heaven has willed this. Crime engenders crime.
The great sin of the father has made the son an assassin."
"I have not given you the names, sir," resumed old Tabaret.
"I wished first to hear your opinion."
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 723
"Oh ! you can name them," interrupted M. Daburon with a
certain degree of animation ; "no matter how high he may have
to strike, a French magistrate has never hesitated."
"I know it, sir, but we are going very high this time; the
father who has sacrificed his legitimate son for the sake of his
bastard is Comte Rheteau de Commarin, and the assassin of
Widow Lerouge is the bastard, Vicomte Albert de Commarin!"
M. Tabaret, like an accomplished artist, had uttered these
words slowly, and with a deliberate emphasis, confidently ex-
pecting to produce a great impression. His expectation was
more than realized. M. Daburon was struck with stupor. He
remained motionless, his eyes dilated with astonishment. Me-
chanically he repeated like a word without meaning which he
was trying to impress upon his memory : "Albert de Commarin !
Albert de Commarin !"
"Yes," insisted old Tabaret, "the noble vicomte. It is in-
credible, I know." But he perceived the alteration in the mag-
istrate's face, and, a little frightened, he approached the bed.
"Are you unwell, sir?" he asked.
"No," answered M. Daburon, without exactly knowing what
he said. "I am very well ; but the surprise, the emotion — "
"I understand that," said the old fellow.
"Yes, it is not surprising, is it ? I should like to be alone a few
minutes. Do not leave the house though ; we must converse at
some length on this business. Kindly pass into my study, there
ought still to be a fire burning there. I will join you directly."
Then M. Daburon slowly got out of bed, put on a dressing-
gown, and seated himself, or rather fell, into an armchair. His
face, to which in the exercise of his austere functions he had
managed to give the immobility of marble, reflected the most
cruel agitation ; while his eyes betrayed the inward agony of his
soul. The name of Commarin, so unexpectedly pronounced,
awakened in him the most sorrowful recollections, and tore
open a wound but badly healed. This name recalled to him an
event which had rudely extinguished his youth and spoiled his
life. Involuntarily he carried his thoughts back to this epoch,
so as to taste again all its bitterness. An hour ago it had seemed
to him far removed and already hidden in the mists of the past;
one word had sufficed to recall it clearly and distinctly. It seemed
to him now that this event, in which the name of Albert de
Commarin was mixed up, dated from yesterday. In reality nearly
two years had elapsed since.
724 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
Pierre-Marie Daburon belonged to one of the oldest families
of Poitou. Three or four of his ancestors had filled succes-
sively the most important positions in the province. Why, then,
had they not bequeathed a title and a coat "of arms to their de-
scendants? The magistrate's father possesses, round about the
ugly modern chateau which he inhabits, more than eight hun-
dred thousand francs' worth of the most valuable land. By his
mother, a Cottevise-Luxe, he is related to the highest nobility
of Poitou, one of the most exclusive that exists in France, as
every one knows. When he received his nomination in Paris,
his relationship caused him to be received at once by five or six
aristocratic families, and it was not long before he extended his
circle of acquaintance. He possessed, however, none of the
qualifications which insure social success. He was cold and
grave even to sadness, reserved and timid even to excess. His
mind wanted brilliancy and lightness; he lacked the facility of
repartee and the amiable art of conversing without a subject;
he could neither tell a lie nor pay an insipid compliment. Like
most men who feel deeply, he was unable to interpret his im-
pressions immediately. He required to reflect and consider
within himself. However, he was sought after for more solid
qualities than these: for the nobleness of his sentiments, his
pleasant disposition, and the certainty of his connections. Those
who knew him intimately quickly learned to esteem his sound
judgment, his keen sense of honor, and to discover under his
cold exterior a warm heart, an excessive sensibility, and a deli-
cacy almost feminine. In a word, although he might be eclipsed
in a room full of strangers or simpletons, he charmed all hearts
in a smaller circle where he felt warmed by an atmosphere of
sympathy. He accustomed himself to go about a great deal.
He reasoned, wisely perhaps, that a magistrate can make bet-
ter use of his time than by remaining shut up in his study in
company with books of law. He thought that a man called upon
to judge others ought to know them, and for that purpose study
them. An attentive and discreet observer, he examined the play
of human interests and passions, exercised himself in disentan-
gling and maneuvnng at need the strings of the puppets he saw
moving around him. Piece by piece, so to say, he labored to
comprehend the working of the complicated machine called so-
ciety, of which he was charged to overlook the movements,
regulate the springs, and keep the wheels in order.
And on a sudden, in the early part of the winter of 1 860 and
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 72:.
1861, M. Daburon disappeared. His friends sought for him,
but he was nowhere to be met with. What could he be doing?
Inquiry resulted in the discovery that he passed nearly all his
evenings at the house of the Marquise d'Arlange. The sur-
prise was as great as it was natural. This dear marquise
was, or rather is — for she is still in the land of the living — a
personage whom one would consider rather out of date. She
is surely the most singular legacy bequeathed us by the eigh-
teenth century. How and by what marvelous process she had
been preserved such as we see her, it is impossible to say.
Listening to \\er, you would swear that she was yesterday at
one of those parties given by the queen where cards and high
stakes were the rule, much to the annoyance of Louis XVI,
and where the great ladies cheated openly in emulation of each
other. Manners, language, habits, almost costume, she has pre-
served everything belonging to that period about which authors
have written only to display the defects. Her appearance alone
will tell more than an exhaustive article, and an hour's con-
versation with her, more than a volume. She was born in a
little principality, where her parents had taken refuge while
awaiting the chastisements and repentance of an erring and
rebellious people. She had been brought up among the old
nobles of the emigration, in some very ancient and very gilded
apartment, just as though she had been in a cabinet of curi-
osities. Her mind had awakened amid the hum of antediluvian
conversations, her imagination had first been aroused by argu-
ments a little less profitable than those of an assembly of deaf
persons convoked to decide upon the merits of the work of
some distinguished musician. Here she imbibed a fund of ideas,
which, applied to the forms of society of to-day, are as gro-
tesque as would be those of a child shut up until twenty years
of age in an Assyrian museum. The First Empire, the Restora-
tion, the monarchy of July, the Second Republic, the Second
Empire, have passed beneath her windows, but she has not taken
the trouble to open them. All that has happened since '89 she
considers as never having been. For her it is a nightmare from
which she is still awaiting a release. She has looked at every-
thing, but then she looks through her own pretty glasses which
show her everything as she would wish it. and which are to be
obtained of dealers in illusions.
Though over sixty-eight years old, she is as straight as a
poplar, and has never been ill. She is vivacious and active tc
726 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
excess, and can only keep still when asleep or when playing
her favorite game of piquet. She has her four meals a day,
eats like a vintager, and takes her wine neat. She professes
an undisguised contempt for the silly women of our century
who live for a week on a partridge, and inundate with water
grand sentiments which they entangle in long phrases. She
has always been, and still is, very positive, and her word is
prompt and easily understood. She never shrinks from using
the most appropriate word to express her meaning. So much
the worse if some delicate ears object! She heartily detests
hypocrisy. She believes in God, but she believes also in M. de
Voltaire, so that her devotion is, to say the least, problematical.
However, she is on good terms with the curate of her parish,
and is very particular about the arrangement of her dinner on
the days she honors him with an invitation to her table. She
seems to consider him a subaltern, very useful to her salvation,
and capable of opening the gate of paradise for her. Such as
she is, she is shunned like the plague. Everybody dreads her
loud voice, her terrible indiscretion, and the frankness of speech
which she affects, in order to have the right of saying the most
unpleasant things which pass through her head. Of all her
family, there only remains her granddaughter, whose father
died very young. Of a fortune originally large, and partly re-
stored by the indemnity allowed by the government, but since
administered in the most careless manner, she has only been
able to preserve an income of twenty thousand francs, which
diminishes day by day. She is also proprietor of the pretty
little house which she inhabits, situated near the Invalides,
between a rather narrow courtyard and a very extensive gar-
den. So circumstanced, she considers herself the most unfor-
tunate of God's creatures, and passes the greater part of her
life complaining of her poverty. From time to time, especially
after some exceptionally bad speculation, she confesses that what
she fears most is to die in a pauper's bed.
A friend of M. Daburon's presented him one evening to the
Marquise d'Arlange, having dragged him to her house in a
mirthful mood, saying: "Come with me, and I will show you
a phenomenon, a ghost of the past in flesh and bone." The
marquise rather puzzled the magistrate the first time he was
admitted to her presence. On his second visit she amused him
very much ; for which reason he came again. But after a while
she no longer amused him, though he still continued a faithful
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 727
and constant visitor to the rose-colored boudoir wherein she
passed the greater part of her life. Madame d'Arlange con-
ceived a violent friendship for him, and became eloquent in his
praises. "A most charming young man," she declared ; "deli-
cate and sensible ! What a pity he is not 'born' ! One can
receive him, though, all the same ; his forefathers were very
decent people, and his mother was a Cottevise, who, however,
went wrong. I wish him well, and will do all I can to push
him forward." The strongest proof of friendship he received
from her was that she condescended to pronounce his name like
the rest of the world. She had preserved that ridiculous affec-
tation of forgetfulness of the names of people who were not of
noble birth, and who in her opinion had no right to names. She
was so confirmed in this habit that, if by accident she pro-
nounced such a name correctly, she immediately repeated it with
some ludicrous alteration. During his first visit, M. Daburon
was extremely amused at hearing his name altered every time
she addressed him. Successively she made it Taburon, Dabiron,
Maliron, Laliron, Laridon; but in three months' time she called
him Daburon as distinctly as if he had been a duke of some-
thing and a lord of somewhere.
Occasionally she exerted herself to prove to the worthy mag-
istrate that he was a nobleman, or at least ought to be. She
would have been happy if she could have persuaded him to adopt
some title, and have a helmet engraved upon his visiting cards.
"How is it possible," said she, "that your ancestors, eminent,
wealthy, and influential, never thought of being raised from the
common herd and securing a title for their descendants? To-
day you would possess a presentable pedigree."
"My ancestors were wise," responded M. Daburon. "They
preferred being foremost among their fellow citizens to becom-
ing last among the nobles." Upon which the marquise explained,
and proved to demonstration, that between the most influential
and wealthy citizen and the smallest scion of nobility there was
an abyss that all the money in the world could not fill up.
They who were so surprised at the frequency of the magis-
trate's visits to this ce'ebrated "relic of the past" did not know
that lady's granddaughter, or, at least, did not recollect her;
she went out so seldom ! The old marquise did not care, so she
said, to be bothered with a young spy who would be in her way
when she related some of her choice anecdotes. Claire d'Arlange
was just seventeen years old. She was extremely graceful and
728 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
gentle in manner, and lovely in her natural innocence. She
had a profusion of fine light-brown hair, which fell in ringlets
over her well-shaped neck and shoulders. Her figure was still
rather slender, but her features recalled Guido's most celestial
faces. Her blue eyes, shaded by long lashes of a hue darker
than her hair, had above all an adorable expression. A certain
air of antiquity, the result of her association with her grand-
mother, added yet another charm to the young girl's manner.
She had more sense, however, than her relative; and, as her
education had not been neglected, she had imbibed pretty cor-
rect ideas of the world in which she lived. This education,
these practical ideas, Claire owed to her governess, upon whose
shoulders the marquise had thrown the entire responsibility of
cultivating her mind. This governess, Mademoiselle Schmidt,
chosen at hazard, happened by the most fortunate chance to
be both well informed and possessed of principle. She was,
what is often met with on the other side of the Rhine, a woman
at once romantic and practical, of the tenderest sensibility and
the severest virtue. This good woman, while she carried her
pupil into the land of sentimental fantasy and poetical imag-
inings, gave her at the same time the most practical instruction
in matters relating to actual life. She revealed to Claire all
the peculiarities of thought and manner that rendered her grand-
mother so ridiculous, and taught her to avoid them, but without
ceasing to respect them.
Every evening, on arriving at Madame d'Arlange's, M. Da-
buron was sure to find Claire seated beside her grandmother,
and it was for that that he called. While listening with an
inattentive ear to the old lady's rigmaroles and her interminable
anecdotes of the emigration, he gazed upon Claire, as a fanatic
upon his idol. Often in his ecstasy he forgot where he was for
the moment and became absolutely oblivious of the old lady's
presence, although her shrill voice was piercing the tympanum
of his ear like a needle. Then he would answer her at cross-
purposes, committing the most singular blunders, which he la-
bored afterward to explain. But he need not have taken the
trouble. Madame d'Arlange did not perceive her courtier's ab-
sence of mind ; her questions were of such a length that she did
not care about the answers. Having a listener, she was satis-
fied, provided that from time to time he gave signs of life.
When obliged to sit down to play piquet, he cursed below his
breath the game and its detestable inventor. He paid no atten-
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 729
tion to his cards. He made mistakes every moment, discarding
what he should keep in and forgetting to cut. The old lady was
annoyed by these continual distractions, but she did not scruple
to profit by them. She looked at the discard, changed the cards
which did not suit her, while she audaciously scored points she
never made, and pocketed the money thus won without shame
or remorse. M. Daburon's timidity was extreme, and Claire
was unsociable to excess ; they therefore seldom spoke to each
other. During the entire winter the magistrate did not directly
address the young girl ten times ; and on these rare occasions
he had learned mechanically by heart the phrase he proposed to
repeat to her, well knowing that, without this precaution, he
would most likely be unable to finish what he had to say. But
at least he saw her, he breathed the same air with her. he heard
her voice, whose pure and harmonious vibrations thrilled his
very soul. By constantly watching her eyes he learned to un-
derstand all their expressions. Pie believed he could read in
them all her thought, and through them look into her soul as
through an open window. "She is pleased to-day," he would
say to himself; and then he would be happy. At other times,
he thought, "She has met with some annoyance to-day": and
immediately he became sad. The idea of asking for her hand
many times presented itself to his imagination : but he never
dared to entertain it. Knowing, as he did. the marquise's
prejudices, her devotion to titles, her dread of any approach
to a mesalliance, he was convinced she would shut his mouth
at the first word by a very decided "no," which she would
maintain. To attempt the thing would be to risk, without a
chance of success, his present happiness, which he thought im-
mense, for love lives upon its own misery. "Once repulsed."
thought he, "the house is shut against me ; and then farewell to
happiness, for life will end for me." Upon the other hand, the
very rational thought occurred to him that another might see
Mademoiselle d'Arlange, love her, and, in consequence, ask for
and obtain her. In either case, hazarding a proposal, or hesi-
tating still, he must certainly lose her in the end. By the com-
mencement of spring, his mind was made up.
One fine afternoon, in the month of April, he bent his steps
toward the residence of Madame dArlange. having truly need
of more bravery than a soldier about to face a battery. He.
like the soldier, whispered to himself, "Victory or death !"' The
marquise, who had gone out shortly after breakfast, had just
730 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
returned in a terrible rage, and was uttering screams like an
eagle.
This was what had taken place. She had had some work
done by a neighboring painter some eight or ten months before,
and the workman had presented himself a hundred times to
receive payment, without avail. Tired of this proceeding, he
had summoned the high and mighty Marquise d'Arlange before
the Justice of the Peace. This summons had exasperated the
marquise; but she kept the matter to herself, having decided,
in her wisdom, to call upon the judge and request him to repri-
mand the insolent painter who had dared to plague her for a
paltry sum of money. The result of this fine project may be
guessed. The judge had been compelled to eject her forcibly
from his office; hence her fury.
M. Daburon found her in the rose-colored boudoir half un-
dressed, her hair in disorder, red as a peony, and surrounded by
the debris of the glass and china which had fallen under her
hands in the first moments of her passion. Unfortunately, too,
Claire and her governess were gone out. A maid was occupied
in inundating the old lady with all sorts of waters, in the hope
of calming her nerves. She received Daburon as a messenger
direct from Providence. In a little more than half an hour she
told her story, interlarded with numerous interjections and
imprecations. "Do you comprehend this judge?" cried she.
"He must be some frantic Jacobin — some son of the furies,
who washed their hands in the blood of their king. Ah ! my
friend, I read stupor and indignation in your glance. He lis-
tened to the complaint of that impudent scoundrel whom I en-
abled to live by employing him! And when I addressed some
severe remonstrances to this judge, as it was my duty to do,
he had me turned out! Do you hear? turned out!" At this
painful recollection she made a menacing gesture with her
arm. In her sudden movement she struck a handsome scent
bottle that her maid held in her hand. The force of the blow
sent it to the other end of the room, where it broke into pieces.
"Stupid, awkward fool !" cried the marquise, venting her anger
upon the frightened girl. M. Daburon, bewildered at first, now
endeavored to calm her exasperation. She did not allow him
to pronounce three words. "Happily you are here," she con-
tinued; "you are always willing to serve me, I know. I count
upon you ! you will exercise your influence, your powerful
friends, your credit, to have this pitiful painter and this mis-
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 731
creant of a judge flung into some deep ditch, to teach them the
respect due to a woman of my rank."
The magistrate did not permit himself even to smile at this
imperative demand. He had heard many speeches as absurd
issue from her lips without ever making fun of them. Was
she not Claire's grandmother? For tha^ alone he loved and
venerated her. He blessed her for her granddaughter, as an
admirer of nature blesses heaven for the wild-flower that de-
lights him with its perfume. The fury of the old lady was
terrible; nor was it of short duration. At the end of an hour,
however, she was, or appeared to be, pacified. They replaced
her head-dress, repaired the disorder of her toilet, and picked
up the fragments of broken glass and china. Vanquished by
her own violence, the reaction was immediate and complete.
She fell back helpless and exhausted into an armchair. This
magnificent result was due to the magistrate. To accomplish
it, he had had to use all his ability, to exercise the most angelic
patience, the greatest tact. His triumph was the more meritori-
ous because he came completely unprepared for this adventure,
which interfered with his intended proposal. The first time
that he had felt sufficient courage to speak, fortune seemed to
declare against him, for this untoward event had quite upset his
plans. Arming 'limself, however, with his professional elo-
quence, he talked the ^ Id lady into calmness. He was not so
foolish as to contradict her. On the contrary, he caressed her
hobby. He was humorous and pathetic by turns. He attacked
the authors of the Revolution, cursed its errors, deplored its
crimes, and almost wept over its disastrous results. Com-
mencing with the infamous Marat, he eventually reached the
rascal of a judge who had offended her. He abused his scan-
dalous conduct in good set terms, and was exceedingly severe
upon the dishonest scamp of a painter. However, he thought
it best to let them off the punishment they so richly deserved ;
and ended by suggesting that it would perhaps be prudent, wise,
noble even to pay.
The unfortunate word "pay" brought Madame d'Arlange to
her feet in the fiercest attitude. "Pay!" she screamed. "In
order that these scoundrels may persist in their obduracy! En-
courage them by a culpable weakness ! Never ! Besides, to
pay one must have money, and I have none !"
"Why !" said M. Daburon, "it amounts to but eighty-seven
francs !"
732 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"And is that nothing?" asked the marquise; "you talk very
foolishly, my dear sir. It is easy to see th~t you have money;
your ancestors were people of no rank, and the Revolution passed
a hundred feet above their heads. Who can tell whether they
may not have been the gainers by it? It took all from the
D'Arlanges. What will they do to me if I do not ?ay?"
"Well, madame, they can do many things; almost ruin you
in costs. They may seize your furniture."
"Alas !" cried the old lady, "the Revolution is not ended yet.
We shall all be swallowed up by it, my poor Daburon ! Ah !
you are happy, you who belong to the people ! I see plainly that
I must pay this man without delay, and it is frightfully sad for
me, for I have nothing, and am forced to make such sacrifices
for the sake of my grandchild !"
This statement surprised the magistrate so strongly that in-
voluntarily he repeated half-aloud : "Sacrifices ?"
"Certainly!" resumed Madame d'Arlange. Without her,
would I have to live as I am doing, refusing myself every-
thing to make both ends meet? Not a bit of it! I would
invest my fortune in a life annuity. But I know, thank heaven,
the duties of a mother; and I economize all I can for my little
Claire." This devotion appeared so admirable to M. Daburon
that he could not utter a word. "Ah! I am terribly anxious
about this dear child," continued the marquise. "I confess, M.
Daburon, it makes me giddy when I wonder how I am to
marry her."
The magistrate reddened with pleasure. At last his oppor-
tunity had arrived; he must take advantage of it at once. "It
seems to me," stammered he, "that to find Mademoiselle Claire
a husband ought not to be difficult."
"Unfortunately, it is. She is pretty enough, I admit, although
rather thin, but, nowadays, beauty goes for nothing. Men are
so mercenary they think only of money. I do not know of one
who has the manhood to take a D'Arlange with her bright
eyes for a dowry."
"I believe that you exaggerate," remarked M. Daburon,
timidly.
"By no means. Trust to my experience, which is far greater
than yours. Besides, when I find a son-in-law, he will cause
me a thousand troubles. Of this I am assured by my lawyer.
I shall be compelled, it seems, to render an account of Claire's
patrimony. As if ever I kept accounts ! It is shameful ! Ah !
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 733
if Claire had any sense of filial duty, she would quietly take the
veil in some convent. I would use every effort to pay the nec-
essary dower ; but she has no affection for me."
M. Daburon felt that now was the time to speak. He collected
his courage, as a good horseman pulls his horse together when
going to leap a hedge, and in a voice which he tried to render
firm, he said : "Well ! madame, I believe I know a man who
would suit Mademoiselle Claire — an honest man, who loves her,
and who will do everything in the world to make her happy."
"That," said Madame d'Arlange, "is always understood."
"The man of whom I speak," continued the magistrate, "is
still young, and is rich. He will be only too happy to receive
Mademoiselle Claire without a dowry. Not only will he de-
cline an examination of your accounts of guardianship, but he
will beg you to invest your fortune as you think fit."
"Really ! Daburon, my friend, you are by no means a fool !"
exclaimed the old lady.
"If you prefer not to invest your fortune in a life annuity,
your son-in-law will allow you sufficient to make up what you
now find wanting."
"Ah ! really I am stifling," interrupted the marquise. "What !
you know such a man, and have never yet mentioned him to
me ! You ought to have introduced him long ago."
"I did not dare, madame, I was afraid — "
"Quick ! tell me who is this admirable son-in-law, this white
blackbird? Where does he nestle?"
The magistrate felt a strange fluttering of the heart ; he was
going to stake his happiness on a word. At length he stam-
mered : "It is I, madame !"
His voice, his look, his gesture was beseeching. He was sur-
prised at his own audacity, frightened at having vanquished his
timidity, and was on the point of falling at the old lady's feet.
She, however, laughed until the tears came into her eyes, then
shrugging her shoulders, she said : "Really, dear Daburon is too
ridiculous, he will make me die of laughing! He is so amus-
ing !" After which she burst out laughing again. But sud-
denly she stopped, in the very height of her merriment, and
assumed her most dignified air. "Are you perfectly serious in
all you have told me, M. Daburon?" she asked.
"I have stated the truth." murmured the magistrate.
"You are then very rich?"
"I inherited, madame, from my mother, about twenty thou-
734 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
sands francs a year. One of my uncles, who died last year,
bequeathed me over a hundred thousand crowns. My father is
worth about a million. Were I to ask him for the half to-
morrow, he would give it to me; he would give me all his
fortune, if it were necessary to my happiness, and be but too
well contented should I leave him the administration of it."
Madame d'Arlange signed to him to be silent; and for five
good minutes at least she remained plunged in reflection, her
forehead resting in her hands. At length she raised her head.
"Listen," said she. "Had you been so bold as to make this
proposal to Claire's father, he would have called his servants
to show you the door. For the sake of our name I ought to
do the same ; but I can not do so. I am old and desolate ; I am
poor ; my grandchild's prospects disquiet me ; that is my excuse.
I can not, however, consent to speak to Claire of this horrible
mesalliance. What I can promise you, and that is too much, is
that I will not be against you. Take your own measures; pay
your addresses to Mademoiselle d'Arlange, and try to per-
suade her. If she says 'y es ' °* her own free will, I shall not
say no.
M. Daburon, transported with happiness, could almost have
embraced the old lady. He thought her the best, the most ex-
cellent of women, not noticing the facility with which this
proud spirit had been brought to yield. He was delirious,
almost mad.
"Wait!" said the old lady; "your cause is not yet gained.
Your mother, it is true, was a Cottevise, and I must excuse
her for marrying so wretchedly; but your father is simple M.
Daburon. This name, my dear friend, is simply ridiculous. Do
you think it will be easy to make a Daburon of a young girl
who for nearly eighteen years has been called D'Arlange?"
This objection did not seem to trouble the magistrate.
"After all," continued the old lady, "your father gained a
Cottevise, so you may win a D'Arlange. On the strength of
marrying into noble families, the Daburons may perhaps end
by ennobling themselves. One last piece of advice ; you believe
Claire to be just as she looks — timid, sweet, obedient. Unde-
ceive yourself, my friend. Despite her innocent air, she is
hardy, fierce, and obstinate as the marquis, her father, who
was worse than an Auvergne mule. Now you are warned. Our
conditions are agreed to, are they not? Let us say no more on
the subject. I almost wish you to succeed."
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 735
This scene was so present to the magistrate's mind that, as
he sat at home in his armchair, though many months had
passed since these events, he still seemed to hear the old lady's
voice, and the word "success" still sounded in his ears. He
departed in triumph from the D'Arlange abode, which he had
entered with' a heart swelling with anxiety. He walked with
his head erect, his chest dilated, and breathing the fresh air
with the full strength of his lungs. He was so happy ! The
sky appeared to him more blue, the sun more brilliant. This
grave magistrate felt a mad desire to stop the passers-by, to
press them in his arms, to cry to them: "Have you heard?
The marquise consents !" He walked, and the earth seemed to
him to give way beneath his footsteps ; it was either too small
to carry so much happiness, or else he had become so light
that he was going to fly away toward the stars. What castles
in the air he built upon what Madame d'Arlange had said to
him ! He would tender his resignation. He would build on the
banks of the Loire, not far from Tours, an enchanting little
villa. He already saw it, with its facade to the rising sun,
nestling in the midst of flowers, and shaded with widespreading
trees. He furnished this dwelling in the most luxuriant style.
He wished to provide a marvelous casket, worthy the pearl he
was about to possess. For he had not a doubt; not a cloud
obscured the horizon made radiant by his hopes, no voice at the
bottom of his heart raised itself to cry : "Beware !"
From that day, his visits to the marquise became more fre-
quent. He might almost be said to live at her house. While
he preserved his respectful and reserved demeanor toward
Claire, he strove assiduously to be something in her life. True
love is ingenuous. He learned to overcome his timidity, to speak
to the well-beloved of his soul, to encourage her to converse
with him, to interest her. He went in quest of all the news,
to amuse her. He read all the new books, and brought to her
all that were fit for her to read. Little by little he succeeded,
thanks to the most delicate persistence, in taming this shy young
girl. He began to perceive that her fear of him had almost
disappeared, that she no longer received him with the cold and
haughty air which had previously kept him at a distance. He
felt that he was insensibly gaining her confidence. She still
blushed when she spoke to him ; but she no longer hesitated to
address the first word. She even ventured at times to ask him
a question. If she had heard a play well spoken of and wished
736 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
to know the subject, M. Daburon would at once go to see k,
and commit a complete account of it to writi.ig, which he would
send her through the post. At times she intrusted him with
trifling commissions, the execution of which he would not have
exchanged for the Russian embassy. Once he ventured to send
her a magnificent bouquet. She accepted it wfth an air of
uneasy surprise, but begged him not to repeat the offering.
The tears came to his eyes ; he left her presence broken-hearted,
and the unhappiest of men. "She does not love me," thought
he; "she will never love me." But, three days later, as he
looked very sad, she begged him to procure her certain flowers,
then very much in fashion, which she wished to place on her
flower-stand. He sent enough to fill the house from the garret
to the cellar. "She will love me," he whispered to himself in
his joy. These events, so trifling but yet so great, had not in-
terrupted the games of piquet ; only the young girl now appeared
to interest herself in the play, nearly always taking the magis-
trate's side against the marquise. She did not understand the
game very well; but, when the old gambler cheated too openly,
she would notice it, and say, laughingly: "She is robbing you,
M. Daburon — she is robbing you !" He would willingly have
been robbed of his entire fortune to hear that sweet voice
raised on his behalf.
It was summer-time. Often in the evening she accepted his
arm, and, while the marquise remained at the window, seated
in her armchair, they walked around the lawn, treading lightly
upon the paths spread with gravel sifted so fine that the trailing
of her light dress effaced the traces of their footsteps. She
chatted gaily with him, as with a beloved brother, while he was
obliged to do violence to his feelings, to refrain from imprint-
ing a kiss upon the little blond head, from which the light
breeze lifted the curls and scattered them like fleecy clouds. At
such moments, he seemed to tread an enchanted path strewn
with flowers, at the end of which appeared happiness. When
he attempted to speak of his hopes to the marquise, she would
say: '"You know what we agreed upon. Not a word. Already
does the voice of conscience reproach me for lending my coun-
tenance to such an abomination. To think that I may one day
have a granddaughter calling herself Madame Daburon ! You
must petition the king, my friend, to change your name." If
instead of intoxicating himself with dreams of happiness, this
acute observer had studied the character of his idol, the effect
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 737
might have been to put him upon his guard. In the mean while,
he noticed singular alterations in her humor. On certain days,
she was gay and careless as a child. Then, for a week, she
would remain melancholy and dejected. Seeing her in this state
the day following a ball, to which her grandmother had made a
point of taking her, he dared to ask h»_r the reason of her
sadness.
"Oh ! that," answered she, heaving a deep sigh, "is my secret
— a secret of which even my grandmother knows nothing."
M. Daburon looked at her. He thought he saw a tear be-
tween her long eyelashes.
"One day," continued she, "I may confide in you: it will per-
haps be necessary."
The magistrate was blind and deaf. "I also," answered he,
"have a secret, which I wish to confide to you in return."
When he retired toward midnight, he said to himself: "To-
morrow I will confess everything to her." Then passed a
little more than fifty days, during which he kept repeating to
himself: "To-morrow!"
It happened at last one evening in the month of August; the
heat all day had been overpowering; toward dusk a breeze had
risen, the leaves rustled ; there were signs of a storm in the
atmosphere. They were seated together at the bottom of the
garden, under the arbor, adorned with exotic plants, and,
through the branches, they perceived the fluttering gown of
the marquise, who was taking a turn after her dinner. They
had remained a long time without speaking, enjoying the per-
fume of the flowers, the calm beauty of the evening. M. Dabu-
ron ventured to take the young girl's hand. It was the first
time, and the touch of her fine skin thrilled through every fibre
of his frame, and drove the blood surging to his brain. "Made-
moiselle," stammered he, "Claire — "
She turned toward him her beautiful eyes, filled with aston-
ishment.
"Forgive me," continued he — "forgive me. I have spoken to
your grandmother, before daring to raise my eyes to you. Do
you not understand me? A word from your lips will decide my
future happiness or misery. Claire, mademoiselle, do not spurn
me : I love you !"
While the magistrate was speaking, Mademoiselle d'Arlange
looked at him as though doubtful of the evidence of her senses ;
but at the words, "I love you !" pronounced with the trembling
5 — Vol. Ill — Gab.
738 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
accents of the most devoted passion, she d-'sengaged her hand
sharply, and uttered a stifled cry. "You," murmured she, "is
this really you?"
M. Daburon, at this the most critical moment of his life, was
powerless to utter a word. The presentiment of an immense
misfortune oppressed his heart. What were then his feelings
when he saw Claire burst into tears? She hid her face in her
hands, and kept repeating: "I am very unhappy, very unhappy !"
"You unhappy?" exclaimed the magistrate at length. "And
through me. Claire, you are cruel ! In heaven's name, what
have I done? What is the matter? Speak! Anything rather
than this anxiety which is killing me."
He knelt before her on the graveled walk, and again made an
attempt to take her hand. She repulsed him with an imploring
gesture. "Let me weep," said she; "I suffer so much, you are
going to hate me, I feel it. Who knows ! you will, perhaps,
despise me, and yet I swear before heaven that I never expected
what you have just said to me, that I had not even a suspicion
of it !"
M. Daburon remained upon his knees, awaiting his doom.
"Yes," continued Claire, "you will think you have been the
victim of a detestable coquetry. I see it now ! I comprehend
everything! It is not possible that, without a profound love,
a man can be all that you have been to me. Alas ! I was but a
child. I gave myself up to the great happiness of having a
friend ! Am I not alone in the world, and as if lost in a desert?
Silly and imprudent, I thoughtlessly confided in you, as in the
best, the most indulgent of fathers."
These words revealed to the unfortunate magistrate the ex-
tent of his error. The same as a heavy hammer, they smashed
into a thousand fragments the fragile edifice of his hopes. He
raised himself slowly, and, in a tone of involuntary reproach,
he repeated : "Your father !"
Mademoiselle d'Arlange felt how deeply she had wounded
this man whose intense love she dare not even fathom. "Yes,"
she resumed, "I love you as a father ! Seeing you, usually so
grave and austere, become for me so good, so indulgent, I
thanked heaven for sending me a protector to replace those
who are dead."
M. Daburon could not restrain a sob; his heart was breaking.
"One word," continued Claire —"one single word would have
enlightened me. Why did you not pronounce it? It was with
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 739
such happiness that I leaned on you as a child on its mother;
and with what inward joy I said to myself: 'I am sure of one
friend, of one heart into which runs the overflow of mine !'
Ah ! why was not my confidence greater ? Why did I withhold
my secret from you? I might have avoided this fearful calam-
ity. I ought to have told you long since. I no longer belong
to myself freely and with happiness, I have given my life to
another."
To hover in the clouds, and suddenly to fall rudely to the
earth, such was M. Daburon's fate ; his sufferings are not to be
described. "Far better to have spoken." answered he ; "yet, no.
I owe to your silence, Claire, six months of delicious illusions,
six months of enchanting dreams. This shall be my share of
life's happiness."
The last beams of closing day still enabled the magistrate
to see Mademoiselle dArlange. Her beautiful face had the
whiteness and the immobility of marble. Heavy tears rolled
silently down her cheeks. It seemed to M. Daburon that he
was beholding the frightful spectacle of a weeping statue. "You
love another," said he at length, "another ! And your grand-
mother does not know it. Claire, you can only have chosen a
man worthy of your love. How is it the marquise does not
receive him?"
"There are certain obstacles," murmured Claire, "obstacles
which perhaps we may never be able to remove; but a girl like
me can love but once. She marries him she loves, or she
belongs to heaven!"
"Certain obstacles !" said M. Daburon in a hollow voice.
"You love a man, he knows it, and he is stopped by obstacles?"
"I am poor," answered Mademoiselle d'Arlange. "and his
family is immensely rich. His father is cruel, inexorable."
"His father," cried the magistrate, with a bitterness he did
not dream of hiding, "his father, his family, and that withholds
him ! You are poor, he is rich, and that stops him ! And yet
he knows you love him ! Ah ! why am I not in his place ? and
why have I not the entire universe against me ? What sacrifice
can compare with love? such as I understand it. Nay, would
it be a sacrifice? That which appears most so, is it not really
an immense joy? To suffer, to struggle, to wait, to hope al-
ways, to devote one's self entirely to another; that is my idea
of love."
"It is thus I love," said Claire with simplicity.
740 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
This answer crushed the magistrate. He could understand
it. He knew that for him there was no hope; but he felt
a terrible enjoyment in torturing himself, and proving his
misfortune by intense suffering. "But," insisted he, "how have
you know him, spoken to him? Where? When? Madame
d'Arlange receives no one."
"I ought now to tell you everything, sir," answered Claire
proudly. "I have known him for a long time. It was at the
house of one of my grandmother's friends, who is a cousin
of his — old Mademoiselle Goello, that I saw him for the first
time. There we spoke to each other; there we meet each
other now."
"Ah !" exclaimed M. Daburon, whose eyes were suddenly
opened, "I remember now. A few days before your visit to
Mademoiselle Goello, you are gayer than usual; and, when you
return, you are often sad."
"That is because I see how much he is pained by the obsta-
cles he can not overcome."
"Is his family, then, so illustrious," asked the magistrate
harshly, "that it disdains alliance with yours?"
"I should have told you everything, without waiting to be
questioned, sir," answered Mademoiselle d'Arlange, "even his
name. He is called Albert de Commarin."
The marquise at this moment, thinking she had walked
enough, was preparing to return to her rose-colored boudoir.
She therefore approached the arbor, and exclaimed in her
loud voice : "Worthy magistrate, piquet awaits you."
Mechanically the magistrate arose, stammering, "I am
coming."
Claire held him back. "I have not asked you to keep my
secret, sir/' she said.
"Oh, mademoiselle !" said M. Daburon, wounded by this ap-
pearance of doubt.
"I know," resumed Claire, "that I can count upon you ; but,
come what will, my tranquillity is gone." M. Daburon looked
at her with an air of surprise; his eyes questioned her. "It is
certain," continued she, "that when I, a young and inex-
perienced girl, have failed to see, has not passed unnoticed
by my grandmother. That she has continued to receive you
is a tacit encouragement of your addresses; which I consider,
permit me to say, are very honorable to myself."
"I have already mentioned, mademoiselle," replied the magis-
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 741
trate, "that the marquise has deigned to authorize my hopes/'
And briefly he related his interview with Madame d'Arlange,
having the delicacy, however, to omit absolutely the question
of money, which had so strongly influenced the old lady.
"I see very plainly what effect this will have on my peace,"
said Claire sadly. "When my grandmother learns that I have
not received your homage, she will be very angry."
"You misjudge me, mademoiselle," interrupted M. Daburon.
"I have nothing to say to the marquise. I will retire, and all
will be said. No doubt she will think that I have altered my
mind !"
"Oh ! you are good and generous, I know !"
"I will go away," pursued M. Daburon ; "and soon you will
have forgotten even the name of the unfortunate whose life's
hopes have just been shattered."
"You do not mean what you say," said the young girl
quickly.
"Well, no. I cherish this last illusion, that later on you
will remember me with pleasure. Sometimes you wi'l say,
'He loved me,' I wish all the same to remain your friend, yes,
your most devoted friend."
Claire, in her turn, clasped M. Daburon's hands, and said
with great emotion: "Yes, you are right, you must remain my
friend. Let us forget what has happened, what you have said
to-night, and remain to me, as in the past, the best, the most
indulgent of brothers."
Darkness had come, and she could not see him ; but she knew
he was weeping, for he was slow to answer. "Is it possible,"
murmured he at length, "what you ask of me? What! is it
you who talk to me of forgetting? Do you feel the power to
forget? Do you not see that I love you a thousand times more
than you love — " He stopped, unable to pronounce the name
of Commarin; and then, with an effort he added: "And I
shall love you always."
They had left the arbor, and were now standing not far from
the steps leading to the house. "And now, mademoiselle."
resumed M. Daburon, "permit me to say adieu ! You will
see me again but seldom. I shall only return often enough
to avoid the appearance of a rupture." His voice trembled,
so that it was with difficulty he made it distinct.
"Whatever may happen," he added, "remember that there
is one unfortunate being in the world who belongs to you
742 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
absolutely. If ever you have need of a friend's devotion,
come to me, come to your friend. Now it is over ... I
have courage. Claire, mademoiselle, for the last time, adieu!"
She was but little less moved than he was. Instinctively
she approached him, and for the first and last time he touched
lightly with his cold lips the forehead of her he loved so well.
They mounted the steps, she leaning on his arm, and entered
the rose-colored boudoir where the marquise was seated, im-
patiently shuffling the cards, while awaiting her victim. "Now,
then, incorruptible magistrate," cried she.
But M. Daburon felt sick at heart. He could not have held
the cards. He stammered some absurd excuses, spoke of
pressing affairs, of duties to be attended to, of feeling suddenly
unwell, and went out, clinging to the walls. His departure
made the old card-player highly indignant. She turned to
her granddaughter, who had gone to hide her confusion away
from the candles of the card table, and asked, "What is the
matter with Daburon this evening?"
"I do not know, madame," stammered Claire.
"It appears to me," continued the marquise, "that the little
magistrate permits himself to take singular liberties. He
must be reminded of his proper place, or he will end by be-
lieving himself our equal."
Claire tried to explain the magistrate's conduct: "He has
been complaining all the evening, grandmama; perhaps he
is unwell."
"And what if he is?" exclaimed the old lady. "Is it not
his duty to exercise some self-denial, in return for the honor
of our company? I think I have already related to you the
story of your granduncle, the Due de St. Huruge, who, having
been chosen to join the king's card party on their return from
the chase, played all through the evening and lost with the best
grace in the world two hundred and twenty pistoles. All the
assembly remarked his gaiety and his good humor. On the
following day only it was learned, that, during the hunt, he
had fallen from his horse, and had sat at his majesty's card
table with a broken rib. Nobody made any remark, so per-
fectly natural did this act of ordinary politeness appear in
those days. This little Daburon, if he is unwell, would have
given proof of his breeding by saying nothing about it, and
remaining for my piquet. But he is as well as I am. Who
can tell what games he has gone to play elsewhere 1"
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
743
\/f DABURON did not return home on leaving Mademoi^
*>**• selle d'Arlange. All through the night he wandered
about at random, seeking to cool his heated brow, and to allay
his excessive weariness. "Fool that I was !" said he to him-
self, "thousand times fool to have hoped, to have believed,
that she would ever love me. Madman ! how could I have
dared to dream of possessing so much grace, nobleness, and
beauty ! How charming she was this evening, when her face
was bathed in tears ! Could anything be more angelic ? What
a sublime expression her eyes had in speaking of him ! How
she must love him ! And I ? She loves me as a father, she
told me so — as a father ! And could it be otherwise ? Is it
not justice? Could she see a lover in a sombre and severe-
looking magistrate, always as sad as his black coat? Was it
not a crime to dream of uniting that virginial simplicity to my
detestable knowledge of the world? For her, the future is
yet the land of smiling chimeras ; and long since experience
has dissipated all my illusions. She is young as innocence,
and I am as old as vice."
The unfortunate magistrate felt thoroughly ashamed of him-
self. He understood Claire, and excused her. He reproached
himself for having shown her how he suffered; for having
cast a shadow upon her life. He could not forgive himself
for having spoken of his love. Ought he not to have foreseen
what had happened? — that she would refuse him, that he
would thus deprive himself of the happiness of seeing her, of
hearing her, and of silently adoring her? "A young and ro-
mantic girl," pursued he, "must have a lover she can dream of
— whom she can caress in imagination, as an ideal, gratifying
herself by seeing in him every great and brilliant quality, im-
agining him full of nobleness, of bravery, of heroism. What
would she see, if, in my absence, she dreamed of me? Her
imagination would present me dressed in a funeral robe, in the
depth of a gloomy dungeon, engaged with some vile criminal.
744 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
Is it not my trade to descend into all moral sinks, to stir up
the foulness of crime? Am I not compelled to wash in secrecy
and darkness the dirty linen of the most corrupt members of
society? Ah ! some professions are fatal. Ought not the magis-
trate, like the priest, to condemn himself to solitude and celi-
bacy? Both know all, they hear all, their costumes are nearly
the same ; but, while the priest carries consolation in the folds
of his black robe, the magistrate conveys terror. One is
mercy, the other chastisement. Such are the images a thought
of me would awaken ; while the other — the other — "
The wretched man continued his headlong course along the
deserted quays. He went with his head bare, his eyes haggard.
To breathe more freely, he had torn off his cravat and thrown
it to the winds. Sometimes, unconsciously, he crossed the
path of a solitary wayfarer, who would pause, touched with
pity, and turn to watch the retreating figure of the unfortunate
wretch he thought deprived of reason. In a by-road, near
Crenelle, some police officers stopped him, and tried to question
him. He mechanically tendered them his card. They read it,
and permitted him to pass, convinced that he was drunk. Anger
— a furious anger — began to replace his first feeling of resig-
nation. In his heart arose a hate, stronger and more violent
than even his love for Claire. That other, that preferred one,
that haughty vicomte, who could not overcome those paltry
obstacles, oh, that he had him there, under his knee ! At that
moment, this noble and proud man, this severe and grave magis-
trate, experienced an irresistible longing for vengeance. He
began to understand the hate that arms itself with a knife, and
lies in ambush in out-of-the-way places; which strikes in the
dark, whether in front or from behind matters little, but which
strikes, which kills, whose vengeance blood alone can satisfy.
At that very hour he was supposed to be occupied with an
inquiry into the case of an unfortunate, accused of having
stabbed one of her wretched companions. She was jealous of
the woman, who had tried to take her lover from her. He
was a soldier, coarse in manners, and always drunk. M. Dabu-
ron felt himself seized with pity for this miserable creature,
whom he had commenced to examine the day before. She was
very ugly, in fact truly repulsive ; but the expression of the
eyes, when speaking of her soldier, returned to the magistrate's
memory. "She loves him sincerely," thought he. "If each one
of the jurors had suffered what I am suffering now, she would
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 745
be acquitted. But how many men in this world have loved
passionately? Perhaps not one in twenty." He resolved to
recommend this girl to the indulgence of the tribunal, and to
extenuate as much as possible her guilt. For he himself had
just determined upon the commission of a crime. He was re-
solved to kill Albert de Commarin.
During the rest of the night he became all the more de-
termined in this resolution, demonstrating to himself by a
thousand mad reasons, which he found solid and inscrutable,
the necessity for and the justifiableness of this vengeance. At
seven o'clock in the morning, he found himself in an avenue of
the Bois de Boulogne, not far from the lake. He made at
once for the Porte Maillot, procured a cab, and was driven
to his house. The delirium of the night continued, but without
suffering. He was conscious of no fatigue. Calm and cool,
he acted under the power of a hallucination, almost like a som-
nambulist. He reflected and reasoned, but without his reason.
As soon as he arrived home he dressed himself with care, as
was his custom formerly when visiting the Marquise d'Arlange,
and went out. He first called at an armorer's and bought
a small revolver, which he caused to be carefully loaded under
his own eyes, and put it into his pocket. He then called on the
different persons he supposed capable of informing him to what
club the vicomte belonged. No one noticed the strange state
of his mind, so natural were his manners and conversation.
It was not until the afternoon that a young friend of his gave
him the name of Albert de Commarin's club, and offered to
conduct him thither, as he too was a member. M. Daburon
accepted warmly, and accompanied his friend. While passing
along, he grasped with frenzy the handle of the revolver which
he kept concealed, thinking only of the murder he was deter-
mined to commit, and the means of insuring the accuracy of
his aim. "This will make a terrible scandal," thought he,
"above all if I do not succeed in blowing my own brains out.
I shall be arrested, thrown into prison, and placed upon my
trial at the assizes. My name will be dishonored ! Bah ! what
does that signify? Claire does not love me, so what care I
for all the rest? My father no doubt will die of grief, but I
must have my revenge!"
On arriving at the club, his friend pointed out a very dark
young man, with a haughty air, or what appeared so to him,
who. seated at a table, was reading a review. It was the vi-
746 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
comte. M. Daburon walked up to him without drawing hit
revolver. But within two paces, his heart tailed him ; he turned
suddenly and fled, leaving his friend astonished at a scene, to
him, utterly inexplicable. Only once again will Albert de Com-
marin be as near death. On reaching the street, it seemed to
M. Daburon that the ground was receding from beneath him,
that everything was turning around him. He tried to cry out,
but could not utter a sound ; he struck at the air with his hands,
reeled for an instant, and then fell all of a heap on the pave-
ment. The passers-by ran and assisted the police to raise him.
In one of his pockets they found his address, and carried him
home.
When he recovered his senses, he was in his bed, at the foot
of which he perceived his father. "What has happened?" he
asked. With much caution they told him that for six weeks
he had wavered between life and death. The doctors had de-
clared his life saved; and, now that reason was restored, all
would go well. Five minutes' conversation exhausted him.
He shut his eyes, and tried to collect his ideas ; but they whirled
hither and thither wildly, as autumn leaves in the wind. The
past seemed shrouded in a dark mist ; yet, in the midst of the
darkness and confusion, all that concerned Mademoiselle d'Ar-
lange stood out clear and luminous. All his actions from the
moment when he embraced Claire appeared before him. He
shuddered, and his hair was in a moment soaking with per-
spiration. He had almost become an assassin. The proof that
he was restored to full possession of his faculties was that a
question of criminal law crossed his brain. "The crime com-
mitted," said he to himself, "should I have been condemned ?
Yes. Was I responsible? No. Is crime merely the result of
mental alienation? Was I mad? Or was I in that peculiar
state of mind which usually precedes an illegal attempt? Who
can say? Why have not all judges passed through an incom-
prehensible crisis such as mine? But who would believe me,
were I to recount my experience?"
Some days later, he was sufficiently recovered to tell his
father all. The old gentleman shrugged his shoulders, and as-
sured him it was but a reminiscence of his delirium. The good
old man was moved at the story of his son's luckless wooing,
without seeing therein, however, an irreparable misfortune. He
advised him to think of something else, placed at his disposal
his entire fortune, and recommended him to marry a stout
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 747
Poitevine heiress, very gay and healthy, who would bear him
some fine children. Then, as his estate was suffering by his
absence, he returned home. Two months later, the investigat-
ing magistrate had resumed his ordinary avocations. But try
as he would, he only went through his duties like a body with-
out a soul. He felt that something was broken. Once he ven-
tured to pay a visit to his old friend, the marquise. On seeing
him, she uttered a cry of terror. She took him for a spectre, so
much was he changed in appearance. As she dreaded dismal
faces, she ever after shut her door to him. Claire was ill for a
week after seeing him. "How he loved me," thought she ; "it
has almost killed him! Can Albert love me as much?" She
did not dare to answer herself. She felt a desire to console
him, to speak to him, attempt something; but he came no more.
M. Daburon was not, however, a man to give way without
a struggle. He tried, as his father advised him, to distract his
thoughts. He sought for pleasure, and found disgust, but not
forgetfulness. Often he went as far as the threshold of de-
bauchery ; but the pure figure of Claire, dressed in white gar-
ments, always barred the doors against him. Then he took
refuge in work, as in a sanctuary; condemned himself to the
most incessant labor, and forbade himself to think of Claire,
as the consumptive forbids himself to meditate upon his malady.
His eagerness, his feverish activity, earned him the reputation
of an ambitious man, who would go far ; but he cared for noth-
ing in the world. At length, he found, not rest, but that painless
benumbing which commonly follows a great catastrophe. The
convalescence of oblivion was commencing.
These were the events, recalled to M. Daburon's mind when
old Tabaret pronounced the name of Commarin. He believed
them buried under the ashes of time ; and behold they reap-
peared, just the same as those characters traced in sympathetic
ink when held before a fire. In an instant they unrolled them-
selves before his memory, with the instantaneousness of a
dream annihilating time and space. During some minutes, he
assisted at the representation of his own life. At once actor
and spectator, he was there seated in his armchair, and at the
same time he appeared on the stage. He acted, and he judged
himself. His first thought, it must be confessed, was one of
hate, followed by a detestable feeling of satisfaction. Chance
had, so to say, delivered into his hands this man preferred by
Claire, this man, now no longer a haughty nobleman, illus-
7-48 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
trious by his fortune and his ancestors, but the illegitimate off-
spring of a courtezan. To retain a stolen name, he had com-
mitted a most cowardly assassination. And he, the magistrate,
was about to experience the infinite gratification of striking his
enemy with the sword of justice. But this was only a passing
thought. The man's upright conscience revolted against it, and
made its powerful voice heard. "Is anything," it cried, "more
monstrous than the association of these two ideas — hatred and
justice? Can a magistrate, without despising himself more than
he despises the vile beings he condemns, recollect that a crimi-
nal, whose fate is in his hands, has been his enemy? Has an
investigating magistrate the right to make use of his exceptional
powers in dealing with a prisoner, so long as he harbors the
least resentment against him?" M. Daburon repeated to him-
self what he had so frequently thought during the year, when
commencing a fresh investigation : "And I also, I almost stained
myself with a vile murder !" And now it was his duty to cause
to be arrested, to interrogate, and hand over to the assizes the
man he had once resolved to kill. All the world, it is true,
ignored this crime of thought and intention ; but could he him-
self forget it? Was not this, of all others, a case in which he
should decline to be mixed up? Ought he not to withdraw, and
wash his hands of the blood that had been shed, leaving to
another the task of avenging him in the name of society ? "No,"
said he, "it would be a cowardice unworthy of me." A project
of mad generosity occurred to the bewildered man. "If I save
him," murmured he, "if for Claire's sake I leave him his honor
and his life. But how can I save him? To do so I shall be
obliged to suppress old Tabaret's discoveries, and make an ac-
complice of him by ensuring his silence. We shall have to fol-
low a wrong track, join Gevrol in running after some imaginary
murderer. Is this practicable ? Besides, to spare Albert is to
defame Noel ; it is to assure impunity to the most odious of
crimes. In short, it is still sacrificing justice to my feelings."
The magistrate suffered greatly. How choose a path in the
midst of so many perplexities ! Impelled by different interests,
he wavered, undecided between the most opposite decisions, his
mind oscillating from one extreme to the other. What could
he do? His reason after this new and unforeseen shock vainly
sought to regain its equilibrium. "Resign ?" said he to himself.
"Where, then, would be my courage? Ought I not rather to
remain the representative of the law, incapable of emotion, in-
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 749
sensible to prejudice? Am I so weak that, in assuming my
office, I am unable to divest myself of my personality? Can I
not, for the present, make abstraction of the past? My duty is
to pursue this investigation. Claire herself would desire me to
act thus. Would she wed a man suspected of a crime? Never.
If he is innocent, he will be saved; if guilty, let him perish!"
This was very sound reasoning; but, at the bottom of his heart,
a thousand disquietudes darted their thorns. He wanted to
reassure himself. "Do I still hate this young man?" he con-
tinued. "No, certainly. If Claire has preferred him to me,
it is to Claire and not to him I owe my suffering. My rage
was no more than a passing fit of delirium. I will prove it
by letting him find me as much a counselor as a magistrate.
If he is not guilty, he shall make use of all the means in my
power to establish his innocence. Yes, I am worthy to be his
judge. Heaven, who reads all my thoughts, sees that I love
Claire enough to desire with all my heart the innocence of her
lover." Only then did M. Daburon seem to be vaguely aware
of the lapse of time. It was nearly three o'clock in the morn-
ing. "Goodness !'' cried he ; "why, old Tabaret is waiting for
me. I shall probably find him asleep."
But M. Tabaret was not asleep. He had noticed the passage
of time no more than the magistrate. Ten minutes had sufficed
him to take an inventory of the contents of M. Daburon's study,
which was large, and handsomely furnished in accordance with
his position and fortune. Taking up a lamp, he first admired
six very valuable pictures, which ornamented the walls ; he then
examined with considerable curiosity some rare bronzes placed
about the room, and bestowed on the bookcase the glance of
a connoisseur. After which, taking an evening paper from the
table, he approached the hearth, and seated himself in a vast
armchair. He had not read a third of the leading article, which,
like all leading articles of the time, was exclusively occupied
with the Roman question, when, letting the paper drop from
his hands, he became absorbed in meditation. The fixed idea,
stronger than one's will, and more interesting to him than
politics, brought him forcibly back to La Jonchere, where lay
the body of Widow Lerouge. Like the child who again and
again builds up and demolishes his house of cards, he arranged
and entangled alternately his chain of inductions and argu-
ments. In his own mind there was certainly no longer a doubt
as regards this sad affair, and it seemed to him that M. Dabu-
750 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
ron shared his opinions. But yet, what difficulties there still
remained to encounter ! There exists betwe( n the investigating
magistrate and the accused a supreme tribunal, an admirable
institution which is a guarantee for all, a powerful moderator,
the jury. And the jury, thank heaven ! do not content them-
selves with a moral conviction. The strongest probabilities can
not induce them to give an affirmative verdict. The accusation
must then come before the jury, armed at all points, with abun-
dant proofs. A task often tedious to the investigating magis-
trate, and bristling with difficulties, is the arrangement and con-
densation of this evidence, particularly when the accused is a
cool hand, certain of having left no traces of his guilt. Even
when presumptive evidence points clearly to the criminal, and
common sense recognizes him, justice is at times compelled to
acknowledge her defeat, for lack of what the jury consider
sufficient proof of guilt. Thus, unhappily, many crimes escape
punishment. An old advocate-general said one day that he
knew as many as three assassins, living rich, happy, and re-
spected, who would probably end by dying in their beds, sur-
rounded by their families, and being followed to the grave with
lamentations, and praised for their virtues in their epitaphs.
At the idea that a murderer might escape the penalty of his
crime, and steal away from the assize court, old Tabaret's
blood fairly boiled in his veins, as at the recollection of some
deadly insult. Such a monstrous event, in his opinion, could
only proceed from the incapacity of those charged with the
preliminary inquiry, the clumsiness of the police, or the stu-
pidity of the investigating magistrate. "It is not I," he mut-
tered, with the satisfied vanity of success, "who would ever let
my prey escape. No crime can be committed, of which the
author can not be found, unless, indeed, he happens to be a
madman, whose motive it would be difficult to understand. I
would pass my life in pursuit of a criminal, before avowing
myself vanquished, as Gevrol has done so many times." As-
sisted by chance, he had again succeeded, so he kept repeating
to himself, but what proofs could he furnish to the accusation,
to that confounded jury, so difficult to convince, so precise and
so cowardly? What could he imagine to force so cunning a
culprit to betray himself? What trap could he prepare? To
what new and infallible stratagem could he have recourse?
The amateur detective exhausted himself in subtle but imprac-
ticable combinations, always stopped by that exacting jury, so
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 751
obnoxious to the agents of the Rue de Jerusalem. He was so
deeply absorbed in his thoughts that he did not hear the door
open, and was utterly unconscious of the magistrate's presence.
M. Daburon's voice aroused him from his reverie. "You
will excuse me, M. Tabaret, for having left you so long alone."
The old fellow rose and bowed respectfully. "By my faith,
sir," replied he, "I have not had the leisure to perceive my
solitude."
M. Daburon crossed the room, and seated himself, facing his
agent before a small table encumbered with papers and docu-
ments relating to the crime. He appeared very much fatigued.
"I have reflected a good deal," he commenced, "about this
affair—"
"And I," interrupted old Tabaret, "was just asking myself
what was likely to be the attitude assumed by the vicomte at
the moment of his arrest. Nothing is more important, accord-
ing to my idea, than his manner of conducting himself then.
Will he fly into a passion? Will he attempt to intimidate the
agents? Will he threaten to turn them out of the house?
These are generally the tactics of titled criminals. My opinion,
however, is that he will remain perfectly cool. He will declare
himself the victim of a misunderstanding, and insist upon
an immediate interview with the investigating magistrate.
Once that is accorded him, he will explain everything very
quickly."
The old fellow spoke of matters of speculation in such a tone
of assurance that M. Daburon was unable to repress a smile.
"We have not got as far as that yet," said he.
"But we shall, in a few hours," replied M. Tabaret quickly.
"I presume you will order young M. de Commarin's arrest at
daybreak."
The magistrate trembled, like the patient who sees the sur-
geon deposit his case of instruments upon the table on entering
the room. The moment for action had come. He felt what a
distance lies between a mental decision and the physical action
required to execute it. "You are prompt, M. Tabaret." said he ;
"you recognize no obstacles."
"None, having ascertained the criminal. Who else can have
committed this assassination? Who but he had an interest in
silencing Widow Lerouge, in suppressing her testimony, in de-
stroying her papers ? He, and only he. Poor Noel ! who is
as dull as honesty, warned him, and he acted. Should we fail
752 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
to establish his guilt, he will remain De Commarin more than
ever; and my young barrister will be Noel Gerdy to the grave."
"Yes. but—"
The old man fixed his eyes upon the magistrate with a look
of astonishment. "You see, then, some difficulties, sir?" he
asked.
"Most decidedly!" replied M. Daburon. "This is a matter
demanding the utmost circumspection. In cases like the pres-
ent, one must not strike until the blow is sure, and we have but
presumptions. Suppose we are mistaken. Justice, unhappily,
can not repair errors. Her hand once unjustly placed upon a
man, leaves an imprint of dishonor that can never be effaced.
She may perceive her error, and proclaim it aloud, but in vain I
Public opinion, absurd and idiotic, will not pardon the man
guilty of being suspected."
It was with a sinking heart that the old fellow listened to
these remarks. He would not be withheld by such paltry con-
siderations.
"Our suspicions are well grounded," continued the magis-
trate. ''But, should they lead us into error, our precipitation
would be a terrible misfortune for this young man, to say noth-
ing of the effect it would have in abridging the authority and
dignity of justice, of weakening the respect which constitutes
her power. Such a mistake would call for discussion, provoke
examination, and awaken distrust, at an epoch in our history
when all minds are but too much disposed to defy the consti-
tuted authorities."
He leaned upon the table, and appeared to reflect profoundly.
"I have no luck," thought old Tabaret. "I have to do with a
trembler. When he should act, he makes speeches ; instead of
signing warrants, he propounds theories. He is astounded at
my discovery, and is not equal to the situation. Instead of
being delighted by my appearance with the news of our success,
he would have given a twenty-franc piece, I dare say, to have
been left undisturbed. Ah ! he would very willingly have the
little fishes in his net, but the big ones frighten him. The big
fishes are dangerous, and he prefers to let them swim away."
"Perhaps," said M. Daburon, aloud, "it will suffice to issue
a search-warrant, and a summons for the appearance of the
accused."
"Then all is lost !" cried old Tabaret.
"And why, pray ?"
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 768
"Because we are opposed by a criminal of marked ability. A
most providential accident has placed us upon his track. If we
give him time to breathe, he will escape.*'
The only answer was an inclination of the head, which M.
Daburon may have intended for a sign of assent.
"It is evident," continued the old fellow, "that our adversarv
has foreseen everything, absolutely everything, even the possi-
bility of suspicion attaching to one in his high position. Oh !
his precautions are all taken. If you are satisfied with de-
manding his appearance, he is saved. He will appear before
you as tranquilly as your clerk, as unconcerned as if he came
to arrange the preliminaries of a duel. He will present you
with a magnificent alibi, an alibi that can not be gainsaid.
He will show you that he passed the evening and the night of
Tuesday with personages of the highest rank. In short, his
little machine will be so cleverly constructed, so nicely ar-
ranged, all its little wheels will play so well, that there will be
nothing left for you but to open the door and usher him nut
with the most humble apologies. The only means of securing
conviction is to surprise the miscreant by a rapidity against
which it is impossible he can be on his guard. Fall upon him
like a thunderclap, arrest him as he wakes, drag him hither
while yet pale with astonishment, and interrogate him at once.
Ah ! I wish I were an investigating magistrate."
Old Tabaret stopped short, frightened at the idea that he had
been wanting in respect; but M. Daburon showed no sign of
being offended. "Proceed," said he, in a tone of encourage-
ment, "proceed."
"Suppose, then," continued the detective, "I am the investi-
gating magistrate. I cause my man to be arrested, and, twenty
minutes later, he is standing before me. I do not amuse myself
by putting questions to him, more or less subtle. No, I go
straight to the mark. I overwhelm him at once by the weight
of my certainty, prove to him so clearly that I know everything,
that he must surrender, seeing no chance of escape. I should
say to him: 'My good man, you bring me an alibi; it is very
well ; but I am acquainted with that system of defense. It
will not do with me. I know all about the clocks that don't
keep proper time, and all the people who never lost si^ht of you.
In the mean time, this is what you did. At twenty minutes
past eight, you slipped away adroitly; at thirty-five minutes past
eight, you took the train at the St. Lazare station ; at nine
754 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
o'clock, you alighted at the station at Rueil, and took the road
to La Jonchere ; at a quarter past nine, you knocked at the
window-shutter of Widow Lerouge's cottage. You were ad-
mitted. You asked for something to eat, and, above all, some-
thing to drink. At twenty minutes past nine, you planted the
well-sharpened end of a foil between her shoulders. You
killed her ! You then overturned everything in the house, and
burned certain documents of importance ; after which, you tied
up in a napkin all the valuables you could find, and carried
them off, to lead the police to believe the murder was the work
of a robber. You locked the door, and threw away the key.
Arrived at the Seine, you threw the bundle into the water, then
hurried off to the railway station on foot, and at eleven o'clock
you reappeared among your friends. Your game was well
played; but you omitted to provide against two adversaries, a
detective, not easily deceived, named Tirauclair, and another
still more clever, named chance. Between them, they have got
the better of you. Moreover, you were foolish to wear such
small boots, and to keep on your lavender kid gloves, besides
embarrassing yourself with a silk hat and an umbrella. Now
confess your guilt, for it is the only thing left you to do, and
I will give you permission to smoke in your dungeon some of
those excellent trabucos you are so fond of, and which you
always smoke with an amber mouthpiece.' " During this speech,
M. Tabaret had gained at least a couple of inches in height, so
great was his enthusiasm. He looked at the magistrate, as if
expecting a smile of approbation. "Yes," continued he, after
taking breath, "I would say that, and nothing else ; and, unless
this man is a hundred times stronger than I suppose him to be,
unless he is made of bronze, of marble, or of steel, he would
fall at my feet and avow his guilt."
"But supposing he were of bronze," said M. Daburon, "and
did not fall at your feet, what would you do next?"
The question evidently embarrassed the old fellow. "Pshaw!"
stammered he; "I don't know; I would see; I would search:
but he would confess."
After a prolonged silence, M. Daburon took a pen, and hur-
riedly wrote a few lines. "I surrender," said he. "M. Albert de
Commarin shall be arrested ; that is settled. The different for-
malities to be gone through and the perquisitions will occupy
some time, which I wish to employ in interrogating the Cointe
de Commarin, the young man's father, and your friend, M.
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 755
Noel Gerdy, the young barrister. The letters he possesses are
indispensable to me."
At the name of Gerdy, M. Tabaret's face assumed a most
comical expression of uneasiness. "Confound it," cried he, "the
very thing I most dreaded."
"What?" asked M. Daburon.
"The necessity for the examination of those letters. Noel
will discover my interference. He will despise me : he will fly
from me, when he knows that Tabaret and Tirauclair sleep in
the same nightcap. Before eight days are past, my oldest
friends will refuse to shake hands with me, as if it were not
an honor to serve justice. I shall be obliged to change my
residence, and assume a false name."
He almost wept, so great was his annoyance. M. Daburon
was touched. "Reassure yourself, my dear M. Tabaret," said
he. "I will manage that your adopted son, your Benjamin, shall
know nothing. I will lead him to believe I have reached him
by means of the widow's papers."
The old fellow seized the magistrate's hand in a transport
of gratitude, and carried it to his lips. Oh ! thanks, sir, a
thousand thanks ! I should like to be permitted to witness the
arrest; and I shall be glad to assist at the perquisitions."
"I intended to ask you to do so, M. Tabaret," answered the
magistrate. The lamps paled in the gray dawn of the morning ;
already the rumbling of vehicles was heard; Paris was awak-
ing. "I have no time to lose," continued M. Daburon, "if I
would have all my measures well taken. I must at once see the
public prosecutor, whether he is up or not. I shall go direct
from his house to the Palais de Justice, and be there before
eight o'clock; and I desire, M. Tabaret, that you will there
await my orders."
The old fellow bowed his thanks and was about to leave,
when the magistrate's servant appeared. "Here is a note, sir,"
said he, "which a gendarme has just brought from Bougival.
He waits an answer."
"Very well," replied M. Daburon. "Ask the man to have
some refreshment ; at least offer him a glass of wine."
He opened the envelope. "Ah !" he cried, "a letter from
Gevrol ;" and he read : " 'To the investigating magistrate. Sir,
I have the honor to inform you that I am on the track of the
man with the earrings. I heard of him at a wine-shop, which
he entered on Sunday morning, before going to Widow Le-
756
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
rouge's cottage. He bought and paid for two litres of wine;
then, suddenly striking his forehead, he cried : "Old fool ! to
forget that to-morrow is the boat's fete day !" and immediately
called for three more litres. According to the almanac the
boat must be called the "Saint-Marin." I have also learned that
she was laden with grain. I write to the Prefecture at the same
time as I write to you, that inquiries may be made at Paris
and Rouen. He will be found at one of those places. I am in
waiting, sir,' etc."
"Poor Gevrol!" cried old Tabaret, bursting with laughter.
"He sharpens his sabre, and the battle is over. Are you not
going to put a stop to his inquiries, sir?"
"No; certainly not," answered M. Daburon; "to neglect the
slightest clue often leads one into error. Who can tell what
light we may receive from this mariner?"
ON the same day that the crime of La Jonchere was discov-
ered, and precisely at the hour that M. Tabaret made his
memorable examination in the victim's chamber, the Vicomte
Albert de Commarin entered his carriage, and proceeded to the
Northern Railway station, to meet his father. The young man
was very pale: his pinched features, his dull eyes, his blanched
lips, in fact, his whole appearance, denoted either overwhelm-
ing fatigue or unusual sorrow. All the servants had observed
that, during the past five days, their young master had not been
in his ordinary condition: he spoke but little, ate almost noth-
ing, and refused to see any visitors. His valet noticed that this
singular change dated from the visit, on Sunday morning, of a
certain M. Noel Gerdy, who had been closeted with him for
three hours in the library. The vicomte, gay as a lark until the
arrival of this person, had, from the moment of his departure,
the appearance of a man at the point of death. When setting
forth to meet his father, the vicomte appeared to suffer so
acutely that M. Lubin, his valet, entreated him not to go out;
suggesting that it would be more prudent to retire to his room,
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 757
and call in the doctor. But the Comte de Commarin was ex-
acting on the score of filial duty, and would overlook the worst
of youthful indiscretions sooner than what he termed a want
of reverence. He had announced his intended arrival by tele-
graph, twenty-four hours in advance ; therefore the house was
expected to be in perfect readiness to receive him, and the
absence of Albert at the railway station would have been re-
sented as a flagrant omission of duty. The vicomte had been
but five minutes in the waiting-room, when the bell announced
the arrival of the train. Soon the doors leading on to the
platform were opened, and the travelers crowded in. The
throng beginning to thin a little, the comte appeared, followed
by a servant, who carried a traveling pelisse lined with rare
and valuable fur.
The Comte de Commarin looked a good ten years less than
his age. His beard and hair, yet abundant, were scarcely gray.
He was tall and muscular, held himself upright, and carried his
head high. His appearance was noble, his movements easy.
His regular features presented a study to the physiognomist, all
expressing easy, careless good nature, even to the handsome,
smiling mouth; but in his eyes flashed the fiercest and the most
arrogant pride. This contrast revealed the secret of his char-
acter. Imbued quite as deeply with aristocratic prejudice as
the Marquise d'Arlange, he had progressed with his century
or at least appeared to have done so. As fully as the marquise,
he held in contempt all who were not noble ; but his disdain ex-
pressed itself in a different fashion. The marquise proclaimed
her contempt loudly and coarsely; the comte had kept eyes and
ears open and had seen and heard a good deal. She was stupid,
and without a shade of common sense. He was witty and sen-
sible, and possessed enlarged views of life and politics. She
dreamed of the return of the absurd traditions of a former age ;
he hoped for things within the power of events to bring forth.
He was sincerely persuaded that the nobles of France would
yet recover slowly and silently, but surely, all their lost power,
with its prestige and influence. In a word, the comte was the
flattered portrait of his class; the marquise its caricature. It
should be added that M. de Commarin knew how to divest him-
self of his crushing urbanity in the company of his equals. There
he recovered his true character, haughty, self-sufficient, and in-
tractable, enduring contradiction pretty much as a wild horse the
application of the spur. In his own house, he was a despot.
758 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
Perceiving his father, Albert advanced toward him. They
shook hands and embraced with an air as ncble as ceremonious,
and, in less than a minute, had exchanged all the news that had
transpired during the comte's absence. Then only did M. de
Commarin perceive the alteration in his son's face. "You are
unwell, vicomte," said he.
"Oh, no, sir," answered Albert, laconically.
The comte uttered "Ah !" accompanied by a certain move-
ment of the head, which, with him, expressed perfect incre-
dulity; then, turning to his servant, he gave him some orders
briefly. "Now," resumed he, "let us go quickly to the house. I
am in haste to feel at home; and I am hungry, having had
nothing to-day but some detestable broth, at I know not what
way station."
M. de Commarin had returned to Paris in a very bad temper,
his journey to Austria had not brought the results he had hoped
for. To crown his dissatisfaction, he had rested, on his home-
ward way, at the chateau of an old friend, with whom he had
had so violent a discussion that they had parted without shaking
hands. The comte was hardly seated in his carriage before he
entered upon the subject of this disagreement. "I have quar-
reled with the Due de Sairmeuse," said he to his son.
"That seems to me to happen whenever you meet," answered
Albert, without intending any raillery.
"True," said the comte : "but this is serious. I passed four
days at his country-seat, in a state of inconceivable exaspera-
tion. He has entirely forfeited my esteem. Sairmeuse has sold
his estate of Gondresy, one of the finest in the north of France.
He has cut down the timber, and put up to auction the old
chateau, a princely dwelling, which is to be converted into a
sugar refinery ; all this for the purpose, as he says, of raising
money to increase his income \"
"And was that the cause of your rupture?" inquired Albert,
without much surprise.
"Certainly it was! Do you not think it is a sufficient one?"
"But, sir, you know the duke has a large family, and is far
from rich."
"What of that? A French noble who sells his land commits
an unworthy act. He is guilty of treason against his order !" —
"Oh, sir," said Albert, deprecatingly.
"I said treason !" continued the comte. "I maintain the word.
Remember well, vicomte, power has been, and always will be,
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 759
on the side of wealth, especially on the side of those who hold
the soil. The men of '93 well understood this principle, and
acted upon it. By impoverishing the nobles, they destroyed
their prestige more effectually than by abolishing their titles.
A prince dismounted, and without footmen, is no more than
any one else."
The carriage at this moment stopped in the courtyard of the
De Commarin mansion, after having described that perfect half-
circle, the glory of coachmen who preserve the old tradition.
The comte alighted first, and, leaning upon his son's arm,
ascended the steps of the grand entrance. In the immense
vestibule nearly all the servants, dressed in rich liveries, stood
in a line. The comte gave them a glance in passing, as an
officer might his soldiers on parade, and proceeded to his apart-
ment on the first floor, above the reception rooms. Never was
there a better regulated household than that of the Comte de
Commarin. He possessed in a high degree the art, more rare
than is generally supposed, of commanding an army of servants.
The number of his domestics caused him neither inconvenience
nor embarrassment. They were necessary to him. So perfect was
the organization of this household that its functions were per-
formed like those of a machine : without noise, variation, or effort.
M. de Commarin had hardly removed the traces of his jour-
ney, and changed his dress, when his butler announced that the
dinner was served. He went down at once ; and father and
son met upon the threshold of the dining-room. This was a
large apartment, with a very high ceiling, as were all the rooms
of the ground floor, and was most magnificently furnished. The
comte was not only a great eater, but was vain of his enormous
appetite. He was fond of recalling the names of great men
noted for their capacity of stomach. Charles V devoured moun-
tains of viands. Louis XIV swallowed at each repast as much
as six ordinary men would eat at a meal. He pretended that
one can almost judge of men's qualities by their digestive ca-
pacities ; he compared them to lamps, whose power of giving
light is in proportion to the oil they consume. During the first
half-hour the comte and his son both remained silent. M. de
Commarin ate conscientiously, not perceiving or not caring to
notice that Albert ate nothing, but merely sat at the table as if
to countenance him. The old nobleman's ill-humor and volu-
bility returned with the dessert, apparently increased by a
Burgundy of which he was particularly fond, and of which he
760 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
drank freely. He was partial, moreover, to an after-dinner
argument, professing a theory that moderate discussion is a
perfect digestive. A letter which had been delivered to him
on his arrival, and which he had found time to glance over,
gave him at once a subject and a point of departure. "I arrived
home but an hour ago," said he, "and I have already received
a homily from Broisfresnay."
"He writes a great deal," observed Albert.
"Too much ; he consumes himself in ink. He mentions a lot
more of his ridiculous projects and vain hopes; and he men-
tions a dozen names of men of his own stamp who are his
associates. On my word of honor, they seem to have lost their
senses ! They talk of lifting the world, only they want a lever
and something to rest it on. It makes me die with laughter !"
For ten minutes the comte continued to discharge a volley of
abuse and sarcasm against his best friends without seeming to
see that a great many of their foibles which he ridiculed were
also a little his own. "If," continued he more seriously — "if
they only possessed a little confidence in themselves, if they
showed the least audacity ! But no ! they count upon others to
do for them what they ought to do for themselves. In short,
their proceedings are a series of confessions of helplessness, of
premature declarations of failure."
The coffee having been served, the comte made a sign, and
the servants left the room.
"No," continued he ; "I see but one hope for the French aris-
tocracy, but one plank of salvation, one good little law, estab-
lishing the right of primogeniture."
"You will never obtain it."
"You think not? Would you then oppose such a measure,
vicomte?" Albert knew by experience what dangerous ground
his father was approaching, and remained silent. "Let us put
it, then, that I dream of the impossible !" resumed the comte.
"Then let the nobles do their duty. Let all the younger sons
and the daughters of our great families forego their rights, by
giving up their entire patrimony to the first-born for five genera-
tions, contenting themselves each with a couple of thousand
francs a year. By that means great fortunes can be recon-
structed, and families, instead of being divided by a variety of
interests, become united by one common desire."
"Unfortunately," objected the vicomte, "the time is not favor-
able to such devotedness."
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 761
"I know it, sir," replied the comte quickly ; "and in my own
house I have the proof of it. I, your father, have conjured you
to give up all idea of marrying the granddaughter of that old
fool, the Marquise d'Arlange. And all to no purpose ; for I have
at last been obliged to yield to your wishes."
"Father — " Albert commenced. "It is well," interrupted the
comte. "You have my word ; but remember my prediction : you
will strike a fatal blow at our house. You will be one of the
largest proprietors in France; but have half a dozen children,
and they will be hardly rich. If they also have as many, vou
will probably see your grandchildren in poverty !"
"You put all at the worst, father."
"Without doubt : it is the only means of pointing out the dan-
ger and averting the evil. You talk of your life's happiness.
What is that? A true noble thinks of his name above all.
Mademoiselle d'Arlange is very pretty and very attractive, but
she is penniless. I had found an heiress for you."
"Whom I should never love !"
"And what of that? She would have brought you four mil-
lions in her apron — more than the kings of to-day give their
daughters. Besides which she had great expectations."
The discussion upon this subject would have been intermin-
able had Albert taken an active share in it ; but his thoughts
were far away. He answered from time to time, so as not to
appear absolutely dumb, and then only a few syllables. This
absence of opposition was more irritating to the comte than the
most obstinate contradiction. He, therefore, directed his ut-
most efforts to excite his son to argue. However he was vainly
prodigal of words and unsparing in unpleasant allusions, so
that at last he fairly lost his temper, and, on receiving a laconic
reply, he burst forth : "Upon my word, the butler's son would
say the same as you ! What blood have you in your veins ?
You are more like one of the people than a Vicomte de
Commarin !"
There are certain conditions of mind in which the least con-
versation jars upon the nerves. During the last hour Albert
had suffered an intolerable punishment. The patience with
which he had armed himself at last escaped him. "Well, sir,"
he answered, "if I resemble one of the people, there are perhaps
good reasons for it." The glance with which the vicomte ac-
companied his speech was so expressive that the comte experi-
enced a sudden shock. All his animation forsook him, and in
6 — Vol. Ill — Gab
762 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
a hesitating voice he asked: "What is that you say, vicomte?"
Albert had no sooner uttered the sentena than he regretted
his precipitation, but he had gone too far to stop.
"Sir," he replied with some embarrassment, "I have to ac-
quaint you with some important matters. My honor, yours, the
honor of our house, are involved. I intended postponing this
conversation till to-morrow, not desiring to trouble you on the
evening of your return. However, as you wish me to explain,
I will do so."
The comte listened with ill-concealed anxiety. He seemed
to have divined what his son was about to say, and was terri-
fied at himself for having divined it. "Believe me, sir," con-
tinued Albert slowly, "whatever may have been your acts, my
voice will never be raised to reproach you. Your constant kind-
ness to me — " M. de Commarin held up his hand. "A truce
to preambles; let me have the facts without phrases," said he
sternly.
Albert was some time without answering; he hesitated how
to commence. "Sir," said he at length, "during your absence
I have read all your correspondence with Madame Gerdy.
All!" added he, emphasizing the word, already so significant.
The comte, as though stung by a serpent, started up with such
violence that he overturned his chair. "Not another word !"
cried he in a terrible voice. "I forbid you to speak !" But he
no doubt soon felt ashamed of his violence, for he quietly raised
his chair, and resumed in a tone which he strove to render light
and rallying: "Who will hereafter refuse to believe in presenti-
ments? A couple of hours ago, on seeing your pale face at the
railway station, I felt that you had learned more or less of this
affair. I was sure of it." There was a long silence. With
one accord, father and son avoided letting their eyes meet, lest
they might encounter glances too eloquent to bear at so pain-
ful a moment. "You were right, sir," continued the comte,
"our honor is involved. It is important that we should decide
on our future conduct without delay. Will you follow me to
my room?" He rang the bell, and a footman appeared almost
immediately. "Neither the vicomte nor I am at home to any
one," said M. de Commarin, "no matter whom."
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
763
'T'HE revelation which had just taken place irritated much
■*• more than it surprised the Comte de Commarin. For
twenty years he had been constantly expecting to see the truth
brought to light. He knew that there can be no secret so care-
fully guarded that it may not by some chance escape ; and his
had been known to four people, three of whom were still liv-
ing. He had not forgotten that he had been imprudent enough
to trust it to paper, knowing all the while that it ought never
to have been written. How was it that he, a prudent diplomat,
a statesman, full of precaution, had been so foolish? How was
it that he had allowed this fatal correspondence to remain in
existence ! Why had he not destroyed, at no matter what cost,
these overwhelming proofs, which sooner or later might be
used against him ? Such imprudence could only have arisen
from an absurd passion, blind and insensible, even to madness.
So long as he was Valerie's lover, the comte never thought of
asking the return of his letters from his beloved accomplice.
If the idea had occurred to him, he would have repelled it as
an insult to the character of his angel. What reason could
he have had to suspect her discretion? None. He would
have been much more likely to suppose her desirous of re-
moving every trace, even the slightest, of what had taken
place. Was it not her son who had received the benefits of
the deed, who had usurped another's name and fortune? When
eight years after, believing her to be unfaithful, the comte had
put an end to the connection which had given him so much
happiness he thought of obtaining possession of this unhappy
correspondence. But he knew not how to do so. A thousand
reasons prevented him moving in the matter. The principal
one was that he did not wish to see this woman once so dearly
loved. He did not feel sufficiently sure either of his anger or
of his firmness. Could he, without yielding, resist the tearful
pleading of those eyes which had so long held complete sway
over him ? To look again upon this mistress of his youth would,
764 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
he feared, result in his forgiving her ; and he had been too
cruelly wounded in his pride and in his aftection to admit the
idea of a reconciliation. On the other hand, to obtain the
letters through a third party was entirely out of the question.
He abstained, then, from all action, postponing it indefinitely.
"I will go to her," said he to himself; "but not until I have
so torn her from my heart that she will have become indifferent
to me. I will not gratify her with the sight of my grief." So
months and years passed on ; and finally he began to say and
believe that it was too late. And for now more than twenty
years he had never passed a day without cursing his inexcusable
folly. Never had he been able to forget that above his head a
danger more terrible than the sword of Damocles hung, sus-
pended by a thread, which the slightest accident might break.
And now that thread had broken. Often, when considering
the possibility of such a catastrophe, he had asked himself how
he should avert it? He had formed and rejected many plans:
he had deluded himself, like all men of imagination, with in-
numerable chimerical projects, and now he found himself quite
unprepared.
Albert stood respectfully, while his father sat in his great
armorial chair, just beneath the large frame in which the
genealogical tree of the illustrious family of Rheteau de Com-
marin spread its luxuriant branches. The old gentleman com-
pletely concealed the cruel apprehensions which oppressed him.
He seemed neither irritated nor dejected ; but his eyes expressed
a haughtiness more than usually disdainful, and a self-reliance
full of contempt. "Now, vicomte," he began in a firm voice,
"explain yourself. I need say nothing to you of the position
of a father, obliged to blush before his son; you understand
it and will feel for me. Let us spare each other and try to be
calm. Tell me how did you obtain your knowledge of this
correspondence ?"
Albert had had time to recover himself and prepare for the
present struggle, as he had impatiently waited four days for
this interview. The difficulty he experienced in uttering the
first words had now given place to a dignified and proud de-
meanor. He expressed himself clearly and forcibly, without
losing himself in those details which in serious matters need-
lessly defer the real point at issue. "Sir," he replied, "on
Sunday morning a young man called here, stating that he had
business with me of the utmost importance. I received him.
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 765
He then revealed to me that I, alas! am only your natural son,
substituted, through your affection, for the legitimate child
borne you by Madame de Commarin."
"And did you not have this man kicked out of doors?" ex-
claimed the comte.
"No, sir. I was about to answer him very sharply, of course;
but, presenting me with a packet of letters, he begged me to
read them before replying.''
"Ah !" cried M. de Commarin, "you should have thrown them
into the fire, for there was a fire, I suppose? You held them
in your hands, and they still exist? Why was I not there?"
"Sir !" said Albert reproachfully. And, recalling the position
Noel had occupied against the mantelpiece, and the manner in
which he stood, he added : "Even if the thought had occurred
to me, it was impracticable. Besides, at the first glance. I
recognized your handwriting. I, therefore, took the letters
and read them." — "And then?" — "And then, sir, I returned the
correspondence to the young man, and asked for a delay of
eight days ; not to think over it myself — there was no need of
that — but because I judged an interview with you indispensable.
Now, therefore, I beseech you, tell me whether this substitution
really did take place."
"Certainly it did," replied the comte violently; "yes, certainly.
You know that it did, for you have read what I wrote to Ma-
dame Gerdy, your mother." Albert had foreseen, had expected
this reply ; but it crushed him nevertheless. There are misfor-
tunes so great that one must constantly think of them to be-
lieve in their existence. This flinching, however, lasted but
an instant. "Pardon me, sir," he replied ; "I was almost con-
vinced, but I had not received a formal assurance of it. All
the letters that I read spoke distinctly of your purpose, detailed
your plan minutely ; but not one pointed to. or in any way con-
firmed, the execution of your project."
The comte gazed at his son with a look of intense surprise.
He recollected distinctly all the letters ; and he could remember
that, in writing to Valerie, he had over and over again rejoiced
at their success, thanking her for having acted in accordance
with his wishes. "You did not go to the end of them, then,
vicomte," he said ; "you did not read them all ?"
"Every line, sir, and with an attention that you may well
understand. The last letter shown me simply announced to
Madame Gerdy the arrival of Claudine Lerouge, the nurse who
766 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
was charged with accomplishing the substitution. I know noth-
ing beyond that."
"These proofs amount to nothing," muttered the comte. "A
man may form a plan, cherish it for a long time, and at the
last moment abandon it; it often happens so." He reproached
himself for having answered so hastily. Albert had had only
serious suspicions, and he had changed them to certainty. What
stupidity ! "There can be no possible doubt," he said to him-
self; "Valerie has destroyed the most conclusive letters, those
which appeared to her the most dangerous, those I wrote after
the substitution. But why has she preserved these others, com-
promising enough in themselves? and why, after having pre-
served them, has she let them go out of her possession ?" With-
out moving, Albert awaited a word from the comte. What
would it be? No doubt the old nobleman was at that moment
deciding what he should do. "Perhaps she is dead !" said M. de
Commarin aloud. And at the thought that Valerie was dead,
without his having again seen her, he started painfully. His
heart, after more than twenty years of voluntary separation,
still suffered, so deeply rooted was this first love of his youth.
He had cursed her; at this moment he pardoned her. True,
she had deceived him; but did he not owe to her the only
years of happiness he had ever known? Had she not formed
all the poetry of his youth? Had he experienced, since leaving
her, one single hour of joy or forgetfulness ? In his present
frame of mind, his heart retained only happy memories, like
a vase which, once filled with precious perfumes, retains the
odor until it is destroyed. "Poor woman!" he murmured. He
sighed deeply. Three or four times his eyelids trembled, as if
a tear were about to fall. Albert watched him with anxious
curiosity. This was the first time since the vicomte had grown
to man's estate that he had surprised in his father's counte-
nance other emotion than ambition or pride, triumphant or
defeated.
But M. de Commarin was not the man to yield long to
sentiment. "You have not told me, vicomte," he said, "who
sent you that messenger of misfortune."
"He came in person, sir, not wishing, he told me, to mix
any others up in this sad affair. The young man was no other
than he whose place I have occupied — your legitimate son, M.
Xoel Gerdy himself."
"Yes," said the comte in a low tone, "Noel, that is his name,
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 767
I remember." And then, with evident hesitation, he added :
"Did he speak to you of his — of your mother?"
"Scarcely, sir. He only told me that he came unknown to
her ; that he had accidentally discovered the secret which he
revealed to me."
M. de Commarin asked nothing further. There was more
for him to learn. He remained for some time deep in thought.
The decisive moment had come, and he saw but one way to
escape. "Come, vicomte," he said in a tone so affectionate that
Albert was astonished, "do not stand ; sit down here by me,
and let us discuss this matter. Let us unite our efforts to shun,
if possible, this great misfortune. Confide in me, as a son should
in his father. Have you thought of what is to be done ? have
you formed any determination?"
"It seems to me, sir, that hesitation is impossible."
"In what way ?"
"My duty, father, is very plain. Before your legitimate son,
I ought to give way without a murmur, if not without regret.
Let him come. I am ready to yield to him everything that I
have so long kept from him without a suspicion of the truth —
his father's love, his fortune, and his name."
At this most praiseworthy reply the old nobleman could
scarcely preserve the calmness he had recommended to his
son in the earlier part of the interview. His face grew pur-
ple, and he struck the table with his fist more furiously than
he had ever done in his life. He, usually so guarded, so
decorous on all occasions, uttered a volley of oaths that would
not have done discredit to an old cavalry officer. "And I tell
you, sir, that this dream of yours shall never take place. No;
that it shan't. I swear it. I promise you, whatever happens,
understand, that things shall remain as they are ; because it is
my will. You are Vicomte de Commarin, and Vicomte de Com-
marin you shall remain, in spite of yourself, if necessary. You
shall retain the title to your death, or at least to mine ; for
never, while I live, shall your absurd idea be carried out."
"But, sir," began Albert timidly.
"You are very daring to interrupt me while I am speaking,
sir," exclaimed the comte. "Do I not know all your objections
beforehand? You are going to tell me that it is a revolting
injustice, a wicked robbery. I confess it, and grieve over it
more than you possibly can. Do you think that I now for the
first time repent of my youthful folly? For twenty years, sir,
768 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
I have lamented my true son; for twenty years I have cursed
the wickedness of which he is the victim. And yet I learned
how to keep silence, and to hide the sorrow and remorse which
have covered my pillow with thorns. In a single instant your
senseless yielding would render my long sufferings of no avail.
No, I will never permit it!" The comte read a reply on his
son's lips: he stopped him with a withering glance. "Do you
think," he continued, "that I have never wept over the thought
of my legitimate son passing his life struggling for a com-
petence? Do you think that I have never felt a burning desire
to repair the wrong done him? There have been times, sir,
when I would have given half of my fortune simply to embrace
that child of a wife too tardily appreciated. The fear of cast-
ing a shadow of suspicion upon your birth prevented me. I
have sacrificed myself to the great name I bear. I received it
from my ancestors without a stain. May you hand it down to
your children equally spotless ! Your first impulse was a worthy
one, generous and noble; but you must forget it. Think of
the scandal if our secret should be disclosed to the public gaze.
Can you not foresee the joy of our enemies, of that herd of
upstarts which surround us? I shudder at the thought of the
odium and the ridicule which would cling to our name. Too
many families already have stains upon their escutcheons; I
will have none on mine." M. de Commarin remained silent for
several minutes, during which Albert did not dare say a word,
so much had he been accustomed since infancy to respect the
least wish of the terrible old gentleman. "There is no possible
way out of it," continued the comte. "Can I discard you to-
morrow and present this Noel as my son, saying, 'Excuse me,
but there has been a slight mistake ; this one is the vicomte ?'
And then the tribunals will get hold of it. What does it mat-
ter who is named Benoit, Durand, or Bernard? But when one
is called Commarin, even but for a single day, one must retain
that name through life. The same moral does not do for
ever)' one ; because we have not the same duties to perform.
In our position errors are irreparable. Take courage, then, and
show yourself worthy of the name you bear. The storm is upon
you ; raise your head to meet it." Albert's impassibility contributed
not a little to increase M. de Commarin's irritation. Firm in an
unchangeable resolution, the vicomte listened like one fulfilling
a duty: and his face reflected no emotion. The comte saw that
he was not shaken. "What have you to reply?" he asked.
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 769
"It seems to me, sir, that you have no idea of all the dangers
which I foresee. It is difficult to master the revolts of con-
science."
"Indeed !" interrupted the comte contemptuously ; "your con-
science revolts, does it? It has chosen its time badly. Your
scruples come too late. So long as you saw that your inheritance
consisted of an illustrious title and a dozen or so of millions,
it pleased you. To-day the name appears to you laden with a
heavy fault, a crime, if you will ; and your conscience revolts.
Renounce this folly. Children, sir, are accountable to their
fathers ; and they should obey them. Willing or unwilling,
you must be my accomplice ; willing or unwilling, you must
bear the burden as I have borne it. And, however much you
may suffer, be assured your sufferings can never approach what
I have endured for so many years."
"Ah, sir!" cried Albert, "it is then I, the dispossessor, who
has made this trouble? is it not, on the contrary, the dis-
possessed ! It is not I whom you have to convince, it is M.
Neol Gerdy."
"Noel !" repeated the comte.
"Your legitimate son, yes, sir. You act as if the issue of
this unhappy affair depended solely upon my will. Do you
then, imagine that M. Gerdy will be so easily disposed of, so
easily silenced? And. if he should raise his voice, do you hope
to move him by the considerations you have just mentioned?"
"I do not fear him."
"Then you are wrong, sir, permit me to tell you. Suppose
for a moment that this young man has a soul sufficiently noble
to relinquish his claim upon your rank and your fortune. Is
there not the accumulated rancor of years to urge him to
oppose you? He can not help feeling a fierce resentment for
the horrible injustice of which he has been the victim. He
must passionately long for vengeance, or rather reparation."
"He has no proofs."
"He has your letters, sir."
"They are not decisive, you yourself have told me so."
"That is true, sir; and yet they convinced me, who have an
interest in not being convinced. Besides, if he needs witnesses,
he will find them."
"Who? Yourself, vicomte?"
"Yourself, sir. The day when he wishes it, you will betray
us. Suppose you were summoned before a tribunal, and that
770 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
there, under oath, you should be required to speak the truth,
what answer would you make?" M. de Commarin's face dark-
ened at this very natural supposition. He hesitated, he whose
honor was usually so great. "I would save the name of my
ancestors," he said at last. Albert shook his head doubtfully.
"At the price of a lie, my father," he said. "I never will
believe it. But let us suppose even that. He will then call
Madame Gerdy."
"Oh, I will answer for her !" cried the comte, "her interests
are the same as ours. If necessary, I will see her. Yes," he
added with an effort, "I will call on her, I will speak to her;
and I will guarantee that she will not betray us."
"And Claudine," continued the young man; "will she be
silent, too?"
"For money, yes; and I will give her whatever she asks."
"And you would trust, father, to a paid silence, as if one
could ever be sure of a purchased conscience? What is sold
to you may be sold to another. A certain sum may close
her mouth ; a larger will open it."
"I will frighten her."
"You forget, father, that Claudine Lerouge was Noel Gerdy's
nurse, that she takes an interest in his happiness, that she loves
him. How do you know that he has not already secured her
aid? She lives at Bougival. I went there, I remember, with
you. No doubt, he sees her often; perhaps it is she who put
him on the track of this correspondence. He spoke to me
of her, as though he were sure of her testimony. He almost
proposed my going to her for information."
"Alas!" cried the comte, "why is not Claudine dead instead
of my faithful Germain?"
"You see, sir," concluded Albert, "Claudine Lerouge would
alone render all your efforts useless."
"Ah, no!" cried the comte, "I shall find some expedient."
The obstinate old gentleman was not willing to give in to this
argument, the very clearness of which blinded him. The pride
of his blood paralyzed his usual practical good sense. To
acknowledge that he was conquered humiliated him, and seemed
to him unworthy of himself. He did not remember to have
met during his long career an invincible resistance or an
absolute impediment. He was like all men of imagination,
who fall in love with their projects, and who expect them to
succeed on all occasions, as if wishing hard was all that was
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 771
necessary to change their dreams into realities. Albert this
time broke the silence, which threatened to be prolonged. "I
see, sir," he said, "that you fear, above all things, the pub-
licity of this sad history; the possible scandal renders you
desperate. But, unless we yield, the scandal will be terrible.
There will be a trial which will be the talk of all Europe. The
newspapers will print the facts, accompanied by heavens knows
what comments of their own. Our name, however the trial
results, will appear in all the papers of the world. This might
be borne, if we were sure of succeeding ; but we are bound to
lose, my father, we shall lose. Then think of the exposure !
think of the dishonor branded upon us by public opinion."
"I think," said the comte, "that you can have neither respect
nor affection for me, when you speak in that way."
"It is my duty, sir, to point out to you the evils I see threat-
ening, and which there is yet time to shun. M. Noel Gerdy is
your legitimate son, recognize him, acknowledge his just pre-
tensions, and receive him. We can make the change very
quietly. It is easy to account for it, through a mistake of the
nurse, Claudine Lerouge, for instance. All parties being
agreeable, there can be no trouble about it. What is to pre-
vent the new Vicomte de Commarin from quitting Paris, and
disappearing for a time? He might travel about Europe for
four or five years ; by the end of that time, all will be forgotten,
and no one will remember me."
M. de Commarin was not listening; he was deep in thought.
"But instead of contesting, vicomte," he cried, "we might
compromise. We may be able to purchase these letters. What
does this young fellow want? A position and a fortune? I
will give him both. I will make him as rich as he can wish. I
will give him a million ; if need be, two, three — half of all
I possess. With money, you see, much money — "
"Spare him, sir; he is your son."
"Unfortunately ! and I wish him to the devil ! I will see
him, and he will agree to what I wish.. I will prove to him
the bad policy of the earthen pot struggling with the iron
kettle; and, if he is not a fool, he will understand. The
comte rubbed his hands while speaking. He was delighted
with this brilliant plan of negotiation. It could not fail to
result favorably A crowd of arguments occurred to his mind
in support of it. He would buy back again his lost rest.
But Albert did not seem to share his father's hopes. "You
772 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
will perhaps think it unkind in me, sir," said he, sadly, "to
dispel this last illusion of yours; but I mast. Do not delude
yourself with the idea of an amicable arrangement ; the awaken-
ing will only be the more painful. I have seen M. Gerdy,
my father, and he is not one, I assure you, to be intimidated.
If there is an energetic will in the world, it is his. He is truly
your son; and his expression, like yours, shows an iron reso-
lution, that may be broken but never bent. I can still hear
his voice trembling with resentment, while he spoke to me.
I can still see the dark fire of his eyes. No, he will never
accept a compromise. He will have all or nothing; and I can
not say that he is wrong. If you resist, he will attack you
without the slightest consideration. Strong in his rights, he
will cling to you with stubborn animosity. He will drag
you from court to court ; he will not stop short of utter defeat
or complete triumph." Accustomed to absolute obedience from
his son, the old nobleman was astounded at this unexpected
obstinacy. "What is your object in saying all this?" he asked.
"It is this, sir. I should utterly despise myself, if I did
not spare your old age this greatest of calamities. Your name
does not belong to me; I will take my own. I am your natural
son ; I will give up my place to your legitimate son. Permit
me to withdraw with at least the honor of having freely done
my duty. Do not force me to wait till I am driven out in dis-
grace."
"What !" cried the comte, stunned, "you will abandon me ?
You refuse to help me, you turn against me, you recognize the
rights of this man in spite of my wishes?"
Albert bowed his head. He was much moved, but still re-
mained firm. "My resolution is irrevocably taken," he replied.
"I can never consent to dispoil your son."
"Cruel, ungrateful boy!" cried M. de Commarin. His wrath
was such, that, when he found he could do nothing by abuse,
he passed at once to jeering. "But no," he continued, "you
are great, you are noble, you are generous ; you are acting after
the most approved pattern of chivalry, vicomte, I should say,
my dear M. Gerdy ; after the fashion of Plutarch's time ! So
vou give up my name and my fortune, and you leave me. You
will shake the dust from your shoes upon the threshold of my
house, and you will go out into the world. I see only one
difficulty in your way. How do you expect to live, my stoic
philosopher ? Have you a trade at your fingers' ends, like Jean
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 773
Jacques Rousseau's Emile? Or, worthy M. Gerdy, have you
learned economy from the four thousand francs a month I
allow you for waxing your mustache ? Perhaps you have made
money on the Bourse ! Then my name must have seemed
very burdensome to you to bear, since you so eagerly introduced
it into such a place ! Has dirt, then, so great an attraction for
you that you must jump from your carriage so quickly? Say,
rather, that the company of my friends embarrasses you, and
that you are anxious to go where you will be among your own
equals."
"I am very wretched, sir," replied Albert to this avalanche
of insults, "and you would crush me !"
"You wretched? Well, whose fault is it? But let us get
back to my question. How and on what will you live?"
"I am not so romantic as you are pleased to say. sir. I
must confess that, as regards the future. I have counted
upon your kindness. You are so rich, that five hundred thou-
sand francs would not materially affect your fortune; and,
on the interest of that sum, I could live quietly, if not happily."
"And suppose I refuse you this money?"
"I know you well enough, sir, to feel sure that you will
not do so. You are too just to wish that I alone should expiate
wrongs that are not of my making. Left to myself, I should
at my present age have achieved a position. It is late for me
to try and make one now ; but I will do my best."
"Superb!" interrupted the comte; "you are really superb!
One never heard of such a hero of romance. What a character !
But tell me, what do you expect from all this astonishing dis-
interestedness ?" — "Nothing, sir."
The comte shrugged his shoulders, looked sarcastically at his
son, and observed: "The compensation is very slight. And
you expect me to believe all this ! No, sir, mankind is not
in the habit of indulging in such fine actions for its pleasure
alone. You must have some reason for acting so grandly:
some reason which I fail to see." — "None but what I have
already told you."
"Therefore it is understood you intend to relinquish every-
thing: you will even abandon your proposed union with Ma-
demoiselle Claire d'Arlange? You forget that for two years
I have in vain constantly expressed my disappointment of
this marriage."
"No, sir. I have seen Mademoiselle Claire; I have explained
774 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
my unhappy position to her. Whatever happens, she has sworn
to be my wife."
"And do you think that Madame d'Arlange will give her
granddaughter to M. Gerdy?"
"We hope so, sir. The marquise is sufficiently infected with
aristocratic ideas to prefer a nobleman's bastard to the son of
some honest tradesman; but should she refuse, we would await
her death, though without desiring it." The calm manner in
which Albert said this enraged the comte. "Can this be my
son?" he cried. "Never! What blood have you then in your
veins, sir? Your worthy mother alone might tell us, provided,
however, she herself knows."
"Sir," cried Albert menacingly, "think well before you speak!
She is my mother, and that is sufficient. I am her son, not her
judge. No one shall insult her in my presence, I will not per-
mit it, sir; and I will suffer it least of all from you."
The comte made great efforts to keep his anger within bounds ;
but Albert's behavior thoroughly enraged him. What, his son
rebelled, he dared to brave him to his face, he threatened him !
The old fellow jumped from his chair, and moved toward the
young man as if he would strike him. "Leave the room," he
cried, in a voice choking with rage, "leave the room instantly !
Retire to your apartments, and take care not to leave them
without my orders. To-morrow I will let you know my de-
cision." Albert bowed respectfully, but without lowering his
eyes, and walked slowly to the door. He had already opened
it, when M. de Commarin experienced one of those revulsions
of feeling so frequent in violent natures. "Albert," said he,
"come here and listen to me." The young man turned back,
much affected by this change. "Do not go," continued the
comte, "until I have told you what I think. You are worthy
of being the heir of a great house, sir. I may be angry with
you ; but I can never lose my esteem for you. You are a noble
man, Albert. Give me your hand."
It was a happy moment for these two men, and such a one
as they had scarcely ever experienced in their lives, restrained
as they had been by cold etiquette. The comte felt proud of his
son, and recognized in him himself at that age. For a long
time their hands remained clasped, without either being able
to utter a word. At last, M. de Commarin resumed his seat.
"I must ask you to leave me, Albert," he said kindly. "I must
be alone to reflect, to try and accustom myself to this terrible
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 775
blow." And, as the young man closed the door, he added, as
if giving vent to his inmost thoughts: "If he, in whom I have
placed all my hope, deserts me, what will become of me? And
what will the other one be like?"
On leaving M. de Commarin, and while slowly mounting the
stairs which led to his apartments, Albert's thoughts reverted
to Claire. What was she doing at that moment? Thinking of
him no doubt. She knew that the crisis would come that very
evening, or the next day at the latest. She was probably
praying. Albert was thoroughly exhausted ; his head felt dizzy,
and seemed ready to burst. He rang for his servant, and
ordered some tea. "You do wrong in not sending for the doc-
tor, sir," said Lubin, his valet. "I ought to disobey you, and
send for him myself." — "It would be useless," replied Albert
sadly ; "he could do nothing for me." As the valet was leaving
the room, he added : "Say nothing about my being unwell to
any one, Lubin ; it is nothing at all. If I should feel worse, I
will ring."
At that moment, to see any one, to hear a voice, to have to
reply, was more than he could bear. He longed to be left
entirely to himself. After the painful emotions arising from
his explanations with the comte, he could not sleep. He opened
one of the library windows, and looked out. It was a beautiful
night : and there was a lovely moon. Seen at this hour, by the
mild, tremulous evening light, the gardens attached to the man-
sion seemed twice their usual size. The moving tops of the
great trees stretched away like an immense plain, hiding the
neighboring houses ; the flower-beds, set off by the green shrubs,
looked like great black patches, while particles of shell, tiny
pieces of glass, and shining pebbles sparkled in the carefully
kept walks. The horses stamped in the stable : and the rattling
of their halter chains against the bars of the manger could be
distinctly heard. In the coach-house the men were putting
away for the night the carriage, always kept ready throughout
the evening, in case the comte should wish to go out. Albert
was reminded by these surroundings of the magnificence of his
past life. He sighed deeply. "Must I, then, lose all this?"
he murmured. "I can scarcely, even for myself, abandon so
much splendor without regret; and thinking of Claire makes
it hard indeed. Have I not dreamed of a life of exceptional
happiness for her, a result almost impossible to realize without
wealth?" Midnight sounded from the neighboring church of
776 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
St. Clotilde, and as the night was chilly, he closed the window,
and sat down near the fire, which he stir.ed. In the hope of
obtaining a respite from his thoughts, he took up the evening
paper, in which was an account of the assassination at La
Jonchere ; but he found it impossible to read : the lines danced
before his eyes. Then he thought of writing to Claire. He
sat down at his desk, and wrote: "My dearly loved Claire," but
he could go no further; his distracted brain could not furnish
him with a single sentence. At last, at break of day, he threw
himself on to a sofa, and fell into a heavy sleep.
At half-past nine in the morning, he was suddenly awakened
by the noise of the door being hastily opened. A servant en-
tered, with a scared look on his face, and so out of breath from
having come up the stairs four at a time that he could scarcely
speak. "Sir," said he, "vicomte, be quick, fly and hide, save
yourself, they are here, it is the — "
A commissary of police, wearing his sash, appeared at the
door. He was followed by a number of men, among whom M.
Tabaret could be seen, keeping as much out of sight as possible.
The commissary approached Albert. "You are," he asked, "Guy
Louis Marie Albert de Rheteau de Commarin?" — "Yes, sir." —
The commissary placed his hand upon him while pronouncing
the usual formula : "M. de Commarin, in the name of the law,
I arrest you."
"Me, sir? me?" Albert, aroused suddenly from his painful
dreams, seemed hardly to comprehend what was taking place.
He seemed to ask himself: "Am I really awake? Is not this
some hideous nightmare?" He threw a stupid, astonished look
upon the commissary of police, his men, and M. Tabaret, who
had not taken his eyes off him.
"Here is the warrant," added the commissary, unfolding the
paper. Mechanically Albert glanced over it. "Claudine assassi-
nated !" he cried. Then very low, but distinct enough to be
heard by the commissary, by one of his officers, and by old
Tabaret, he added: "I am lost!"
While the commissary was making inquiries, which imme-
diately follow all arrests, the police officers spread through the
apartments, and proceeded to a searching examination of them.
They had received orders to obey M. Tabaret, and the old fel-
low guided them in their search, made them ransack drawers
and closets, and move the furniture to look underneath or be-
hind. They seized a number of articles belonging to the vicomte
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 777
—documents, manuscripts, and a very voluminous correspond-
ence; but it was with especial delight that M. Tabaret put his
hands on certain articles, which were carefully described in
their proper order in the official report: I. In the anteroom,
hung with all sorts of weapons, a broken foil was found behind
a sofa. This foil has a peculiar handle, and is unlike those
commonly sold. It is ornamented with the comte's coronet, and
the initials A. C. It has been broken at about the middle ; and
the end can not be found. When questioned, the vicomte de-
clared that he did not know what had become of the missing
end. 2. In the dressing-room, a pair of black cloth trousers
was discovered, still damp, and bearing stains of mud or rather
of mold. All one side is smeared with greenish moss, like
that which grows on walls. On the front are numerous rents ;
and one near the knee is about four inches long. These trousers
had not been hung up with the other clothes ; but appear to have
been hidden between two large trunks full of clothing. 3. In
the pocket of the above-mentioned trousers was found a pair
of lavender kid gloves. The palm of the right-hand glove bears
a large greenish stain, produced by grass or moss. The tips
of the fingers have been worn as if by rubbing. Upon the
hacks of both gloves are some scratches, apparently made by
finger-nails. 4. There were also found in the dressing-room
two pairs of boots, one of which, though clean and polished,
was still very damp ; and an umbrella recently wetted, the end
of which was still covered with a light colored mud. 5. In a
large room, called the libra.y, were found a box of cigars of
the trabucos brand, and on the mantelshelf a number of cigar-
holders in amber and meerschaum.
The last article noted down, M. Tabaret approached the com-
missary of police. "I have everything I could desire," he
whispered. — "And I have finished," replied the commissary.
"Our prisoner does not appear to know exactly how to act.
You heard what he said. He gave in at once. I suppose you
will call it lack of experience."
"In the middle of the day." replied the amateur detective in
a whisper, "he would not have been quite so crestfallen. But
early in the morning, suddenly awakened, you know — Always
arrest a person early in the morning, when he's hungry and
only half awake."
"I have questioned some of the servants. Their evidence is
rather peculiar."
778
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"Very well ; we shall see. But I must hurry off and find the
investigating magistrate, who is impatiently expecting me."
Albert was beginning to recover a little from the stupor into
which he had been plunged by the entrance of the commissary
of police. "Sir," he asked, "will you permit me to say a few
words in your presence to the Comte de Commarin? I am the
victim of some mistake, which will be very soon discovered — "
"It's always a mistake," muttered old Tabaret.
"What you ask is impossible," replied the commissary. "I
have special orders of the strictest sort. You must not hence-
forth communicate with a living soul. A cab is in waiting
below. Have the goodness to accompany me to it."
In crossing the vestibule, Albert noticed a great stir among
the servants ; they all seemed to have lost their senses. M.
Denis gave some orders in a sharp, imperative tone. Then he
thought he heard that the Comte de Commarin had been struck
down with apoplexy. After that, he remembered nothing. They
almost carried him to the cab, which drove off as fast as the
two little horses could go. M. Tabaret had just hastened away
in a more rapid vehicle.
X/r DABURON had arrived at his office in the Palais de
Wl* Justice at nine o'clock in the morning, and was waiting.
His course resolved upon, he had not lost an instant, under-
standing as well as old Tabaret the necessity for rapid action.
He had already had an interview with the public prosecutor,
and had arranged everything with the police. Besides issuing
the warrant against Albert, he had summoned the Comte de
Commarin, Madame Gerdy, Noel, and some of Albert's servants
to appear before him with as little delay as possible. He
thought it essential to question all these persons before exam-
ining the prisoner. Several detectives had started off to execute
his orders, and he himself sat in his office, like a general com-
manding an army, who sends off his aide-de-camp to begin
the battle, and who hopes that victory will crown his com-
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 779
binations. Often, at this same hour, he had sat in this office,
under circumstances almost identical. A crime had been com-
mitted, and, believing he had discovered the criminal, he had
given orders for his arrest. Was not that his duty? But he
had never before experienced the anxiety of mind which dis-
turbed him now. Many a time had he issued warrants of arrest,
without possessing even half the proofs which guided him in
the present case. He kept repeating this to himself ; and yet
he could not quiet his dreadful anxiety, which would not allow
him a moment's rest.
He wondered why his people were so long in making their
appearance. He walked up and down the room, counting the
minutes, drawing out his watch three times within a quarter
of an hour, to compare it with the clock. Every time he heard
a step in the passage, almost deserted at that hour, he moved
near the door, stopped and listened. At length some one
knocked. It was his clerk, whom he had sent for. There was
nothing particular in this man ; he was tall rather than big,
and very slim. His gait was precise, his gestures were method-
ical, and his face was as impassive as if it had been cut out of
a piece of yellow wood. He was thirty-four years of age, and
during thirteen years had acted as clerk to four investigating
magistrates in succession. He could hear the most astonishing
things without moving a muscle. His name was Constant.
He bowed to the magistrate, and excused himself for his tardi-
ness. He had been busy with some bookkeeping, which he did
every morning; and his wife had had to send after him. "You
are still in good time," said M. Daburon: "but we shall soon
have plenty of work: so you had better get your paper ready."
Five minutes later, the usher introduced M. Noel Gerdy. He
entered with an easy manner, like a barrister who was well
acquainted with the Palais, and who knew its winding ways.
He in no wise resembled, this morning, old Tabaret's friend;
still less could he have been recognized as Madame Juliette's
lover. He was entirely another being, or rather he had re-
sumed his every-day bearing. From his firm step, his placid
face, one would never imagine that, after an evening of emo-
tion and excitement, after a secret visit to his mistress, he had
passed the night by the pillow of a dying woman, and that
woman his mother, or at least one who had filled his mother's
place. What a contrast between him and the magistrate ! M.
Daburon had not slept either: but one could easily see that in
780 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
his feebleness, in his anxious look, in the dark circles about his
eyes. His shirt-front was all rumpled, anc' his cuffs were far
from clean. Carried away by the course of events, the mind
had forgotten the body. Noel's well-shaved chin, on the con-
trary, rested upon an irreproachably white cravat; his collar
did not show a crease ; his hair and his whiskers had been most
carefully brushed. He bowed to M. Daburon, and held out the
summons he had received. "You summoned me, sir," he said;
"and I am here awaiting your orders."
The investigating magistrate had met the young barrister
several times in the lobbies of the Palais ; and he knew him well
by sight. He remembered having heard M. Gerdy spoken of as
a man of talent and promise, whose reputation was fast rising.
He therefore welcomed him as a fellow workman, and invited
him to be seated. The preliminaries common in the examina-
tions of all witnesses ended ; the name, surname, age, place of
business, and so on, having been written down, the magistrate,
who had followed his clerk with his eyes while he was writing,
turned toward Noel. "I presume you know, M. Gerdy," he be-
gan, ''the matters in connection with which you are troubled
with appearing before me?"
"Yes, sir, the murder of that poor old woman at La Jon-
chere."
"Precisely," replied M. Daburon. Then, calling to mind his
promise to old Tabaret, he added: "If justice has summoned
you so promptly, it is because we have found your name often
mentioned in Widow Lerouge's papers."
"I am not surprised at that," replied the barrister : "we were
greatly interested in that poor woman, who was my nurse; and
I know that Madame Gerdy wrote to her frequently."
"Very well ; then you will give me some information about
her."
"I fear, sir, that it will be very incomplete. I knew very
little about this poor old Madame Lerouge. I was taken from
her at a very early age ; and, since I have been a man, I have
thought but little about her, except to send her occasionally
a little aid."
"You never went to visit her?"
"Excuse me. I have gone there to see her many times ; but
I remained only a few minutes. Madame Gerdy, who has often
seen her, and to whom she talked of all her affairs, could have
enlightened you much better than I."
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 781
"But," said the magistrate, "I expect shortly to see Madame
Gerdy here; she, too, must have received a summons."
"I know it, sir, but it is impossible for her to appear: she is
ill in bed." — "Seriously?" — "So seriously that you will be
obliged, I think, to give up all hope of her testimony. She
is attacked with a disease which, in the words of my friend,
Dr. Herve, never forgives. It is something like inflammation
of the brain, if I am not mistaken. It may be that her life
will be saved, but she will never recover her reason. If she
does not die, she will be insane." M. Daburon appeared greatly
vexed. "This is very annoying," he muttered. "And you
think, my dear sir, that it will be impossible to obtain any
information from her?"
"It is useless even to hope for it. She has completely lost her
reason. She was, when I left her, in such a state of utter pros-
tration that I fear she can not live through the day." — "And
when was she attacked by this illness?" — "Yesterday evening."
— "Suddenly?" — "Yes, sir; at least, apparently so, though I
myself think she has been unwell for the last three weeks at
least. Yesterday, however, on rising from dinner, after having
eaten but little, she took up a newspaper ; and, by a most un-
fortunate hazard, her eyes fell exactly upon the lines which
gave an account of this crime. She at once uttered a loud cry,
fell back in her chair, and thence slipped to the floor, murmur-
ing : 'Oh, the unhappy man, the unhappy man !' "
"The unhappy woman, you mean."
"No, sir. She uttered the words I have just repeated. Evi-
dently the exclamation did not refer to my poor nurse."
Upon this reply, so important and yet made in the most un-
conscious tone, M. Daburon raised his eyes to the witness. The
barrister lowered his head. "And then?" asked the magistrate,
after a moment's silence, during which he had taken a few
notes.
"Those words, sir, were the last spoken by Madame Gerdy.
Assisted by our servant, I carried her to her bed. The doctor
was sent for ; and since then she has not recovered conscious-
ness. The doctor — "
"It is well," interrupted M. Daburon. "Let us leave that for
the present. Do you know, sir, whether Widow Lerouge had
any enemies?" — "None that I know of, sir." — "She had no ene-
mies? Well, now tell me, does there exist to your knowledge
any one having the least interest in the death of this poor
782 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
woman?" As he asked this question the investigating magis-
trate kept his eyes fixed on Noel's, not wishing him to turn or
lower his head. The barrister started, and seemed deeply
moved. He was disconcerted ; he hesitated, as if a struggle
was going on within him. Finally, in a voice which was by
no means firm, he replied: "No, no one."
"Is that really true?" asked the magistrate, looking at him
more searchingly. "You know no one whom this crime bene-
fits, or whom it might benefit — absolutely no one?"
"I know only one thing, sir," replied Noel ; "and that is, that,
as far as I am concerned, it has caused me an irreparable
injury."
"At last," thought M. Daburon, "we have got at the letters;
and I have not betrayed poor old Tabaret. It would be too
bad to cause the least trouble to that zealous and invaluable
man." He then added aloud: "An injury to you, my dear sir?
You will, I hope, explain yourself."
Noel's embarrassment, of which he had already given some
signs, reappeared much more marked. "I am aware, sir," he
replied, "that I owe justice not merely the truth, but the whole
truth ; but there are circumstances involved so delicate that the
conscience of a man of honor sees danger in them. Besides, it
is very hard to be obliged to unveil such sad secrets, the reve-
lation of which may sometimes — " M. Daburon interrupted
with a gesture. Noel's sad tone impressed him. Knowing,
beforehand, what he was about to hear, he felt for the young
barrister. He turned to his clerk. "Constant !" said he in a
peculiar tone. This was evidently a signal; for the tall clerk
rose methodically, put his pen behind his ear, and went out in
his measured tread.
Noel appeared sensible of this kindness. His face expressed
the strongest gratitude; his look returned thanks. "I am very
much obliged to you, sir," he said with suppressed warmth, "for
your considerateness. What I have to say is very painful ; but
it will be scarcely an effort to speak before you now."
"Fear nothing," replied the magistrate; "I will only retain
of your deposition, my dear sir, what seems to me absolutely
indispensable."
"I feel scarcely master of myself, sir," began Noel; "so pray
pardon my emotion. If any words escape me that seem charged
with bitterness, excuse them; they will be involuntary. Up to
the past few days, I always believed that I was the offspring of
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 783
illicit love. My history is short. I have been honorably ambi-
tious; I have worked hard. He who has no name must make
one, you know. I have passed a quiet life, retired and austere,
as people must, who, starting at the foot of the ladder, wish to
reach the top. I worshiped her whom I believed to be my
mother; and I felt convinced that she loved me in return.
The stain of my birth had some humiliations attached to it; but
I despised them. Comparing my lot with that of so many
others, I felt that I had more than common advantages. One
day, Providence placed in my hands all the letters which my
father, the Comte de Commarin, had written to Madame Gerdy
during the time she was his mistress. On reading these letters,
I was convinced that I was not what I had hitherto believed
myself to be — that Madame Gerdy was not my mother !" And,
without giving M. Daburon time to reply, he laid before him
the facts which, twelve hours before, he had related to M.
Tabaret. It was the same story, with the same circumstances,
the same abundance of precise and conclusive details ; but the
tone in which it was told was entirely changed. When speak-
ing to the old detective, the young barrister had been emphatic
and violent ; but now, in the presence of the investigating mag-
istrate, he restrained his vehement emotions. One might im-
agine that he adapted his style to his auditors, wishing to
produce the same effect on both, and using the method which
would best accomplish his purpose. To an ordinary mind like
M. Tabaret's he used the exaggeration of anger; but to a man
of superior intelligence like M. Daburon, he employed the ex-
aggeration of restraint. With the detective he had rebelled
against his unjust lot; but with the magistrate he seemed to
bow, full of resignation, before a blind fatality. With genuine
eloquence and rare facility of expression, he related his feel-
ings on the day following the discovery — his grief, his perplex-
ity, his doubts. To support this moral certainty, some positive
testimony was needed. Could he hope for this from the comte
or from Madame Gerdy, both interested in concealing the truth ?
No. But he had counted upon that of his nurse — the poor old
woman who loved him, and who, near the close of her life,
would be glad to free her conscience from this heavy load. She
was dead now; and the letters became mere waste paper in his
hands. Then he passed on to his explanation with Madame
Gerdy, and he gave the magistrate even fuller details than he
had given his old neighbor. She had, he said, at first utterly
784 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
denied the substitution, but he insinuated that, plied with ques-
tions, and overcome by the evidence, she ha 1, in a moment of
despair, confessed all, declaring, soon after, that she would
retract and deny this confession, being resolved at all hazards
that her son should preserve his position. From this scene, in
the barrister's judgment, might be dated the first attacks of the
illness to which she was now succumbing. Noel then described
his interview with the Vicomte de Commarin. A few inac-
curacies occurred in his narrative, but so slight that it would
have been difficult to charge him with them. Besides, there
was nothing in them at all unfavorable to Albert. He insisted,
on the contrary, upon the excellent impression which that
young man had made on him. Albert had received the revela-
tion with a certain distrust, it is true, but with a noble firmness
at the same time, and, like a brave heart, was ready to bow
before the justification of right. In fact, he drew an almost
enthusiastic portrait of this rival, who had not been spoiled by
prosperity, who had left him without a look of hatred, toward
whom he felt himself drawn, and who after all was his brother.
M. Daburon listened to Noel with a most unremitting atten-
tion, without allowing a word, a movement, or a frown, to
betray his feelings. "How, sir," observed the magistrate when
the young man ceased speaking, "could you have told me that,
in your opinion, no one was interested in Widow Lerouge's
death?" The barrister made no reply. "It seems to me," con-
tinued M. Daburon, "that the Vicomte de Commarin's position
has thereby become almost impregnable. Madame Gerdy is
insane ; the comte will deny all ; your letters prove nothing. It
is evident that the crime is of the greatest service to this
young man, and that it was committed at a singularly favor-
able moment."
"Oh, sir !" cried Noel, protesting with all his energy, "this
insinuation is dreadful." The magistrate watched the barris-
ter's face narrowly. Was he speaking frankly, or was he but
playing at being generous? Could it really be that he had
never had any suspicion of this? Noel did not flinch under
the gaze, but almost immediately continued: "What reason
could this young man have for trembling, or fearing for his
position? I did not utter one threatening word, even indirectly.
I did not present myself like a man who, furious at being
robbed, demands that everything which had been taken from
him should be restored on the spot. I merely presented the
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 785
facts to Albert, saying: 'Here is the truth; what do you think
we ought to do? Be judge.'"
"And he asked you for time?"
"Yes. I had suggested his accompanying me to see Widow
Lerouge, whose testimony might dispel all doubts; he did not
seem to understand me. But he was well acquainted with her,
having visited her with the comte, who supplied her, I have
since learned, liberally with money."
"Did not this generosity appear to you very singular?" —
"No." — "Can you explain why the vicomte did not appear dis-
posed to accompany you?" — "Certainly. He had just said that
he wished, before all, to have an explanation with his father,
who was then absent, but who would return in a few days."
The truth, as all the world knows, and delights in proclaim-
ing, has an accent which no one can mistake. M. Daburon
had not the slightest doubt of his witness's good faith. Noel
continued with the ingenuous candor of an honest heart which
suspicion has never touched with its bat's Ming: "The idea of
treating at once with my father pleased me exceedingly. I
thought it so much better to wash all one's dirty linen at home,
I had never desired anything but an amicable arrangement.
With my hands full of proofs, I should still recoil from a
public trial."
"Would you not have brought an action?"
"Never, sir, not at any price. Could I," he added proudly,
"to regain my rightful name begin by dishonoring it?" This
time M. Daburon could not conceal his sincere admiration. "A
most praiseworthy feeling, sir," he said.
"I think," replied Noel, "that it is but natural. If things
came to the worst, I had determined to leave my title with
Albert. No doubt the name of Commarin is an illustrious
one, but I hope that, in ten years' time, mine will be more
known. I would, however, have demanded a large pecuniary
compensation. I possess nothing; and I have often been ham-
pered in my career by the want of money. That which Ma-
dame Gerdy owed to the generosity of my father was almost
entirely spent. My education had absorbed a great part of it;
and it was long before my profession covered my expenses.
Madame Gerdy and I live very quietly; but, unfortunately,
though simple in her tastes, she lacks economy and system ;
and no one can imagine how great our expenses have been.
But I have nothing to reproach myself with, whatever happens.
7— Vol. Ill— Gab.
786 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
At the commencement I could not keep my anger well under
control; but now I bear no ill-will. On learning of the death
of my nurse, though, I cast all my hopes into the sea."
"You were wrong, my dear sir," said the magistrate. "I
advise you to still hope. Perhaps, before the end of the day,
you will enter into possession of your rights. Justice, I will
not conceal from you, thinks she has found Widow Lerouge's
assassin. At this moment Vicomte Albert is doubtless under
arrest."
"What!" exclaimed Noel, with a sort of stupor: "I was not,
then, mistaken, sir, in the meaning of your words. I dreaded
to understand them."
"You have not mistaken me, sir," said M. Daburon. "I
thank you for your sincere straightforward explanations; they
have eased my task materially. To-morrow — for to-day my
time is all taken up — we will write down your deposition to-
gether if you like. I have nothing more to say, I believe,
except to ask you for the letters in your possession, and which
are indispensable to me."
"Within an hour, sir, you shall have them," replied Noel.
And he retired after having warmly expressed his gratitude to
the investigating magistrate.
Had he been less preoccupied, the barrister might have per-
ceived at the end of the gallery old Tabaret, who had just
arrived, eager and happy, like a bearer of great news as he
was. His cab had scarcely stopped at the gate of the Palais
de Justice before he was in the courtyard and rushing toward
the porch. To see him jumping more nimbly than a fifth-rate
lawyer's clerk up the steep flight of stairs leading to the mag-
istrate's office, one would never have believed that he was many
years on the shady side of fifty. Even he himself had forgotten
it. He did not remember how he had passed the night; he had
never before felt so fresh, so agile, in such spirits; he seemed
to have springs of steel in his limbs. He burst like a cannon-
shot into the magistrate's office, knocking up against the meth-
odical clerk in the rudest of ways, without even asking his
pardon. "Caught !" he cried while yet on the threshold, "caught,
nipped, squeezed, strung, trapped, locked ! We have got the man."
Old Tabaret, more Tirauclair than ever, gesticulated with such
comical vehemence and such remarkable contortions that even
the tall clerk smiled, for which, however, he took himself
severely to task on going to bed that night.
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 787
But M. Daburon, still under the influence of Noel's deposi-
tion, was shocked at this apparently unreasonable joy; although
he felt the safer for it. He looked severely at old Tabaret,
saying: "Hush, sir; be decent, compose yourself." At any
other time the old fellow would have felt ashamed at having
deserved such a reprimand. Now it made no impression on
him. "I can't be quiet," he replied. "Never has anything like
this been known before. All that I mentioned has been found.
Broken foil, lavender kid gloves slightly frayed, cigar-holder;
nothing is wanting. You shall have them, sir, and many other
things besides. I have a little system of my own, which appears
by no means a bad one. Just see the triumph of my method
of induction, which Gevrol ridiculed so much. I'd give a hun-
dred francs if he were only here now. But no; my Gevrol
wants to nab the man with the earrings ; he is just capable of
doing that. He is a fine fellow, this Gevrol, a famous fellow !
How much do you give him a year for his skill?"
"Come, my dear M. Tabaret," said the magistrate as soon as he
could get in a word, "be serious, if you can, and let us proceed
in order."
"Pooh!" replied the old fellow, "what good will that do?
It is a clear case now. When they bring the fellow before
you, merely show him the particles of kid taken from behind
the nails of the victim, side by side with his torn gloves, and
you will overwhelm him. I wager that he will confess all.
hie et nunc — yes, I wager my head against his ; although that's
pretty risky; for he may get off yet! Those milk-sops on the
jury are just capable of according him extenuating circum-
stances. Ah ! all those delays are fatal to justice ! Why, if all
the world were of my mind, the punishment of rascals wouldn't
take such a time ! They should be hanged as soon as caught.
That's my opinion." M. Daburon resigned himself to this
shower of words. As soon as the old fellow's excitement had
cooled down a little, he began questioning him. He even then
had great trouble in obtaining the exact details of the arrest;
details which later on were confirmed by the commissary's of-
ficial report. The magistrate appeared very surprised when he
heard that Albert had exclaimed, "I am lost !" at sight of the
warrant. "That." muttered he, "is a terrible proof against him."
"I should think so," replied old Tabaret. "In his ordinary
state he would never have allowed himself to utter such words,
for they in fact destroy him. We arrested him when he was
788 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
scarcely awake. He hadn't been in bed, but was lying in a
troubled sleep, upon a sofa, when we arrived. I took good care
to let a frightened servant run in in advance, and to follow
closely upon him myself, to see the effect. All my arrange-
ments were made. But, never fear, he will find a plausible
excuse for this fatal exclamation. By the way, I should add
that we found on the floor, near by, a crumpled copy of last
evening's 'Gazette de France,' which contained an account of
the assassination. This is the first time that a piece of news
in the papers ever helped to nab a criminal."
"Yes," murmured the magistrate, deep in thought, "yes, you
are a valuable man, M. Tabaret." Then, louder, he added: "I
am thoroughly convinced, for M. Gerdy has just this moment
left me."
"You have seen Noel !" cried the old fellow. On the instant
all his proud self-satisfaction disappeared. A cloud of anxiety
spread itself like a veil over his beaming countenance. "Noel
here," he repeated. Then he timidly added: "And does he
know?" — "Nothing," replied M. Daburon. "I had no need of
mentioning your name. Besides, had I not promised absolute
secrecy?"
"Ah, that's all right," cried old Tabaret. "And what do you
think, sir, of Noel?"
"He is, I am sure, a noble, worthy heart," said the magis-
trate : "a nature both strong and tender. The sentiments which
I heard him express here, and the genuineness of which it is
impossible to doubt, manifested an elevation of soul, unhappily,
very rare. Seldom in my life have I met with a man who so
won my sympathy from the first. I can well understand one's
pride in being among his friends."
"Just what I said ; he has precisely the same effect upon
every one. I love him as though he were my own child; and,
whatever happens, he will inherit almost the whole of my for-
tune : yes, I intend leaving him everything. My will is made,
and is in the hands of M. Baron, my notary. There is a small
legacy, too, for Madame Gerdy; but I am going to have the
paragraph that relates to that taken out at once."
"Madame Gerdy, M. Tabaret, will soon be beyond all need
of worldly goods." — "How, what do you mean? Has the
comte — "
"She is dying, and is not likely to live through the day; M.
Gerdv told me so himself."
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
'89
"Ah! heavens!" cried the old fellow, "what is that you say?
Dying? Noel will be distracted; but no; since she is not his
mother, how can it affect him ? Dying ! I thought so much of
her before this discovery. Poor humanity ! It seems as though
all the accomplices are passing away at the same time ; for I for-
got to tell you, that, just as I was leaving the Commarin man-
sion, I heard a servant tell another that the comte had fallen
down in a fit on learning the news of his son's arrest.'"
"That will be a great misfortune for M. Gerdy." — "For
Noel?" — "I had counted upon M. de Commarin's testimony to
recover for him all that he so well deserves. The comte dead,
Widow Lerouge dead, Madame Gerdy dying, or in any event
insane, who then can tell us whether the substitution alluded to
in the letters was ever carried into execution?"
"True," murmured old Tabaret ; "it is true ! And I did not
think of it. What fatality ! For I am not deceived ; I am cer-
tain that — " He did not finish. The door of M. Daburon's
office opened, and the Comte de Commarin himself appeared on
the threshold, as rigid as one of those old portraits which look
as though they were frozen in their gilded frames. The noble-
man motioned with his hand, and the two servants who had
helped him up as far as the door, retired.
TT was indeed the Comte de Commarin, though more like his
*■ shadow. His head, usually carried so high, leaned upon his
chest ; his figure was bent ; his eyes had no longer their accus-
tomed fire; his hands trembled. The extreme disorder of his
dress rendered more striking still the change which had come
over him. In one night he had grown twenty years older.
This man, yesterday so proud of never having bent to a storm,
was now completely shattered. The pride of his name Had con-
stituted his entire strength ; that humbled, he seemed utterly
overwhelmed. Everything in him gave way at once ; all his
supports failed him at the same time. His cold, lifeless gaze
revealed the dull stupor of his thoughts. He presented such
790 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
a picture of utter despair that the investigating magistrate
slightly shuddered at the sight. M. Tabaret looked frightened,
and even the clerk seemed moved.
"Constant," said M. Daburon quickly, "go with M. Tabaret,
and see if there's any news at the Prefecture."
The clerk left the room, followed by the detective, who went
away regretfully. The comte had not noticed their presence;
he paid no attention to their departure. M. Daburon offered
him a seat, which he accepted with a sad smile. "I feel so
weak," said he ; "you must excuse my sitting."
Apologies to an investigating magistrate ! What an advance
in civilization, when the nobles consider themselves subject to
the law, and bow to its decrees! Every one respects justice
nowadays, and fears it a little, even when only represented by
a simple and conscientious investigating magistrate.
"You are, perhaps, too unwell, comte," said the magistrate,
"to give me the explanations I had hoped for."
"I am better, thank you," replied M. de Commarin ; "I am
as well as could be expected after the shock I have received.
When I heard of the crime of which my son is accused, and
of his arrest, I was thunderstruck. I believed myself a strong
man; but I rolled in the dust. My servants thought me dead.
Why was it not so? The strength of my constitution, my
physician tells me, was all that saved me; but I believe that
heaven wishes me to live, that I may drink to the bitter dregs
my cup of humiliation." He stopped suddenly, nearly choked
by a flow of blood that rose to his mouth. The investigating
magistrate remained standing near the table, almost afraid to
move. After a few moments' rest, the comte found relief, and
continued : "Unhappy man that I am ! ought I not to have
expected it? Everything comes to light sooner or later. I
am punished for my great sin — pride. I thought myself out of
reach of the thunderbolt; and I have been the means of draw-
ing down the storm upon my house. Albert an assassin ! A
Vicomte de Commarin arraigned before a court of assize ! Ah,
sir, punish me also, for I alone and long ago laid the founda-
tion of this crime. Fifteen centuries of spotless fame end with
me in infamy."
M. Daburon considered Comte de Commarin's conduct un-
pardonable, and had determined not to spare him. He had ex-
pected to meet a proud, haughty noble, almost unmanageable;
and he had resolved to humble his arrogance. Perhaps the
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 791
harsh treatment he had received of old from the Marquise
d'Arlange had given him, unconsciously, a slight grudge against
the aristocracy. He had vaguely thought of certain rather
severe remarks, which were to overcome the old nobleman, and
bring him to a sense of his position. But when he found him-
self in the presence of such a sincere repentance, his indignation
changed to profound pity; and he began to wonder how he
could assuage the comte's grief.
"Write, sir," continued M. de Commarin with an exaltation
of which he did not seem capable ten minutes before — "write
my avowal and suppress nothing. I have no longer need of
mercy nor of tenderness. What have I to fear now? Is not
my disgrace public? Must not I, Comte Rheteau de Commarin,
appear before the tribunal, to proclaim the infamy of our house?
Ah ! all is lost now, even honor itself. Write, sir ; for I wish
that all the world shall know that I am the most deserving of
blame. But they shall also know that the punishment has been
already terrible, and that there was no need for this last and
awful trial." The comte stopped for a moment, to concentrate
and arrange his memory. He soon continued in a firmer voice,
and adapting his tone to what he had to say: "When I was of
Albert's age, sir, my parents made me marry, in spite of my
protestations, the noblest and purest of young girls. I made
her the most unhappy of women. I could not love her. I
cherished a most passionate love for a mistress, who had
trusted herself to me, and whom I had loved for a long time.
I found her rich in beauty, purity, and mind. Her name was
Valerie. My heart is, so to say, dead and cold in me, sir; but.
ah ! when I pronounce that name it still has a great effect upon
me. In spite of my marriage, I could not induce myself to
part from her, though she wished me to. The idea of sharing
my love with another was revolting to her. No doubt she
loved me then. Our relations continued. My wife and my
mistress became mothers at nearly the same time. This coin-
cidence suggested to me the fatal idea of sacrificing my legiti-
mate son to his less fortunate brother. I communicated this
project to Valerie. To my great surprise, she refused it with
horror. Already the maternal instinct was aroused within her;
she would not be separated from her child. I have preserved,
as a monument of my folly, the letters which she wrote to me
at that time. I reread them only last night. Ah ! why did I
not listen to both her arguments and her prayers? It was
792 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
because I was mad. She had a sort of presentiment of the
evil which overwhelms me to-day. But I came to Paris ; I had
absolute control over her. I threatened to leave her, never to
see her again. She yielded ; and my valet and Claudine Lerouge
were charged with this wicked substitution. It is, therefore,
the son of my mistress who bears the title of Vicomte de Com-
marin, and who was arrested but a short time ago."
M. Daburon had not hoped for a declaration so clear, and
above all so prompt. He secretly rejoiced for the young bar-
rister, whose noble sentiments had quite captivated him. "So,
comte" said he, "you acknowledge that M. Noel Gerdy is the
issue of your legitimate marriage, and that he alone is entitled
to bear your name?"
"Yes, sir. Alas! I was then more delighted at the success
of mv project than I should have been over the most bril-
liant victory. I was so intoxicated with the joy of having my
Valerie's child there, near me, that I forgot everything else. I
had transferred to him a part of my love for his mother; or,
rather, I loved him still more, if that be possible. The thought
that he would bear my name, that he would inherit all my
wealth, to the detriment of the other, transported me with
delight. The other I hated ; I could not even look upon him.
I do not recollect having kissed him twice. On this point
Valerie, who was very good, reproached me severely. One
thing alone interfered with my happiness. The Comtesse de
Commarin adored him whom she believed to be her son, and
always wished to have him on her knees. I can not express
what I suffered at seeing my wife cover with kisses and caresses
the child of my mistress. But I kept him from her as much as
I could : and she, poor woman ! not understanding what was
passing within me, imagined that I was doing everything to
prevent her son loving her. She died, sir, with this idea, which
poisoned her last days. She died of sorrow; but saint-like,
without a complaint, without a murmur, pardon upon her lips
and in her heart."
Though greatly pressed for time, M. Daburon did not venture
to interrupt the comte, to ask him briefly for the immediate
facts of the case. He knew that fever alone gave him this
unnatural energy, to which at any moment might succeed the
most complete prostration. He feared, if he stopped him for an
instant, that he would not have strength enough to resume.
"I did not shed a single tear," continued the comte. "What
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 793
had she been in my life? A cause of sorrow and remorse.
But God's justice, in advance of man's, was about to take a
terrible revenge. One day I was warned that Valerie was de-
ceiving me, and had done so for a long time. I could not
believe it at first; it seemed to me impossible, absurd. I would
have sooner doubted myself than her. I had taken her from
a garret, where she was working sixteen hours a day to earn
a few sous; she owed all to me. I had made her so much
a part of myself that I could not credit her being false. I
could not induce myself to feel jealous. However, I inquired
into the matter ; T had her watched ; I even acted the spy upon
her myself. I had been told the truth. This unhappy woman
had another lover, and had had him for more than ten years.
He was a cavalry officer. In coming to her house he took every
precaution. He usually left about midnight ; but sometimes he
came to pass the night, and in that case went away in the early
morning. Being stationed near Paris, he frequently obtained
leave of absence and came to visit her; and he would remain
shut up in her apartments until his time expired. One evening
my spies brought me word that he was there. I hastened to
the house. My presence did not embarrass her. She received
me as usual, throwing her arms about my neck. I thought that
my spies had deceived me ; and I was going to tell her all when
I saw upon the piano a buckskin glove, such as are worn by
soldiers. Not wishing a scene, and not knowing to what excess
my anger might carry me, I rushed out of the place without
saying a word. I have never seen her since. She wrote to
me. I did not open her letters. She attempted to force her
way into my presence, but in vain ; my servants had orders that
they dared not ignore."
Could this be the Comte de Commarin, celebrated for his
haughty coldness, for his reserve so full of disdain, who spoke
thus, who opened his whole life without restrictions, without
reserve? And to whom? To a stranger. But he was in one
of those desperate states, allied to madness, when all reflection
leaves us, when we must find some outlet to a too powerful
emotion. What mattered to him this secret, so courageously
borne for so many years? He disburdened himself of it, like
the poor man, who, weighed down by a too heavy burden,
casts it to the earth without caring where it falls, nor how
much it may tempt the cupidity of the passers-by.
"Nothing," continued he, "no, nothing, can approach to what
794 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
I then endured. My very heartstrings were bound up in that
woman. She was like a part of myself. In separating from
her, it seemed to me that I was tearing away a part of my own
flesh. I can not describe the furious passions her memory
stirred within me. I scorned her and longed for her with
equal vehemence. I hated her and I loved her. And to this
day her detestable image has been ever present to my imagina-
tion. Nothing can make me forget her. I have never con-
soled myself for her loss. And that is not all; terrible doubts
about Albert occurred to me. Was I really his father? Can
you understand what my punishment was when I thought to
myself, 'I have perhaps sacrificed my own son to the child of
an utter stranger. This thought made me hate the bastard who
called himself Commarin. To my great affection for him suc-
ceeded an unconquerable aversion. How often in those days I
struggled against an insane desire to kill him ! Since then I
have learned to subdue my aversion; but I have never com-
pletely mastered it. Albert, sir, has been the best of sons.
Nevertheless, there has always been an icy barrier between us,
which he was unable to explain. I have often been on the
point of appealing to the tribunals, of avowing all, of reclaim-
ing my legitimate heir; but regard for my rank has prevented
me. I recoiled before the scandal. I feared the ridicule or
disgrace that would attach to my name ; and yet I have not
been able to save it from infamy." The old nobleman remained
silent after pronouncing these words. In a fit of despair he
buried his face in his hands, and two great tears rolled silently
down his wrinkled cheeks. In the mean time, the door of the
room opened slightly, and the tall clerk's head appeared. M.
Daburon signed to him to enter, and then addressing M. de
Commarin, he said in a voice rendered more gentle by com-
passion : "Sir, in the eyes of heaven, as in the eyes of society,
you have committed a great sin; and the results, as you see,
are most disastrous. It is your duty to repair the evil conse-
quences of your sin as much as lies in your power." — "Such is
my intention, sir, and, may I say so? my dearest wish." — "You
doubtless understand me," continued M. Daburon. — "Yes, sir,"
replied the old man ; "yes, I understand you."
"It will be a consolation to you," added the magistrate, "to
learn that M. Noel Gerdy is worthy in all respects of the high
position that you are about to restore to him. He is a man of
great talent, better and worthier than any one I know. You
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 795
will have a son worthy of his ancestors. And, finally, no one
of your family has disgraced it, sir, for Vicomte Albert is not
a Commarin."
"No," rejoined the comte quickly, "a Commarin would be
dead at this hour; and blood washes all away."
The old nobleman's remark set the investigating magistrate
thinking profoundly. "Are you, then, sure," said he, "of the
vicomte's guilt?" M. de Commarin gave the magistrate a look
of intense surprise. "I only arrived in Paris yesterday even-
ing," he replied, "and I am entirely ignorant of all that has
occurred. I only know that justice would not proceed without
good cause against a man of Albert's rank. If you have arrested
him, it is quite evident that you have something more than
suspicion against him — that you possess positive proofs."
M. Daburon bit his lips, and for a moment could not conceal
a feeling of displeasure. He had neglected his usual prudence,
had moved too quickly. He had believed the comte's mind
entirely upset; and now he had aroused his distrust. All the
skill in the world could not repair such an unfortunate mis-
take. A witness on his guard is no longer a witness to be
depended upon ; he trembles for fear of compromising himself,
measures the weight of the questions, and hesitates as to his
answers. On the other hand, justice, in the form of a magis-
trate, is disposed to doubt everything, to imagine everything,
and to suspect everybody. How far was the comte a stranger
to the crime at La Jonchere? Although doubting Albert's pa-
ternity, he would certainly have made great efforts to save him.
His story showed that he thought his honor in peril just as
much as his son. Was he not the man to suppress, by every
means, an inconvenient witness? Thus reasoned M. Daburon.
And yet he could not clearly see how the Comte de Commarin's
interests were concerned in the matter. This uncertainty made
him very uneasy. "Sir," he asked more sternly, "when were
you informed of the discovery of your secret?"
"Last evening, by Albert himself. He spoke to me of this
sad story in a way which I now seek in vain to explain,
unless — " The comte stopped short, as if his reason had been
struck by the improbability of the supposition which he had
formed. "Unless! — " inquired the magistrate eagerly. — "Sir,"
said the comte, without replying directly, "Albert is a hero if
he is not guilty."
"Ah!" said the magistrate quickly, "have you, then, reason
796 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
to think him innocent?" M. Daburon's spite was so plainly
visible in the tone of his words that M. de Commarin could
and ought to have seen the semblance of an insult. He started,
evidently offended, and, rising, said: "I am now no more a
witness for than I was a moment ago a witness against. I
desire only to render what assistance I can to justice, in accord-
ance with my duty."
"Confound it," said M. Daburon to himself, "here I have
offended him now! Is this the way to do things, making mis-
take after mistake?"
"The facts are these," resumed the comte. "Yesterday, after
having spoken to me of these cursed letters, Albert began to
set a trap to discover the truth — for he still had doubts, Noel
Gerdy not having obtained the complete correspondence. An
animated discussion arose between us. He declared his reso-
lution to give way to Noel. I, on the other hand, was resolved
to compromise the matter, cost what it might. Albert dared to
oppose me. All my efforts to convert him to my views were
useless. Vainly I tried to touch those chords in his breast
which I supposed the most sensitive. He firmly repeated his
intention to retire in spite of me, declaring himself satisfied
if I would consent to allow him a modest competence. I again
attempted to shake him by showing him that his marriage, so
ardently looked forward to for two years, would be broken
off by this blow. He replied that he felt sure of the con-
stancy of his betrothed, Mademoiselle dArlange."
This name fell like a thunderbolt upon the ears of the in-
vestigating magistrate. He jumped in his chair. Feeling that
his face was turning crimson, he took up a large bundle of
papers from his table, and, to hide his emotion, he raised them
to his face, as though trying to decipher an illegible word.
He began to understand the difficult duty with which he was
charged. He knew that he was troubled like a child, having
neither his usual calmness nor foresight. He felt that he might
commit the most serious blunders. Why had he undertaken this
investigation? Could he preserve himself quite free from bias?
Did he think his will would be perfectly impartial? Gladly
would be put off to another time the further examination of
the comte; but could he? His conscience told him that this
would be another blunder. He renewed, then, the painful ex-
amination. "Sir," said he, "the sentiments expressed by the
vicomte are very fine, without doubt; but did he not mention
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 797
Widow Lerouge?" — "Yes," replied the comte, who appeared
suddenly to brighten, as by the remembrance of some unnoticed
circumstances — "yes, certainly." — "He must have shown you that
this woman's testimony rendered a struggle with M. Gerdy
impossible."
"Precisely, sir; and, aside from the question of duty, it was
upon that that he based his refusal to follow my wishes."
"It will be necessary, comte, for you to repeat to me very
exactly all that passed between the vicomte and yourself.
Appeal, then, I beseech you, to your memory, and try to re-
peat his own words as nearly as possible." M. de Commarin
could do so without much difficulty. For some little time a
salutary reaction had taken place within him. His blood, ex-
cited by the persistence of the examination, moved in its accus-
tomed course. His brain cleared itself. The scene of the
previous evening was admirably presented to his memory, even
to the most insignificant details. The sound of Albert's voice
was still in his ears; he saw again his expressive gestures.
As his story advanced, alive with clearness and precision, M.
Daburon's conviction became more confirmed. The magistrate
turned against Albert precisely that which the day before had
won the comte's admiration. "What wonderful acting!" thought
he. "Tabaret is decidedly possessed of second-sight. To his
inconceivable boldness this young man joins an infernal clever-
ness. The genius of crime itself inspires him. It is a miracle that
we are able to unmask him. How well everything was foreseen
and arranged? How marvelously this scene with his father
was brought about, in order to procure doubt in case of dis-
covery ? There is not a sentence which lacks a purpose, which
does not tend to ward off suspicion. What refinement of exe-
cution ? What excessive care for details ! Nothing is want-
ing, not even the great devotion of his betrothed. Has he
really informed Claire ? Probably I might find out ; but I should
have to see her again, to speak to her. Poor child ! to love
such a man ! But his plan is now fully exposed. His discus-
sion with the comte was his plank of safety. It committed
him to nothing, and gained time. He would of course raise
objections, since they would only end by binding him the more
firmly in his father's heart. He could thus make a merit of
his compliance, and would ask a reward for his weakness. And
when Noel returned to the charge, he would find himself in
presence of the comte, who would boldly deny everything,
798 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
politely refuse to have anything to do with him, and would
possibly have him driven out of the house as an impostor and
forger."
It was a strange coincidence, but yet easily explained, that M.
de Commarin, while telling his story, arrived at the same ideas
as the magistrate, and at conclusions almost identical. In fact,
why that persistence with respect to Claudine? He remem-
bered plainly, that, in his anger, he had said to his son, "Man-
kind is not in the habit of doing such fine actions for its own
satisfaction." That great disinterestedness was now explained.
When the comte had ceased speaking, M. Daburon said:
"I thank you, sir. I can say nothing positive ; but justice has
weighty reasons to believe that, in the scene which you have
just related to me, Vicomte Albert played a part previously
arranged." — "And well arranged," murmured the comte; "for
he deceived me !" He was interrupted by the entrance of
Noel, who carried under his arm a black shagreen portfolio,
ornamented with his monogram. The barrister bowed to the
old gentleman, who in his turn rose and retired politely to the
end of the room. "Sir," said Noel, in an undertone to the
magistrate, "you will find all the letters in this portfolio. I
must ask permission to leave you at once, as Madame Gerdy's
condition grows hourly more alarming."
Noel had raised his voice a little, in pronouncing these last
words; and the comte heard them. He started, and made a
great effort to restrain the question which leaped from his
heart to his lips. "You must however give me a moment, my
dear sir," replied the magistrate. M. Daburon then quitted
his chair, and, taking the barrister by the hand, led him to the
comte. "M. de Commarin," said he, "I have the honor of pre-
senting to you M. Noel Gerdy." M. de Commarin was probably
expecting some scene of this kind, for not a muscle of his
face moved ; he remained perfectly calm. Noel, on his side,
was like a man who had received a blow on the head; he stag-
gered, and was obliged to seek support from the back of a
chair. Then these two, father and son, stood face to face,
apparently deep in thought, but in reality examining one
another with mutual distrust, each striving to gather something
of the other's thoughts. M. Daburon had augured better re-
sults from this meeting, which he had been awaiting ever
since the comte's arrival. He had expected that this abrupt
presentation would bring about an intensely pathetic scene,
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 799
which would not give his two witnesses time for reflection. The
comte would open his arms ; Noel would throw himself into
them ; and this reconciliation would only await the sanction
of the tribunals, to be complete. The coldness of the one, the
embarrassment of the other, disconcerted his plans. He there-
fore thought it necessary to intervene. '"Comte," said he re-
proachfully, "remember that it was only a few minutes ago
that you admitted that M. Gerdy was your legitimate son."
M. de Commarin made no reply; to judge from his lack of
emotion, he could not have heard. So Noel, summoning all
his courage, venture to speak first. "Sir," he stammered, "I
entertain no — "
"You may call me father," interrupted the haughty old man,
in a tone which was by no means affectionate. Then addressing
the magistrate he said: "Can I be of any further use to you,
sir?"
"Only to hear your evidence read over," replied M. Daburon,
"and to sign it if you find everything correct. You can pro-
ceed, Constant," he added.
The tall clerk turned half round on his chair and commenced.
He had a peculiar way of jabbering over what he had scrawled.
He read very quickly, all at a stretch, without paying the least
attention to either full stops or commas, questions or replies,
but went on reading as long as his breath lasted. When he
could go on no longer, he took a breath, and then continued
as before. Unconsciously, he reminded one of a diver, who
every now and then raise his head above water, obtains a
supply of air, and disappears again. Noel was the only one
to listen attentively to the reading, which to unpractised ears
was unintelligible. It apprised him of many things which it
was important for him to know. At last Constant pronounced
the words, "In testimony whereof," etc., which end all official
reports in France. He handed the pen to the comte, who
signed without hesitation. The old nobleman then turned to-
ward Noel. "I am not very strong," he said ; "you must
therefore, my son," emphasizing the word, "help your father
to his carriage."
The young barrister advanced eagerly. His face brightened,
as he passed the count's arm through his own. When they
were gone M. Daburon could not resist an impulse of curiosity.
He hastened to the door, which he opened slightly; and. keep-
ing his body in the background, that he might not himself be
800 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
seen, he looked out into the passage. The comte and Noel
had not yet reached the end. They were going slowly. The
comte seemed to drag heavily and painfully along; the bar-
rister took short steps, bending slightly toward his father ; and
all his movements were marked with the greatest solicitude.
The magistrate remained watching them until they passed out
of sight at the end of the gallery. Then he returned to his
seat, heaving a deep sigh. "At least," thought he, "I have
helped to make one person happy. The day will not be en-
tirely a bad one."
But he had no time to give way to his thoughts, the hours
flew by so quickly. He wished to interrogate Albert as soon
as possible ; and he had still to receive the evidence of several
of the comte's servants, and the report of the commissary of
police charged with the arrest. The servants who had been
waiting their turn a long while, were now brought in without
delay, and examined separately. They had but little informa-
tion to give ; but the testimony of each was, so to say, a fresh
accusation. It was easy to see that all believed their master
guilty. Albert's conduct since the beginning of the fatal
week, his least words, his most insignificant movements, were
reported, commented upon, and explained. The man who
lives in the midst of thirty servants is like an insect in a glass
box under the magnifying glass of a naturalist. Not one of
his acts escapes their notice; he can scarcely have a secret of
his own; and, if they can not divine what it is, they at least
know that he has one. From morn till night, he is the point
of observation for thirty pairs of eyes, interested in studying
the slightest changes in his countenance. The magistrate ob-
tained, therefore, an abundance of those frivolous details which
seem nothing at first; but the slightest of which may, at the
trial, become a question of life or death. By combining these
depositions, reconciling them and putting them in order, M.
Daburon was able to follow his prisoner hour by hour from
the Sunday morning. Directly Noel left, the vicomte gave
orders that all visitors should be informed that he had gone
into the country. From that moment, the whole household
perceived that something had gone wrong with him, that he
was very much annoyed, or very unwell. He did not leave
his study on that day, but had his dinner brought up to him.
He ate very little — only some soup, and a very thin fillet of
sole with white wine. While eating, he said to M. Courtois,
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 801
the butler: "Remind the cook to spice the sauce a little more,
in future," and then added in a low tone, "Ah ! to what pur-
pose?" In the evening he dismissed his servants from all
duties, saying, "Go, and amuse yourselves." He expressly
warned them not to disturb him unless he rang. On
the Monday, he did not get up until noon, although usually an
early riser. He complained of a violent headache, and of
feeling sick. He took, however a cup of tea. He ordered his
brougham, but almost immediately countermanded the order.
Lubin, his valet, heard him say : "I am hesitating too much" ;
and a few moments later. "I must make up my mind." Shortly
afterward he began writing. He then gave Lubin a letter to
carry to Mademoiselle Claire d'Arlange, with orders to deliver
it only to herself or to Mademoiselle Schmidt, the governess.
A second letter, containing two thousand-frank notes, was in-
trusted to Joseph, to be taken to the vicomte's club. Joseph
no longer remembered the name of the person to whom the
letter was addressed; but it was not a person of title. That
evening, Albert only took a little soup, and remained shut up
in his room.
He rose early on the Tuesday. He wandered about the house,
as though he was in great trouble, or impatiently awaiting
something which did not arrive. On his going into the
garden, the gardener asked his advice concerning a lawn. He
replied, "You had better consult the comte upon his return."
He did not breakfast any more than the day before. About
one o'clock, he went down to the stables, and caressed, with an
air of sadness, his favorite mare. Norma. Stroking her neck,
he said, "Poor creature! poor old girl!" At three o'clock, a
messenger arrived with a letter. The vicomte took it, and
opened it hastily. He was then near the flower-garden. Two
footmen distinctly heard him say. "She can not resist." He
returned to the house, and burned the letter in a large stove
in the hall. As he was sitting down to dinner, at six o'clock,
two of his friends, M. de Courtivois and the Marquis de
Chouze. insisted upon seeing him, in spite of all orders. They
would not be refused. These gentlemen were anxious for
him to join them in some pleasure party, but he declined,
saying that he had a very important appointment. At dinner
he ate a little more than on the previous days. He even asked
the butler for a bottle of Chateau-Lafite. the whole of which
he drank himself. While taking his coffee, he smoked a cigar
302 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
in the dining-room, contrary to the rules of the house. At
half-past seven, according to Joseph and two footmen, or at
eight according to the Swiss porter and Lubin, the vicomte
went out on foot, taking an umbrella with him. He returned
home at two o'clock in the morning, and at once dismissed
his valet, who had waited up for him. On entering the vicomte's
room on the Wednesday, the valet was struck with the con-
dition in which he found his master's clothes. They were
wet, and stained with mud; the trousers were torn. He
ventured to make a remark about them. Albert replied, in a
furious manner, "Throw the old things in a corner, ready to
be given away." He appeared to be much better all that day.
He breakfasted with a good appetite ; and the butler noticed
that he was in excellent spirits. He passed the afternoon in
the library, and burned a pile of papers. On the Thursday, he
again seemed very unwell. He was scarcely able to go and
meet the comte. That evening, after his interview with his
father, he went to his room looking extremely ill. Lubin
wanted to run for the doctor ; he forbade him to do so, or to
mention to any one that he was not well.
Such was the substance of twenty large pages, which the
tall clerk had covered with writing, without once turning
his head to look at the witnesses who passed by in their fine
livery. M. Daburon managed to obtain this evidence in less
than two hours. Though well aware of the importance of their
testimony, all these servants were very voluble. The difficulty
was, to stop them when they had once started. From all they
said, it appeared that Albert was a very good master — easily
served, kind and polite to his servants. Wonderful to relate !
there were found three among them who did not appear per-
fectly delighted at the misfortune which had befallen the family.
Two were greatly distressed. M. Lubin, although he had been
an object of especial kindness, was not one of these.
The turn of the commissary of police had now come. In a
few words, he gave an account of the arrest, already described
by old Tabaret. He did not forget to mention the one word
"Lost," which had escaped Albert; to his mind, it was a con-
fession. He then delivered all the articles seized in the Vicomte
de Commarin's apartments. The magistrate carefully examined
these things, and compared them closely with the scraps of
evidence gathered at La Jonchere. He soon appeared, more
than ever satisfied with the course he had taken. He then
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
803
placed all these material proofs upon his table, and covered
them over with three or four large sheets of paper. The day
was far advanced ; and M. Daburon had no more than sufficient
time to examine the prisoner before night. He now re-
membered that he had tasted nothing since morning; and he
sent hastily for a bottle of wine and some biscuits. It was not
strength, however, that the magistrate needed ; it was courage.
All the while that he was eating and drinking, his thoughts
kept repeating this strange sentence, "I am about to appear
before the Vicomte de Commarin." At any other time, he
would have laughed at the absurdity of the idea, but, at this
moment, it seemed to him like the will of Providence.
"So be it," said he to himself; "this is my punishment."
And immediately he gave the necessary orders for Vicomte
Albert to be brought before him.
ALBERT scarcely noticed his removal from home to the
.. seclusion of the prison. Snatched away from his painful
thoughts by the harsh voice of the commissary, saying, "In
the name of the law I arrest you," his mind, completely upset,
was a long time in recovering its equilibrium. Everything
that followed appeared to him to float indistinctly in a thick
mist, like those dream-scenes represented on the stage behind
a quadruple curtain of gauze. To the questions put to him
he replied, without knowing what he said. Two police agents
took hold of his arms, and helped him down the stairs. He
could not have walked down alone. His limbs, which bent
beneath him, refused their support. The only thing he under-
stood of all that was said around him was that the comte had
been struck with apoplexy; but even that he soon forgot. They
lifted him into the cab, which was waiting in the court-yard
at the foot of the steps, rather ashamed at finding itself in such
a place; and by placing him on the back seat. Two
police agents installed themselves in front of him; while a
third mounted the box by the side of the driver. During the
804 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
drive, he did not at all realize his situation. He lay perfectly
motionless in the dirty, greasy vehicle. His body, which fol-
lowed every jolt, scarcely allayed by the worn-out springs,
rolled from one side to the other; and his head oscillated on
his shoulders, as if the muscles of his neck were broken. He
thought of Widow Lerouge. He recalled her as she was when
he went with his father to La Jonchere. It was in the spring-
time; and the hawthorn blossoms scented the air. The old
woman, in a white cap, stood at her garden gate; she spoke
beseechingly. The count looked sternly at her as he listened;
then, taking some gold from his purse, he gave it to her.
On arriving at their destination they lifted him out of the
cab, the same way as they had lifted him in at starting. Dur-
ing the formality of entering his name in the jail book, in the
dingy, stinking record office, and while replying mechanically
to everything, he gave himself up with delight to recollections
of Claire. He went back to the time of the early days of their
love, when he doubted whether he would ever have the hap-
piness of being loved by her in return ; when they used to meet
at Mademoiselle Goello's. This old maid had a house on the
left bank of the Seine, furnished in the most eccentric manner.
On all the drawing-room furniture, and on the mantelpiece,
were placed a dozen or fifteen stuffed dogs, of various breeds,
which together or successively had helped to cheer the maiden's
lonely hours. She loved to relate stories of these pets, whose
affection had never failed her. Some were grotesque, others
horrible. One especially, outrageously stuffed, seemed ready
to burst. How many times he and Claire had laughed at it
until the tears came !
The officials next began to search him. This crowning
humiliation, those rough hands passing all over his body,
brought him somewhat to himself, and roused his anger.
But it was already over; they at once dragged him along the
dark corridors, over the filthy, slippery floor. They opened a
door, and pushed him into a small cell. He then heard them
lock and bolt the door. He was a prisoner, and, in accordance
with special orders, in solitary confinement. He immediately
felt a marked sensation of comfort. He was alone. No more
stifled whispers, harsh voices, implacable questions, sounded
in his ears. A profound silence reigned around. It seemed
to him that he had forever escaped from society ; and he re-
joiced at it. He would have felt relieved, had this even been
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 805
the silence of the grave. H,is body, as well as his mind, was
weighted down with weariness. He wanted to sit down, when
he perceived a small bed, to the right, in front of the grated
window, which let in the little light there was. This bed was
as welcome to him as a plank would be to a drowning man.
He threw himself upon it, and lay down with delight ; but he
felt cold, so he unfolded the coarse woolen coverlid, and wrap-
ping it about him, was soon sound asleep.
In the corridor, two detectives, one still young, the other
rather old, applied alternately their eyes and ears to the peep-
hole in the door, watching every movement of the prisoner:
"What a fellow he is !" murmured the younger officer. "If a
man has no more nerve than that, he ought to remain honest.
He won't care much about his looks the morning of his execu-
tion, eh, M. Balan?" — "That depends," replied the other. "We
must wait and see. Lecoq told me that he was a terrible ras-
cal." — "Ah ! look, he arranges his bed and lies down. Can he
be going to sleep? That's good! It's the first time I ever saw
such a thing." — "It is because, comrade, you have only had
dealings with the smaller rogues. All rascals of position — and
I have had to do with more than one — are this sort. At the
moment of arrest, they are incapable of anything; their heart
fails them ; but they recover themselves next day." — "Upon my
word, one would say he has gone to sleep ! What a joke !" —
"I tell you, my friend," added the old man, pointedly, "that
nothing is more natural. I am sure that, since the blow was
struck, this young fellow has hardly lived: his body has been
all on fire. Now he knows that his secret is out; and that
quiets him." — "Ha, ha! M. Balan, you are joking: you say that
that quiets him?" — "Certainly. There is no greater punish-
ment, remember, than anxiety; everything is preferable. If
you only possessed an income of ten thousand francs, I would
show you a way to prove this. I would tell you to go to
Hamburg and risk your entire fortune on one chance at rouge
et noir. You could relate to me, afterward, what your feelings
were while the ball was rolling. It is, my boy, as though your
brain was being torn with pincers, as though molten lead was
being poured into your bones, in place of marrow. This anx-
iety is so strong that one feels relieved, one breathes again,
even when one has lost. It is ruin; but then the anxiety is
over." — "Really, M. Balan, one would think that you yourself
had had just such an experience." — "Alas !" sighed the old de-
806 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
tective, "it is to my love, queen of spades, my unhappy love,
that you owe the honor of looking through this peep-hole in
my company. But this fellow will sleep for a couple of hours,
do not lose sight of him; I am going to smoke a cigarette in
the courtyard."
Albert slept four hours. On awaking his head seemed
clearer than it had been ever since his interview with Noel. It
was a terrible moment for him when, for the first time, he
became fully aware of his situation. "Now, indeed," said he,
"I require all my courage." He longed to see some one, to
speak, to be questioned, to explain. He felt a desire to call
out. "But what good would that be?" he asked himself. "Some
one will be coming soon." He looked for his watch, to see
what time it was, and found that they had taken it away. He
felt this deeply; they were treating him like the most aban-
doned of villains. He felt in his pockets : they had all been
carefully emptied. He thought now of his personal appearance ;
and, getting up, he repaired as much as possible the disorder
of his toilet. He put his clothes in order, and dusted them;
he straightened his collar, and retied his cravat. Then pouring
a little water on his handkerchief, he passed it over his face,
bathing his eyes, which were greatly inflamed. Then he en-
deavored to smooth his beard and hair. He had no idea that
four lynx eyes were fixed upon him all the while.
"Good !" murmured the young detective : "see how our cock
sticks up his comb, and smooths his feathers !"
"I told you," put in Balan, "that he was only staggered.
Hush ! he is speaking, I believe."
But they neither surprised one of those disordered gestures
nor one of those incoherent speeches, which almost always es-
cape from the feeble when excited by fear, or from the impru-
dent ones who believe in the discretion of their cells. One
word alone, "honor," reached the ears of the two spies. "These
rascals of rank," grumbled Balan, "always have this word in
their mouths. That which they most fear is the opinion of
some dozen friends, and several thousand strangers, who read
the 'Gazette des Tribunaux.' They only think of their own
heads later on."
When the gendarmes came to conduct Albert before the in-
vestigating magistrate, they found him seated on the side of
his bed, his feet pressed upon the iron rail, his elbows on his
knees, and his head buried in his hands. He rose as they en-
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 807
tered, and took a few steps toward them ; but his throat was
so dry that he was scarcely able to speak. He asked for a
moment, and, turning toward the little table, he filled and drank
two large glassfuls of water in succession. "I am ready !" he
then said. And, with a firm step, he followed the gendarmes
along the passage which led to the Palais de Justice.
M. Daburon was just then in great anguish. He walked furi-
ousry up and down his office, awaiting the prisoner. Again,
and for the twentieth time since morning, he regretted having
engaged in the business. "Curse this absurd point of honor,
which I have obeyed," he inwardly exclaimed. "I in vain at-
tempt to reassure myself by the aid of sophisms. I was wrong
in not withdrawing. Nothing in the world can change my feel-
ings toward this young man. I hate him. I am his judge; and
it is no less true that at one time I longed to assassinate him.
I faced him with a revolver in my hand : why did I not present
it and fire? Do I know why? What power held my finger,
when an almost insensible pressure would have sufficed to kill
him? I can not say. Why is not he the judge and I the
assassin ? If the intention was as punishable as the deed, I
ought to be guillotined. And it is under such conditions that
I dare examine him !" Passing before the door he heard the
heavy footsteps of the gendarmes in the passage. "It is he,"
he said aloud; and then hastily seated himself at his table,
bending over his portfolios, as though striving to hide himself.
If the tall clerk had used his eyes, he would have noticed the
singular spectacle of an investigating magistrate more agitated
than the prisoner he was about to examine. But he was blind
to all around him; and, at this moment, he was only aware of
an error of fifteen centimes, which had slipped into his ac-
counts, and which he was unable to rectify. Albert entered
the magistrate's office with his head erect. His features bore
traces of great fatigue and of sleepless nights. He was very
pale; but his eyes were clear and sparkling.
The usual questions which open such examinations gave M.
Daburon an opportunity to recover himself. Fortunately, he
had found time in the morning to prepare a plan, which he had
now simply to follow. "You are aware, sir," he commenced
in a tone of perfect politeness, "that you have no right to the
name you bear?"
"I know, sir," replied Albert, "that I am the natural son of
M. de Commarin. I know further that my father would be
808 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
unable to recognize me, even if he wished to, since I was born
during his married life."
"What were your feelings upon learning this?''
"I should speak falsely, sir, if I had said I did not feel very
bitterly. When one is in the high position I occupied, the fall
is terrible. However, I never for a moment entertained the
thought of contesting M. Noel Gerdy's rights. I always pur-
posed, and still purpose, to yield. I have so informed M. de
Commarin."
M. Daburon expected just such a reply: and it only strength-
ened his suspicions. Did it not enter into the line of defense
which he had foreseen? It was now his duty to seek some way
of demolishing this defense, in which the prisoner evidently
meant to shut himself up like a tortoise in its shell. "You
could not oppose M. Gerdy,'' continued the magistrate, "with
any chance of success. You had, indeed, on your side, the
comte, and your mother; but M. Gerdy was in possession of
evidence that was certain to win his cause, that of Widow
Lerouge." — "I have never doubted that, sir." — "Now," con-
tinued the magistrate, seeking to hide the look which he fas-
tened upon Albert, "justice supposes that, to do away with the
only existing proof, you have assassinated Widow Lerouge."
This terrible accusation, terribly emphasized, caused no
change in Albert's features. He preserved the same firm bear-
ing, without bravado. "Before God," he answered, "and by all
that is most sacred on earth, I swear to you, sir, that I am
innocent ! I am at this moment a close prisoner, without com-
munication with the outer world, reduced consequently to the
most absolute helplessness. It is through your probity that I
hope to demonstrate my innocence."
"What an actor!" thought the magistrate. "Can crime be
so strong as this?" He glanced over his papers, reading certain
passages of the preceding depositions, turning down the corners
of certain pages which contained important information. Then
suddenly he resumed : "When you were arrested, you cried out :
T am lost.' What did you mean by that?"
"Sir," replied Albert, "I remember having uttered those
words. When T knew of what crime I was accused, I was
overwhelmed with consternation. My mind was, as it were,
enlightened by a glimpse of the future. In a moment, I per-
ceived all the horror of my situation. I understood the weight
of the accusation, its probability, and the difficulties I should
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 809
have in defending myself. A voice cried out to me: 'Who was
most interested in Claudine's death ?' And the knowledge of
my imminent peril forced from me the exclamation you
speak of."
His explanation was more than plausible, was possible, and
even likely. It had the advantage, too, of anticipating the
axiom: "Search out the one whom the crime will benefit!"
Tabaret had spoken truly, when he said that they would not
easily make the prisoner confess. M. Daburon admired Al-
bert's presence of mind, and the resources of his perverse
imagination.
"You do indeed," continued the magistrate, "appear to have
had the greatest interest in this death. Moreover, I will inform
you that robbery was not the object of the crime. The things
thrown into the Seine have been recovered. We know, also,
that all the widow's papers were burned. Could they compro-
mise any one but yourself? If you know of any one, speak." —
"What can I answer, sir? Nothing." — "Have you often gone
to see this woman ?" — "Three or four times with my father." —
"One of your coachmen pretends to have driven you there at
least ten times." — "The man is mistaken. But what matters the
number of visits?" — "Do you recollect the arrangements of the
rooms ? Can you describe them ?" — "Perfectly, sir : there were
two. Claudine slept in the back room." — "You were in no way
a stranger to Widow Lerouge. If you had knocked one evening
at her window-shutter, do you think she would have let you
in ?" — "Certainly, sir. and eagerly." — "You have been unwell
these last few days?" — "Very unwell, to say the least, sir.
My body bent under the weight of a burden too great for my
strength. It was not, however, for want of courage." — "Why
did you forbid your valet, Lubin, to call in the doctor?" — "Ah,
sir, how could the doctor cure my disease? All his science
could not make me the legitimate son of the Comte de Com-
marin." — "Some very singular remarks made by you were over-
heard. You seemed to be no longer interested in anything con-
cerning your home. You destroyed a large number of papers
and letters." — "I had decided to leave the comte, sir. My reso-
lution explains my conduct."
Albert replied promptly to the magistrate's questions, with-
out the least embarrassment, and in a confident tone. His voice,
which was very pleasant to the ear, did not tremble. It con-
cealed no emotion; it retained its pure and vibrating sound
8 — Vol. Ill- Gab.
810 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
M. Daburon deemed it wise to suspend the examination for a
short time. With so cunning an adversary, he was evidently
pursuing a false course. To proceed in detail was folly; he
neither intimidated the prisoner, nor made him break through
his reserve. It was necessary to take him unawares.
"Sir," resumed the magistrate, abruptly, "tell me exactly how
you passed your time last Tuesday evening, from six o'clock
until midnight?"
For the first time, Albert seemed disconcerted. His glance,
which had, till then, been fixed upon the magistrate, wavered.
"During Tuesday evening," he stammered, repeating the phrase
to gain time.
"I have him," thought the magistrate, starting with joy, and
then added aloud: "Yes, from six o'clock until midnight."
"I am afraid, sir," answered Albert, "it will be difficult for
me to satisfy you. I haven't a very good memory."
"Oh, don't tell me that!" interrupted the magistrate. "If I
had asked what you were doing three months ago, on a certain
evening, and at a certain hour, I could understand your hesita-
tion; but this is about Tuesday, and it is now Friday. More-
over, this day, so close, was the last of the carnival; it was
Shrove Tuesday. That circumstance ought to help your
memory."
"That evening I went out walking," murmured Albert. —
"Now," continued the magistrate, "where did you dine?" —
"At home, as usual." — "No, not as usual. At the end of
your meal, you asked for a bottle of Bordeaux, of which you
drank the whole. You doubtless had need of some extra excite-
ment for your subsequent plans." — "I had no plans," replied the
prisoner with very evident uneasiness. — "You make a mistake.
Two friends came to seek you. You replied to them, before sit-
ting down to dinner, that you had a very important engage-
ment to keep." — "That was only a polite way of getting rid of
them." — "Why?" — "Can you not understand, sir? I was re-
signed, but not comforted. I was learning to get accustomed
to the terrible blow. Would not one seek solitude in the great
crisis of one's life?" — "The prosecution pretends that you
wished to be left alone that you might go to La Jonchere.
During the day you said : 'She can not resist me.' Of whom
were you speaking?" — "Of some one to whom I had written the
evening before, and who had replied to me. I spoke the words,
with her letter still in my hands." — "This letter was, then,
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 811
from a woman?" — "Yes." — "What have you done with it?" —
"I have burned it." — "This precaution leads one to suppose that
you considered the letter compromising." — "Not at all, sir; it
treated entirely of private matters."
M. Daburon was sure that this letter came from Mademoi-
selle d'Arlange. Should he nevertheless ask the question, and
again hear pronounced the name of Claire, which always
aroused such painful emotions within him ? He ventured to do
so, leaning over his papers, so that the prisoner could not detect
his emotion. "From whom did this letter come?" he asked.
"From one whom I can not name."
"Sir," said the magistrate severely, "I will not conceal from
you that your position is greatly compromised. Do not aggra-
vate it by this culpable reticence. You are here to tell every-
thing, sir."
"My own affairs, yes, not those of others."
Albert gave this last answer in a dry tone. He was giddy,
flurried, exasperated, by the prying and irritating mode of the
examination, which scarcely gave him time to breathe. The
magistrate's questions fell upon him more thickly than the blows
of the blacksmith's hammer upon the red-hot iron which he is
anxious to beat into shape before it cools. The apparent rebel-
lion of his prisoner troubled M. Daburon a great deal. He was
further extremely surprised to find the discernment of the old
detective at fault; just as though Tabaret were infallible. Taba-
ret had predicted an unexceptionable alibi ; and this alibi was
not forthcoming. Why? Had this subtle villain something bet-
ter than that? What artful defense had he to fall back upon?
Doubtless he kept in reserve some unforeseen stroke, perhaps
irresistible. "Gently," thought the magistrate. "I have not got
him yet." Then he quickly added aloud : "Continue. After
dinner what did you do?" — "I went out for a walk." — "Not im-
mediately. The bottle emptied, you smoked a cigar in the
dining-room, which was so unusual as to be noticed. What
kind of cigars do you usually smoke?" — "Trabucos." — "Do you
not use a cigar-holder, to keep your lips from contact with the
tobacco?" — "Yes, sir," replied Albert, much surprised at this
series of questions. — "At what time did you go out?" — "About
eight o'clock." — "Did you carry an umbrella?" — "Yes." —
"Where did you go?" — "I walked about." — "Alone, without any
object, all the evening?" — "Yes, sir." — "Now trace out your
wanderings for me very carefully."
812 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"Ah, sir, that is very difficult to do ! I went out simply to
walk about, for the sake of exercise, to drive away the torpor
which had depressed me for three days. I don't know whether
you can picture to yourself my exact condition. I was half
out of my mind. I walked about at hazard along the quays. I
wandered through the streets — "
"All that is very improbable," interrupted the magistrate. M.
Daburon, however, knew that it was at least possible. Had not
he himself, one night, in a similar condition, traversed all
Paris? What reply could he have made, had some one asked
him next morning where he had been, except that he had not
paid attention, and did not know ? But he had forgotten this ;
and his previous hesitations, too, had all vanished. As the in-
quiry advanced, the fever of investigation took possession of
him. He enjoyed the emotions of the struggle, his passion for
his calling became stronger than ever. He was again an inves-
tigating magistrate, like the fencing master, who, once practis-
ing with his dearest friend, became excited by the clash of the
weapons, and, forgetting himself, killed him.
"So," resumed M. Daburon, "you met absolutely no one who
can affirm that he saw you ? You did not speak to a living
soul ? You entered no place, not even a cafe, or a theatre, or
a tobacconist's to light one of your favorite trabucos?"
"No sir."
"Well, it is a great misfortune for you, yes, a very great
misfortune; for I must inform you that it was precisely during
this Tuesday evening, between eight o'clock and midnight, that
Widow Lerouge was assassinated. Justice can point out the
exact hour. Again, sir, in your own interest, I recommend you
to reflect — to make a strong appeal to your memory."
This pointing out of the exact day and hour of the murder
seemed to astound Albert. He raised his hand to his forehead
with a despairing gesture. However, he replied in a calm
voice : "I am very unfortunate, sir : but I can recollect nothing."
M. Daburon's surprise was immense. What, not an alibi?
Nothing? This could be no snare nor system of defense. Was,
then, this man as cunning as he had imagined? Doubtless.
Only he had been taken unawares. He had never imagined it
possible for the accusation to fall upon him ; and it was almost
by a miracle it had done so. The magistrate slowly raised, one
by one, the large pieces of paper that covered the articles seized
in Albert's rooms. "We will pass," he continued, "to the ex-
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 813
amination of the charges which weigh against you. Will you
please come nearer? Do you recognize these articles as be-
longing to yourself?" — "Yes, sir, they are all mine." — "Well,
take this foil. Who broke it?" — "I, sir, in fencing with M. de
Courtivois, who can bear witness to it." — "He will be heard.
Where is the broken end?" — "I do not know. You must ask
Lubin, my valet."' — "Exactly. He declares that he has hunted
for it, and can not find it. I must tell you that the victim re-
ceived the fatal blow from the sharpened end of a broken foil.
This piece of stuff, on which the assassin wiped his weapon, is
a proof of what I state." — "I beseech you, sir, to order a most
minute search to be made. It is impossible that the other half
of the foil is not to be found." — "Orders shall be given to that
effect. Look, here is the exact imprint of the murderer's foot
traced on this sheet of paper. I will place one of your boots
upon it j and the sole, as you perceive, fits the tracing with the
utmost precision. This plaster was poured into the hollow left
by the heel : you observe that it is, in all respects, similar in
shape to the heels of your own boots. I perceive, too, the mark
of a peg, which appears in both."
Albert followed with marked anxiety every movement of the
magistrate. It was plain that he was struggling against a
growing terror. Was he attacked by that fright which over-
powers the guilty when they see themselves on the point of
being confounded. To all the magistrate's remarks, he an-
swered in a low voice: "It is true — perfectly true."
"That is so," continued M. Daburon; "yet listen further,
before attempting to defend yourself. The criminal had an
umbrella. The end of this umbrella sank in the clayey soil ; the
round of wood which is placed at the end of the silk was found
molded in the clay. Look at this clod of clay, raised with the
utmost care; and now look at your umbrella. Compare the
rounds. Are they alike, or not?"
"These things, sir," attempted Albert, "are manufactured in
large quantities."
"Well, we will pass over that proof. Look at this cigar
end, found on the scene of the crime, and tell me of what
brand it is. and how it was smoked."
"It is a trabucos, and was smoked in a cigar-holder."
"Like these?" persisted the magistrate, pointing to the cigar-
and the amber and meerschaum-holders found in the vicomte's
library.
814 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"Yes!" murmured Albert, "it is a fatality — a strange coin-
cidence."
"Patience; that is nothing, as yet. The assassin wore gloves.
The victim, in the death struggle, seized his hands; and some
pieces of kid remained in her nails. These have been pre-
served, and are here. They are of a lavender color, are they
not? Now, here are the gloves which you wore on Tuesday.
They, too, are lavender, and they are frayed. Compare these
pieces of kid with your own gloves. Do they not correspond?
Are they not of the same color, the same skin ?" It was useless
to deny it, equivocate, or seek subterfuges. The evidence was
there, and it was irrefutable. While appearing to occupy him-
self solely with the objects lying upon his table, M. Daburon
did not lose sight of the prisoner. Albert was terrified. A cold
perspiration bathed his temples, and glided drop by drop down
his cheeks. His hands trembled so much that they were of no
use to him. In a choking voice he kept repeating: "It is hor-
rible, horrible !"
"Finally," pursued the inexorable magistrate, "here are the
trousers you wore on the evening of the murder. It is plain
that not long ago they were very wet; and, besides the mud on
them, there are traces of earth. Besides that, they are torn
at the knees. We will admit, for the moment, that you might
not remember where you went on that evening; but who would
believe that you do not know where you tore your trousers
and how you frayed your gloves !"
What courage could resist such assaults? Albert's firmness
and energy were at an end. His brain whirled. He fell heavily
into a chair, exclaiming: "It is enough to drive me mad!"
"Do you admit," insisted the magistrate, whose gaze had
become firmly fixed upon the prisoner, "do you admit that
Widow Lerouge could only have been stabbed by you?"
"I admit," protested Albert, "that I am the victim of one of
those terrible fatalities which make men doubt the evidence of
their reason. I am innocent."
"Then tell me where you passed Tuesday evening."
"Ah, sir!" cried the prisoner, "I should have to — " But,
restraining himself, he added in a faint voice: "I have made
the only answer that I can make."
M. Daburon rose, having now reached his grand stroke. "It
is, then, my duty," said he, with a shade of irony, "to supply
your failure of memory. I am going to remind you of where
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR «lo
you went and what you did. On Tuesday evening, at eight
o'clock, after having obtained from the wine you drank the
dreadful energy you needed, you left your home. At thirty-
five minutes past eight, you took the train at the St. Lazare
station. At nine o'clock, you alighted at the station at Reuil."
And, not disdaining to employ old Tabar^t's ideas, the investi-
gating magistrate repeated nearly word for word the tirade
improvised the night before by the amateur detective. He had
every reason, while speaking, to admire the old fellow's pene-
tration. In all his life, his eloquence had never produced so
striking an effect. Every sentence, every word, told. The
prisoner's assurance, already shaken, fell little by little, just like
the outer coating of a wall when riddled with bullets. Albert
was, as the magistrate perceived, like a man, who, rolling to
the bottom of a precipice, sees every branch and every projec-
tion which might retard his fall fail him, and who feels a new
and more painful bruise each time his body comes in contact
with them.
"And now," concluded the investigating magistrate, "'listen
to good advice: do not persist in a system of denying, impos-
sible to sustain. Give in. Justice, rest assured, is ignorant of
nothing which it is important to know. Believe me ; seek to
deserve the indulgence of your judges; confess your guilt."
M. Daburon did not believe that his prisoner would still per-
sist in asserting his innocence. He imagined he would be
overwhelmed and confounded, that he would throw himself at
his feet, begging for mercy. But he was mistaken. Albert,
in spite of his great prostration, found, in one last effort of
his will, sufficient strength to recover himself and again protest :
"You are right, sir," he said in a sad but firm voice; "every-
thing seems to prove me guilty. In your place, I should have
spoken as you have done ; yet all the same, I swear to you that
I am innocent."
"Come now, do you really — " began the magistrate.
"I am innocent," interrupted Albert ; "and I repeat it, with-
out the least hope of changing in any way your conviction.
Yes, everything speaks against me, everything, even my own
bearing before you. It is true, my courage has been shaken by
these incredible, miraculous, overwhelming coincidences. I am
overcome, because I feel the impossibility of proving my inno-
cence. But I do not despair. My honor and my life are in the
hands of God. At this very hour when to you I appear lost —
816 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
for I in no way deceive myself, sir — I do not despair of a com-
plete justification. I await confidently."
"What do you mean?" asked the magistrate. — "Nothing but
what I say, sir." — "So you persist in denying your guilt?" — "I
am innocent." — "But this is folly." — "I am innocent. — "Very
well," said M. Daburon ; "that is enough for to-day. You will
hear the official report of your examination read, and will then
be taken back to solitary confinement. I exhort you to reflect.
Night will perhaps bring on a better feeling; if you wish at
any time to speak to me, send word, and I will come to you.
I will give orders to that effect. You may read now, Constant."
When Albert had departed under the escort of the gendarmes,
the magistrate muttered in a low tone : "There's an obstinate
fellow for you." ' He certainly no longer entertained the shadow
of a doubt. To him, Albert was as surely the murderer as if
he had admitted his guilt. Even if he should persist in his
system of denial to the end of the investigation, it was impos-
sible that, with the proofs already in the possession of the
police, a true bill should not be found against him. He was
therefore certain of being committed for trial at the assizes. It
was a hundred to one that the jury would bring in a verdict of
guilty. Left to himself, however, M. Daburon did not expe-
rience that intense satisfaction, mixed with vanity, which he
ordinarily felt after he had successfully conducted an examina-
tion, and had succeeded in getting his prisoner into the same
position as Albert. Something disturbed and shocked him. At
the bottom of his heart, he felt ill at ease. He had triumphed;
but his victory gave him only uneasiness, pain, and vexation.
A reflection so simple that he could hardly understand why it
had not occurred to him at first increased his discontent, and
made him angry with himself. "Something told me," he mut-
tered, "that I was wrong to undertake this business. I am
punished for not having obeyed that inner voice. I ought to
have declined to proceed with the investigation. The Vicomte
de Commarin was, all the same, certain to be arrested, impris-
oned, examined, confounded, tried, and probably condemned.
Then, being in no way connected with the trial, I could have
reappeared before Claire. Her grief will be great. As her
friend, I could have soothed her, mingled my tears with hers,
calmed her regrets. With time, she might have been consoled,
and perhaps have forgotten him. She could not have helped
feeling grateful to me, and then who knows — ? While now,
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 817
whatever may happen, I shall be an object of loathing to her:
she will never be able to endure the sight of me. In her eyes
I shall always be her lover's assassin. I have with my own
hands opened an abyss between her and myself which cen-
turies could not fill up. I have lost her a second time, and by
my own fault." The unhappy man heaped the bitterest re-
proaches upon himself. He was in despair. He had never so
hated Alhert — that wretch, who, stained with a crime, stood in
the way of his happiness. Then, too. he cursed old Tabaret !
Alone, he would not have decided so quickly. He would have
waited, thought over the matter, matured his decision, and
certainly have perceived the inconveniences which now occurred
to him. The old fellow, always carried away like a badly
trained bloodhound, and full of stupid enthusiasm, had con-
fused him, and led him to do what he now so much regretted.
It was precisely this unfavorable moment that M. Tabaret
chose for reappearing before the magistrate. He had just been
informed of the termination of the inquiry ; and he arrived,
impatient to know what had passed, swelling with curiosity, and
full of the sweet hope of hearing of the fulfilment of his pre-
dictions. "What answers did he make ?" he asked even before
he had closed the door.
"He is evidently guilty," replied the magistrate, with a harsh-
ness very different from his usual manner. Old Tabaret, who
expected to receive praises by the basketful, was astounded at
this tone ! It was, therefore, with great hesitancy that he offered
his further services. "I have come," he said modestly, "to know
if any investigations are necessary to demolish the alibi pleaded
by the prisoner."
"He pleaded no alibi," replied the magistrate, dryly. — "How,"
cried the detective, "no alibi? Pshaw! I ask pardon: he has,
of course, then confessed everything."
"No," said the magistrate impatiently, "he has confessed
nothing. He acknowledges that the proofs are decisive : he
can not give an account of how he spent his time ; but he pro-
tests his innocence." In the centre of the room, M. Tabaret
stood with his mouth wide open, and his eyes staring wildly, and
altogether in the most grotesque attitude his astonishment could
effect. He was literally thunderstruck. In spite of his anger.
M. Daburon could not help smiling: and even Constant gave a
grin, which on his lips was equivalent to a paroxysm of laugh-
ter. "Not an alibi, nothing?" murmured the old fellow. "N«
818 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
explanations? The idea! It is inconceivable! Not an alibi?
We must then be mistaken : he can not be the criminal. That
is certain !"
The investigating magistrate felt that the old amateur must
have been waiting the result of the examination at the wine-
shop round the corner, or else that he had gone mad. "Unfor-
tunately," said he, "we are not mistaken. It is but too clearly
shown that M. de Commarin is the murderer. However, if you
like, you can ask Constant for his report of the examination,
and read it over while I put these papers in order." — "Very
well," said the old fellow with feverish anxiety. He sat down
in Constant's chair, and, leaning his elbows on the table, thrust-
ing his hands in his hair, he in less than no time read the re-
port through. When he had finished, he arose with pale and
distorted features. "Sir," said he to the magistrate in a strange
voice, "I have been the involuntary cause of a terrible mistake.
This man is innocent."
"Come, come," said M. Daburon, without stopping his prep-
arations for departure, "you are going out of your mind, my
dear M. Tabaret. How, after all that you have read there,
can —
"Yes, sir, yes: it is because I have read this that I entreat
you to pause, or we shall add one more mistake to the sad list
of judicial errors. Read this examination over carefully; there
is not a reply but which declares this unfortunate man innocent,
not a word but which throws out a ray of light. And he is
still in prison, still in solitary confinement?"
"He is ; and there he will remain, if you please," interrupted
the magistrate. "It becomes you well to talk in this manner,
after the way you spoke last night, when I hesitated so much."
"But, sir," cried the old detective, "I still say precisely the
same. Ah, wretched Tabaret ! all is lost ; no one understands
you. Pardon me, sir, if I lack the respect due to you ; but you
have not grasped my method. It is, however, very simple.
Given a crime, with all the circumstances and details, I con-
struct, bit by bit, a plan of accusation, which I do not guarantee
until it is entire and perfect. If a man is found to whom this
plan applies exactly in every particular the author of the crime
is found: otherwise, one has laid hands upon an innocent per-
son. It is not sufficient that such and such particulars seem
to point to him; it must be all or nothing. This is infallible.
Now, in this case, how have I reached the culprit? Through
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 819
proceeding by inference from the known to the unknown. I
have examined his work; and I have formed an idea of the
worker. Reason and logic lead us to what? To a villain, de-
termined, audacious, and prudent, versed in the business. And
do you think that such a man would neglect a precaution that
would not be omitted by the stupidest tyro? It is inconceivable.
What ! this man is so skilful as to leave such feeble traces that
they escape Gevrol's practised eye, and you think he would
risk his safety by leaving an entire night unaccounted for? It's
impossible ! I am as sure of my system as of a sum that has
been proved. The assassin has an alibi. Albert has pleaded
none ; then he is innocent."
M. Daburon surveyed the detective pityingly, much as he
would have looked at a remarkable monomaniac. When the
old fellow had finished: "My worthy M. Tabaret," the magis-
trate said to him: "you have but one fault. You err through
an excess of subtlety, accord too freely to others the wonderful
sagacity with which you yourself are endowed. Our man has
failed in prudence, simply because he believed his rank would
place him above suspicion."
"No, sir, no, a thousand times no. My culprit — the true one
— he whom we have missed catching, feared everything. Be-
sides, does Albert defend himself? No. He is overwhelmed
because he perceives coincidences so fatal that they appear to
condemn him, without a chance of escape. Does he try to
excuse himself? No. He simply replies: 'It is terrible.' And
yet all through his examination I feel reticence that I can not
explain."
"I can explain it very easily ; and I am as confident as though
he had confessed everything. I have more than sufficient proofs
for that."
"Ah, sir, proofs ! There are always enough of those against
an arrested man. They existed against every innocent man
who was ever condemned. Proofs ! Why, I had them in quan-
tities against Kaiser, the poor little tailor, who — "
"Well," interrupted the magistrate, hastily, "if it is not he,
the most interested one, who committed the crime, who then
is it? His father, the Comte de Commarin?"
"No; the true assassin is a young man."
M. Daburon had arranged his papers and finished his prep-
arations. He took up his hat, and, as he prepared to leave,
replied : "You must then see that I am right ! Come, good-by,
820
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
M. Tabaret, and make haste and get rid of all your foolish
ideas. To-morrow we will talk the whole matter over again.
I am rather tired to-night." Then he added, addressing his
clerk, "Constant, look in at the record office, in case the pris-
oner Commarin should wish to speak to me." He moved toward
the door; but M. Tabaret barred his exit. "Sir," said the old
man, "in the name of heaven, listen to me ! He is innocent,
I swear to you. Help me, then, to find the real culprit. Sir,
think of your remorse should you cause an — " But the mag-
istrate would not hear more. He pushed old Tabaret quickly
aside and hurried out. The old man now turned to Constant.
He wished to convince him. Lost trouble: the tall clerk has-
tened to put his things away, thinking of his soup, which was
getting cold. So that M. Tabaret soon found himself locked
out of the room and alone in the dark passage. All the usual
sounds of the Palais had ceased : the place was silent as the
tomb. The old detective desperately tore his hair with both
hands. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "Albert is innocent; and it is I
who have cast suspicion upon him. It is I, fool that I am, who
have infused into the obstinate spirit of this magistrate a con-
viction that I can no longer destroy. He is innocent, and is
yet enduring the most horrible anguish. Suppose he should
commit suicide ! There have been instances of wretched men
who. in despair at being falsely accused, have killed themselves
in their cells. Poor boy ! But I will not abandon him. I have
ruined him: I will save 'iim ! I must, I will, find the culprit;
and he shall pay dearly for. my mistake, the scoundrel!"
A FTER seeing the Comte de Commarin safely in his carriage
at the entrance of the Palais de Justice, Noel Gerdy seemed
inclined to leave him. Resting one hand against the half-
opened carriage door, he bowed respectfully, and said : "When,
sir, shall I have the honor of paying my respects to you?"
"Come with me now," said the old nobleman.
The barrister, still leaning forward, muttered some excuses.
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 821
He had, he said, important business : he must positively return
home at once. "Come," repeated the comte in a tone which
admitted of no reply. Noel obeyed. "You have found your
father," said M. de Commarin in a low tone; "but I must warn
you that at the same time you lose your independence."
The carriage started ; and only then aid the comte notice
that Noel had very modestly seated himself opposite him. This
humility seemed to displease him greatly. "Sit here by my side,
sir," he exclaimed ; "are you not my son ?"
The barrister, without replying, took his seat by the side of
the terrible old man, but occupied as little room as possible.
He had been very much upset by his interview with M. Dabu-
ron, for he retained none of his usual assurance, none of that
exterior coolness by which he was accustomed to conceal his
feelings. Fortunately, the ride gave him time to breathe and
to recover himself a little. On the way from the Palais de
Justice to the De Commarin mansion not a word passed be-
tween the father and son. When the carriage stopped before
the steps leading to the principal entrance, and the comte got
out with Noel's assistance, there was great commotion among
the servants. There were, it is true, few of them present,
nearly all having been summoned to the Palais ; but the comte
and the barrister had scarcely disappeared when, as if by en-
chantment, they were all assembled in the hall. They came
from the garden, the stables, the cellar, and the kitchen. Nearly
all bore marks of their calling. A young groom appeared with
his wooden shoes filled with straw, shuffling about on the mar-
ble floor like a mangy dog on a Gobelin tapestry. One of them
recognized Noel as the visitor of the previous Sunday : and
that was enough to set fire to all these gossip-mongers thirst-
ing for scandal.
Since morning, moreover, the unusual events at the De Com-
marin mansion had caused a great stir in society. A thousand
stories were circulated, talked over, corrected, and added to
by the ill-natured and malicious — some abominably absurd,
others simply idiotic. Twenty people, very noble and still more
proud, had not been above sending their most intelligent ser-
vants to pay a little visit among the comte's retainers, for the
sole purpose of learning something positive. As it was, nobody
knew anything; and yet everybody pretended to be fully in-
formed. Let any one explain who can this very common phe-
nomenon: A crime is committed; justice arrives, wrapped in
822 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
mystery ; the police are still ignorant of almost everything ; and
yet details of the most minute character are already circulated
about the streets.
"So," said a cook, "that tall dark fellow with the whiskers
is the comte's true son !" — "You are right," said one of the
footmen who had accompanied M. de Commarin; "as for the
other, he is no more his son than Jean here ; who, by the way,
Will be kicked out of doors if he is caught in this part of the
house with his dirty working-shoes on." — "What a romance !"
exclaimed Jean, supremely indifferent to the danger which
threatened him. "Such things constantly occur in great fam-
ilies," said the cook. "How ever did it happen?" — "Well, you
see, one day, long ago, when the comtesse who is now dead
was out walking with her little son, who was about six months
old, the child was stolen by gipsies. The poor lady was full
of grief ; but, above all, was greatly afraid of her husband, who
was not overkind. What did she do? She purchased a brat
from a woman who happened to be passing; and, never having
noticed his child, the comte has never known the difference."
— "But the assassination !" — "That's very simple. When the
woman saw her brat in such a nice berth, she bled him finely,
and has kept up a system of blackmailing all along. The
vicomte had nothing left for himself. So he resolved at last
to put an end to it, and come to a final settling with her." —
"And the other, who is up there, the dark fellow?"
The orator would have gone on, without doubt, giving the
most satisfactory explanations of everything if he had not been
interrupted by the entrance of M. Lubin, who came from the
Palais in company of young Joseph. His success, so brilliant up
to this time, was cut short, just like that of a second-rate singer
when the star of the evening comes on the stage. The entire
assembly turned toward Albert's valet, all eyes questioning him.
He, of course, knew all ; he was the man they wanted. He did
not take advantage of his position and keep them waiting.
"What a rascal !" he exclaimed at first. "What a villainous
fellow is this Albert !" He entirely did away with the "M."
and "Vicomte," and met with general approval for doing so.
"However," he added, "I always had my doubts. The fellow
didn't please me by half. You see now to what we are exposed
every day in our profession, and it is dreadfully disagreeable.
The magistrate did not conceal it from me. 'M. Lubin,' said
he, 'it is very sad for a man like you to have waited on such
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 823
a scoundrel.' For you must know that, besides an old woman
over eighty years old, he also assassinated a young girl of
twelve. The little child, the magistrate told me, was chopped
into bits."
"Ah !" put in Joseph, "he must have been a great fool. Do
people do those sort of things themselves when they are rich,
and when there are so many poor devils who only ask to gain
their living?"
"Pshaw!" said M. Lubin in a knowing tone; "you will see
him come out of it as white as snow. These rich men can do
anything."
"Anyhow," said the cook, "I'd willingly give a month's wages
to be a mouse, and to listen to what the comte and the tall
dark fellow are talking about. Suppose some one went up and
tried to find out what is going on."
This proposition did not meet with the least favor. The
servants knew by experience that, on important occasions, spy-
ing was worse than useless. M. de Commarin knew all about
servants from infancy. His study was, therefore, a shelter from
all indiscretion. The sharpest ear placed at the keyhole could
hear nothing of what was going on within, even when the mas-
ter was in a passion and his voice loudest. One alone, Denis,
the comte's valet, had the opportunity of gathering informa-
tion; but he was well paid to be discreet, and he was so. At
this moment M. de Commarin was sitting in the same arm-
chair on which the evening before he had bestowed such furi-
ous blows while listening to Albert. As soon as he left his
carriage, the old nobleman recovered his haughtiness. He
became even more arrogant in his manner than he had been
humble when before the magistrate, as though he were ashamed
of what he now considered an unpardonable weakness. He
wondered how he could have yielded to a momentary impulse,
how his grief could have so basely betrayed him. At the re-
membrance of the avowals wrested from him by a sort of
delirium, he blushed and reproached himself bitterly. The same
as Albert the night before, Noel, having fully recovered him-
self, stood erect, cold as marble, respectful, but no longer hum-
ble. The father and son exchanged glances which had nothing
of sympathy or friendliness. They examined one another,
they almost measured each other, much as two adversaries
feel their way with their eyes before encountering with their
weapons.
824 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
*'Sir," said the comte at length in a harsh voice, "henceforth
this house is yours. From this moment you are the Vicomte
de Commarin; you regain possession of all the rights of which
you were deprived. Listen before you thank me. I wish, at
once, to relieve you of all misunderstanding. Remember this
well, sir ; had I been master of the situation, I would never
have recognized you : Albert should have remained in the posi-
tion in which I placed him."
"I understand you, sir," replied Noel. "I don't think that
I could ever bring myself to do an act like that by which you
deprived me of my birthright; but I declare that, if I had the
misfortune to do so, I should afterward have acted as you have.
Your rank was too conspicuous to permit a voluntary acknowl-
edgment. It was a thousand times better to suffer an injustice
to continue in secret than to expose the name to the comments
of the malicious."
This answer surprised the comte, and very agreeably too.
But he would not let his satisfaction be seen, and it was in
a still harsher voice that he resumed. "I have no claim, sir,
upon your affection ; I do not ask for it, but I insist at all
times upon the utmost deference. It is traditional in our house
that a son shall never interrupt his father when he is speak-
ing; that you have just been guilty of. Neither do children
judge their parents: that also you have just done. When I was
forty years of age my father was in his second childhood ; but
1 do not remember ever having raised my voice above his.
This said, I continue. I provided the necessary funds for the
expenses of Albert's household completely, distinct from my
own, for he had his own servants, horses, and carriages ; and
besides that I allowed the unhappy boy four thousand francs a
month. I have decided, in order to put a stop to all foolish
gossip, and to make your position the easier, that you should
live on a grander scale ; this matter concerns myself. Further,
I will increase your monthly allowance to six thousand francs,
which I trust you will spend as nobly as possible, giving the
least possible cause for ridicule. I can not too strongly exhort
you to the utmost caution. Keep close watch over yourself.
Weigh your words well. Study your slightest actions. You
will be the point of observation of the thousands of imperti-
nent idlers who compose our world ; your blunders will be their
delight. Do you fence ?"— "Moderately well."— "That will do!
Do you ride ?" — "No ; but in six months I will be a good horse-
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 825
man, or break my neck." — "You must become a horseman, and
not break anything. Let us proceed. You will, of course, not
occupy Albert's apartments. They will be walled off as soon as
I am free of the police. Thank heaven ! the house is large.
You will occupy the other wing: and there will be a separate
entrance to your apartments by another staircase. Servants,
horses, carriages, furniture, such as become a vicomte, will be
at your service, cost what it may, within forty-eight hours.
On the day of your taking possession, you must look as though
you had been installed there for years. There will be a great
scandal, but that can not be avoided. A prudent father might
send you away for a few months to the Austrian or Russian
courts, but in this instance such prudence would be absurd.
Much better a dreadful outcry, which ends quickly, than low
murmurs which last forever. Dare public opinion ; and in eight
days it will have exhausted its comments, and the story will
have become old. So to work ! This very evening the work-
men shall be here; and, in the first place, I must present you
to my servants."
To put his purpose into execution, the comte moved to touch
the bell-rope. Noel stopped him. Since the commencement of
this interview the barrister had wandered in the regions of
the thousand and one nights, the wonderful lamp in his hand.
The fairy reality cast into the shade his wildest dreams. He
was dazzled by the comte's words, and had need of all his
reason to struggle against the giddiness which came over him
on realizing his great good fortune. Touched by a magic wand,
he seemed to awake to a thousand novel and unknown sensa-
tions. He rolled in purple and bathed in gold. But he knew
how to appear unmoved. His face had contracted the habit of
guarding the secret of the most violent internal excitement.
While all his passions vibrated within him. he appeared to
listen with a sad and almost indifferent coldness. "Permit me,
sir," he said to the comte, "without overstepping the bounds
of the utmost respect, to say a few words. I am touched more
than I can express by your goodness ; and yet I beseech you to
delay its manifestation. The proposition I am about to suggest
may perhaps appear to you worthy of consideration. It seems
to me that the situation demands the greatest delicacy on my
part. It is well to despise public opinion, but not to defy it.
I am certain to be judged with the utmost severity. If I install
myself so suddenly in your house, what will be said? I shall
826 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
have the appearance of a conqueror, who thinks little, so long
as he succeeds, of passing over the body of the conquered. They
will reproach me with occupying the bed still warm from
Albert's body. They will jest bitterly at my haste in taking
possession. They will certainly compare me to Albert, and
the comparison will be to my disadvantage, since I should
appear to triumph at a time when a great disaster has fallen
upon our house." The comte listened without showing any
signs of disapprobation, struck perhaps by the justice of these
reasons. Noel imagined that his harshness was much more
feigned than real; and this idea encouraged him.
"I beseech you then, sir," he continued, "to permit me for
the present in no way to change my mode of living. By not
showing myself, I leave all malicious remarks to waste them-
selves in air — I let public opinion the better familiarize itself
with the idea of a coming change. There is a great deal in
not taking the world by surprise. Being expected, I shall not
have the air of an intruder on presenting myself. Absent, I
shall have the advantages which the unknown always possess;
I shall obtain the good opinion of all those who have envied
Albert ; and I shall secure as champions all those who would
to-morrow assail me if my elevation came suddenly upon them.
Besides, by this delay, I shall accustom myself to my abrupt
change of fortune. I ought not to bring into your world, which
is now mine, the manners of a parvenu. My name ought not
to inconvenience me, like a badly fitting coat."
"Perhaps it would be wisest," murmured the comte.
This assent, so easily obtained, surprised Noel. He got the
idea that the comte had only wished to prove him, to tempt
him. In any case, whether he had triumphed by his eloquence,
or whether he had simply shunned a trap, he had succeeded.
His confidence increased ; he recovered all his former assurance.
"I must add, sir." he continued, "that there are a few matters
concerning myself which demand my attention. Before enter-
ing upon my new life, I must think of those I am leaving behind
me. I have friends and clients. This event has surprised me.
just as I am beginning to reap the reward of ten years of hard
work and perseverance. I have as yet only sown ; I am on the
point of reaping. My name is already known ; I have ob-
tained some little influence. I confess, without shame, that I
have heretofore professed ideas and opinions that would not be
suited to this house; and it is impossible in the space of a day — "
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 827
"Ah !" interrupted the conite in a bantering tone, "you are
a liberal. It is a fashionable disease. Albert also was a great
liberal."
"My ideas, sir," said Noel quickly, " were those of every in-
telligent man who wishes to succeed. Besides, have not all
parties one and the same aim — power? They merely take dif-
ferent means of reaching it. I will not enlarge upon this sub-
ject. Be assured, sir, that I shall know how to bear my name,
and think and act as a man of my rank should."
"I trust so," said M. de Commarin ; "and I hope that you
will never make me regret Albert."
"At least, sir, it will not be my fault. But since you have
mentioned the name of that unfortunate young man, let us
occupy ourselves about him."
The comte cast a look of distrust upon Noel. "What can
now be done for Albert ?" he asked. — "What, sir !" cried Noel
with ardor, "would you abandon him when he has not a friend
left in the world? He is still your son, sir; he is my brother;
for thirty years he has borne the name of Commarin. All the
members of a family are jointly liable. Innocent, or guilty, he
has a right to count upon us ; and we owe him our assistance."
"What do you, then, hope for, sir?" asked the comte.
"To save him if he is innocent; and I love to believe that
he is. I am a barrister, sir, and I wish to defend him. I have
been told that I have some talent ; in such a cause I must have.
Yes, however strong the charges against him may be, I will
overthrow them. I will dispel all doubts. The truth shall
burst forth at the sound of my voice. I will find new accents
to imbue the judges with my own conviction. I will save him.
and this shall be my last cause."
"And if he should confess," said the comte; "if he has already
confessed ?"
"Then, sir," replied Noel with a dark look, "I will render
him the last service, which in such a misfortune I should
ask of a brother; I will procure him the means of avoiding
judgment."
"That is well spoken, sir," said the comte; "very well.
my son !"
And he held out his hand to Noel, who pressed it, bowing a
respectful acknowledgment. The barrister took a long breath.
At last he had found the way to this haughty noble's heart;
he had conquered, he had pleased him.
828 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"Let us return to yourself, sir," continued the comte. "I
yield to the reasons which you have suggested. All shall be
done as you desire. But do not consider this a precedent. I
never change my plans, even though they are proved to be bad
and contrary to my interests. But at least nothing prevents
your remaining here from to-day and taking your meals with
me. We will, first of all, see where you can be lodged until
you formally take possession of the apartments which are to
be prepared for you."
Noel had the hardihood to again interrupt the old nobleman.
"Sir," said he, "when you bade me follow you here, I obeyed
you, as was my duty. Now another and a sacred duty calls me
away. Madame Gerdy is at this moment dying. Ought I to
leave the deathbed of her who filled my mother's place?"
"Valerie !" murmured the comte. He leaned upon the arm of
his chair, his face buried in his hands; in one moment the
whole past rose up before him. "She has done me great harm,"
he murmured, as if answering his thoughts. "She has ruined
my whole life; but ought I to be implacable? She is dying
from the accusation which is hanging over Albert our son. It
was I who was the cause of it all. Doubtless, in this last hour,
a word from me would be a great consolation to her. I will
accompany you, sir."
Noel started at this unexpected proposal. "Oh, sir !" said
he hastily, "spare yourself, pray, a heartrending sight. Your
going would be useless. Madame Gerdy exists probably still,
but her mind is dead. Her brain was unable to resist so vio-
lent a shock. The unfortunate woman would neither recognize
nor understand you."
"Go then alone," sighed the comte ; "go, my son !"
The words "my son," pronounced with a marked emphasis,
sounded like a note of victory in Noel's ears. He bowed to
take his leave. The comte motioned him to wait. "In any
case," he said, "a place at table will be set for you here. I dine
at half-past six precisely. I shall be glad to see you." He
rang. His valet appeared. "Denis," said he, "none of the
orders I may give will affect this gentleman. You will tell
this to all the servants. This gentleman is at home here."
The barrister took his leave ; and the comte felt great comfort
in being once more alone. Since morning events had followed
one another with such bewildering rapidity that his thoughts
could scarcely keep pace with them. At last he was able to
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 829
reflect. "That, then," said he to himself, "is my legitimate son.
I am sure of his birth at any rate. Besides I should be fool-
ish to disown him, for I find him the exact picture of myself
at thirty. He is a handsome fellow, Noel, very handsome. His
features are decidedly in his favor. He is intelligent and acute.
He knows how to be humble without loweiing himself, and firm
without arrogance. His unexpected good fortune does not turn
his head. I augur well of a man who knows how to bear
himself in prosperity. He thinks well; he will carry his title
proudly. And yet I feel no sympathy with him; it seems to
me that I shall always regret my poor Albert. I never knew
how to appreciate him. Unhappy boy ! To commit such a vile
crime ! He must have lost his reason. I do not like the look
of this one's eye. They say that he is perfect. He expresses,
at least, the noblest and most appropriate sentiments. He is
gentle and strong, magnanimous, generous, heroic. He is with-
out malice, and is ready to sacrifice himself to repay me for
what I have done for him. He forgives Madame Gerdy ; he
loves Albert. It is enough to make one distrust him. But all
young men nowadays are so. Ah ! we live in a happy age.
Our children are born free from all human shortcomings.
They have neither the vices, the passions, nor the tempers of
their fathers ; and these precocious philosophers, models of
sagacity and virtue, are incapable of committing the least folly.
Alas ! Albert, too, was perfect ; and he has assassinated Clau-
dine! What will this one do? — All the same," he added,
half-aloud, "I ought to have accompanied him to see Valerie !"
And, although the barrister had been gone at least a good ten
minutes, M. de Commarin, not realizing how the time had
passed, hastened to the window, in the hope of seeing Noel in
the courtyard and calling him back.
But Noel was already far away. On leaving the house he
took a cab in the Rue de Bourgogne, and was quickly driven to
the Rue St. J^azare. On reaching his own door he threw rather
than gave five francs to the driver, and ran rapidly up the four
flights of stairs. "Who has called to see me ?" he asked of the
servant. — "No one, sir." He seemed relieved from a great
anxiety, and continued in a calmer tone: "And the doctor?" —
"He came this morning, sir," replied the girl, "while you were
out ; and he did not seem at all hopeful. He came again just
now, and is still here." — "Very well. I will go and speak to him.
If any one calls, show them into my study, and let me know."
830 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
On entering Madame Gerdy's chamber, Noel saw at a glance
that no change for the better had taken place during his ab-
sence. With fixed eyes and convulsed features, the sick woman
lay extended upon her back. She seemed dead, save for the
sudden starts, which shook her at intervals, and disarranged the
bedclothes. Above her head was placed a little vessel, filled
with ice-water, which fell drop by drop upon her forehead,
covered with large bluish spots. The table and mantelpiece
were covered with little pots, medicine bottles, and half-
emptied glasses. At the foot of the bed a rag stained with
blood showed that the doctor had just had recourse to leeches.
Near the fireplace, where was blazing a large fire, a nun of the
order of St. Vincent de Paul was kneeling, watching a sauce-
pan. She was a young woman, with a face whiter than her
cap. Her immovably placid features, her mournful look, be-
tokened the renunciation of the flesh, and the abdication of all
independence of thought. Her heavy gray costume hung about
her in large ungraceful folds. Every time she moved, her long
chaplet of beads and colored box-wood, loaded with crosses and
copper medals, shook and trailed along the floor with a noise
like a jingling of chains.
Dr. Herve was seated on a chair opposite the bed, watching,
apparently with close attention, the nun's preparations. He
jumped up as Noel entered. "At last you are here," he said,
giving his friend a strong grasp of the hand.
"I was detained at the Palais," said the barrister, as if he
felt the necessity of explaining his absence ; "and I have been,
as you may well imagine, dreadfully anxious." He leaned
toward the doctor's ear, and in a trembling voice asked : "Well,
is she at all better?"
The doctor shook his head with an air of deep discourage-
ment. "She is much worse," he replied: "since morning bad
symptoms have succeeded each other with frightful rapidity."
He checked himself. The barrister had seized bis arm and
was pressing it with all his might. Madame Gerdy stirred a
little, and a feeble groan escaped her. "She heard you," mur-
mured Noel. — "I wish it were so," said the doctor; "it would
be most encouraging. But I fear you are mistaken. How-
ever, we will see. He went up to Madame Gerdy, and. while
feeling her pulse, examined her carefully; then, with the tip
of his finger, he lightly raised her eyelid. The eye appeared
dull, glassy, lifeless. "Come, judge for yourself; take her hand,
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 831
speak to her." Noel, trembling all over, did as his friend
wished. He drew near, and, leaning over the bed, so that his
mouth almost touched the sick woman's ear, he murmured :
"Mother, it is I, Noel, your own Noel. Speak to me, make
some sign; do you hear me, mother?" It was in vain; she
retained her frightful immobility. Not a sign of intelligence
crossed her features. "You see," said the doctor, "I told you
the truth." — "Poor woman!" sighed Noel, "does she suffer?" —
"Not at present." The nun now rose ; and she too came beside
the bed. "Doctor," said she, "all is ready."
"Then call the servant, sister, to help us. We are going to
apply a mustard poultice." The servant hastened in. In the
arms of the two women, Madame Gerdy was like a corpse whom
they were dressing for the last time. She was as rigid as
though she were dead. She must have suffered much and long,
poor woman, for it was pitiable to see how thin she was. The
nun herself was affected, although she had become habituated
to the sight of suffering. How many invalids had breathed their
last in her arms during the fifteen years that she had gone
from pillow to pillow ! Noel, during this time, had retired into
the window recess, and pressed his burning brow against the
panes. Of what was he thinking while she who had given him
so many proofs of maternal tenderness and devotion was dying
a few paces from him? Did he regret her? Was he not think-
ing rather of the grand and magnificent existence which awaited
him on the other side of the river, at the Faubourg St. Ger-
main ? He turned abruptly round on hearing his friend's voice.
"It is done," said the doctor; "we have only now to wait
the effect of the mustard. If she feels it, it will be a good sign ;
if it has no effect, we will try cupping." — "And if that does not
succeed?" The doctor answered only with a shrug of the shoul-
ders, which showed his inability to do more. "I understand
your silence, Herve," murmured Noel. "Alas ! you told me
last night she was lost."
"Scientifically, yes; but I do not yet despair. It is hardly
a year ago that the father-in-law of one of our comrades re-
covered from an almost identical attack; and I saw him when
he was much worse than this: suppuration had set in."
"It breaks my heart to see her in this state," resumed Noel.
"Must she die without recovering her reason even for one mo-
ment? Will she not recognize me, speak one word to me?"
"Who knows? This disease, my poor friend, baffles all fore-
832 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
sight. Each moment the aspect may change, according as the
inflammation affects such or such a part of the brain. She is
now in a state of utter insensibility, of complete prostration of
all her intellectual faculties, of coma, of paralysis, so to say;
to-morrow she may be seized with convulsions, accompanied
with a fierce delirium." — "And will she speak then?" — "Cer-
tainly; but that will neither modify the nature nor the gravity
of the disease." — "And will she recover her reason?" — "Per-
haps," answered the doctor, looking fixedly at his friend; "but
why do you ask that?"
"Ah, my dear Herve, one word from Madame Gerdy, only
one, would be of such use to me !"
"For your affair, eh ! Well, I can tell you nothing, can prom-
ise you nothing. You have as many chances in your favor as
against you ; only do not leave her. If her intelligence returns,
it will be only momentary; try and profit by it. But I must
go," added the doctor: "I have still three calls to make." —
Noel followed his friend. When they reached the landing, he
asked : "You will return ?"
"This evening, at nine. There will be no need of me till then.
All depends upon the watcher. But I have chosen a pearl. I
know her well." — "It was you, then, who brought this nun?" —
"Yes, and without your permission. Are you displeased?" — "Not
the least in the world. Only I confess." — "What ! you make
a grimace. Do your political opinions forbid your having your
mother, I should say Madame Gerdy, nursed by a nun of St.
Vincent ?" — "My dear Herve, you." — "Ah ! I know what you
are going to say. They are adroit, insinuating, dangerous; all
that is quite true. If I had a rich old uncle whose heir I ex-
pected to be, I shouldn't introduce one of them into his house.
These good creatures are sometimes charged with strange com-
missions. But what have you to fear from this one ? Never mind
what fools say. Money aside, these worthy sisters are the best
nurses in the world. I hope you will have one when your end
comes. But good-by; I am in a hurry." And, regardless of his
professional dignity, the doctor hurried down the stairs; while
Noel, full of thought, his countenance displaying the greatest
anxiety, returned to Madame Gerdy. At the door of the sick-room
the nun awaited the barrister's return. "Sir," said she, "sir."
"You want something of me, sister? 1 '
"Sir, the servant bade me come to you for money; she has
no more, and had to get credit at the chemist's."
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 833
"Excuse me, sister," interrupted Noel, seemingly very much
vexed ; "excuse me for not having anticipated your request ;
but you see I am rather confused." And, taking a hundred-
franc note out of his pocket-book, he laid it on the mantel-
piece. "Thanks, sir," said the nun ; "I will keep an account
of what I spend. We always do that," she added; "it is more
convenient for the family. One is so troubled at seeing those
one loves laid low by illness. You have perhaps not thought
of giving this poor lady the sweet aid of our holy religion !
In your place, sir, I should send without delay for a priest — "
"What now, sister? Do you not see the condition she is in?
She is the same as dead; you saw that she did not hear my
voice."
"That is of little consequence, sir," replied the nun; "you
will always have done your duty. She did not answer you;
but are you sure that she will not answer the priest? Ah,
you do not know all the power of the last sacraments ! I
have seen the dying recover their intelligence and sufficient
strength to confess, and to receive the sacred body of our
Lord Jesus Christ. I have often heard families say that they
do not wish to alarm the invalid, that the sight of the minister
of our Lord might inspire a terror that would hasten the
final end. It is a fatal error. The priest does not terrify; he
reassures the soul, at the beginning of its long journey. He
speaks in the name of the God of mercy, who comes to save,
not to destroy. I could cite to you many cases of dying people
who have been cured simply by contact with the sacred balm."
The nun spoke in a tone as mournful as her look. Her
heart was evidently not in the words which she uttered. With-
out doubt, she had learned them when she first entered the
convent. Then they expressed something she really felt, she
spoke her own thoughts ; but, since then, she had repeated
the words over and over again to the friends of every sick
person that she attended, until they lost all meaning so far
as she was concerned. To utter them became simply a part of
her duties as nurse, the same as the preparation of drafts,
and the making of poultices. Noel was not listening to her;
his thoughts were far away.
"Your dear mother," continued the nun, "this good lady
that you love so much, no doubt trusted in her religion. Do
you wish to endanger her salvation? If she could speak in the
midst of her cruel sufferings — "
9— Vol. Ill — Gab
834 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
The barrister was about to reply, when the servant announced
that a gentleman, who would not give his name, wished to speak
with him on business. "I will come," he said.
"What do you decide, sir?" persisted the nun. — "I leave
you free, sister, to do as you may judge best."
The worthy woman began to recite her lesson of thanks,
but to no purpose. Noel had disappeared with a displeased
look; and almost immediately she heard his voice in the next
room saying: "At last you have come, M. Clergot, I had
almost given you up !"
The visitor, whom the barrister had been expecting, is a
person well known in the Rue St. Lazare, round about the Rue
de Provence, the neighborhood of Notre Dame de Lorette,
and all along the exterior Boulevards, from the Chaussee des
Martyrs to the Rond-Point of the old Barriere de Clichy. M.
Clergot is no more a usurer than M. Jourdain's father was a
shopkeeper. Only, as he has lots of money, and is very oblig-
ing, he lends it to his friends ; and, in return for this kindness,
he consents to receive interest, which varies from fifteen to
five hundred per cent. The excellent man positively loves his
clients, and his honesty is generally appreciated. H'e has never
been known to seize a debtor's goods; he prefers to follow
him up without respite for ten years, and tear from him bit by
bit what is his due. He lives near the top of the Rue de la Vic-
toire. He has no shop, and yet he sells everything salable,
and some other things, too, that the law scarcely considers
merchandise. Anything to be useful or neighborly. He often
asserts that he is not very rich. It is possibly true. He is
whimsical more than covetous, and fearfully bold. Free with
his money when one pleases him, he would not lend five francs,
even with a mortgage on the Chateau of Ferrieres as guarantee,
to whosoever does not meet with his approval. However, he
often risks his all on the most unlucky cards. His preferred
customers consist of women of doubtful morality, actresses,
artists, and those venturesome fellows who enter upon profes-
sions which depend solely upon those who practise them, such
as lawyers and doctors. He lends to women upon their present
beauty, to men upon their future talent. Slight pledges ! His
discernment, it should be said, however, enjoys a great reputa-
tion. It is rarely at fault. A pretty girl furnished by Clergot
is sure to go far. For an artist to be in Clergot's debt was a
recommendation preferable to the warmest criticism.
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 835
Madame Juliette had procured this useful and honorable
acquaintance for her lover. Noel, who well knew how sensitive
this worthy man was to kind attentions, and how pleased by
politeness, began by offering him a seat, and asking after his
health. Clergot went into details. His teeth were still good ;
but his sight was beginning to fail. His legs were no longer
so steady, and his hearing was not all that could be desired.
The chanter of complaints ended — "You know." said he, "why I
have called. Your bills fall due to-day; and I am devilishly
in need of money. I have one of ten, one of seven, and a third
of five thousand francs, total twenty-two thousand francs."
"Come, M. Clergot," replied Noel, "do not let us have any
joking."
"Excuse me," said the usurer; "I am not joking at all."
"I rather think you are though. Why, it's just eight days
ago to-day that I wrote to tell you that I was not prepared to
meet the bills, and asked for a renewal !"
"I recollect very well receiving your letter."
"What do you say to it, then?"
"By my not answering the note, I supposed that you would
understand that I could not comply with your request; I hoped
that you would exert yourself to find the amount for me."
Noel allowed a gesture of impatience to escape him. "I have
not done so," he said, "so take your own course. I haven't
a sou."
"The devil. Do you know that I have renewed these bills
four times already?"
"I know that the interest has been fully and promptly paid,
and at a rate which can not make you regret the investment."
Clergot never likes talking about the interest he receives. He
pretends that it is humiliating. "I do not complain ; I only say
that you take things too easy with me. If I had put your sig-
nature in circulation all would have been paid by now."
"Not at all."
"Yes, you would have found means to escape being sued.
But you say to yourself : 'Old Clergot is a good fellow.' And
that is true. But I am so only when it can do me no harm.
Now, to-day, I am absolutely in great need of my money.
Ab — so — lute — ly," he added, emphasizing each syllable. The
old fellow's decided tone seemed to disturb the barrister.
— "Must I repeat it?" Noel said; "I am completely drained,
com — plete — ly 1"
886 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"Indeed?" said the usurer; "well, I am sorry for you; but
I shall have to sue you."
"And what good will that do? Let us play aboveboard, M.
Clergot. Do you care to increase the lawyers' fees? You
don't, do you? Even though you may put me to great expense,
will that procure you even a centime? You will obtain judg-
ment against me. Well, what then? Do you think of putting
in an execution? This is not my home; the lease is in Ma-
dame Gerdy's name."
"I know all that. Besides, the sale of everything here would
not cover the amount."
"Then you intend to put me in prison, at Clichy ! Bad
speculation, I warn you ; my practise will be lost, and, you know,
no practise, no money."
"Good !" cried the worthy money-lender. "Now you are
talking nonsense ! You call that being frank. Pshaw ! If you
suppose me capable of half the cruel things you have said, my
money would be there in your drawer, ready for me."
"A mistake ! I should not know where to get it, unless by
asking Madame Gerdy, a thing I would never do."
A sarcastic and most irritating little laugh, peculiar to old
Clergot, interrupted Noel. "It would be no good doing that,"
said the usurer ; "mama's purse has long been empty ; and
if the dear creature should die now — they tell me she is very
ill — I would not give two hundred napoleons for the inheri-
tance." The barrister turned red with passion, his eyes glit-
tered; but he dissembled, and protested with some spirit. "We
know what we know," continued Clergot quietly. "Before
a man risks his money, he takes care to make some inquiries.
Mama's remaining bonds were sold last October. Ah ! the Rue
de Provence is an expensive place ! I have made an estimate,
which is at home. Juliette is a charming woman, to be sure ;
she has not her equal, I am convinced; but she is expensive,
devilish expensive." Noel was enraged at hearing his Juliette
thus spoken of by this honorable personage. But what reply
could he make ? Besides, none of us are perfect ; and M. Clergot
possesses the fault of not properly appreciating women, which
doubtless arises from the business transactions he has had
with them. He is charming in his business with the fair sex,
complimenting and flattering them; but the coarsest insults
would be less revolting than his disgusting familiarity.
"You have gone too fast," he continued, without deigning to
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 837
notice his client's ill looks ; "and I have told you so before.
But, you would not listen ; you are mad about the girl. You
can never refuse her anything. Fool ! When a pretty girl
wants anything, you should let her long for it for a while;
she has then something to occupy her mind and keep her from
thinking of a quantity of other follies. Four good strong
wishes, well managed, ought to last a year. You don't know
how to look after your own interests. I know that her glance
would turn the head of a stone saint ; but you should reason
with yourself, hang it ! Why, there are not ten girls in Paris
who live in such style ! And do you think she loves you any
the more for it? Not a bit. When she has ruined you, she'll
leave you in the lurch." Noel accepted the eloquence of his
prudent banker as a man without an umbrella accepts a
shower. "What is the meaning of all this?" he asked. — "Simply
that I will not renew your bills. You understand? Just now,
if you try very hard, you will be able to hand me the twenty-
two thousand francs in question. You need not frown ; you
will find means to do so to prevent my seizing your goods —
not here, for that would be absurd, but at your little woman's
apartments. She would not be at all pleased, and would not
hesitate to tell you so."
"But everything there belongs to her ; and you have no
right—"
"What of that? She will oppose the seizure, no doubt, and
I expect her to do so; but she will make you find the requisite
sum. Believe me, you had best parry the blow. I insist on
being paid now. I won't give you any further delay ; because,
in three months' time, you will have used your last resources.
It is no use saying 'No,' like that. You are in one of those
conditions that must be continued at any price. You would
burn the wood from your dying mother's bed to warm this
creature's feet. Where did you obtain the ten thousand francs
that you left with her the other evening? Who knows what
you will next attempt to procure money? The idea of keeping
her fifteen days, three days, a single day more, may lead you
far. Open your eyes. I know the game well. If you do not
leave Juliette, you are lost. Listen to a little good advice,
gratis. You must give her up, sooner or later, musn't you?
Do it to-day., then."
As you see, our worthy Clergot never minces the truth
to his customers, when they do not keep their engagements.
838 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
If they are displeased, so much the worse for them ! His
conscience is at rest. He would never join in any foolish
business. Noel could bear it no longer ; and his anger burst
forth. "Enough," he cried decidedly. "Do as you please, M.
Clergot, but have done with your advice. I prefer the
lawyer's plain prose. If I have committed follies, I can repair
them, and in a way that would surprise you. Yes, M. Clergot,
I can procure twenty-two thousand francs; I could have a
hundred thousand to-morrow morning, if I saw fit. They
would only cost me the trouble of asking for them. But that
I will not do. My extravagance, with all due deference to
you, will remain a secret as heretofore. I do not choose that
my present embarrassed circumstances should be even sus-
pected. I will not relinquish, for your sake, that at which
I have been aiming, the very day it is within my grasp."
"He resists," thought the usurer; "he is less deeply involved
than I imagined."
"So," continued the barrister, "put your bills in the hands
of your lawyer. Let him sue me. In eight days I shall be
summoned to appear before the Tribunal de Commerce, and I
shall ask for the twenty-five days' delay, which the judges
always grant to an embarrassed debtor. Twenty-five and eight,
all the world over, make just thirty-three days. That is pre-
cisely the respite I need. You have two alternatives : either
accept from me at once a new bill for twenty-four thousand
francs, payable in six weeks, or else, as I have an appoint-
ment, go off to your lawyer."
"And in six weeks," replied the usurer, "you will be in pre-
cisely the same condition you are to-day. And forty-five days
more of Juliette will cost — "
"M. Clergot," interrupted Noel, "long before that time my
position will be completely changed. But I have finished," he
added, rising, "and my time is valuable."
"One moment, you impatient fellow !" exclaimed the banker,
"you said twenty-four thousand francs at forty-five days?"
"Yes. That is about seventy-five per cent — pretty fair
interest."
"I never cavil about interest," said M. Clergot ; "only — "
He looked slyly at Noel, scratching his chin violently, a move-
ment which in him indicated how insensibly his brain was at
work. "Only," he continued, "I should very much like to know
what you are counting upon."
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 839
"That I will not tell you. You will know it ere long, in com-
mon with all the world."
'T have it!" cried M. Clergot, "I have it! You are going
to marry! You have found an heiress, of course; your little
Juliette told me something of the sort this morning. Ah ! you
are going to marry! Is she pretty? Bui no matter. She has
a full purse, eh ? You wouldn't take her without that. So you
are going to start a home of your own?"
"I did not say so."
"That's right. Be discreet. But I can take a hint. One
word more. Beware of the storm ; your little woman has a
suspicion of the truth. You are right; it wouldn't do to be
Seeking money now. The slightest inquiry would be sufficient
to enlighten your father-in-law as to your financial position,
and you would lose the damsel. Marry and settle down. But
get rid of Juliette, or I won't give five francs for the fortune.
So it is settled: prepare a new bill for twenty-four thousand
francs, and I will call for it when I bring you the old ones on
Monday."
"You haven't them with you, then?"
"No. And to be frank, I confess that, knowing well I should
get nothing from you, I left them with others at my lawyer's.
However, you may rest easy : you have my word."
M. Clergot made a pretense of retiring; but just as he was
going out, he returned quickly. "I had almost forgotten," said
he; "while you are about it, you can make the bill for twenty-
six thousand francs. Your little woman ordered some dresses,
which I shall deliver to-morrow ; in this way they will be paid
for." The barrister began to remonstrate. He certainly did
not refuse to pay, only he thought he ought to be consulted
when any purchases were made. He didn't like this way of
disposing of his money.
"What a fellow !" said the usurer, shrugging his shoulders ;
"do you want to make the girl unhappy for nothing at all ?
She won't let you off yet, my friend. You may be quite sure
she will eat up your new fortune also. And you know, if you
need any money for the wedding, you have but to give me some
guarantee. Procure me an introduction to the notary, and
everything shall be arranged. But I must go. On Monday
then."
Noel listened, to make sure that the usurer had actually gone.
When he heard him descending the staircase, "Scoundrel !" he
840 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
cried, "miserable thieving old skinflint ! Didn't he need a lot
of persuading? He had quite made up his mind to sue me. It
would have been a pleasant thing had the comte come to hear
of it. Vile usurer ! I was afraid one moment of being obliged
to tell him all."
While inveighing thus against the money-lender, the bar-
rister looked at his watch. "Half-past five already," he said.
His indecision was great. Ought he to go and dine with his
father? Could he leave Madame Gerdy? He longed to dine
at the De Commarin mansion ; yet, on the other hand, to leave
a dying woman ! "Decidedly," he murmured, "I can't go." He
sat down at his desk, and with all haste wrote a letter of
apology to his father. Madame Gerdy, he said, might die at
any moment; he must remain with her. As he bade the servant
give the note to a messenger, to carry it to the comte, a sudden
thought seemed to strike him. "Does madame's brother," he
asked, "know that she is dangerously ill?"
"I do not know, sir," replied the servant, "at any rate, I have
not informed him."
"What, did you not think to send him word? Run to his
house quickly. Have him sought for, if he is not at home ; he
must come." Considerably more at ease, Noel went and sat in
the sick-room. The lamp was lighted ; and the nun was moving
about the room as though quite at home, dusting and arranging
everything, and putting it in its place. She wore an air of
satisfaction that Noel did not fail to notice. "Have we any
gleam of hope, sister?" he asked.
"Perhaps," replied the nun. "The priest has been here, sir;
your dear mother did not notice his presence ; but he is coming
back. That is not all. Since the priest was here, the poultice
has taken admirably. The skin is quite reddened. I am sure
she feels it."
"God grant that she does, sister !"
"Oh, I have already been praying! But it is important not
to leave her alone a minute. I have arranged all with the ser-
vant. After the doctor has been here, I shall lie down, and she
will watch until one in the morning. I will then take her place
and—"
"You shall go to bed, sister," interrupted Noel, sadly. "It is
I, who could not sleep a wink, who will watch through the
night."
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
841
o
iLD TABARET did not consider himself defeated, because
he had been repulsed by the investigating magistrate, al-
ready irritated by a long day's examination. You may call it
a fault, or an accomplishment ; but the old man was more obsti-
nate than a mule. To the excess of despair to which he suc-
cumbed in the passage outside the magistrate's office, there soon
succeeded that firm resolution which is the enthusiasm called
forth by danger. The feeling of duty got the upper hand. Was
it a time to yield to unworthy despair, when the life of a fellow
man depended on each minute? Inaction would be unpardon-
able. He had plunged an innocent man into the abyss ; and he
must draw him out, he alone, if no one would help him. Old
Tabaret, as well as the magistrate, was greatly fatigued. On
reaching the open air, he perceived that he, too, was in want of
food. The emotions of the day had prevented him from feeling
hungry; and, since the previous evening, he had not even taken
a glass of water. He entered a restaurant on the Boulevard,
and ordered dinner. While eating, not only his courage, but
also his confidence, came insensibly back to him. It was with
him, as with the rest of mankind; who knows how much one's
ideas may change, from the beginning to the end of a repast,
be it ever so modest ! A philosopher has plainly demonstrated
that heroism is but an affair of the stomach. The old fellow
looked at the situation in a much less sombre light. He had
plenty of time before him ! A clever man could accomplish a
great deal in a month ! Would his usual penetration fail him
now? Certainly not. His great regret was his inability to let
Albert know that some one was working for him.
He was entirely another man as he rose from the table ; and
it was with a sprightly step that he walked toward the Rue St.
Lazare. Nine o'clock struck as the concierge opened the door
for him. He went at once up to the fourth floor to inquire after
the health of his former friend, her whom he used to call the
excellent, the worthy Madame Gerdy. It was Noel who let
842 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
him in, Noel, who had doubtless been thinking of the past, for
he looked as sad as though the dying woman were really his
mother. In consequence of this unexpected circumstance, old
Tabaret could not avoid going in for a few minutes, though he
would much have preferred not doing so. He knew very well
that, being with the barrister, he would be unavoidably led to
speak of the Lerouge case; and how could he do this, knowing,
as he did, the particulars much better than his young friend
himself, without betraying his secret? A single imprudent word
might reveal the part he was playing in this sad drama. It was.
above all others, from his dear Noel, now Vicomte de Com-
marin, that he wished entirely to conceal his connection with
the police. But, on the other hand, he thirsted to know what
had passed between the barrister and the comte. His igno-
rance on this single point aroused his curiosity. However, as
he could not withdraw, he resolved to keep close watch upon
his language and remain constantly on his guard. The barrister
ushered the old man into Madame Gerdy's room. Her condi-
tion, since the afternoon, had changed a little ; though it was
impossible to say whether for the better or the worse. One
thing was evident, her prostration was not so great. Her eyes
still remained closed ; but a slight quivering of the lids was evi-
dent. She constantly moved on her pillow, and moaned feebly.
"What does the doctor say?" asked old Tabaret, in that low
voice one unconsciously employs in a sick-room.
"He has just gone," replied Noel; "before long all will be
over." The old man advanced on tiptoe, and looked at the
dying woman with evident emotion. "Poor creature !" he mur-
mured ; "God is merciful in taking her. She perhaps suffers
much ; but what is this pain compared to what she would feel
if she knew that her son, her true son, was in prison, accused
of murder?"
"That is what I keep thinking," said Noel, "to console myself
for this sight. For I still love her, my old friend ; I shall al-
ways regard her as a mother. You have heard me curse her.
have you not ? I have twice treated her very harshly. I thought
I hated her; but now, at the moment of losing her, I forget
every wrong she has done me, only to remember her tender-
ness. Yes, for her, death is far preferable ! And yet I do not
think, no, I can not think her son guilty."
"No ! what, you too ?" Old Tabaret put so much warmth and
vivacity into this exclamation that Noel looked at him with
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 843
astonishment. He felt his face grow red, and he hastened to
explain himself. "I said, 'You too,' " he continued, "because I,
thanks perhaps to my inexperience, am persuaded also of this
young man's innocence. I can not in the least imagine a man
of his rank meditating and accomplishing so cowardly a crime.
I have spoken with many persons on this matter which has
made so much noise ; and everybody is of my opinion. He has
public opinion in his favor; that is already something."
Seated near the bed, sufficiently far from the lamp to be in
the shade, the nun hastily knitted stockings destined for the
poor. It was a purely mechanical work, during which she usu-
ally prayed. But, since old Tabaret entered the room, she for-
got her everlasting prayers while listening to the conversation.
What did it all mean? Who could this woman be? And this
young man who was not her son, and who yet called her mother,
and at the same time spoke of a true son accused of being an
assassin? Before this she had overheard mysterious remarks
pass between Noel and the doctor. Into what strange house
had she entered? She was a little afraid; and her conscience
was sorely troubled. Was she not sinning? She resolved to
tell all to the priest, when he returned.
"No," said Noel, "no, M. Tabaret; Albert has not public
opinion for him. We are sharper than that in France, as
you know. When a poor devil is arrested, entirely innocent,
perhaps, of a crime charged against him, we are always ready
to throw stones at him. We keep all our pity for him, who,
without doubt guilty, appears before the court of assize. As
long as justice hesitates, we side with the prosecution against
the prisoner. The moment it is proved that the man is a
villain, all our sympathies are in his favor. That is public
opinion. You understand, however, that it affects me but little.
I despise it to such an extent that if, as I dare still hope, Albert
is not released, I will defend him. Yes, I have told the Comte
de Commarin, my father, as much. I will be his counsel, and
I will save him."
Gladly would the old man have thrown himself on Noel's
neck. He longed to say to him : "We will save him together."
But he restrained himself. Would not the barrister despise
him, if he told him his secret ! He resolved, however, to reveal
all should it become necessary, or should Albert's position be-
come worse. For the time being, he contended himself with
strongly approving his young friend. "Bravo ! my boy," said
844 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
he; "you have a noble heart. I feared to see you spoiled by
wealth and rank ; pardon me. You will remain, I see. what
you have always been in your more humble position. But, tell
me, you have, then, seen your father, the comte ?"
Now, for the first time, Noel seemed to notice the nun's eyes,
which, lighted by eager curiosity, glittered in the shadow like
carbuncles. With a look, he drew the old man's attention to
her, and said : "I have seen him ; and everything is arranged
to my satisfaction. I will tell you all, in detail, by and by,
when we are more at ease. By this bedside, I am almost
ashamed of my happiness."
M. Tabaret was obliged to content himself with this reply
and this promise. Seeing that he would learn nothing that
evening, he spoke of going to bed. declaring himself tired out
by what he had had to do during the day. Noel did not ask
him to stop. He was expecting, he said, Madame Gerdy's
brother, who had been sent for several times, but who was not
at home. He hardly knew how he could again meet this brother,
he added : he did not yet know what conduct he ought to pur-
sue. Should he tell him all ? It would only increase his grief.
On the other hand, silence would oblige him to play a difficult
part. The old man advised him to say nothing; he could
explain all later on. "What a fine fellow Noel is !" murmured
old Tabaret, as he regained his apartments as quietly as possi-
ble. He had been absent from home twenty-four hours ; and
he fully expected a formidable scene with his housekeeper. Ma-
nette was decidedly out of temper, and declared, once for all,
that she would certainly seek a new place, if her master did
not change his conduct. She had remained up all night, in a
terrible fright, listening to the least sound on the stairs, ex-
pecting every moment to see her master brought home on a
litter, assassinated. As though on purpose, there had been
great commotion in the house. M. Gerdy had gone down a
short time after her master, and she had seen him return two
hours later. After that, they had sent for the doctor. Such
goings on would be the death of her, without counting that
her constitution was too weak to allow her to sit up so late.
But Manette forgot that she did not sit up on her master's
account nor on Noel's, but was expecting one of her old friends,
one of those handsome Gardes de Paris who had promised to
marry her, and for whom she had waited in vain, the rascal !
She burst forth in reproaches, while she prepared her master's
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 845
bed, too sincere, she declared, to keep anything on her mind, or
to keep her mouth closed, when it was a question of his health
and reputation. M. Tabaret made no reply, not being in the
mood for argument. He bent his head to the storm, and turned
his back to the hail. But, as soon as Manette had finished what
she was about, he put her out of the room, and double locked
the door. He busied himself in forming a new line of battle,
and in deciding upon prompt and active measures. He rapidly
examined the situation. Had he been deceived in his investiga-
tions? No. Were his calculations of probabilities erroneous?
No. He had started with a positive fact, the murder. He had
discovered the particulars ; his inferences were correct, and
the criminal was evidently such as he had described him. The
man M. Daburon had had arrested could not be the criminal.
His confidence in a judicial axiom had led him astray, when
he pointed to Albert.
"That," thought he, "is the result of following accepted opin-
ions and those absurd phrases, all ready to hand, which are like
milestones along a fool's road ! Left free to my own inspira-
tions, I should have examined this case more thoroughly, I
would have left nothing to chance. The formula, 'Seek out the
one whom the crime benefits,' may often be as absurd as true.
The heirs of a man assassinated are in reality all benefited by
the murder ; while the assassin obtains at most the victim's
watch and purse. Three persons were interested in Widow Le-
rouge's death : Albert, Madame Gerdy, and the Comte de Com-
marin. It is plain to me that Albert is not the criminal. It
is not Madame Gerdy, who is dying from the shock caused by
the unexpected announcement of the crime. There remains,
then, the comte. Can it be he? If so, he certainly did not do
it himself. He must have hired some wretch, a wretch of good
position, if you please, wearing patent-leather boots of a good
make, and smoking trabucos cigars with an amber mouthpiece.
These well-dressed villains ordinarily lack nerve. They cheat,
they forge; but they don't assassinate. Supposing, though, that
the comte did get hold of some dare-devil fellow. He would
simply have replaced one accomplice by another still more dan-
gerous. That would be idiotic, and the comte is a sensible man.
He, therefore, had nothing whatever to do with the matter. To
be quite sure though, I will make some inquiries about him.
Another thing, Widow Lerouge, who so readily exchanged the
children while nursing them, would be very likely to undertake
846 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR '
a number of other dangerous commissions. Who can say that
she has not obliged other persons who had an equal interest
in getting rid of her? There is a secret, I am getting at it,
but I do not hold it yet. One thing is certain though, she was
not assassinated to prevent Noel recovering his rights. She
must have been suppressed for some analogous reason, by a
bold and experienced scoundrel, prompted by similar motives
to those of which I suspected Albert. It is, then, in that direc-
tion that I must follow up the case now. And. above all, I
must obtain the past history of this obliging widow, and I will
have it too, for in all probability the particulars which have
been written for from her birthplace will arrive to-morrow."
Returning to Albert, old Tabaret weighed the charges which
were brought against the young man, and reckoned the chances
which he still had in favor of his release. "From the look of
things," he murmured, "I see only luck and myself, that is to
say, absolutely nothing, in his favor at present. As to the
charges, they are countless. However, it is no use going over
them. It is I who amassed them ; and I know what they are
worth ! At once everything and nothing. What do signs prove,
however striking they may be, in cases where one ought to dis-
believe even the evidence of one's own senses ? Albert is a
victim of the most remarkable coincidences ; but one word might
explain them. There have been many such cases. It was even
worse in the matter of the little tailor. At five o'clock, he
bought a knife, which he showed to ten of his friends, saying:
'This is for my wife, who is an idle jade, and plays me false
with my workmen.' In the evening, the neighbors heard a ter-
rible quarrel between the couple, cries, threats, stampings,
blows ; then suddenly all was quiet. The next day, the tailor
had disappeared from his home, and the wife was discovered
dead, with the very same knife buried to the hilt between her
shoulders. Ah, well ! it turned out it was not the husband who
had stuck it there ; it was a jealous lover. After that, what is
to be believed? Albert, it is true, will not give an account of
how he passed Tuesday evening. That does not affect me.
The question for me is not to prove where he was, but that he
was not at La Jonchere. Perhaps, after all, Gevrol is on the
right track. I hope so, from the bottom of my heart. Yes ;
God grant that he may be successful. My vanity and my mad
presumption will deserve the slight punishment of his triumph
over me. What would I not give to establish this man's inno-
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 847
•cence? Half of my fortune would be but a small sacrifice. If
I should not succeed ! If, after having caused the evil, I should
find myself powerless to undo it !"
Old Tabaret went to bed, shuddering at this last thought. He
fell asleep, and had a terrible nightmare. Lost in that vulgar
crowd, which, on the days when society revenges itself, presses
about the Place de la Roquette and watches the last convul-
sions of one condemned to death, he attended Albert's execution.
He saw the unhappy man, his hands bound behind his back, his
collar turned down, ascend, supported by a priest, the steep
flight of steps leading on to the scaffold. He saw him standing
upon the fatal platform, turning his proud gaze upon the ter-
rified assembly beneath him. Soon the eyes of the condemned
man met his own ; and, bursting his cords, he pointed him,
Tabaret, out to the crowd, crying, in a loud voice : "That man
is my assassin." Then a great clamor arose to curse the detec-
tive. He wished to escape ; but his feet seemed fixed to the
ground. He tried at least to close his eyes; he could not. A
power unknown and irresistible compelled him to look. Then
Albert again cried out : "I am innocent ; the guilty one is — "
He pronounced a name ; the crowd repeated this name, and he
alone did not catch what it was. At last the head of the con-
demned man fell. M. Tabaret uttered a loud cry, and awoke
in a cold perspiration. It took him some time to convince him-
self that nothing was real of what he had just heard and seen,
and that he was actually in his own house, in his own bed. It
was only a dream ! But dreams sometimes are, they say, warn-
ings from heaven. His imagination was so struck with what
had just happened that he made unheard-of efforts to recall the
name pronounced by Albert. Not succeeding, he got up and
lighted his candle. The darkness made him afraid, the night
was full of fantoms. It was no longer with him a question of
sleep. Beset with these anxieties, he accused himself most
severely, and harshly reproached himself for the occupation he
had until then so delighted in. Poor humanity ! He was evi-
dently stark mad the day when he first had the idea of seeking
employment in the Rue de Jerusalem. A noble hobby, truly,
for a man of his age, a good quiet citizen of Paris, rich, and
esteemed by all ! And to think that he had been proud of his
exploits, that he had boasted of his cunning, that he had
plumed himself on his keenness of scent, that he had been
flattered by that ridiculous sobriquet, "Tirauclair." Old fool !
848 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
What could he hope to gain from that bloodhound calling? All
sorts of annoyance, the contempt of the world, without count-
ing the danger of contributing to the conviction of an innocent
man. Why had he not taken warning by the little tailor's case ?
Recalling his few satisfactions of the past, and comparing them
with his present anguish, he resolved that he would have no
more to do with it. Albert once saved, he would seek some less
dangerous amusement, and one more generally appreciated. He
would break the connection of which he was ashamed, and the
police and justice might get on the best they could without him.
At last the day, which he had awaited with feverish impa-
tience, dawned. To pass the time, he dressed himself slowly,
with much care, trying to occupy his mind with needless de-
tails, and to deceive himself as to the time by looking con-
stantly at the clock, to see if it had not stopped. In spite of
all this delay, it was not eight o'clock when he presented him-
self at the magistrate's house, begging him to excuse, on ac-
count of the importance of his business, a visit too early not to
be indiscreet. Excuses were superfluous. M. Daburon was
never disturbed by a call at eight o'clock in the morning. He
was already at work. He received the old amateur detective
with his usual kindness, and even joked with him a little about
his excitement of the previous evening. Who would have
thought his nerves were so sensitive? Doubtless the night had
brought deliberation. Had he recovered his reason? or had he
put his hand on the true criminal?
This trifling tone in a magistrate, who was accused of being
grave even to a fault, troubled the old man. Did not this quiz-
zing hide a determination not to be influenced by anything that
he could say? He believed it did; and it was without the least
deception that he commenced his pleading. He put the case
more calmly this time, but with all the energy of a well-digested
conviction. He had appealed to the heart, he now appealed to
reason ; but, although doubt is essentially contagious, he neither
succeeded in convincing the magistrate, nor in shaking his opin-
ion. His strongest arguments were of no more avail against
M. Daburon's absolute conviction than bullets made of bread
crumbs would be against a breastplate. And there was nothing
very surprising in that. Old Tabaret had on his side only a
subtle theory, mere words ; M. Daburon possessed palpable tes-
timony, facts. And such was the peculiarity of the case that
all the reasons brought forward by the old man to justify Albert
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 849
simply reacted against him, and confirmed his guilt. A repulse
at the magistrate's hands had entered too much into M. Taba-
ret's anticipations for him to appear troubled or discouraged.
He declared that, for the present, he would insist no more ; he
had full confidence in the magistrate's wisdom and impartiality.
All he wished was to put him on his guard against the presump-
tions which he himself unfortunately had taken such pains to
inspire. He was going, he added, to busy himself with obtain-
ing more information. They were only at the beginning of
the investigation ; and they were still ignorant of very many
things, even of Widow Lerouge's past life. More facts might
come to light. Who knew what testimony the man with the
earrings, who was being pursued by Gevrol, might give ?
Though in a great rage internally, and longing to insult and
chastise him whom he inwardly styled a "fool of a magistrate."
old Tabaret forced himself to be humble and polite. He wished,
he said, to keep well posted up in the different phases of the
investigation, and to be informed of the result of future inter-
rogations. He ended by asking permission to communicate
with Albert. He thought his services deserved this slight
favor. He desired an interview of only ten minutes without
witnesses. M. Daburon refused this request. "Your refusal
is cruel, sir," said M. Tabaret; "but I understand it, and sub-
mit." That was his only complaint; and he withdrew almost
immediately, fearing that he could no longer master his indig-
nation. "Three or four days," he muttered, "that is the same
as three or four years to the unfortunate prisoner. But I must
find out the real truth of the case between now and then."
Yes, M. Daburon only required three or four days to wring
a confession from Albert, or at least to make him abandon his
system of defense. The difficulty of the prosecution was not
being able to produce any witness who had seen the prisoner
during the evening of Shrove Tuesday. It was only Saturday,
the day of the murder was remarkable enough to fix people's
memories, and up till then there had not been time to start a
proper investigation. He arranged for five of the most expe-
rienced detectives in the secret service to be sent to Bougival,
supplied with photographs of the prisoner. They were to scour
the entire country between Rueil and La Tonchere, to inquire
everywhere, and make the most minute investigations. The
photographs would greatly aid their efforts. It was impossible
that, on an evening when so many people were about, no one
850 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
had noticed the original of the portrait either at the railway
station at Rueil or upon one of the roads which lead to La
Jonchere, the highroad, and the path by the river. These ar-
rangements made, the investigating magistrate proceeded to the
Palais de Justice, and sent for Albert. He had already in the
morning received a report, informing him hour by hour of the
acts, gestures, and utterances of the prisoner, who had been
carefully watched. Nothing in him, the report said, betrayed
the criminal. He seemed very sad, but not despairing. After
eating lightly, he had gone to the window of his cell, and had
there remained standing for more than an hour. Then he had
lain down, and quietly gone to sleep. "What an iron constitu-
tion I" thought M. Daburon, when the prisoner entered his office.
Albert was no longer the despairing man who, the night be-
fore, bewildered with the multiplicity of charges, surprised by
the rapidity with which they were brought against him, had
writhed beneath the magistrate's gaze, and appeared ready to
succumb. Innocent or guilty, he had made up his mind how to
act ; his face left no doubt of that. On beholding him, the magis-
trate understood that he would have to change his mode of
attack. He therefore gave up his former tactics, and attempted
to move him by kindness. It was a hackneyed trick, but almost
always successful, like certain pathetic scenes at theatres. Now
M. Daburon excelled in producing affecting scenes. No one
knew so well as he how to touch those old chords which vibrate
still even in the most corrupt hearts : honor, love, and family
ties. With Albert, he became kind and friendly, and full of
the liveliest compassion. Unfortunate man ! how greatly he
must suffer, he whose whole life had been like one long en-
chantment. Recalling the past, the magistrate pictured to him
the most touching reminiscences of his early youth, and stirred
up the ashes of all his extinct affections. Taking advantage of
all that he knew of the prisoner's life, he tortured him by the
most mournful allusions to Claire. Why did he persist in
bearing alone his great misfortune? Why this morose silence?
Should he not rather hasten to reassure her whose very life de-
pended upon his ? What was necessary for that ? A single word.
Then he would be, if not free, at least returned to the world.
It was no longer the magistrate who spoke ; it was a father.
For a moment he imagined himself in Albert's position. What
would he have done after the terrible revelation? He scarcely
dared ask himself. He understood the motive which prompted
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 851
the murder of Widow Lerouge; he could explain it to himself;
he could almost excuse it. (Another trap.) It was certainly
a great crime, but in no way revolting to conscience or to rea-
son. Besides, was not the Comte de Commarin the more guilty
of the two ? Was it not his folly that prepared the way for this
terrible event? His son was the victim of fatality, and was
greatly to be pitied. But he wasted his eloquence precisely as
M. Tabaret had wasted his. Albert appeared in no way affected.
One test, which has often given the desired result, still re-
mained to be tried. On this same day, Saturday, Albert was
confronted with the corpse of Widow Lerouge. He appeared
impressed by the sad sight, but no more than any one would be,
if forced to look at the victim of an assassination four days
after the crime. One of the bystanders having exclaimed : "Ah,
if she could but speak !" he replied : "That would be very for-
tunate for me." Since morning, M. Daburon had not gained
the least advantage. He had had to acknowledge the failure
of his maneuvres ; and now this last attempt had not succeeded
either. His spite was evident to all, when, suddenly ceasing
his wheedling, he harshly gave the order to reconduct the pris-
oner to his cell. "I will compel him to confess !" he muttered
between his teeth. Had Albert confessed his guilt, he would
have found M. Daburon disposed to pity him ; but as he denied
it, he opposed himself to an implacable enemy.
Having previously wished Albert innocent, he now absolutely
longed to prove him guilty, and that for a hundred reasons
which he was unable to analyze. He remembered, too well, his
having had the Vicomte de Commarin for a rival, and his
having nearly assassinated him. Had he not repented even to
remorse his having signed the warrant of arrest, and his having
accepted the duty of investigating the case. Old Tabaret's in-
comprehensible change of opinion troubled him, too. It was
now less the proofs of Albert's guilt which he sought for than
the justification of his own conduct as magistrate.
M. Daburon passed all Sunday in listening to the reports of
the detectives he had sent to Bougival. They had spared no
trouble, they stated, but they could report nothing new. They
had heard many people speak of a woman, who pretended, they
said, to have seen the assassin leave Widow Lerouge's cottage ;
but no one had been able to point this woman out to them, or
even to give them her name. They all thought it their duty.
however, to inform the magistrate that another inquiry was
852
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
going on at the same time as theirs. It was directed by M.
Tabaret, who personally scoured the country round about in a
cabriolet drawn by a very swift horse. He appeared to have
under his orders a dozen men, four of whom at least certainly
belonged to the Rue de Jerusalem. All the detectives had met
him ; and he had spoken to them. To one, he had said : "What
the deuce are you showing this photograph for? In less than
no time you will have a crowd of witnesses, who, to earn three
francs, will describe some one more like the portrait than the
portrait itself." He had met another on the highroad, and had
laughed at him. "You are a simple fellow," he cried out, "to
hunt for a hiding man on the highway; look a little aside, and
you may find him." Again he had accosted two who were to-
gether in a cafe at Bougival, and had taken them aside. "I have
him," he said to them. "He is a smart fellow; he came by
Chatou. Three people have seen him — two railway porters and
a third person whose testimony will be decisive, for she spoke
to him. He was smoking."
M. Daburon became so angry with old Tabaret that he im-
mediately started for Bougival, firmly resolved to bring the too
zealous man back to Paris, and to report his conduct in the
proper quarter. The journey, however, was useless. M. Taba-
ret, the cabriolet, the swift horse, and the twelve men had all
disappeared. On returning home, greatly fatigued, and very
much out of temper, the investigating magistrate found the fol-
lowing telegram from the chief of the detective force awaiting
him; it was brief, but to the point:
"Rouen, Sunday. — "The man is found. This evening we
start for Paris. The most valuable testimony. Gevrol."
/"\N Monday morning, at nine o'clock, M. Daburon was
preparing to start for the Palais de Justice, where he
expected to find Gevrol and his man, and perhaps old Tabaret.
His preparations were nearly made, when his servant announced
that a young lady, accompanied by another considerably older,
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 853
asked to speak with him. She declined giving her name, say-
ing, however, that she would not refuse it, if it was absolutely
necessary in order to be received. "Show them in," said the
magistrate. He thought it must be a relation of one or other
of the prisoners, whose case he had had in hand when this fresh
crime occurred. At the sound of the opening of the door he
cast a careless glance in the mirror. But he immediately
started with a movement of dismay, as if he had seen a ghost.
"Claire!" he stammered, "Claire!"
And as if he feared equally either being deceived by an illu-
sion, or actually seeing her whose name he had uttered, he
turned slowly round. It was truly Mademoiselle d'Arlange.
Never, even in the time when a sight of her was his greatest
happiness, had she appeared to him more fascinating. In her
eyes, rendered more brilliant by recent tears but partly wiped
away, shone the noblest resolution.
She advanced calm and dignified, and held out her hand to
the magistrate in that English style that some ladies can render
so gracefully. "We are always friends, are we not?" asked
she, with a sad smile. The magistrate did not dare take the
ungloved hand she held out to him. He scarcely touched it
with the tips of his fingers, as though he feared too great an
emotion. "Yes," he replied indistinctly, "I am always devoted
to you."
Mademoiselle d'Arlange sat down in the large armchair,
where, two nights previously, old Tabaret had planned Albert's
arrest. M. Daburon remained standing, leaning against his
writing-table. "You know why I have come ?" asked the young
girl. With a nod, he replied in the affirmative. "I only knew
of this dreadful event yesterday," pursued Claire ; "my grand-
mother considered it best to hide it from me, and, but for my
devoted Schmidt, I should still be ignorant of it all. What a
night I have passed ! At first I was terrified ; but, when they
told me that all depended upon you, my fears were dispelled.
It is for my sake, is it not, that you have undertaken this in-
vestigation ? Oh, you are good, I know it ! How can I ever
express my gratitude?" What humiliation for the worthy mag-
istrate were these heartfelt thanks ! Yes, he had at first thought
of Mademoiselle d'Arlange, but since — He bowed his head to
avoid Claire's glance, so pure and so daring. "Do not thank
me, mademoiselle," he stammered, "I have not the claim that
you think upon your gratitude."
864 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
Claire had been too troubled herself, at first, to notice the
magistrate's agitation. The trembling of his voice attracted her
attention ; but she did not suspect the cause. "And yet, sir,"
she continued, "I thank you all the same. I might never have
dared go to another magistrate, to speak to a stranger ! Be-
sides, what value would another attach to my words, not know-
ing me ? While you, so generous, will reassure me, will tell me
by what awful mistake he has been arrested like a villain and
thrown into prison." — 'Alas !" sighed the magistrate, so low
that Claire scarcely heard him, and did not understand the ter-
rible meaning of the exclamation. — "With you," she continued,
"I am not afraid. You are my friend, you told me so ; you will
not refuse my prayers. Give him his liberty quickly. I do not
know exactly of what he is accused, but I swear to you that he
is innocent."
Claire spoke in the positive manner of one who saw no
obstacle in the way of the very simple and natural desire which
she had expressed. The magistrate was silent. He was really
an upright man, as good as the best, as is proved from the fact
that he trembled at the moment of unveiling the fatal truth. He
hesitated to pronounce the words which, like a whirlwind, would
overturn the fragile edifice of this young girl's happiness.
"And if I should tell you, mademoiselle," he commenced,
"that M. Albert is not innocent?" She half-raised herself with
a protesting gesture. He continued: "If I should tell you that
he is guilty?" — "Oh, sir!" interrupted Claire, "you can not
think so !" — "I do think so, mademoiselle," exclaimed the mag-
istrate in a sad voice, "and I must add that I am morally certain
of it." — Claire looked at the investigating magistrate with pro-
found amazement. Had she heard him aright? Did she un-
derstand ? She was far from sure. Was he not deluding her
by a cruel, unworthy jest?
Not daring to raise his eyes, he continued in a tone, expres-
sive of the sincerest pity: "I suffer cruelly for you at this mo-
ment, mademoiselle ; but I have the sad courage to tell you the
truth, and you must summon yours to hear it. It is far better
that you should know everything from the mouth of a friend.
Summon, then, all your fortitude; strengthen your noble soul
against a most dreadful misfortune. No, there is no mistake.
Justice has not been deceived. The Vicomte de Commarin is
accused of an assassination ; and everything, you understand
me, proves that he committed it." M. Daburon pronounced this
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 855
last sentence slowly, word by word. He expected a burst of
despair, tears, distressing cries. She might perhaps faint away ;
and he stood ready to call in the worthy Schmidt. He was
mistaken. Claire drew herself up full of energy and courage.
The flame of indignation flushed her cheeks, and dried her
tears. "It is false," she cried, "and those who say it are liars !
He can not be — no, he can not be an assassin. If he were here,
sir, and should himself say, 'It is true,' I would refuse to believe
it; I would still cry out: 'It is false!'"
"He has not yet admitted it," continued the magistrate, "but
he will confess. Even if he should not, there are more proofs
than are needed to convict him."
"Ah ! well," interrupted Mademoiselle d'Arlange, in a voice
filled with emotion, "I assert, I repeat, that justice is deceived.
Yes," she persisted, in answer to the magistrate's gesture of
denial, "yes, he is innocent. I am sure of it; and I would pro-
claim it, even were the whole world to join with you in accus-
ing him."
The investigating magistrate attempted timidly to make an
objection; Claire quickly interrupted him. "Must I then, sir,"
said she, "in order to convince you, forget that I am a young
girl, and that I am not talking to my mother, but to a man !
For his sake I will do so. It is four years, sir, since we first
loved each other. For four years there has never been a secret
between us; he lived in me, as I lived in him. He is, like
me, alone in the world ; his father never loved him. Sustained
one by the other, we have passed through many unhappy days ;
and it is at the very moment our trials are ending that he has
become a criminal? Why? tell me, why?"
"Neither the name nor the fortune of the Comte de Com-
marin would descend to him, mademoiselle ; and the knowledge
of it came upon him with a sudden shock. One old woman
alone was able to prove this. To maintain his position, he
killed her."
"What infamy," cried the young girl, "what a shameful,
wicked calumny ! I know, sir, that story of fallen greatness :
he himself told me of it. It is true that for three days this
misfortune unmanned him ; but, if he was dismayed, it was on
my account more than his own. Ah ! what to me are that
great name, that immense wealth ? I owe to them the only
unhappiness I have ever known. Was it, then, for such things
that I loved him? It was thus that I replied to him; and he, so
856 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
sad, immediately recovered his gaiety. He thanked me, saying:
'You love me ; the rest is of no consequence.' I chided him,
then, for having doubted me; and after that, you pretend that
he cowardly assassinated an old woman ? You would not dare
repeat it." Mademoiselle d'Arlange ceased speaking, a smile of
victory on her lips. That smile meant : "At last I have attained
my end : you are conquered."
The investigating magistrate did not long leave this smiling
illusion to the unhappy child. "You do not know, mademoi-
selle," he resumed, "how a sudden calamity may affect a good
man's reason. God preserve me from doubting all that you
have said ; but picture to yourself the immensity of the blow
which struck M. de Commarin. Can you say that on leaving
you he did not give way to despair? Think of the extremities
to which it may have led him. He may have been for a time
bewildered, and have acted unconsciously."
Mademoiselle d'Arlange's face grew deathly pale, and be-
trayed the utmost terror. The magistrate thought that at last
doubt had begun to affect her pure and noble belief. "He must,
then, have been mad," she murmured. — "Possibly," replied the
magistrate ; "and yet the circumstances of the crime denote a
well-laid plan. Believe me, then, mademoiselle, and do not be
too confident. Pray, and wait patiently for the issue of this
terrible trial. You used to have in me the confidence a daugh-
ter gives to her father ; do not, then, refuse my advice. Remain
silent and wait. Hide your grief to all; you might hereafter
regret having exposed it. Young, inexperienced, without a
guide, without a mother, alas ! you sadly misplaced your first
affections."
"No, sir, no," stammered Claire. "Ah !" she added, "you talk
like the rest of the world, that prudent and egotistical world,
which I despise and hate."
"Poor child," continued M. Daburon, pitiless even in his com-
passion ; "unhappy young girl ! This is your first deception !
But you are young; you are brave; your life will not be ruined.
There is no wound, I know by experience, which time does not
heal."
Claire tried to grasp what the magistrate was saying, but
his words reached her only as confused sounds, their meaning
entirely escaped her. "I do not understand you, sir," she said.
"What advice, then, do you give me?"
"The only advice that reason dictates, and that my affection
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 857
for you can suggest, mademoiselle. I say to you : 'Courage,
Claire, resign yourself to the saddest, the greatest sacrifice
which honor can ask of a young girl. Weep, yes, weep for
your deceived love ; but forget it. He whom you have loved
is no longer worthy of you.' " The magistrate stopped, slightly
frightened. Mademoiselle d'Arlange had become livid. But
though the body was weak, the soul still remained firm. "You said
just now," she murmured, "that he could only have committed
this crime in a moment of distraction, in a fit of madness?"
"Yes, it is possible."
"Then, sir, not knowing what he did, he can not be guilty." —
"Neither justice nor society, mademoiselle," he replied, "can
take that into account. God alone, who sees into the depths of
our hearts, can judge, can decide those questions which human
justice must pass by. In our eyes, M. de Commarin is a crim-
inal. Even if he were acquitted, and I wish he may be, but
without hope, he will not be less unworthy. Therefore, for-
get him."
Mademoiselle d'Arlange stopped the magistrate with a look
in which flashed the strongest resentment. "That is to say,"
she exclaimed, "that you counsel me to abandon him in his
misfortune. All the world deserts him; and your prudence
advises me to act with the world. Men behave thus, I have
heard, when one of their friends is down ; but women never
do. When the last friend has boldly taken to flight, when the
last relation has abandoned him, woman remains. I may be
timid," she continued with increasing energy, "but I am no
coward. I chose Albert voluntarily from among all. What-
ever happens, I will never desert him. He would have given
me half of his prosperity and of his glory. I will share,
whether he wishes it or not, half of his shame and of his mis-
fortune. I love him. It is no more in my power to cease
loving him than it is to arrest, by the sole effort of my will.
the beating of my heart. You will send him to a convict
prison. I will follow him ; and in the prison, under the con-
vict's dress, I will yet love him. No, nothing will separate me
from him, nothing short of death ! And, if he must mount the
scaffold, I shall die, I know it, from the blow which kills him."
M. Daburon had buried his face in his hands. He did not
wish Claire to perceive a trace of the emotion which affected
him. "How she loves him !" he thought, "how she loves him !"
All the stings of jealousy were rending him. What would not
10 — Vol. Ill— Gab.
858 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
be his delight if he were the object of so irresistible a passion
as that which burst forth before him ! He had, too, a young
and ardent soul, a burning thirst for love. Why do so many
men pass through life dispossessed of love, while others, the
vilest beings sometimes, seem to possess a mysterious power,
which charms and seduces, and inspires those blind and im-
petuous-feelings which to assert themselves rush to the sacri-
fice all the while longing for it? Have women, then, no reason,
no discernment? Mademoiselle d'Arlange's silence brought the
magistrate back to the reality. He raised his eyes to her. Over-
come by the violence of her emotion, she lay back in her chair
and breathed with such difficulty that M. Daburon feared she
was about to faint. He moved quickly toward the bell, to sum-
mon aid; but Claire noticed the movement and stopped him.
"What would you do?" she asked.
"You seemed suffering so," he stammered, "that I — "
"It is nothing, sir," replied she. "I may seem weak, but I
am not so. It is cruel for a young girl to have to do violence
to all her feelings. But I do not regret it ; it was for his sake.
That which I do regret is my having lowered myself so far as
to defend him ; but he will forgive me that one doubt. Your
assurance took me unawares. A man like him does not need
defense : his innocence must be proved ; and, God helping me,
I will prove it." As Claire was half-rising to depart, M. Da-
buron detained her by a gesture. In his blindness he thought
he would be doing wrong to leave this poor young girl in the
slightest way deceived. Having gone so far as to begin, he
persuaded himself that his duty bade him go on to the end.
He said to himself, in all good faith, that he would thus pre-
serve Claire from herself, and spare her in the future many
bitter regrets. "It is painful, mademoiselle — " he began. Claire
did not let him finish. "Enough, sir," said she ; "all that you
can say will be of no avail. I respect your unhappy convic-
tion. If you were truly my friend, I would ask you to aid me
in the task of saving him, to which I am about to devote myself.
But. doubtless, you would not do so."
"If you knew the proofs which I possess, mademoiselle," he
said in a cold tone, "if I detailed them to you, you would no
longer hope."
"Speak, sir," cried Claire imperiously.
"You wish it, mademoiselle ? Very well ; I will give you in
detail all the evidence we have collected. There is one which
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 859
alone is decisive. The murder was committed on the evening
of Shrove Tuesday ; and the prisoner can not give an account
of what he did on that evening. He went out, however, and
only returned home about two o'clock in the morning, his
clothes soiled and torn, and his gloves frayed."
"Oh ! enough, sir, enough !" interrupted Claire, whose eyes
beamed once more with happiness. "You say it was on Shrove
Tuesday evening?" — "Yes., mademoiselle."
"Ah ! I was sure," she cried triumphantly. "I told you truly
that he could not be guilty." She clasped her hands, and from
the movement of her lips it was evident that she was praying.
The magistrate was so disconcerted that he forgot to admire
her. "Well ?" he asked impatiently.
"Sir," replied Claire, "if that is your strongest proof, it exists
no longer. Albert passed the entire evening you speak of with
me." — "With you?" stammered the magistrate. — "Yes, with me,
at my home."
M. Daburon was astounded. Was he dreaming? He hardly
knew. "What !" he exclaimed, "the vicomte was at your house ?
Your grandmother, your companion, your servants, they all saw
him and spoke to him ?"
"No, sir; he came and left in secret. He wished no one to
see him ; he desired to be alone with me."
"Ah !" said the magistrate with a sigh of relief. The sigh
signified : "It's all clear — only too evident. She is determined to
save him, at the risk even of compromising her reputation. Poor
girl ! But has this idea only just occurred to her?" The "Ah !"
was interpreted very differently by Mademoiselle d'Arlange.
She thought that M. Daburon was astonished at her consenting
to receive Albert. "Your surprise is an insult, sir," said she.
"Mademoiselle !" — "A daughter of my family, sir, may receive
her betrothed without danger of anything occurring for which
she would have to blush."
" "I had no such insulting thought as you imagine, mademoi-
selle," said the magistrate. "I was only wondering how M. de
Commarin went secretly to your house when his approaching
marriage gave him the right to present himself openly at all
hours. I still wonder how, on such a visit, he could get his
clothes in the condition in which we found them."
"That is to say, sir," replied Claire bitterly, "that you doubt
my word !" — "The circumstances are such, mademoiselle." — "You
accuse me, then, of falsehood, sir. Know that, were we crim-
860 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
inals, we should not descend to justifying ourselves; we should
never pray nor ask for pardon."
Mademoiselle d'Arlange's haughty, contemptuous tone could
only anger the magistrate. "Above all, mademoiselle," he an-
swered, severely, "I am a magistrate ; and I have a duty to per-
form. A crime has been committed. Everything points to
M. Albert de Commarin as the guilty man. I arrest him; I
examine him ; and I find overwhelming proofs against him.
You come and tell me that they are false; that is not enough.
So long as you addressed me as a friend, you found me kind
and gentle. Now it is the magistrate to whom you speak; and
it is the magistrate who answers, Trove it.' " — "My word, sir."
—"Prove it !"
Mademoiselle dArlange rose slowly, casting upon the mag-
istrate a look full of astonishment and suspicion. "Would you,
then, be glad, sir," she asked, "to find Albert guilty? Would it
give you such great pleasure to have him convicted? Are you
sure that you are not, armed with the law, revenging yourself
upon a rival?" — "This is too much," murmured the magistrate,
"this is too much !"
"Do you know the unusual, the dangerous, position we are
in at this moment? One day, I remember, you declared your
love for me. It appeared to me sincere and honest ; it touched
me. I was obliged to refuse you because I loved another; and
I pitied you. Now that other is accused of murder, and you
are his judge; and I find myself between you two, praying to
you for him. In undertaking the investigation you acquired an
opportunity to help him ; and yet you seem to be against him."
Every word Claire uttered fell upon M. Daburon's heart like
a slap on his face. "Mademoiselle, said he, "your grief has
been too much for you. From you alone could I pardon what
you have just said. If you think that Albert's fate depends upon
my pleasure, you are mistaken. To convince me is nothing;
it is necessary to convince others. That I should believe you
is all very natural; I know you. But what weight will others
attach to your testimony when you go to them with a true story
— most true, I believe, but yet highly improbable ?"
Tears came into Claire's eyes. "If I have unjustly offended
you, sir," said she, "pardon me: misfortune makes one wicked."
"You can not offend me, mademoiselle," replied the magis-
trate. "I have already told you that I am devoted to your
service."
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 861
"Then, sir, help me to prove the truth of what I have said.
I will tell you everything."
M. Daburon was fully convinced that Claire was seeking to
deceive him; but her confidence astonished him.
"Sir," began Claire, "you know what obstacles have stood
in the way of my marriage with Albert. The Comte de Com-
marin would not accept me for a daughter-in-law because I am
poor, I possess nothing. It took Albert five years to triumph
over his father's objections. At last, about a month ago, he
gave his consent of his own accord. But these hesitations,
delays, refusals, had deeply hurt my grandmother. Though the
wedding day had been fixed, the marquise declared that we
should not be compromised nor laughed at again for any ap-
parent haste to contract a marriage so advantageous, that we
had often before been accused of ambition. She decided, there-
fore, that, until the publication of the banns, Albert should only
be admitted into the house every other day, for two hours in
the afternoon, and in her presence. Such was the state of
affairs when, on Sunday morning, a note came to me from
Albert. He told me that pressing business would prevent his
coming, although it was his regular day. What could have
happened to keep him away? I feared some evil. The next
day I awaited him impatiently and distracted, when his valet
brought Schmidt a note for me. In that letter, sir, Albert en-
treated me to grant him an interview. It was necessary, he
wrote, that he should have a long conversation with me, alone,
and without delay. Our whole future, he added, depended upon
this interview. He left me to fix the day and hour, urging me
to confide in no one. I sent him word to meet me on the Tues-
day evening at the little garden gate which opens into an un-
frequented street. To inform me of his presence, he was to
knock just as nine o'clock chimed at the Invalides." — "Excuse
me, mademoiselle," interrupted Vi. Daburon, "what day did you
write to M. Albert?"— "On Tuesday."— "Can you fix the hour?"
— "I must have sent the letter between two and three o'clock." —
'Thanks, mademoiselle. Continue, I pray."
"All my anticipations," continued Claire, "were realized.
I retired during the evening, and went into the garden a little
before the appointed time. I had procured the key of the little
door; and I at once tried it. Unfortunately, I could not make
it turn, the lock was so rusty. I was in despair, when nine
o'clock struck. At the third stroke, Albert knocked. I told
862 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
him of the accident; and threw him the key, that he might try
and unlock the door. He tried but without success. I then
begged him to postpone our interview. He replied that it was
impossible, that what he had to say admitted of no delay; that,
during three days he had hesitated about confiding in me, and
had suffered martyrdom, and that he could endure it no longer.
We were speaking, you must understand, through the door. At
last, he declared that he would climb over the wall. I begged
him not to do so, fearing an accident. The wall is very high,
as you know, the top is covered with pieces of broken glass,
and the acacia branches stretch out above like a hedge. But he
laughed at my fears, and said that, unless I absolutely forbade
him to do so, he was going to attempt to scale the wall. I
dared not say no; and he risked it. I was very frightened, and
trembled like a leaf. Fortunately, he is very active, and got
over without hurting himself. He had come, sir, to tell me of
the misfortune which had befallen him. We first of all sat down
upon the little seat you know of, in front of the grove; then,
as the rain was falling, we took shelter in the summer house.
It was past midnight when Albert left me, quieted and almost
gay. He went back in the same manner, only with less danger,
because I made him use the gardener's ladder, which I laid
down alongside the wall when he had reached the other side."
This account, given in the simplest and most natural manner,
puzzled M. Daburon. What was he to think? "Mademoiselle,"
he asked, "had the rain commenced to fall when M. Albert
climbed over the wall?"
"No, sir, the first drops fell when we were on the seat; I
recollect it very well, because he opened his umbrella, and I
thought of Paul and Virginia."
"Excuse me a minute, mademoiselle," said the magistrate.
He sat down at his desk, and. rapidly wrote two letters. In
the first, he gave orders for Albert to be brought at once to his
office in the Palais de Justice. In the second, he directed a
detective to go immediately to the Faubourg St. Germain to
the dArlange house, and examine the wall at the bottom of
the garden, and make a note of any marks of its having been
scaled, if any such existed. He explained that the wall had
been climbed twice, both before and during the rain; conse-
quently the marks of the going and returning would be different
from each other. He enjoined upon the detective to proceed
with the utmost caution, and to invent a plausible pretext
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 863
which would explain his investigations. Having finished
writing, the magistrate rang for his servant, who soon appeared.
"Here," said he, "are two letters, which you must take to my
clerk, Constant. Tell him to read them, and to have the
orders they contain executed at once — at once, you understand.
Run, take a cab, and be quick ! Ah ! one word. If Constant is
not in my office, have him sought for; he will not be far off, as
he is waiting for me. Go quickly!" M. Daburon then turned
and said to Claire. "Have you kept the letter, mademoiselle, in
which M. Albert asked for this interview?"
"Yes, sir, I even think I have it with me." She arose, felt
in her pocket, and drew out a much crumpled piece of paper.
"Here it is !" The investigating magistrate took it. A sus-
picion crossed his mind. At a glance, he read the ten lines of
the note. "No date," he murmured, "no stamp, nothing at all."
Claire did not hear him ; she was racking her brain to find
other proofs of the interview. "Sir," said she suddenly, "it
often happens, that when we wish to be, and believe ourselves
alone, we are nevertheless observed. Summon, I beseech you,
all of my grandmother's servants, and inquire if any of them
saw Albert that night."
"Inquire of your servants? Can you dream of such a thing,
mademoiselle ?"
"What, sir? You fear that I shall be compromised. What
of that, if he is only freed?" M. Daburon could not help ad-
miring her. What sublime devotion in this young girl, whether
she spoke the truth or not !
"That is not all," she added; "the key which I threw to
Albert, he did not return it to me; he must have forgotten to
do so. If it is found in his possession, it will well prove that
he was in the garden."
"I will give orders respecting it, mademoiselle."
"There is still another thing," continued Claire; "while I
am here, send some one to examine the wall." She seemed to
think of everything.
"That is already done, mademoiselle," replied M. Daburon.
"I will not hide from you that one of the letters which I have
just sent off ordered an examination of your grandmother's
wall, a secret examination, though, be assured." Claire rose
joyfully, and for the second time held out her hand to
the magistrate. "Oh, thanks I" she said, "a thousand thanks !
Now I can well see that you are with me. But I have
864 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
still another idea; Albert ought to have the note I wrote on
Tuesday."
"No, mademoiselle, he burned it."
Claire drew back. She imagined she felt a touch of irony
in the magistrate's reply. There was none, however. M.
Daburon remembered the letter thrown into the fire by Albert on
the Tuesday afternoon. It could only have been the one Claire
had sent him. It was to her, then, that the words, "She can
not resist me," applied. He understood, now, the action and
the remark. "Can you understand, mademoiselle," he next
asked, "how M. de Commarin could lead justice astray, and
expose me to committing a most deplorable error, when it
would have been so easy to have told me all this?"
"It seems to me, sir, that an honorable man can not confess
that he has obtained a secret interview from a lady, until he
has full permission from her to do so."
There was nothing to reply to this; and the sentiments ex-
pressed by Mademoiselle d'Arlange gave a meaning* to one
of Albert's replies in the examination. "This is not all yet,
mademoiselle," continued the magistrate; "all that you have
told me here, you must repeat in my office, at the Palais de
Justice. My clerk will take down your testimony, and you
must sign it. This proceeding will be painful to you; but it
is a necessary formality."
"Ah, sir, I will do so with pleasure. What can I refuse,
when I know that he is in prison?" She rose from her seat,
readjusting her cloak and the strings of her bonnet. "Is it
necessary," she asked "that I should await the return of the
police agents who are examining the wall?"
"It is needless, mademoiselle."
"Then," she continued in a sweet voice, "I can only beseech
you," she clasped her hands, "conjure you," her eyes implored,
"to let Albert out of prison."
"He shall be liberated as soon as possible; I give my word."
"Oh, to-day, dear M. Daburon, to-day, I beg of you, now,
at once ! Since he is innocent, be kind, for you are our friend.
Do you wish me to go down on my knees?"
The magistrate had only just time to extend his arms, and
prevent her. He was choking with emotion, the unhappy man !
Ah ! how much he envied the prisoner's lot ! "That which you
ask of me is impossible, mademoiselle," said he in an almost
inaudible voice, "impracticable, upon my honor. Ah 1 if it
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
865
depended upon me alone, I could not, even were he guilty, see
you weep, and resist."
Mademoiselle d'Arlange, hitherto so firm, could no longer
restrain her sobs. "Miserable girl that I am !" she cried ;
"he is suffering, he is in prison; I am free, and yet I can do
nothing for him ! Can I not find one man who will help me ?
Yes," she said after a moment's reflection, "there is one man
who owes himself to Albert; since he it was who put him in
this position — the Comte de Commarin. He is his father, and
yet he has abandoned him. Ah, well ! I will remind him that
he still has a son."
The magistrate rose to see her to the door; but she had
already disappeared, taking the kind-hearted Schmidt with her.
M. Daburon, more dead than alive, sank back again in his
chair. His eyes filled with tears. "And that is what she is!"
he murmured. "Ah ! I made no vulgar choice. I had divined
and understood all her good qualities." In the midst of his
meditations, a sudden thought passed like a flash across his
brain. Had Claire spoken the truth ? Had she not been play-
ing a part previously prepared? No, most decidedly no! But
she might have been herself deceived, might have been the
dupe of some skilful trick. In that case old Tabaret's predic-
tion was now realized. Tabaret had said: "Look out for an
indisputable alibi." How could he show the falsity of this
one, planned in advance, affirmed by Claire, who was herself
deceived? How could he expose a plan, so well laid that the
prisoner had been able without danger to await certain results,
with his arms folded, and without himself moving in the matter?
He arose. "Oh !" he said in a loud voice, as though encour-
aging himself, "at the Palais, all will be unraveled."
X/f DABURON had been surprised at Claire's v,isit. M.
*■*«■• de Commarin was still more so, when his valet whispered
to him that Mademoiselle d'Arlange desired a moment's con-
versation with him. He hesitated to receive her, fearing a
866 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
painful and disagreeable scene. What could she want with
him? To inquire about Albert, of course. And what could
he reply ? He sent a message, asking her to wait a few minutes
in one of the little drawing-rooms on the ground floor. He
did not keep her waiting long, his appetite having been de-
stroyed by the mere announcement of her visit.
As soon as he appeared, Claire saluted him with one of
those graceful, yet highly dignified bows, which distinguished
the Marquise dArlange. "Sir — ," she began.
"You come, do you not, my poor child, to obtain news of
the unhappy boy?" asked M. de Commarin.
"No, sir," replied the young girl ; "I come, on the contrary, to
bring you news. Albert is innocent."
The comte looked at her most attentively, persuaded that
grief had affected her reason; but in that case her madness was
very quiet. "I never doubted it," continued Claire; "but now
I have the most positive proof."
"Are you quite sure of what you are saying?" inquired the
comte, whose eyes betrayed his doubt. Mademoiselle d'Arlange
understood his thoughts ; her interview with M. Daburon had
given her experience. "I state nothing which is not of the
utmost accuracy," she replied, "and easily proved. I have just
come from M. Daburon, the investigating magistrate, who is
one of my grandmother's friends; and, after what I told him,
he is convinced that Albert is innocent."
"He told you that, Claire !" exclaimed the comte. "My child,,
are you sure, are you not mistaken?"
"No, sir. I told him something, of which every one was
ignorant, and of which Albert, who is a gentleman, could not
speak. I told him that Albert passed with me, in my grand-
mother's garden, all that evening on which the crime was com-
mitted. He had asked to see me — "
"But your word will not be sufficient."
"There are proofs, and justice has them by this time."
"Heavens! Is it really possible?" cried the comte, who was
beside himself.
"Ah, sir !" said Mademoiselle dArlange bitterly, "you are his
father, and you suspected him ! You do not know him, then.
You were abandoning him, without trying to defend him."
M. de Commarin was not difficult to convince. Without think-
ing, without discussion, he put faith in Claire's assertions. Yes,
he had been overcome by the magistrate's certitude, he had told
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 867
himself that what was most unlikely was true ; and he had
bowed his head. Albert innocent ! The thought descended
upon his heart like heavenly dew. During the last three days,
he had discovered how great was his affection for Albert. He
had loved him tenderly, for he had never been able to discard
him, in spite of his frightful suspicions as to his paternity.
For three days, the knowledge of the crime imputed to his un-
happy son, the thought of the punishment which awaited him,
had nearly killed the father. And after all he was innocent !
"But, then, mademoiselle," asked the comte, "are they going
to release him?"
"Alas ! sir, I demanded that they should at once set him at
liberty. It is just, is it not, since he is not guilty? But the
magistrate replied that it was not possible; that he was not the
master; that Albert's fate depended on many others. It was
then that I resolved to come to you for aid."
"Can I then do something?"
"I at least hope so. I am only a poor girl, very ignorant;
and I know no one in the world. I do not know what can be
done to get him released from prison. There ought, however,
to be some means for obtaining justice. Will you not try all
that can be done, sir, you, who are his father?"
"Yes," replied M. de Commarin quickly, "yes, and without
losing a minute."
Since Albert's arrest, the comte had been plunged in a dull
stupor. In his profound grief, seeing only ruin and disaster
about him, he had done nothing to shake off this mental paraly-
sis. The frightful darkness was dispelled ; he saw a glimmering
on the horizon ; he recovered the energy of his youth. "Let us
go," he said. Suddenly the radiance in his face changed to
sadness, mixed with anger. "But where?" he asked. "At what
door shall we knock with any hope of success? In the olden
times, I would have sought the king. But to-day ! Even the
emperor himself can not interfere with the law. We shall cer-
tainly have justice ; but to obtain it promptly is an art taught
in schools that I have not frequented."
"Let us try, at least, sir," persisted Claire. "Let us seek out
judges, generals, ministers, any one. Only lead me to them.
I will speak; and you shall see if we do not succeed." The
comte took Claire's little hands between his own, and held them
a moment, pressing them with paternal tenderness. "Brave
girl !" he cried, "you are a noble, courageous woman, Claire !
868 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
Good blood never fails. I did not know you. Yes, you shall
be my daughter ; and you shall be happy together, Albert and
you. But we must not rush about everywhere, like wild geese.
We need some one to tell us whom we should address — some
guide, lawyer, barrister. Ah !" he cried, "I have it — Noel !"
Claire raised her eyes to the comte's in surprise.
"He is my son," replied M. de Commarin, evidently embar-
rassed, "my other son, Albert's brother. The best and worthiest
of men," he added, repeating quite appropriately a phrase al-
ready uttered by M. Daburon. "He is a barrister ; he knows all
about the Palais; he will tell us what to do." Noel's name,
thus thrown into the midst of this conversation so full of hope,
oppressed Claire's heart. The comte perceived her affright.
"Do not feel anxious, dear child," he said. "Noel is good ; and
I will tell you more, he loves Albert. Do not shake your head
so ; Noel told me himself, on this very spot, that he did not
believe Albert guilty. He declared that he intended doing every-
thing to dispel the fatal mistake, and that he would be his bar-
rister. I will send for him," continued M. de Commarin ; "he
is now with Albert's mother, who brought him up, and who
is now on her deathbed." — "Albert's mother !"
"Yes, my child. Albert will explain to you what may perhaps
seem to you an enigma. Now time presses. But I think — "
He stopped suddenly. He thought that, instead of sending for
Noel at Madame Gerdy's, he might go there himself. He would
thus see Valerie ! and he had longed to see her again so much !
It was one of those actions which the heart urges, but which
one does not dare risk, because a thousand subtle reasons and
interests are against it.
"It will be quicker, perhaps," observed the comte, "to go to
Noel."
"Let us start then, sir."
"I hardly know though, my child," said the old gentleman,
hesitating, "whether I may, whether I ought to take you with
me. Propriety — "
"Ah, sir, propriety has nothing to do with it !" replied Claire
impetuously. "With you, and for his sake, I can go anywhere.
I am ready, sir."
"Very well, then," said the comte. Then, ringing the bell
violently, he called to the servant : "My carriage." In descend-
ing the steps, he insisted upon Claire's taking his arm. The
gallant and elegant politeness of the friend of the Comte d' Artois
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 869
reappeared. "You have taken twenty years from my age," he
said ; "it is but right that I should devote to you the youth you
have restored to me."
As soon as Claire had entered the carriage, he said to the
footman: "Rue St. Lazare, quick!" Aided by the concierge's
directions, the comte and the young girl went toward Madame
Gerdy's apartments. He was, then, about to see her again !
His emotion pressed his heart like a vise. "M. Noel Gerdy?"
he asked of the servant. The barrister had just that moment
gone out. She did not know where he had gone ; but he had
said he should not be out more than half an hour. "We will
wait for him, then," said the comte.
He advanced ; and the servant drew back to let them pass.
Noel had strictly forbidden her to admit any visitors; but the
Comte de Commarin was one of those whose appearance makes
servants forget all their orders. Three persons were in the
room into which the servant introduced the comte and Made-
moiselle d'Arlange. They were the parish priest, the doctor,
and a tall man, an officer of the Legion of Honor, whose figure
and bearing indicated the old soldier. They were conversing
near the fireplace, and the arrival of strangers appeared to
astonish them exceedingly. In bowing, in response to M. de
Commarin's and Claire's salutations, they seemed to inquire
their business ; but this hesitation was brief, for the soldier
almost immediately offered Mademoiselle d'Arlange a chair.
The comte considered that his presence was inopportune ;
and he thought that he was called upon to introduce himself
and explain his visit. "You will excuse me, gentlemen," said
he, "if I am indiscreet. I did not think so when I asked to
wait for Noel, whom I have the most pressing need of seeing.
I am the Comte de Commarin."
At this name the old soldier let go the back of the chair
which he was still holding and haughtily raised his head. An
angry light flashed in his eyes, and he made a threatening ges-
ture. His lips moved, as if he were about to speak ; but he
restrained himself and retired, bowing his head, to the window.
Neither the comte nor the two other men noticed his strange
behavior; but it did not escape Claire. While Mademoiselle
d'Arlange sat down rather surprised, the comte, much embar-
rassed at his position, went up to the priest, and asked in a
low voice: "What is, I pray, M. l'Abbe, Madame Gerdy's
condition ?"
870 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
The doctor, who had a sharp ear, heard the question, and
approached quickly. "I fear, sir," he said, "that she can not
live throughout the day."
The comte pressed his hand against his forehead, as though
he had felt a sudden pain there. "Does she recognize her
friends?" he murmured.
"No, sir. Since last evening, however, there has been a
great change. She was very uneasy all last night: she had
moments of fierce delirium. About an hour ago we thought she
was recovering her senses, and we sent for M. l'Abbe."
"Very needlessly, though," put in the priest, "and it is a sad
misfortune. Her reason is quite gone. Poor woman ! I have
known her ten years ; I have been to see her nearly every week ;
I never knew a more worthy person."
"She must suffer dreadfully," said the doc'ir. Almost at the
same instant, and as if to bear out the doctor's words, they
heard stifled cries from the next room, the door of which was
slightly open. "Do you hear?" exclaimed the comte, trembling
from head to foot. Claire understood nothing of this strange
scene. Dark presentiments oppressed her ; she felt as though
she were enveloped in an atmosphere of evil. She grew fright-
ened, rose from her chair, and drew near the comte.
"She is, I presume, in there?" asked M. de Commarin.
"Yes, sir," harshly answered the old soldier, who had also
drawn near.
At any other time the comte would have noticed the soldier's
tone and have resented it. Now he did not even raise his eyes.
He remained insensible to everything. Was she not there, close
to him ? His thoughts were in the past ; it seemed to him but
yesterday that he had quitted her for the last time. "I should
very much like to see her," he said timidly. — "That is impossi-
ble," replied the old soldier. — "Why?" stammered the comte. —
"At least, M. de Commarin," replied the soldier, "let her die
in peace."
The comte started, as if he had been struck. His eyes en-
countered the officer's; he lowered them like a criminal before
his judge.
"Nothing need prevent the comte's entering Madame Gerdy's
room," put in the doctor, who purposely saw nothing of all this.
"She would probably not notice his presence ; and if — "
"Oh, she would perceive nothing !" said the priest. "I have
just spoken to her, taken her hand; she remained quite insen-
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 871
sible." The old soldier reflected deeply. "Enter," said he at
last to the comte ; "perhaps it is God's will."
The comte tottered, so that the doctor offered to assist him.
He gently motioned him away. The doctor and the priest en-
tered with him ; Claire and the old soldier remained at the
threshold of the door, facing the bed. The comte took three
or four steps, and was obliged to stop. He wished to, but could
not go farther. Could this dying wonlan really be Valerie? He
did not recognize her. But she knew him, or rather divined his
presence. With supernatural strength, she raised herself, ex-
posing her shoulders and emaciated arms ; then pushing away
the ice from her forehead, and throwing back her still plenti-
ful hair, bathed with water and perspiration, she cried : "Guy !
Guy !" The comte trembled all over. He did not perceive that
which immediately struck all the other persons present — the
transformation in the sick woman. Her contracted features
relaxed, a celestial joy spread over her face, and her eyes,
sunken by disease, assumed an expression of infinite tenderness.
"Guy," said she in a voice heartrending by its sweetness,
"you have come at last ! How long, O my God ! I have waited
for you ! You can not think what I have suffered by your
absence. I should have died of grief had it not been for the
hope of seeing you again. Who kept you from me? Your
parents again ? How cruel of them ! Did you not tell them
that no one could love you here below as I do? No, that is
not it ; I remember. You were angry when you left me. Your
friends wished to separate us ; they said that I was deceiving
you with another. But you did not believe the wicked calumny,
you scorned it, for you are here? I deceive you?" continued
the dying woman ; "only a madman would believe it. Am I not
yours, your very own, heart and soul? Was I not yours, alone,
from the very first? I never hesitated to give myself entirely
to you ; I felt that I was born for you, Guy, do you remember ?
I was working for a lace-maker, and was barely earning a liv-
ing. You told me you were a poor student ; I thought you were
depriving yourself for me. You insisted on having our little
apartment on the Quai St. Michel done up. It was lovely, with
the new paper all covered with flowers, which we hung our-
selves. From the window we could see the great trees of the
Tuileries gardens : and by leaning out a little we could see
the sun set through the arches of the bridges. Oh, those happy
days ! But you deceived me ! You were not a poor student.
872 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
One day, when taking my work home, I met you in an elegant
carriage, with tall footmen, dressed in liveries covered with gold
lace, behind. I could not believe my eyes. That evening you
told me the truth, that you were a nobleman and immensely
rich. Oh, my darling, why did you tell me?"
Had she her reason, or was this a mere delirium? Great
tears rolled down the Comte de Commarin's wrinkled face, and
the doctor and the priest were touched by the sad spectacle of
an old man weeping like a child.
"After that," continued Madame Gerdy, "we left the Quai
Saint-Michel. You wished it; and I obeyed in spite of my
apprehensions. You told me that, to please you, I ought to
look like a great lady. You provided teachers for me, for I
was so ignorant that I scarcely knew how to sign my name.
Do you remember the queer spelling in my first letter? Ah,
Guy, if you had really only been a poor student ! When I
knew that you were so rich, I lost my simplicity, my thoughtf ul-
ness, my gaiety. I feared that you would think me covetous,
that you would imagine that your fortune influenced my love.
Men who, like you, have millions, must be unhappy ! They
must be always doubting and full of suspicions ; they can never
be sure whether it is themselves or their gold which is loved,
and this awful doubt makes them mistrustful, jealous, and
cruel. Oh, my dearest, why did we leave our dear little room?
There we were happy. You thought to raise me, but you only
sunk me lower. You were proud of our love ; you published it
abroad. Vainly I asked you in mercy to leave me in obscurity
and unknown. Soon the whole town knew that I was your
mistress. Every one was talking of the money you spent on
me. How I blushed at the flaunting luxury you thrust upon
me! You were satisfied, because my beauty became celebrated;
I wept, because my shame became so too. Was not my name
in the papers? And it was through the same papers that I
heard of your approaching marriage. Unhappy woman ! I
should have fled from you, but I had not the courage. I re-
signed myself, without an effort, to the most humiliating, the
most shameful of positions. You were married, and T remained
your mistress. Oh, what anguish I suffered during that ter-
rible evening. I was alone in my own home, in that room so
associated with you ; and you were marrying another ! I said
to myself: 'At this moment a pure, noble young girl is giving
herself to him.' I said again : 'What oaths is that mouth, which
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 873
has so often pressed my lips, now taking?' Often since that
dreadful misfortune I have asked heaven what crime I had
committed that I should he so terribly punished? This was
the crime: I remained your mistress, and your wife died. I
only saw her once, and then scarcely for a minute, but she
looked at you, and I knew that she loved you as only I could.
Ah, Guy, it was our love that killed her !"
She stopped exhausted, but none of the bystanders moved.
They listened breathlessly, and waited with feverish emotion
for her to resume.
"Who," continued the sick woman, unconscious of all that
was passing about her, "who told you I was deceiving you ?
Oh, the wretches! They set spies upon me; they discovered
that an officer came frequently to see me. But that officer was
my brother, my dear Louis ! When he was eighteen years old,
and being unable to obtain work, he enlisted, saying to my
mother that there would then be one mouth the less in the fam-
ily. He was a good soldier, and his officers always liked him.
He was promoted a lieutenant, then captain, and finally became
major. Louis always loved me; had he remained in Paris I
should not have fallen. But our mother died, and I was left all
alone in this great city. He was a non-commissioned officer
when he first knew that I had a lover ; and he was so enraged
that I feared he would never forgive me. But he did forgive
me. saying that my constancy in my error was its only excuse.
Ah. my friend, he was more jealous of your honor than you
yourself ! He came to see me in secret, because I placed him
in the unhappy position of blushing for his sister. Could a
brave soldier confess that his sister was the mistress of a
comte ? That it might not be known, I took the utmost pre-
cautions, but alas ! only to make you doubt me. When Louis
knew what was said he wished in his blind rage to challenge
you ; and then I was obliged to make him think that he had nc
right to defend me. What misery ! Ah. I have paid dearly
for my years of stolen happiness ! But you are here, and all
is forgotten. For you do believe me. do you not. Guy? I will
write to Louis: he will come, he will tell you that I do not
lie, and you can not doubt his. a soldier's word."
"Yes, on my honor." said the old soldier, "what my sister
says is the truth."
The dying woman did not hear him ; she continued in a voice
panting from weariness: "How your presence revives me. I
874 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
feel that I am growing stronger. I have nearly been very ill.
I am afraid I am not very pretty to-day ; but never mind, kiss
me !" She opened her arms, and thrust out her lips as if to
kiss him. "But it is one condition, Guy, that you will leave
me my child? Oh ! I beg of you, I entreat you, not to take him
from me ; leave him to me. What is a mother without her
child ? You are anxious to give him an illustrious name, an
immense fortune. No ! You tell me that this sacrifice will be
for his good. No ! My child is mine : I will keep him. The
world has no honors, no riches, which can replace a mother's
love. You wish to give me in exchange that other woman's
child. Never ! What ! you would have that woman embrace
my boy ! It is impossible. Take away this strange child from
me ; he fills me with horror ; I want my own ! Ah, do not
insist, do not threaten me with anger, do not leave me. I
should give in, and then I should die. Guy, forget this fatal
project, the thought of it alone is a crime. Can not my prayers,
my tears, can nothing move you? Ah, well God will punish
us. All will be discovered. The day will come when these
children will demand a fearful reckoning. Guy, I foresee the
future; I see my son coming toward me, justly angered. What
does he say, great heaven ! Oh, those letters, those letters,
sweet memories of our love ! My son, he threatens me ! He
strikes me! Ah, help! A son strike his mother. Tell no one
of it, though. Oh, my God, what torture ! Yet he knows well
that I am his mother. He pretends not to believe me. Lord,
this is too much ! Guy ! pardon ! oh, my only friend ! I have
neither the power to resist nor the courage to obey you."
At this moment the door opening on to the landing opened,
and Noel appeared, pale as usual, but calm and composed. The
dying woman saw him, and the sight affected her like an elec-
tric shock. A terrible shudder shook her frame ; her eyes grew
inordinately large ; her hair seemed to stand on end. She raised
herself on her pillows, stretched out her arm in the direction
where Noel stood, and in a loud voice exclaimed : "Assassin !"
She fell back convulsively on the bed. Some one hastened
forward : she was dead. A deep silence prevailed. All the by-
standers were deeply moved by this painful scene, this last con-
fession, wrested so to say from the delirium. And the last word
uttered by Madame Gerdy, "assassin," surprised no one. All,
excepting the nun, knew of the awful accusation which had
been made against Albert. To him they applied the unfortu-
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 875
nate mother's malediction. Noel seemed quite broken-hearted.
Kneeling by the bedside of her who had been as a mother to
him, he took one of her hands, and pressed it close to his lips.
"Dead!" he groaned; "she is dead."
Fallen into a chair, his head thrown back, the Comte de Com-
marin was more overwhelmed and more livid than this dead
woman, his old love, once so beautiful. Claire and the doctor
hastened to assist him. They undid his cravat, and took off
his collar, for he was suffocating. With the help of the old
soldier, whose red, tearful eyes told of suppressed grief, they
moved the comte's chair to the half-opened window to give him
a little air. Three days before this scene would have killed
him. But the heart hardens by misfortune, like hands by labor.
"His tears have saved him," whispered the doctor to Claire.
M. de Commarin gradually recovered, and. as his thoughts
became clearer, his sufferings returned. The comte's gaze was
fixed upon the bed where lay Valerie's body. The soul, that
soul so devoted and so tender, had flown. What would he not
have given if God would have restored that unfortunate woman
to life for a day, or even for an hour? Upon a mere suspicion,
without deigning to inquire, without giving her a hearing, he
had treated her with the coldest contempt. Why had he not
seen her again ? He would have spared himself twenty years
of doubt as to Albert's birth. Then he remembered the comtesse's
death. She also had loved him, and had died of her love. He
had not understood them ; he had killed them both. The hour
of expiation had come; and he could not say: "Lord, the pun-
ishment is too great," and yet, what punishment, what misfor-
tunes, during the last five days !
"Yes." he stammered, "she predicted it. Why did I not listen
to her?" Madame Gerdy's brother pitied the old man, so se-
verely tried. He held out his hand. "M. de Commarin," he
said, in a grave, sad voice, "my sister forgave you long ago,
even if she ever had any ill feeling against you. It is my turn
to-day ; I forgive you sincerely."
"Thank you, sir," murmured the comte, "thank you." And
then he added : "What a death !"
"Yes," murmured Claire, "she breathed her last in the idea
that her son was guilty of a crime. And we were not able to
undeceive her."
"At least," cried the comte, "her son should be free to render
her his last duties ; yes, he must be. Noel !" The barrister had
876
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
approached his father, and heard all. "I have promised, father,"
he replied, "to save him."
For the first time, Mademoiselle d'Arlange was face to face
with Noel. Their eyes met, and she could not restrain a move-
ment of repugnance, which the barrister perceived. "Albert is
already saved," she said proudly. "What we ask is that prompt
justice shall be done him ; that he shall be immediately set at
liberty. The magistrate now knows the truth."
"How the truth?" exclaimed the barrister.
"Yes; Albert passed at my house, with me, the evening the
crime was committed." Noel looked at her surprised; so sin-
gular a confession from such a mouth, without explanation,
might well surprise him. She drew herself up haughtily. "I
am Mademoiselle Claire d'Arlange, sir," said she.
M. de Commarin now quickly ran over all the incidents re-
ported by Claire. When he had finished, Noel replied: "You
see, sir, my position at this moment, to-morrow — "
"To-morrow?" interrupted the comte, "you said, I believe,
to-morrow ! Honor demands, sir, that we act to-day, at this
moment. You can show your love for this poor woman much
better by delivering her son than by praying for her." Noel
bowed low. "To hear your wish, sir, is to obey it," he said;
"I go. This evening, at your house, I shall have the honor of
giving you an account of my proceedings. Perhaps I shall be
able to bring Albert with me."
He spoke, and, again embracing the dead woman, went out.
Soon the comte and Mademoiselle d'Arlange also retired. The
old soldier went to the Mairie, to give notice of the death, and
to fulfil the necessary formalities. The nun alone remained to
watch the corpse.
\/l DABURON was ascending the stairs that led to the
•*-'-l» offices of the investigating magistrates, when he saw
old Tabaret coming toward him. The sight pleased him, and
he at once called out: "M. Tabaret!"
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 877
"You must excuse me, sir," he said, bowing, "but I am ex-
pected at home."
"I hope, however — "
"Oh, he is innocent," interrupted old Tabaret. "I have al-
ready some proofs ; and before three days — But you are going
to see Gevrol's man with the earrings. He is very cunning,
Gevrol : 1 misjudged him." And without listening to another
word, he hurried away. M. Daburon, greatly disappointed, also
hastened on. In the passage, on a bench of rough wood before
his office door, Albert sat awaiting him, under the charge of a
Garde de Paris. "You will be summoned immediately, sir,"
said the magistrate to the prisoner, as he opened his door.
In the office, Constant was talking with a skinny little man.
"You received my letters?" asked M. Daburon of his clerk. —
"Your orders have been executed, sir : the prisoner is without,
and here is M. Martin, who this moment arrived from the
neighborhood of the Invalides."
"That is well," said the magistrate in a satisfied tone. And,
turning toward the detective : "Well, M. Martin," he asked, "what
did you see?" — "The walls have been scaled, sir." — "Lately?"
— "Five or six days ago." — "You are sure of this?" — "As sure
as I am that I see M. Constant at this moment mending his
pen." — "The marks are plain?" — "As plain as the nose on my
face, sir. The thief entered the garden before the rain, and
went away after it, as you had conjectured. This circumstance
is easy to establish by examining the marks on the wall of the
ascent and the descent on the side toward the street. These
marks are several abrasions, evidently made by the feet of some
one climbing. The first are clean ; the others, muddy. The
scamp in getting in pulled himself up by the strength of his
wrists: but when going away, he enjoyed the luxury of a ladder,
which he threw down as soon as he was on the top of the wall.
One can see where he placed it, by holes made in the ground
by the fellow's weight; and also by the mortar which has been
knocked away from the top of the wall."
"Is that all?" asked the magistrate.
"Not yet, sir. Three of the pieces of glass which cover the
top of the wall have been removed. Several of the acacia
branches, which extend over the wall have been twisted or
broken. Adhering to the thorns of one of these branches, I
found this little piece of lavender kid, which appears to me
to belong to a glove."
878 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
The magistrate eagerly seized the piece of kid. It had evi-
dently come from a glove. "You took care, I hope, M. Martin,"
said M. Daburon, "not to attract attention at the house where
you made this investigation?"
"Certainly, sir. I first of all examined the exterior of the
wall at my leisure. After that, leaving my hat at a wine-shop
round the corner, I called at the Marquise d'Arlange's house,
pretending to be the servant of a neighboring duchess, who was
in despair at having lost a favorite parrot. I was very kindly
given permission to explore the garden ; and, as I spoke as dis-
respectfully as possible of my pretended mistress, they, no
doubt, took me for a genuine servant."
"You are an adroit and prompt fellow, M. Martin," inter-
rupted ihe magistrate. "I am well satisfied with you ; and I
will report you favorably at headquarters." He rang his bell,
while the detective, delighted at the praise he had received,
moved backward to the door, bowing the while.
Albert was then brought in. "Have you decided, sir," asked
the investigating magistrate without preamble, "to give me a
true account of how you spent last Tuesday evening?" — "I
have already told you, sir." — "No, sir, you have not ; and I
regret to say that you lied to me." Albert, at this apparent in-
sult, turned red, and his eyes flashed.
"I know all that you did on that evening," continued the
magistrate, "because justice, as I have already told you, is
ignorant of nothing that it is important for it to know." Then,
looking straight into Albert's eyes, he continued slowly : "I
have seen Mademoiselle Claire d'Arlange."
On hearing that name, the prisoner's features, contracted by
a firm resolve not to give way, relaxed. However, he made no
reply.
"Mademoiselle d'Arlange," continued the magistrate, "has
told me where you were on Tuesday evening." Albert still
hesitated. "I am not setting a trap for you," added M. Dabu-
ron ; "I give you my word of honor. She has told me all. you
understand ?"
This time Albert decided to speak. His explanations corre-
sponded exactly with Claire's ; not one detail more. Hence-
forth, doubt was impossible. Mademoiselle d'Arlange had not
been imposed upon. Either Albert was innocent, or she was
his accomplice. Could she knowingly be the accomplice of such
an odious crime? No; she could not even be suspected of it.
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 879
But who then was the assassin ? For, when a crime has been
committed, justice demands a culprit.
"You see, sir," said the magistrate severely to Albert, "you
did deceive me. You risked your life, sir, and, what is also
very serious, you exposed me, you exposed justice, to the chance
of committing a most deplorable mistake. Why did you not
tell me the truth at once?"
"Mademoiselle dArlange, sir," replied Albert, "in according
me a meeting, trusted in my honor."
"And you would have died sooner than mention that inter-
view?" interrupted M. Daburon with a touch of irony. "That
is all very fine, sir, and worthy of the days of chivalry !"
"I am not the hero that you suppose, sir," replied the pris-
oner simply. "If I told you that I did not count on Claire, I
should be telling a falsehood. I was waiting for her. I knew
that, on learning of my arrest, she would brave everything to
save me. But her friends might have hid it from her ; and that
was what I feared. In that event, I do not think, so far as one
can answer for one's self, that I should have mentioned her
name."
There was no appearance of bravado. What Albert said,
he thought and felt. M. Daburon regretted his irony. "Sir,"
he said kindly, "you must return to your prison. I can not re-
lease you yet ; but you will be no longer in solitary confinement.
You will be treated with every attention due to a prisoner
whose innocence appears probable." Albert bowed, and thanked
him; and was then removed.
"We are now ready for Gevrol " said the magistrate to his
clerk. The chief of detectives was absent: he had been sent
for from the Prefecture of Police ; but his witness, the man with
the earrings, was waiting in the passage. He was told to enter.
He was one of those short, thick-set men, powerful as oaks,
who can carry almost any weight on their broad shoulders. His
white hair and whiskers set off his features, hardened and
tanned by the inclemency of the weather, the sea winds and
the heat of the tropics. He had large callous black hands, with
big sinewy fingers which must have possessed the strength of
a vise. Great earrings in the form of anchors hung from his
ears. He was dressed in the costume of a well-to-do Normandy
fisherman out for a holiday. The clerk was obliged to push
him into the office, for this son of the ocean was timid and
abashed when on shore. M. Daburon examined him, and esti-
880 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
mated him at a glance. There was no doubt but that he was
the sunburnt man described by one of the witnesses at La
Tonchere. It was also impossible to doubt his honesty.
"Your name ?" demanded the investigating magistrate. —
"Marie Pierre Lerouge." — "Are you, then, related to Claudine
Lerouge?" — "I am her husband, sir."
"Every one believed her a widow. She herself pretended to
be one." — "Yes, for in that way she partly excused her conduct.
Besides, it was an arrangement between ourselves. I had told
her that I would have nothing more to do with her." — "In-
deed? Well, you know that she is dead, victim of an odious
crime?" — "The detective who brought me here told me of it,
sir," replied the sailor, his face darkening. "She was a wretch !"
he added in a hollow voice. — "How ? You, her husband, accuse
her ?" — "I have but too good reason to do so, sir. Ah, my dead
father, who foresaw it all at the time, warned me ! I laughed,
when he said : 'Take care, or she will dishonor us all.' He was
right. Through her, I have been hunted down by the police,
just like some skulking thief. Everywhere that they inquired
after me with their warrant, people must have said : 'Ah, ha,
he has then committed some crime !' And here I am before a
magistrate ! Ah, sir, what a disgrace ! The Lerouges have
been honest people, from father to son, ever since the world
began. Yes, she was a wicked woman; and I have often told
her that she would come to a bad end." — "You told her that?"
— "More than a hundred times, sir." — "When did you warn her
so wisely?"
"Ah, a long time ago, sir," replied the sailor, "the first time
was more than thirty years back. She had ambition even in
her blood ; she wished to mix herself up in the intrigues of the
great. It was that that ruined her. She said that one got
money for keeping secrets; and I said that one got disgraced
and that was all. But she had a will of her own."
"You were her husband, though," objected M. Daburon, "you
had the right to command her obedience." The sailor shook
his head, and heaved a deep sigh. "Alas, sir ! it was I who
obeyed."
"In what intrigues did your wife mingle?" asked he. "Go
on, my friend, tell me everything exactly; here, you know, we
must have not only the truth, but the whole truth."
Lerouge placed his hat on a chair. Then he began alter-
nately to pull his fingers, making them crack almost sufficiently
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 881
to break them, and ultimately scratched his head violently. It
was his way of arranging his ideas. "I must tell you," he be-
gan, "that it will be thirty-five years on St. John's day since I
fell in love with Claudine. She was a pretty, neat, fascinating
girl, with a voice sweeter than honey. She was the most beau-
tiful girl in our part of the country, straight as a mast, supple
as a willow, graceful and strong as a racing boat. Her eyes
sparkled like old cider; her hair was black, her teeth as white
as pearls, and her breath was as fresh as the sea breeze. The
misfortune was that she hadn't a sou, while we were in easy
circumstances. Her mother, who was the widow of I can'r
say how many husbands, was, saving your presence, a bad
woman, and my father was the worthiest man alive. When
I spoke to the old fellow of marrying Claudine he swore fiercely,
and eight days after, he sent me to Oporto on a schooner be-
longing to one of our neighbors, just to give me a change of
air. I came back, at the end of six months, thinner than a
thole, but more in love than ever. Recollections of Claudine
scorched me like a fire. I could scarcely eat or drink ; but I
felt that she loved me a little in return, for I was a fine young
fellow, and more than one girl had set her cap at me. Then
my father, seeing that he could do nothing, that I was wasting
away, and was on the road to join my mother in the cemetery,
decided to let me complete my folly. So one evening, after we
had returned from fishing and I got up from supper without
tasting it, he said to me: 'Marry the hag's daughter, and let's
have no more of this.' The evening after the wedding, and
when the relatives and guests had departed, I was about to join
my wife, when I perceived my father all alone in a corner
weeping. The sight touched my heart, and I had a foreboding
of evil ; but it quickly passed away. For two years, in spite
of a few little quarrels, everything went on nicely. Claudine
managed me like a child. Ah, she was cunning! She might
have seized and bound me, and carried me to market and sold
me, without my noticing it. Her great fault was her love of
finery. All that I earned, and my business was very prosper-
ous, she put on her back. At the baptism of our son. who was
called Jacques after my father, to please her, I squandered all
I had economized during my youth, more than three hundred
pistoles, with which I had intended purchasing a meadow that-
lay in the midst of our property. I was well enough pleased,
until one morning I saw one of the Comte de Commarin's ser-
11 — Vol III — Gab.
882 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
vants entering our house; the comte's chateau is only about a
mile from where I lived on the other side of the town. It was
a fellow named Germain, whom I didn't like at all. I asked
my wife what the fellow wanted ; she replied that he had come
to ask her to take a child to nurse. I would not hear of it at
first, for our means were sufficient to allow Claudine to keep all
her milk for our own child. But she gave me the very best of
reasons. She said she regretted her past flirtations and her ex-
travagance. She wished to earn a little money, being ashamed
of doing nothing while I was killing myself with work. She
was to get a very good price, that we could save up to go
toward the three hundred pistoles. That confounded meadow,
to which she alluded, decided me."
"Did she not tell you of the commission with which she was
charged?" asked the magistrate.
This question astonished Lerouge. He thought that there
was good reason to say that justice sees and knows everything.
"Not then," he answered; "but you will see. Eight days after,
the postman brought a letter, asking her to go to Paris to fetch
the child. It arrived in the evening. 'Very well,' said she, 'I
will start to-morrow by the diligence.' I didn't say a word
then ; but next morning, when she about to take her seat in
the diligence, I declared that I was going with her. She didn't
seem at all angry, on the contrary. She kissed me, and I was
delighted. At Paris she was to call for the little one at a
Madame Gerdy's, who lived on the Boulevard. We arranged
that she should go alone, while I waited for her at our inn.
After she had gone, I grew uneasy. I went out soon after and
prowled about near Madame Gerdy's house, making inquiries
of the servants and others: I soon discovered that she was the
Comte de Commarin's mistress. I felt so annoyed that, if I had
been master, my wife should have come away without the little
bastard. Claudine, sir, was more obstinate than a mule. After
three days of violent discussion, she obtained from me a reluc-
tant consent, between two kisses. Then she told me that we
were going to return home by the diligence. The lady, who
feared the fatigue of the journey for her child, had arranged
that we should travel back by short stages, in her carriage, and
drawn by her horses. For she was kept in grand style. We
were, therefore, installed with the children, mine and the other,
in an elegant carriage, drawn by magnificent animals, and driven
by a coachman in livery. My wife was mad with joy; she
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 8*3
kissed me over and over again, and chinked handfuls of gold
in my face. I felt as foolish as an honest husband who finds
money in his house which he didn't earn himself. Seeing how
I felt, Claudine, hoping to pacify me, resolved to tell me the
whole truth. 'See here,' she said to me — " Lerouge stopped,
and, changing his tone, said: "You understand that it is my
wife who is speaking?"
"Yes, yes. Go on." — "She said to me, shaking her pocket
full of money, 'See here, my man, we shall always have
as much of this as ever we may want, and this is why : The
comte, who also had a legitimate child at the same time
as this bastard, wishes that this one shall bear his name in-
stead of the other ; and this can be accomplished, thanks to
me. On the road we shall meet at the inn, where we are to
sleep, M. Germain and the nurse to whom they have entrusted
the legitimate son. We shall be put in the room, and during
the night I am to change the little ones, who have been pur-
posely dressed alike. For this the comte gives me eight thou-
sand francs down and a life annuity of a thousand francs.'
I could say nothing at first, I was so choked with rage. But
she, who was generally afraid of me when I was in a passion,
burst out laughing, and said: 'What a fool you are! Listen,
before turning sour like a bowl of milk. The comte is the
only one who wants this change made ; and he is the one that's
to pay for it. His mistress, this little one's mother, doesn't
want it at all ; she merely pretended to consent, so as not to
quarrel with her lover, and because she has got a plan of her
own. She took me aside during my visit in her room, and,
after having made me swear secrecy on a crucifix, she told me
that she couldn't bear the idea of separating herself from her
babe forever, and of bringing up another's child. She added
that, if I would agree not to change the children, and not to
tell the comte, she would give me ten thousand francs down,
and guarantee me an annuity equal to the one the comte had
promised me. She declared, also, that she could easily find out
whether I kept my word, as she had made a mark of recognition
on her little one. She didn't show me the mark, and I have ex-
amined him carefully, but can't find it. Do you understand
now. I merely take care of this little fellow here; I tell the
comte that I have changed the children ; we receive from both
sides, and Jacques will be rich. Now kiss your little wife who
has more sense than you, you old dear !' That, sir, is word for
884 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
word what Claudine said to me." M. Daburon was confounded.
He felt himself utterly routed.
"What Claudine proposed to me," continued the sailor, "was
villainous; and I am an honest man. She proved to me that
we were wronging no one, that we were making little Jacques's
fortune, and I was silenced. At evening we arrived at some
village ; and the coachman, stopping the carriage before an inn,
told us we were to sleep there. We entered, and who do you
think we saw? That scamp, Germain, with a nurse carrying a
child dressed so exactly like the one we had that I was startled.
They had journeyed there, like ourselves, in one of the comte's
carriages. A suspicion crossed my mind. How could I be sure
that Claudine had not invented the second story to pacify me?
I resolved not to lose sight of the little bastard, swearing that
they shouldn't change it; so I kept him all the evening on my
knees, and, to be all the more sure, I tied my handkerchief
about his waist. Ah ! the plan had been well laid. After sup-
per some one spoke of retiring, and then it turned out that
there were only two double-bedded rooms in the house. It
seemed as though it had been built expressly for the scheme.
The innkeeper said that the two nurses might sleep in one
room, and Germain and myself in the other. Do you under-
stand, sir? Add to this that during the evening I had surprised
looks of intelligence passing between my wife and that rascally
servant, and you can imagine how furious I was. It was con-
science that spoke, and I was trying to silence it. As for me,
1 upset that arrangement, pretending to be too jealous to leave
my wife a minute. They were obliged to give way to me. The
other nurse went up to bed first. Claudine and I followed soon
afterward. My wife undressed and got into bed with our son
and the little bastard. I did not undress. Under the pretext
that I should be in the way of the children, I installed myself
in a chair near the bed, determined not to shut my eyes, and to
keep close watch. I put out the candle, in order to let the
women sleep. Toward midnight I heard Claudine moving. I
held my breath. Was she going to change the children ? I was
beside myself, and seizing her by the arm, I commenced to beat
her roughly, giving free vent to all that I had on my heart.
The other nurse cried out as though she were being murdered.
At this uproar Germain rushed in with a lighted candle. Not
knowing what I was doing, I drew from my pocket a long
Spanish knife, which I always carried, and, seizing the cursed
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 885
bastard, I thrust the blade through his arm, crying, 'This way,
at least, he can't be changed without my knowing it; he is
marked for life !' "
The magistrate's stern glance harassed Lerouge, and urged
him on, like the whip which flogs the negro slave overcome with
fatigue.
"The little fellow's wound," he resumed, "bled dreadfully,
and he might have died ; but I didn't think of that. I was only
troubled about the future. I declared that I would write out
all that had occurred, and that every one should sign it. This
was done ; we could, all four, write. Germain didn't dare resist,
for I spoke with knife in hand. He wrote his name first, beg-
ging me to say nothing about it to the comte, swearing that,
for his part, he would never breathe a word of it, and pledging
the other nurse to a like secrecy."
"And have you kept this paper ?" asked M. Daburon.
"Yes, sir, and as the detective to whom I confessed all ad-
vised me to bring it with me, I went to take it from the place
where I always kept it. and I have it here." — "Give it to me."
Lerouge took from his coat pocket an old parchment pocket-
book, fastened with a leather thong, and withdrew from it a
paper yellowed by age and carefully sealed. "Here it is," said
he. "The paper hasn't been opened since that accursed night."
It was really a brief description of the scene, described by the
old sailor. The four signatures were there. "What has become
of the witnesses who signed this declaration?" murmured the
magistrate, speaking to himself. Lerouge replied : "Germain is
dead. I have been told that he was drowned while out rowing.
Claudine has just been assassinated; but the other nurse still
lives. I even know that she spoke of the affair to her husband,
for he hinted as much to me. His name is Brossette, and he
lives in the village of Commarin itself."
"And what next?" asked the magistrate after having taking
down the name and address.
"The next day, sir, Claudine managed to pacify me. and ex-
torted a promise of secrecy. The child was scarcely ill at all:
but he retained an enormous scar on his arm." — "Was Madame
Gerdy informed of what took place?" — "I do not think so, sir.
But I would rather say that I do not know." — "What ! you do
not know ?" — "Yes, sir, I swear it. You see my ignorance comes
from what happened afterward." — "What happened, then?" —
The sailor hesitated. "That, sir, concerns only myself, and — '
886 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"My friend," interrupted the magistrate, "you are an honest
man, I believe; in fact, I am sure of it. All that is said here,
and which is not directly connected with the crime, will remain
secret ; even I will forget it immediately."
"Alas, sir," answered the sailor, "I have been already greatly
punished; and it is a long time since my troubles began. Clau-
dine was a coquette ; but she had a great many other vices.
When she realized how much money we had these vices showed
themselves, just like a fire, smoldering at the bottom of the
hold, bursts forth when you open the hatches. In our house
there was feasting without end. Whenever I went to sea she
would entertain the worst Women in the place; and there was
nothing too good or too expensive for them. Well, one night,
when she thought me at Rouen, I returned unexpectedly. I
entered, and found her with a man. A miserable-looking wretch
— the bailiff's clerk. I should have killed him, like the vermin
that he was; it was my right, but he was such a pitiful
object. I took him by the neck and pitched him out of the
window, without opening it. It didn't kill him. Then I fell
upon my wife and beat her until she couldn't stir. I pardoned
her, but the man who beats his wife and then pardons her is
lost. In the future she took better precautions, became a greater
hypocrite, and that was all. In the mean while Madame Gerdy
took back her child, and Claudine had nothing more to restrain
her. My house became the resort of all the good-for-nothing
rogues in the country, for whom my wife brought out bottles
of wine and brandy whenever I was away at sea, and they got
drunk promiscuously. When money failed, she wrote to the
comte or his mistress, and the orgies continued. It was a
cursed life. My neighbors despised me, and turned their backs
on me ; they believed me an accomplice or a willing dupe.
People wondered where all the money came from that was
spent in my house. Fortunately, though, my poor father was
dead."
M. Daburon pitied the speaker sincerely. "Rest a while,
my friend," he said; "compose yourself."
"No," replied the sailor, "I would rather get through with
it quickly. One man, the priest, had the charity to tell me of it.
Without losing a minute, I went and saw a lawyer. He said
that nothing could be done. When once a man has given his
name to a woman, he told me, he can not take it back; it be-
longs to her for the rest of her days, and she has a right to
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 887
dispose of it. She may sully it, cover it with mire, drag it
from wine-shop to wine-shop, and her husband can do nothing.
That same day, I sold the fatal meadow, and sent the proceeds
of it to Claudine, wishing to keep nothing of the price of
shame. I then had a document drawn up, authorizing her to
administer our property, but not allowing her either to sell or
mortgage it. Then I wrote her a letter in which I told her
that she need never expect to hear of me again, that I was
nothing more to her, and that she might look upon herself as
a widow. That same night I went away with my son."
"And what became of your wife after your departure?" — "I
can not say, sir ; I only know that she quitted the neighborhood
a year after I did." — "You have never lived with her since?" —
"Never." — "But you were at her house three days before the
crime was committed." — "That is true, but it was absolutely
necessary. I had had much trouble to find her, no one knew
what had become of her. Fortunately my notary was able to
procure Madame Gerdy's address ; he wrote to her, and that is
how I learned that Claudine was living at La Jonchere. I was
then at Rouen. Captain Gervais, who is a friend of mine,
offered to take me to Paris on his boat, and I accepted. Ah,
sir, what a shock I experienced when I entered her house ! My
wife did not know me ! By constantly telling every one that
I was dead, she had without a doubt ended by believing it her-
self. When I told her my name, she fell back in her chair.
The wretched woman had not changed in the least ; she had by
her side a glass and a bottle of brandy." — "All this doesn't ex-
plain why you went to seek your wife." — "It was on Jacques's
account, sir, that I went. The youngster has grown to be a
man ; and he wants to marry. For that, his mother's consent
was necessary ; and I was taking to Claudine a document which
the notary had drawn up, and which she signed. This is it."
M. Daburon took the paper, and appeared to read it atten-
tively. After a moment he asked : "Have you thought who
could have assassinated your wife?" Lerouge made no reply.
"Do you suspect any one?" persisted the magistrate. — "Well,
sir," replied the sailor, "what can I say? I thought that Clau-
dine had wearied out the people from whom she drew money,
like water from a well ; or else getting drunk one day, she had
blabbed too freely."
The testimony being as complete as possible, M. Daburon dis-
missed Lerouge, at the same time telling him to wait for Gevrol,
888 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
who would take him to a hotel, where he might wait, at the
disposal of justice, until further orders. "All your expenses
will be paid you," added the magistrate.
M. Daburon, usually the most prudent of men, had consid-
ered as simple one of the most complex of cases. He had acted
in a mysterious crime, which demanded the utmost caution, as
carelessly as though it were a case of simple misdemeanor.
Why? Because his memory had not left him his free delibera-
tion, judgment, and discernment. Thinking himself sure of his
facts, he had been carried away by his animosity. The singular
part of it all was that the magistrate's faults sprang from his
very honesty. The scruples which troubled him had filled his
mind with fantoms, and had prompted in him the passionate
animosity he had displayed at a certain moment. Calmer now,
he examined the case more soundly. As a whole, thank heaven !
there was nothing done which could not be repaired. At that
moment he resolved that he would never undertake another
investigation. His profession henceforth inspired him with an
unconquerable loathing. Too pious a man to think of suicide,
he asked himself with anguish what would become of him
when he threw aside his magistrate's robes. Then he turned
again to the business in hand. In any case, innocent or guilty,
Albert was really the Vicomte de Commarin, the comte's legiti-
mate son. But was he guilty? Evidently he was not. "I
think," exclaimed M. Daburon suddenly, "I must speak to the
Comte de Commarin. Constant, send to his house a message
for him to come here at once; if he is not at home, he must
be sought for."
M. Daburon felt that an unpleasant duty was before him. He
would be obliged to say to the old nobleman: "Sir, your legiti-
mate son is not Noel, but Albert." As a compensation, though,
he could tell him that Albert was innocent. To Noel he would
also have to tell the truth: hurl him to earth, after having
raised him among the clouds. What a blow it would be ! But,
without doubt, the comte would make him some compensation;
at least, he ought to.
"Now," murmured the magistrate, "who can be the criminal ?"
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
389
f}LD TABARET talked, but he acted also. Lavish with his
^~^ money, the old fellow had gathered together a dozen detec-
tives on leave or rogues out of work; and at the head of these
worthy assistants, seconded by his friend Lecoq, he had gone
to Bougival. He had actually searched the country, house by
house, with the obstinacy and the patience of a maniac hunting
for a needle in a haystack.
After three days' investigation, he felt comparatively certain
that the assassin had not left the train at Rueil, as all the
people of Bougival, La Jonchere, and Marly do, but had gone
on as far as Chatou. Tabaret thought he recognized him in
a man described to him by the porters at that station as rather
young, dark, and with black whiskers, carrying an overcoat
and an umbrella. This person, who arrived by the train which
left Paris for St. Germain at thirty-five minutes past eight in
the evening, had appeared to be in a very great hurry. On
quitting the station, he had started off at a rapid pace on the
road which led to Bougival. Upon the way, two men from
Marly and a woman from La Malmaison had noticed him on
account of his rapid pace. He smoked as he hurried along.
On crossing the bridge which joins the two banks of the Seine
at Bougival, he had been still more noticed. It is usual to pay
a toll on crossing this bridge ; and the supposed assassin had
apparently forgotten this circumstance. He passed without
paying, keeping up his rapid pace, pressing his elbows to his
side, husbanding his breath, and the gatekeeper was obliged
to run after him for his toll. He seemed greatly annoyed, threw
the man a ten-sou piece, and hurried on, without waiting for
the nine sous change. Nor was that all. The station-master
at Rueil remembered that, two minutes before the quarter-past
ten train came up, a passenger arrived very agitated, and so
out of breath that he could scarcely ask for a second-class
ticket for Paris. The appearance of this man corresponded
exactly with the description given of him by the porters at
890 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
Chatou, and by the gatekeeper at the bridge. Finally, the old
man thought he was on the track of some one who entered
the same carriage as the breathless passenger. He had been
told of a baker iiving at Asnieres, and he had written to him,
asking him to call at his house.
Such was old Tabaret's information, when on the Monday
morning he called at the Palais de Justice, in order to find out
if the record of Widow Lerouge's past life had been received.
He found that nothing had arrived, but in the passage he met
Gevrol and his man. The chief of detectives was triumphant,
and showed it too. As soon as he saw Tabaret, he called out:
"Well, my illustrious mare's-nest hunter, what news? Have
you had any more scoundrels guillotined since the other day?"
Instead of retaliating, he bowed his head in such a penitent
manner that Gevrol was astonished. "Jeer at me, my good
M. Gevrol," he replied, "mock me without pity; you are right,
I deserve it all."
"Ah, come now," said the chief, "have you then performed
some new masterpiece, you impetuous old fellow?" Old Taba-
ret shook his head sadly. "I have delivered up an innocent
man," he said, "and justice will not restore him his freedom."
Gevrol was delighted, and rubbed his hands until he almost
wore away the skin. "This is fine," he sang out, "this is capital.
To bring criminals to justice is of no account at all. But to
free the innocent, by Jove ! that is the last touch of art. Tirau-
clair, you are a great wonder; and I bow before you." And
at the same time, he raised his hat ironically.
"Don't crush me." replied the old fellow. "Because chance
served me three or four times, I became foolishly proud! In-
stead of laughing, pray help me, aid me with your advice and
your experience. Alone, I can do nothing, while with your
assistance — !" Gevrol was vain in the highest degree. Ta-
baret's submission tickled his pretensions as a detective im-
mensely ; for in reality he thought the old man very clever. He
was softened. "I suppose," he said patronizingly, "you refer
to the La Jonchere affair?"
"Alas ! yes, my dear M. Gevrol, I wished to work without
you, and I got myself into a pretty mess." Cunning old
Tabaret kept his countenance as penitent as that of a sacristan
caught eating meat on a Friday; but he was inwardly laughing
and rejoicing all the while. "Conceited fool !" he thought, "I
will flatter you so much that you will end by doing everything
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 891
I want." M. Gevrol rubbed his nose, put out his lower lip, and
said, "Ah, — hem I" He pretended to hesitate ; but it was only
because he enjoyed prolonging the old amateur's discomfiture.
"Come," said he at last, "cheer up, old Tirauclair. I'm a good
fellow at heart, and I'll give you a lift. But, to-day, I'm too
busy, I've an appointment to keep. Come to me to-morrow
morning, and we'll talk it over. Do you know who that wit-
ness is that I've brought?" — "No; but tell me, my good M.
Gevrol." — "Well, that fellow on the bench there, who is waiting
for M. Daburon, is the husband of the victim of the La Jonchere
tragedy!" — "Is it possible?" exclaimed old Tabaret, perfectly
astounded. Then, after reflecting a moment, he added; "You
are joking with me." — "No, upon my word. Go and ask him
his name; he will tell you that it is Pierre Lerouge." — "She
wasn't a widow then?" — "It appears not," replied Gevrol
sarcastically, "since there is her happy spouse." — "Whew !"
muttered the old fellow. "And does he know anything?" In
a few sentences, the chief of detectives related to his amateur
colleague the story that Lerouge was about to tell the in-
vestigating magistrate. "What do you say to that?" he asked
when he came to the end. — "What do I say?" stammered M.
Tabaret. "I don't say anything. But I think — no, I don't even
think." — "A slight surprise, eh?" said Gevrol, beaming. — "Say
rather an immense one," replied Tabaret. But suddenly he
started, and gave his forehead a hard blow with his fist.
"And my baker!" he cried, "I will see you to-morrow, then,
M. Gevrol." — "He is crazed," thought the head detective. The
old fellow was sane enough, but he had suddenly recollected
the Asnieres baker, whom he had asked to call at his house.
Would he still find him there? Going down stairs he met M.
Daburon; but, as one has already seen, he hardly deigned to
reply to him. He was soon outside, and trotted off along the
quays. "Now," said he to himself, "let us consider. Noel is
once more plain Noel Gerdy. He won't feel very pleased, for
he thought so much of having a great name. Pshaw ! if he
likes, I'll adopt him. Tabaret doesn't sound so well as Com-
marin, but it's at least a name. Anyhow, Gevrol's story in no
way affected Albert's situation or my convictions. He is the
legitimate son, so much the better for him ! That, however,
would not prove his innocence to me, if I doubted it. He
evidently knew nothing of these surprising circumstances, any
more than his father. He must have believed as well as the
892 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
comte in the substitution having taken place. Madame Gerdy,
too, must have been ignorant of these facts ; they probably
invented some story to explain the scar. Yes, but Madame
Gerdy certainly knew that Noel was really her son, for when
he was returned to her, she no doubt looked for the mark she
had made on him. Then, when Noel discovered the comte's
letters, she must have hastened to explain to him — " Old
Tabaret stopped as suddenly as if further progress were ob-
structed by some dangerous reptile. He was terrified at the
conclusion he had reached. "Noel, then, must have assassi-
nated Widow Lerouge, to prevent her confessing that the sub-
stitution had never taken place, and have burned the letters and
papers which proved it !" But he repelled this supposition
with horror, as every honest man drives away a detestable
thought which by accident enters his mind. "Suspect Noel,
my boy, my sole heir, the personification of virtue and honor !
Men of his class must indeed be moved by terrible passions to
cause them to shed blood ; and I have always known Noel to
have but two passions, his mother and his profession. And I
dare even to breathe a suspicion against this noble soul? I
ought to be whipped !"
He at length reached the Rue St. Lazare. Before the door of
his house stood a magnificent horse harnessed to an elegant
blue brougham. At the sight of these he stopped. "A hand-
some animal !" he said to himself ; "my tenants receive some
swell people."
They apparently received visitors of an opposite class also,
for, at that moment, he saw M. Clergot come out; worthy M.
Clergot, whose presence in a house betrayed ruin just as surely
as the presence of the undertakers announce a death. He
stopped him and said. "Halloa ! you old crocodile, you have
clients, then, in my house ?"
"So it seems," replied Clergot dryly.
"Who the deuce are you ruining now?"
"I am ruining no one," replied M. Clergot with an air of
offended dignity. "Have you ever had reason to complain of
me whenever we have done business together? I think not.
Mention me to the young barrister up there if you like ; he will
tell you whether he has reason to regret knowing me."
These words produced a painful impression on Tabaret.
What, Noel, the prudent Noel, one of Clergot's customers !
What did it mean? Perhaps there was no harm in it; but
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 893
then he remembered the fifteen thousand francs he had lent
Xoel on the Thursday. "Yes," said he, wishing to obtain some
more information, "I know that M. Gerdy spends a pretty
round sum."
"It isn't he personally," Clergot objected, "who makes the
money dance; it's that charming little woman of his. Ah, she's
no bigger than your thumb, but she'd eat the devil, hoofs, horns,
and all !"
What ! Noel had a mistress, a woman whom Clergot himself,
the friend of such creatures, considered expensive ! The reve-
lation, at such a moment, pierced the old man's heart. A ges-
ture, a look, might awaken the usurer's mistrust, and close his
mouth. "That's well known," replied Tabaret in a careless
tone. "But what do you suppose the wench costs him a year?"
"Oh. I don't know ! According to my calculation, she must
have, during the four years that she has been under his protec-
tion, cost him close upon five hundred thousand francs."
Four years ! Five hundred thousand francs ! These words,
these figures, burst like bombshells on old Tabaret's brain ! Half
a million ! In that case. Noel was utterly ruined. But then —
"It is a great deal," said he, succeeding by desperate efforts in
hiding his emotion; "it is enormous. M. Gerdy, however, has
resources."
"He !" interrupted the usurer, shrugging his shoulders. "Not
even that !" he added, snapping his fingers ; "he is utterly cleared
out. But, if he owes you money, do not be anxious. He is a
sly dog. He is going to be married ; and I have just renewed
bills of his for twenty-six thousand francs. Good-by. ML
Tabaret."
The usurer hurried away, leaving the poor old fellow stand-
ing like a milestone in the middle of the pavement. And yet
such was his confidence in Noel that he again struggled with
his reason to resist the suspicions which tormented him. And
supposing it were true? Have not many men done just such
insane things for women without ceasing to be honest?
As he was about to enter his house a pretty young brunette
came out and jumped as lightly as a bird into the blue brougham.
Old Tabaret was a gallant man, and the young woman was
most charming, but he never even looked at her. He passed in,
and found his concierge standing, cap in hand, and tenderly
examining a twenty-franc piece.
"Ah, sir," said the man, "such a pretty young person, and
894 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
so lady-Kke ! If you had only been here five minutes sooner." —
"What lady? why?" — "That elegant lady who just went out, sir;
she came to make some inquiries about M. Gerdy. She gave
me twenty francs for answering her questions. It seems that
the gentleman is going to be married ; and she was evidently
much annoyed about it. Superb creature ! I have an idea that
she is his mistress. I know now why he goes out every night."
— "M. Gerdy?" — "Yes, sir, but I never mentioned it to you be-
cause he seemed to wish to hide it. He never asks me to open
the door for him, no, not he. He slips out by the little stable
door. I have often said to myself: 'Perhaps he doesn't want to
disturb me ; it is very thoughtful on his part.' "
The concierge spoke with his eyes fixed on the gold piece.
When he raised his head to examine the countenance of his lord
and master, old Tabaret had disappeared.
Old Tabaret was running after the lady in the blue brougham.
"She will tell me all," he thought, and with a bound he
was in the street. He reached it just in time to see the blue
brougham turn the corner of the Rue St. Lazare. "Heavens !"
he murmured. "I shall lose sight of her, and yet she can tell
me the truth." He ran to the end of the Rue St. Lazare as
rapidly as if he had been a young man of twenty. Joy ! He
saw the blue brougham a short distance from him in the Rue
du Havre, stopped in the midst of a block of carriages. "I
have her," he said to himself. He looked all about him, but
there was not an empty cab to be seen. The brougham got out
of the entanglement and started off rapidly toward the Rue
Tronchet. The old fellow followed. While running in the
middle of the street, at the same time looking out for a cab,
he kept saying to himself: "Hurry on, old fellow, hurry on."
But he was plainly losing ground. He was only half-way
down the Rue Tronchet, and the brougham had almost reached
the Madeleine. At last an open cab, going in the same direc-
tion as himself, passed by. He made a supreme effort, and
with a bound jumped into the vehicle without touching the
step. "There," he gasped, "that blue brougham, twenty francs !"
"All right !" replied the coachman, nodding.
As for old Tabaret, he was a long time recovering himself,
his strength was almost exhausted. They were soon on the
Boulevards. He stood up in the cab leaning against the driver's
seat. "I don't see the brougham anywhere," he said. — "Oh, I
see it all right, sir. But it is drawn by a splendid horse!" —
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 895
"Yours ought to be a better one. I said twenty francs; I'll
make it forty." The driver whipped up his horse most merci-
lessly, and growled. "It's no use, I must catch her. Forty
francs ! I wonder how such an ugly man can be so jealous."
Old Tabaret tried in every way to occupy his mind with
other matters. He wished to reflect befoie seeing the woman,
speaking with her, and carefully questioning her. He was sure
that by one word she would either condemn or save her lover.
The idea that Noel was the assassin harassed and tormented
him, and buzzed in his brain, like the moth which flies again
and again against the window where it sees a light. As they
passed the Chaussee d'Antin, the brougham was scarcely thirty
paces in advance. The cab driver turned and said: "The
brougham is stopping." — "Then stop also. Don't lose sight
of it; but be ready to follow it again as soon as it goes
off."
Old Tabaret leaned as far as he could out of the cab. The
young woman alighted, crossed the pavement, and entered a
shop where cashmeres and laces were sold. "There," thought
the old fellow, "is where the thousand-franc notes go! Half
a million in four years !
The cab moved on once more, but soon stopped again. The
brougham had made a fresh pause, this time in front of a curi-
osity shop. "The woman wants to buy all Paris !" said old
Tabaret to himself in a passion. "Yes, if Noel committed the
crime, it was she who forced him to it. These are my fifteen
thousand francs that she is frittering away now. It must have
been for money, then, that Noel murdered Widow Lerouge.
If so, he is the lowest, the most infamous of men ! And to
think that he would be my heir if I should die here of rage !
For it is written in my will in so many words, T bequeath to
my son, Noel Gerdy!' But is this woman never going home?"
The woman was in no hurry. She visited three or four more
shops, and at last stopped at a confectioner's, where she re-
mained for more than a quarter of an hour. The old fellow,
devoured by anxiety, moved about and stamped in his cab.
He was dying to rush after her, to seize her by the arm, and
cry out to her: "Don't you know that at this moment your
lover, he whom you have ruined, is suspected of an
assassination?"
She returned to her carriage. It started off once more, passed
up the Rue de Faubourg Montmartre, turned into the Rue de
896 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
Provence, deposited its fair freight at her own door, and drove
away.
Tabaret, with a sigh of relief, got out of the cab, gave the
driver his forty francs, bade him wait, and followed in the
young woman's footsteps. "The old fellow is patient," thought
the driver; "and the little brunette is caught."
The detective opened the door of the concierge's lodge.
"What is the name of the lady who just came in?" he de-
manded. The concierge did not seem disposed to reply. "Her
name !" insisted the old man. The tone was so sharp, so im-
perative, that the concierge was upset. "Madame Juliette Chaf-
four," he answered.
"On what floor does she reside?" — "On the second, the door
opposite the stairs."
A minute later the old man was waiting in Madame Juliette's
drawing-room. Madame was dressing, the maid informed him,
and would be down directly. Tabaret was astonished at the
luxury of the room. There was nothing flaring or coarse,
or in bad taste. The old fellow, who knew a good deal about
such things, saw that everything was of great value. The orna-
ments on the mantelpiece alone must have cost, at the lowest
estimate, twenty thousand francs. "Clergot," thought he, "didn't
exaggerate a bit."
Juliette's entrance disturbed his reflections. She had taken
off her dress and had hastily thrown about her a loose black
dressing-gown, trimmed with cherry-colored satin.
"You wished, sir, to speak with me?" she inquired, bowing
gracefully. — "Madame," replied M. Tabaret, "I am a friend of
Noel Gerdy's; I may say, his best friend, and — "
"Pray sit down, sir," interrupted the young woman.
She placed herself on a sofa, just showing the tips of her
little feet encased in slippers matching her dressing-gown, while
the old man sat down in a chair. "I come, madame," he
resumed, "on very serious business. Your presence at M.
Gerdy's." — "Ah," cried Juliette, "he already knows of my
visit? Then he must employ a detective."
"My dear child — " began Tabaret, paternally. — "Oh ! I know,
sir, what your errand is. Noel has sent you here to scold me.
He forbade my going to his house, but I couldn't help it. It's
annoying to have a puzzle for a lover, a man whom one knows
nothing whatever about, a riddle in a black coat and a white
cravat."
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 897
"You have been imprudent." — "Why? Because he is going to
get married? Why does he not admit it then?" — "Suppose
that it is not true." — "Oh, but it is! He told that old shark
Clergot so, who repeated it to me. For the last month he
has been so peculiar; he has changed so that I hardly recog-
nize him."
Old Tabaret was especially anxious to know whether Noel
had prepared an alibi for the evening of the crime. For him
that was the grand question. If he had, he was certainly
guilty; if not, he might still be innocent. Madame Juliette,
he had no doubt, could enlighten him on that point. Conse-
quently he had presented himself with his lesson all prepared,
his little trap all set. The young woman's outburst discon-
certed him a little ; but trusting to the chances of conversation,
he resumed. "Will you oppose Noel's marriage, then?" — "His
marriage !" cried Juliette, bursting out into a laugh ; "ah, the
poor boy ! If he meets no worse obstacle than myself, his path
will be smooth. Let him marry by all means, the sooner the
better, and let me hear no more of him." — "You don't love
him, then?" asked the old fellow, surprised at this amiable
frankness.
"Listen, sir. I have loved him a great deal, but everything
has an end. For four years, I, who am so fond of pleasure,
have passed an intolerable existence. If Noel doesn't leave me,
I shall be obliged to leave him. I am tired of having a lover
who is ashamed of me and who despises me."
"If he despises you, my pretty lady, he scarcely shows it
here," replied old Tabaret, casting a significant glance about the
room.
"You mean," she said, rising, "that he spends a great
deal of money on me. It's true. He pretends that he has ruined
himself on my account ; it's very possible. But what's that to
me ! I would much have preferred less money and more regard.
My extravagance has been inspired by anger and want of occu-
pation. M. Gerdy treats me like a mercenary woman; and so
I act like one. We are quits."
"You know very well that he worships you." — "He? I tell
you he is ashamed of me. He hides me as though I were
some horrible disease. You are the first of his friends to whom
I have ever spoken. Why, no longer ago than last Tuesday,
we went to the theatre ! He hired an entire box. But do
you think that he sat in it with me? Not at all. He slipped
898 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
away and I saw no more of him the whole evening." — "How
so ? Were you obliged to return home alone ?"
"No. At the end of the play, toward midnight, he deigned
to reappear. We had arranged to go to the masked ball at the
Opera and then to have some supper. At the ball, he didn't
dare to let down his hood, or take off his mask. At supper, I
had to treat him like a perfect stranger, because some of his
friends were present." This, then, was the alibi prepared in
case of trouble. Juliette, had she been less carried away by her
own feelings, would have noticed old Tabaret's emotion, and
would certainly have held her tongue. He was perfectly livid,
and trembled like a leaf. "Well," he said, making a great
effort to utter the words, "the supper, I suppose, was none the
less gay for that."
"Gay !" echoed the young woman, shrugging her shoulders ;
"you do not seem to know much of your friend. If you ever
ask him to dinner, take good care not to give him anything to
drink. Wine makes him as merry as a funeral procession. At
the second bottle, he was more tipsy than a cork; so much so
that he lost nearly everything he had with him : his overcoat,
purse, umbrella, cigar-case — "
Old Tabaret couldn't sit and listen any longer; he jumped
to his feet like a raving madman. "Miserable wretch !" he
cried, "infamous scoundrel ! It is he ; but I have him !" And
he rushed out, leaving Juliette so terrified that she called her
maid. "Child," said she, "I have just made some awful blunder,
have let some secret out. The old rogue was no friend of
Noel's, he came to circumvent me, to lead me by the nose ; and
he succeeded. Without knowing it, I must have snoken against
Noel. I have thought carefully, and can remember nothing;
but he must be warned though. I will write him a line, while
you find a messenger to take it."
Old Tabaret was soon in his cab and hurrying toward the
Prefecture of Police. Noel an assassin ! He thirsted for venge-
ance ; he asked himself what punishment would be great enough
for the crime. "For he not only assassinated Claudine," thought
he, "but he so arranged the whole thing as to have an innocent
man accused and condemned. And who can say that he did not
kill his poor mother? It is clear that the wretch forgot his
things at the railway station, in his haste to rejoin his mistress.
If he has had the prudence to go boldly, and ask for them
under a false name, I can see no further proofs against him.
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 899
The hussy, seeing her lover in danger, will deny what she has
just told me: she will assert that Noel left her long after ten
o'clock. But I can not think he has dared to go to the railway
station again."
About half-way down the Rue Richelieu, M. Tabaret was
seized with a sudden giddiness. "I am going to have an attack",
I fear," thought he. "If I die, Noel will escape, and will be
my heir. A man should always keep his will constantly with
him, to be able to destroy it, if necessary."
A few steps further on, he saw a doctor's plate on a door;
he stopped the cab, and rushed into the house. He was so
excited, so beside himself, his eyes had such a wild expression,
that the doctor was almost afraid of his peculiar patient, who
said to him hoarsely: "Bleed me!" The doctor ventured an
objection ; but already the old fellow had taken off his coat,
and drawn up one of his shirt-sleeves. "Bleed me !" he re-
peated. "Do you want me to die ?" The doctor finally obeyed,
and old Tabaret came out quieted and relieved.
An hour later, armed with" the necessary power, and accom-
panied by a policeman, he proceeded to the lost property office
at the St. Lazare railway station, to make the necessary search.
He learned that, on the evening of Shrove Tuesday there had
been found in one of the second-class carriages, of train No. 45,
an overcoat and an umbrella. In one of the pockets of the
overcoat he found a pair of lavender kid gloves, frayed and
soited, as well as a return ticket from Chatou, which had not
been used. "Onward," he cried at last. "Now to arrest him."
And, without losing an instant, he hastened to the Palais de
Justice, where he hoped to find the investigating magistrate.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, M. Daburon was stil!
in his office. He was conversing with the Comte de Commarin.
Old Tabaret entered like a whirlwind. "Sir," he cried, stut-
tering with suppressed rage, "we have discovered the real assas-
sin ! It is my adopted son, my heir, Noel ! A warrant is nec-
essary at once. If we lose a minute, he will slip through our
fingers. He will know that he is discovered, if his mistress has
time to warn him of my visit. Hasten, sir, hasten !" M. Da-
buron opened his lips to ask an explanation ; but the old defec-
tive continued : "That is not all. An innocent man, Albert, is
still in prison."
"He will not be so an hour longer," replied the magistrate:
"a moment before your arrival, I had made arrangements to
900
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
have him released. We must now occupy ourselves with the
other one." Neither old Tabaret nor M. Daburon had noticed
the disappearance of the Comte de Commarin. On hearing
Noel's name mentioned, he gained the door quietly, and rushed
out into the passage.
NOEL had promised to use every effort, to attempt even the
impossible, to obtain Albert's release. He in fact did in-
terview the Public Prosecutor and some members of the bar,
but managed to be repulsed everywhere. At four o'clock, he
called at the Comte de Commarin's house, to inform his father
of the ill success of his efforts. "The comte has gone out,"
said Denis ; "but if you will take the trouble to wait."— "I will
wait," answered Noel.— "Then," replied the valet, "will you
please follow me? I have the comte's orders to show you into
his private room."
This confidence gave Noel an idea of his new power. He
was at home, henceforth, in that magnificent house, he was the
master, the heir ! His glance, which wandered over the entire
room, noticed the genealogical tree, hanging on the wall. He
approached it, and read. It was like a page, and one of the
most illustrious, taken from the golden book of French no-
bility. A warm glow of pride filled the barrister's heart, his
pulse beat quicker, he raised his head haughtily, as he murmured :
"Vicomte de Commarin!" The door opened. He turned, and
saw the comte entering. As Noel was about to bow respect-
fully, he was petrified by the look of hatred, anger, and con-
tempt on his father's face, A shiver ran through his veins;
his teeth chattered; he felt that he was lost.
"Wretch !" cried the comte. And, dreading his own vio-
'ence, the old nobleman threw his cane into a corner. He was
unwilling to strike his son ; he considered him unworthy of
being struck by his hand. Then there was a moment of mortal
silence, which seemed to both of them a century. Noel had the
courage to speak first. "Sir," he began.— "Silence !" exclaimed
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 901
the comte hoarsely. "Can it be that you are my son ? Alas, I
can not doubt it now ! Wretch ! you .knew well that you were
Madame Gerdy's son. Infamous villain ! you not only com-
mitted this murder, but you did everything to cause an innocent
man to be charged with your crime ! Parricide ! you have also
killed your mother." The barrister attempted to stammer forth
a protest. "You killed her," continued the comte with in-
creased energy, "if not by poison, at least by your crime. I
understand all now : she was not delirious this morning. But
you know as well as I do what she was saying. You were
listening, and, if you dared to enter at that moment when one
word more would have betrayed you, it was because you had
calculated the effect of your presence. It was to you that she
addressed her last word : 'Assassin !' "
Little by little, Noel had retired to the end of the room, and
he stood leaning against the wall, his head thrown back, his
hair on end, his look haggard. His face betrayed a terror most
horrible to see, the terror of the criminal found out.
"I know all, you see," continued the comte ; "and I am not
alone in my knowledge. At this moment, a warrant of arrest is
issued against you." A cry of rage like a hollow rattle burst
from the barrister's breast. His lips, which were hanging
through terror, now grew firm. Overwhelmed in the very
midst of his triumph, he struggled against this fright. He drew
himself up with a look of defiance. M. de Commarin, without
seeming to pay any attention to Noel, approached his writing-
table, and opened a drawer. "My duty," said he, "would be
to leave you to the executioner who awaits you; but I remem-
ber that I have the misfortune to be your father. Sit down ;
write and sign a confession of your crime. You will then find
firearms in this drawer. May heaven forgive you !"
The old nobleman moved toward the door. Noel with a sign
stopped him, and drawing at the same time a revolver from his
pocket, he said: "Your firearms are needless, sir; my precau-
tions, as you see, are already taken; they will never catch me
alive. Only — " — "Only?" repeated the comte harshly. — "I must
tell you, sir," continued the barrister coldly, "that I do not
choose to kill myself — at least not at present." — "Ah !" cried M.
de Commarin in disgust, "you are a coward!" — "No, sir, not a
coward ; but I will not kill myself until I am sure that every
opening is closed against me, that I can not save myself."
"Miserable wretch !" said the comte, threateningly, "must I
902 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
then do it myself?" He moved toward the drawer, but Noel
closed it with a kick. "Listen to me, sir," said he, in that
hoarse, quick tone, which men use in moments of imminent
danger, "do not let us waste in vain words the few moments'
respite left me. I have committed a crime, it is true, and I do
not attempt to justify it; but who laid the foundation of it, if
not yourself? Now, you do me the favor of offering me a pistol.
Thanks. I must decline it. This generosity is not through any
regard for me. You only wish to avoid the scandal of my trial,
and the disgrace which can not fail to reflect upon your name."
The comte was about to reply. "Permit me," interrupted Noel
imperiously. "I do not choose to kill myself; I wish to save
my life, if possible. Supply me with the means of escape; and
I promise you that I will sooner die than be captured. My last
thousand-franc note was nearly all gone the day when — you
understand me. Therefore, I say, give me some money."
"Never !"
"Then I will deliver myself up to justice, and you will see
what will happen to the name you hold so dear !" The comte,
mad with rage, rushed to his table for a pistol. Noel placed
himself before him. "Oh, do not let us have any struggle,"
said he coolly; "I am the strongest." M. de Commarin re-
coiled. "Let us end this," he said in a tremulous voice, filled
with the utmost contempt ; "let us end this disgraceful scene.
What do you demand of me?"
"I have already told you, money, all that you have here. But
make up your mind quickly." — "I have eighty thousand francs
here," he replied. — "That's very little," said the barrister; "but
give them to me. I will tell you though that I had counted
on you for five hundred thousand francs. If I succeed in es-
caping my pursuers, you must hold at my disposal the balance,
four hundred and twenty thousand francs. Will you pledge
yourself to give them to me at the first demand? At that price,
you need never fear hearing of me again."
By way of reply, the comte opened a little iron chest im-
bedded in the wall, and took out a roll of bank-notes, which he
threw at Noel's feet. "Will you give me your word," Noel con-
tinued, "to let me have the rest whenever I ask for them?" —
"Yes." — "Then I am going. Do not fear, they shall not take
me alive. Adieu, my father ! in all this you are the true criminal,
but you alone will go unpunished. Ah, heaven is not just. I
curse you !"
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 903
When, an hour later, the servants entered the comte's room,
they found him stretched on the floor with his face against
the carpet, and showing scarcely a sign of life.
On leaving the Commarin house, Noel staggered up the Rue
de l'Universite. It seemed to him that the pavement oscillated
beneath his feet, and that everything about him was turning
round. His mouth was parched, his eyes were burning, and
every now and then a sudden fit of sickness overcame him.
But, at the same time, strange to relate, he felt an incredible
relief, almost delight. It was ended then, all was over; the
game was lost. The fever which for the last few days had
kept him up failed him now; and, with the weariness, he felt
an imperative need of rest. For a moment he had serious
thoughts of giving himself up, in order to secure peace, to
gain quiet, to free himself from the anxiety about his safety.
But he struggled against this dull stupor, and at last the re-
action came, shaking off this weakness of mind and body.
The consciousness of his position, and of his danger, returned
to him. He foresaw, with horror, the scaffold, as one sees the
depth of the abyss by the lightning flashes. "I must save my
life," he thought; "but how?" That mortal terror which de-
prives the assassin of even ordinary common sense seized him.
He began running in the direction of the Latin Quarter with-
out purpose, without aim, running for the sake of running, to
get away, like Crime, as represented in paintings, fleeing under
the lashes of the Furies. He very soon stopped, however, for it
occurred to him that this extraordinary behavior would attract
attention. He walked along, instinctively repeating to himself:
"I must do something." But he was so agitated that he was
incapable of thinking or of planning anything. The police were
seeking him, and he could think of no place in the whole world
where he would feel perfectly safe. He was near the Odeon
theatre, when a thought quicker than a flash of lightning lit
up the darkness of his brain. It occurred to him that as the
police were doubtless already in pursuit of him, his description
would soon be known to every one, his white cravat and well-
trimmed whiskers would betray him as surely as though he
carried a placard stating who he was. Seeing a barber's shop,
he hurried to the door ; but, when on the point of turning the
handle, he grew frightened. The barber might think it strange
that he wanted his whiskers shaved off, and supposing he
should question him ! He passed on. He soon saw another
904 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
barber's shop, but the same fears as before again prevented
his entering.
Gradually night had fallen, and, with the darkness, Noel
seemed to recover his confidence and boldness. Why should
he not save himself ? He could go to a foreign country, change
his name, begin his life over again, become a new man en-
tirely. He had money, and that was the main thing. And,
besides, as soon as his eighty thousand francs were spent, he
had the certainty of receiving, on his first request, five or
six times as much more. He was already thinking of the dis-
guise he should assume, and of the frontier to which he should
proceed, when the recollection of Juliette pierced his heart like
a red-hot iron. Was he going to leave without her, going away
with the certainty of never seeing her again? Was it possi-
ble? For whom then had he committed this crime? For her.
Who would have reaped the benefits of it? She. Was it not
just, then, that she should bear her share of the punishment?
"She does not love me," thought the barrister bitterly; "she
never loved me. She would be delighted to be forever free of
me. Juliette is prudent ; she has managed to save a nice little
fortune. Grown rich at my expense, she will take some other
lover. The voice of prudence cried out to him: "Unhappy
man ! to drag a woman along with you, and a pretty woman
too, is but to stupidly attract attention upon you, to render
flight impossible, to give yourself up like a fool."— "What of
that?" replied passion. "We will be saved, or we will perish
together. If she does not love me, I love her; I must have
her ! She will come, otherwise — "
But how to see Juliette, to speak with her, to persuade her.
To go to her house was a great risk for him to run. The police
were perhaps there already. "No," thought Noel; "no one
knows that she is my mistress. It will not be found out for
two or three days; and, besides, it would be more dangerous
still to write."
He took a cab, and told the driver the number of the house
in the Rue de Provence. Stretched on the cushions of the cab,
Mled by its monotonous jolts, Noel passed involuntarily in re-
view the events which had brought on and hastened the catas-
trophe. Just one month before, ruined, at the end of his ex-
pedients, and absolutely without resources, he had determined,
cost what it might, to procure money, so as to be able to con-
tinue to keep Madame Juliette, when chance placed in his
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 905
hands Comte de Commarin's correspondence. Not only the
letters read to old Tabaret, and shown to Albert, but also those
which, written by the comte when he believed the substitution
an accomplished fact, plainly established it. He believed him-
self the legitimate son, but his mother soon undeceived him,
told him the truth, proved it to him by several letters she had
received from Widow Lerouge, called on Claudine to bear wit-
ness to it, and demonstrated it to him by the scar he bore.
Noel resolved to make use of the letters all the same. He
attempted to induce his mother to leave the comte in his ig-
norance, so that he might thus blackmail him. But Madame
Gerdy spurned the proposition with horror. Then the barrister
made a confession of all his follies, showed himself in his true
light, sunk in debt ; and finally begged his mother to have
recourse to M. de Commarin. This also she refused. It was
then that the idea of murdering Claudine occurred to him.
The unhappy woman had not been more frank with Madame
Gerdy than with others, so that Noel really thought her a
widow. Therefore, her testimony suppressed, who else stood
in his way ? Madame Gerdy, and perhaps the comte. He feared
them but little. If Madame Gerdy spoke, he could always reply:
"After stealing my name for your son, you will do everything
in the world to enable him to keep it." But how do away with
Claudine without danger to himself?
After long reflection, the barrister thought of a diabolical
strategem. He burned all the comte's letters establishing the
substitution, and he preserved only those which made it probable.
These last he went and showed to Albert, feeling sure, that,
should justice ever discover the reason of Claudine's death, it
would naturally suspect him who appeared to have most interest
in it. Not that he really wished Albert to be suspected of the
crime; it was simply a precaution. His plan was simply this:
the crime once committed, he would wait ; things would take
their own course, there would be negotiations, and ultimately
he would compromise the matter at the price of a fortune. His
plan settled, he decided to strike the fatal blow on the Shrove
Tuesday. To neglect no precaution, he that very same evening
took Juliette to the theatre, and afterward to the masked ball
at the opera. In case things went against him, he thus secured
an unanswerable alibi. The loss of his overcoat only troubled
him for a moment. On reflection, he reassured himself, saying:
"Pshaw! who will ever know?" Everything had resulted in
906 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
accordance with his calculations ; it was, in his opinion, a matter
of patience.
But when Madame Gerdy read the account of the murder, the
unhappy woman divined her son's work, and, in the first
paroxysms of her grief, she declared that she would denounce
him. He was terrified. A frightful delirium had taken posses-
sion of his mother. One word from her might destroy him.
Putting a bold face on it, however, he acted at once and staked
his all.
To put the police on Albert's track was to guarantee
his own safety, to insure to himself, in the event of a probable
success, Count de Commarin's name and fortune. Circum-
stances, as well as his own terror, increased his boldness and
his ingenuity. Old Tabaret's visit occurred just at the right
moment. Noel knew of his connection with the police, and
guessed that the old fellow would make a most valuable con-
fidant. So long as Madame Gerdy lived, Noel trembled. In
her delirium she might betray him at any moment. But when
she had breathed her last, he believed himself safe. He thought
it all over, he could see no further obstacle in his way ; he made
sure he had triumphed.
And now all was discovered, just as he was about to reach
the goal of his ambition. But how? By whom? What fatality
had resuscitated a secret which he had believed buried with
Madame Gerdy ? But where is the use, when one is at the bot-
tom of an abyss, of knowing which stone gave way, or of asking
down what side one fell ?
The cab stopped in the Rue de Provence. Noel leaned out
of the door, his eyes exploring the neighborhood and throwing
a searching glance into the depths of the hall of the house.
Seeing no one, he paid the fare through the front window, be-
fore getting out of the cab, and, crossing the pavement with a
bound, he rushed upstairs. Charlotte, at sight of him, gave
a shout of joy.
"At last it is you, sir !" she cried. "Ah, madame has been
expecting you with the greatest impatience ! She has been very
anxious."
Juliette expecting him ! Juliette anxious !
The barrister did not stop to ask questions. On reaching
this spot, he seemed suddenly to recover all his composure. He
understood his imprudence; he knew the exact value of every
minute he delayed there. "If any one rings," said he to Char-
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 907
lotte, "don't open the door. No matter what may be said or
done, don't open the door !"
On hearing Noel's voice, Juliette ran to meet him. He
sharply pushed her back into the drawing-room, and followed,
closing the door. Only then did she notice her lover's face. He
was so changed, his look was so haggard that she could not
help crying out: "What is the matter with you?"
Noel made no reply ; he advanced toward her and took her
hand. "Juliette," he demanded in a hollow voice, fixing his
burning glance upon her, "Juliette, be sincere, do you love me?"
She guessed, she instinctively felt that something extraordi-
nary was happening; she seemed to breathe an atmosphere of
evil, yet she playfully replied, pouting her lips most provokingly :
"'You naughty boy, you deserve — "
"Oh, enough !" interrupted Noel, stamping his feet fiercely.
^'Answer me," he continued, squeezing her pretty hands almost
sufficiently to crush them, "yes, or no, do you love me?"
A hundred times had she played with her lover's anger, de-
lighting to excite him into a fury, to enjoy the pleasure of
appeasing him with a word, but she had never seen him thus
before. He had hurt her very much, and yet she dared not
complain of this his first harshness.
"Yes, I love you," she stammered, "do you not know it?
Why do you ask me?"
"Why?" replied the barrister, releasing her hands; "why?
Because, if you love me you have an opportunity of proving it.
If you love me, you must follow me at once, abandon every-
thing. Come, fly with me. Time presses — "
The young woman was decidedly frightened. "Great heav-
ens !" she asked, "what has happened ?"
"Nothing, except that I have loved you too much, Juliette.
When I found I had no more money left to give you for your
luxury, your caprices, I went mad. To procure money, I — I
committed a crime — a crime; do you understand? The police
are after me, I must fly, will you come with me?"
Juliette's eyes grew wide with astonishment; but she doubted
Noel. "A crime? You?" she began.
"Yes, I ! Would you know the truth ? I have committed
murder, I have assassinated ! But it was all for you."
The barrister felt that at these words Juliette would certainly
recoil from him in horror. He expected her to be seized by
that terror which a murderer inspires. He was already fully
908 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
resigned to it. He thought that she would fly from him; per-
haps there would be a scene. She might go into hysterics, cry
out, call for help, for the police. He was mistaken. With a
bound, Juliette threw herself upon him, entwining her arms
about his neck, and embracing him as she had never done
before.
"Yes, I love you !" she cried. "You have committed a crime
for my sake, you ? Then you must have loved me. You have
a heart. I did not know you !"
It cost dear to inspire passion in Madame Juliette; but Noel
did not think of that. He experienced a moment of intense
delight; it seemed to him that nothing was hopeless. But he
had the presence of mind to free himself from her embrace.
"Let us go," he said; "the one great misfortune is that I do not
know from whence the attack may come. How the truth has
been discovered is still a mystery to me."
Juliette suddenly recollected the strange visit she had re-
ceived in the afternoon; she understood it all. "Oh, wretched
woman that I am!" she cried, wringing her hands in despair;
"it is I who have betraved you ! It occurred on Tuesday, did
it not?"
"Yes, Tuesday."
"Ah, then I have told all, without suspecting it, to your
friend, that old fellow I thought you had sent, M. Tabaret I"
"What, Tabaret has been here?"
"Yes, this afternoon."
"Come, then," cried Noel, "come quickly; it's a miracle that
he has not yet come to arrest me !"
He took her by the arm, to hurry her away; but she quickly
released herself. "Wait," said she. "I have some money, some
jewels. I must take them."
"It is useless. Leave everything behind. I have a fortune,
Juliette ; let us fly !"
She had already opened her jewel-box, and was throwing
everything of value that she possessed pell-mell into a little
traveling bag.
"Ah, through your delay I shall be caught," cried Noel, "I
shall be caught !"
He spoke thus ; but his heart was overflowing with joy :
"What sublime devotion ! She loves me truly," he said to him-
self ; "for my sake, she renounces her happy life without hesita-
tion ; for my sake, she sacrifices all !"
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR 909
Juliette had finished her preparations and was hastily tying
on her bonnet, when the door-bell rang.
"It is the police !" cried Noel, becoming, if possible, even
more livid.
The young woman and her lover stood as immovable as two
statues, with great drops of perspiration on their foreheads,
their eyes dilated, and their ears listening intently. A second
ring was heard, then a third.
Charlotte appeared, walking on tiptoe. "There are several,"
she whispered ; "I heard them talking together."
Grown tired of ringing, they knocked loudly on the door. The
sound of a voice reached the drawing-room, and the word "law"
was plainly heard.
"No more hope !" murmured Noel.
''Don't despair," cried Juliette ; "try the servants' staircase !"
"You may be sure they have not forgotten it."
Juliette went to see, and returned dejected and terrified. She
had distinguished heavy footsteps on the landing, made by some
one endeavoring to walk softly. "There must be some way of
escape !" she cried fiercely.
"Yes," replied Noel, "one way. I have given my word.
They are picking the lock. Fasten all the doors, and let them
break them down ; it will give me time."
Tuliette and Charlotte ran to carry out his directions. Then
Noel, leaning against the mantelpiece, seized his revolver and
pointed it at his breast. But Juliette, who had returned, per-
ceiving the movement, threw herself upon her lover, but so
violently that the revolver turned aside and went off. The
shot took effect, the bullet entered Noel's stomach. He uttered
a frightful cry. Juliette had made his death a terrible punish-
ment; she had prolonged his agony. He staggered, but re-
mained standing, supporting himself by the mantelpiece, while
the blood flowed copiously from his wound.
Juliette clung to him, trying to wrest the revolver from his
grasp. "You shall not kill yourself," she cried, "I will not
let you. You are mine ; I love you ! Let them come. What
can they do to you? If they put you in prison, you can escape.
I will help you, we will bribe the jailers. Ah, we will live so
happily together, no matter where, far away in America where
no one knows us !"
The outer door had yielded ; the police were now picking the
lock of the door of the antechamber.
910 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
"Let me finish!" murmured Noel; "they must not take me
alive !"
And, with a supreme effort, triumphing over his dreadful
agony, he released himself, and roughly pushed Juliette away.
She fell down near the sofa. Then he once more aimed his re-
volver at the place where he felt his heart beating, pulled the
trigger and rolled to the floor. It was full time, for the police
at that moment entered the room. Their first thought was that
before shooting himself, Noel had shot his mistress. They
knew of cases where people had romantically desired to quit
this world in company; and, moreover, had they not heard two
reports ? But Juliette was already on her feet again.
"A doctor," she cried, "a doctor ! He can not be dead !"
One man ran out, while the others, under old Tabaret's direc-
tion, raised the body and carried it to Madame Juliette's bed-
room, where they laid it on the bed. "For his sake, I trust his
wounds are mortal !" murmured the old detective, whose anger
left him at the sight. "After all, I loved him as though he
were my own child ; his name is still in my will !"
Old Tabaret stopped. Noel just then uttered a groan and
opened his eyes. "You see that he will live !" cried Juliette.
The barrister shook his head feebly, and for a moment he
tossed about painfully on the bed, passing his right hand first
under his coat and then under his pillow. He even scucceeded
in turning himself half-way toward the wall and back again.
Upon a sign, which was at once understood, some one placed
another pillow under his head. Then, in a broken, hissing voice,
he uttered a few words: "I am the assassin," he said. "Write
it down, I will sign it: it will please Albert. I owe him that
at least."
While they were writing, he drew Juliette's head close to
his lips. "My fortune is beneath the pillow," he whispered.
"I give it all to you." A flow of blood rose to his mouth; and
they all thought him dead. But he still had strength enough
to sign his confession and to say jestingly to M. Tabaret: "Ah,
ha, my friend, so you go in for the detective business, do you !
It must be great fun to trap one's friends in person! Ah, I
have had a fine game ; but with three women in the play I was
sure to lose."
The death struggle commenced, and, when the doctor ar-
rived, he could only announce the decease of M. Noel Gerdy,
barrister.
THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
911
COME months later, one evening, at old Mademoiselle de
" Goello's house, the Marquise d'Arlange, looking ten years
younger than when we saw her last, was giving her dowager
friends an account of the wedding of her granddaughter Claire,
who had just married the Vicomte Albert de Commarin. "The
wedding," said she, "took place on our estate in Normandy,
without any flourish of trumpets. My son-in-law wished it;
for which I think he is greatly to blame. The scandal raised
by the mistake of which he had been the victim, called for a
brilliant wedding. That was my opinion, and I did not con-
ceal it. But the boy is as stubborn as his father, which is
saying a good deal ; he persisted in his obstinacy. And my im-
pudent granddaughter, obeying beforehand her future husband,
also sided against me. It is, however, of no consequence; I
defy any one to find to-day a single individual with courage
enough to confess that he ever for an instant doubted Albert's
innocence. I have left the young people in all the bliss of the
honeymoon, billing and cooing like a pair of turtle-doves. It
must be admitted that they have paid dearly for their happiness.
May they be happy then, and may they have lots of children,
for they will have no difficulty in bringing them up and in pro-
viding for them. I must tell you that, for the first time in his
life, and probably for the last, the Comte de Commarin has
behaved like an angel! He has settled all his fortune on his
son, absolutely all. He intends living alone on one of his
•states. I am afraid the poor dear old man will not live long.
I am not sure that he has entirely recovered from that last
attack. Anyhow, my grandchild is settled, and grandly too. I
know what it has cost me, and how economical I shall have to
be. But I do not think much of those parents who hesitate at
any pecuniary sacrifice when their children's happiness is at
stake." The marquise forgot, however, to state that, a week
before the wedding, Albert freed her from a very embarrassing
position, and had discharged a considerable amount of her debts.
912 THE LEROUGE AFFAIR
Since then she had not borrowed more than nine thousand
francs of him ; but she intends confessing to him some day how
greatly she is annoyed by her upholsterer, by her dressmaker,
by three linen drapers, and by five or six other tradesmen. Ah,
well, she is all the same a worthy woman: she never says any-
thing against her son-in-law.
Retiring to his father's home in Poitou after sending in his
resignation, M. Daburon has at length found rest; forgetful-
ness will come later on. His friends do not yet despair of in-
ducing him to marry.
Madame Juliette is quite consoled for the loss of Noel. The
eighty thousand francs hidden by him under the pillow were
not taken from her. They are nearly all gone now though.
Before long the sale of a handsome suite of furniture will be
announced.
Old Tabaret, alone, is indelibly impressed. After having
believed in the infallibility of justice, he now sees everywhere
nothing but judicial errors. The ex-amateur detective doubts
the very existence of crime, and maintains that the evidence
of one's senses proves nothing. He circulates petitions for
the abolition of capital punishment, and has organized a society
for the defense of poor and innocent prisoners.
THE END
FILE NUMBER 113
-
FILE NUMBER 113
IN the Paris journals of February 28, 186—, there appeared
the following intelligence :
"A daring robbery, committed during the night at one
of our principal banker's, M. Andre Fauvel, has created great
excitement this morning ir the neighborhood of the Rue de
Provence. The thieves, who were aS skilful as they were
daring, succeeded in effecting an entrance to the bank, in
forcing the lock of a safe that has heretofore been considered
impregnable, and in possessing themselves of bank-notes of the
value of three hundred and fifty thousand francs. The police,
immediately informed of the robbery, displayed their accus-
tomed zeal, and their efforts have been crowned with success.
Already, it is said, P. B., a clerk in the bank, has been arrested,
and there is every reason to hope that his accomplices will be
speedily overtaken by the hand of justice."
For four days this robbery was the talk of Paris. Then
public attention was engrossed by later and equally interesting
events : an acrobat broke his leg at the circus ; an actress made
her debut at a minor theatre ; and news of the 28th was soon
forgotten.
But for once the newspapers were — perhaps designedly —
wrong, or at least inaccurate in their information. The sum
of three hundred and fifty thousand francs had certainly been
stolen from M. Andre Fauvel's bank, but not in the manner
described. A clerk had also been arrested on suspicion, but
no conclusive proof had been forthcoming against him. This
robbery of unusual importance remained, if not inexplicable, at
least unexplained.
The following are the facts of the case as related with
scrupulous exactitude in the official police report.
Gab.— Vol. IV
913
914
FILE NUMBER 113
HP HE banking-house of M. Andre Fauvel, No. 87 Rue de
■*■ Provence, is a noted establishment, and, owing to its large
staff of clerks, presents very much the appearance of a govern-
ment department. On the ground-floor are the offices, with
windows opening on the street, protected by iron bars suffi-
ciently strong and close together to discourage all attempts at
effecting an entrance. A large glass door opens into a spacious
vestibule, where three or four messengers are always in wait-
ing. On the right are the rooms to which the public is ad-
mitted, and from which a narrow passageway leads to the head
cashier's office. The offices of the corresponding clerks, the
ledger-keeper, and general accounts are on the left. At the
farther end is a small glazed court with which seven or eight
small wickets communicate. These are kept closed, except only
on particular days when a considerable number of payments
have to be made, and then they are indispensable. M. Fauvel's
private office is on the first floor over the general offices, and
leads into his handsome private apartments. This office com-
municates directly with the bank by means of a dark, narrow
staircase, which opens into the room occupied by the head
cashier. This latter room is completely proof against all bur-
glarious attacks, no matter how ingeniously planned ; indeed, it
could almost withstand a regular siege, sheeted as it is like a
monitor. The doors and the partition in which the wicket is
where payments are made are covered with thick iron plates;
and a heavy grating protects the fireplace. Fastened in the
wall by enormous iron clamps is a safe, a formidable and fan-
tastic piece of furniture, calculated to fill with envy the poor
devil who carries his fortune easily enough in a pocket-book.
This safe, considered the masterpiece of the well-known house
of Becquet, is six feet in height and four and a half in width,
and is made entirely of wrought iron, with triple sides, and
divided into isolated compartments in case of fire.
The safe is opened by a curious little key, which is, however,
FILE NUMBER 113 915
the least important part of the mechanism. Five movable steel
buttons, upon which are engraved all the letters of the alphabet,
constitute the real power of the ingenious lock. To open the
safe it is requisite, before inserting the key, to replace the let-
ters on the buttons in the same order in which they were when
the door was locked. In M. Fauvel's bank, as elsewhere, it was
always closed with a word that was changed from time to time.
This word was known only to the head of the bank and the
chief cashier, each of whom had a key to the safe. In such a
stronghold, a person might deposit more diamonds than the
Duke of Brunswick possessed, and sleep well assured, as he
would be, of their safety. But one danger seemed to threaten
— that of forgetting the secret word which was the "Open,
sesame" of the iron barrier.
About half-past nine o'clock on the morning of the 28th
of February, the bank clerks were all busy at their various
desks, when a middle-aged man of dark complexion and
military air, clad in deep mourning, appeared in the office
adjoining that of the head cashier, and expressed a desire to
see him.
He was told that the cashier had not arrived, and his atten-
tion was called to a placard in the entry, which stated that the
cashier's office opened at ten o'clock.
This reply seemed to disconcert the newcomer. "I expected,"
he said, in a tone of cool impertinence, "to find some one here
ready to attend to my business. I explained the matter to M.
Fauvel yesterday. I am Comte Louis de Clameran, owner of
iron-works at Oloron, and have come to receive three hundred
thousand francs deposited in this bank by' my late brother,
whose heir I am. It is surprising that no instructions have
been given about it."
Neither the title of the noble manufacturer nor his remarks
appeared to have the slightest effect upon the clerks. "The
head cashier has not yet arrived," they repeated, "and we can
do nothing for you."
"Then conduct me to M. Fauvel."
There was a moment's hesitancy ; then a clerk, named Cavail-
lon, who was writing by the window, said : "The chief is always
out at this hour."
"I will call again, then," replied M. de Clameran. And he
walked out, as he had entered, without saying "Good morning,"
or even raising his hat.
916 FILE NUMBER 113
"Not overpolite, that customer," said little Cavaillon; "but
he is unlucky, for here comes Prosper."
Prosper Bertomy, head cashier of Fauvel's banking-house,
was a tall, handsome man, of about thirty, with fair hair and
large dark blue eyes, fastidiously neat in appearance, and dressed
in the height of fashion. He would have been very prepos-
sessing but for a cold, reserved English-like manner, and a
certain air of self-sufficiency, which spoiled his naturally bright
and open countenance.
"Ah, here you are !" cried Cavaillon. "Some one has just
been inquiring for you."
"Who? An ironmaster, was it not?"
"Precisely."
"Well, he will come again. Knowing that I should be late
this morning, I made all my arrangements yesterday." Prosper
had unlocked his office door, and, as he finished speaking,
entered, and closed it behind him.
"Good !" exclaimed one of the clerks ; "there is a man who
never lets anything disturb him. The chief has quarreled with
him twenty times for always coming late, and his remon-
strances have no more effect upon him than a breath of
wind."
"And quite right, too; he knows he can get anything he
wants out of the chief."
"Besides, how could he come any sooner? A man who sits
up all night, and leads a fast life, doesn't feel inclined for work
early in the morning. Did you notice how pale he looked when
he came in?"
"He must have been playing heavily again. Couturier says
he lost fifteen hundred francs at a sitting last week."
"His work is none the worse done for all that," interrupted
Cavaillon. "If you were in his place — "
He stopped short. The door of the cashier's office suddenly
opened, and the cashier appeared before them with tottering
step, and a wild, haggard look on his ashy pale face. "Robbed !"
he gasped out ; "I have been robbed !"
Prosper's horrified expression, his hollow voice and trembling
limbs, so alarmed the clerks that they jumped off their stools
and ran toward him. He almost dropped into their arms ; he
was sick and faint, and sank into a chair. His companions
surrounded him, and begged him to explain himself. "Robbed?"
they said ; "where, how, by whom ?"
FILE NUMBER 113 917
Gradually, Prosper recovered himself. "All the money that
was in the safe," he said, "has been stolen."
"All?"
"Yes, all; three rolls, each containing one hundred notes of
a thousand francs, and one roll of fifty thousand. The four
were wrapped in a sheet of paper and tied together."
With the rapidity of lightning, the news of the robbery
spread throughout the banking-house, and the room was soon
filled with curious inquirers.
"Tell us, Prosper," said young Cavaillon, "has the safe been
broken open?"
"No; it is just as I left it."
"Well, then, how could—"
"All I know is that yesterday I placed three hundred and fifty
thousand francs in the safe, and this morning they are gone."
A deep silence ensued, which was at length broken by an
old clerk, who did not seem to share the general affright.
"Don't distress yourself, M. Bertomy," he said; "no doubt the
chief has disposed of the money."
The unhappy cashier started up with a look of relief; he
eagerly caught at the suggestion. "Yes !" he exclaimed, "it
must be as you say ; the chief must have taken it." But, after
thinking a few minutes, he remarked in a tone of deep depres-
sion: "No, that is impossible. During the five years I have
had charge of the safe, M. Fauvel has never opened it except-
ing in my presence. Whenever he has needed money, he has
either waited until I came, or has sent for me, rather than
take it in my absence."
"Well," said Cavaillon, "before despairing, let us ascertain
the truth."
But a messenger had already informed M. Fauvel of the
robbery, and as Cavaillon was about to go in search of him, he
entered the office.
M. Andre Fauvel appeared to be a man of fifty, inclined to
corpulency, of medium height, with iron-gray hair; and, like
all hard workers, he had a slight stoop. Never did he by a
single action belie the kindly expression of his face. He had
a frank air, a lively, intelligent eye, and full, red lips. Bom
in the neighborhood of Aix, he betrayed, when animated, a
slight Provencal accent that gave a peculiar flavor to his genial
humor. The news of the robbery had extremely agitated him,
for his usually florid face was now quite pale. "What is this
918 FILE NUMBER 113
I hear? what has happened?" he said to the clerks, who respect-
fully stood aside when he entered the office.
The sound of M. Fauvel's voice inspired the cashier with
the factitious energy called forth by a great crisis. The
dreaded and decisive moment had come ; he arose, and advanced
toward his chief. "Sir," he said, "having, as you know, a pay-
ment to make this morning, I yesterday drew from the Bank
of France three hundred and fifty thousand francs."
"Why yesterday?" interrupted the banker. "I think I have
a hundred times desired you to wait until the day payment has
to be made."
"I know it, sir, and I did wrong to disobey you. But the
mischief is done. Yesterday evening I locked the money up :
it has disappeared, and yet the safe has not been broken open."
"You must be mad !" exclaimed M. Fauvel ; "you are
dreaming !"
These few words crushed all hope; but the horror of the
situation imparted to Prosper, not the coolness of a steadied
resolution, but that sort of stupid, stolid indifference which
often results from unexpected catastrophes. It was with appar-
ent calmness that he replied : "I am not mad ; neither, unfortu-
nately, am I dreaming; I am simply telling the truth."
This tranquillity at such a moment appeared to exasperate
M. Fauvel. He seized Prosper by the arm, and shook him
roughly. "Speak !" he exclaimed ; "speak ! who can have
opened the safe?"
"I can not say."
"No one but you and I knows the secret word. No one but
you and I possesses a key."
This was a formal accusation ; at least, all the auditors
present so understood it. Yet Prosper's strange calmness never
left him for an instant. He quietly released himself from M.
Fauvel's grasp, and slowly said : "In other words, sir, it is only
I who could have taken this money — "
"Miserable man !" exclaimed M. Fauvel.
Prosper drew himself up to his full height, and, looking M.
Fauvel full in the face, added: "Or you!"
The banker made a threatening gesture; and there is no
knowing what would have happened if he had not been inter-
rupted by loud and angry voices in the hall. A man insisted
upon entering despite the protestations of the messengers, and
succeeded in forcing his way in. It was M. de Clameran.
FILE NUMBER 113 919
The clerks stood looking on, bewildered and inert. The
silence was profound and solemn. It was easy to perceive that
some terrible issue was being anxiously weighed by all these
men.
The ironmaster did not appear to observe anything unusual.
He advanced, and without lifting his hat said, in his former
impertinent tone : "It is after ten o'clock, gentlemen."
No one answered ; and M. de Clameran was about to con-
tinue, when turning round, he for the first time saw the banker,
and, walking up to him, exclaimed : "Well, sir, I congratulate
myself upon finding you in at last. I have been here once before
this morning, and found the cashier's office not opened, the
cashier not arrived, and you absent."
"You are mistaken, sir, I was in my office."
"At any rate, I was told you were out ; that gentleman there
assured me of the fact." And the ironmaster pointed out Ca-
vaillon. "However, that is of little importance," he went on
to say. "I return, and this time not only the cashier's office
is closed, but I am refused admittance to the banking-house,
and find myself compelled to force my way in. Be so good as
to tell me whether I can have my money."
M. Fauvel's pale face turned red with anger as he listened
to this harangue ; yet he controlled himself. "I should be
obliged to you, sir," he said in a low voice, "for a short delay."
"I thought you told me — "
"Yes, yesterday. But this morning — this very instant — I find
I have been robbed of three hundred and fifty thousand francs."
M. de Clameran bowed ironically, and asked: "Shall I have
to wait long?"
"Long enough for me to send to the Bank of France."
Then, turning his back on the iron-founder, M. Fauvel said
to his cashier : "Write a check and send to the bank at once
to draw out all the available money. Let the messenger take
a cab." Prosper remained motionless. "Do you hear me?"
inquired the banker in an angry voice.
The cashier started; he seemed as if awakening from a
dream. "It is useless to send," he said in a slow, measured
tone : "this gentleman requires three hundred thousand francs,
and there is less than one hundred thousand at the bank."
M. de Clameran appeared to expect this answer, for he mut-
tered : "Of course." Although he only pronounced these words,
his voice, his manner, his countenance clearly said: "This
920 FILE NUMBER 113
comedy is well acted ; but nevertheless it is a comedy, and I don't
intend to be duped by it."
Alas ! After Prosper's answer, and the ironmaster's coarsely
expressed opinion, the clerks knew not what to think. The
fact was, that Paris had just been startled by several financial
crashes. The thirst for speculation had caused the oldest and
stanchest houses to totter. Men of the most unimpeachable
honor had to sacrifice their pride, and go from door to door
imploring aid. Credit, that rare bird of security and peace,
rested with none, but stood, with upraised wings, ready to fly
off at the first suggestion of suspicion.
This idea of a comedy arranged beforehand between the
banker and his cashier might therefore readily occur to the
minds of people who, if not suspicious, were at least aware of
all the expedients resorted to by speculators in order to gain
time, which with them often meant salvation.
M. Fauvel had had too much knowledge of mankind not
to instantly divine the impression produced by Prosper's an-
swer; he read the most mortifying doubt on the faces around
him. "Don't be alarmed, sir," said he to M. de Clameran, "this
house has other resources. Be kind enough to await my return."
He left the office, went up to his private room, and in a few
minutes returned, holding in his hand a letter and a bundle of
securities. "Here, quick, Couturier!" he said to one of his
clerks, "take my carriage, which is waiting at the door, and
go with this gentleman to M. de Rothschild. Hand the latter
this letter and these securities; in exchange, you will receive
three hundred thousand francs, which give to M. de Clameran."
The ironmaster was visibly disappointed; he seemed desirous
of apologizing for his rudeness. "I assure you," said he to
M. Fauvel, "that I had no intention of giving offense. Our
relations, for some years, have been such that I hope — "
"Enough, sir," interrupted the banker, "I desire no apologies.
In business, friendship counts for nothing. I owe you money:
I am not ready to pay: you are pressing: you have a perfect
right to demand what is your own. Accompany my messenger:
he will pay you your money." Then he turned to his clerks,
who stood curiously gazing on, and said : "As for you, gentle-
men, be good enough to resume your places at your desks."
In an instant the office was cleared of every one excepting
the clerks who habitually occupied it; and they resumed their
seats at their desks with their noses almost touching the paper
FILE NUMBER 113 921
before them, as if they were too engrossed in their work to
think of anything else.
Still excited by the events which had rapidly succeeded each
other, M. Andre Fauvel walked up and down the room with
quick, nervous steps, occasionally uttering some half-stifled
exclamation. Prosper had remained leaning against the par-
tition, with pale face and fixed eyes, looking as if he had lost
the faculty of thinking or of acting. Presently the banker,
after a long silence, stopped short before him; he had deter-
mined upon the line of conduct he would pursue. "We must
have an explanation," he said. "Go into your office."
The cashier mechanically obeyed ; and his chief followed
him, taking the precaution to close the door after them. The
room bore no evidences of a successful burglary. Everything
was in perfect order; not even a paper was disturbed. The
safe was open, and on the top shelf lay several rouleaus of
gold, overlooked or disdained by the thieves.
M. Fauvel, without troubling himself to examine anything,
took a seat, and ordered his cashier to do the same. He had
quite recovered his equanimity, and his countenance wore its
usual kind expression. "Now that we are alone, Prosper," he
said, "have you nothing to tell me?"
The cashier started, as if surprised at the question. "Noth-
ing, sir, that I have not already told you," he replied.
"What! nothing? Do you persist in maintaining an attitude
so absurd and ridiculous that no one can possibly give you
credence ? It is sheer folly ? Confide in me : it is your only
chance of salvation. I am your employer, it is true; but I am
before and above all your friend — your best and truest friend.
I can not forget that in this very room, fifteen years ago, you
were intrusted to me by your father; and ever since that day
I have had cause to congratulate myself on possessing so faith-
ful and efficient a clerk. Yes, it is fifteen years since you came
to me. I was then just commencing the foundation of my for-
tune. You have seen it gradually grow, step by step, from
almost nothing to its present magnitude. As my wealth in-
creased, I endeavored to better your condition; you who,
although so young, are the oldest of my clerks. At each
augmentation of my fortune I increased your salary."
Never had the cashier heard M. Fauvel express himself in
so feeling and paternal a manner. Prosper was silent with
astonishment.
922 FILE NUMBER 113
"Answer," persued M. Fauvel, "have I not always been like
a father to you? From the first day, my house has been open
to you; you were treated as a member of my family; my niece
Madeleine and my sons looked upon you as a brother. But
you grew weary of this peaceful life. One day, a year ago,
you suddenly began to shun us ; and since then — "
The memories of the past thus called up by the banker seemed
too much for the unhappy cashier ; he buried his face in his
hands, and wept bitterly.
"A man can confide everything to his father," resumed M.
Fauvel, also deeply affected. "Fear nothing. A father not
only pardons, he forgets. Do I not know the temptations that
beset a young man in a city like Paris? There are some inor-
dinate desires before which the firmest principles will give way,
and which so pervert our moral sense as to render us incapable
of judging between right and wrong. Speak, Prosper, speak!"
"What do you wish me to say?"
"The truth. When an honorable man yields, in an hour of
weakness, to temptation, his first step toward atonement is con-
fession. Say to me : 'Yes, I have been tempted, dazzled : the
sight of these piles of gold turned my brain. I am young: I
have passions.' "
"I P murmured Prosper, "I !"
"Poor boy," said the banker sadly ; "do you think I am igno-
rant of the life you have been leading since you left my roof
a year ago? Can you not understand that all your fellow clerks
are jealous of you? that they do not forgive you for earning
twelve thousand francs a year? Never have you committed a
piece of folly without my being immediately informed of it by
an anonymous letter. I could tell you the exact number of
nights you have spent at the gaming-table, and the money you
have squandered. Oh, envy has keen eyes and a quick ear! I
have great contempt for these cowardly denunciations, but was
forced, not only to heed them, but to make inquiries myself.
It is only proper that I should know what sort of life is led
by the man to whom I intrust my fortune and my honor."
Prosper seemed about to protest against this last speech.
"Yes, my honor," insisted M. Fauvel, in a voice that a sense
of humiliation made unsteady; "yes, my credit, which might
have been compromised to-day by this M. dc Clameran. Do
you know how much I shall lose by paying him this money?
And suppose I had not had the securities which I have sacri-
ficed? you did not know I possessed them."
FILE NUMBER 113
923
The banker paused, as if hoping for a confession, which, how-
ever, did not come.
"Come, Prosper, have courage, be frank ! I will go upstairs.
You will look again in the safe ; I am sure that in your agita-
tion you did not search it thoroughly. This evening I will
return, and I am confident that, during the day, you will have
found, if not the three hundred and fifty thousand francs, at
least the greater portion of the amount ; and to-morrow neither
you nor I will remember anything about this false alarm."
M. Fauvel had risen, and was about to leave the room when
Prosper arose, and seized him by the arm. "Your generosity
is useless, sir," he said bitterly; "having taken nothing I can
restore nothing. I have made a scrupulous search; the bank-
notes have been stolen."
"But by whom, poor fool ? by whom ?"
"By all that is sacred, I swear that it was not by me."
The banker's face turned crimson. "Miserable wretch !"'
cried he, "do you mean to say that I took the money?"
Prosper bowed his head, and did not answer.
"Ah ! it is thus, then," said M. Fauvel, unable to contain
himself any longer, "you dare — Then between you and me,
M. Prosper Bertomy, justice shall decide. God is my witness
that I have done all I could to save you. You will have yourself
to thank for what follows. I have sent for the commissary of
police ; he must be waiting in my room. Shall I call him down ?"
Prosper, with the fearful resignation of a man who entirely
abandons himself, replied in a stifled voice: "Do as you will."
The banker was near the door, which he opened, and, after
giving the cashier a last searching look, called to an office boy:
"Anselm, bid the commissary of police to step down."
¥ F there is one man in the world whom no event should
■*■ move or surprise, always on his guard against deceptive
appearances, capable of admitting everything and explaining
everything, it certainly is a Parisian commissary of police.
924 FILE NUMBER 113
While the judge, from his lofty seat, applies the Code to
the facts submitted to him, the commissary of police observes
and watches all the odious circumstances the law can not reach.
He is, in spite of himself, the confidant of disgraceful details,
domestic crimes, and tolerated vices.
If, when he entered upon his office, he had any illusions,
before the end of a year they would all be dissipated. If he
does not absolutely despise the human race, it is because often,
side by side with abominations indulged in with impunity, he
discovers sublime generosities which remain unrewarded. He
sees impudent villains filching the public respect; and he con-
soles himself by thinking of the modest, obscure heroes whom
he has also encountered.
So often have his forecasts been deceived, that he has reached
a state of complete skepticism. He believes in nothing, neither
in evil nor in absolute good; not more in virtue than in vice.
His experience has forced him to come to the drear conclu-
sion, that not men, but events, are worth considering.
The commissary sent for by M. Fauvel soon made his
appearance. It was with a calm air, if not one of perfect in-
difference, that he entered the office. He was followed by a
short man dressed in a full suit of black, which was slightly
relieved by a ruffled collar.
The banker, scarcely bowing, said to the commissary:
"Doubtless, sir, you have been apprised of the painful circum-
stances which compel me to have recourse to your assistance?"
"It is about a robbery, I believe."
"Yes; an infamous and mysterious robbery committed in this
office, from the safe you see open there, of which my cashier"
(he pointed to Prosper) "alone possesses the key and the word."
This declaration seemed to arouse the unfortunate cashier
from his dull stupor. "Excuse me, sir," he said to the com-
missary in a low tone. "Mv chief also has the word and the
key." '
"Of course, that is understood."
The commissary at once drew his own conclusions. Evidently
these two men accused each other. From their own statements,
one or the other was guilty. One was the head of an important
bank; the other was simply the cashier. One was the chief;
the other the clerk. But the commissary of police was too well
skilled in concealing his impressions to betray his thoughts by
any visible sign. Not a muscle of his face moved. Yet he
FILE NUMBER 113 925
became more grave, and alternately watched the cashier and
M. Fauvel, as if trying to draw some satisfactory conclusion
from their behavior.
Prosper was very pale and dejected. He had dropped into
a seat, and his arms hung inert on either side of the chair. The
banker, on the contrary, remained standing with flashing eyes
and crimson face, expressing himself with extraordinary
vehemence. "The importance of the theft is immense," con-
tinued he; "there is missing a fortune, three hundred and fifty
thousand francs ! This robbery might have had the most dis-
astrous consequences. In times like these, the want of this
sum might compromise the credit of the wealthiest banking-
house in Paris."
"I believe so, if bills were falling due."
"Well, sir, I have this very day a heavy payment to make."
"Ah, really !" There was no mistaking the commissary's
tone ; a suspicion, the first, had evidently entered his mind.
The banker understood it; he started, and added quickly: "I
met my engagements, but at the cost of a disagreeable sacrifice. I
ought to add further, that if my orders had been obeyed, the three
hundred and fifty thousand francs would not have been here."
"How is that?"
"I desire never to have large sums of money in my house
overnight. My cashier had positive orders invariably to
wait until the last moment before drawing money from the
Bank of France. I forbade him, above all, to leave large
sums of money in the safe overnight."
"You hear this?" said the commissary to Prosper.
"Yes, sir," replied the cashier, "M. Fauvel's statement is
quite correct."
After this explanation, the suspicions of the commissary,
instead of being strengthened, were dissipated. "Well," he
said, "a robbery has been perpetrated, but by whom? Did
the robber enter from without?"
The banker hesitated a moment. "I think not," he said at last.
"And I am certain he did not," said Prosper.
The commissary expected and was prepared for these an-
swers; but it did not suit his purpose to follow them up im-
mediately. "However," said he, "we must make ourselves sure
of it." Turning toward his companion — "M. Fanferlot," he
said, "go and see if you can discover any traces that may have
escaped the attention of these gentlemen."
926 FILE NUMBER 113
M. Fanferlot, nicknamed "the squirrel," was indebted to his
prodigious agility for his title, of which he was not a little
proud. Slim and insignificant in appearance, in spite of his
iron muscles, he might be taken for the under clerk of a bailiff
as he walked along buttoned up to the chin in his thin black
overcoat. He had one of those faces that impress one dis-
agreeably — an odiously turned-up nose, thin lips, and little
restless black eyes.
Fanferlot, who had been in the detective force for five years,
burned to distinguish himself. He was ambitious. Alas ! he
was unsuccessful, lacking opportunity — or genius. Already,
before the commissary spoke to him, he had ferreted every-
where; studied the doors, sounded the partitions, examined the
wicket, and stirred up the ashes in the grate. "I can not im-
agine," said he, "how a stranger could have effected an entrance
here." He walked round the office. "Is this door closed at
night?" he inquired.
"It is always locked."
"And who keeps the key?"
"The watchman," said Prosper, "to whom I always gave it
in charge before leaving the bank."
"And who," said M. Fauvel, "sleeps in the outer room on
a folding-beadstead, which he unfolds at night, and folds up
in the morning."
"Is he here now?" inquired the commissary.
"Yes," replied the banker, and he opened the door, and
called: "Anselme!"
This mart was the favored servant of M. Fauvel, and had
lived with him for ten years. He knew that he would not be
suspected ; but the idea of being connected in any way with a
robbery was too much for him, and he entered the door
trembling like a leaf.
"Did you sleep in the next room last night?" asked the com-
missary.
"Yes, sir, as usual."
"At what hour did you go to bed ?"
"About half-past ten ; I had spent the evening at a cafe near
by, with master's valet."
"Did you hear no noise during the night?"
"Not a sound; and still I sleep so lightly, that if M. Fauvel
comes down to the cashier's office when I am asleep, I am
instantly aroused by the sound of his footsteps."
FILE NUMBER 113 927
u
M. Fauvel often comes to the cashier's office at night,
does he?"
"No, sir; very seldom."
"Did he come last night?"
"No, sir, I am very certain he did not ; for I was kept awake
nearly all night by the strong coffee I had drunk with the valet."
"That will do; you can retire," said the commissary.
When Anselme had left the room, Fanferlot resumed his
search. He opened the door of the private staircase. "Where
do these stairs lead to?" he asked.
"To my private office," replied M. Fauvel.
"Is not that the room whither I was conducted when I first
arrived?" inquired the commissary.
"The same."
"I should like to see it," said Fanferlot, "and examine the
entrance to it."
"Nothing is easier," said M. Fauvel eagerly; "follow me,
gentlemen. And you too. Prosper."
M. Fauvel's private office consisted of two rooms, the waiting-
room, sumptuously furnished and elaborately decorated, and
the inner one where he transacted business. The furniture in
this room was composed of a large office-table, several leather-
covered chairs, and on either side of the fireplace a secretary
and a bookshelf.
These two rooms had only three doors; one opened on the
private staircase, another into the banker's bedroom, and the
third on to the landing. It was through this latter door that
the banker's clients and visitors were admitted.
M. Fanferlot examined the room at a glance. He seemed
puzzled, like a man who had flattered himself with the hope of
discovering some clue and had found nothing. "Let us see
the other side," he said. He passed into the waiting-room, fol-
lowed by the banker and the commissary of police.
Prosper remained behind. Despite the confused state of his
mind, he could not but notice that the situation was for
him momentarily becoming more serious. He had demanded
and accepted the contest with his chief; the struggle had
commenced, and now it no longer depended upon his own
will to arrest the consequences of his action. They were about
to engage in a bitter conflict, utilizing all weapons, until one
of the two should succumb, the loss of honor being the price
of defeat.
928 FILE NUMBER 113
In the eyes of justice who would be the innocent man?
Alas ! the unfortunate cashier saw only too clearly that thf:
chances were terribly unequal, and he was overwhelmed with
the sense of his own inferiority. Never had he thought that
his chief would carry out his threats ; for in a contest of this
nature, M. Fauvel would have as much at stake as his cashier,
and more to lose.
Prosper was sitting near the fireplace, absorbed in the most
gloomy forebodings, when the banker's bedroom door suddenly
opened, and a lovely girl appeared upon the threshold. She was
tall and slender; a loose morning robe, confined at the waist by
a simple black ribbon, betrayed to advantage the graceful
elegance of her figure. Her dark eyes were large and soft;
her complexion had the creamy pallor of a white camellia; and
her beautiful black hair, carelessly held together by a tortoise-
shell comb, fell in a profusion of soft curls upon her finely
shaped neck. She was Madeleine, M. Fauvel's niece, of whom
he had spoken not long before. Seeing Prosper in the
room, where probably she had expected to find her uncle
alone, she could not refrain from an exclamation of sur-
prise: "Ah!"
Prosper started up as if he had received an electric shock.
His eyes, a moment before so dull and heavy, now sparkled
with joy, as if he had caught a glimpse of an angel of hope.
"Madeleine!" he cried, "Madeleine!"
The young girl was blushing crimson. She seemed about to
hastily retreat, and stepped back; but Prosper having ad-
vanced toward her, she was overcome by a sentiment stronger
than her will, and extended her hand, which he took and pressed
with great respect. They stood thus face to face, but with
averted looks, as if they dared not let their eyes meet for fear
of betraying their feelings ; having much to say, and not
knowing how to begin, they stood silent. Finally Madeleine
murmured in a scarcely audible voice : "You, Prosper — you !"
These words broke the spell. The cashier dropped the white
hand which he held, and answered bitterly: "Yes, I am
Prosper, the companion of your childhood — suspected, accused
of the most disgraceful theft; Prosper, whom your uncle has
just delivered up to justice, and who, before the day has gone
by, will be arrested and thrown into prison."
Madeleine, with a terrified gesture, cried in a tone of anguish:
"Good heavens! Prosper, what are you saying?"
FILE NUMBER 113 929
"What! mademoiselle, do you not know what has happened?
Have not your aunt and cousins told you?"
"They have told me nothing. I have scarcely seen my
cousins this morning; and my aunt is so ill that I felt uneasy,
and came to tell my uncle. But for heaven's sake, speak : tell
me the cause of your distress."
Prosper hesitated. Perhaps it occurred to him to open his
heart to Madeleine, of revealing to her his most secret thoughts.
A remembrance of the past checked his confidence. He sadly
shook his head, and replied : "Thanks, mademoiselle, for this
proof of interest, the last, doubtless, that I shall ever receive
from you ; but allow me, by being silent, to spare you distress,
and myself the mortification of blushing before you."
Madeleine interrupted him imperiously: "I insist upon know-
ing," she said.
"Alas ! mademoiselle," answered Prosper, "you will only too
soon learn my misfortune and disgrace ; then, yes then, you
will applaud yourself for what you have done."
She became more urgent ; instead of commanding she en-
treated; but Prosper was inflexible. "Your uncle is in the
adjoining room, with the commissary of police and a detective,"
said he. "They will soon return. I entreat you to retire that
they may not find you here." As he spoke he gently pushed
her through the door, and closed it upon her.
It was time, for the next moment the commissary and M.
Fauvel entered. They had visited the main entrance and the
waiting-room, and had heard nothing of what had passed. But
Fanferlot had heard for them. This excellent bloodhound had
not lost sight of the cashier. He said to himself: "Now that my
young gentleman believes himself to be alone, his face will
betray him. I shall detect a smile or a gesture that will
enlighten me."
Leaving M. Fauvel and the commissary to pursue their in-
vestigations, he posted himself to watch. He saw the door
open, and Madeleine appear upon the threshold ; he lost not a
single word or gesture of the rapid scene which had passed. It
mattered little that every word of this scene was an enigma.
M. Fanferlot was skilful enough to complete the sentences he
did not understand. As yet he only had a suspicion ; but a
mere suspicion is better than nothing; it is a point to start
from. So ready was he in building a plan upon the slightest
incident, that he thought he saw in the past of these people,
930 FILE NUMBER 113
who were utter strangers to him, glimpses of a domestic drama.
If the commissary of police is a skeptic, the detective has faith,
he believes in evil. "I understand the case now," said he to
himself. "This man loves the young lady, who is really very
pretty; and. as he is handsome, I suppose his love is recipro-
cated. This love affair vexes the banker, who, not knowing how
to get rid of the importunate lover by fair means, has to resort
to foul, and plans this imaginary robbery, which is very
ingenious."
Thus, to M. Fanferlot's mind, the banker had simply robbed
himself, and the innocent cashier was the victim of a vile
machination. But this conviction was at present of little service
to Prosper. Fanferlot, the ambitious man, who had deter-
mined to obtain renown in his profession, decided to keep his
conjectures to himself. "I will let the others go their way,
and I'll go mine," he said. "When, by dint of close watching
and patient investigation, I shall have collected proof sufficient
to insure certain conviction I will unmask the scoundrel."
He was radiant. He had at last found the crime, so long
looked for, which would make him celebrated. Nothing was
wanting, neither the odious circumstances, nor the mystery,
nor even the romantic and sentimental element represented by
Prosper and Madeleine. Success seemed difficult, almost im-
possible ; but Fanferlot, "the squirrel," had great confidence in
his own genius for investigation.
Meanwhile, the search upstairs was completed, and every
one had returned to Prosper's office. The commissary, who had
seemed so calm when he first came, now looked grave and per-
plexed. The moment for taking a decisive part had come, yet
it was evident that he hesitated. "You see, gentlemen," he
began, "our search has only confirmed our first opinion." M.
Fauvel and Prosper bowed assentingly.
"And what do you think, M. Fanferlot?" continued the com-
missary. Fanferlot did not answer. Occupied in studying the
lock of the safe, he manifested signs of a lively surprise.
Evidently he had just made an important discovery. M. Fauvel,
Prosper, and the commissary rose, and surrounded him.
"Have you discovered any trace?" asked the banker eagerly.
Fanferlot turned round with a vexed air. He reproached
himself for not having concealed his impressions. "Oh !" said
he carelessly, "I have discovered nothing of importance"
"But we should like to know," said Prosper.
FILE NUMBER 113 931
"I have merely convinced myself that this safe has been
recently opened or shut, I know not which, with some violence
and haste."
"How so ?" asked the commissary, becoming- attentive.
"Look, sir, at this scratch near the lock."
The commissary stooped down, and carefully examined the
safe; he saw a slight scratch several inches long that had re-
moved the outer coat of varnish. "I see the scratch," said he,
"but what does it prove?"
"Oh, nothing at all !" said Fanferlot "I just now told you
it was of no importance."
Fanferlot said this, but it was not his real opinion. This
scratch, undeniably fresh, had for him a signification that
escaped the others. He said to himself: "This confirms my
suspicions. If the cashier had stolen millions, there was no
occasion for his being in a hurry ; whereas the banker creeping
down in the dead of the night with furtive footsteps, for fear
of awakening the man in the outer room, in order to rifle his
own safe, had every reason to tremble, to hurry, to hastily
withdraw the key, which, slipping out of the lock, scratched
off the varnish."
Resolved to unravel alone the tangled thread of this mystery.
the detective determined to keep his conjectures to himself ;
for the same reason he was silent as to the interview which he
had witnessed between Madeleine and Prosper. He hastened
to withdraw attention from the scratch upon the lock. "To
conclude," he said, addressing the commissary, "I am con-
vinced that no one outside of the bank could have obtained
access to this room. The safe, moreover, is intact. No sus-
picious pressure has been used on the movable buttons. I can
assert that the lock has not been tampered with by burgulars'
tools or false keys. Those who opened the safe knew the word,
and possessed the key."
This formal affirmation of a man whom he knew to be
skilful ended the hesitation of the commissary. "That being
the case," he replied, "I must request a few moments' conver-
sation with M. Fauvel."
"I am at your service," said the banker.
Prosper foresaw the result of this conversation. He quietly
placed his hat on the table to show that he had no intention of
attempting to escape, and passed into the adjoining office.
Fanferlot also went out, but not before the commissary had
V32 FILE NUMBER 113
made him a sign, and received one in return. This sign signi-
fied, "You are responsible for this man."
The detective needed no hint to make him keep a strict
watch. His suspicions were too vague, his desire for success
was too ardent, for him to lose sight of Prosper an instant.
Closely following the cashier, he seated himself in a dark
corner of the office, and, pretending to be sleepy, he fixed
himself in a comfortable position for taking a nap, gaped
until his jawbone seemed about to be dislocated, then closed
his eyes and kept perfectly quiet.
Prosper took a seat at the desk of an absent clerk. The
others were burning to know the result of the investigation;
their eyes shone with curiosity, but they dared not ask a
question. Unable to restrain himself any longer, little Cavail-
lon, Prosper's defender, ventured to say: "Well, who stole the
money ?"
Prosper shrugged his shoulders. "Nobody knows," he replied.
Was this conscious innocence or hardened recklessness? The
clerks observed with bewildered surprise that Prosper had re-
sumed his usual manner — that sort of icy haughtiness that kept
people at a distance, and made him so unpopular in the bank-
Save the deathlike pallor of his face, and the dark circles
around his swollen eyes, he bore no traces of the pitiable
agitation he had exhibited not long before. Never would a
stranger entering the office have supposed that this young man,
idly lounging in a chair and toying with a pencil, was resting
under an accusation of robbery, and was about to be arrested.
He soon stopped playing with the pencil, and drew toward him
a sheet of paper upon which he hastily wrote a few lines.
"Ah, ha !" thought Fanferlot, the squirrel, whose hearing
and sight were wonderfully good in spite of his profound sleep;
"eh ! eh ! he makes his little confidential communication on
paper, I see; now we will discover something positive."
His note written, Prosper folded it carefully into the smallest
possible size, and after furtively glancing toward the detective,
who remained motionless in his corner, threw it across the
desk to little Cavaillon with this one word — "Gipsy !"
All this was so quickly and cleverly done that Fanferlot was
confounded, and began to feel a little uneasy. "The devil take
him!" said he to himself; "for a suffering innocent this young
dandy has more pluck and nerve than many of my oldest cus-
tomers. This, however, shows the result of education !"
FILE NUMBER 113 933
Yes, innocent or guilty, Prosper must have been endowed
with great self-controi and power of dissimulation to affect
this presence of mind at a time when his honor, his future
happiness, all that he held dear in life, were at stake. And he
was not more than thirty years old.
Either from natural deference, or from the hope of gaining
some ray of light by a private conversation, the commissary
determined to speak to the banker before acting decisively.
"There is not a shadow of doubt," said he, as soon as they
were alone; "this young man has robbed you. It would be
a gross neglect of duty if I did not secure his person. The
law will decide whether he shall be released or sent to prison."
This declaration seemed to distress the banker. He sank
into a chair, and murmured: "Poor Prosper!" Seeing the
astonished look of his listener, he added: "Until to-day, I have
always had the most implicit faith in my cashier's honesty, and
would have unhesitatingly confided my fortune to his keeping.
Almost on my knees have I besought and implored him to con-
fess that in a moment of desperation he had taken the money,
promising him pardon and forgetfulness ; but I could not move
him. I loved him; and even now, in spite of the trouble and
humiliation that he is heaping upon me, I can not bring myself
to feel harshly toward him."
The commissary looked as if he did not understand. "What
do you mean by humiliation?" he asked.
"What!" said M. Fauvel excitedly, "is not justice the same
for all ? Because I am the head of a bank, and he only a clerk,
does it follow that my word is more to be relied upon than his?
Why could I not have robbed myself? Such things have been
done. They will ask me for facts; and I shall be compelled to
expose the exact situation of my house, explain my affairs,
disclose the secret and method of my operations."
"It is possible that you will be called upon for some exp!ana>
tion ; but your well-known integrity — "
"Alas ! He was honest too. His integrity has never been
doubted. Who would have been suspected this morning if I
had not been able to instantly produce a hundred thousand
crowns? Who would be suspected if I could not prove that my
assets exceed my liabilities by more than three millions?"
To h. cirictly honorable man, the thought, the possibility of
suspicion tarnishing his fair name, is cruel suffering. The
banker suffered, and the commissary of police saw it, and felt
934 FILE NUMBER 113
for him. "Be calm, sir," said he; "before the end of a week,
justice will have collected sufficient proof to establish the guilt
of this unfortunate man, whom we may now recall."
Prosper entered with Fanferlot — whom they had much trouble
to awaken — and with the most stolid indifference listened to the
announcement of his arrest. In response he calmly said: "I
swear that I am guiltless."
M. Fauvel, much more disturbed and excited than his cashier,
made a last attempt. "It is not too late yet, poor boy," he
said: "for heaven's sake reflect — "
Prosper did not appear to hear him. He drew from his pocket
a small key, which he laid on the table, and said: "Here, sir,
is the key of your safe. I hope for my sake that you will some
day be convinced of my innocence ; and I hope for your sake
that the conviction will not come too late." Then as every one
was silent, he resumed : "Before leaving I hand over to you the
books, papers, and accounts necessary for my successor. I
must at the same time inform you that, without speaking of the
stolen three hundred and fifty thousand francs, I leave a deficit
in cash."
A deficit ! This ominous word from the lips of the cashier
fell like a bombshell upon the ears of Prosper's hearers. His
declaration was interpreted in divers ways. "A deficit !"
thought the commissary; "how, after this, can his guilt be
doubted? Before stealing the whole contents of the safe, he
has kept his hand in by occasional small thefts." "A deficit !"
said the detective to himself, "now, no doubt, the very inno-
cence of this poor wretch gives his conduct an appearance of
great depravity ; were he guilty, he would have replaced the
first money by a portion of the second."
The grave importance of Prosper's statement was consider-
ably lessened by the explanation he proceeded to make : "There
is a deficit of three thousand five hundred francs on my cash
account, which has been disposed of in the following manner:
two thousand taken by myself in advance on my salary; fifteen
hundred advanced to several of my fellow clerks. This is the
last day of the month: to-morrow the salaries will be paid,
consequently — "
The commissary interrupted him : "Were you authorized to
draw money whenever you wished for yourself or the clerks?"
"No; but I knew that M. Fauvel would not have refused
me permission to oblige my friends in the bank. What I did
FILE NUMBER 113 935
is done everywhere ; I have simply followed my predecessor's
example." The banker made a sign of assent. "As regards that
spent by myself," continued the cashier, "I had a sort of right
to it, all of my savings being deposited in this bank; about
fifteen thousand francs."
"That is true," said M. Fauvel, "M. Bertomy has at least
that amount on deposit."
This last question settled, the commissary's errand was at
an end, and his report might now be made. He announced his
intention of leaving, and ordered the cashier to prepare to
follow him.
Usually, the moment — when stern reality stares us in the
face, when our individuality is lost, and we feel that we are
being deprived of our liberty — is terrible. At the fatal com-
mand, "Follow me," which brings before our eyes the yawning
prison gates, the most hardened sinner feels his courage fail,
and abjectly begs for mercy. But Prosper lost none of that
studied stoicism which the commissary of police secretly pro-
nounced consummate impudence. Slowly, with as much care-
less ease as if going to lunch with a friend, he smoothed his
hair, drew on his overcoat and gloves, and said politely : "I am
ready, sir, to accompany you."
The commissary folded up his note-book, and bowing to M.
Fauvel, said to Prosper : "Come with me !"
They left the room, and with a distressed face, and eyes
filled with tears that he could not restrain, the banker stood
watching their retreating forms.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed: "gladly would I give twice
that sum to regain my old confidence in poor Prosper, and be
able to keep him with me !"
The quick-eared Fanferlot overheard these words, and prompt
to suspicion, and ever disposed to impute to others the deep
astuteness peculiar to himself, was convinced they had been
uttered for his benefit. He had remained behind the others,
under pretext of looking for an imaginary umbrella, and, as he
reluctantly departed, said he would call in again to see if it
had been found.
It was Fanferlot's task to escort Prosper to prison; but, as
they were about starting, he asked the commissary to leave
him at liberty to pursue another course, a request which his
superior granted. Fanferlot had resolved to obtain possession
of Prosper's note, which he knew to be in Cavaillon's pocket
936 FILE NUMBER 113
To obtain this written proof, which must be an important one,
appeared the easiest thing in the world. He had simply to
arrest Cavaillon, frighten him, demand the letter, and, if neces-
sary, take it by force. But to what would this lead ? To noth-
ing but an incomplete and doubtful result.
Fanferlot was convinced that the note was intended, not
for the young clerk, but for a third person. If exasperated,
Cavaillon might refuse to divulge who this person was, who
after all might not bear the name "Gipsy" pronounced by the
cashier. And, even if he did answer his questions, would he
not lie? After mature reflection, Fanferlot decided that it
would be superfluous to ask for a secret when it could be sur-
prised. To quietly follow Cavaillon, and keep close watch on
him until he caught him in the very act of handing over the
letter, was but play for the detective. This method of pro-
ceeding, moreover, was much more in keeping with the charac-
ter of Fanferlot, who, being naturally soft and stealthy, deemed
it due to his profession to avoid all disturbance or anything
resembling violence.
Fanferlot's plan was settled when he reached the vestibule.
He began talking with an office-boy, and, after a few apparently
idle questions, discovered that Fauvel's bank had no outlet on
the Rue de la Victoire, and that consequently all the clerks
were obliged to pass in and out through the main entrance in
the Rue de Provence. From this moment the task he had
undertaken no longer presented a shadow of difficulty. He rap-
idly crossed the street, and took up his position under a gate-
way. His post of observation was admirably chosen ; not only
could he see every one who entered and came out of the bank,
but he also commanded a view of all the windows, and by
standing on tiptoe could look through the grating and see
Cavaillon bending over his desk.
Fanferlot waited a long time, but did not get impatient, for
he had often remained on watch entire days and nights at a
time, with much less important objects in view than the present
one. Besides, his mind was busily occupied in estimating the
value of his discoveries, weighing his chances, and, like Per-
rette with her pot of milk, building the foundation of his for-
tune upon present success. Finally, about one o'clock, he saw
Cavaillon rise from his desk, change his coat, and take down
his hat. "Very good!" he exclaimed, "my man is coming out;
I must keep my eyes open."
Gab. — Vol. IV
FILE NUMBER 113 937
The next moment Cavaillon appeared at the door of the bank;
but before stepping on the pavement he looked up and down
the street in an undecided manner.
"Can he suspect anything?" thought Fanferlot.
No, the young clerk suspected nothing; only having a com-
mission to execute, and fearing his absence would be observed,
he was debating with himself which would be the shortest road
for him to take. He soon decided, entered the Faubourg Mont-
martre, and walked up the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette so
rapidly, utterly regardless of the grumbling passers-by whom
he elbowed out of his way, that Fanferlot found it difficult to
keep him in sight. Reaching the Rue Chaptal, Cavaillon sud-
denly stopped, and entered the house numbered 39. He had
scarcely taken three steps in the narrow hall when he felt a
touch on his shoulder, and turning abruptly found himself face
to face with Fanferlot. He recognized him at once, and turn-
ing very pale he shrank back, and looked around for means of
escape. But the detective, anticipating the attempt, barred the
way. Cavaillon saw that he was fairly caught. "What do you
want with me?" he asked in a voice tremulous with fright.
Fanferlot was distinguished among his colleagues for his
exquisite suavity and unequaled urbanity. Even with his pris-
oners he was the perfection of courtesy, and never was known
to handcuff a man without first apologizing for being compelled
to do so. "You will be kind enough, my dear sir," he said,
"to excuse the great liberty I take; but I really am under the
necessity of asking you for a little information."
"Information! From me?"
"From you, my dear sir; from M. Eugene Cavaillon."
"But I do not know you.*'
"Oh, yes, you must remember seeing me this morning. It
is only about a trifling matter, and you will overwhelm me
with obligations if you will do me the honor to accept my arm,
and step outside for a moment." What could Cavaillon do?
He took Fanferlot's arm, and went out with him.
The Rue Chaptal is not one of those noisy thoroughfares
where foot-passengers are in perpetual danger of being run
over by numberless vehicles dashing to and fro; there are but
two or three shops, and from the corner of the Rue Fontaine,
occupied by an apothecary, to the entrance of the Rue Leonie,
extends a high, gloomy wall, broken here and there by some
small windows which light the carpenters' shops behind. It is
Gab. — Vol. IV B
938 FILE NUMBER 113
one of those streets where you can talk at your ease, without
having to step from the sidewalk every moment. So Fan-
ferlot and Cavaillon were in no danger of being disturbed by
passers-by.
"What I wished to say, my dear sir," began the detective,
"is that M. Prosper Bertomy threw you a note this morning."
Cavaillon vaguely foresaw that he was to be questioned about
this note and instantly put himself on his guard. "You are
mistaken," he said, blushing to his ears.
"Excuse me for presuming to contradict you, but I am quite
certain of what I say."
"I assure you that Prosper never gave me anything."
"Pray, sir, do not persist in a denial ; you will compel me
to prove that four clerks saw him throw you a note written in
pencil and closely folded."
Cavaillon saw the folly of further contradicting a man so
well informed ; so he changed his tactics, and said : "It is true
Prosper gave me a note this morning; but as it was intended
for me alone, after reading it, I tore it up, and threw the
pieces in the fire."
This might be the truth. Fanferlot feared so; but how could
he assure himself of the fact? He remembered that the most
palpable tricks often succeed the best, and, trusting to his star,
he said at hazard: "Permit me to observe that this state-
ment is not correct ; the note was entrusted to you to give to
Gipsy."
A despairing gesture from Cavaillon apprised the detective
that he was not mistaken ; he breathed again. "I swear to you,
sir — " began the young man.
"Do not swear," interrupted Fanferlot : "all the oaths in the
world would be useless. You not only preserved the note, but
you came to this house for the purpose of giving it to Gipsy,
and it is in your pocket now."
"No, sir, no!"
Fanferlot paid no attention to this denial, but continued in
his gentlest tone: "And I am sure you will be kind enough to
give it to me; believe me, nothing but the most absolute
necessity — "
"Never !" exclaimed Cavaillon ; and, believing the moment
favorable, he suddenly attempted to jerk his arm from under
Fanferlot's and escape. But his efforts were vain; the detec-
tive's strength was equal to his suavity.
FILE NUMBER 113 H39
"Don't hurt yourself, young man," he said, "but take my
advice, and quietly give up the letter."
"I have not got it."
"Very well ; see, you reduce me to painful extremities. If
you persist in being so obstinate, I shall call two policemen, who
will take you by each arm, and escort you to the commissary
of police ; and, once there, I shall be under the painful necessity
of searching your pockets, whether you will or not."
Cavaillon was devoted to Prosper, and willing to make any
sacrifice in his behalf; but he clearly saw that it was worse
than useless to struggle any longer, as he would have no time
to destroy the note. To deliver it under force was no betrayal ;
but he cursed his powerlessness, and almost wept with rage.
"I am in your power," he said, and then suddenly drew from
his pocket-book the unlucky note, and gave it to the detective.
Fanferlot trembled with pleasure as he unfolded the paper;
yet, faithful to his habits of fastidious politeness, before read-
ing it, he bowed to Cavaillon and said: "You will permit me,
will you not, sir?" Then he read as follows:
"Dear Nina — If you love me, follow my instructions in-
stantly, without a moment's hesitation, without asking any
questions. On the receipt of this note, take everything you
have in the house, absolutely everything, and establish your-
self in furnished rooms at the other end of Paris. Do not
appear in public, but conceal yourself as much as possible. My
life may depend on your obedience. I am accused of an out-
rageous robbery, and am about to be arrested. Take with you
five hundred francs, which you will find in the secretary.
Leave your address with Cavaillon, who will explain what I
have not time to tell. Be hopeful, whatever happens. Good-by !
"Prosper."
Had Cavaillon been less bewildered, he would have seen
blank disappointment depicted upon the detective's face after
the perusal of the note. Fanferlot had cherished the hope that
he was about to possess a very important document which would
clearly prove the guilt or innocence of Prosper ; whereas he had
only seized a love-letter written by a man who was evidently
more anxious about the welfare of the woman he loved than
about his own. Vainly did he puzzle over the letter, hoping
to discover some hidden meaning: twist the words as he would,
910 FILE NUMBER 113
they proved nothing for or against the writer. The two words
"absolutely everything" were underscored, it is true; but they
could be interpreted in so many ways. The detective, however,
determined not to drop the matter here. "This Madame Nina
Gipsy is doubtless a friend of M. Prosper Bertomy?"
"She is his particular friend."
"Ah. I understand ; and she lives here at No. 39 ?"
"You know it well enough, as you saw me go in there."
"I suspected it to be the house, but now tell me whether the
apartments she occupies are rented in her name."
"No. Prosper rents them."
"Exactly ; and on which floor, if you please ?"
"On the first."
During this colloquy, Fanferlot had folded up the note, and
slipped it into his pocket. "A thousand thanks," said he, "for
the information ; and, in return, I will relieve you of the trouble
of executing your commission."
"Sir !"
"Yes; with your permission, I will myself take this note to
Madame Nina Gipsy."
Cavaillon began to remonstrate, but Fanferlot cut him short
by saying: "I will also venture to give you a piece of advice
Return quietly to your business and have nothing more to do
with this affair."
"But Prosper is a good friend of mine, and has saved me
from ruin more than once."
"Only the more reason for your keeping quiet. You can not
be of the slightest assistance to him, and I can tell you that
you may be of great injury. As you are known to be his
devoted friend, of course your absence at this time will be
remarked upon. Any steps that you take in this matter will
receive the worst interpretation."
"Prosper is innocent, I am sure."
Fanferlot was of the same opinion, but he had no idea of
betraying his private thoughts; and yet for the success of his
investigations it was necessary to impress the importance of
prudence and discretion upon the young man. He would have
told him to keep silent concerning what had passed between
them, but he dared not.
"What you say may be true," he said. "I hope it is for the
sake of M. Bertomy, and on your own account too; for, if he
is guilty, you will certainly be very much annoyed, and perhaps
FILE NUMBER 113 941
suspected of complicity, as you are well known to be intimate
with him."
Cavaillon was overcome.
"Now, you had better take my advice, and return to the
bank, and — good morning, sir."
The poor fellow obeyed. Slowly and with swelling heart
he returned to the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette. He asked
himself how he could serve Prosper, warn Madame Gipsy, and
above all, have his revenge upon this odious detective, who had
just made him suffer such humiliation. He had no sooner
turned the corner of the street than Fanferlot entered No. 39,
mentioned the name of Prosper Bertomy to the concierge, went
upstairs, and knocked at the first door he came to. It was
opened by a youthful footman, dressed in the most fanciful
livery.
"Is Madame Gipsy at home?" inquired Fanferlot.
The servant hesitated ; seeing this, Fanferlot showed his note
and said: "M. Prosper told me to hand this note to madame
and wait for an answer."
"Walk in, and I will let madame know you are here."
The name of Prosper produced its effect. Fanferlot was
ushered into a little room furnished in blue and gold silk
damask. Heavy curtains darkened the windows, and hung in
front of the doors. The floor was covered with a blue velvet-
pile carpet.
"Our cashier was certainly well lodged," murmured the de-
tective. But he had ho time to pursue his inventory. One of
the curtains was pushed aside, and Madame Nina Gipsy stood
before him. She was quite young, small, and graceful, with
a brown or rather gold-colored quadroon complexion, and the
hands and feet of a child. Long curling silk lashes softened
the piercing brilliancy of her large black eyes; her lips were
full, and her teeth were very white. She had not yet made
her toilet, but wore a velvet dressing-gown, which did not con-
ceal the lace ruffles beneath. But she had already been under the
hands of a hairdresser. Her hair was curled and frizzed high
on her forehead, and confined by narrow bands of red velvet;
her back hair was rolled in an immense coil, and held by a
beautiful gold comb. She was ravishing. Her beauty was
so startling that the dazzled detective was speechless with
admiration.
"Well," he said to himself, as he remembered the noble,
942 FILE NUMBER 113
severe beauty of Madeleine, whom he had seen a few hours
previous, "our young gentleman certainly has good taste — very
good taste — two perfect beauties !"
While he thus reflected, perfectly bewildered, and wondering
how he could begin the conversation, Madame Gipsy eyed him
with the most disdainful surprise: she was waiting for this
shabby little man in a threadbare coat and greasy hat to ex-
plain his presence in her dainty drawing-room. She had many
creditors, and was recalling them, and wondering which one
had dared send this man to wipe his dusty boots on her velvet-
pile carpets. After scrutinizing him from head to foot with
undisguised contempt, she said haughtily: "What is it that you
want?"
Any one but Fanferlot would have been offended at her in-
solent manner ; but he only noticed it to gain some notion of
the young woman's disposition. "She is bad-tempered," he
thought, "and is uneducated."
While he was speculating upon her merits, Madame Nina
impatiently stamped her little foot, and waited for an answer ;
finally she said : "Why don't you speak ? What do you want
here?"
"I am charged, my dear madame," he answered in his
blandest tone, "by M. Bertomy to give you this note."
"From Prosper! You know him then?"
"I have that honor, madame; indeed, I may be so bold as
to claim him as a friend."
"What, sir! You a friend of Prosper!" exclaimed Madame
Gipsy in a scornful tone, as if her pride were wounded.
Fanferlot did not condescend to notice this offensive exclama-
tion. He was ambitious, and contempt failed to irritate him.
"I said a friend of his, madame, and there are few people who
would have the courage to claim friendship for him now."
Madame Gipsy was struck by the words and manner of Fan-
ferlot. "I never could guess riddles," she said tartly ; "will you
be kind enough to explain what you mean?"
The detective slowly drew Prosper's note from his pocket,
and, with a bow, presented it to Madame Gipsy. "Read, ma-
dame," he said.
She certainly anticipated no misfortune; although her sight
was excellent, she stopped to fasten a tiny gold eyeglass on her
nose, then carelessly opened the note. At a glance she read its
contents.' She turned very pale, then very red; she trembled
FILE NUMBER 113 943
as if with a nervous chill { her limhs seemed to give way, and
she tottered so that Fanferlot, thinking she was about to fall,
extended his arms to catch her.
Useless precaution ! Madame Gipsy was one of those women
whose inert listlessness conceals indomitable energy; fragile-
looking creatures whose powers of endurance and resistance
are unlimited; cat-like in their soft grace and delicacy, espe-
cially cat-like in their nerves and muscles of steel. The diz-
ziness caused by the shock she had received quickly pas-ed
off. She tottered, but did not fall, and stood up looking
stronger than ever; seizing the wrist of the detective, she held
it as if her delicate little hands were a vise, and cried out:
"Explain yourself! what does all this mean? Do you know
anything about the contents of this note?''
Although Fanferlot showed plenty of courage in daily con-
tending with the most dangerous rascals, he was almost terrified
by the action of Madame Gipsy. "Alas!" was all he murmured.
"Prosper is to be arrested, accused of being a thief?"
"Yes, madame, he is accused of taking three hundred and
fifty thousand francs from the bank safe."
"It is false, infamous, absurd!" she cried. She had dropped
Fanferlot's hand ; and her fury, like that of a spoiled child,
found vent in violent actions. She tore her web-like handker-
chief, and the magnificent lace on her gown, to shreds. "Pros-
per steal !" she cried ; "what a stupid idea ! Why should he
steal? Is he not rich?"
"M. Bertomy is not rich, madame; he has nothing but his
salary."
This answer seemed to confound Madame Gipsy. "But," she
insisted, "I have always seen him with plenty of money ; not
rich — then — " She dared not finish ; but her eye met Fanferlot's,
and they understood each other.
Madame Nina's look meant: "He committed this robbery in
order to gratify my extravagant whims." Fanferlot's glance
signified: "Very likely, madame."
A few moments' reflection restored Nina's original assur-
ance. Doubt fled after hovering for an instant over her agitated
mind. "No!" she cried. "I regret to say that Prosper would
never have stolen a single sou for me. One can understand
a man robbing a bank to obtain the means of bestowing pleasure
and luxury upon the woman he loves ; but Prosper does not love
me; he never has loved me."
944 FILE NUMBER 113
"Oh, my dear lady!" protested the gallant and insinuating
Fanferlot, "you surely can not mean what you say."
Her beautiful eyes filled with tears as she sadly shook her
head and replied: "I mean exactly what I say. It is only too
true. He is ready to gratify my every wish, you may say;
what does that prove? Nothing. I am too well convinced that
he does not love me. I know what love is. Once I was beloved
by an affectionate, true-hearted man; and my own sufferings
of the last year make me know how miserable I must have
made him by my cold return. Alas! we must suffer ourselves
before we can feel for others. No, I am nothing to Prosper;
he would not care if — "
"But then, madame, why — "
"Ah, yes," interrupted Nina, "why? You will be very wise
if you can answer me. For a year have I vainly sought an
answer to this question, so sad to me. I, a woman, can not
answer it; and I defy you to do so. You can not discover the
thoughts of a man who is so thoroughly master of himself that
he never permits a single idea that is passing through his mind
to be detected upon his countenance. I have watched him as
only a woman can watch the man upon whom her fate depends,
but it has always been in vain. He is kind and indulgent; but
he does not betray himself, never will commit himself, ignorant
people call him weak, yielding: I tell you that fair-haired man
is a rod of iron painted like a reed !"
Carried away by the violence of her feelings, Madame Nina
betrayed her inmost thoughts. She was without distrust, never
suspecting that the stranger listening to her was other than a
friend of Prosper. As for Fanferlot, he congratulated himself
upon his success. No one but a woman could have drawn him
so excellent a portrait; in a moment of excitement she had
given him the most valuable information; he now knew the
nature of the man with whom he had to deal, which, in an
investigation like that he was pursuing, is the principal point.
"You know that M. Bertomy gambles," he ventured to say,
"and gambling is apt to lead a man — "
Madame Gipsy shrugged her shoulders, and interrupted him.
"Yes, he plays," she said, "but he is not a gambler. I have
seen him lose and gain large sums without betraying the slight-
est agitation. He plays as he drinks, as he sups, as he dissi-
pates — without passion, without enthusiasm, without pleasure.
Sometimes he frightens me ; he seems to drag about a body with-
FILE NUMBER 113 945
out a soul. Ah, I am not happy ! Never have I been able to
overcome his indifference, an indifference so great, so reckless,
that I often think it must be despair; nothing will convince me
that he has not some terrible secret, some great misfortune
weighing upon his mind, and making life a burden."
"Then he has never spoken to you of his past?"
"Why should he tell me? Did you not hear me? I tell you
he does not love me !"
Madame Nina was overcome by thoughts of the past, and
tears silently coursed down her cheeks. But her despair was
only momentary. She started up, and, her eyes sparkling with
generous resolution, she exclaimed: "But I love him, and I
will save him ! I will see his chief, the miserable wretch who
dares to accuse him. I will haunt the judges, and I will prove
that he is innocent. Come, sir, let us start, and I promise you
that before sunset he shall be free, or I shall be in prison
with him."
Madame Gipsy's project was certainly laudable, and prompted
by the noblest sentiments ; but unfortunately it was imprac-
ticable. Moreover, it would be going counter to the plans of
the detective. Although he had resolved to reserve to himself
all the difficulties as well as the benefits of this inquiry, Fan-
ferlot saw clearly that he could not conceal the existence of
Madame Nina from the investigating magistrate. She would
necessarily be brought into the case, and be sought after. But
he did not wish her to take any steps of her own accord. He
proposed to let her appear when and how he judged proper,
so that he might gain for himself the merit of having dis-
covered her.
Fanferlot's first step was to try to calm the young woman's
excitement. He thought it easy to prove to her that the slight-
est interference in favor of Prosper would be a piece of folly.
"What will you gain by acting thus, my dear madame?" he
asked. "Nothing. I can assure you that you have not the least
chance of success. Remember that you will seriously compro-
mise yourself. Who knows if you will not be suspected as
M. Bertomy's accomplice?"
But this alarming perspective, which had frightened Cavaillon
into foolishly giving up a letter which he might so easily have
retained, only stimulated Gipsy's enthusiasm. Man calculates,
while woman follows the inspirations of her heart. Our most
devoted friend, if a man, hesitates and draws back ; if a woman,
946 FILE NUMBER 113
rushes undauntedly forward, regardless of the danger. "What
matters the risk?" she exclaimed. "I don't believe any danger
exists; but, if it does, so much the better: it will be all the
more to my credit. I am sure Prosper is innocent; but, if
he should be guilty, I wish to share the punishment which
awaits him."
Madame Gipsy's persistence was becoming alarming. She
astily drew around her a cashmere shawl, put on her bonnet,
and, although still wearing her dressing-gown and slippers,
declared that she was ready to walk from one end of Paris to
the other, in search of this or the other magistrate.
"Come, sir," she said, with feverish impatience. "Are you
not coming with me?"
Fanferlot was perplexed. Happily he had always several
strings to his bow. Personal considerations having no hold
upon this impulsive nature, he resolved to appeal to her interest
in Prosper.
"I am at your command, my dear lady," he said; "let us go
if you desire it ; only permit me, while there is yet time, to
say that we are very probably about to do great injury to
M. Bertomy."
"In what way, if you please?"
"Because we are taking a step that he expressly forbade in
his letter; we are surprising him — giving him no warning."
Nina scornfully tossed her head, and replied: "There are
some people who must be saved without warning, and against
their will. I know Prosper; he is just the man to let him-
self be murdered without a struggle, without speaking a word —
to give himself up through sheer recklessness and despair."
"Excuse me, madame," interrupted the detective; "M. Ber-
tomy has by no means the appearance of a man who has aban-
doned himself to despair. On the contrary, I think he has
already prepared his plan of defense. By showing yourself,
when he advises you to remain in concealment, you will very
likely render his most careful precautions useless."
Madame Gipsy was silently weighing the value of Fanferlot's
objections. Finally she said: "I can not remain here inactive
without attempting to contribute in some way to his safety.
Can you not understand that this floor burns my feet?"
Evidently, if she was not absolutely convinced, her resolution
was shaken. Fanferlot saw that he was gaining ground, and
this certainty, putting him more at east, gave weight to his
FILE NUMBER 113 947
persuasive eloquence. "You have it in your power, madame,"
he said, "to render a great service to the man you love."
"In what way, sir? tell me in what way."
"Obey him, my child," said Fanferlot in a paternal tone.
Madame Gipsy evidently expected very different advice.
"Obey," she murmured, "obey !"
"It is your duty," said Fanferlot with grave dignity; "it is
your sacred duty."
She still hesitated ; and he took from the table Prosper's note,
which she had laid there, and continued: "What! M. Bertomy
at the most trying moment, when he is about to be arrested,
stops to point out your line of conduct; and you would render
vain this wise precaution ! What does he say to you ? Let us
read over this note, which is like the testament of his liberty.
He says, 'If you love me, I entreat you, obey.' And you hesi-
tate to obey. Then you do not love him. Can you not under-
stand, unhappy child, that M. Bertomy has his reasons, terrible,
imperious reasons, for your remaining in obscurity for the
present ?"
Fanferlot understood these reasons the moment he put his
foot in the sumptuous apartment of the Rue Chaptal ; and. if
he did not expose them now, it was because he kept them as
a good general keeps his reserve, for the purpose of deciding
the victory. Madame Gipsy was intelligent enough to divine
these reasons.
"Reasons for my hiding!" thought she. "Prosper wishes,
then, to keep every one in ignorance of our intimacy."
She remained thoughtful for a moment; then a ray of light
seemed to cross her mind, and she exclaimed : "Oh, I under-
stand now! Fool that I was for not seeing it before! My
presence here, where I have been for a year, would be an
overwhelming charge against him. An inventory of my pos-
sessions would be taken — of my dresses, my laces, my jewels —
and my luxury would be brought against him as a crime, He
would be asked where he obtained the money requisite to lavish
all these elegancies on me."
The detective bowed, and said: "That is perfectly true,
madame."
"Then I must fly at once ! Who knows that the police are
not already warned, and may appear at any moment?"
"Oh," said Fanferlot with easy assurance, "you have plenty
}f time; the police are not so very prompt."
948 FILE NUMBER 113
"No matter!"
And, leaving the detective alone in the parlor, Madame Nina
hastily ran into her bedroom, and calling her maid, her cook,
and her little footman, ordered them to empty her drawers
and wardrobe of their contents, and assisted them to stuff her
best clothing and jewels into her trunks. Suddenly she rushed
back to Fanferlot, and said: "Everything will be ready for me
to start in a few minutes ; but where am I to go ?"
"Did not M. Bertomy say, my dear lady, to the other end
of Paris? To a hotel, or furnished apartments."
"But I don't know v/here to find any."
Fanferlot seemed to be reflecting; but he had great difficulty
in concealing his delight at a sudden idea that flashed upon
him; his little black eyes fairly danced with joy. "I know a
hotel," he said at last, "but it might not suit you. It is not
elegantly furnished like this apartment."
"Should I be comfortable there?"
"Upon my recommendation you would be treated like a
queen, and, above all, you would be kept concealed."
"Where is it?"
"On the other side of the river, on the Quai Saint Michel.
It is called the Grand Archangel, and is kept by Madame
Alexandre."
Madame Nina was never long making up her mind. "Here
are pen and paper," said she, "write your recommendation."
Fanferlot rapidly wrote, and handed her the letter, saying:
"With these three lines, madame, you can make Madame Alex-
andre do anything you wish."
"Very good. Now, how am I to let Cavaillon know my
address? It was he who should have brought me Prosper's
letter."
"He was unable to come, madame," interrupted the detec-
tive ; "but I will give him your address."
Madame Gipsy was about to send for a carriage, but Fan-
ferlot said he was in a hurry and would procure her one. He
seemed to be in luck that day; for a cab was passing the door,
and he hailed it. "Wait here," he said to the driver, after
telling him that he was a detective, "for a little brunette who
is coming down with some trunks. If she tells you to drive
her to the Quai Saint Michel, crack your whip; if she gives
you any other address, get down from your box and arrange
your harness. I will keep in sight."
FILE NUMBER 113 949
He stepped across the street, and stood in the door of a
wine-shop. He had not long to wait. In a few minutes the
loud cracking of a whip apprised him that Madame Nina had
started for the Hotel of the Grand Archangel. "Aha !" said
he gaily, "I hold her at any rate."
AT the same hour that Madame Nina Gipsy was seeking
**• refuge at the Grand Archangel, so highly recommended
by Fanferlot, Prosper Bertomy was being consigned to the
depot of the Prefecture of Police. From the moment he
had resumed his habitual composure, he never once faltered.
Vainly did the people around him watch for a suspicious ex-
pression, or any sign of his giving way under the embarrass-
ment of his situation. His face was stolid as marble, and one
would have supposed him insensible to the horrors of his con-
dition had not his heavy breathing, and the beads of perspira-
tion standing on his brow, betrayed the intense agony he was
suffering.
At the police station, where Prosper had to wait for two
hours while the commissary went to receive orders from higher
authorities, he entered into conversation with the two police
agents who had charge of him. At twelve o'clock he said he
was hungry, and sent to a restaurant near by for his lunch,
which he ate with a good appetite, and also drank nearly a
bottle of wine. While he was thus occupied, several clerks from
the Prefecture, who have to transact business daily with the
commissaries of police, eyed him curiously. They all formed
the same opinion, and admiringly said to each other: "Well,
he is certainly made of strong stuff, that fellow!" And again:
"The young gentleman doesn't seem to care much. He has
evidently something in reserve."
When he was told that a cab was waiting for him at the
door, he at once rose ; but, before going out, requested per-
mission to light a cigar, which was granted him. A flower-girl
stood just by the door, and he stopped and bought a bunch of
950 FILE NUMBER 113
violets of her. The girl, seeing that he was arrested, said, by
way of thanks: "Good luck to you, my poor gentleman!"
Prosper appeared touched by this mark of interest, and re-
plied: "Thanks, my good girl, but 'tis a long time since luck
has been in my way."
It was magnificent weather, a bright spring morning. As
the cab went along the Rue Montmartre, Prosper kept his head
out of the window, smilingly complaining at the same time at
being imprisoned on such a lovely day, when everything outside
was so sunny and pleasant. "It is singular," he said, "I never
felt so great a desire to take a walk."
One of the police agents, a large, jovial, red-faced man,
received this remark with a hearty burst of laughter, and said:
"I understand."
While Prosper was going through the formalities of the com-
mitment, he replied with haughty brevity to the indispensable
questions that were put to him. But after, being ordered to
empty his pockets on the table, they began to search him, his
eyes flashed with indignation, and a single tear coursed down
his flushed cheek. In an instant he had recovered his stony
calmness, and stood up motionless, with his arms raised in the
air, so that the rough creatures about him could more con-
veniently ransack him from head to foot, to assure themselves
that he had no suspicious object concealed under his clothes.
The search would have, perhaps, been carried to the most
ignominious lengths but for the intervention of a middle-aged
man of rather distinguished appearance, who wore a white
cravat and gold spectacles, and was sitting at his ease by the
fire. He started with surprise, and seemed much agitated, when
he saw Prosper brought in by the officers ; he stepped forward,
as if about to speak to him, then suddenly changed his mind,
and sat down again.
In spite of his own troubles, Prosper could not help per-
ceiving that this man kept his eyes fixed upon him. Did he
know him ? Vainly did he try to recollect having met him
before. This individual, treated with all the deference due to
a chief, was no less a personage than M. Lecoq, a celebrated
member of the detective police. When the men who were
searching Prosper were about to take off his boots, under the
idea that a knife might be concealed in them, M. Lecoq waved
them aside with an air of authority, and said: "You have done
enough."
FILE NUMBER 113 951
He was obeyed. All the formalities being ended, the unfor-
tunate cashier was taken to a narrow cell; the heavily barred
door was swung to and locked upon him ; he breathed freely ;
at last he was alone. Yes, he believed himself to be alone.
He was ignorant that a prison is made of glass, that the pris-
oner is like a miserable insect under the microscope of an
entomologist.
He knew not that the walls have listening ears and
watchful eyes. He felt so certain of being alone that he at
once gave vent to his suppressed feelings, and, dropping his
mask of impassibility, burst into a flood of tears. His long-
restrained anger now flashed out like a smoldering fire. In a
paroxysm of rage he uttered imprecations and curses. He
dashed himself against the prison walls like a wild beast in
a cage.
Prosper Bertomy was not the man he appeared to be. This
haughty, correct gentleman had ardent passions and a fiery
temperament. One day, when he was about twenty-four years
of age, he had become suddenly fired by ambition. While all
of his desires were repressed — imprisoned in his low estate, like
an athlete in a strait-waistcoat — seeing around him all those
rich people with whom money served the purpose of the wand
in the fairy tale, he envied them their lot.
He studied the beginnings of these financial princes, and
found that at the starting-point they possessed far less than
himself. How, then, had they succeeded? By the force of
energy, industry, and assurance. He determined to imitate and
excel them.
From that day, with a force of will much less rare than we
think, he imposed silence upon his instincts. He reformed not
his character, but the outside of his character; and his efforts
were not without success. Those who knew him had faith in
his character; and his capabilities and ambition inspired the
prophecy that he would be successful in attaining eminence
and wealth.
And the end of all was this — to be imprisoned for robbery;
that is, ruined !
For he did not attempt to deceive himself. He knew* that,
guilty or innocent, a man once suspected is as ineffaceably
branded as the shoulder of a galley-slave. Therefore, what
was the use of struggling? What benefit was a triumph which
could not wash out the stain ?
952 FILE NUMBER 113
When the prison attendant brought him his supper, he found
him lying on his mattress, with his face buried in the pillow,
weeping bitterly. Ah, he was not hungry now ! Now that he
was alone, he was fed upon his own bitter thoughts. He sank
from a state of frenzy into one of stupefying despair, and vainly
did he endeavor to clear his confused mind, and account for
the dark cloud gathering about him; no loophole for escape
could he discover.
The night was long and terrible, and for the first time he
had nothing to count the hours by, as they slowly dragged on,
but the measured tread of the patrol who came to relieve the
sentinels. He was now thoroughly wretched.
At dawn he dropped into a sleep, a heavy, oppressive sleep,
which was more wearisome than refreshing; from which he
was startled by the rough voice of the jailer.
"Come, sir!" said he, "it is time for you to appear before
the investigating magistrate."
Prosper jumped up at once, and, without stopping to set right
his disordered toilet, said: "I am ready, lead the way."
The jailer remarked as they walked along: "You are very
fortunate in having your case brought before a very worthy
man." He was right.
Endowed with remarkable penetration, firm, unbiased, equally
free from false pity and excessive severity, M. Patrigent pos-
sessed in an eminent degree all the qualities necessary for the
delicate and arduous office of investigating magistrate. Per-
haps he was wanting in the feverish activity which is sometimes
necessary for coming to a quick and just decision; but he pos-
sessed unwearying patience, which nothing could discourage.
He would cheerfully devote years to the examination of a case ;
he was even now engaged in an affair of Belgian bank-notes,
of which he did not collect all the threads, and solve the mys-
tery, until after four years' investigation. Thus it was always
to him that they brought the endless proceedings, the half-
finished inquiries, and the incomplete processes.
This was the man before whom Prosper was being conducted,
and he was certainly taken by a difficult road. He was escorted
along" a corridor, through a room full of police agents, down a
narrow flight of steps, across a kind of vault, and then up a
steep staircase which seemed to have no end. Finally he reached
a long, narrow gallery, on which opened numerous doors, bear-
ing different numbers. The custodian of the unhappy cashier
FILE NUMBER 113 958
stopped before one of these doors, and said : "Here we are, and
here your fate will be decided."
At this remark, uttered in a tone of deep commiseration,
Prosper could not refrain from shuddering. It was only too
true, that on the other side of the door was a man who would
interrogate him, and according to his answers would either re-
lease him from custody or commit him for trial. Summoning
all his courage, he turned the door-knob, and was about to
enter when the jailer stopped him. "Don't be in such haste,"
he said; "you must sit down here and wait till your turn comes;
then you will be called." The wretched man obeyed, and his
keeper took a seat beside him.
Nothing is more doleful and terrible than having to wait in
this gloomy gallery of the investigating magistrates. Occupy-
ing the entire length of the wall is a wooden bench blackened
by constant use. This bench has for the last ten years been
daily occupied by the murderers, thieves, and suspicious char-
acters of the department of the Seine. Sooner or later, as filth
rushes to a sewer, does crime reach this dreadful gallery with
one door opening on the galleys, the other on the scaffold. This
place was bitterly though vulgarly denominated by a certain
magistrate as the great public wash-house of all the foul linen
in Paris.
When Prosper reached the gallery it was full of people. The
bench was almost entirely occupied. Close beside him, so as
to touch his shoulder, sat a man with a sinister countenance,
dressed in rags.
Before each door, giving access to the offices of the investi-
gating magistrates, stood groups of witnesses conversing in an
undertone. Gendarmes were constantly arriving and departing
with prisoners. Sometimes, above the noise of their heavy
tramping along the flagstones, a woman's stifled sob might be
heard, when, looking around, you would see some poor mother
or wife with her face buried in her handkerchief, weeping bit-
terly. At short intervals a door would open and shut, when an
officer would call out a name or number.
The stifling atmosphere, and the sight of so much misery,
made Prosper feel ill and faint ; he felt as if another five min-
utes' stay among these wretched creatures would make him
deathly sick, when a little old man dressed in black, wearing
a steel chain, the insignia of his office, cried out: "Prosper
Bertomy !"
954 FILE NUMBER 113
The unhappy man rose, and, without knowing how, found
himself in the room of the investigating magistrate. For a
moment he was blinded. He had come out of a dark passage ;
and the room in which he now found himself had a window
directly opposite the door, so that a flood of light streamed sud-
denly upon him. This room, like all the others in the gallery,
was of very ordinary appearance, and small and dingy. The
wall was covered with a cheap dark paper, and on the floor
was a hideous brown carpet, very much worn. Opposite the
door was a large writing-table strewn with bundles of papers,
furnishing the antecedents of those persons who were subjected
to examinations, and behind was seated the magistrate, imme-
diately facing those who entered, so that his countenance re-
mained in the shade, while that of the prisoner or witness whom
he questioned was in a glare of light.
Before a little table, on the right, sat a clerk, the indispensable
auxiliary of the magistrate, engaged in writing.
But Prosper observed none of these details: his whole atten-
tion was concentrated upon the arbiter of his fate, and as he
closely examined his face he was convinced that the jailer was
right in styling him an honorable man. M. Patrigent's homely
face, with its irregular outline and short red whiskers, lit up
by a pair of bright, intelligent eyes, and a kindly expression,
was calculated to impress one favorably at first sight. "Take
a chair," he said to Prosper.
This little attention was gratefully welcomed by the prisoner,
for he had expected to be treated with harsh contempt. He
looked upon it as a good sign, and his mind felt a slight relief.
M. Patrigent turned toward the clerk, and said : "We will begin
now, Sigault; pay attention."
Looking at Prosper, he then asked him his name.
"Auguste Prosper Bertomy," replied the cashier.
"How old are you?"
"I shall be thirty on the fifth of next May."
"What is your profession?"
"I am — that is, I was — chief cashier in M. Andre Fauvel's
bank."
The magistrate stopped to consult a little memorandum book
lying on his desk. Prosper, who followed closely his every
movement, began to be hopeful, saying to himself that never
would a man seemingly so unprejudiced be cruel enough to send
him to prison again. After finding what he looked for, M.
FILE NUMBER 113 955
Patrigent resumed the examination. "Where do you live?"
he asked.
"At No. 39, Rue Chaptal, for the last four years. Before
that time I lived at No. y, Boulevard des Batignolles."
"Where were you horn?"
"At Beaucaire, in the department of Lo Gard."
"Are your parents living?"
"My mother died two years ago; my father is still living."
"Does he reside in Paris?"
"No. sir; he lives at Beaucaire with my sister, who married
one of the engineers of the Southern Canal." It was in broken
accents that Prosper answered these last questions. Though
there are moments in the life of a man when home memories
encourage and console him, there are also moments when he
would be thankful to be without a single tie, when he bitterly
regrets that he is not alone in the world.
M. Patrigent observed the prisoner's emotion when he spoke
of his parents. "What is your father's calling?" he continued.
"He was formerly a superintendent of roads and bridges;
then he was employed on the Southern Canal like my brother-
in-law; now he has retired on a pension."
There was a moment's silence. The magistrate had turned
his chair round, so that, although his head was apparently
averted, he had a good view of the workings of Prosper's coun-
tenance. "Well," he said abruptly, "you are accused of having
robbed M. Fauvel of three hundred and fifty thousand francs."
During the last twenty-four hours the wretched young man
had had time to familiarize himself with the terrible idea of
this accusation; and yet, uttered as it was now in this formal,
brief tone, it seemed to strike him with a horror which ren-
dered him incapable of opening his lips. "What have you to
answer?" asked the investigating magistrate.
"That I am innocent, sir; I swear that I am innocent!"
"I hope you are," said M. Patrigent, "and you may count
upon me to assist you, to the extent of my ability, in proving
your innocence. You must have some facts to allege in your
defense, some proofs you can furnish me with."
"Ah, sir, what can I say when I am myself unable to under-
stand this dreadful business? I can only refer you to my
past life."
The magistrate interrupted him : "Let us be specific ; the rob-
bery was committed under circumstances that prevent suspicion
956 FILE NUMBER 113
from falling upon any one but M. Fauvel and yourself. Do
you suspect any one else?"
"No, sir."
"You declare yourself to be innocent, therefore the guilty
party must be M. Fauvel." Prosper remained silent. "Have
you," persisted the magistrate, "any cause for believing that
M. Fauvel robbed himself?" The prisoner preserved a rigid
silence.
"I see," said the magistrate, "that you need time for reflec-
tion. Listen to the reading of your examination, and after
signing it you will return to prison."
The unhappy man was overcome. The last ray of hope was
gone. He heard nothing of what Sigault read, and he signed
the paper without looking at it. He tottered as he left the
magistrate's room, so that the agent who had him in charge
was forced to support him. "I fear your case looks bad," said
the man, "but don't be disheartened; keep up your courage."
Courage ! Prosper had not a spark of it when he returned
to his cell ; but his heart was filled with anger and resentment.
He had determined that he would defend himself before the
magistrate, that he would prove his innocence ; and he had not
had time to do so. He reproached himself bitterly for having
trusted to the magistrate's benevolent face. "What a farce,"
he angrily exclaimed, "to call that an examination !"
It was not really an examination that Prosper had been sub-
jected to, but a mere formality. In summoning him, M. Patri-
gent obeyed Article 93 of the Criminal Code, which says, "Every
suspected person under arrest must be examined within twenty-
four hours." But it is not in twenty-four hours, especially in
a case like this, with no evidence or material proof, that a
magistrate can collect the materials for an examination. To
triumph over the obstinate defense of a prisoner who shuts
himself up in absolute denial as though in a fortress, valid
proofs are needed. These weapons M. Patrigent was busily
preparing.
If Prosper had remained a little longer in the gallery, he
would have seen the same official who had called him come
from the magistrate's room, and cry out, No. 3. The witness
who was awaiting his turn, and answered the call for No. 3,
was M. Fauvel.
The banker was no longer the same man. Yesterday he was
kind and affable in his manner; now, as he entered the magis-
FILE NUMBER 113 957
trate's room, he seemed irritated against his cashier. Reflec-
tion, which usually brings calmness and a desire to pardon, had
in his case led to anger and a thirst for vengeance. The in-
evitable questions which commence every examination had
scarcely been addressed to him before his impetuous temper
gained the mastery, and he burst forth in invectives against
Prosper.
M. Patrigent was obliged to impose silence upon the banker,
reminding him of what was due to himself, no matter what
wrongs he had suffered at the hands of his clerk. Although
he had very slightly examined Prosper, the magistrate was now
scrupulously attentive and particular in having every question
answered. Prosper's examination had been a mere formality,
the verifying of a positive fact. M. Patrigent now occupied
himself in ferreting out all the attendant circumstances and the
most trifling particulars, in order to group them together, and
arrive at a just conclusion.
"Let us proceed with regularity," said the magistrate to M.
Fauvel, "and pray confine yourself to answering my questions.
Did you ever suspect your cashier of being dishonest?"
"Certainly not. Yet there were reasons which should have
made me hesitate to trust him."
"What reasons?"
"M. Bertomy gambled. I have known of his spending whole
nights at the card-table, and losing large sums of money. He
was intimate with an unprincipled set. Once he was mixed up
with one of my customers, M. de Clameran. in a scandalous
gambling affair at the house of some disreputable woman, and
which ended in an investigation at the police court."
For some minutes the banker continued to revile Prosper.
"You must confess, sir," interrupted the magistrate, "that you
were very imprudent, if not culpable, to have entrusted the
contents of your safe to such a man."
"Ah, sir, Prosper was not always thus. Until the past year
he was a perfect model for men of his age. He frequented my
house as one of my family ; he spent all of his evenings with
us, and was the bosom friend of my eldest son Lucien. One
day he suddenly left us, and never came to the house again.
Yet I had every reason to believe him to be attached to my
niece Madeleine."
M. Patrigent had an odd way of contracting his brows when
he thought he had discovered some new proof. He now did
958 FILE NUMBER 113
this, and said: "Might not this admiration for the young lady
have been the cause of M. Bertomy's estrangement?"
"How so?" asked the banker with surprise. "I was willing
to bestow Madeleine's hand upon him, and, to be frank, was
astonished that he did not ask for her in marriage. My niece
would be a good match for any man, and he should have con-
sidered himself fortunate in obtaining her. She is very hand-
some, and her dowry will be half a million."
"Then you can discover no motive for your cashier's con-
duct ?"
"It is impossible for me to account for it. I have, however,
always supposed that Prosper was led astray by a young man
whom he met at my house about that time, M. Raoul de
Lagors."
"Ah ! and who is this young man ?"
"A relative of my wife's; a very attractive, intelligent young
man, somewhat wild, but rich enough to pay for his follies."
The magistrate wrote the name Lagors at the bottom of an
already long list of his memoranda. "Now," he said, "let us
come to the point. You are sure that the theft was not com-
mitted by any one of your household?"
"Quite sure, sir."
"You always kept your key?"
"I generally carried it about on my person ; and whenever
I left it at home, I placed it in the drawer of the secretary in
my bedroom."
"Where was it on the evening of the robbery?"
"In my secretary."
"But then—"
"Excuse me for interrupting you," said M. Fauvel, "and per-
mit me to tell you that, to a safe like mine, the key is of no
importance. To open it, one must know the word upon which
the five movable buttons turn. With the word one can even
open it without the key; but without the word — "
"And you never told this word to any one?"
"To no one, sir, and sometimes I should have been puzzled
to know myself with what word the safe had been closed.
Prosper would change it when he chose, and then inform me
of the change, but I often forgot it."
"Had you forgotten it on the day of the theft ?"
"No; the word had been changed the day before; and its
peculiarity struck me."
FILE NUMBER 113 959
"What was it ?"
"Gipsy — g-i-p-s-y," said the banker, spelling the name.
M. Patrigent wrote down this name. "One more question,
sir," said he, "were you at home the evening before the
robbery ?"
"No ; I dined and spent the evening with a friend ; when I
returned home, about one o'clock, my wife had retired, and
I went to bed immediately."
"And you were not aware of the amount of money in the
safe?"
"Absolutely. In conformity with my positive orders, I could
only suppose that a small sum had been left there overnight;
I stated this fact to the commissary in M. Bertomy's presence,
and he acknowledged it to be the case."
"It is perfectly correct, sir: the commissary's report proves
it." M. Patrigent was for a time silent. To him everything
depended upon this one fact, that the banker was unaware cf
the three hundred and fifty thousand francs being in the safe,
and Prosper had disobeyed orders by placing them there over-
night; hence the conclusion was very easily drawn.
Seeing that his examination was over, the banker thought
he would relieve his mind of what was weighing upon it. "I
believe myself above suspicion, sir," he began, "and yet I can
never rest easy until Bertomy's guilt has been clearly proved.
Calumny prefers attacking a successful man, and I may be
calumniated : three hundred and fifty thousand francs is a for-
tune capable of tempting even a rich man. I should be obliged
if you would have the condition of my affairs strictly examined.
This examination will prove that I could have had no interest
in robbing my own safe. The prosperous condition — "
"That is sufficient, sir."
M. Patrigent was already well informed of the high standing
of the banker, and knew almost as much of his affairs as M.
Fauvel himself. He asked him to sign his testimony, and then
escorted him to the door of his office, a rare favor on his part.
When M. Fauvel had left the room, Sigault indulged in a
remark. "This seems to be a very cloudy case," he said ; "if
the cashier is shrewd and firm, it will be difficult to convict
him."
"Perhaps it will," said the magistrate; "but let us hear what
the other witnesses have to say."
The person who answered to the call for No. 4 was Lucien,
960 FILE NUMBER 113
M. Fauvel's eldest son. He was a tall, handsome young man
of twenty-two. To the magistrate's questions he replied that
he was very fond of Prosper, was once very intimate with him,
and had always regarded him as a strictly honorable man,
incapable of doing anything unbecoming a gentleman. He de-
clared that he could not imagine what fatal circumstances
could have induced Prosper to commit the theft. He knew that
he played cards, but not to the extent that was reported. He
had never known him to indulge in expenses beyond his means.
In regard to his cousin Madeleine, he replied: "I always
thought that Prosper was in love with Madeleine, and, until
yesterday, I was certain he would marry her, knowing that
my father would not oppose their union. I have always attrib-
uted the discontinuance of Prosper's visits to a quarrel with my
cousin, but supposed they would ultimately become reconciled."
This information threw more light upon Prosper's past life
than that furnished by M. Fauvel, but did not apparently dis-
close any evidence which could be used in the present state of
affairs. Lucien signed his deposition, and withdrew.
Cavaillon's turn for examination came next. The poor fellow
was in a pitiable state of mind when he appeared before the
magistrate. Having confided to a friend his adventure with
the detective, as a great secret, and being jeered at for his
cowardice in giving up the note, he felt great remorse, and
passed the night in reproaching himself for having ruined
Prosper. He endeavored to repair, as well as he could, what
he called his treason. He did not exactly accuse M. Fauvel,
but he courageously declared that he was the cashier's friend,
and that he was as certain of his innocence as he was of his
own. Unfortunately, besides having no proofs to strengthen
his assertions, the latter were deprived of most of their value
by his violent professions of friendship for the accused.
After Cavaillon, six or eight clerks of Fauvel's bank suc-
cessively defiled in the magistrate's room ; but their depositions
were nearly all insignificant. One of them, however, stated a
fact which the magistrate carefully noted. He said he knew
that Prosper had speculated on the Bourse through the medium
of M. Raoul de Lagors, and had gained immense sums. Five
o'clock struck before the list of witnesses summoned for the
day was exhausted. But M. Patrigent's task was not yet fin-
ished. He rang for his attendant, who instantly appeared, when
he said to him: "Go at once and bring Fanferlot."
FILE NUMBER 113 961
It was some time before the detective answered the summons.
Having met a colleague in the gallery, he thought it his duty
to treat him ; and the official had to fetch him from the wine-
shop at the corner.
"How is it that you keep people waiting?" said the magis-
trate, when the detective entered bowing and scraping. Fan-
ferlot bowed more profoundly still. Despite his smiling face,
he was very uneasy. To unravel the Bertomy case alone, it
was requisite to play a double game that might be discovered
at any moment. In serving at the same time the cause of
justice and his own ambition, he ran great risks, the least of
which was the losing of his place.
"I have had a great deal to do," he said, to excuse himself,
"and have not wasted any time." And he began to give a de-
tailed account of his movements. He was embarrassed, for he
spoke with all sorts of restrictions, picking out what was to be
said, and avoiding what was to be left unsaid. Thus he gave
the history of Cavaillon's letter, which he handed to the magis-
trate; but he did not breathe a word of Madeleine. On the
other hand, he furnished minute biographical details of Prosper
and Madame Gipsy, which he had collected from various quar-
ters during the day.
As the detective progressed, M. Patrigent's conviction was
strengthened. "This young man is evidently guilty," he mur-
mured. Fanferlot did not reply ; his opinion was different, but
he was delighted that the magistrate was on the wrong track,
thinking that his own glorification would thereby be the greater
when he discovered the real culprit. True, this grand dis-
covery was as far off as it had ever been.
After hearing all he had to say, the magistrate dismissed
Fanferlot, telling him to return the next day. "Above all," he
said, as Fanferlot left the room, "do not lose sight of the
woman Gipsy; she must know where the money is, and can
put us on the right scent."
Fanferlot smiled cunningly. "You may rest easy about that,
sir," replied he ; "the lady is in good hands."
Left to himself, although the evening was far advanced, M.
Patrigent continued to busy himself with the case, and to ar-
range for the rest of the depositions being taken. The affair had
obtained complete possession of his mind ; it was, at the same
time, puzzling and attractive. It seemed to be surrounded by a
cloud of mystery, which he determined to penetrate and dispel.
Gab.— V ol. IV C
962
FILE NUMBER 113
The next morning he was in his room much earlier than
usual. On this day he examined Madame Gipsy, recalled Ca-
vaillon, and sent again for M. Fauvel. For several days he
displayed the same activity. Of all the witnesses summoned,
only two failed to appear. One was the messenger sent by
Prosper to bring the money from the Bank of France, and who
was ill from a fall. The other was M. Raoul de Lagors. But
their absence did not prevent the memoranda relating to Pros-
pers case from daily increasing; and on the ensuing Monday,
five days after the robbery, M. Patrigent thought he held in his
hands enough moral proof to crush the accused.
\\T HILE his whole past was the object of the most minute
* * investigations, Prosper was in prison, in solitary confine-
ment. The two first days had not appeared very long to him.
He had requested, and been supplied with some sheets of paper,
numbered, for they had to be accounted for ; and he wrote, with
a sort of fury, plans of defense and a narrative of justification.
The third day he began to feel uneasy at not seeing any one
except the condemned prisoners employed to serve those under-
going solitary confinement, and the jailer who brought him his
food. "Am I not to be examined again?" he would ask.
"Your turn is coming," the jailer invariably answered.
Time passed ; and the wretched man, tortured by the suffer-
ings of solitary confinement which quickly breaks the spirit,
sank into the depths of despair. "Am I to stay here forever ?"
he moaned.
No, he was not forgotten ; for on the Monday morning, at
one o'clock, an hour when the jailer never came, he heard the
heavy bolt of his cell pushed back. He ran toward the door.
But the sight of a gray-headed man standing there rooted him
to the spot.
"Father," he gasped, "father !"
"Your father, yes !"
Prosper's astonishment at seeing his father was instantly sue-
FILE NUMBER 113 963
ceeded by a feeling of great joy. A father is the one friend
upon whom we can always rely. In the hour of need, when
all else fails, we remember him upon whose knees we sat when
children, and who soothed our sorrows; and even though he
may be unable to assist us, his mere presence serves to comfort
and strengthen us.
Without reflecting, Prosper, impelled by tender feeling, was
about to throw himself into his father's arms, but M. Bertomy
harshly repulsed him. "Do not approach me !" he exclaimed.
He then advanced into the cell, and closed the door. The
father and son were alone together — Prosper heart-broken,
crushed; M. Bertomy angry, almost threatening.
Cast off by his last friend, by his father, the miserable young
man seemed to be stupefied with pain and disappointment.
"You, too!" he bitterly cried. "You — you believe me guilty?
Oh, father!"
"Spare yourself this shameful comedy," interrupted M. Ber-
tomy: "I know all."
"But I am innocent, father ; I swear it by the sacred memory
of my mother."
"Unhappy wretch !" cried M. Bertomy, "do not blaspheme !"
He seemed overcome by tender thoughts of the past, and in a
weak, broken voice added: "Your mother is dead, Prosper, and
little did I think that the day would come when I could thank
God for having taken her from me. Your crime would have
killed her, would have broken her heart 1"
After a painful silence, Prosper said: "You overwhelm me,
father, and at the moment when I need all my courage; when
I am the victim of a hideous plot."
"Victim !" cried M. Bertomy, "victim ! Dare you utter your
insinuations against the honorable man who has taken care of
you, loaded you with benefits, and had ensured you a brilliant
future ! It is enough for you to have robbed him ; do not
calumniate him."
"For pity's sake, father, let me explain !"
"I suppose you would deny your benefactor's kindness Yet
you were at one time so sure of his affection that you wrote me
to hold myself in readiness to come to Paris and ask M. Fauvel
for the hand of his niece. Was that, then, a lie?"
"No," said Prosper in a choked voice, "no."
"That was a year ago; you then loved Mademoiselle Made-
leine; at least you told me so."
964 FILE NUMBER 113
"Father, I love her now, more than ever ; I have never ceased
to love her."
M. Bertomy made a gesture of contemptuous pity. "Indeed !"
he cried. "And the thought of the pure, innocent girl whom
you loved did not prevent your entering upon a path of sin.
You loved her! How dared you, then, without blushing, ap-
proach her presence after associating with the shameless
creatures with whom you were so intimate?"
"For heaven's sake, let me explain by what fatality Made-
leine—"
"Enough, sir, enough. I told you that I know everything.
I saw M. Fauvel yesterday; this morning I saw the magistrate,
and 'tis to his kindness that I am indebted for this interview.
Do you know what mortification I suffered before being allowed
to see you? I was searched and made to empty all my pockets.
They suspected I was conveying some weapon to you !"
Prosper ceased to justify himself, but in a helpless, dejected
way dropped down upon a seat.
"I have seen your apartments, and at once recognized the
prov fs of your crime. I saw silk curtains hanging before all
the windows and doors and the walls covered with pictures. In
my father's house the walls were whitewashed; and there was
but one armchair in the whole place, and that was my mother's.
Our luxury was our honesty. You are the first member of
our family who has possessed Aubusson carpets; though, to
be sure, you are the first thief of our blood." At this last
insult Prosper's face flushed crimson, but he remained silent and
immovable.
"But luxury is necessary now," continued M. Bertomy, be-
coming more excited and angry as he went on; "luxury must
be had at any price. You must have the insolent opulence and
display of an upstart, without the upstart's wealth. You must
support worthless women who wear satin slippers lined with
swan's-down, like those I saw in your rooms, and keep ser-
vants in livery — and to do this you steal ! Bankers will no
longer dare trust the keys of their safes with any one, for
every day honest families are disgraced by the discovery of
some new piece of villainy."
M. Bertomy suddenly stopped. He saw for the first time that
his son was not in a condition to hear his reproaches. "But
I will say no more," he added. "I came here not to reproach
you, but to save, if possible, the honor of our name, to prevent
FILE NUMBER 113 965
it from being published in the papers among the names of
thieves and murderers. Stand up and listen to me !" At his
father's imperious tone, Prosper arose. So many successive
blows had reduced him to a state of torpor.
"First of all," began M. Bertomy, "how much have you re-
maining of the stolen three hundred and fifty thousand francs?"
"Once more, father," replied the unfoitunate man in a tone
of hopeless resignation, "once more I swear I am innocent."
"So I supposed you would say. Then our family will have
to repair the injury you have done M. Fauvel."
"What do you mean?"
"The day your brother-in-law heard of your crime he
brought me your sister's dowry — seventy thousand francs. I
succeeded in collecting a hundred and forty thousand francs
more. This makes two hundred and ten thousand francs
which I have brought with me to give to M. Fauvel."
This threat aroused Prosper from his torpor. "You shall
do nothing of the kind !" he cried with unrestrained indignation.
"I will do so before the sun goes down this day. M. Fauvel
will grant me time to pay the rest. My pension is fifteen hun-
dred francs. I can live upon five hundred ; I am strong enough
to go to work again ; and your brother-in-law — " M. Bertomy
stopped short, frightened at the expression of his son's face.
His features were contracted with such furious rage that h«
was scarcely recognizable, and his eyes glared like a maniac's.
"You dare not disgrace me thus !" cried Prosper ; "you have
no right to do it. You are free to disbelieve me yourself, but
you have no right to take a step which would be a confession
of guilt, and ruin me forever. Who and what convinces you
of my guilt? When cold justice hesitates, you, my father,
hesitate not, but, more pitiless than the law, condemn me
unheard !"
"I will do my duty !"
"Which means that I stand on the edge of a precipice, and
you push me over ! Do you call that your duty ? What ! be-
tween strangers who accuse me, and myself who swear that I
am innocent, you do not hesitate? Why? Is it because I am
your son? Our honor is at stake, it is true; but that is only
the more reason why you should stand by me, and assist me
to defend myself."
Prosper's earnest, truthful manner was enough to unsettle
the firmest convictions, and make doubt penetrate the most
966 FILE NUMBER 113
stubborn mind. "Yet," said M. Bertomy in a hesitating tone,
"everything seems to accuse you."
"Ah, father, you do not know that I was suddenly banished
from Madeleine's presence ; that I was compelled to avoid her.
I became desperate, and tried to forget my sorrow in dissipa-
tion. I sought oblivion, and found shame and disgust. Oh,
Madeleine, Madeleine !" He was overcome with emotion ; but
in a few minutes he resumed with renewed violence in his voice
and manner: "Everything is against me; but no matter. I will
clear myself or perish. Human justice is liable to error; al-
though innocent, I may be convicted ; so be it. I will undergo
my penalty; but people are not kept galley-slaves forever."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, father, that I am now another man. My life, hence-
forth, has an object — vengeance ! I am the victim of a vile
plot. As long as I have a drop of blood in my veins, I will
seek its author. And I will certainly find him ; and then bitterly
shall he expiate all of my cruel suffering. The blow has come
from Fauvel's, and I will seek the villain there."
"Take care: your anger makes you say things that you will
repent hereafter."
"Yes, I see, you are going to descant upon the probity of
M. Andre Fauvel. You will tell me that all the virtues have
taken refuge in the bosom of this patriarchal family. What
do you know about it? Would this be the first instance in
which the most shameful secrets are concealed beneath the
fairest appearances? Why did Madeleine suddenly forbid me
to think of her? Why has she exiled me, when she suffers as
much from our separation as I myself, when she still loves me ?
For she does love me. I am sure of it. I have proofs of it."
The jailer here came to say that the time allotted to M. Ber-
tomy had expired, and that he must leave the cell. A thousand
conflicting emotions seemed to rend the old man's heart. Sup-
pose Prosper were telling the truth : how great would be his
own remorse, if he had added to the frightful weight of sorrow
and trouble his son already had to bear ! And who could prove
that he was not sincere in what he said?
The voice of his son, of whom he had ever been proud, had
aroused all his paternal affection which he had so violently re-
repressed. Ah, were he guilty, and guilty of a worse crime.
still he was his son, his only son! His countenance lost its
severity, and his eyes filled with tears. He wished to leave
FILE NUMBER 113 967
as he had entered, stern and angry, but he had not the cruel
courage. His heart was breaking. He opened his arms, and
pressed Prosper to his breast. "Oh, my son I" he murmured,
"God grant you have spoken the truth !"
Prosper was triumphant : he had almost convinced his father
of his innocence. But he had no time to rejoice over this vic-
tory. The cell door again opened, and the jailer's gruff voice
called out : "It is time for you to appear before the investigating
magistrate."
Prosper instantly obeyed the summons. His step was no
longer unsteady, as a few days previous: a complete change
had come over him. He walked firmly, with his head erect,
and the fire of resolution in his eye. He knew the way now,
and he proceeded a little ahead of the officer who escorted him.
As he was passing through the room full of police agents, he
encountered the individual with the gold spectacles, who had
watched him so intently the day he was searched. "Courage,
M. Prosper Bertomy," he said ; "if you are innocent, there are
those who will help you."
Prosper started with surprise, and was about to reply, when
the man disappeared. "Who is that gentleman?" he asked of
the officer who was escorting hirn.
"Is it possible that you don't know him?" replied the man
with surprise. "Why, it is M. Lecoq of the detective service."
"You say his name is Lecoq?"
"You might as well say 'Monsieur Lecoq,' " said the offended
official ; "it would not burn your mouth. M. Lecoq is a man
who knows everything that he wants to know, without its ever
being told to him. If your case had been in his hands instead
of in those of that smooth-tongued, imbecile Fanferlot. it would
have been settled long ago. Nobody is allowed to waste time
when he is in command. But he seems to be a friend of vours."
"I never saw him until the first day I came here."
"You can't swear to that, because no one can boast of know-
ing the real face of M. Lecoq. It is one thing to-day, and
another to-morrow; sometimes he is a dark man, sometimes
a fair one, sometimes quite young, and then an octogenarian.
Why, at times he even deceives me. I begin to talk to a
stranger — bah ! it turns out to be M. Lecoq ! Anybody on the
face of the earth might be he. If I were told that you were
he, I should say : 'Very likely it is so.' Ah ! he can convert
himself into any form he pleases. He is a wonderful man!"
968 FILE NUMBER 113
The speaker would have continued forever his praises of M.
Lecoq, had not the sight of the magistrate's room put an end
to them.
This time, Prosper was not kept waiting on the wooden
bench ; on the contrary, the magistrate was waiting for him.
M. Patrigent, who was a profound observer of human nature,
had contrived the interview between M. Bertomy and his son.
He was certain that between the father, a man of such stubborn
honor, and the son, accused of theft, an affecting scene would
take place, and this scene would completely unman Prosper,
and induce him to confess. He determined to send for him
as soon as the interview was over, while his nerves were vibrat-
ing with terrible emotions: he would then tell the truth, to
relieve his troubled, despairing mind.
The magistrate's surprise therefore was great to see the
cashier's bearing; resolute without obstinacy, firm and assured
without defiance. "Well," he said to him, "have you reflected?"
"Not being guilty, sir, I had nothing to reflect upon."
"Ah, I see the prison has not been a good counselor; you
forget that sincerity and repentance are the first things neces-
sary to obtain the indulgence of the law."
"I crave no indulgence, sir."
M. Patrigent looked vexed, and said : "What would you say
if I told you what had become of the three hundred and fifty
thousand francs?"
Prosper shook his head sadly. "If it were known, sir, I
should not be here, but at liberty."
This device had often been used by the magistrate, and had
generally succeeded ; but, with a man so thoroughly master of
himself as Prosper then was, there was small chance of suc-
cess on this occasion. It had been used at a venture, and had
failed. "Then you persist in accusing M. Fauvel?" remarked
M. Patrigent.
"Him, or some one else."
"Excuse me : no one else, since he alone knew the word.
Had he any interest in robbing himself?"
"I can think of none."
"Well, now I will tell you what interest you had in robbing
him."
M. Patrigent spoke as a man who was convinced of the facts
he was about to state; but his assurance was all assumed. He
had relied upon crushing at a blow a despairing, wretched
FILE NUMBER 113 969
man, and was nonplused by seeing him appear so determined
upon resistance. "Will you be good enough to tell me," he said
in a vexed tone, "how much you have spent during the last
year?"
Prosper did not find it necessary to stop to reflect and cal-
culate. "Yes, sir," he answered, unhesitatingly. "Circum-
stances made it necessary for me to preserve the greatest order
in my wild career; I spent about fifty thousand francs."
"Where did you obtain them?"
"In the first place, twelve thousand francs were left to me
by my mother. I received from M. Fauvel fourteen thousand
francs for my salary, and share of the profits. By speculating
on the Bourse I gained eight thousand francs. The rest I bor-
rowed, and intend repaying out of the fifteen thousand francs
which I have deposited in M. Fauvel's bank." The account
was clear, exact, and could be easily proved; it must be a
true one.
"Who lent you the money?" inquired M. Patrigent.
"M. Raoul de Lagors." This witness had left Paris the day
of the robbery, and could not be found ; so for the time being,
M. Patrigent was compelled to rely upon Prosper's word.
"Well," he said, "I will not press this point. Tell me why,
in spite of M. Fauvel's formal order, you drew the money from
the Bank of France the night before, instead of waiting till the
morning of the payment?"
"Because M. de Clameran had informed me that it would be
convenient, necessary even, for him to have his money early
in the morning. He will testify to that fact, if you summon
him; and I knew that I should reach my office late."
"Then M. de Clameran is a friend of yours?"
"By no means. I have always had an aversion to him, which
there was nothing whatever to justify; he is, however, the inti-
mate friend of M. de Lagors."
While Sigault was writing down these answers, M. Patrigent
was racking his brain to imagine what could have occurred
between M. Bertomy and his son to cause this transformation
in Prosper. "One thing more," said the magistrate : "how did
you spend your evening the night of the crime?"
"When I left my office, at five o'clock, I took the St. Germain
train, and went to Vesinet to M. de Lagors's country house, to
return him fifteen hundred francs which he had asked for ; and,
not finding him at home, I left the money with his servant."
970 FILE NUMBER 113
"Did the latter tell you that M. de Lagors was going away?"
"No, sir. I did not know that he had left Paris."
"Where did you go when you left Vesinet?"
"I returned to Paris, and dined at a restaurant with a friend."
"And then?" Prosper hesitated.
"You are silent," said M. Patrigent. "I will therefore tell
you how you employed your time. You returned to your rooms
in the Rue Chaptal, dressed yourself, and went to a party given
by one of those women who style themselves dramatic artists,
and who are a disgrace to the stage; who receive salaries of
a hundred crowns a year, and yet keep their carriages. You
went to Mademoiselle Wilson's."
"You are right, sir."
"There is heavy playing at Wilson's?"
"Sometimes."
"You are in the habit of visiting places of this sort. Were
you not connected in some way with a scandalous affair which
took place at the house of a woman named Crescenzi?"
"I was summoned to give evidence, having been witness of a
theft."
"Gambling generally leads to stealing. And did you not
play baccarat at Wilson's, and lose eighteen hundred francs ?"
"Excuse me, sir, only eleven hundred."
"Very well. In the morning you paid a bill that fell due
of a thousand francs."
"Yes, sir."
"Moreover, there remained in your desk five hundred francs,
and you had four hundred in your purse when you were ar-
rested. So that altogether, in twenty-four hours, four thousand
five hundred francs — "
Prosper was not discountenanced, but amazed. Not being
aware of the powerful means of investigation which the law
has at its command, he wondered hpw the magistrate could
have obtained such accurate information in so short a time.
"Your statement is correct, sir," he finally said.
"Where did all this money come from? The evening before
you had so little that you were obliged to defer the payment of
a small account."
"The day to which you allude I sold some bonds I had,
through an agent, which realized about three thousand francs.
In addition I took from the safe two thousand francs in advance
of my salary. I have nothing to conceal."
FILE NUMBER 113 971
Prosper had given clear answers to all questions put to him,
and M. Patrigent thought he would now attack him from a
new point. "You say you have no wish to conceal any of your
actions ; then why this note stealthily thrown to one of your
companions?" Here he held up the mysterious note.
This time the blow struck. Prosper' s eyes dropped before
the inquiring look of the magistrate. "I thought/' he stam-
mered, "I wished — "
"You wished to hide your mistress?"
"Well, yes, sir, I did. I knew that a man in my condition,
accused of a robbery, has every fault, every weakness he has
ever indulged in, charged against him as a great crime."
"Which means that you knew that the presence of a woman
at your apartments would tell very much against you, and that
justice would not excuse this scandalous defiance of public
morality. A man who respects himself so little as to live with
a worthless woman does not elevate her to his standard, but
descends to her base level."
"Sir!"
"I suppose you know who the woman is, whom you permit
to bear the honest name borne by your mother?"
"Madame Gipsy was a governess when I first knew her. She
was born at Oporto, and came to France with a Portuguese
family."
"Her name is not Gipsy: she has never been a governess,
and she is not a Portuguese."
Prosper began to protest against this statement ; but M. Pa-
trigent shrugged his shoulders, and after looking over a lot of
papers on his desk, said: "Ah, here it is; listen: Palmyre Cho-
careille, born at Paris in 1840. daughter of James Chocareille,
undertaker's assistant, and of Caroline Piedlent, his wife."
Prosper looked vexed and impatient; he was not aware that
the magistrate was reading him this report in order to con-
vince him that nothing can escape the police. "Palmyre Cho-
careille," continued M. Patrigent, "was apprenticed at twelve
years of age to a shoemaker, and remained with him until she
was sixteen. Traces of her for one year are lost. At the age
of seventeen she was hired as a servant by a grocer in the Rue
St. Denis, named Dombas, and remained with him three months.
She entered during this same year, 1857, eight different situa-
tions. In 1858 she entered the service of a dealer in fans in the
Passage Choiseul."
972 FILE NUMBER 113
As he read, the magistrate watched Prosper's face to observe
the effect of these revelations. "Toward the close of 1858,"
continued he, "she was employed as a servant by Madame
Nunes, and accompanied her to Lisbon. How long she re-
mained in Lisbon, and what she did while she remained there,
is not reported. But in 1861 she returned to Paris, and was
sentenced to three months' imprisonment for assault and bat-
tery. Ah, she returned from Portugal with the name of Nina
Gipsy."
"But I assure you, sir — " Prosper began.
"Yes, I understand: this history is less romantic, doubtless,
than the one related to you ; but then it has the merit of being
true. We lose sight of Palmyre Chocareille, called Gipsy, upon
her release from prison; but we meet her again six months
later, she having made the acquaintance of a commercial trav-
eler named Caldas, who became infatuated with her beauty, and
furnished some rooms for her near the Bastille. She assumed
his name for some time, then she deserted him to devote herself
to you. Did you ever hear of this Caldas?"
"Never, sir."
"This foolish man so deeply loved this creature that her
desertion drove him almost insane through grief. He was very
resolute, and publicly swore that he would kill his rival if he
ever found him. The current report afterward was, that he
committed suicide. He certainly sold the furniture of the house
occupied by the woman Chocareille, and suddenly disappeared.
All the efforts made to discover him proved fruitless."
The magistrate paused a moment as if to give Prosper time
for reflection, and then slowly said: "And this is the woman
whom you made your companion, the woman for whom you
robbed the bank !"
Once more M. Patrigent was on the wrong track, owing to
Fanferlot's incomplete information. He had hoped that Pros-
per would betray himself by uttering some passionate retort
when thus wounded to the quick; but the latter remained im-
passible. Of all that the magistrate had said to him his mind
dwelt upon only one word — "Caldas," the name of the poor
commercial traveler who had killed himself.
"At any rate," insisted M. Patrigent, "you will confess that
this girl has caused your ruin."
"I can not confess that, sir, for it is not true."
"Yet she is the cause of your extravagance. "Listen" — the
FILE NUMBER 113 973
magistrate here drew a bill from the file of papers — "during
December you paid her dressmaker, Van Klopen, for two out-
door costumes, nine hundred francs ; one evening dress, seven
hundred francs ; one domino, trimmed with lace, four hundred
francs."
"I spent that money of my own free will; but, nevertheless,
I was not in the least attached to her."
M. Patrigent shrugged his shoulders. "You can not deny the
evidence," said he. "I suppose you will also say that it was not
for this girl's sake you ceased spending your evenings at M.
Fauvel's?"
"I assure you that she was not the cause of my ceasing to
visit M. Fauvel's family."
"Then why did you suddenly break off your attentions to a
young lady whom you confidently expected to marry, and whose
hand you had written to your father to ask for you?"
"I had reasons which I can not reveal," answered Prosper
with emotion.
The magistrate breathed freely; at last he had discovered a
vulnerable point in the prisoner's armor. "Did Mademoiselle
Madeleine banish you from her presence?" Prosper was silent,
and seemed agitated. "Speak," said M. Patrigent; "I must tell
you that this is one of the most important circumstances in
your case."
"Whatever the cost may be, on this subject I am compelled
to keep silence."
"Beware of what you do; justice will not be satisfied with
scruples of conscience." M. Patrigent waited for an answer.
None came.
"You persist in your obstinacy, do you?" continued he.
"Well, we will go on to the next question. You have, during
the last year, spent fifty thousand francs. Your resources are
at an end, and your credit is exhausted ; to continue your mode
of life was impossible. What did you intend to do?"
"I had no settled plan. I thought it might last as long as it
would, and then I — "
"And then you would abstract money from the safe; was it
not so?"
"Ah, sir, if I were guilty I should not be here ! I should
never have been such a fool as to return to the bank ; I should
have fled."
M. Patrigent could not restrain a smile of satisfaction, and
974: FILE NUMBER 113
exclaimed : "Exactly the argument I expected you to use. You
showed your shrewdness precisely by staying to face the storm,
instead of flying the country. Several recent cases have taught
dishonest cashiers that flight abroad is dangerous. Railways
travel fast, but telegrams travel faster. A French thief can be
arrested in London within forty-eight hours after his descrip-
tion has been telegraphed. Even America is no longer a refuge.
You remained, prudently and wisely, saying to yourself : 'I will
manage to avoid suspicion ; and, even if I am found out, I shall
be free again after three or five years' seclusion, with a large
fortune to enjoy.' Many people would sacrifice five years of
their lives for three hundred and fifty thousand francs."
"But, sir, had I calculated in the manner you describe, I
should not have been content with three hundred and fifty thou-
sand francs — I should have waited for an opportunity to steal
a million. I often had that sum in my charge."
"Oh ! it is not always convenient to wait."
Prosper was buried in deep thought for some minutes. "Sir,"
he finally said, "there is one detail I forgot to mention before,
and it may be of importance."
"Explain, if you please."
"The messenger whom I sent to the Bank of France for the
money must have seen me tie up the bundles of notes and put
them away in the safe. At any rate, he knows that I left my
office before he did."
"Very well; the man shall be examined. Now you can re-
turn to your cell ; and once more I advise you to consider the
consequences of your persistent denial." M. Patrigent thus
abruptly dismissed Prosper because he wished to act imme-
diately upon this last piece of information.
"Sigault," said he, as soon as Prosper had left the room, "is
not this messenger the man who was excused from being ex-
amined from his having sent a doctor's certificate declaring him
too ill to appear?"
"It is, sir."
"Where does he live?"
"Fanferlot says he was so ill that he was taken to the hospi-
tal—the Dubois Hospital."
"Very good. I am going to examine him to-day, this very
hour. Take your pen and paper, and send for a cab."
It was some distance from the Palais de Justice to the Dubois
Hospital ; but the cabman, urged by the promise of a handsome
FILE NUMBER 113 975
present for himself, made his sorry jades fly as if they were
blood horses.
Would the messenger be able to answer any questions ? That
was the point. The physician in charge of the hospital said
that, although the man suffered severely from a broken knee,
his mind was perfectly clear. "That being the case," said the
magistrate, "I wish to examine him, and desire that no one be
admitted while he makes his deposition."
"Oh! you will not be intruded upon; his room contains four
beds, but with the exception of his own they are just now all
unoccupied."
When the messenger saw the magistrate enter, followed by
a tall, thin young man with a portfolio under his arm, he at once
knew what they had come for. "Ah," he said, "you have come
to see me about M. Bertomy's affair?" — "Precisely."
M. Patrigent remained standing by the sick-bed while Sigault
arranged his papers on a little table. In answer to the usual
questions, the messenger stated that he was named Antonin
Poche, was forty years old, born at Cadaujac in the Gironde,
and was unmarried.
"Now," said the magistrate, "are you well enough to answer
clearly any questions I may put to you?"
"Yes, certainly, sir."
"Did you, on the 27th of February, go to the Bank of
France for the three hundred and fifty thousand francs that
were stolen?" — "Yes, sir."
"At what hour did you return with the money?"
"It must have been five o'clock when I got back."
"Do you remember what M. Bertomy did when you handed
him the notes? Now, do not be in a hurry; think before you
answer the question."
"Let me see: first he counted the notes, and made them up
into four packages; then he put them in the safe, which he
afterward locked, and then — it seems to me — yes, I am not mis-
taken, he went out !"
He uttered these last words with so much energy that, for-
getting his knee, he half started up in bed, giving vent at the
same time to a cry of pain.
"Are you sure of what you say ?" asked the magistrate.
M. Patrigent's solemn tone seemed to frighten Antonin.
"Sure !" he exclaimed with marked hesitation ; "I would bet
my head on it, yet I am not more sure than that !"
976 FILE NUMBER 113
It was impossible to get him to be more precise in his
answers. He had been frightened. He already imagined him-
self compromised, and for a trifle would have retracted every-
thing. But the effect was none the less produced, and when
they retired M. Patrigent said to Sigault: "This is a very
important piece of evidence."
♦T'HE hotel of the Grand Archangel, Madame Gipsy's asylum,
■"■ was the most elegant one on the Quai St. Michel. At
this hotel a person who pays her fortnight's board in advance
is treated with marked consideration.
Madame Alexandre, who had been a handsome woman, was
now stout, laced till she could scarcely breathe, always over-
dressed, and fond of wearing a number of flashy gold chains
around her fat neck. She had bright eyes and white teeth;
but, alas, a red nose. Of all her weaknesses — and heaven knows
she had indulged in every variety — only one remained; she
loved a good dinner, washed down with plenty of good wine.
But she loved her husband; and, about the time M. Patrigent
was leaving the hospital, she began to feel worried because her
"little man" had not returned to dinner. She was about to sit
down without him, when the waiter cried out : "Here is master."
And Fanferlot appeared in person.
Three years before, Fanferlot had kept a little private inquiry
office ; Madame Alexandre dealt without a license in perfumery
and toilet articles, and, finding it necessary to have some of
her doubtful customers watched, engaged Fanferlot's services ;
this was the origin of their acquaintance.
If they went through the marriage ceremony for the good
of the mayoralty and the church, it was because they imagined
it would, like a baptism, wash out the sins of the past. Upon
this momentous day Fanferlot gave up his private inquiry
office, and entered the police, where he had already been
occasionally employed, and Madame Alexandre retired from
business.
FILE NUMBER 113 977
Uniting their savings, they hired and furnished the Grand
Archangel, which they were now carrying on prosperously,
esteemed by their neighbors, who were ignorant of Fanferlot's
connection with the police force.
"Why, how late you are, my little man !" exclaimed Madame
Alexandre as she dropped her knife and fork, and rushed for-
ward to embrace her husband.
Fanferlot received her caresses with an air of abstraction.
"My back is broken," he said. "I have been the whole day
playing billiards with Evariste, M. Fauvel's valet, and allowed
him to win as often as he wished — a man who does not know
what pool is ! I became acquainted with him yesterday, and
now I am his best friend. If I wish to enter M. Fauvel's service
in Antonin's place, I can rely upon Evariste's good word."
"What, you be an office messenger? you?"
"Of course I would. How else am I to get an opportunity
of studying my characters, if I am not on the spot to continually
watch them?"
"Then the valet gave you no information?"
"None that I could make use of, and yet I turned him inside
out like a glove. This banker is a remarkable man; you don't
often meet with one of his sort nowadays. Evariste says he
has not a single vice, not even a little defect by which his
valet could gain ten sous. He neither smokes, drinks, nor
plays ; in fact, he is a saint. He is worth millions, and lives
as respectably and quietly as a grocer He is devoted to his
wife, adores his children, is very hospitable, but seldom goes
into society."
"Then his wife is young?"
"No, she must be about fifty."
Madame Alexandre reflected a minute, then asked: "Did you
inquire about the other members of the family?"
"Certainly. The younger son is in the army. The elder son,
Lucien, lives with his parents, and is altogether as proper as a
young lady. He is so good, indeed, that he is perfectly stupid."
"And what about the niece?"
"Evariste could tell me nothing about her."
Madame Alexandre shrugged her fat shoulders. "If you
have discovered nothing," she said, "it is because there is
nothing to be discovered. Still, do you know what I would
do if I were you?"
"Tell me."
978 FILE NUMBER 113
"I would consult M. Lecoq."
Fanferlot jumped up as if he had been shot. "Now, that's
pretty advice!" he exclaimed. "Do you want me to lose my
place? M. Lecoq does not suspect that I have anything to do
with the case, excepting to obey his orders."
"Nobody told you to let him know you were investigating
it on your own account. You can consult him with an air of
indifference, as if you were not at all interested; and, after you
have got his opinion, you can take advantage of it."
The detective weighed his wife's words, and then said : "Per-
haps you are right; yet M. Lecoq is so deucedly shrewd that
he might see through me."
"Shrewd !" echoed Madame Alexandre; "shrewd ! All of you
at the Prefecture say that so often that he has gained his repu-
tation by it. You are just as sharp as he is."
"Well, we will see. I will think the matter over ; but, in the
mean time, what does the girl say?" The "girl" was Madame
Nina Gipsy.
In taking up her abode at the Grand Archangel, Madame
Nina thought she was following good advice ; and, as Fanferlot
had never appeared in her presence since, she was still under
the impression that she had obeyed a friend of Prosper's. When
she received her summons from M. Patrigent, she admired the
wonderful skill of the police in discovering her hiding-place;
for she had established herself at the hotel under a false, or
rather her true, name, Palmyre Chocareille. Artfully ques-
tioned by her inquisitive landlady, she had, without any mis-
trust, confided her history to her. Thus Fanferlot was able to
impress the magistrate with the idea of his being a skilful
detective, when he pretended to have discovered all this infor-
mation from a variety of sources.
"She is still upstairs," replied Madame Alexandre. "She
suspects nothing; but to keep her in the house becomes every
day more difficult. I don't know what the magistrate told her,
but she came home quite beside herself with anger. She wanted
to go and make a fuss at M. Fauvel's. Then she wrote a letter,
which she told Jean to post for her; but I kept it to show
you."
"What!" interrupted Fanferlot, "you have a letter, and d ; d
not tell me before? Perhaps it contains the clue to the mystery.
Give it to me, quick."
Obeying her husband, Madame Alexandre opened a little cup-
FILE NUMBER 113 979
board and took out a letter, which she handed to him. "Here,
take it," she said, "and be satisfied."
Considering that she used to be a chambermaid, Palmyre
Chocareille, since become Madame Gipsy, wrote well. Her
letter bore the following address, written in a free, flowing
hand:
"M. L. de Clameran,
"Forgemaster, Hotel dn Louvre.
"To be handed to M. Raoul de Lagors.
"(Immediate.)"
"Oh, ho !" said Fanferlot, accompanying his exclamation with
a little whistle, as was his habit when he thought he had made
a grand discovery. "Oh, ho !"
"Are you going to open it?" inquired Madame Alexandre.
"A little bit," said Fanferlot, as he dexterously opened the
envelope.
Madame Alexandre leaned over her husband's shoulder, and
they both read the following:
"Monsieur Raoul — Prosper is in prison, accused of a rob-
bery which he never committed. I wrote to you three days ago."
"What !" interrupted Fanferlot, "this silly girl wrote, and I
never saw the letter?"
"But, little man, she must have posted it herself the day she
went to the Palais de Justice."
"Very likely," said Fanferlot, propitiated. He continued
reading:
"I wrote to you three days ago, and have no reply. Who
will help Prosper if his best friends desert him ? If you don't
answer this letter, I shall consider myself released from a cer-
tain promise, and without scruple will tell Prosper of the con-
versation I overheard between you and M. de Clameran. But
I can count on you, can I not? I shall expect yoii at the
Grand Archangel, on the Quai St. Michel, the day after to-
morrow, between twelve and four. Nina Gipsy."
The letter read, Fanferlot at once proceeded to copy it.
"Well!" said Madame Alexandre, "what do you think?"
Fanferlot was delicately refastening the letter when the door
of the hotel office was abruptly opened, and the waiter twice
whispered: "Pst ! Pst !"
980 FILE NUMBER 113
Fanferlot rapidly disappeared into a dark closet. He had
barely time to close the door before Madame Gipsy entered the
room. The poor girl was sadly changed. She was pale and
hollow-cheeked, and her eyes were red with weeping.
On seeing her, Madame Alexandre could not conceal her sur-
prise. "Why, my child, you are not going out ?" said she.
"I am obliged to do so, madame ; and I have come to ask
you to tell any one that may call during my absence to wait
until I return."
"But where in the world are you going at this hour, unwell
as you are?"
For a moment Madame Gipsy hesitated. "Oh," she said,
"you are so kind that I am tempted to confide in you ; read this
note which a messenger just now brought to me."
"What!" cried Madame Alexandre perfectly aghast; "a mes-
senger enter my house, and go up to your room !"
"Is there anything surprising in that?"
"No, oh, no ! nothing surprising." And in a tone loud enough
to be heard in the closet, Madame Alexandre read the note :
"A friend of Prosper's who can neither receive you, nor pre-
sent himself at your hotel, is very anxious to speak to you. Be
in the omnibus office opposite the tower of Saint Jacques to-night
at nine precisely, and the writer will be there, and tell you what
he has to say.
"I have appointed this public place for the rendezvous so as
to relieve your mind of all fear."
"And you are going to this rendezvous?"
"Certainly, madame."
"But it is imprudent, foolish : it is a snare to entrap you."
"It makes no difference," interrupted Nina. "I am so un-
fortunate already that I have nothing more to dread. Any
change would be a relief." And, without waiting to hear any
more, she went off. The door had scarcely closed upon her
before Fanferlot bounced from the closet.
The mild detective was white with rage, and swore violently.
"What is the meaning of this?" he cried. "Am I to stand by
and have people walking all over the Grand Archangel as if it
were a public street?" Madame Alexandre stood trembling,
and dared not speak. "Was ever such impudence heard of
before !" he continued. "A messenger comes into my house
FILE NUMBER 113 981
and goes upstairs without being seen by anybody ! I will look
into this. And the idea of you, Madame Alexandre, you, a
sensible woman, being idiotic enough to try and persuade that
little viper not to keep the appointment !"
"But, my dear—"
"Had you not sense enough to know thrt I would follow her,
and discover what she is attempting to conceal ? Come, make
haste and help me, so that she won't recognize me."
In a few minutes Fanferlot was completely disguised by a
thick beard, a wig, and a linen blouse, and looked for all the
world like one of those disreputable working men who go about
seeking for employment, and, at the same time, hoping they
may not find any.
"Have you your life-preserver?" asked the solicitous Madame
Alexandre.
"Yes, yes ; make haste and have that letter to M. de Clameran
posted, and keep on the lookout." And without listening to his
wife, who called after him, "Good luck," Fanferlot darted into
the street.
Madame Gipsy had some minutes' start of him ; but he ran
up the street he knew she must have taken, and overtook her
on the Pont-au-Change. She was walking with the uncertain
manner of a person who, impatient to be at a rendezvous, has
started too soon, and is obliged to occupy the intervening time.
First she would walk slowly, then quicken her steps, and pro-
ceed very rapidly. She strolled up and down the Place du
Chatelet several times, read the theatre-bills, and finally seated
herself on a bench. One minute before a quarter to nine she
entered the omnibus office and sat down.
A moment afterward Fanferlot entered; but, as he feared
that Madame Gipsy might recognize him in spite of his beard,
he took a seat at the opposite end of the room, in a dark
corner. "Singular place for a conversation," he thought, as
he watched the young woman. "Who in the world can have
made this appointment in an omnibus office? Judging from
her evident curiosity and uneasiness, I could swear she has not
the faintest idea for whom she is waiting."
Meanwhile, the office was rapidly filling with people. Every
minute an official would shout out the destination of an omni-
bus which had just arrived, and the passengers would rush in
to obtain tickets, hoping to be able to proceed by it.
As each newcomer entered, Nina would tremble, and Fan-
982 FILE NUMBER 113
ferlot would say, "This must be him!" Finally, as the Hotel
de Ville clock was striking nine, a man entered, and, without
going to the ticket-desk, walked directly up to Nina, bowed,
and took a seat beside her. He was of medium size, rather
stout, with a crimson face, and fiery-red whiskers. His dress
was that of a well-to-do merchant, and there was nothing in his
manner or appearance to excite attention.
Fanferlot watched him eagerly. "Well, my friend," he said
to himself, "in future I shall recognize you, no matter where
we meet; and this very evening I will find out who you are."
Despite his intent listening, Fanferlot could not hear a word
spoken by either the stranger or Nina. All he could do was
to judge what the subject of their conversation might be by
their gestures.
When the stout man bowed and spoke to her, Madame Gipsy
looked so surprised that it was evident she had never seen him
before. When he sat down by her, and said a few words, she
started up with a frightened air, as if seeking to escape. A
single word and look made her resume her seat. Then, as the
stout man went on talking, Nina's attitude betrayed a certain
apprehension. She evidently refused to do something required
of her; then suddenly she seemed to consent, when a good
reason was given for her doing so. At one moment she appeared
ready to weep, and the next her pretty face was illumined by
a bright smile. Finally she shook hands with her companion,
as if she were confirming a promise.
"What can all this mean?" said Fanferlot to himself, as he
sat in his dark comer, biting his nails. "What an idiot I am
to have stationed myself so far off!" He was thinking how
he could manage to approach nearer without arousing their sus-
picions, when the stout man rose, offered his arm to Madame
Gipsy, who accepted it without hesitation, and they walked
together toward the door.
They were so engrossed with each other, that Fanferlot
thought he could, without risk, follow them closely; and it
was well he did, for the crowd was dense outside, and he
would soon have lost sight of them. Reaching the door, he
saw the stout man and Nina cross the pavement, hail a cab,
and enter it
"Very good," muttered Fanferlot, "I've got them now. There
is no need to hurry."
While the driver was gathering up his reins, Fanferlot pre-
FILE NUMBER 113 983
pared himself; and, when the cab started, he set off at a brisk
trot, determined upon following it to the end of the earth.
The cab proceeded along the Boulevard Sebastopol. It went
pretty fast; but it was not for nothing that Fanferlot had been
dubbed the Squirrel. With his elbows glued to his sides, and
economizing his wind, he ran on. By the time he had reached
the Boulevard St. Denis, he began to get winded, and stiff from
the pain in his side. The cabman abruptly turned into the
Rue Faubourg St. Martin.
But Fanferlot, who, at eight years of age, had played about
the streets of Paris, was not to be baffled; he was a man of
resources. He seized hold of the springs of the cab. raised
himself up by the strength of his wrists, and hung on, with
his legs resting on the axletree of the hind wheels. He was
not particularly comfortable, but then he no longer ran the risk
of being distanced. "Now," he chuckled, behind his false beard,
"you may drive as fast as you please, cabby."
The man whipped up his horses, and drove furiously along
the hilly street of the Faubourg St. Martin. Finally the cab
stopped in front of a wine-shop, and the driver jumped down
from his seat, and went in.
The detective also left his uncomfortable post, and crouching
in a doorway waited for Nina and her companion to alight,
with the intention of following closely upon their heels. Five
minutes passed, and still there were no signs of them. "What
can they be doing all this time?" grumbled the detective. With
great precautions he approached the cab and peeped in. Oh,
cruel deception ! it was empty !
Fanferlot felt as if some one had thrown a bucket of ice-
water over him ; he remained rooted to the spot with his mouth
open, the picture of blank bewilderment. He soon recovered his
wits sufficiently to burst forth into a volley of oaths, loud enough
to rattle all the window-panes in the neighborhood. "Tricked !*
he cried, "fooled ! Ah ! but won't I make them pay for this !"
In a moment his quick mind had run over the gamut of pos-
sibilities, probable and improbable. "Evidently," he muttered
"this fellow and Nina entered by one door and got out by the
other; the trick is simple enough. If they resorted to it, 'tis
because they feared being followed. If they feared being fol-
lowed, they have uneasy consciences, therefore — " He suddenly
interrupted his monologue as the idea struck him that he had
better endeavor to find out something from the driver.
984 FILE NUMBER 113
Unfortunately, the driver was in a very surly mood, and not
only refused to answer, but shook his whip in so threatening a
manner that Fanferlot deemed it prudent to beat a retreat. "Oh,
hang it V he muttered, "perhaps the driver is mixed up in the
affair also !"
But what could he do now at this time of night? He could
not imagine. He walked dejectedly back to the quay, and it
was half-past eleven when he reached his own door. "Has the
little fool returned?" he inquired of Madame Alexandre the
instant she let him in.
"No ; but here are two large bundles which have come for her."
Fanferlot hastily opened them. They contained three cotton
dresses, some heavy shoes, and some linen caps. "Well," said
the detective in a vexed tone, "now she is going to disguise
herself. Upon my word, I am getting puzzled ! What can she
be up to ?"
When Fanferlot was sulkily walking down the Faubourg St.
Martin he had fully made up his mind that he would not tell
his wife of his discomfiture. But once at home, confronted
with a new fact of a nature to negative all his conjectures, his
vanity disappeared. He confessed everything — his hopes so
nearly realized, his strange mischance, and his suspicions. They
talked the matter over and finally decided that they would not
go to bed until Madame Gipsy, from whom Madame Alexandre
was determined to obtain an explanation of what had happened,
returned. At one o'clock the worthy couple were about giving
over all hope of her reappearance when they heard the bell ring.
Fanferlot instantly slipped into the closet, and Madame Alex-
andre remained in the office to receive Nina. "Here you are
at last, my dear child !" she cried. "Oh, I have been so uneasy,
so afraid lest some misfortune had happened !"
"Thanks for your kind interest, madame. Has a bundle been
sent here for me?"
Poor Nina's appearance had strikingly changed ; she was still
sad, but no longer dejected as she had been. To her prostra-
tion of the last few days had succeeded a firm and generous
resolution, which was betrayed in her sparkling eyes and reso-
lute step.
"Yes, two bundles came for you; here they are. I suppose
you saw M. Bertomy's friend?"
"Yes, madame, and his advice has so changed my plans that,
I regret to say, I must leave you to-morrow."
FILE NUMBER 113 985
"Going away to-morrow ! then something must have hap-
pened."
"Oh ! nothing that would interest you, madame."
After lighting her candle at the gas-burner, Madame Gipsy
said "Good night" in a very significant way, and left the room.
"And what do you think of that, Madame Alexandre?" asked
Fanferlot, as he emerged from his hiding-place.
"It is incredible ! This girl writes to M. de Lagors to meet
her here, and then does not wait for him."
"She evidently mistrusts us; she knows who I am."
"Then this friend of the cashier must have told her."
"Nobody knows who told her. I begin to think that I have
to do with some very knowing thieves. They guess I am on
their track, and are trying to escape me. I should not be at
all surprised if this little rogue has the money herself, and
intends to run off with it to-morrow."
"That is not my opinion ; but listen to me, you had better
take my advice, and consult M. Lecoq."
Fanferlot meditated awhile, then exclaimed : "Very well ; I
will see him, just for your satisfaction; because I know that
if I have not discovered anything, neither will he. But if he
takes upon himself to be domineering, it won't do; for only
let him show his insolence to me, and / will let him know
his place !"
Notwithstanding this brave speech, the detective passed an
uneasy night, and at six o'clock the next morning he was up —
it was necessary to rise very early if one wished to catch
M. Lecoq at home — and, refreshed by a cup of strong coffee,
he directed his e -ps toward the dwelling of the famous detective.
Fanferlot the Squirrel was certainly not afraid of his chief,
as he called him, for he started off with his nose in the air
and his hat cocked on one side. But by the time he reached
the Rue Montmartre, where M. Lecoq lived, his courage had
vanished ; he pulled his hat over his eyes, and hung his head,
as if looking for relief among the paving-stones. He slowly
ascended the stairs, pausing several times, and looking around
as if he would like to fly. Finally he reached the third floor,
and stood before a door decorated with the arms of the famous
detective — a cock, the symbol of vigilance — and his heart failed
him so that he had scarcely the courage to ring the bell.
The door was opened by Janouille, M. Lecoq's old servant,
who had very much the manner and appearance of a grenadier.
Gab. — Vol. IV D
966 FILE NUMBER 113
She was as faithful to her master as a watchdog, and always
stood ready to attack any one who did not treat him with the
august respect which she considered his due. "Well, M. Fan-
ferlot," she said, "you come at a right time for once in your
life. The chief is waiting to see you."
Upon this announcement Fanferlot was seized with a violent
desire to retreat. By what chance could Lecoq be waiting for
him ? While he thus hesitated, Janouille seized him by the arm
and pulled him in, saying: "Do you want to take root there?
Come along, the master is busy at work in his study."
Seated at a desk in the middle of a large room, half library
and half theatrical dressing-room, furnished in a curious style,
was the same individual with gold spectacles who had said to
Prosper at the Prefecture, "Have courage." This was M. Lecoq
in his official character.
Fanferlot on his entrance advanced respectfully, bowing till
his backbone was a perfect curve. M. Lecoq laid down his pen,
and, looking sharply at him, said: "Ah, so here you are, young
man. Well, it seems that you haven't made much progress in
Bertomy's case."
"What," murmured Fanferlot, "you know — "
"I know that you have muddled everything until you can't
see your way out; so that you are ready to give in."
"But, M. Lecoq, it was not I — "
M. Lecoq rose, and walked up and down the room; suddenly
he confronted Fanferlot, and said in a tone of scornful irony:
"What would you think, Master Squirrel, of a man who abuses
the confidence of those who employ him, who reveals just
enough to lead the prosecution on the wrong scent, who sac-
rifices to his own foolish vanity the cause of justice and the
liberty of an unfortunate prisoner?"
Fanferlot started back with a scared look. "I should say,"
he stammered, "I should say — "
"You would say this man ought to be punished, and dis-
missed from his employment; and you are right. The less a
profession is honored, the more honorable should those be
who belong to it. And yet you have been false to yours. Ah f
Master Squirrel, we are ambitious, and we try to make the
police service forward our own views! We let justice go
astray, and we go on a different tack. One must be a more
cunning bloodhound than you are, my friend, to be able to hunt
without a huntsman. You are too self-reliant by half."
FILE NUMBER 113 987
"But, my chief, I swear — "
"Silence ! Do you pretend to say that you did your duty,
and told all you knew to the investigating magistrate? While
others were giving information against the cashier, you were
getting up evidence against the banker. You watch his move-
ments : you become intimate with his valet."
Was M. Lecoq really angry, or pretending to be so ? Fan-
ferlot, who knew him well, was puzzled as to whether all this
indignation was real.
"Still, if you were only skilful," continued M. Lecoq, "it
would be another matter; but no: you wish to be master, and
you are not even fit to be a journeyman."
"You are right, my chief," said Fanferlot piteously, for he
saw that it was useless for him to deny anything. "But how
could I go about an affair like this, where there was not even
a trace, a sign of any kind to start from?"
M. Lecoq shrugged his shoulders. "You are an ass !" ex-
claimed he. "Why, don't you know that on the very day you
were sent for with the commissary to verify the fact of the
robbery, you held — I do not say certainly, but very probably
held — in your great stupid hands the means of knowing which
key had been used when the money was stolen?"
"How is that?"
"You want to know, do you? I will tell you. Do you re-
member the scratch you discovered on the safe ? You were so
struck by it that you could not refrain from calling out directly
you saw it. You carefully examined it, and were convinced
that it was a fresh scratch, only a few hours old. You thought,
and rightly too, that this scratch was made at the time of the
theft. Now, with what was it made? Evidently with a key.
That being the case, you should have asked for the keys both
of the banker and the cashier. One of them would have prob-
ably had some particles of the hard green paint sticking to it."
Fanferlot listened with open mouth to this explanation. At
the last words, he violently slapped his forehead with his hand
and cried out : "Idiot ! idiot !"
"You have correctly named yourself," said M. Lecoq. "Idiot !
This proof stares you right in the face, and you don't see it !
This scratch is the only clue there is to follow, and you must
like a fool neglect it. If I find the guilty party, it will be by
means of this scratch; and I am determined that I will find
him."
988 FILE NUMBER 113
At a distance the Squirrel very bravely abuses and defies
M. Lecoq, but in his presence he yields to the influence which
this extraordinary man exercises upon all who approach him.
This exact information, these minute details just given him,
so upset his mind that he could not imagine where and how
M. Lecoq had obtained them. Finally he humbly said: "You
have then been occupying yourself with this case, my chief ?"
"Probably I have ; but I am not infallible, and may have over-
looked some important evidence. Take a seat, and tell me all
you know."
M. Lecoq was not the man to be hoodwinked, so Fanferlot
told the exact truth, a rare thing for him to do. However, as
he reached the end of his statement, a feeling of mortified vanity
prevented his telling how he had been fooled by Nina and the
stout man. Unfortunately for poor Fanferlot, M. Lecoq was
always fully informed on every subject in which he interested
himself. "It seems to me, Master Squirrel," said he, "that you
have forgotten something. How far did you follow the empty
cab?"
Fanferlot blushed, and hung his head like a guilty schoolboy.
"Oh, my chief!" he cried, "and you know all about that too!
How could you have — " But a sudden idea flashed across his
mind, he stopped short, bounded off his chair, and exclaimed:
"Oh ! I know now : you were the stout gentleman with the red
whiskers."
His amazement gave so singular an expression to his face
that M. Lecoq could not restrain a smile. "Then it was you !"
continued the bewildered detective ; "you were the stout gen-
tleman at whom I stared, so as to impress his appearance upon
my mind, and I never recognized you ! You would make a
superb actor, my chief, if you would go on the stage ; but I was
disguised too — very well disguised."
"Very poorly disguised: it is only just to you that I should
let you know what a failure it was, Fanferlot. Do you think
that a huge beard and a blouse are a sufficient transformation?
The eye is the thing to be changed — the eye ! The art lies in
being able to change the eye. That is the secret." This theory
of disguise explained why the lynx-eyed Lecoq never appeared
at the Prefecture of Police without his gold spectacles.
"Then, my chief," said Fanferlot, clinging to his idea, "you
have been more successful than Madame Alexandre; you have
made the little girl confess? You know why she leaves the
FILE NUMBER 113 989
Grand Archangel, why she does not wait for M. de Lagors,
and why she has bought herself some cotton dresses?"
"She is following my advice."
"That being the case," said the detective dejectedly, "there
is nothing left for me to do but to acknowledge myself an ass."
"No, Squirrel," said M. Lecoq, kindly. "You are not an ass.
You merely did wrong in undertaking a task beyond your
capacity. Have you progressed one step since you started in
this affair? No. That shows that, although you are incom-
parable as a lieutenant, you do not possess the qualities of a
general. I am going to present you with an aphorism ; remem-
ber it, and let it be your guide in the future : A man can shine
in the second rank who would be totally eclipsed in the first."
Never had Fanferlot seen his chief so talkative and good-
natured. Finding his deceit discovered, he had expected to be
overwhelmed with a storm of anger ; whereas he had escaped
with a little shower that had cooled his brain. Lecoq's anger
disappeared like one of those heavy clouds which threaten in
the horizon for a moment, and then are suddenly swept away
by a gust of wind.
But this unexpected affability made Fanferlot feel uneasy.
He was afraid that something might be concealed beneath it.
"Do you know who the thief is, my chief?" he inquired.
"I know no more than you do, Fanferlot ; and you seem to
have made up your mind, whereas I am still undecided. You
declare the cashier to be innocent, and the banker guilty. I
don't know whether you are right or wrong. I follow after
you, and have got no further than the preliminaries of my in-
vestigation. I am certain of but one thing, and that is, the
scratch on the safe-door. That scratch is my starting-point."
As he spoke, M. Lecoq took from his desk an immense sheet
of paper which he unrolled. On this paper was photographed
the door of M. Fauvel's safe. Every detail was rendered per-
fectly. There were the five movable buttons with the engraved
letters, and the narrow, projecting brass lock. The scratch
was indicated with great exactness.
"Now," said M. Lecoq, "here is our scratch. It runs from
top to bottom, starting diagonally, from the keyhole, and pro-
ceeding from left to right ; that is to say, it terminates on the
side next to the private staircase leading to the banker's apart-
ments. Although very deep at the keyhole, it ends in a scarcely
perceptible mark."
990 FILE NUMBER 113
"Yes, my chief, 1 see all that."
"Naturally you thought that this scratch was made by the
person who took the money. Let us see if you were right. I
have here a little iron box, painted green like M. Fauvel's safe;
here it is. Take a key, and try to scratch it."
"The deuce take it !" said Fanferlot after several attempts,
"this paint is awfully hard to move !"
"Very hard, my friend, and yet that on the safe is harder
still, and more solid. So you see the scratch you discovered
could not have been made by the trembling hand of a thief
letting the key slip."
"Sapristi !" exclaimed Fanferlot amazed ; "I never should have
thought of that. It certainly required great force to make the
deep scratch on the safe."
"Yes, but how was that force applied? I have been racking
my brain for three days, and it was only yesterday that I came
to a conclusion. Let us examine if my conjectures present
enough chances of probability to establish a starting-point."
M. Lecoq put the photograph aside, and, walking to the door
communicating with his bedroom, took the key from the lock,
and, holding it in his hands, said: "Come here, Fanferlot, and
stand by my side, there ; very well. Now suppose that I want
to open this door, and that you don't wish me to open it ; when
you see me about to insert the key, what would be your first
impulse?"
"To put my hands on your arm, and draw it toward me so
as to prevent your introducing the key."
"Precisely so. Now let us try it; go on." Fanferlot obeyed;
and the key held by M. Lecoq, pulled aside from the lock,
slipped along the door, and traced upon it, from above to below
a diagonal scratch, the exact reproduction of the one in the
photograph.
"Oh, oh, oh !" exclaimed Fanferlot in three different tones
of admiration, as he stood gazing in a reverie at the door.
"Do you begin to understand ?" asked M. Lecoq.
"Understand, my chief? Why, a child could understand it
now. Ah, what a man you are ! I see the scene as if I had
been there. Two persons were present at the robbery; one
wished to take the money, the other wished to prevent its being
taken. That is clear, that is certain."
Accustomed to triumphs of this sort, M. Lecoq was much
amused at Fanferlot's enthusiasm. "There you go off, half-
FILE NUMBER 113 991
primed again," he said good-humoredly ; "you regard as certain
proof a circumstance which may be accidental, and at the most
only probable."
"No, my chief; no! a man like you could not be mistaken;
doubt is no longer possible."
"That being the case, what deductions would you draw from
our discovery?"
"In the first place, it proves that I am correct in thinking the
cashier innocent."
"How so?"
"Because, being at perfect liberty to open the safe whenever
he wished to do so, it is not likely that he would have had a
witness present when he intended to commit the theft."
"Well reasoned, Fanferlot. But on this supposition the
banker would be equally innocent ; reflect a little."
Fanferlot reflected, and all his confidence vanished. "You
are right," he said in a despairing tone. "What can be done
now?"
"Look for the third rogue, or rather the real rogue, the one
who opened the safe and stole the notes, and who is still at
large, while others are suspected."
"Impossible, my chief, impossible ! Don't you know that M.
Fauvel and his cashier had keys, and they only? And they
always kept these keys in their possession."
"On the evening of the robbery the banker left his key in his
escritoire."
"Yes ; but the key alone was not sufficient to open the safe ;
it was necessary that the word also should be known."
M. Lecoq shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "What was
the word?" he asked.
"Gipsy."
"Which is the name of the cashier's mistress. Now keep
your eyes open. The day you find a man sufficiently intimate
with Prosper to be aware of all the circumstances connected
with this name, and who is at the same time on such a footing
with the Fauvel family as would give him the privilege of
entering M. Fauvel's chamber, then, and not until then, will
you discover the guilty party. On that day the problem will
be solved."
Self-sufficient and vain, like all famous men, M. Lecoq had
never had a pupil, and never wished to have one. He worked
alone, because he hated assistants, wishing to share neither the
992 FILE NUMBER 113
pleasures of success nor the pain of defeat. Thus Fanferlot,
who knew his chief's character, was astonished to hear him
giving advice who heretofore had only given orders. He was
so puzzled that, in spite of his preoccupation, he could not help
betraying his surprise. "My chief," he ventured to say, "you
seem to take a great interest in this affair, you have so deeply
studied it."
M. Lecoq started nervously, and replied, frowning: "You are
too curious, Master Squirrel ; be careful that you do not go too
far. Do you understand?"
Fanferlot began to apologize.
"That will do," interrupted M. Lecoq. "If I choose to lend
you a helping hand, it is because it suits my fancy to do so. It
pleases me to be the head, and to let you be the hand. Unas-
sisted, with your preconceived ideas, you never would have
found the culprit; if we two together don't find him, my name
is not Lecoq."
"We shall certainly succeed, as you interest yourself in the
case."
"Yes, I am interested in it, and during the last four days I
have discovered many important facts. But listen to me. I
have reasons for not appearing in this affair. No matter what
happens, I forbid you mentioning my name. If we succeed, all
the success must be attributed to you. And, above all, don't
try to find out what I choose to keep from you. Be satisfied
with what explanations I give you. Now, be careful."
These conditions seemed to suit Fanferlot perfectly. "I will
obey your instructions and be discreet," he replied.
"I shall rely upon you," continued M. Lecoq. "Now, to
begin, you must carry this photograph to the investigating
magistrate. I know M. Patrigent is much perplexed about the
case. Explain to him as if it were your own discovery what
I have just shown you; repeat for his benefit the experiment
we have performed, and I am convinced that this evidence will
determine him to release the cashier. Prosper must be at liberty
before I can commence my operations."
"Of course, my chief; but must I let him know that I suspect
any one besides the banker or cashier?"
"Certainly. The authorities must not be kept in ignorance of
your intention of following up this affair. M. Patrigent will tell
you to watch Prosper ; you will reply that you will not lose sight
of him. I myself will answer for his being in safe keeping."
FILE NUMBER 113 993
"Suppose he asks me about Nina Gipsy?"
M. Lecoq hesitated for a moment. "Tell him," he finally
said, "that you persuaded her, in the interest of Prosper, to live
in a house where she can watch some one whom you suspect."
Fanferlot rolled up the photograph and joyously seized hold
of his hat, intending to depart, when M. Iecoq checked him by
waving his hand, and said : "I have not finished yet. Do you
know how to drive a carriage and manage horses?"
"How can you ask such a question as this, my chief, of a
man who used to be a rider in the Bouthor Circus?"
"Very good. As soon as the magistrate dismisses you, re-
turn home immediately, obtain for yourself a wig and the com-
plete dress of a valet ; and, when you are ready, take this
letter to the agency for servants at the corner of the Passage
Delorme."
"But, my chief—"
"There must be no but, my friend; the agent will send you
to M. de Clameran, who is wanting a valet, his man having left
him yesterday."
"Excuse me, if I venture to suggest that I think you are
laboring under a wrong impression. This De Clameran is not
the cashier's friend."
"Why do you always interrupt me?" said M. Lecoq imperi-
ously. "Do what I tell you, and don't disturb your mind about
the rest. I know that De Clameran is not a friend of Prosper's ;
but he is the friend and protector of Raoul de Lagors. Why
so? Whence the intimacy of these two men of such different
ages? That is what I must find out. I must also find out who
this ironmaster is who spends all his time in Paris, and never
goes to look after his forges. An individual who takes it into
his head to live at the Hotel du Louvre, in the midst of a con-
stantly changing crowd, is a fellow difficult to watch. Through
you I will keep an eye upon him. He has a carriage, which
you will have to drive : you will soon be able to give me
an account of his manner of life, and of the sort of people
with whom he associates."
"You shall be obeyed, my chief."
"Another thing. M. de Clameran is irritable and suspicious.
You will be presented to him under the name of Joseph Dubois.
He will ask for certificates of your good character. Here are
three, which state that you have lived with the Marquis de
Sairmeuse and the Count de Commarin, and that you have just
994 FILE NUMBER 113
left the Baron de Wortschen, who went to Germany the other
day. Now keep your eyes open; be careful of your get-up and
manners. Be polite, but not excessively so. And, above all
things, don't be too honest: it might arouse suspicion."
"I understand, my chief. Where shall I report to you?"
"I will see you daily. Until I tell you differently, don't put
foot in this house; you might be followed. If anything impor-
tant should happen, send a telegram to your wife, and she will
inform me. Go, and be prudent."
The door closed on Fanferlot as M. Lecoq passed into his
bedroom. In the twinkling of an eye the latter divested himself
of the appearance of chief detective. He took off his stiff
cravat and gold spectacles and removed the close wig from his
thick black hair. The official Lecoq had disappeared, leaving
in his place the genuine Lecoq whom nobody knew — a good-
looking young man, with a bold, determined manner, and bril-
liant, piercing eyes. But he only remained himself for an in-
stant. Seated before a dressing-table covered with more cos-
metics, paints, perfumes, false hair, and other shams than are
to be found on the toilet-tables of our modern belles, he began
to undo the work of nature and to make himself a new face.
He worked slowly, handling his brushes with great care. But
in an hour he had accomplished one of his daily masterpieces.
When he had finished, he was no longer Lecoq: he was the
stout gentleman with red whiskers whom Fanferlot had failed
to recognize.
"Well," he said, casting a last look in the mirror, "I have
forgotten nothing : I have left nothing to chance. All my plans
are fixed; and I shall make some progress to-day, provided the
Squirrel does not waste time."
But Fanferlot was too happy to waste even a minute. He
did not run, he flew, toward the Palais de Justice. At last he
was able to convince some one that he, Fanferlot, was a man
of wonderful perspicacity. As to acknowledging that he was
about to obtain a triumph with the ideas of another man, he
never thought of such a thing. It is generally in perfect good
faith that the jackdaw struts about in the peacock's feathers.
Fanferlot's hopes were not deceived. If the magistrate was
not absolutely convinced, he admired the ingenuity and shrewd-
ness of the whole proceeding. "This decides me," he said, as
he dismissed Fanferlot. "I will draw up a favorable report
to-day; and it is highly probable that the accused will be
FILE NUMBER 113
995
released to-morrow." He began at once to write out one of
those terrible decisions of "Not proven," which restores liberty,
but not honor, to the accused man ; which says that he is not
guilty, but does not say that he is innocent.
"Whereas sufficient proofs are wanting against the accused,
Prosper Bertomy, in pursuance of Article 128 of the Criminal
Code, we hereby declare that no grounds at present exist for
prosecuting the aforesaid prisoner ; and we order that he be
released from the prison where he is confined, and set at
liberty by the jailer," etc.
"Well," said he to the clerk, "here we have another of those
crimes which justice can not clear up. The mystery remains to
be solved. There is another file to be stowed away among the
police records." And with his own hand he wrote on the cover
of the bundle of papers relating to Prosper's case its number
of rotation : File Number 113.
OROSPER had been languishing in his cell for nine days,
*■ when one Thursday morning the jailer came to apprise
him of the magistrate's decision. He was conducted before the
officer who had searched him when he was arrested : and his
watch, penknife, and several small articles of jewelry were re-
stored to him ; then he was told to sign a large sheet of paper,
which he did.
He was next led across a dark passage, and almost pushed
through a door, which was abruptly shut upon him. He found
himself on the quay: he was alone; he was free.
Free ! Justice had confessed her inability to convict him of
the crime of which he was accused. Free ! He could walk
about, he could breathe the fresh air; but ever)' door would be
closed against him. Only acquittal after due trial would re-
store him to his former position among men. A decision of
"Not proven" had left him exposed to continual suspicion.
The torments inflicted by public opinion are more fearful than
those endured in a prison cell. At the moment of his restora-
996 FILE NUMBER 113
tion to liberty, Prosper suffered so cruelly from the horror of
his situation that he could not repress a cry of rage and despair.
"I am innocent! God knows I am innocent!" he cried out.
But of what use was his anger? Two strangers, who were
passing, stopped to look at him, and said pityingly: "The poor
fellow is crazy."
The Seine was at his feet. A thought of suicide crossed his
mind. "No," he said, "no ! I have not even the right to kill
myself. No : I will not die until I have proved my innocence !"
Often, day and night, had Prosper repeated these words, as
he walked his cell. With a heart filled with a bitter, deter-
mined thirst for vengeance, which gives a man the force and
patience to destroy or wear out all obstacles in his way, he
would say : "Oh ! why am I not at liberty ? I am helpless,
caged up ; but let me once be free !" Now he was free ; and
for the first time he saw the difficulties of the task before him.
For each crime, justice requires a criminal; he could not estab-
lish his own innocence without producing the guilty individual;
how was he to find the thief and hand him over to the law?
Despondent, but not discouraged, Prosper turned in the direc-
tion of his apartments. He was beset by a thousand anxieties.
What had taken place during the nine days that he had been
cut off from all intercourse with his friends? No news of them
had reached him. He had heard no more of what was going
on in the outside world than if his secret cell had been a tomb.
He walked slowly along the streets, with his eyes cast down,
dreading to meet some familiar face. He, who had always been
so haughty, would now be pointed at with the finger of scorn.
He would be greeted with cold looks and averted faces. Men
would refuse to shake hands with him. Still, if he could count
on only one true friend ! Yes, only one. But what friend would
believe him when his father, who should have been the last to
suspect him, had refused to believe him?
In the midst of his sufferings, when he felt almost over-
whelmed by the sense of his wretched, lonely condition, Pros-
per thought of Nina Gipsy. He had never loved the poor girl :
indeed, at times he almost hated her ; but now he felt a longing
to see her, because he knew that she loved him, and that noth-
ing would make her think him guilty; because, too, woman
remains true and firm in her belief, and is always faithful in
the hour of adversity, although she sometimes fails in prosperity.
On reaching his house in the Rue Chaptal, Prosper hesitated
FILE NUMBER 113 997
at the moment he was about to cross the threshold. He suf-
fered from the timidity which an honest man always feels when
he knows he is regarded with suspicion. He dreaded meeting
any one whom he knew ; still he could not remain in the street,
so he entered. When the concierge saw him, he uttered an
exclamation of glad surprise, and said : "Ah, here you are at
last, sir. I told every one you would come out as wMte as
snow ; and, when I read in the papers that you were arrested
for robbery, I said : 'My third-floor lodger a thief ! Never
would I believe such a thing, never !' "
The congratulations of this ignorant man were sincere, and
came from pure kindness of heart; but they impressed Prosper
painfully and he cut them short by abruptly exclaiming: "Ma-
dame, of course, has left ; can you tell me where she has jone ?"
"Dear me, no, I can not. The day of your arrest, she sent
for a cab and left with her trunks, and no one has seen or heard
of her since."
This was another blow to the unhappy cashier. "And where
are my servants?"
"Gone, sir. Your father paid them their wages and dis-
charged them."
"I suppose, then, you have my key?"
"No, sir; when your father left here this morning at eight
o'clock, he told me that a friend of his would take charge of
your rooms until you returned. Of course you know who he
is — a stout gentleman with red whiskers."
Prosper was astounded. What could be the meaning of one
of his father's friends occupying his rooms? He did not, how-
ever, betray his surprise, but quietly said : "Yes, I know who
it is."
He quickly ran up the stairs, and knocked at his door, which
was at once opened by his father's friend. He had been ac-
curately described by the concierge. A stout man, with a red
face, full lips, sharp eyes, and of rather coarse manners, 3tood
bowing to Prosper, who had never seen him before. "Delighted
to make your acquaintance, sir," said he.
He seemed to be perfectly at home. On the talle lay a book,
which he had taken from the bookcase ; and he appeared ready
to do the honors of the place.
"I must say, sir," began Prosper.
. "That you are surprised to find me here? So I suppose.
Your father intended introducing me to you; but he was com-
998 FILE NUMBER 113
pelled to return to Beaucaire this morning; and let me add
that he departed thoroughly convinced, as I myself am, that
you never took a sou from M. Fauvel."
At this unexpected good news, Prosper's face lit up with
pleasure.
"Here is a letter from your father, which I hope will serve
as an introduction between us."
Prosper opened the letter; and as he read his eyes grew
brighter, and a slight color returned to his pale face. When
he had finished he held out his hand to the stout gentleman,
and said : "My father tells me, sir, that you are his best friend ;
he advises me to have absolute confidence in you, and to follow
your advice."
"Exactly. This morning your father said to me: 'Verduret'
— that is my name — 'Verduret, my son is in great trouble, and
must be helped out of it/ I replied : T am both ready and will-
ing,' and here I am to assist you. Now the ice is broken, is it
not? Then let us go to work at once. What do you intend
aoing?
This question revived Prosper's slumbering rage. His eyes
flashed. "What do I intend doing?" said he angrily. "What
should I do but seek the villain who has ruined me?"
"So I supposed; but have you any means of success?"
"None; yet I shall succeed, because, when a man devotes
his whole life to the accomplishment of an object, he is certain
to achieve it."
"Well said, M. Prosper; and, to be frank, I fully expected
that this would be your purpose. I have therefore already
begun to think and act for you. I have a plan". In the first
place, you will sell this furniture, and disappear from the
neighborhood."
"Disappear!" cried Prosper indignantly; "disappear! Why,
sir ! do you not see that such a step would be a confession of
guilt, would authorize the world to say that 1 am hiding so
as to enjoy undisturbed the stolen three hundred and fifty
thousand francs?"
"Well, what then?" said the man with the red whiskers; "did
you not say just now that the sacrifice of your life is made?
The expert swimmer thrown into the river, after being robbed,
is careful not to rise to the surface immediately: on the con-
trary, he plunges beneath, and remains there as long as his
breath holds out. He comes up again at a great distance off,
FILE NUMBER 113 999
and lands out of sight; then, when he is supposed to be dead,
he suddenly reappears and has his revenge. You have an
enemy? Some petty imprudence will betray him. But, while
he sees you standing by on the watch, he will be on his guard."
It was with a sort of amazed submission that Prosper lis-
tened to this man, who, though a friend of his father, was an
utter stranger to himself. He submitted unconsciously to the
ascendency of a nature so much more energetic and forcible
than his own. In his helpless condition he was grateful for
friendly assistance, and said: "I will follow your advice, sir."
"I was sure you would, my dear fellow. Let us reflect upon
the course you oug 1 to pursue. And remember that you will
need every franc of he proceeds of the sale. Have you any
ready money? no, but you must have some. Knowing that you
would need this at once, I have already spoken to an uphol-
sterer ; and he will give you twelve thousand francs for every-
thing minus the pictures."
The cashier could not refrain from shrugging his shoulders,
which M. Verduret observed. "Well," said he, "it is rather
hard, I admit, but it is a necessity. Now listen: you are the
invalid, and I am the doctor charged to cure you; if I cut to
the quick, you will have to endure it. It is the only way to
save you."
"Cut away then," answered Prosper.
"Well, we will make haste, for time presses. You have a
friend, M. de Lagors?"
"Raoul ? Yes, he is an intimate friend of mine."
"Now tell me, who is this fellow?"
The term "fellow" seemed to offend Prosper. "M. de La-
gors," he said haughtily, "is M. Fauvel's nephew ; he is a
wealthy young man, handsome, intelligent, cultivated, and the
best friend I have."
"Hum !" said M. Verduret, "I shall be delighted to make the
acquaintance of one adorned by so many charming qualities.
I must let you know that I wrote him a note in your name ask-
ing him to come here, and he sent word that he would come."
"What ! do you suppose — "
"Oh, I suppose nothing! Only I must see this young man.
Also I have arranged and will submit to you a little plan of
conversation — " A ring at the outer door interrupted M. Ver-
duret. "The deuce!" exclaimed he; "adieu to my plan; here
he is ! Where can I hide so as to both hear and see ?"
1000 FILE NUMBER 113
"There, in my bedroom ; leave the door open and the curtain
down."
A second ring was heard. "Now remember, Prosper," said
M. Verduret in a warning tone, "not one word to this man
about your plans, or about me. Pretend to be discouraged,
helpless, and undecided what to do." And he disappeared be-
hind the curtain as Prosper ran to open the door.
Prosper's portrait of M. de Lagors was no exaggerated one.
Such an open and handsome countenance and manly figure
could belong only to a noble character. Although Raoul said
that he was twenty-four, he appeared to be not more than
twenty. He had a fine figure, well knit and supple; an abun-
dance of light chestnut-colored hair, curled over his intelligent-
looking forehead, and his large blue eyes, v/hich beamed with
candor. His first impulse was to throw himself into Prosper's
arms. "My poor, dear friend !" he said, "my poor Prosper !"
But beneath these affectionate demonstrations there was a
certain constraint, which, if it escaped the perception of the
cashier, was noticed by M. Verduret. "Your letter, my dear
Prosper," said Raoul, "made me almost ill, I was so frightened by
it. I asked myself if you could have lost your mind. Then I put
aside everything, to hasten to your assistance ; and here I am."
Prosper did not seem to hear him; his thoughts were occu-
pied with the letter which he had not written. What were its
contents? Who was this stranger whose assistance he had
accepted ?
"You must not feel discouraged," continued M. de Lagors;
"you are young enough to commence life anew. Your friends
are still left to you. I have come to say to you: 'Rely upon
me ; I am rich, half of my fortune is at your disposal."
This generous offer, made at a moment like this with such
frank simplicity, deeply touched Prosper. "Thanks, Raoul," he
said with emotion, "thank you ! But unfortunately all the
money in the world would be of no use now."
"Why so? What, then, are you going to do? Do you pro-
pose to remain in Paris?"
"I know not, Raoul. I have formed no plans yet. My mind
is too confused for me to think."
"I will tell you what to do," resumed Raoul quickly; "you
must start afresh ; until this mysterious robbery is explained
you must keep away from Paris. Excuse my frankness, but it
will never do for you to remain here."
FILE NUMBER 113 1001
"And suppose it never should be explained?"
"Only the more reason for your remaining in oblivion. I
have been talking about you to De Clameran. 'If I were in
Prosper's place,' he said, 'I would turn everything into money,
and embark for America ; there I would make a fortune, and
return to crush with my millions those who have suspected me."
This advice offended Prosper's pride, but he interposed no
kind of objection. He was recalling to mind what his unknown
visitor had said to him. "I will think it over," he finally ob-
served. "I will see. I should like to know what M. Fauvel
says."
"My uncle? I suppose you know that I have declined the
offer he made me to enter his banking-house, and we have
almost quarreled. I have not set foot in his house for over a
month ; but I hear of him occasionally."
"Through whom?"
"Through your friend Cavaillon. My uncle, they say, is
more distressed by this affair than you are. He does not attend
to his business, and seems as though he had just recovered from
some serious illness."
"And Madame Fauvel, and — " Prosper hesitated — "and Made-
moiselle Madeleine, how are they?"
"Oh," said Raoul lightly, "my aunt is as pious as ever; she
has mass said for the benefit of the sinner. As to my hand-
some, icy cousin, she can not bring herself down to common
matters, because she is entirely absorbed in preparing for the
fancy ball to be given the day after to-morrow by MM. Jan-
didier. She has discovered, so one of her friends told me, a
wonderful dressmaker, a stranger who has suddenly appeared
from no one knows where, and who is making for her a cos-
tume of one of Catherine de Medicis's maids of honor. I hear
it is to be a marvel of beauty."
Excessive suffering brings with it a kind of dull insensibility
and stupor; but this last remark of M. de Lagors's touched
Prosper to the quick, and he murmured faintly : "Madeleine !
Oh, Madeleine!"
M. de Lagors, pretending not to have heard him, rose from
his chair, and said : "I must leave you now, my dear Prosper ;
on Saturday I shall see these ladies at the ball, and bring you
news of them. Now, take courage, and remember that, what-
ever happens, you have a friend in me."
Raoul shook Prosper by the hand and departed, leaving the
1002 FILE NUMBER 113
latter standing immovable and overcome by disappointment.
He was aroused from his gloomy reverie by hearing the red-
whiskered man say in a bantering tone: "So that is one of
your friends?"
"Yes," said Prosper with bitterness. "Yet you heard him
offer me half of his fortune?"
M. Verduret shrugged his shoulders with an air of compassion.
"That was very stingy on his part," said he; "why did he not
offer the whole? Offers cost nothing; although I have no
doubt that this sweet youth would cheerfully give ten thousand
francs to put the ocean between you and him."
"What reason, sir, would he have for doing this?"
"Who knows? Perhaps for the same reason that he told
you he had not set foot in his uncle's house for a month."
"But that is the truth, I am sure of it."
"Naturally," said M. Verduret with a provoking smile.
"But," continued he with a serious air, "we have devoted
enough time to this Adonis, whose measure I have taken. Now,
be good enough to change your dress, and we will go and call
on M. Fauvel."
This proposal aroused Prosper's anger. "Never!" he ex-
claimed excitedly; "no, never will I voluntarily set eves on
that wretch !"
This resistance did not surprise M. Verduret. "I can under-
stand your feelings toward him," said he; "but at the same
time I hope you will change your mind. For the same reason
that I wished to see M. de Lagors I desire to see M. Fauvel;
it is necessary, you understand. Are you so very weak that
you can not constrain yourself for five minutes? I shall intro-
duce myself as one of your relatives, and you need not open
your lips."
"If it is positively necessary," said Prosper, "if — "
"It is necessary; so come on. You must have confidence,
and put on a brave face. Hurry and make yourself trim ; it
is getting late, and I am hungry. We will lunch on our way
there."
Prosper had hardly passed into his bedroom when the bell
rang again. M. Verduret opened the door. It was the con-
cierge, who handed him a bulky letter, and said: "This letter
was left this morning for M. Bertomy; I was so flustered when
he came that I forgot to hand it to him. It is a very odd-
looking letter; is it not, sir?"
FILE NUMBER 113 1003
It was indeed a most peculiar missive. The address was not
written, but formed of printed letters, carefully cut from a
book, and pasted on the envelope.
"Oh, ho! what is this!" cried M. Verduret; then turning
toward the man he said: "Wait a moment." He -went into the
next room, and closed the door behind him. There he found
Prosper, anxious to know what was going on. "Here is a
letter for you," observed M. Verduret.
Prosper at once tore open the envelope. Some bank-notes
dropped out ; he counted them ; there were ten. The cashier
turned very red. "What does this mean?" he asked.
"We will read the letter and find out," replied Verduret.
The letter, like the address, was composed of printed words
cut out and pasted on a sheet of paper. It was short but
explicit :
"My dear Prosper — A friend, who knows the horror of your
situation, sends you this succor. There is one heart, be as-
sured, that shares your sufferings. Go away — leave France.
You are young; the future is before you. Go, and may this
money bring you happiness !"
As M. Verduret read the note, Prosper's rage increased. He
was angry and perplexed, for he could not explain the rapidly
succeeding events which were so calculated to mystify his al-
ready confused brain. "Everybody wishes me to go away," he
cried ; "there is evidently a conspiracy against me."
M. Verduret smiled with satisfaction. "At last you begin to
open your eyes, you begin to understand. Yes, there are people
who hate you because of the wrong they have done you ; there
are people to whom your presence in Paris is a constant danger,
and who will not feel safe till they are rid of you."
"But who are these people? Tell me, who dares send this
money?"
"If I knew, my dear Prosper, my task would be at an end,
for then I should know who committed the robbery. Rut we
will continue our researches. I have finally procured evidence
which will sooner or later become convincing proof. I have
heretofore only made deductions more or less probable : I now
possess knowledge which proves that I was not mistaken. I
walked in darkness: now I have a light to guide me."
As Prosper listened to M. Verduret's reassuring words, he
felt hope rising in his breast.
1004 FILE NUMBER 113
"Now," said M. Verduret, "we must take advantage of this
evidence, gained by the imprudence of our enemies, without
delay. We will begin with the concierge."
He opened the door, and called out: "I say, my good man,
step here a moment."
The concierge entered, looking very much surprised at the
authority exercised over his lodger by this stranger.
"Who gave you this letter?" asked M. Verduret.
"A messenger, who said he was paid for bringing it."
"Do you know him?"
"I know him well; he is the commissionaire whose post is at
the corner of the Rue Pigalle."
"Go and bring him here."
After the concierge had gone, M. Verduret drew his diary
from his pocket and compared a page of it with the notes which
he had spread over the table. "These notes were not sent by
the thief," he said, after an attentive examination of them.
"Do you think so?"
"I am confident of it; that is, unless he is endowed with
extraordinary penetration and forethought. One thing is cer-
tain: these ten thousand francs are not part of the three hun-
dred and fifty thousand which were stolen from the safe."
"Yet," said Prosper, who could not account for this certainty
on the part of his protector, "yet — "
"There is no yet about it: I have the numbers of all the
stolen notes."
"What! When even I did not know them myself?"
"But the bank did, fortunately. When we undertake an
affair we must anticipate everything, and forget nothing. It is
a poor excuse for a man to say, 'I did not think of it,' when
he commits some oversight. I thought of the bank."
If in the beginning Prosper had felt some repugnance about
confiding in his father's friend, the feeling had now disappeared.
He understood that alone, scarcely master of himself, governed
only by the inspirations of inexperience, he would never have
had the patient perspicacity of this singular man.
Verduret continued, talking to himself, as if he had absolutely
forgotten Prosper's presence: "Then, as this missive did not
come from the thief, it can only come from the other person,
who was near the safe at the time of the robbery, but could
not prevent it, and now feels remorse. The probability of two
persons assisting at the robbery, a probability suggested by the
FILE NUMBER 113 1005
scratch, is now converted into a certainty. Ergo, I was right."
Prosper, listening attentively, tried hard to comprehend this
monologue, which he dared not interrupt.
"Let us seek," the stout man went on to say, "this second
person, whose conscience pricks him, and yet who dares not
reveal anything." Here he read the letter over several times,
scanning the sentences, and weighing every word. "Evidently
this letter was composed by a woman," he finally said. "Never
would a man doing another man a Service, and sending him
money, use the word 'succor.' A man would have said loan,
money, or some other equivalent, but succor, never. No one
but a woman, ignorant of masculine susceptibilities, would have
naturally made use of this word to express the idea it represents.
As to the sentence, 'There is one heart,' and so on, it could
only have been written by a woman."
"You are mistaken, sir, I think," said Prosper; "no woman
is mixed up in this affair."
M. Verduret paid no attention to this interruption; perhaps
he did not hear it, perhaps he did not care to argue the matter.
"Now, let us see if we can discover whence the printed words
were taken to compose this letter."
He went to the window, and began to study the pasted words
with all the scrupulous attention which an antiquary would
devote to an old, half-effaced manuscript. "Small type," he
said, "very slender and clear; the paper is thin and glossy.
Consequently, these words have not been cut from a news-
paper, magazine, or even a novel. Yet I have seen type like
this — I recognize it, I am sure Didot often uses it, so does
Mame of Tours."
He suddenly stopped, his mouth open, and his eyes fixed,
appealing as though anxiously to his memory. Suddenly he
struck his forehead exultingly. "Now I have it!" he cried;
"now I have it ! Why did I not see it at once ? These words
have all been cut from a prayer-book. We will look, at least,
and then we shall be certain."
He moistened one of the words pasted on the paper with his
tongue, and when it was sufficiently softened, he detached it
with a pin. On the other side of this word was the Latin word,
Dens.
"Ah, ah!" he exclaimed with a little laugh of satisfaction,
"I knew it. Old Tabaret would be pleased to see this. But
what has become of the mutilated prayer-book? Can it have
1006 FILE NUMBER 113
been burned? No, because a heavy-bound book is not easily
burned. It has been thrown aside in some corner."
He was here interrupted by the concierge, who returned with
the commissionaire from the Rue Pigalle.
"Ah, here you are," said M. Verduret, encouragingly. Then
he showed him the envelope of the letter, and asked: "Do you
remember bringing this letter here this morning?"
"Perfectly, sir. I took particular notice of the direction; we
don't often see anything like it."
"Who told you to bring it? — a gentleman or a lady?"
"Neither, sir, it was a commissionaire."
This reply made the concierge laugh very much, but not a
muscle of M. Verduret's face moved.
"A commissionaire? Well, do you know this colleague of
yours?"
"I never saw him before."
"What was he like?"
"He was neither tall nor short; he wore a green velvet
jacket and his badge."
"Your description is so vague that it would suit every com-
missionaire in the city; but did your colleague tell you who
sent the letter ?"
"No, sir. He simply put ten sous in my hand, and said:
'Here, carry this to No. 39 Rue Chaptal ; a cabman on the
boulevard handed it to me.' Ten sous ! I warrant you he made
more than that by it."
This answer seemed to disconcert M. Verduret. The taking
of so many precautions to send this letter disturbed him and
upset all his plans.
"Do you think you would recognize the commissionaire
again?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, if I saw him."
"How much do you gain a day as a commissionaire?"
"I can't exactly tell ; but mine is a good corner, and I am
busy going errands nearly all day. I suppose I make from
eight to ten francs."
"Very well : I will give you ten francs a day if you will walk
about the streets and look for the commissionaire who gave you
this letter. Every evening, at eight o'clock, come to the Grand
Archangel, on the Quai Saint Michel, to give me a report of
your search and receive your pay. Ask for M. Verduret. If
you find the man I will give you fifty francs. Do you agree?"
FILE NUMBER 113
10U7
"I should rather think I do."
"Then don't lose a minute. Start off!"
Although ignorant of M. Verduret's plans, Prosper began to
comprehend the sense of his investigations. His fate depended
upon their success, and yet he almost forgot this fact in his
admiration of this singular man; for his energy, his bantering
coolness when he wished to discover anything, the certainty of
his deductions, the fertility of his expedients, and the rapidity
of his movements, were astonishing.
"Do you still think, sir," said Prosper when the man had left
the room, "you see a woman's hand in this affair ?"
"More than ever; and a pious woman too, who has at least
two prayer-books, since she could cut up one to write to you.''
"And you hope to find the mutilated book?"
"I do, thanks to the opportunity I have of making an imme-
diate search ; which I will set about at once."
Saying this, he sat down, and rapidly scratched off a few
lines on a slip of paper, which he folded up, and put in his
waistcoat pocket. "Are you ready to go to M. Fauvel's?" he
then asked. "Yes? Come on, then; we have certainly earned
our lunch to-day."
\\7 HEN Raoul de Lagors spoke of M. Fauvel's extraordi-
nary dejection, he had been guilty of no exaggeration.
Since the fatal day when, upon his denunciation, his cashier
had been arrested, the banker, this active, energetic man of
business, had been a prey to the most gloomy melancholy, and
ceased to take any interest in the affairs of his banking-house.
He, who had always been so devoted to his family, never
came near them except at meals, when as soon as he had swal-
lowed a few mouthfuls, he would hastily leave the room. Shut
up in his study, he would deny himself to visitors. His anxious
countenance, his indifference to everybody and everything, his
constant reveries and fits of abstraction, betrayed the presence
of some fixed idea or of some hidden sorrow.
1008 FILE NUMBER 113
The day of Prosper's release, about three o'clock, M. Fauvel
was, as usual, seated in his study, with his elbows resting on
the table, and his face buried in his hands, when his valet
abruptly entered, and, with a frightened look, said:
"M. Bertomy, the former cashier, is here, sir, with one of
his relatives; he says he must see you."
At these words the banker jumped up as if he had been shot
at. "Prosper!" he cried in a voice choked by anger, "what!
does he dare — " Then remembering that he ought to control
himself before his servant, he waited a few moments, and said,
in a tone of forced calmness: "Ask the gentlemen to walk in."
If M. Verduret had counted upon witnessing a strange and
affecting scene, he was not disappointed. Nothing could be
more terrible than the attitude of these two men as they stood
confronting each other. The banker's face was almost purple
with suppressed anger, and he looked as if he were about to
be seized with a fit of apoplexy. Prosper was pale and motion-
less as a corpse. Silent and immovable, they stood glaring at
each other with mortal hatred.
M. Verduret watched these two enemies with the indifference
and coolness of a philosopher, who, in the most violent outbursts
of human passion, merely see subjects for meditation and study.
Finally, the silence becoming more and more threatening, he
decided to break it by speaking to the banker:
"I suppose you know, sir," said he, "that my young relative
has just been released from prison."
"Yes," replied M. Fauvel, making an effort to control him-
self, "yes, for want of sufficient proof."
"Exactly so, sir; and this want of proof, as stated in the
decision of 'Not proven,' ruins the prospects of my relative, and
compels him to leave here at once for America."
On hearing this statement, M. Fauvel's features relaxed as if
he had been relieved of some fearful agony. "Ah, he is going
away," he kept repeating, "he is going abroad." There was no
mistaking the insulting intonation of the words, "going away !"
M. Verduret took no notice of M. Fauvel's manner. "It
appears to me," he continued in an easy tone, "that Prosper's
determination is a wise one. I merely wished him, before leav-
ing Paris, to come and pay his respects to his former chief."
The banker smiled bitterly. "M. Bertomy might have spared
us both this painful meeting. I have nothing to say to him, and
of course he can have nothing to tell me."
FILE NUMBER 113 1009
This was a formal dismissal ; and M. Verduret, understand-
ing it thus, bowed to M. Fauvel and left the room, accompanied
by Prosper, who had not opened his lips.
They had reached the street before Prosper recovered the use
of his tongue. "I hope you are satisfied, sir," said he in a
gloomy tone. "You exacted this painful s'ep, and I could but
acquiesce. Have I gained anything by adding this humiliation
to the others which I have had to suffer?"
"You have not, but I have," replied M. Verduret. "I could
find no way of gaining access to M. Fauvel save through you;
and now I have found out what I wanted to know. I am con-
vinced that M. Fauvel had nothing to do with the robbery."
"But you know, sir, innocence can be feigned," objected
Prosper.
"Certainly, but not to this extent. And this is not all. I
wished to find out if M. Fauvel would be accessible to certain
suspicions. I can now confidently reply 'yes.' "
Prosper and his companion had stopped to talk more at their
ease near the corner of Rue Lafitte, in the middle of a large
space which had lately been cleared by pulling down an old
house. M. Verduret seemed to be anxious, and was constantly
looking around as if he expected some one. He soon uttered
an exclamation of satisfaction. At the other end of the vacant
space he saw Cavaillon, who was bareheaded and running.
The latter was so excited that he did not even stop to shake
hands with Prosper, but darted up to M. Verduret, and said:
"They have gone, sir !"
"How long since?"
"They went about a quarter of an hour ago."
"The deuce they did ! Then we have not an instant to lose."
He handed Cavaillon the note he had written some hours
before at Prosper's house.
"Here, pass this on, and then return at once to your desk;
you might be missed. It was very imprudent of you to come
out without your hat."
Cavaillon ran off as quickly as he had come. Prosper was
astounded. "What!" he exclaimed. "You know Cavaillon?"
"So it seems," answered M. Verduret with a smile. "But
we have no time to talk ; come on, we must hurry !"
"Where are we going now?"
"You will soon know; let us walk fast!" And he set the
example by striding rapidly toward the Rue Lafayette. As
Gab. — Vol. IV e
1010 FILE NUMBER 113
they went along he continued talking more to himself than to
Prosper.
"Ah," said he, "it is not by putting both feet in one shoe
that one wins a race. The trace once found, we should never
rest an instant. When the savage discovers the footprints of
an enemy he follows it persistently, knowing that falling rain
or a gust of wind may efface the footprints at any moment.
It is the same with us ; the most trifling incident may destroy
the traces we are following up."
M. Verduret suddenly stopped before a door bearing the
number 81. "We are going in here," he said to Prosper; "come
along."
They went upstairs, and stopped on the second floor before a
door over which was inscribed, "Modes and Confections." A
handsome bell-rope was hanging against the wall, but M. Ver-
duret did not touch it. He tapped with the ends of his fingers
in a peculiar way, and the door instantly opened, as if some
one had been watching for his signal on the other side.
A neatly dressed woman of about forty received Verduret
and Prosper, and quietly ushered them into a small dining-room
with several doors opening into it. This woman bowed respect-
fully to M. Verduret, as if he were some superior being. He
scarcely noticed her salutation, but questioned her with a look,
which asked, "Well?"
She nodded affirmatively, "Yes."
"In there?" asked M. Verduret in a low tone, pointing to
one of the doors.
"No," replied the woman in the same tone; "there, in the
little parlor."
M. Verduret opened the door of the room indicated, and
pushed Prosper forward, whispering as he did so, "Go in, and
keep your presence of mind."
But this injunction was useless. The instant he cast his
eyes round the room into which he had so unceremoniously been
pushed without any warning, Prosper exclaimed in a startled
voice : "Madeleine !"
It was indeed M. Fauvel's niece, looking more beautiful than
ever. Hers was that calm, dignified beauty which imposes ad-
miration and respect. Standing in the middle of the room, near
a table covered with silks and satins, she was arranging a skirt
of red velvet embroidered in gold; probably the dress she was
to wear as maid of honor to Catherine de Medicis. At sight
FILE NUMBER 113 1011
of Prosper, all the blood rushed to her face, and her beautiful
eyes half closed, as if she were about to faint ; she clung to the
table to prevent herself from falling.
Prosper well knew that Madeleine was not one of those cold-
hearted women whom nothing could disturb, and who feel sen-
sations, but never a true sentiment. Of a tender, dreamy nature,
she betrayed in the minute details of her life the most exquisite
delicacy. But she was also proud, and incapable in any way of
violating her conscience. When duty spoke, she obeyed.
She recovered from her momentary weakness, and the soft
expression of her eyes changed to one of haughty resentment.
In an offended tone she said: "What has emboldened you, sir,
to be watching my movements? Who gave you permission to
follow me — to enter this house?"
Prosper was certainly innocent. He longed with a word to
explain what had just happened, but he was powerless to do so,
and could only remain silent.
"You promised me upon your honor, sir," continued Made-
leine, "that you would never again seek my presence. Is this
the way you keep your word?"
"I did promise, mademoiselle, but — " He stopped.
"Oh, speak!"
"So many things have happened since that terrible day that
I think I am excusable in forgetting for one hour an oath torn
from me in a moment of blind weakness. It is to chance, at
least to another will than my own, that I am indebted for the
happiness of once more finding myself near you. Alas ! the
instant I saw you my heart bounded with joy. I did not think —
no, I could not think — that you would prove more pitiless than
strangers have been, that you would cast me off when I am so
miserable and heartbroken."
Had not Prosper been so agitated he could have read in
Madeleine's eyes — those beautiful eyes which had so long been
the arbiters of his destiny — the signs of a great inward struggle.
It was, however, in a firm voice that she replied : "You know
me well enough, Prosper, to be sure that no blow can strike you
without reaching me at the same time. You suffer, I suffer with
you : I pity you as a sister would pity a beloved brother."
"A sister !" said Prosper bitterly. "Yes. that was the word
you used the day you banished me from your presence. A sis-
ter ! Then why during three years did you delude me with
vain hopes ? Was I a brother to you the day we went to Notre
1012 FILE NUMBER 113
Dame de Fourvieres — that day when, at the foot of the altar,
we swore to love each other forever and ever, and you fast-
ened around my neck a holy relic, and said, 'Wear this always
for my sake; never part from it, and it will bring you good
fortune?'"
Madeleine attempted to interrupt him by a supplicating ges-
ture ; but he did not heed it, and continued with increased bit-
terness : "One month after that happy day — a year ago — you
gave me back my promise, told me to consider myself free from
any engagement, and never to come near you again. If I
could have discovered in what way I had offended you — but
no, you refused to explain. You drove me away, and to obey
you I let every one suppose that I had left you of my own
accord. You told me that an invincible obstacle had arisen
between us, and I believed you, fool that I was ! The obstacle
was your own heart, Madeleine. I have always worn the relic ;
but it has not brought me happiness or good fortune."
Pale and motionless as a statue, Madeleine listened with
bowed head and weeping eyes to these passionate reproaches.
"I told you to forget me." she murmured.
"Forget !" exclaimed Prosper excitedly, "forget ! Can I for-
get ? Is it in my power to stop, by an effort of will, the circula-
tion of my blood ? Ah ! you have never loved ! To forget, as to
stop the beatings of the heart, there is but one means — death !"
This word, uttered with the fixed determination of a desperate,
reckless man, caused Madeleine to shudder.
"Miserable man !" she exclaimed.
"Yes, miserable man. and a thousand times more miserable
than you can imagine ! You can never understand the tor-
tures I have suffered, when for a year past I have awoke every
morning, and said to myself, 'It is all over, she has ceased to
love me!' This great sorrow stares me in the face day and
night in spite of all my efforts to dispel it. And you speak of
forgetting ! I sought it in poisoned cups, but found it not.
I tried to extinguish this memory of the past, which burns
within me like a devouring flame, but in vain. When my body
succumbed, my pitiless thoughts still survived. Do you wonder,
then, that I should seek that rest which can only be obtained
by suicide?"
"I forbid you to utter that word."
"You forget, Madeleine, that you have no right to forbid me
now you love me no more."
FILE NUMBER 113 1013
With an imperious gesture, Madeleine interrupted him as
if she wished to speak, and perhaps to explain all, to exculpate
herself. But a sudden thought arrested her; she clasped her
hands despairingly, and cried : "My God ! this suffering is heyond
endurance !"
Prosper seemed to misconstrue her words. "Your pity comes
too late," he said. "There is no happiness in store for one
like myself, who has had a glimpse of divine felicity, has had
the cup of bliss held to his lips, and then dashed to the ground.
There is nothing left to attach me to life. You have destroyed
my holiest belief. I come forth from prison disgraced by my
enemies; what is to become of me? Vainly do I question the
future ; for me there is no hope of happiness. I look around me
to see nothing but abandonment, ignominy, and despair !"
"Prosper, my brother, my friend, if you only knew — "
"I know but one thing, Madeleine, which is, that you no
longer love me, and that I love you more madly than ever.
Oh, Madeleine, God only knows how I love you !"
He was silent. He hoped for an answer. None came. But
suddenly the silence was broken by a stifled sob. It was Made-
leine's maid, who, seated in a corner, was weeping bitterly.
Madeleine had forgotten her presence.
Prosper on entering the room was so amazed on finding him-
self in the presence of Madeleine, that he noticed nothing else.
With a feeling of surprise, he turned and looked at the weep-
ing woman. He was not mistaken ; this neatly dressed waiting-
maid was Nina Gipsy.
Prosper was so startled that he became perfectly dumb. He
stood there with ashy lips, and a chilly sensation creeping
through his veins. He was terrified at the position in which
he found himself. He was there, between the two women
who had ruled his fate; between Madeleine, the proud heiress
who spurned his love, and Nina Gipsy, the poor girl whose
devotion to him he had so disdainfully rejected. And she had
heard all ! Poor Nina had heard the passionate avowal of her
lover, had heard him swear that he could never love any woman
but Madeleine, that if his love were not reciprocated he would
kill himself, as he had nothing else to live for.
Prosper could judge of her sufferings by his own. For she
was wounded not only in the present, but in the past. What
must be her humiliation and anger on hearing the miserable
part which he, in his disappointed love, had imposed upon her?
1014 FILE NUMBER 113
He was astonished that Nina — violence itself — remained silently
weeping, instead of rising and bitterly denouncing him.
Meanwhile Madeleine had succeeded in recovering her usual
calmness. Slowly and almost unconsciously she had put on
her bonnet and mantle, which were lying on the sofa. Then
she approached Prosper, and said: "Why did you come here?
We both have need of all the courage we can command. You
are unhappy, Prosper : I am more than unhappy, I am most
wretched. You have a right to complain: I have not the right
to shed a tear. While my heart is slowly breaking, I must wear
a smiling face. You can seek consolation in the bosom of a
friend : I can have no confidant but God."
Prosper tried to murmur a reply, but his pale lips refused
to articulate; he was stifling. "I wish to tell you," continued
Madeleine, "that I have forgotten nothing. But oh ! let not
this knowledge give you any hope: the future is blank for us;
but if you love me you will live. You will not, I know, add
to my already heavy burden of sorrow the agony of mourn-
ing your death. For my sake, live; live the life of a good
man, and perhaps the day will come when I can justify myself
in your eyes. And now, O my brother, O my only friend, adieu !
adieu !" She pressed a kiss upon his brow, and rushed from
the room, followed by Nina Gipsy !
Prosper was alone. He seemed to be awaking from a troubled
dream. He tried to think over what had just happened, and
asked himself if he were losing his mind, or whether he had
really spoken to Madeleine and seen Nina? He was obliged
to attribute all this to the mysterious power of the strange man
whom he had seen for the first time that very morning. How
did this individual gain this wonderful power of controlling
events 1 o suit his own purposes? He seemed to anticipate every-
thing, J o know everything. He was acquainted with Cavaillon,
he knew all Madeleine's movements; he had made even Nina
become humble and submissive.
While thinking over this, Prosper had reached such a degree
of exasperation, that when M. Verduret entered the little par-
lor, he strode toward him white with rage, and, in a threaten-
ing voice, exclaimed :
"Who are you?"
The stout man did not manifest any surprise at this burst
of anger, but quietly answered: "A friend of your father's;
did you not know it ?"
FILE NUMBER 113 1015
"That, sir, is no answer; I have been surprised into being
influenced by a stranger, but now — "
"Do you want my biography — what I have been, what I am,
and what I may be? What difference does it make to you?
I told you that I would save you ; the main point is that I am
saving you."
"Still I have the right to ask by what means you are
saving me."
"What good will it do you to know what my plans are?"
"In order to decide whether I will accept or reject them."
"But suppose I guarantee success?"
"That is not sufficient. I do not choose to be any longer
deprived of my own free will — to be exposed, without warning,
to trials like those I have undergone to-day. A man of my age
must know what he is doing."
"A man of your age, Prosper, when he is blind, takes a guide,
and does not undertake to point out the way to his leader."
The half-bantering, half-commiserating tone of M. Verduret
was not calculated to calm Prosper's irritation.
"That being the case, sir," he exclaimed, "I will thank you
for your past services, and decline them for the future, as I
have no need of them. If I attempted to defend my honor and
my life, it was because I hoped that Madeleine would be re-
stored to me. I have been convinced to-day that all is at an
end between us; I retire from the struggle, and care not what
becomes of me now."
Prosper was so decided that M. Verduret seemed alarmed.
"You must be mad," he firmly said.
"No, unfortunately I am not. Madeleine has ceased to love
me, and of what importance is anything else?"
His heartbroken tone aroused M. Verduret's sympathy, and
he said in a kind, soothing voice: "Then you suspect nothing?
You did not fathom the meaning of what she said ?"
"You were listening?" cried Prosper fiercely.
"I certainly was." — "Sir !"
"Yes. It was a presumptuous thing to do, perhaps, but the
end justified the means in this instance. I am glad I did listen,
because it enables me to say to you : Take courage, Prosper ;
Mademoiselle Madeleine loves you — she has never ceased to
love you."
Like a dying man who eagerly listens to deceitful promises
of recovery, although he feels himself sinking into the grave,
1016 FILE NUMBER 113
Prosper felt his sad heart cheered by M. Verduret's assertion.
"Oh," he murmured, suddenly calmed, "if I only could hope !"
"Rely upon me, I am not mistaken. Ah, I could see the
torture endured by this generous girl while she struggled be-
tween her love and what she believed to be her duty. Were you
not convinced of her love when she bade you farewell?"
"She loves me, she is free, and yet she shuns me."
"No, she is not free! In breaking off her engagement with
you, she was governed by some powerful, irrepressible event.
She is sacrificing herself— for whom? We shall soon know;
and the secret of her self-sacrifice will reveal to us the secret
of the plot against you."
As M. Verduret spoke, Prosper felt his resolutions of revolt
slowly melting away, and their place occupied by confidence and
hope. "If what you say were only true!" he mournfully said.
"Foolish young man! Why do you persist in obstinately
shutting your eyes to the proof I place before you? Can you
not see that Mademoiselle Madeleine knows who the thief is?
Yes, you need not look so shocked; she knows the thief, but
no human power can tear it from her. She sacrifices you,
but then she almost has the right, since she first sacrificed
herself."
Prosper was almost convinced; and it nearly broke his heart
to leave the little apartment where he had seen Madeleine.
"Alas!" he said, pressing M. Verduret's hand, "you must think
me a ridiculous fool ! but you don't know how I suffer."
The man with the red whiskers sadly shook his head, and
his voice sounded very unsteady as he replied in a low tone:
"What you suffer, I have suffered. Like you, I loved, not a
pure, noble girl, yet a girl fair to look upon. For three years
I was at her feet, a slave to her every whim, when one day
she suddenly deserted me who adored her, to throw herself into
the arms of a man who despised her. Then, like you, I wished
to die. Neither threats nor entreaties could induce her to return
to me. Passion never reasons, and she loved my rival."
"And did you know who this rival was?"
"Yes, I knew."
"And you did not seek revenge?"
"No," replied M. Verduret. And with a singular expression
he added: "For fate charged itself with my vengeance."
For a minute Prosper was silent; then he said: "I have
finally decided. My honor is a sacred trust for which I must
FILE NUMBER 113
1017
account to my family. I am ready to follow you to the end
of the world; dispose of me as you judge proper."
That same day Prosper, faithful to his promise, sold his
furniture, and wrote to his friends announcing his intended
departure for San Francisco. In the evening he and M. Ver-
duret installed themselves at the hotel of the Grand Archangel.
Madame Alexandre gave Prosper her prettiest room, but it
was very ugly compared with the coquettish little drawing-room
in the Rue Chaptal. His state of mind did not permit him,
however, to notice the difference between his former and pres-
ent quarters. He lay on an old sofa, meditating upon the events
of the day, and feeling a bitter satisfaction in his isolated con-
dition. About eleven o'clock he thought he would open the
window and let the cool air fan his burning brow ; as he did
so, a piece of paper was blown from among the folds of the
window-curtain and lay at his feet on the floor.
Prosper mechanically picked it up and looked at it. It was
covered with writing, the handwriting of Nina Gipsy; he
could not be mistaken about that. It was the fragment of a
torn letter; and if the half sentences did not convey any clear
meaning, they were sufficient to lead the mind into all sorts
of conjectures.
The fragment read as follows :
"of M. Raoul, I have been very im . . . plotted against him,
of whom never . . . warn Prosper, and then . . . best friend,
he . . . hand of Mademoiselle Ma . . ."
Prosper never closed his eyes all that night.
"\[OT far from the Palais Royal, in the Rue St. Honore, is
■^ the sign of "La Bonne Foi," a small establishment, half
cafe and half fruiterer's shop, much frequented by the work-
people of the neighborhood.
It was in this modest cafe that Prosper, the day after his
release, awaited M. Verduret, who had promised to meet him
at four o'clock. Just as the clock struck the hour, M. Verduret,
1018 FILE NUMBER 113
who was punctuality itself, appeared. He was more red-faced
and self-satisfied, if possible, than on the day before. As soon
as the waiter, of whom he ordered a glass of beer, had left
them, M. Verduret said to Prosper: "Well, are all our com-
missions executed?"
"Yes, every one."
"Have you seen the costumier?"
"I gave him your letter, and everything you ordered will be
sent to the Grand Archangel to-morrow."
"Very good; you have not lost time, neither have I. I have
a lot of news for you."
The "Bonne Foi" is almost deserted at four o'clock. The
hour of coffee is passed, and the hour for absinthe has not yet
come. M. Verduret and Prosper could therefore talk at their
ease without fear of being overheard by listening neighbors.
The former drew forth his precious diary, which, like the en-
chanted book in the fairy-tale, had an answer for every ques-
tion. "While awaiting our emissaries whom I appointed to
meet me here," said he, "let us devote a little time to M. de
Lagors."
At this name Prosper did not protest, as he had done the
previous day. Like those imperceptible insects which having
once penetrated the root of a tree devour it in a single night,
suspicion, when it invades our minds, soon develops itself and
destroys our firmest beliefs. De Lagors's visit and the frag-
ment of Gipsy's letter had filled Prosper with suspicions which
had grown stronger and more settled as time went on.
"Do you know, my dear friend," asked M. Verduret, "what
part of France this devoted friend of yours comes from?"
"He was born at St. Remy, which is also Madame Fauvel's
native town."
"Are you certain of that?"
"Oh, perfectly ! He has not only often told me so, but I
have heard him tell M. Fauvel; and he would talk to Madame
Fauvel by the hour about his mother, who was cousin to
Madame Fauvel, and dearly beloved by her."
"Then you think there is no possible doubt or error about
this part of his story?"
"None in the least."
"Well, things are assuming a queer appearance," said M. Ver-
duret. And he began to whistle between his teeth, which, with
him, was a sign of intense inward satisfaction.
FILE NUMBER 113 1019
"What do you refer to?" inquired Prosper.
"To what I have just discovered — to what I have all along
expected. Good people !" he exclaimed, imitating the manner
of a showman at a fair, "it is a lovely town, St. Remy, with
six thousand inhabitants, charming boulevards on the site of
the old fortifications, handsome town hall, numerous fountains,
large charcoal market, silk factories, famous hospital, and
so on."
Prosper was on thorns. "Please be so good," said he, "as
to explain what you — "
"It also contains," continued M. Verduret, "a Roman tri-
umphal arch, which is of unparalleled beauty, and a Greek
mausoleum ; but no De Lagors. St. Remy is the native town
of Nostradamus, but not of your friend."
"Yet I have had proofs."
"Naturally. But proofs can be fabricated ; relatives can be
improvised. Your evidence is open to suspicion. My informa-
tion is undeniable, perfectly authenticated. While you were
pining in prison, I was preparing my batteries and collecting
ammunition to open fire. I wrote to St. Remy, and received
answers to my questions."
"Will you not let me know what they were?"
"Have patience," said M. Verduret as he turned over the
leaves of his dairy. "Ah, here is number one. Bow to it
respectfully, 'tis official." He then read:
" 'De Lagors — Very old family, originally from Maillane, set-
tled at St. Remy about a century ago — ' "
"I told you so," cried Prosper.
"Pray allow me to finish," said M. Verduret.
"'The last of the De Lagors (Jules Rene Henri), bearing
without clear authority the title of count, married in 1829 Made-
moiselle Rosalie Clarisse Fontanet of Tarascon ; died December.
1848, leaving two daughters, but no male issue. The town
registers make no mention of any person in the district bearing
the name of De Lagors.' "
"Now what do you think of this information?" asked the
stout man with a triumphant smile.
Prosper was astounded. "But why, then, does M. Fauvel
treat Raoul as his nephew?" he asked.
"Ah, you mean as his wife's nephew ! Let us examine note
number two: it is not official, but it throws a valuable light
upon your friend's income of twenty thousand francs.
1020 FILE NUMBER 113
" 'Jules Rene Henri de Lagors, last of his name, died at St.
Remy on the 29th of December, 1848, in a state verging on
poverty. He at one time was possessed of a moderate fortune,
but invested it in a nursery for silkworms, and lost it all.
" 'He had no son, but left two daughters, one of whom is
a teacher at Aix, and the other married to a small tradesman
at Orgon. His widow, who lives at Montagnette, is supported
entirely by one of her relatives, the wife of a rich banker in
Paris. No person of the name of De Lagors lives in the
district of Aries.' "
"That is all," said M. Verduret; "do you think it enough?"
"Really, sir, I don't know whether I am awake or dreaming."
"You will be awake after awhile. Now, I wish to mention
one thing. Some people may assert that the widow of De
Lagors had a child born after her husband's death. This
objection is destroyed by the age of your friend. Raoul is
twenty-four, and M. de Lagors has not been dead twenty
years."
"But," observed Prosper, thoughtfully, "who then can
Raoul be?"
"I don't know. The fact is, I am more perplexed to find
out who he is than to know who he is not. There is one man
who could give us all the information we seek, but he will
take good care to keep his mouth shut."
"You mean M. de Clameran?"
"Him, and no one else."
"I have always felt the most inexplicable aversion toward
him. Ah, if we could only get an account of his life!"
"I have been furnished with a few notes concerning the De
Clameran family by your father, who knew them well; they
are brief, but I expect more."
"What did my father tell you?"
"Nothing favorable, you may be sure. I will read you the
synopsis of his information :
" 'Louis de Clameran was born at the Chateau de Clameran,
near Tarascon. He had an elder brother named Gaston, who,
in consequence of an affray in which he had the misfortune to
kill a man and badly wound another, was compelled to fly the
country in 1842. Gaston was an honest, noble youth, univer-
sally beloved. Louis, on the contrary, was a wicked, despicable
fellow, detested by all who knew him.
" 'Upon the death of his father, Louis came to Paris, and
FILE NUMBER 113 1021
in less than two years had squandered not only his own patri-
mony, but also the share of his exiled brother. Ruined and
harassed by debt, Louis entered the army, but behaved so dis-
gracefully that he was constantly being punished. After leav-
ing the army we lose sight of him ; all that is known is that he
went to England, and thence to a German gambling resort,
where he became notorious for his scandalous conduct.
" 'In 1865 we find him again in Paris. He was in great
poverty, and his associates were among the most depraved
classes. But he suddenly heard of the return of his brother
Gaston to France. Gaston had made a fortune in Mexico ; but
being still a young man, and accustomed to a very active life,
he purchased near Olcoron an iron foundry, intending to spend
the remainder of his life in working it. Six months ago he
died in the arms of his brother Louis. His death provided
our De Clameran with an immense fortune, and the title of
marquis.' "
"Then," said Prosper, "from all this I judge that M. de
Clameran was very poor when I met him for the first time at
M. Fauvel's?"
"Evidently."
"And shortly afterward De Lagors arrived from the country ?"
"Precisely."
"And about a month after his appearance, Madeleine sud-
denly dismissed me?"
"Good," exclaimed M. Verduret, "I am glad you are begin-
ning to understand the state of affairs." He was here inter-
rupted by the entrance of a stranger. The newcomer was a
dandified-looking coachman, with elegant black whiskers, shin-
ing boots with light tops, a yellow cap, and a red and black
striped waistcoat. After cautiously looking round the room, he
walked straight up to the table where M. Verduret sat.
"What is the news, Master Joseph Dubois?" asked the stout
man eagerly.
"Ah, my chief, don't ask me !" answered the man. "Things
are getting warm, very warm."
Prosper concentrated all his attention upon this superb ser-
vant. He thought he recognized his face. He had certainly
somewhere seen that retreating forehead and those little rest-
less black eyes, but where and when he could not remember.
Meanwhile Master Joseph had taken a seat at a table adjoin-
ing the one occupied by M. Verduret and Prosper; and, having
1022 FILE NUMBER 113
called for some absinthe, was preparing it by holding the water
aloft and slowly dropping it into the glass.
"What have you to tell me?" inquired M. Verduret.
"In the first place, my chief, I must say that the position
of valet and coachman to M. de Clameran is by no means a
bed of roses."
"Go on; come to the point. You can complain to-morrow."
"Very good. Yesterday my master walked out at two o'clock.
I. of course, followed him. Do you know where he went?
The thing was as good as a farce. He went to the Grand
Archangel to see Madame Nina Gipsy."
"Well, make haste. They told him she was gone. What
then?"
"What then? Ah! he was not at all pleased, I can tell
you. He hurried back to the hotel where the other, M. de
Lagors, awaited him. He swore like a trooper, and M. Raoul
asked him what had happened to put him in such a bad humor.
'Nothing,' replied my master, 'except that the little devil has
run off, and no one knows where she is ; she has slipped through
our fingers.' Then they both appeared to be vexed and uneasy.
De Lagors asked if she knew anything serious. 'She knows
nothing but what I told you,' replied De Clameran; 'but this
nothing, falling into the ear of a man with any suspicions, will
be more than enough to work on.' "
M. Verduret smiled like a man who had his reasons for
appreciating at their just value De Clameran's fears. "Well,
your master is not without sense after all," said he; "don't you
think he showed it by saying that?"
"Yes, my chief. Then De Lagors exclaimed: 'If it is as
serious as that, we must get rid of the little beggar!' But my
master shrugged his shoulders, and, laughing loudly, said : 'You
talk like an idiot ; when one is annoyed by a woman of this sort,
one must take measures to get rid of her administratively.'
This idea seemed to amuse them both very much."
"I can understand their being entertained by it," said M.
Verduret; "it is an excellent idea; but the misfortune is, it is
too late to carry it out. The nothing which made De Clameran
uneasy has already fallen into a knowing ear."
With breathless curiosity, Prosper listened to this report,
every word of which seemed to throw light upon past events.
Now, he thought, he understood the fragment of Gipsy's letter.
He saw that this Raoul, in whom he had confided so deeply,
FILE NtJMBER 113 1023
was nothing better than a scoundrel. A thousand little circum-
stances, unnoticed at the time, now recurred to his mind, and
made him wonder how he could have remained blind so long.
Master Joseph Dubois continued his report:
"Yesterday, after dinner, my master decked himself out like
a bridegroom. I shaved him, curled his hai r , and perfumed him
with especial care, after which I drove him to the Rue de
Provence to call on Madame Fauvel."
"What!" exclaimed Prosper, "after the insulting language
he used the day of the robbery, did he dare to visit the house ?"
"Yes, my young gentleman; he not only dared this, but he
also stayed there until nearly midnight, to my great discom-
fort ; for I got thoroughly drenched while waiting for him."
"How did he look when he came out?" asked M. Verduret.
"Well, he certainly looked less pleased than when he went
in. After putting up my carriage, and rubbing down my horse,
I went to see if he wanted anything; I found the door locked,
and he abused me without stint through the keyhole."
And to assist the digestion of this insult, Master Joseph here
gulped down a mouthful of absinthe.
"Is that all ?" questioned M. Verduret.
"All that occurred yesterday, my chief; but this morning my
master rose late, still in a horribly bad humor. At noon Raoul
arrived, also in a rage. They at once began to dispute, and
there was such a row ! Why, the most abandoned thieves
would have blushed at their foul language. At one time my
master seized the other by the throat and shook him like a
reed. But Raoul was too quick for him, and saved himself from
strangulation by drawing out a sharp-pointed knife, the sight of
which made my master drop him in a hurry, I can tell you."
"But what was it that they said?"
"Ah, there is the rub, my chief," replied Joseph in a piteous
tone; "the scamps spoke English, so I could not understand
them. But I am sure they were disputing about money."
"How do you know that?"
"Because in view of the Exhibition I learned the word money
in every language, and it constantly recurred in their con-
versation."
M. Verduret sat with knit brows, talking in an undertone to
himself; and Prosper, who was watching him, wondered if he
was trying to divine the subject of the dispute by the mere
force of reflection.
1024 FILE NUMBER 113
"When they had done fighting," continued Joseph, "the ras-
cals began to talk in French again; but they only spoke of a
fancy ball which is to be given by some banker. When Raoul
was leaving, my master said: 'Since this thing is inevitable, and
must take place to-day, you had better remain at home, at
Vesinet, this evening.' Raoul replied : 'Of course.' "
Evening was approaching, and the cafe was gradually filling
with customers, who were all together calling for either absinthe
or bitters. The waiters, mounting on stools, lit the gas-burners
placed round the room. "It is time to go," said M. Verduret to
Joseph, "your master may want you; besides, here is some one
come for me. I will see you to-morrow."
The newcomer was no other than Cavaillon, more troubled
and frightened than ever. He looked uneasily around, as if he
expected a posse of policemen to make their appearance, and
carry him off to prison. He did not sit down at M. Verduret's
table, but stealthily gave his hand to Prosper, and, after assur-
ing himself that no one was observing them, handed M. Ver-
duret a parcel, saying: "She found this in the cupboard."
It was a handsomely bound prayer-book. M. Verduret rap-
idly turned over the leaves, and soon found the pages from
which the words pasted on Prosper's letter had been cut. "I
had moral proofs," he said, handing the book to Prosper, "but
here is material proof sufficient in itself to save you."
When Prosper looked at the book, he turned as pale as a
ghost. He recognized it instantly. He had given it to Made-
leine in exchange for the relic. He opened it, and on the fly-
leaf Madeleine had written "Souvenir of Notre Dame de
Fourvieres, 17th January, 1866." "This book belongs to Made-
leine," he cried.
M. Verduret did not reply, but walked toward a young man
dressed like a wine cooper, who had just entered the cafe.
Glancing at a note which this person handed to him, he has-
tened back to the table, and said in an agitated voice: "I think
we have got them now !"
Throwing a five-franc piece on the table, and without saying
a word to Cavaillon, M. Verduret seized Prosper's arm, and
hurried from the room. "What a fatality!" he said, as he has-
tened along the street: "we may perhaps miss them. We shall
certainly reach the St. Lazare station too late for the St. Ger-
main train."
"For heaven's sake, where are you going?" asked Prosper.
FILE NUMBER 113
1025
"Never mind, we can talk after we start. Hurry !"
On arriving at the Place du Palais Royal, M. Verduret
stopped in front of one of the cabs stationed there, and ex-
amined the horses at a glance. "How much will you want for
driving us to Vesinet?" he asked the driver.
"I don't know the road very well," replied the cabman.
The name of Vesinet was enough for Prosper. "I will point
out the road," he quickly said.
"Well," said the driver, "at this time of night, in such dread-
ful weather, it ought to be — twenty-five francs — "
"And to drive very fast?"
"Bless my soul ! Why, I leave that to your honor's generos-
ity; but if you put it at thirty-five francs — "
"You shall have a hundred," interrupted M. Verduret, "if
you overtake a vehicle which has half an hour's start of us."
"By Jingo!" cried the delighted driver; "jump in quick: we
are losing time !" And whipping up his lean horses, he gal-
loped them down the Rue de Valois at a fearful speed.
/"\N quitting the little station of Vesinet, we come upon two
^^ roads. One, to the left, macadamized and kept in perfect
repair, leads to the village, and along it glimpses are here and
there obtained of the new church through the openings between
the trees. The other road, newly laid out and scarcely leveled,
leads through the woods. Along the latter, which before the
lapse of five years will be a busy street, are a few houses, taste-
less in design, rising here and there out of the foliage : rural
retreats of Paris tradesmen, occupied only during the summer.
It was at the junction of these two roads that Prosper stopped
the cab. The driver had gained his hundred francs. The
horses were completely worn out, but they had accomplished
all that was expected of them ; M. Verduret could distinguish
the lamps of another cab, about fifty yards ahead of him.
M. Verduret jumped out. and handing the driver a hundred-
franc note, said: "Here is what I promised you. Go to the
1026 FILE NUMBER 113
first tavern on the right-hand side of the road as you enter the
village. If we do not meet you there in an hour, you will be
at liberty to return to Paris."
The driver was overwhelming in his thanks; but neither
Prosper nor his friend heard them. They had already started
along the new road. The weather, which had been inclement
when they set out, was now fearful. The rain fell in torrents,
and a furious wind howled dismally through the woods. The
intense darkness was rendered more dreary by the occasional
glimmer of the lamps of the distant railway station, and which
seemed about to be extinguished by every fresh gust of wind.
M. Verduret and Prosper had been running along the muddy
road for about five minutes, when suddenly the latter stopped
and said : "This is Raoul's house."
Before the iron gate of an isolated house was the cab which
M. Verduret had followed. In spite of the pouring rain, the
driver, wrapped in a thick cloak, and leaning back on his seat,
was already fast asleep, while waiting for the person whom he
had brought to the house a few minutes ago.
M. Verduret pulled his cloak, and said, in a low voice : "Wake
up, my good man."
The driver started, and mechanically gathering up his reins,
yawned out: "I am ready; jump in!" But when, by the light
of his lamps, he caught sight of two men in this lonely spot,
he concluded they meant to rob him, and perhaps to take his
life. "I am engaged !" he cried out, as he shook his whip ; "I
am waiting here for some one."
"I know that, you fool," replied M. Verduret, "and only
wish to ask you a question, which you can gain five francs by
answering. Did you not bring a middle-aged lady here?"
This question, with the promise of five francs, far from re-
assuring the cabman, only increased his alarm. "I have already
told you I am waiting for some one," he said ; "and if you don't
go away and leave me alone, I will call out for help."
M. Verduret drew back quickly. "Come away," he whis-
pered to Prosper, "the fool will do as he says; and the alarm
once given, farewell to our projects. We must find some other
entrance than by the gate."
They then went along the wall surrounding the garden, in
search of a place where it was possible to scale it. This was
difficult to discover, the wall being twelve feet high, and the
night very dark. Fortunately, M. Verduret was very agile ; and,
FILE NUMBER 113 1027
having decided upon the spot to be scaled, he drew back a few
paces, and making a sudden spring, seized hold of one of the
projecting stones on the top; then drawing himself up by the
aid of his hands and feet, soon found himself astride the wall.
It was now Prosper's turn to climb up; but, though much
younger than his companion, he had not his agility and strength,
and would never have succeeded if M. Verduret had not pulled
him up and then helped him down on the other side.
Once in the garden, M. Verduret looked about him to study
the situation. The house occupied by M. de Lagors stood in
the middle of a large garden. It was narrow, two stories high,
and had attics. In only one window, on the second story, was
there any light.
"As you have often been here," said M. Verduret, "you must
know all about the arrangement of the house : what room is
that where we see the light?"
"That is Raoul's bedchamber."
"Very good. What rooms are on the ground floor?"
"The kitchen, pantry, billiard-room, and dining-room."
"And on the floor above?"
"Two drawing-rooms, separated by folding-doors and a
study."
"Where do the servants sleep?"
"Raoul has none at present. He is waited on by a man and
his wife, who live at Vesinet ; they come in the morning, and
leave after dinner."
M. Verduret rubbed his hands gleefully. "That suits our
plans exactly," he said; "it will be strange if we do not hear
what Raoul has to say to this person who has come from Paris
at this time of night to see him. Let us go in."
Prosper seemed averse to this, and said : "That would be a
serious thing for us to do."
"Bless my soul! what else did we come here for?" exclaimed
M. Verduret. "Did you think ours was a pleasure trip, merely
to enjoy this lovely weather?" continued he in a bantering tone.
"But we might be discovered."
"Suppose we are? If the least noise betrays our presence,
you have only to advance boldly as a friend come to visit a
friend, and who, finding the door open, walked in."
But unfortunately the heavy oak door was locked. M. Ver-
duret shook it in vain. "How foolish !" he said with vexation.
"I ought to have brought my instruments with me. A common
1028 FILE NUMBER 113
lock which could be opened with a nail, and I have not even a
piece of wire !" Seeing it useless to attempt the door, he tried
successively every window on the ground floor. Alas ! each
shutter was securely fastened on the inside.
M. Verduret was provoked. He prowled round the house like
a fox round a hen-roost, seeking an entrance, but finding none.
Despairingly he came back to the spot in front of the house,
whence he had the best view of the lighted window. "If I
could only look in," he said. "To think that in there," and he
pointed to the window, "is the solution of the mystery ; and we
are cut off from it by thirty feet or so of wall !"
Prosper was more surprised than ever at his companion's
strange behavior. The latter seemed perfectly at home in this
garden, and ran about it without any precaution. One would
have supposed him accustomed to such expeditions, especially
when he spoke of picking the lock of an occupied house, as
coolly as though he were talking of opening a snuff-box. He
was utterly indifferent to the rain and sleet driven in his face
by the gusts of wind as he splashed about in the mud trying
to find some means of entrance. "I must get a peep into that
window," he said, "and I will certainly do so, cost what it may !"
Prosper seemed suddenly remember something. "There
is a ladder here," he remarked in an undertone.
"Why did you not tell me that before? Where is it?"
"At the end of the garden, under the trees."
They ran to the spot, and in a fevr minutes the ladder was
standing against the house. But to their annoyance they found
it five feet too short. Five long feet of wall between the top
of the ladder and the lighted window was a discouraging sight
to Prosper, who exclaimed: "We can not reach it."
"We can reach it," cried M. Verduret triumphantly. And
quickly seizing the ladder, he cautiously raised it, and rested
the bottom round on his shoulders, holding, at the same time,
the two uprights firmly and steadily with his hands. The
obstacle was overcome. "Now mount," he said to his com-
panion.
Prosper did not hesitate. Enthusiasm at seeing difficulties
so skilfully conquered, and the hope of triumph, gave him a
strength and agility which he had never imagined he possessed.
He climbed up gently till he reached the lower rounds, then
quickly mounted the ladder, which swayed and trembled beneath
his weight.
FILE NUMBER 113 1029
But he had scarcely looked in at the lighted window when
he uttered a cry, which was drowned in the roaring tempest,
and sliding part way down the ladder, he dropped like a log on
the wet grass, exclaiming: "The villain! the villain!"
With wonderful promptitude and vigor M. Verduret laid the
ladder on the ground, and ran toward Prosper, fearing he was
dangerously injured. "Are you hurt? What did you see?" he
asked.
But Prosper had already risen. Although he had had a vio-
lent fall, he felt nothing; he was in that state when mind
governs matter so absolutely that the body is insensible to pain.
"I saw," he answered in a hoarse voice, "I saw Madeleine
— do you understand, Madeleine ? — in that room, alone with
Raoul."
M. Verduret was confounded. Was it possible that he, the
infallible expert, had been mistaken in his deductions?
He well knew that M. de Lagors's visitor was a woman ; but
his own conjectures, and the note which Madame Gipsy had
sent to him at the cafe, had caused him to believe that this
woman was Madame Fauvel.
"You must be mistaken," he said to Prosper.
"No, sir, no. Never could I mistake another for Madeleine.
Ah ! you who heard what she said to me yesterday, tell me :
was I to have expected such infamous treason as this? You
said to me then: 'She loves you, she loves you!' What do you
think now? Speak!"
M. Verduret did not answer. He had been completely bewil-
dered by his mistake, and was now racking his brain to dis-
cover the cause of it, which was soon discerned by his pene-
trating mind.
"This is the secret discovered by Nina," continued Prosper.
"Madeleine, this pure and noble Madeleine, whom I believed
to be as immaculate as an angel, is the mistress of this thief,
who has even stolen the name he bears. And I, trusting fool
that I was, made this scoundrel my best friend. I confided to
him all my hopes and fears ; and he was her lover ! Of course
they amused themselves by ridiculing my silly devotion and
blind confidence !"
He stopped, overcome by his violent emotions. Wounded
vanity is the worst of miseries. The certainty of having been
so shamefully deceived and betrayed made Prosper almost in-
sane with rage. "This is the last humiliation I shall submit
1030 FILE NUMBER 113
to," he fiercely cried. "It shall not be said that I was coward
enough to let an insult like this go unpunished."
He started toward the house ; but M. Verduret seized his
arm, and said:
"What are you going to do?"
"To have my revenge ! I will break down the door ; what
do I care for the noise and scandal, now that I have nothing
to lose? I shall not attempt to creep into the house like a
thief, but as a master — as one who has a right to enter; as a
man who, having received a deadly insult, comes to demand
satisfaction."
"You will do nothing of the sort, Prosper."
"Who will prevent me?"
"I will!"
*'You ? Do not hope that you will be able to deter me. I
will appear before them, put them to the blush, kill them both,
and then put an end to my own wretched existence. That is
what I intend tc do, and nothing shall hinder me !"
If M. Verduret had not held Prosper with a vise-like grip,
he would have escaped, and attempted to carry out his threat.
"If you make any noise, Prosper, or raise an alarm, all your
hopes are ruined," said M. Verduret.
"I have no hopes now."
"Raoul, put on his guard, will escape us, and you will remain
dishonored forever."
"What is that to me?"
"It is everything to me. I have sworn to prove your inno-
cence. A man of your age can easily find a wife, but can never
restore lustre to a tarnished name. Let nothing interfere with
the establishing of your innocence."
Genuine passion is uninfluenced by surrounding circum-
stances. M. Verduret and Prosper stood foot-deep in mud, wet
to the skin, with the rain pouring down on their heads, and
yet still continued their dispute. "I will be avenged," repeated
Prosper, with the persistency of a fixed idea: "I will be
avenged."
"Well, avenge yourself then like a man, and not like a child !"
said M. Verduret angrily.
"Sir !"
"Yes, I repeat it, like a child. What will you do after you
get into the house? Have you any arms? No. You rush
upon Raoul, and a struggle ensues; and while you two are
FILE NUMBER 113 1081
fighting, Madeleine jumps in the cab and drives off. What
then? Which is the stronger, you or Raoul?"
Overcome by the sense of how powerless he was, Prosper
remained silent.
"And of what use would arms be?" continued M. Verduret.
"It would be the height of folly to shoot a man whom you can
send to the galleys."
"What then shall I do?"
"Wait. Vengeance is a delicious fruit, which must be al-
lowed to ripen in order that it may be fully enjoyed."
Prosper was unsettled in his resolution; M. Verduret, seeing
this, advanced his last and strongest argument. "How do we
know," said he, "that Mademoiselle Madeleine is here on her
own account ? Did we not come to the conclusion that she was
sacrificing herself for the benefit of some one else ? That supe-
rior will which compelled her to banish you may have con-
strained this step to-night."
Whatever coincides with our secret wishes is always eagerly
welcomed, and this apparently improbable supposition struck
Prosper as being possibly correct.
"That might be the case," he murmured, "who knows?"
"I would soon know," said M. Verduret, "if I could only see
them together in that room."
"Will you promise me, sir, to tell me the truth, exactly what
you yourself think, no matter how painful it may be for me?"
"I swear it, upon my word of honor."
At these words Prosper, with a strength which a few min-
utes before he would not have believed himself possessed of,
raised the ladder, placed the last round on his shoulders, and
said to M. Verduret:
"Mount!"
M. Verduret rapidly ascended the ladder, scarcely shaking it.
and soon had his head on a level with the window. Prosper
had seen but too well. There was Madeleine, at this hour of
the night, alone with Raoul de Lagors in his bedchamber !
M. Verduret noticed that she still wore her bonnet and man-
tle. She was standing in the middle of the room, talking with
great animation. Her look and gestures betrayed indignant
scorn. There was an expression of ill-disguised loathing upon
her beautiful face. Raoul was seated in a low chair by the
fire, stirring up the embers with a pair of tongs. Every now
and then he would shrug his shoulders, like a man resigned to
1032 FILE NUMBER 113
everything he heard, and had no answer to make beyond: "I
can not help it. I can do nothing for you."
M. Verduret would willingly have given the handsome ring
on his finger to be able to hear what was being said; but the
roaring wind completely drowned the voices of the speakers,
and he dared not place his ear close to the window for fear of
being perceived. "They are evidently quarreling," he thought;
"but it is certainly not a lovers' quarrel."
Madeleine continued talking; and it was by closely watching
Raoul's face, clearly revealed by the lamp on the chimney-
piece, that M. Verduret hoped to discover the meaning of the
scene before him. Now and again De Lagors would start
and tremble in spite of his pretended indifference; or else he
would strike at the fire with the tongs, as if giving vent to his
rage at some reproach uttered by Madeleine. Finally, Made-
leine changed her threats into entreaties, and, clasping her
hands, almost fell on her knees. Raoul turned away his head,
and refused to answer save in monosyllables.
Several times she was about to leave the room, but each time
returned, as if asking a favor, and unable to make up her mind
to quit the house till she had obtained it. At last she seemed
to have uttered some'thing decisive; for Raoul quickly rose and
took from a desk near the fireplace a bundle of papers, which
he handed to her.
"Well," thought M. Verduret, "this looks bad. Can it be a
compromising correspondence which the young lady wants to
secure !"
Madeleine took the papers, but was apparently still dissatis-
fied. She seemed to entreat Raoul to give her something else,
but he refused ; and she then threw the papers on the table.
These papers puzzled M. Verduret very much, as he gazed at
them through the window. "I am not blind," he said, "and I
certainly am not mistaken; those red, green, and gray papers
are evidently pawn tickets !"
Madeleine turned over the papers as if looking for some par-
ticular ones. She selected three, which she put in her pocket,
disdainfully pushing the others aside. She was now evidently
preparing to take her departure, and said a few words to Raoul,
who took up the lamp as if to escort her downstairs.
There was nothing more for M. Verduret to see. He care-
fully descended the ladder, muttering to himself: "Pawn tickets!
What infamous mystery lies at the bottom of all this?" The
FILE NUMBER 113 1033
first thing to be done was to hide the ladder. Raoul might
take it into his head to look round the garden, when he came
to the door with Madeleine, and if he did so the ladder could
scarcely fail to attract his attention. M. Verduret and Pros-
per hastily laid it on the ground, regardless of the shrubs which
they destroyed in doing so, and then concealed themselves
among the trees, whence they could watch at once the front
door and the outer gate.
Madeleine and Raoul appeared in the doorway. Raoul placed
the lamp on the floor, and offered his hand to the girl ; but she
refused it with haughty contempt, which somewhat soothed
Prosper's lacerated heart. This scornful behavior did not,
however, seem to surprise or hurt Raoul, who simply answered
by an irenical gesture which implied, "As you please I" He
followed Madeleine to the gate, which he opened and closed
after her; then he hurried back to the house, while the cab
drove rapidly away.
"Now," said Prosper, "you must tell me what you think.
You promised to let me know the truth no matter how bitter
it might be. Speak ; I can bear it, be it what it may !"
"You will have only joy to bear, my friend. Within a month
you will bitterly regret your suspicions of to-night. You will
blush to think that you ever imagined Mademoiselle Madeleine
to have been the mistress of a man like De Lagors."
"But, sir, appearances — "
"It is precisely against appearances that we must be on our
guard. Always distrust them. A suspicion, false or just, is
necessarily based on something. But we must not stay here
forever; and as Raoul has fastened the gate, we shall have to
climb over the wall."
"But there is the ladder."
"Let it stay where it is ; as we can not efface our footprints,
he will think thieves have been trying to get into the house."
They scaled the wall, and had not walked fifty steps when
they heard the noise of a gate being unlocked. They stood
aside and waited ; a man soon passed by on his way to the
station.
"That is Raoul," said M. Verduret, "and Joseph will report
to us that he has been to tell De Clameran what has just taken
place. If they are only kind enough to speak French !" M.
Verduret walked along quietly for some time, trying to connect
the broken chain of his deductions. "Why the deuce." he
Gab. — \ oi. 1\ F
1034 FILE NUMBER 113
abruptly asked, "did this Raoul, who is devoted to gay society,
come to choose a lonely country house like this to live in?"
"I suppose it was because M. Fauvel's villa is only fifteen
minutes' ride from here, on the banks of the Seine."
"That accounts for his staying here in the summer; but in
winter?"
"Oh, in winter he has a room at the Hotel du Louvre, and
all the year round keeps up an apartment in Paris."
This did not enlighten M. Verduret much; he hurried his
pace. "I hope our driver has not gone," said he. "We can
not take the train which is about to start, as Raoul would see
us at the station."
Although it was more than an hour since M. Verduret and
Prosper left the cab, where the road turned off, they found it
wafting for them in front of the tavern.
The driver, being unable to resist the desire to change his
bank-note, had ordered supper, and finding the wine very good.
he was in no hurry to leave.
While delighted at the idea of having a fare back to Paris,
he could not refrain from remarking on M. Verduret and Pros-
pers altered appearance. "Well, you are in a strange state !"
he exclaimed.
Prosper replied that they had been to see a friend, and losing
their way, had fallen into a quagmire ; as if there were such
things in Vesinet wood.
"So that's the way you got covered with mud, is it !" ex-
claimed the driver, who, though apparently contented with this
explanation, strongly suspected that his two customers had
been engaged in some nefarious transaction. This opinion
seemed to be entertained by the people present, for they
looked at Prosper's muddy clothes and then at each other in
a knowing way.
But M. Verduret put an end to all further comment by say-
ing: "Come on !"
"All right, your honor: get in while I settle my bill; I will
be with you in a minute."
The drive back was silent and seemed interminably long.
Prosper at first tried to draw his strange companion into con-
versation, but as he received nothing but monosyllables in re-
ply, he held his peace for the rest of the journey. He was
again beginning to feel irritated at the absolute empire exer-
cised over him by this man. Physical discomfort was added
FILE NUMBER 113 1035
to his other troubles. He was stiff and numb; every bone in
him ached with the cold. Although mental endurance may be
unlimited, bodily strength must in the end give way. A violent
effort is always followed by reaction.
Lying back in a corner of the cab, with his feet upon the
front seat, M. Verduret seemed to be enjoying a nap; yet he
was never more wide awake. He was in a perplexed state of
mind. This expedition, which he had been confident would
solve all his doubts, had only added mystery to mystery. His
chain of evidence, which he thought so strongly linked, was
completely broken. For him the facts remained the same, but
circumstances had changed. He could not imagine what com-
mon motive, what moral or material complicity, what influ-
ences, existed to cause the four actors in his drama, Madame
Fauvel, Madeleine, Raoul, and De Clameran, to have appar-
ently the same object in view. He was seeking, in his fertile
mind, that encyclopedia of craft and subtlety, for some combi-
nation which would throw light on the problem before him.
Midnight struck as they reached the Grand Archangel, and
for the first time M. Verduret remembered that he had not
dined. Fortunately Madame Alexandre was still up, and in the
twinkling of an eye had improvised a tempting supper. It was
more than attention, more than respect, that she showed her
guest. Prosper observed that she gazed admiringly at M. Ver-
duret all the while that he was eating.
"You will not see me during the daytime to-morrow," said
M. Verduret to Prosper, when he had risen to leave the room ;
"but I will be here about this time at night. Perhaps I shall
discover what I am seeking at Jandidiers' ball."
Prosper was almost dumb with astonishment. What ! would
M. Verduret venture to appear at a fancy dress ball given by
the wealthiest and most fashionable bankers in Paris? This
accounted for his sending to the costumier. "Then you are
invited to this ball?" he presently asked.
The expressive eyes of M. Verduret sparkled with amuse-
ment. "Not yet," he said; "but I shall be."
Oh, the inconsistency of the human mind ! Prosper was tor-
mented by the most serious reflections. He looked sadly round
his chamber, and as he thought of M. Verduret's projected
pleasure at the ball, exclaimed : "Ah, how fortunate he is ! To-
morrow he will see Madeleine more lovely than ever."
1036
FILE NUMBER 113
ABOUT the middle of the Rue St. Lazare are the almost
•**■ regal residences of the brothers Jandidier, two celebrated
financiers, who, if deprived of the prestige of immense wealth,
would still be looked up to as remarkable men. Why can not
the same be said of all men?
These two mansions, which were regarded as marvels of mag-
nificence at the time they were built, are entirely distinct from
each other, but so planned as to form a single building when
this is desired. When the brothers Jandidier give grand parties,
they have the movable partitions taken away, and thus obtain
the most superb suite of drawing-rooms in Paris. Princely
magnificence, lavish hospitality, and an elegant, graceful man-
ner of receiving their guests, make the entertainments given
by the brothers eagerly sought after by the fashionable circles
of the capital. On the Saturday the Rue St. Lazare was blocked
up by a file of carriages, whose fair occupants impatiently
awaited their turn to alight. Dancing commenced at ten o'clock.
The ball was a fancy dress one, and the majority of the cos-
tumes were superb ; many were in the best taste, and some were
quite original. Among the latter was that of a merry-andrew.
Everything about the wearer was in perfect keeping: the inso-
lent eye, coarse lips, inflamed cheek-bones, and a beard so red
that it seemed to emit fire in the reflection of the dazzling
lights.
He carried in his left hand a canvas banner, upon which
were six or eight coarsely painted pictures, like those seen at
country fairs. In his right he waved a little switch, with which
he would every now and then strike his banner, after the fash-
ion of a showman seeking to attract the attention of the crowd.
A compact group gathered round him in the expectation of
hearing some witty speeches; but he remained silent, near the
door.
About half-past ten he quitted his post. M. and Madame
Fauvel, followed by their niece Madeleine, had just entered.
FILE NUMBER 113 1037
During the last ten days the affair of the Rue de Provence
had been the general topic of conversation; and friends and
enemies were alike glad to seize this opportunity of approach-
ing the banker to tender their sympathy, or to offer equivocal
condolence, which of all things is the most exasperating and
insulting.
Belonging to the class of men of a serious turn, M. Fauvel
had not assumed a fancy costume, but had merely thrown over
his shoulders a short silk cloak. On his arm leaned Madame
Fauvel, nee Valentine de la Verberie, bowing and gracefully
greeting her numerous friends.
She had once been remarkably beautiful ; and to-night, in
the artificial light, her very becoming dress seemed to have
restored all her youthful freshness and comeliness. No one
would have supposed her to be forty-eight years old. She wore
a robe of embroidered satin and black velvet, of the later years
of Louis XIV's reign, magnificent and severe, without the adorn-
ment of a single jewel. She looked superb and grand in her
court dress and her powdered hair, as became a La Verberie,
so some ill-natured people remarked, who had made the mistake
of marrying a man of money.
Madeleine, too, on her part was the object of universal ad-
miration, so dazzlingly beautiful and queen-like did she appear
in her costume of maid of honor, which seemed to have been
especially invented to set forth her beautiful figure. Her love-
liness expanded in the perfumed atmosphere and dazzling light
of the ballroom. Never had her hair looked so brilliant a
black, her complexion so exquisite, or her large eyes so spar-
kling. Having greeted their hosts, Madeleine took her aunt's
arm, while M. Fauvel wandered about in search of the card-
tables, the usual refuge of bored men who find themselves
enticed into a ballroom.
Dancing was now at its height. Two orchestras, led by
Strauss and one of his lieutenants, filled the saloons with in-
toxicating sounds. The motley crowd whirled in the waltz,
presenting a curious confusion of velvets, satins, laces, and
diamonds. Almost every head and bosom sparkled with jewels;
the palest cheeks became rosy ; heavy eyes now shone like
stars; and the glistening shoulders of fair women were like
drifted snow in an April sun.
Forgotten by the crowd, the merry-andrew had taken refuge
in the embrasure of a window, and seemed to be meditating
1038 FILE NUMBER 113
upon the gay scene before him; at the same time he kept his
eyes upon a couple not far distant. It was Madeleine, leaning
on the arm of a gorgeously attired doge, that attracted his
gaze, and the doge was the Marquis de Clameran, who appeared
radiant, rejuvenated, and whose attentions to his partner had
an air of triumph. At an interval in the quadrille, he leaned
over her and whispered compliments of unbounded admiration ;
and she seemed to listen, if not with pleasure, at least with-
out repugnance. She now and then smiled, and coquettishly
shrugged her shoulders.
"Evidently," muttered the merry-andrew, "this noble scoun-
drel is paying court to the banker's niece; so I was right yes-
terday. But how can Mademoiselle Madeleine resign herself
so graciously to his insipid flattery? Fortunately, Prosper is
not here now."
He was interrupted by an elderly man wrapped in a Vene-
tian mantle, who said to him: "You remember, M. Verduret" —
this name was uttered half-seriously, half-banteringly — "what
you promised me?"
The merry-andrew bowed with great respect, but not the
slightest shade of humility. "I remember," he replied.
"But do not be imprudent, I beg you."
"Monsieur le Comte need not be uneasy ; he has my promise."
"Very good. I know its value." The comte walked off ; but
during this short colloquy the quadrille had ended, and M. de
Clameran and Madeleine were lost to sight.
"I shall find them near Madame Fauvel," thought the merry-
andrew. And he at once started in search of the banker's wife.
Incommoded by the stifling heat of the room, Madame Fauvel
had sought a little fresh air in the grand picture gallery, which,
thanks to the talisman called gold, was now transformed into
a fairy-like garden, filled with orange trees, japonicas, oleanders,
and white lilacs, the delicate bunches of which hung in grace-
ful clusters. The merry-andrew saw her seated near the door
of the card-room. Upon her right was Madeleine, and on her
left stood Raoul de Lagors, dressed in a costume of the time
of Henry III.
"I must confess." muttered the merry-andrew from his post
of observation, "that the young scamp is a handsome-looking
fellow."
Madeleine appeared very sad. She had plucked a camellia
from a plant near by, and was mechanically pulling it to pieces
FILE NUMBER 113 1039
as she sat with her eyes cast down. Raoul and Madame Fauvel
were engaged in earnest conversation. Their faces seemed com-
posed, but the gestures of the one and the trembling of the
other betrayed that a serious discussion was taking place be-
tween them. In the card-room sat the doge, M. de Clameran,
so placed as to have a full view of Madame Fauvel and Made-
leine, although he was himself concealed by an angle of the
apartment.
"It is the continuation of yesterday's scene," thought the
merry-andrew. "If I could only get behind those camellias, I
might hear what they are saying." He pushed his way through
the crowd, but just as he had reached the desired spot, Made-
leine rose, and, taking the arm of a bejeweled Persian, walked
away. At the same moment Raoul went into the card-room
and whispered a few words to De Clameran.
"There they go," muttered the merry-andrew. "The pair of
scoundrels certainly hold these poor women in their power; and
it is in vain that they struggle to free themselves. What can
be the secret of their influence?"
Suddenly a great commotion was caused in the picture gallery
by the announcement of a wonderful minuet to be danced in
the grand saloon ; then by the arrival of the Comtesse de Com-
marin as Aurora ; and finally, by the presence of the Princess
Korasoff, with her superb suite of emeralds, reported to be the
finest in the world. In an instant the gallery became almost
deserted.
Only a few forlorn-looking people remained ; mostly sulky
husbands, whose wives were dancing with partners they were
jealous of, and some melancholy youths, looking awkward
and unhappy in their gay fancy dresses. The merry-andrew
thought the opportunity favorable for carrying out his designs.
He abruptly left his corner, brandishing his banner, and tap-
ping upon it with his switch, hammering affectedly all the
time, as though about to speak. Having crossed the gallery.
he placed himself between the chair occupied by Madame
Fauvel and the door. As soon as the people left in the ?r.l-
lery had collected in a circle round him, he struck a comical
attitude, and in a tone of great buffoonery proceeded to address
them as follows:
"Ladies and gentlemen, this morning I obtained a license
from the authorities of this city. And for what? Why. gen-
tlemen, for the purpose of exhibiting to you a spectacle which
1040 FILE NUMBER 113
has already excited the admiration of the four quarters of the
globe, and of several other academies. Inside this booth, ladies,
is about to commence the representation of a most unheard-of
drama, acted for the first time at Pekin, and translated by our
most famous authors. Gentlemen, you can take your seats at
once ; the lamps are lighted, and the actors are dressing."
Here he stopped speaking, and imitated to perfection the
screeching sounds which mountebanks educe from their mu-
sical instruments. "Now, ladies and gentlemen," he resumed,
"you will wish to know what I am doing here if the piece is
to be performed inside the booth. The fact is, gentlemen, that
I intend to give you a foretaste of the agitations, sensations,
emotions, palpitations, and other entertainments which you may
enjoy for the small sum of ten sous. You see this superb
picture? Well, it represents the eight most thrilling scenes in
the drama. Ah, you begin to shudder already; and yet this is
nothing compared to the play itself. This splendid picture gives
you no more idea of the actual performance than a drop of
water gives an idea of the sea, or a spark of fire of the sun.
My picture, gentlemen, is merely a foretaste of what takes place
inside, like the odors which emanate from the kitchen of a
restaurant."
"Do you know the fellow?" asked an enormous Turk of a
melancholy Punch.
"No, but he imitates a trumpet splendidly."
"Oh, very well indeed! But what is he driving at?"
He was endeavoring to attract the attention of Madame Fau-
vel, who, since Raoul and Madeleine had left her, had abandoned
herself to a mournful reverie. He succeeded in his object. His
shrill voice brought the banker's wife back to a sense of reality;
she started and looked quickly about her, as if suddenly awaken-
ed ; then she turned toward the merry-andrew.
He, however, continued : "Now, ladies, we are in China. The
first of the eight pictures on my canvas, here, in the left hand
corner," — here he touched the top daub, — "represents the cele-
brated Mandarin Li-F6, in the bosom of his family. The pretty
young lady leaning over him is his wife; and the children
playing on the carpet are the bonds of love between this happy
pair. Do you not inhale the odor of contentment and happi-
ness emanating from this admirable picture, gentlemen?
Madame Li-F6 is the most virtuous of women, adoring her hus-
band and idolizing her children. Being virtuous she is happy,
FILE NUMBER 113 1041
or as the wise Confucius says, 'The ways of virtue are more
pleasant than the ways of vice.' "
Madame Fauvel had quitted her seat, and taken another nearer
to the speaker.
"Do you see anything on the banner like what he has been de-
scribing?" asked the melancholy Punch of his neighbor.
"No, nothing. Do you?"
The fact is, that the daubs of paint on the canvas represented
nothing in particular, so that the merry-andrew could pretend
they were anything he pleased.
"Picture No. 2 !" he cried, after a flourish of music. "This
old lady, seated before a mirror tearing out her hair — especially
the gray ones — you have seen before; do you recognize her?
No, you do not. Well, she is the fair mandarine of the first
picture. I see the tears in your eyes, ladies and gentlemen.
Ah, you have cause to weep ; for she is no longer virtuous,
and her happiness has departed with her virtue. Alas, it is a
sad tale ! One fatal day she met in a street of Pekin a young
ruffian, fiendish, but beautiful as an angel, and she loves him —
the wretched woman loves him !"
The last words were uttered in the most tragic tone as he
raised his clasped hands to heaven. During this tirade he had
turned slightly round, so that he now found himself facing the
banker's wife, whose countenance he closely watched while he
was speaking.
"You are surprised, gentlemen," he continued ; "I am not.
The great Bilboquet, my master, has proved to us that the
heart never grows old, and that the most vigorous wall-flowers
flourish on the oldest ruins. This unhappy woman is nearly
fifty years old — fifty years old, and in love with a youth !
Hence this heartrending scene which should serve as a warn-
ing to us all."
"Really!" grumbled a cook dressed in white satin, who had
passed the evening distributing bills of fare, which no one read;
"I thought he would be more amusing."
"But," continued the merry-andrew, "you must go inside the
booth to witness the effects of the mandarine's folly. At times
a ray of reason penetrates her diseased brain, and then the
sight of her anguish would soften a heart of stone. Enter,
and for the small sum of ten sous you shall hear sobs such as
the Odeon Theatre never echoed in its halcyon days. The
unhappy woman has waked up to the absurdity and inanity of
1042 FILE NUMBER 113
her blind passion ; she confesses to herself that she is madly
pursuing a fantom. She knows but too well that he, in the
vigor and beauty of youth, can not love a faded old woman
like herself, who vainly endeavors to retain the last traces of
her once entrancing beauty. She feels that the sweet words he
once whispered in her charmed ear were deceitful falsehoods.
She knows that the day is near when she will be left alone,
with nothing save his mantle in her hand."
As the merry-andrew addressed this voluble harangue to the
crowd around him, he narrowly watched the countenance of the
banker's wife. But nothing he had said seemed to affect her.
She leaned back in her armchair, perfectly calm, with the accus-
tomed brightness in her eyes and an occasional smile upon
her lips.
"Good heavens !" muttered the merry-andrew uneasily, "can
I be on the wrong track?" Preoccupied, however, as he was,
he observed an addition to his circle of listeners in the person
of M. de Clameran. "The third picture," said he, after imi-
tating a roll of drums, "depicts the old mandarine after she
has dismissed that most annoying of guests — remorse — from
her bosom. She promises herself that interest will supply the
place of love in chaining the too seductive youth to her side.
It is with this object that she invests him with false honors
and dignity, and introduces him to the chief mandarins of the
capital of the Celestial Empire ; then, since so handsome a
youth must cut a fine figure in society, and as a fine figure
can not be cut without money, the lady sacrifices all she pos-
sesses for his sake. Necklaces, rings, bracelets, diamonds, and
pearls, are all surrendered. The monster carries all these
jewels to the pawnbrokers in the Tien-Tsi Street, and then
has the cruelty to refuse her the tickets, by means of which
she might redeem her treasures."
The merry-andrew thought that he had at last hit the mark.
Madame Fauvel began to betray signs of agitation. Once she
made an attempt to rise from her seat and to retire, but it
seemed as if her strength failed her, and she sank back, forced
to listen to the end.
"Finally, ladies and gentlemen," continued the merry-andrew,
"the richly filled jewel-cases became empty. The day arrived
when the mandarine had nothing more to give. It was then
that the young scoundrel conceived the project of carrying off
the jasper button belonging to the mandarin Li-F6 — a splendid
FILE NUMBER 113 1043
jewel of incalculable value, which, being the badge of his dig-
nity, was kept in a granite stronghold, and guarded by three
soldiers night and day. Ah ! the mandarine resisted for a long
time ! She knew the innocent soldiers would be accused and
crucified, as is the custom in Pekin, and this thought restrained
her. But her lover besought her so tenderly that she finally
yielded to his entreaties; and — the jasper button was stolen.
The fourth picture represents the guilty couple stealthily creep-
ing down the private staircase: see their frightened looks —
see—"
The merry-andrew abruptly stopped. Three or four of his
auditors rushed to the assistance of Madame Fauvel, who
seemed about to faint; and at the same moment he felt his
arm roughly seized by some one behind him. He turned round
and found himself face to face with M. de Clameran and Raoul
de Lagors, both of whom were pale with anger.
"What do you require, gentlemen?" he asked politely.
"To speak with you," they answered in a breath.
"I am at your service." And he followed them to the end
of the picture gallery, near a window opening on to a balcony.
Here they were unobserved except by the man in the Vene-
tian cloak, whom the merry-andrew had so respectfully ad-
dressed as "Monsieur le Comte." The minuet having ended,
the musicians were resting, and the crowd began rapidly to fill
the gallery. Madame Fauvel's sudden faintness had passed off
unnoticed save by a few. who attributed it to the heat of the
room. M. Fauvel had been sent for ; but when he came hur-
rying in, and found his wife composedly talking to Madeleine,
his alarm was dissipated, and he returned to the card-tables.
Not having as much control over his temper as Raoul. M. de
Clameran angrily remarked to the merry-andrew : "In the first
place, sir, I should like to know whom I am speaking to."
The merry-andrew, determined to answer as if he thought the
question were a jest, replied in the bantering tone of a buf-
foon: "You want my passport, do you. my lord doge? I left
it in the hands of the city authorities ; it contains my name,
age, profession, domicile, and every detail."
With an angry gesture, M. de Clameran interrupted him.
"You have just committed a most vile action!"
'T. my lord doge?"
"Yes, you ! What is the meaning of the abominable story
you have been relating?" *
1044 FILE NUMBER 113
"Abominable ! You may say so, if you like ; but I, who com-
posed it, entertain a different opinion."
"Enough, sir; you might at least have the courage to ac-
knowledge that your allusions conveyed a vile insinuation
against Madame Fauvel."
The merry-andrew stood with his head thrown back, and
mouth wide open, as if astounded at what he heard. But any
one who knew him would have detected his bright black eyes
sparkling with malicious satisfaction.
"Bless my heart !" he cried, as if speaking to himself. "This
is the strangest thing I ever heard of ! How can my drama
of the Mandarine Li-Fo have any reference to Madame Fauvel,
whom I don't know from Adam or Eve? I can't think how the
resemblance — unless — but no, that is impossible."
"Do you pretend," said M. de Clameran, "to be ignorant of
M. Fauvel's misfortune?"
The merry-andrew looked very innocent, and asked : "A mis-
fortune?"
"I mean the robbery of which M. Fauvel is the victim. It is
in every one's mouth, and you must have heard of it."
"Ah, yes, yes; I remember. His cashier has run off with
three hundred and fifty thousand francs. Gracious me ! It is
a thing that almost happens daily. But, as to discovering any
connection between this robbery and my story, that is quite
another matter."
M. de Clameran did not hasten to reply. A nudge from
De Lagors had calmed him as if by enchantment. He looked
suspiciously at the mountebank, and seemed to regret having
uttered the significant words forced from him by angry ex-
citement. "Very well," he finally said in his usual haughty
tone : "I must have been mistaken. I accept your explanation."
But the merry-andrew, hitherto so humble and foolish-look-
ing, seemed to take offense at the last word, and, assuming a
defiant attitude, exclaimed : "I have not given, nor had I to give,
any explanation."
"Sir!" began De Clameran.
"Allow me to finish, if you please. If, unintentionally, I have
offended the wife of a man whom I highly esteem, it is, I fancy,
his business to seek redress, and not yours. Perhaps you will
tell me he is too old to demand satisfaction, very likely; but
he has sons, and I have just seen one of them here. You ask
who I am; in return I ask you who are you — you who under-
FILE NUMBER 113 1045
take to act as Madame Fauvel's champion? Are you her rela-
tive, friend, or ally? What right have you to insult her by
pretending to discover an allusion to her in a story invented for
amusement?"
There was nothing to be said in reply to this. M. de Clam-
eran sought a means of evading a complete answer. "I am a
friend of M. Fauvel's," he said, "and this title gives me the
right to be as jealous of his reputation as if it were my own.
If you do not think this a sufficient reason for my interference,
I must inform you that his family will shortly be mine."
"Ah !"
"Next week, sir, my marriage with Mademoiselle Madeleine
will be publicly announced."
This news was so unexpected, so strange, that for a moment
the merry-andrew was fairly astounded. But he soon recovered
himself, and, bowing with deference, said, with covert irony:
"Permit me to offer you my congratulations, sir. Besides being
the belle of to-night's ball, Mademoiselle Madeleine is worth,
I hear, half a million."
Raoul de Lagors had anxiously been watching the people
near them, to see if they overheard this conversation. "We
have had enough of this gossip," he said in a disdainful tone;
"I will only say one thing to you, my fine fellow, and that is,
your tongue is too long."
"Perhaps it is, my pretty youth, perhaps it is ; but my arm
is still longer."
De Clameran here interrupted them by exclaiming: "It is
impossible to have an explanation with a man who conceals
his identity under the guise of a fool."
"You are at liberty, my lord doge, to ask the master of the
house who I am — if you dare."
"You are," cried Clameran, "you are — " A warning look
from Raoul checked the noble iron-founder from using an
epithet which might have led to an affray, or at least a
scandalous scene.
The merry-andrew stood by with a sardonic smile, and, after
a moment's silence, stared M. de Clameran steadily in the face,
and, in measured tones, said: "I was the best friend, sir, that
your dead brother Gaston ever had. I was his adviser, and the
confidant of his last hopes."
These words came like a clap of thunder on De Clameran,
who turned deadly pale, and started back with his hands
1046 FILE NUMBER 113
stretched out before him, as if shrinking from a fantom. He
tried to answer, to protest, to say something, but terror froze
the words upon his tongue.
"Come, let us go," said De Lagors, who had remained per-
fectly self-possessed. And he dragged De Clameran away,
half supporting him, for he staggered like a drunken man,
and clung to every object he passed, to prevent himself from
falling.
"Oh, oh, oh !" exclaimed the merry-andrew, in three different
tones. He was almost as much astonished as the forge-master,
and remained rooted to the spot, watching the latter as he
slowly left the room. It was with no decided object in view
that the merry-andrew had ventured to use the last myste-
riously threatening words, but he had been inspired to do so
by his wonderful instinct, which with him was like the scent
of a bloodhound. "What can this mean ?" he murmured. "Why
was he so frightened ? What terrible memory have I awakened
in his base soul? T need not boast of my penetration, or the
subtlety of my plans. There is a great master, who, without
any effort, in an instant destroys all our chimeras ; he is called
'Chance.' "
His mind had wandered far from the present scene, when
he was brought back to his situation by some one touching
him on the shoulder. It was the man in the Venetian cloak.
"Are you satisfied, M. Verduret?" he inquired.
"Yes and no, Monsieur the Comte. No, because I have not
completely achieved the object I had in view when I asked
you to obtain an invitation for me here to-night; yes, because
these two rascals behaved in a manner which dispels all doubt."
"And yet you complain — "
"I do not complain, sir; on the contrary, I bless chance, or
rather Providence, which has just revealed to me the existence
of a secret that I did not before even suspect."
Five or six people approached the comte, and he went off
with them after giving M. Verduret a friendly nod. The
latter instantly threw aside his banner, and started in pursuit
of Madame Fauvel. He found her sitting on a sofa, in the
ball-room, engaged in an animated conversation with Madeleine.
"Of course they are talking over the scene; but what has
become of De Lagors and De Clameran?" thought he. He
soon caught sight of them wandering among the groups scat-
tered about the room, and eagerly asking questions. "I will
FILE NUMBER 113 1047
bet my head," he muttered, "these honorable gentlemen are
trying to find out who T am. Ask away, my friends, ask away !"
They soon gave over their inquiries, but were so preoccupied,
and anxious to be alone in order to reflect and deliberate, that,
without waiting for the supper, they took leave of Madame
Fauvel and her niece, saying they were going home. The
merry-andrew saw them enter the cloak-room to fetch their
cloaks ; and in a few minutes they left the house. "I have
nothing more to do here," he murmured; "I may as well go too."
Completely covering his dress with an ample overcoat, he
started for home, thinking the cold frosty air would cool his
confused brain. He lit a cigar and, walking up the Rue St.
Lazare, crossed the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, and struck
into the Faubourg Montmartre. A man suddenly darted out
from some place of concealment, and rushed upon him with a
dagger. Fortunately the merry-andrew had a cat-like instinct,
which enabled him to protect himself against immediate danger,
and detect any harm which threatened. He saw, or rather
divined, the man crouching in the dark shadow of a house,
and had the presence of mind to step back and spread out his
arms before him, and so ward off the would-be assassin. This
movement certainly saved his life, for he received in the arm
a furious stab, which would have instantly killed him had it
penetrated his breast. Anger, more than pain, made him ex-
claim: "Ah, you villain!" and recoiling a few feet, he put
himself on the defensive. The precaution, however, was use-
less; for seeing his blow miss the mark, the assassin did not
return to the attack, but made rapidly off.
"That was certainly De Lagors," thought the merry-andrew,
"and Dc Clameran must be somewhere near. While I walked
round one side of the church, they must have gone the other
and lain in wait for me."
His wound began to pain him very much, and he stood under
a gas-lamp to examine it. It did not appear to be dangerous,
although the arm was cut through to the bone. He tore his hand-
kerchief into four bands, and tied his arm up with them with
the dexterity of a surgeon. "I must be on the track of some great
crime," said he, "since these fellows are resolved upon murder.
When such cunning rogues are only in danger of the police
court, they do not gratuitously risk the chance of being tried
for murder." He thought that by enduring a great deal of
pain he might still use his arm, so he started in pursuit of his
10^ FILE NUMBER 113
enemy, taking care to keep in the middle of the road, and to
avoid all dark corners. Although he saw no one, he was con-
vinced that he was being followed. He was not mistaken.
When he reached the Boulevard Montmartre, he crossed the
street, and. as he did so. distinguished two shadows which he
recognized. They also crossed the street a little higher up.
""I have to deal with desperate men." he muttered. "They
do not even take the pains to conceal their pursuit of me. They
seem to be accustomed to this kind of adventure, and the car-
riage trick which fooled Fanferlot would never succeed with
them. Besides, my light hat is a perfect beacon to lead them
on in the night." He continued his way up the boulevard, and.
without turning his head, felt sure that his enemies were not
more than thirty paces behind him. "I must get rid of them
somehow." he said to himself. "I can neither return home nor
to the Grand Archangel with these devils at my heels. They
are following me now to find out where I live, and who I am.
If they discover the merry-andrew is M. Yerduret. and that
If. Yerduret is Iff. Lecoq. my plans will be ruined. They will
escape abroad with the money, and I shall be left to console my-
self with a wounded arm. A pleasant ending to all my ex-
ertions !"'
The idea of Raoul and De Clameran escaping him so exasper-
ated him that for an instant he thought of having them arrested
at once. This was easy enough, for he only had to rush upon
them, shout for help, and they would all three be arrested,
conducted to the police station and brought before the com-
missary. The police often resort to this ingenious and simple
means to arrest a criminal whom they may meet by chance, and
whom they can not seize without a warrant. The merry-
andrew had sufficient proof to sustain him in the arrest of De
Lagors. He could produce the letter and the mutilated prayer-
book, he could reveal the existence of the pawnbroker's
tickets in the house at Yesinet. he could show his wounded arm.
He could, if necessary, force Raoul to confess how and why
he had assumed the name of De Lagors. and what his motive
was in passing himself off as a relative of M. Fauvel. On the
other hand, in acting thus hastily, he would be. perhaps, in-
suring the safety of the principal plotter, De Clameran. What
absolute proofs had he against him ? Not one. He had strong
suspicions, but no real grounds for making any charge. On
reflection, the detective decided that he would act alone, as
FILE NUMBER 113 1C49
he had thus far done, and that alone and unaided he would
discover the truth of his suspicions.
Having arrived at this decision, the first step to be taken
was to put his pursuers on the wrong scent. He walked rapidly
along the Boulevard Sevastopol, and. reaching the square of
the Arts et Metiers, he abruptly stopped, and asked some in-
significant questions of two policemen, who were standing
talking together. This maneuvre had the result he expected ;
Raoul and De Clameran stood perfectly still about twenty-
steps off, not daring to advance. While talking with the consta-
bles, the merry-andrew pulled the bell of the door before which
they were standing, and the sound that ensued apprised him
that the door was open. He bowed, and entered the house.
A minute later the constables had passed on, and De Lagors
and De Clameran in their turn rang the bell. When the door
was opened, they roused up the concierge and asked who it
was that had just gene in disguised as a merry-andrew. They
were told that he had seen no such person, and that none of
the lodgers had gone out in fancy costume that night. '"How-
ever," added the man, "I am not perfectly sure, for this house
has another door which opens on the Rue St. Denis."
"We are tricked," interrupted De Lagors, "and will never
know who this merry-andrew is."
"Unless we learn it too soon for our own advantage," said
De Clameran musingly.
While the pair were lamenting their failure in discovering
the merry-andrew's identity, Yerduret hurried along and
reached the Grand Archangel as the clock struck three. Pros-
per, who was watching from his window, saw him in the
distance, and ran down to open the door for him. "What have
you learned?" he asked: "What did you find out? Did you see
Madeleine? Were Raoul and De Clameran at the ball?"
But M. Yerduret was not in the habit of discussing private
affairs where he might be overheard. "First of all, let us go
into your room." said he, "and then get me some water to wash
this cut, which burns like fire."
"Heavens ! Are you wounded ?"
"Yes, it is a little souvenir of your friend Raoul. Ah. I will
soon teach him the danger of scratching my skin !" Prosper
was surprised at the look of merciless rage on his friend's face,
as he calmly washed and dressed his arm. "Now, Pros; *T, we
will talk as much as you please," resumed M. Yerduret. "Our
1050 FILE NUMBER 113
enemies are on the alert, and we must crush them instantly. I
have made a mistake. I have been on the wrong track ; it is
an accident liable to happen to any man, no matter how intel-
ligent he may be. I took the effect for the cause. The day I
was convinced that culpable relations existed between Raoul
and Madame Fauvel, I thought I held the end of the thread
that would lead us to the truth. I ought to have been more
mistrustful; this solution was too simple, too natural."
"Do you suppose Madame Fauvel to be innocent?"
"Certainly not; but her guilt is not such as I first supposed.
I imagined that, infatuated with a seductive young adventurer,
Madame Fauvel had bestowed upon him the name of one of
her relatives, and then introduced him to her husband as her
nephew. This was an adroit stratagem to gain him admission
to the house. She began by giving him all the money she
could dispose of; then she let him have her jewels to pawn;
and at length having nothing more to give, she allowed him to
steal the money from her husband's safe. That is what I
first thought."
"And in this way everything was explained?"
"No, this did not explain everything, as I well knew at the
time, and should, consequently, have studied my characters
more thoroughly. How is De Clameran's ascendency to be
accounted for, if my first idea was the correct one?"
"De Clameran is De Lagors's accomplice, of course."
"Ah, there is the mistake ! I for a long time believed De
Lagors to be the person principally concerned, whereas, in
fact, he is nothing. Yesterday, in a dispute between them, the
forge-master said to him: And, above all, my young friend, I
would advise you not to resist me, for if you do I will crush
you to atoms.' That explains all. The elegant De Lagors is
not Madame Fauvel's lover, but De Clameran's tool. Besides,
did our first suppositions account for Madeleine's resigned
obedience? It is De Clameran, and not De Lagors, whom she
obeys."
Prosper began to remonstrate. M. Verduret shrugged his
shoulders. To convince him he had only to tell him that three
hours ago De Clameran had announced his approaching mar-
riage with Madeleine; but he refrained from doing so. "De
Clameran," he continued, "De Clameran alone has Madame
Fauvel in his power. Now, the question is, what is the secret
of this terrible influence he has gained over her? I have posi-
FILE NUMBER 113 1051
tive proof that they have not met since their early youth until
fifteen months ago; and, as Madame Fauvel's reputation has
always been above the reach of slander, we must seek in the
past for the cause of her resigned obedience to his will."
"We shall never discover it," said Prosper mournfully.
"We shall know it as soon as we have learned the history of
De Clameran's past life. Ah, to-night he turned as white as
a sheet when I mentioned his brother Gaston's name. And
then I remembered that Gaston died suddenly, while his brother
Louis was on a visit to him."
"Do you think he was murdered?"
"I think the men who tried to assassinate me would do any-
thing. The robbery, my friend, has now become a secondary
affair. It is easily explained, and, if that were all that had
to be accounted for, I would say to you: 'My task is done, let
us go and ask the investigating magistrate for a warrant of
^rrest.' "
Prosper started up with sparkling eyes, and exclaimed :
"What, you know then — is it possible?"
"Yes, I know who gave the key, and I know who told the
secret word."
"The key may have been M. Fauvel's. But the word — "
"The word, unlucky man, you gave yourself. You have for-
gotten, I suppose. But, fortunately, Nina remembered. You
know that a couple of days before the robbery, you took De
Lagors and two other friends to sup with Madame Gipsy?
Nina was sad, and reproached you for not being more de-
voted to her."
"Yes, I remember that."
"But do you remember what you replied to her?"
"No, I do not," said Prosper, after thinking a moment.
"Well, I will tell you; you said: 'Nina, you are unjust in
reproaching me with not thinking constantly of you, for at this
very moment it is your dear name that guards my employer's
safe.' "
The truth suddenly burst upon Prosper like a thunderclap.
He wrung his hands despairingly and exclaimed : "Yes, oh, yes !
I remember now."
"Then you can easily understand the rest. One of the scoun-
drels went to Madame Fauvel, and compelled her to give up
her husband's key; then, at a venture, he placed the movable
buttons on the name of Gipsy, opened the safe, and took from
1052 FILE NUMBER 113
it the three hundred and fifty thousand francs. And Madame
Fauvel must have been terribly frightened before she yielded.
The day after the robbery the poor woman was near dying;
and it was she who at the greatest risk sent you the ten thou-
sand francs."
"But who was the thief, Raoul or De Clameran? What en-
ables them to thus tyrannize over Madame Fauvel? And how
does Madeleine come to be mixed up in this disgraceful affair?"
"These questions, my dear Prosper, I can not yet answer;
therefore I postpone going to see the magistrate. I must ask
you to wait ten days ; and, if in that time I can not discover the
solution of this mystery, I will return and we will go together
to M. Patrigent."
"Are you then going away?"
"In an hour I shall be on the road to Beaucaire. It was from
that neighborhood that De Clameran came, as well as Madame
Fauvel, who was a Mademoiselle de la Verberie before her
marriage."
"Yes, I have heard of both families."
"I must go there to study them. Neither Raoul nor De Cla-
meran can escape during my absence. The police will not lose
sight of them. But you, Prosper, must be prudent. Promise
me to remain a prisoner here while I am away."
All that M. Verduret asked, Prosper willingly promised.
But he could not let him depart thus. "Will you not tell me,
sir," he asked, "who you are, and your reasons for coming to
my assistance?"
M. Verduret smiled sadly, and replied: "I will tell you in
the presence of Nina, on the day before your marriage with
Madeleine takes place."
Once left to his own reflection, Prosper began to appre-
ciate the powerful assistance rendered him by his friend. Re-
calling the field of investigation gone over by his mysterious
acquaintance, he was amazed at its extent. How many facts
had been discovered in a week, and with what precision, too,
although he had stated he was on the wrong track ! Verduret
had grouped his evidence, and reached a result which Prosper
felt he never could have hoped to have attained by his own
exertions. He was conscious that he possessed neither M. Ver-
duret's penetration nor his subtlety, still less the art of exact-
ing obedience, of creating friends at every step, and of making
men and circumstances conduce to the attainment of a common
FILE NUMBER 113 1053
result. He soon began to regret the absence of this friend, who
had risen up in the hour of adversity. He missed the some-
times rough but always kindly voice, which had encouraged
and consoled him. He felt wofully lost and helpless, not daring
to act or think for himself, more timid than a child when
deserted by its nurse. He had at least the good sense to follow
the recommendations of his mentor. He remained shut up at
the Grand Archangel, not even showing himself at the win-
dows. Twice he had news of M. Verduret. The first time he
received a letter in which this friend said he had seen his
father, and had a long talk with him. Afterward, Dubois, M.
de Clameran's valet, came to tell him that his "chief" reported
everything as progressing finely. On the ninth day of his vol-
untary seclusion, Prosper began to feel restless, and at ten
o'clock at night wished to go for a walk, thinking the fresh
air would relieve the headache which had kept him awake the
previous night. Madame Alexandre, who seemed to have some
knowledge of M. Verduret's affairs, begged Prosper to remain
at home.
"What do I risk by taking a walk at this hour, in a quiet part
of the city?" he asked. "I can certainly stroll as far as the
Jardin des Plantes without the chance of meeting any one."
Unfortunately he did not strictly follow this programme ; for,
having reached the Orleans railway station, he went into a
cafe near by, and called for a glass of beer. As he sat drink-
ing it, he glanced at a daily paper, "Le Soleil," and under the
heading of "Rumors of the Day," read the following paragraph :
"We understand that the niece of one of our most prominent
bankers, M. Andre Fauvel. will be shortly married to the Mar-
quis Louis de Clameran, a Provencal nobleman." This news,
coming upon him so unexpectedly, proved to Prosper the just-
ness of M. Verduret's calculations. Alas ! why did not this
certainty inspire him with absolute faith ? Why did it not
give him the courage to wait, the strength of mind to refrain
from acting on his own responsibility? Frenzied by distress of
mind, he already saw Madeleine indissolubly united to this vil-
lain, and, thinking that M. Verduret would perhaps arrive too
late to be of use, determined at all risks to throw an obstacle
in the way of the marriage. He called for pen and paper, and.
forgetting that no situation can excuse the mean cowardice of
an anonymous letter, wrote in a disguised hand the following
lines to M. Fauvel :
1054 FILE NUMBER 113
"Dear Sir — You consigned your cashier to prison ; you acted
rightly, since you were convinced of his dishonesty and faith-
lessness. But, even if he stole three hundred and fifty thou-
sand francs from your safe, does it follow that he also stole
Madame Fauvel's diamonds, and took them to the pawnbroker's,
where they now are? Warned as you are, were I you, I would
not be the subject of public scandal, but I would watch my wife,
and would soon discover that one should ever be distrustful of
handsome cousins. Moreover, before signing Mademoiselle
Madeleine's marriage contract, I would call at the Prefecture of
Police, and obtain some information concerning the noble Mar-
quis de Clameran. — A Friend."
Prosper hastened off to post his letter. Fearing that it would
not reach M. Fauvel in time, he walked to one of the head
offices in the Rue Cardinal Lemoine, and put it into the letter-
box. Until this moment he had not doubted the propriety of
his action. But now, when too late, when he heard the sound
of his letter falling into the box, a thousand scruples filled his
mind. Was it not wrong to act thus hurriedly? Would not
this letter interfere with all M. Verduret's plans ? Upon reach-
ing the hotel, his doubts were changed into bitter regrets.
Joseph Dubois was waiting for him; he had received a tele-
gram from his chief saying that his business was finished, and
that he would return the next evening at nine o'clock. Prosper
was wretched. He would have given all he had to recover
the anonymous letter. And he had cause for regret. For at
that very hour M. Verduret was taking his seat in the train
at Tarascon, and meditating upon the most advantageous plan
to be adopted in pursuance of his discoveries. For he had dis-
covered everything.
Adding to what he already knew the story of an old servant
of Mademoiselle de la Yerberie, the affidavit of an old footman
who had always lived in the De Clameran family, and the depo-
sitions of the married couple in the service of De Lagors at
his Vesinet country-house, the latter having been sent to him
by Dubois (Fanferlot), with a good deal of information obtained
from the Prefecture of Police, he had worked up a complete
case, and could now act upon a chain of evidence without a
missing link. As he had predicted, he had been compelled to
search into the distant past for the first causes of the crime
of which Prosper had been the victim. The following is the
FILE NUMBER 113 1055
drama, as written out by him for the benefit of the examining
magistrate with the certainty that it contained sufficient grounds
for preferring an indictment.
ABOUT six miles from Tarascon, on the left bank of the
Rhone, not far from Messrs. Audibert's wonderful gardens,
stood the chateau of Clameran, a weather-stained, neglected,
but massive structure. Here lived, in 1841, the old Marquis de
Clameran and his two sons, Gaston and Louis. The marquis
was an eccentric old man. He belonged to the race of nobles,
now almost extinct, whose watches stopped in 1789, and who
keep the time of a past century. More attached to his illu-
sions than to his life, the old marquis insisted upon consider-
ing all the stirring events which had happened since the first
revolution as a series of deplorable practical jokes. Emigrating
in the suite of the Comte d'Artois, he did not return to France
until 181 5, with the allies. He should have been thankful to
heaven for the recovery of a portion of his immense family
estates; a comparatively small portion, it is true, but still suf-
ficient to support him honorably. He said, however, that he
did not think the few paltry acres worth thanking heaven for.
At first he tried every means to obtain an appointment at court ■
but, finding all his efforts fail, he resolved to retire to his cha-
teau, which he did, after cursing and pitying his king, whom he
worshiped, and whom, at the bottom of his heart, he regarded
as a thorough Jacobin.
The Marquis de Clameran soon became accustomed to the
free and indolent life of a country nobleman. Possessing about
fifteen thousand francs a year, he spent twenty-five or thirty
thousand, borrowing even on his estates, on the pretense that
a genuine Restoration would soon take place, and that he would
then regain possession of all his properties. Following his ex-
ample, his younger son, Louis, lived extravagantly, and was
always in pursuit of adventure, or idling away his time in
drinking and gambling. The elder son, Gaston, anxious to par-
1056 FILE NUMBER 113
ticipate in the stirring events of the time, studied hard, and
read certain papers and pamphlets surreptitiously received, the
mere titles of which were regarded by his father as blasphe-
mous. Altogether the old marquis was the happiest of mortals,
eating and drinking well, hunting a good deal, tolerated by the
peasants, and execrated by the neighboring townspeople, whom
he treated with contempt and raillery. Time never hung heavy
on his hands, excepting in the summer, when the valley of the
Rhone was intensely hot ; but even then he had infallible means
of amusement ever fresh, though always the same. It was to
speak ill of his daughter, the Comtesse de la Verberie. 9
The Comtesse de la Verberie, the marquis's special aver-
sion, was a tall, wiry woman, angular in character, as well as
in appearance, cold and arrogant toward her equals, and domi-
neering over her inferiors. Like her noble neighbor, she had
emigrated with her husband, who was afterward killed at
Lutzen, but, unfortunately for his memory, not in the French
ranks. In 1815 the comtesse also came back to France. But
while the Marquis de Clameran returned to comparative ease,
she could obtain nothing from royal munificence but the small
estate and chateau of La Verberie, and a pension of two thou-
sand five hundred francs. The comtesse had but one child, a
lovely girl of eighteen, named Valentine, fair, slender, and
graceful, with large, soft eyes, beautiful enough to make the
stone saints of the village church thrill in their niches when
she knelt piously at their feet. The renown of her great beauty,
carried along on the rapid waters of the Rhone, had spread
far and wide. Often the boatmen and the robust drivers urging
their powerful horses along the towpath would stop to gaze
with admiration upon Valentine, seated under some grand old
trees on the bank of the river, absorbed in a book. At a dis-
tance, in her white dress and flowing tresses, she seemed to
these honest people a mysterious spirit from another world,
and they regarded it as a good omen when they caught a
glimpse of her. All along between Aries and Valence she was
spoken of as the "lovely fairy" of La Verberie.
If M. de Clameran detested the comtesse, Madame de la
Verberie execrated the marquis. If he nicknamed her "the
witch," she retaliated by calling him "the old gander." And
yet they ought to have agreed, for at heart they cherished the
same opinions, though viewing them in different ways. The
marquis considered himself a philosopher, scoffed at every-
FILE NUMBER 113 1057
thing, and had an excellent digestion. The comtesse nursed
her old grievances, and grew sallow and thin from rage and
envy. Still, they might have spent many pleasant evenings
together, for, after all, they were neighbors. From Clameran
could be seen Valentine's greyhound running about the park
of La Verberie; from La Verberie glimpses were had of the
lights in the dining-room windows of Clameran. And, regu-
larly as these lights were discerned every evening, the com-
tesse would say in a spiteful tone : "Ah, now their orgies are
about to commence !" The two chateaux were only separated
by the fast-flowing Rhone, which at this spot was rather nar-
row. But between the two families existed a hatred deeper
and more difficult to avert than even the river's course. What
was the cause of this hatred? The comtesse, no less than the
marquis, would have found it difficult to tell. It was related
that under the reign of Henri IV, or Louis XIII, a La Verberie
had seduced a fair daughter of the De Clamerans. The mis-
deed in question led to a duel ; swords flashed in the sunlight,
and blood stained the fresh green grass. This groundwork of
facts had been highly embellished by fiction ; handed down from
generation to generation, it became a long tragic history of
perfidy, murder, and rapine, precluding any intercourse between
the two families.
The usual result followed, as it always does in real life, and
often in romances, which, however exaggerated they may be,
generally preserve a reflection of the truth which inspires them.
Gaston met Valentine at an entertainment, and fell in love with
her at first sight. Valentine saw Gaston, and from that moment
his image filled her heart. But so many obstacles separated
them ! For more than a year they both religiously guarded
their secret, buried like a treasure in the inmost recesses of
their hearts. This year of charming, dangerous reveries de-
cided their fate. To the sweetness of their first impressions
a more tender sentiment succeeded ; then came love, each of
them endowing the other with superhuman qualities and ideal
perfections. Deep, sincere passion expands only in solitude ;
in the impure air of a city it fades and dies, like the hardy
plants of the south, which lose their color and perfume when
transplanted into our hot-houses. Gaston and Valentine had
only seen each other once, but seeing was to love; and,
as the time passed, their love grew stronger, until at last the
fatality which had presided over their first meeting brought
Gab. — Vol. iv <?
1058 FILE NUMBER 113
them once more together. They chanced to be visiting at the
same time the old Duchesse d'Arlange, who had recently re-
turned to the neighborhood to dispose of her remaining prop-
erty. They spoke to each other, and, like old friends, surprised
to find that they entertained the same thoughts and echoed the
same memories. Again they were separated for months. But
ere long, as if by accident, both chanced to be regularly on
the banks of the Rhone at a certain hour, when they would sit
and gaze across the river at each other. Finally, one mild
May evening, when Madame de la Verberie had gone to Beau-
caire, Gaston ventured into the park, and presented himself
before Valentine. She was neither surprised nor indignant.
Genuine innocence displays none of the startled modesty as-
sumed by its conventional counterfeit. It never occurred to
Valentine to bid Gaston to leave her. She leaned upon his
arm, and strolled up and down the grand old avenue of oaks
with him. They did not say they loved each other, they felt
it; but they did say with tears in their eyes that their love
was hopeless. They well knew that the inveterate family feud
could never be overcome, and that the attempt would be mere
folly. They swore never, never to forget each other, and
mournfully resolved never to meet again, excepting just once
more !
Alas ! Valentine was not without excuse. Possessed of a
timid, loving heart, her expansive affection had always been
repressed and chilled by a harsh mother. Never had there
been one of those long private ; :alks between the Comtesse de
la Verberie and Valentine which enables a good mother to
read her daughter's heart like an open book. Madame de la
Verberie concerned herself only with her daughter's beauty.
She was wont to think: "Next winter I will borrow enough
to take the child to Paris, and I am much mistaken if her
handsome looks do not win her a rich husband and release me
from this wretched state of poverty." She considered this
loving her daughter ! The second meeting of the lovers was
not the last. Gaston dared not trust a boatman, so that he
bad to walk a league in order to cross the bridge. He thought
it would be shorter work to swim the river; but he could not
swim well, and to cross the Rhone where it ran so rapidly
was a rash proceeding even for the most skilful swimmer.
However, he practised privately, and to such good purpose
that one evening Valentine was startled by seeing him rise
FILE NUMBER 113 1059
out of the water at her feet. She made him promise never
to attempt this exploit again. Still he repeated the feat and
the promise the next and every successive evening. As Val-
entine was always imagining he was being drowned in the furi-
ous current, they agreed upon a signal to relieve her anxiety.
At the moment of starting, Gaston would place a light in his
window at Clameran, and in a quarter of an hour he would be
at his idol's feet.
What were the projects and hopes of the lovers? Alas!
they had no projects, and they hoped for nothing. Blindly,
thoughtlessly, almost fearlessly, they abandoned themselves to
the dangerous happiness of a daily meeting. Regardless of the
storm that threatened to burst over their heads, they reveled
in their present happiness. Is it not like this with every sincere
passion? Love subsists upon itself and in itself; and the very
things which ought to extinguish it, absence and obstacles,
only cause it to burn more fiercely. It is exclusive and troubled
neither with the past nor the future ; it sees and cares for noth-
ing beyond its present enjoyment. Moreover, Valentine and
Gaston believed every one ignorant of their secret. They had
always been so exceedingly cautious ! they had kept such a strict
watch ! They flattered themselves that their conduct had been
a masterpiece of dissimulation and prudence. Valentine had
fixed upon a time for their meetings when she was certain her
mother would not miss her. Gaston had never confided his
secret to any one, not even to his brother Louis. They never
mentioned each other's name. They denied themselves a last
sweet word, a final kiss, when they felt these would be attended
with danger. Poor blind lovers ! As if anything could be con-
cealed from the idle curiosity of country gossips ; from the
slanderous spirits ever on the lookout for some new bit of scan-
dal, on which they improve and eagerly spread far and near.
They believed their secret well kept, whereas it had long since
been a matter of public notoriety; the story of their love, the
particulars of their meetings, were topics of conversation
throughout the neighborhood. Sometimes at dusk they would
see a boat gliding through the water, close to the shore, and
would say to each other : "It is a belated fisherman returning
home." They were mistaken. On board the boat were spies,
who, delighted at having discovered them, hastened to report,
with a number of false details, the result of their shameful
expedition.
1060 FILE NUMBER 113
One dreary November evening, Gaston was awakened to the
true state of affairs. The Rhone was so swollen by heavy rains
that an inundation was daily expected. To attempt to swim
across this impetuous torrent would be tempting Providence.
Gaston therefore went to Tarascon, intending to cross the
bridge there, and to walk along the bank to the usual place
of meeting at La Verberie, where Valentine expected him at
eleven o'clock. Whenever Gaston went to Tarascon, he dined
with a relative living there; but on this occasion a strange
fatality led him to accompany a friend to the Hotel of the
Three Emperors. After dinner, instead of going to the Cafe
Simon, their usual resort, they went to the little cafe facing
the open space where the fairs are held. They found the small
apartment crowded with young men of the town. Gaston and
his friend called for a bottle of beer, and commenced a game
at billiards. After they had been playing for a short time,
Gaston's attention was attracted by peals of forced laughter
from a party at the other end of the room. From this moment,
with his attention taken up by this continued laughter, of which
he believed himself the object, he knocked the balls about reck-
lessly. His conduct surprised his friend, who remarked to him:
"Why, what is the matter? You are missing the simplest
strokes."
"It is nothing."
The game continued a little while longer, when Gaston sud-
denly turned as white as a sheet, and, throwing down his cue,
strode toward the table which was occupied by five young men,
playing dominoes and drinking mulled wine. He addressed the
elder of the group, a handsome man of twenty-six, with large
bright eyes, and a fierce black mustache, named Jules Lazet.
"Repeat, if you dare," he said, in a voice trembling with pas-
sion, "the remark you just now made !"
"Who would prevent me?" asked Lazet calmly. "I said, and
I repeat, that a nobleman's daughter is no better than a work-
man's daughter; that virtue does not necessarily accompany a
title."
"You mentioned a particular name !"
Lazet rose from his chair as if he knew his answer would
exasperate Gaston, and that from words they would come to
blows. "I did," he said, with an insolent smile. "I mentioned
the name of the pretty little fairy of La Verberie."
At this all the young men, and even a couple of commercial
FILE NUMBER 113 1061
travelers who were dining at the cafe, rose and surrounded the
two disputants. The provoking looks, the murmurs, the shouts,
which were directed toward Gaston as he walked up to Lazet,
convinced him that he was surrounded by enemies. The wick-
edness and the evil tongue of the old marquis were bearing their
fruit. Rancor ferments quickly and fiercely in the hearts and
heads of the people of Provence. But Gaston de Clameran was
not a man to withdraw, even if his foes were a hundred, instead
of fifteen or twenty.
"No one but a coward," he said, in a clear, ringing voice,
which the pervading silence rendered almost startling; "no one
but a contemptible coward would be base enough to calumniate
a young girl who has neither father nor brother to defend her
honor."
"If she has no father or brother," sneered Lazet, "she has
her lovers, and that suffices."
The insulting words, "her lovers," enraged Gaston beyond
control ; he struck Lazet violently in the face. Every one in the
cafe simultaneously uttered a cry of alarm. Lazet's violence of
character, his herculean strength and undaunted courage, were
well known. He sprang over the table that separated him from
Gaston, and seized him by the throat. Then arose a scene of
excitement and confusion. De Clameran's friend, attempting
to assist him, was knocked down with billiard-cues, and kicked
under a table. Equally strong and agile, Gaston and Lazet
struggled for some minutes without either gaining an advan-
tage. Lazet, as loyal as he was courageous, would not accept
assistance from his friends. He continually called out : "Keep
away ; let me fight it out alone !"
But the others were too excited to remain inactive spectators
of the scene. "A blanket, quick !" cried one of them ; "a blanket
to toss the marquis !"
Five or six young men now rushed upon Gaston, and sep-
arated him from Lazet. Some tried to throw him down, others
to trip him up. He defended himself with the energy of de-
spair, exhibiting in his furious struggles a strength of which
no one would have thought him capable. He struck right and
left as he showered fierce epithets upon his adversaries, who
were twelve against one. He was endeavoring to get round
the billiard-table so as to be near the door, and had almost
succeeded, when an exultant cry arose: "Here is the blanket!"
"Put him in the blanket — the little fairv's lover!"
1065
FILE NUMBER 113
Gaston heard these cries. He saw himself overcome, and
suffering an ignoble outrage at the hands of these enraged men.
By a dexterous movement he extricated himself from the grasp
of the three who were holding him, and felled a fourth to the
ground. His arms were free ; but all his enemies returned to
the charge. Then he seemed to lose his head, and seizing a
knife which lay on the table where the commercial travelers
had been dining, he plunged it twice into the breast of the
t first man who rushed upon him. This unfortunate man was
Jules Lazet. He dropped to the ground. There was a second
of silent horror. Then four or five of the young men rushed
forward to raise Lazet. The landlady ran about wringing her
hands, and screaming with fright. Some of the younger assail-
ants rushed into the streets shouting : "Murder ! Murder !" But
all the others turned upon Gaston with cries of vengeance.
He felt that he was lost. His enemies seized the first objects
they could lay their hands upon and he received several wounds.
He jumped upon the billiard-table, and making a rapid spring,
dashed at the large window of the cafe. He was fearfully cut
by the broken glass and splinters, but he passed through.
Gaston was outside, but he was not yet saved. Astonished
and disconcerted at his desperate feat, his assailants for a mo-
ment were stupefied ; but recovering their presence of mind,
they started in pursuit of him. Gaston ran on from tree to
tree, making frequent turnings. Finally he determined, if pos-
sible, to reach Clameran. With incredible rapidity he darted
diagonally across the open space, in the direction of the em-
bankment which protects the valley of Tarascon from inunda-
tions. Unfortunately, upon reaching this embankment, Gaston
forgot that the entrance was partially closed by three posts,
such as are always placed before walks intended for foot-
passengers only, and rushed against one of them with such vio-
lence that he was thrown back and badly bruised. He quickly
sprang up ; but his pursuers were upon him. This time he could
expect no mercy. The infuriated men at his heels yelled : "To
the Rhone with him ! To the Rhone with the marquis !"
His forehead was cut, and the blood trickled from the wound
into his eyes, and blinded him. He must escape, or die in the
attempt. He had tightly clasped the bloody knife with whicb
he had stabbed Lazet. He struck his nearest foe; the man fell
to the ground with a heavy groan. This blow gained him a
moment's respite, which gave him time to pass between the
FILE NUMBER 113 1068
posts, and rush along the embankment. Two men remained
kneeling over their wounded companion, and five others resumed
the pursuit. But Gaston ran fast, for the horror of his situa-
tion tripled his energy. With elbows kept tight to his sides,
and holding his breath, he went along at such a speed that he
soon distanced his pursuers. Gaston ran on for another mile,
and only when he knew he was safe from capture sank down
at the foot of a tree to rest. Only forty minutes had elapsed
since Gaston and his friend entered the cafe. These forty
minutes had given him more cause for sorrow and remorse
than the whole of his previous life put together. He had killed
a man, and still convulsively held the murderous instrument ; he
cast it from him with horror. He tried to account for the dread-
ful circumstances which had just taken place. If he alone had
been lost ! But Valentine was dragged down with him ; her
reputation was gone. And it was his want of self-command
which had cast to the winds this honor, confided to his keeping,
and which he held far dearer than his own.
But he could not remain here bewailing his misfortune. The
authorities must soon be on his track. They would certainly
go to the chateau of Clameran to seek him. He started to
walk, but with great pain, for the reaction had come, and his
nerves and muscles, so violently strained, had now begun to
relax. His hip and shoulder pained him almost beyond endur-
ance. The cut on his forehead had almost stopped bleeding,
but the coagulated blood round his eyes nearly blinded him.
After a painful walk he reached home at ten o'clock. The old
valet who admitted him started back terrified. "Good heavens,
sir! what is the matter?" — "Silence!" said Gaston in the brief,
compressed tone always inspired by imminent danger, "silence !
Where is my father?" — "The marquis is in his room with M.
Louis. He has had a sudden attack of the gout, and can not
put his foot to the ground : but you. sir — " Gaston did not stop
to listen further. He hurried to his father's room. The old
marquis, who was playing backgammon with Louis, dropped his
dice-box with a cry of horror, when he looked up and saw his
eldest son standing before him covered with blood. "What is
the matter? what have you been doing, Gaston?" he exclaimed.
"I have come to embrace you for the last time, father, and to
ask for assistance to escape abroad." — "You wish to fly?" — "I
must, father, and instantly ; I am pursued, the gendarmes may
be here at anv moment. I have killed two men."
1064 FILE NUMBER 113
The marquis was so shocked that he forgot the gout, and
attempted to rise ; a violent twinge made him drop back into his
chair. "Where? When?" he gasped. — "At Tarascon, in a
cafe, an hour ago ; fifteen men attacked me, and I seized a knife
to defend myself." — "The old tricks of '93," said the marquis.
"Did they insult you, Gaston?" — "They insulted in my pres-
ence the name of a noble young girl." — "And you punished
the rascals ? By heaven ! you did well. But who was the lady
you defended?"
"Mademoiselle Valentine de la Verberie."
"What!" cried the marquis, "what! the daughter of that
old witch ! Those accursed La Verberies have always brought
misfortune upon us." He certainly abominated the comtesse;
but his respect for her noble blood was greater than his re-
sentment toward her individuality, and he added : "Nevertheless,
Gaston, you did your duty."
Meanwhile, the curiosity of Jean, the marquis's old valet,
made him venture to open the door, and ask: "Did Monsieur
the Marquis ring?" — "No, you rascal," answered M. de Cla-
meran, "you know very well I did not. But now you are here,
be useful. Quickly bring some clothes for M. Gaston, some
clean linen, and some warm water: everything necessary to
dress his wounds."
These orders were promptly executed, and Gaston found he
was not so badly hurt as he had thought. With the exception
of a deep stab in his left shoulder, his wounds were not seri-
ous. The marquis made a sign to the servants to leave the
room. "Do you still think you ought to leave France?" he
asked Gaston. — "Yes, father." — "My brother ought not to hesi-
tate," interposed Louis; "he will be arrested here, thrown into
prison, vilified in court, and — who knows?" — "We all know
well enough that he will be convicted," grumbled the old mar-
quis. "These are the benefits of the immortal Revolution, as it
is called."
"There is no time to lose," observed Louis. — "True," said
the marquis, "but to fly, to go abroad, one must have money ;
and I have none by me to give to him." — "Father !" — "No, I
have none. Ah, what a prodigal old fool I have been ! Have
I even a hundred louis?" Then he told Louis to open the
secretary. The drawer in which the money was kept contained
only nine hundred and twenty francs in gold. "Nine hundred
and twenty francs," cried the marquis; "it is not enough. The
FILE NUMBER 113 1G65
eldest son of our house can not fly the country with this
paltry sum."
He sat lost in reflection. Suddenly his brow cleared, and
he told Louis to open a secret drawer in the secretary, and
bring him a small casket. Then the marquis took from his
neck a black ribbon, to which was attached the key of the
casket. His sons observed with what deep emotion he unlocked
it, and slowly took out a necklace, a cross, several rings, and
various other jewels. His countenance assumed a solerrn ex-
pression. "Gaston, my dear son," he said, "at a time like this
your life may depend upon bought assistance; money is power."
— "I am young, father, and have courage." — "Listen to me.
These jewels belonged to your sainted mother, a noble woman,
who is now in heaven watching over us. They have never left
me. During my days of misery and want, when I was com-
pelled to earn a livelihood by teaching music in London, I
piously treasured them. I never thought of selling them ; and
to pawn them, in the hour of direst need, would have seemed
to me a sacrilege. But now, take them, my son, and sell them ;
they will fetch twenty thousand francs." — "No, my father, no,
I can not take them !" — "You must, Gaston. If your mother
were on earth, she would tell you to take them, as I do now.
I command you to take and use them. The safety, the honor,
of the heir of the house of De Clameran must not be imperiled
for want of a little gold."
With tearful eyes, Gaston sank on his knees, and, carrying
his father's hand to his lips, murmured : "Thanks, father,
thanks ! In my heedless, ungrateful presumption I have hith-
erto misjudged you. I did not know your noble character.
Forgive me. I accept ; but I take them as a sacred deposit,
confided to my honor, and for which I will some day account
to you."
In their emotion, the marquis and Gaston forgot the threat-
ened danger. But Louis was not touched by the affecting scene.
"Time presses," he said: "you had better hasten." — "He is
right," cried the marquis ; "go, Gaston, go, my son ; and Heaven
protect the heir of the De Clamerans !" Gaston slowly got up,
and said with an embarrassed air: "Before leaving you, father,
I must fulfil a sacred duty. I have not told you everything. I
love Valentine, the young girl whose honor I defended this
evening." — "Oh !" cried the marquis, thunderstruck, "oh, oh !"
— "And I entreat you, father, to ask Madame de la Verberie
1066 FILE NUMBER 113
for her daughter's hand. Valentine will gladly join me abroad,
and share my exile."
Gaston stopped, frightened at the effect of his words. The
old marquis had become crimson, or rather purple, as if struck
by apoplexy. "Preposterous !" he gasped. "Impossible ! Per-
fect folly !" — "I love her, father, and have promised her never
to marry another." — "Then you will remain a bachelor." — "I
shall marry her!" cried Gaston excitedly. "I shall marry her
because I have sworn I would, and I will not be so base as to
desert her." — "Nonsense !" — "I tell you Mademoiselle de la Ver-
berie must and shall be my wife. It is too late for me to draw
back. Even if I no longer loved her, I would still marry her,
because she has given herself to me ; because, can't you under-
stand? what was said at the cafe to-night was true: Valentine
is my mistress."
Gaston's confession, forced from him by circumstances, pro-
duced a very different impression from that which he had ex-
pected. The enraged marquis instantly became cool, and his
mind seemed relieved of an immense weight. A wicked joy
sparkled in his eyes, as he replied : "I congratulate you, Gaston."
"Sir !" interrupted Gaston indignantly ; "I have told you that
I love her, and have promised to marry her. You seem to for-
get." — "Ta, ta, ta !" cried the marquis, "your scruples are ab-
surd. You know full well that one of her ancestors led one
of our girls astray. Now we are quits ! And so she is your
mistress — "
"I swear by my mother's memory that Valentine shall be
my wife !" — "Do you dare assume that tone toward me ?" cried
the exasperated marquis. "Never, understand me clearly, never
will I give my consent. You know how dear to me is the honor
of our house. Well, I would rather see you tried for murder,
and even condemned, than married to this hussy !"
This last word was too much for Gaston. "Then your wish
shall be gratified, sir. I will remain here, and be arrested. I
care not what becomes of me ! What is life to me without the
hope of Valentine? Take back these jewels; they are useless
now."
A terrible scene would have ensued between the father and
son had they not been interrupted by a domestic who rushed
into the room, and excitedly exclaimed : "The gendarmes ! here
are the gendarmes !" At this news the old marquis started up,
and seemed to forget his gout, which had yielded to more vio-
FILE NUMBER 113 1067
lent emotions. "Gendarmes !" he cried, "in my house, at Cla-
meran ! They shall pay dear for their insolence ! You will
help me, will you not, my men ?" — "Yes, yes," answered the ser-
vants. "Down with the gendarmes ! down with them !"
Fortunately, Louis, during all this excitement, preserved his
presence of mind. "To resist would be folly," he said. "Even
if we repulsed the gendarmes to-night, they would return to-
morrow with reenforcements." — "Louis is right," said the
marquis bitterly. "Might is right, as they said in '93. The
gendarmes are all-powerful. Do they not even have the im-
pertinence to come up to me while I am out shooting, and ask
to see my license? — I, a De Clameran, show a license!"
"Where are they?" asked Louis of the servants.
"At the outer gate," answered La Verdure, one of the grooms.
"Do you not hear the noise they are making with their sabres,
sir?" — "Then Gaston must escape by the garden door." — "It
is guarded, sir," said La Verdure in despair, "and the little
gate in the park also. There seems to be a regiment of them.
They are even stationed along the park walls."
"Then." said the marquis, "we are surrounded?" — "Not a
single chance of escape," groaned Jean. — "We shall see about
that !" cried the marquis. "Ah, we are not the strongest, but
we can be the most artful. Attention ! Louis, my son, you
and La Verdure go down to the stables, and mount the fastest
horses ; then as quietly as possible station yourselves, you,
Louis, at the park gate, and you, La Verdure, at the outer gate.
You others, go and post yourselves at either of the gates. Upon
the signal I shall give by firing off a pistol, let both gates be
instantly opened. Louis and La Verdure must spur on their
horses, and do all they can to pass through the gendarmes,
who are sure to follow in pursuit."
"I will make them run," said La Verdure.
"Listen. During this time, Gaston, aided by Jean, will scale
the park wall, and hasten along the river-bank to the cabin of
Pilorel, the fisherman. He is an old sailor, and devoted to our
house. He will take Gaston in his boat; and, when they are
once on the Rhone, there is nothing to be feared save heaven.
Now go, all of you; do as I have said."
Left alone with his son, the old marquis slipped the jewels
into a silk purse, and stretching out his arms toward Gaston
said, in broken accents: "Come here, my son, and let me bless
you." Gaston hesitated. "Come," insisted the old man, "I
1068 FILE NUMBER 113
must embrace you for the last time. I may never see you
again. Save yourself, save your name, Gaston, and then — you
know how I love you. Take back these jewels — " For an
instant father and son clung to each other, overpowered by
emotion. But the continued noise at the gate now reached
their ears. "We must part!" said M. de Clameran. And,
taking a pair of small pistols, he handed them to his son, and
added with averted eyes: "You must not be captured alive,
Gaston !"
Unfortunately Gaston did not immediately hasten to the park
wall. He yearned more than ever to see Valentine, and he
perceived a possibility of being able to bid her farewell. He
could persuade Pilorel to stop the boat when they reached the
park of La Verberie. He therefore employed the few minutes
respite that destiny had allowed him in going to his room
and placing in the window the signal that would tell Valentine
he was coming; and even waited for an answering light.
"Come, M. Gaston," entreated old Jean, who could not under-
stand this strange conduct. "For heaven's sake, make haste!
your life is at stake !"
At last he came running down the stairs, and had just
reached the hall when a pistol-shot, the signal given by the
marquis, resounded through the house. The swinging open of
the large gate, the rattling of the sabres of the gendarmes, the
furious galloping of many horses, and a chorus of loud shouts
and angry oaths, were next heard. Leaning against the win-
dow of his room, his brow covered with perspiration, the
Marquis de Clameran breathlessly awaited the issue of this
expedient, upon which depended the life of his eldest son. His
measures were excellent. As he had planned, Louis and La
Verdure managed to dash out through the gates, one to the
right and the other to the left, each one pursued by a crowd of
mounted men. Their horses flew like arrows, and kept far
ahead of the pursuers. Gaston was as good as saved, when
fate — but was it only fate ? — interfered. Suddenly Louis's horse
stumbled, and fell to the ground with his rider under him.
Immediately surrounded by the gendarmes, M. de Clameran's
second son was easily recognized. "He is not the murderer!"
cried one of the young men of the town. "Let us hurry back,
they are trying to deceive us!"
They returned just in time to see, by the uncertain light
of the moon peeping from behind a cloud, Gastc climbing the
FILE NUMBER 113 1069
wall. "There is our man !" exclaimed a corporal. "Keep
your eyes open, and gallop after him !" They spurred their
horses, and hastened to the spot where Gaston had jumped
from the wall. He found himself in an immense madder-field,
and it is well known that this valuable root, having to remain
in the ground three years, the furrows are necessarily plowed
very deep. Horses cannot gallop over its uneven surface;
indeed, they can scarcely stand steadily upon it. This circum-
stances brought the gendarmes to a dead halt. Jumping from
furrow to furrow, Gaston soon left his pursuers far behind,
and reached a vast plantation covered with undergrowth. The
horsemen urged each other on, and called out every time they
saw Gaston running from one clump of trees to another. Being
familiar with the country, young De Clameran did not despair.
He knew that after the plantation came a field of thistles, and
that the two were separated by a wide, deep ditch. He re-
solved to jump into this ditch, run along the bottom, and climb
out at the further end, while the others were still looking
for him among the trees. But he had forgotten the rising of
the river.
Upon reaching the ditch, he found it full of water. Dis-
couraged but not disconcerted, he was about to jump across,
when three horsemen appeared on the opposite side. They
were gendarmes who had ridden round the madder-field and
the plantation, knowing they would easily make up for lost
time on the level ground of the field of thistles. At the sight of
these three men, Gaston stood perplexed. He would certainly be
captured if he attempted to run through the field, at the end
of which he could see the cabin of Pilorel, the fisherman. To
retrace his steps would be to surrender to the hussars. At a
little distance on his right was a small wood, but he was sepa-
rated from it by a road upon which he heard the sound of
horses' hoofs. He would certainly be caught there also. On
his left was the surging, foaming river. What was to be done ?
He felt the circle of which he was the centre fast narrowing
around him. Must he, then, fall back upon the pistols, and
there, in the midst of the country, hunted by gendarmes like
a wild beast, blow his brains out? No! He would seize the
one chance of salvation left him — the river. Holding a pistol
in either hand, he ran to the edge of a little promontory,
projecting a few yards into the Rhone. This cape of refuge
was formed by the giant trunk of a fallen tree, which swayed
1070 FILE NUMBER 113
and cracked fearfully under Gaston's weight, as he stood on
the further end, and looked back upon his pursuers; there
were fifteen of them, some on the right, some on the left, all
uttering cries of joy.
"Do you surrender?" called out the corporal of gendarmes.
Gaston did not answer ; he was weighing his chances. He
was above the park of La Verberie ; would he be able to swim
there, granting that he was not swept away and drowned the
instant he plunged into the angry torrent before him? He
pictured Valentine, at that very moment, watching, waiting
and praying for him on the other shore.
"For the second time do you surrender?" cried the corporal.
The unfortunate man did not hear; he was deafened by the
waters which were roaring and rushing past him. Although
death stared him in the face, Gaston calmly considered which
would be the best spot to take his plunge, and commended his
soul to God.
"He will stand there until we go after him," said a gendarme ;
"so we may as well do so at once." But Gaston had finished
his prayer. He flung his pistols in the direction of the gen-
darmes : he was ready. He made the sign of the cross, and then,
with outstretched arms, plunged into the Rhone. The violence
of his spring loosened the few remaining roots of the old tree;
it swayed for a moment, turned over, and then rapidly drifted
»way. The spectators uttered a cry of horror and pity rather
than of anger.
"That is the end of him," muttered one of the gendarmes;
"he is done for ; a man can't fight against the Rhone ; his body
will be washed ashore at Aries to-morrow."
The hussars seemed really grieved at the tragic fate of this
brave, handsome, young man, whom a moment before they
had pursued so tenaciously.
"An ugly piece of work!" grumbled the old sergeant who
had command of the hussars.
"Bah !" exclaimed the philosophic corporal, "the Rhone is
no worse than the assize-court. Right about, my men. The
thing that troubles me is the idea of that poor old man who
is waiting to hear his son's fate. I would not be the one to
i t«ll him what has happened. March !"
FILE NUMBER 113
1071
WALENTINE knew that fatal evening that Gaston would
have to walk to Tarascon to cross the Rhone by the sus-
pension bridge which connects Tarascon with Beaucaire, and
did not expect to see him until eleven o'clock, the time which
they had agreed upon the previous evening. But, happening
to look up at the windows of Clameran long before the ap-
pointed hour, she saw lights hurrying to and fro in the different
rooms in a most unusual manner. A secret and imperious voice
within her breast told her that something terrible and extraor-
dinary was going on at the chateau of Clameran. With her
eyes fastened upon the dark mass looming in the distance she
watched the going and coming of the lights, as if their move-
ments would give her a clue to what was taking place within
those walls. Her anxiety grew more intolerable every moment,
when suddenly the well-known, beloved signal appeared in
Gaston's window, informing her that her lover was about to
swim across the Rhone. She could scarcely believe her eyes,
and not until the signal had been thrice repeated did she an-
swer it. Then, more dead than alive, she hastened, trembling,
through the park to the river-bank. Never had she seen the
Rhone so furious. Since Gaston was risking his life to see her.
she could no longer doubt that something fearful had occurred
at Clameran. She fell on her knees, and with clasped hands.
her wild eyes fixed upon the dark waters, besought the pitiless
stream to yield up her dear Gaston. Every dark object floating
by assumed a human form. Once she thought she heard above
the roaring of the water, the terrible, agonized cry of a drown-
ing man. She watched and prayed, but her lover came not.
While the gendarmes and hussars slowly and silently returned
to the chateau of Clameran, Gaston experienced one of those
miracles which would seem incredible were they not confirmed
by the most convincing proof. When he first plunged into the
river, he rolled over five or six times, and was then drawn
toward the bottom. In a swollen river the current varies at
1072 FILE NUMBER 113
different depths, being much stronger in some places than in
others ; hence the great danger. Gaston knew this, and guarded
against it. Instead of wasting his strength in vain struggles,
he held his breath and drifted with the flood. After he had
been carried a considerable distance, he made a sudden spring,
which brought him to the surface. Rapidly drifting by him was
the old tree, and for some seconds he was entangled in a mass
of rubbish; an eddy set him free. He did not dream of mak-
ing for the opposite shore. He determined to land whereso-
ever he could. With great presence of mind he exerted all his
strength, so as to slowly take an oblique course, knowing well,
however, that there was no hope for him if the current took him
crosswise. This fearful current is, moreover, as capricious as
it is terrible ; sometimes rushing to the right, sometimes to the
left, sparing one shore and ravaging the other. Gaston, familiar
with every bend of the river, knew that there was an abrupt
turning just below Clameran, and relied upon the eddy formed
there to sweep him in the direction of La Verberie. His ex-
pectations were fulfilled. An oblique current suddenly swept
him toward the right bank, and, had he not been on his guard,
would have sunk him. He was still some distance from the
shore, when, with lightning rapidity, he was swept past the
park of La Verberie. He caught a glimpse of a white shadow
among the trees: Valentine was waiting for him. At a con-
siderable distance below, finding himself nearer the bank, he
attempted to land. Feeling a foothold, he twice raised himself,
each time being thrown down by the force of the current.
Finally seizing some willow branches, and, clinging to them,
he climbed up the steep bank. Without waiting to take breath,
he darted off at once in the direction of the park. It was
time he arrived, for, overcome by the intensity of her emotions,
Valentine had fainted, lying apparently lifeless on the ground.
Gaston's kisses aroused her.
"You !" she cried in a tone that revealed all the love she
felt for him. "Is it indeed you? Then God heard my prayers-,
and had pity upon us."
"No, Valentine," he murmured, "God has had no pity."
The sad tones of Gaston's voice convinced her that her pre-
sentiment of evil was well founded. "What new misfortune
strikes us now?" she exclaimed. "Why have you thus risked
your life — a life far dearer to me than my own? What has
happened ?"
FILE NUMBER 113 1073
"This is what has happened, Valentine : our secret is a secret
no longer; our love is the jest of the country."
She shrank back, and, burying her face in her hands, moaned
piteously.
"This," continued Gaston, forgetting everything but his pres-
ent misery; "this is the result of the blind enmity of our fam-
ilies. Our noble and pure love, which ought to be a glory in
the eyes of God and man, has to be concealed, as though it were
some evil deed."
"All is known, all is discovered!" murmured Valentine.
In the midst of the angry elements, Gaston had preserved
his self-possession; but the heart-broken tones of his beloved
Valentine overcame him. "And I was unable," he cried, "to
crush the villains who dared to utter your adored name. Ah,
why did I only kill two of the scoundrels !"
"You have killed some one, Gaston !"
"Yes," he replied, trying to overcome his emotion; "I have
killed two men. I swam across the Rhone to save the honor
of my name. Only a short time ago all the gendarmes of the
place were pursuing me. I have escaped them, and now am
flying the country."
Valentine struggled to preserve her composure. "Whither
do you hope to fly?" she asked.
"I know not. God only knows whither I am to go or what
will become of me. I must assume a false name and a dis-
guise, and try to reach some foreign land which offers a refuge
to murderers." Gaston stopped, expecting an answer to this
speech. None came, and he resumed with extraordinary vehe-
mence: "And before disappearing, Valentine, I wished to see
you, because now, when I am abandoned by every one else,
I have relied upon you, and had faith in your love. A tie
unites us, my darling, stronger than all other earthly bonds —
the tie of love. Before God you are my wife ; I am yours and
you are minr for life ! Would you let me fly alone, Valentine ?
To the pain and toil of exile, to the bitter regrets of a ruined
life, could you add the torture of separation?"
"Gaston, I implore you — "
"Ah, I knew it," he interrupted, mistaking the sense of her
exclamation ; "I knew you would not let me go alone. I knew
your sympathetic heart would long to share the burden of my
miseries. This moment effaces the wretched suffering I have
endured. Let us fly ! Having our happiness to defend, I fear
1074 FILE NUMBER 113
nothing; I can brave and conquer all. Come, my Valentine,
we will escape, or die together! This is the long-dreamed-of
happiness ! The glorious future of love and liberty opens
before us !"
He had worked himself into a state of delirious excitement.
He seized Valentine round the waist and tried to carry her
off. But, as his exaltation increased, she managed to regain her
composure. Gently, yet with a firmness he had not expected in
her, she withdrew herself from his embrace, and said sadly,
but resolutely : "What you wish, Gaston, is impossible."
This cold, inexplicable resistance seemed to confound her
lover. "Impossible?" he stammered.
"You know me well enough, Gaston, to be convinced that
sharing the greatest hardships with you would to me be the
height of happiness. But above your pleading, to which I fain
would yield, above the voice of my own heart, which urges
me to follow you, there is another — powerful, imperious — which
bids me stay: the voice of duty."
"What ! Would you think of remaining here after the hor-
rible affair of to-night, after the scandal that will be spread
abroad to-morrow !"
"What do you mean? That I am lost, dishonored? Am I
any more so to-day than I was yesterday? Do you think that
the jeers and scoffing of the world could make me suffer more
than the pangs of my guilty conscience? I have long since
passed judgment upon myself, Gaston ; and, although the sound
of your voice and the touch of your hand made me forget all
save the bliss of love, no sooner had you gone than I wept
tears of shame and remorse."
Gaston listened, motionless, astounded. He seemed to see
a new Valentine before him, an entirely different woman from
the one whose tender soul he thought he knew so well. "And
your mother?" he murmured.
"It is my duty to her that keeps me here. Do vou wish me
to prove an unnatural daughter, and desert her now that she
is poor, lonely, and friendless, with no one but me to cling Lc t
Could I abandon her to follow my lover?"
"But our enemies will inform her of everything, Valentine.:
she will know all."
"No matter. The dictates of conscience must be obeyed.
Ah, why can I not, even at the price of my life, spare her
the agony of learning that her only daughter, her Valentine
FILE NUMBER 113 1075
has disgraced her name ? She may be hard, cruel, pitiless
toward me ; but have I not deserved it ? Oh, my only friend,
we have been basking in a dream too beautiful to last ! I have
long dreaded this awful awakening. Like two weak, credu-
lous fools, we imagined that happiness could exist beyond the
pale of duty. Sooner or later stolen joys must be dearly paid
for. We must bow our heads and drink the cup to the dregs."
This cold reasoning, this sad resignation, was more than
Gaston's fiery nature could bear. "Do not talk like that !" he
cried. "Can you not feel that the bare idea of your suffering
this humiliation drives me mad?"
"Alas ! I must expect greater humiliation yet."
"What do you mean, Valentine ?"
"Know then, Gaston — " But she stopped short, hesitated, and
then added : "Nothing ! I know not what I say."
Had Gaston been less excited, he would have suspected some
new misfortune beneath Valentine's reticence ; but his mind was
too full of his one idea. "All hope is not lost," he resumed.
"My father is kind hearted, and was touched by my love and
despair. I am sure that my letters, together with the inter-
cession of my brother Louis, will induce him to ask Madame de
la Verberie for your hand."
This notion seemed to terrify Valentine. "Heaven forbid !"
she exclaimed, "that the marquis should take this rash step !"
"Why, Valentine?"
"Because my mother would reject his offer ; because, I must
eonfess it now, she has sworn 1 shall marry none but a rich
man ; and your father is not rich."
"Good heavens!" cried Gaston with disgust, "and it is to such
a mother that you sacrifice me ?"
"She is my mother; that is sufficient. I have not the right
to judge her. My duty is to remain with her, and remain I
will." Valentine's manner showed such determined resolution
that Gaston saw that further prayers would be in vain.
"Alas !" he cried as he wrung his hands with despair, "you
do not love me; you have never loved me!"
"Gaston, Gaston ! you do not think what you say !"
"If you loved me," he cried, "you could never, at this mo-
ment of separation, have the cruel courage to reason and cal-
culate so coldly. Ah, far different is my love for you. Without
you the world is void; to lose you is to die. So let the Rhone
take back this life so miraculously saved ; for it is now a bur-
1076 .FILE NUMBER 113
den to me !" And he would have rushed toward the river.
determined to die, had Valentine not held him back. "Is this
the way to show your love for me?" she asked.
"What is the use of living?" he murmured dejectedly. "What
is left to me now ?"
"God is left to us, Gaston ; and in His hands lies our future."
Like a shipwrecked man seizing a rotten plank, Gaston
eagerly caught at the word "future." "Your command shall be
obeyed," he cried with sudden enthusiasm. "Away with weak-
ness ! Yes, I will live, and struggle, and triumph. Madame
de la Verberie wants gold; well, in three years I shall either
be rich or dead." With clasped hands Valentine thanked heaven
for this determination, which was more than she had dared
hope for. "But," continued Gaston, "before going away I
wish to intrust a sacred deposit to your keeping." And, draw-
ing the jewels from his pocket and handing them to Valentine,
he added: "These jewels belonged to my poor mother; you alone
are worthy to wear them. I always intended them for you."
And as she refused to accept them, he insisted. "Take them
as a pledge of my return. If I do not come back within three
years, you will know that I am dead, and then you must keep
them as a souvenir of him who loved you so fondly." She
burst into tears, and took the jewels. "And now," resumed
Gaston, "I have a last request to make. Everybody believes
me dead, but I can not let my poor old father remain under
this impression. Swear to me that you will go yourself to-
morrow morning and tell him that I am still alive."
"I will tell him," she replied.
Gaston felt that he must now tear himself away before his
courage failed him. He enveloped Valentine in a last fond
embrace, and started up. "What is your plan of escape?" she
asked.
"I shall go to Marseilles, and take refuge in a friend's house
until I can procure a passage on board some foreign-bound
vessel."
"You must have assistance; I will secure you a guide in
whom I have unbounded confidence; old Menoul, who lives
near us. He owns the boat which he plies on the Rhone."
The lovers passed through the little park gate, of which
Gaston had the key, and soon reached the boatman's cabin.
He was dozing in his easy-chair by the fireside. When Valen-
tine stood before him with Gaston, the old man jumped up,
FILE NUMBER 113
1077
and kept rubbing his eyes, thinking it must be a dream. "M.
Menoul," said Valentine, "M. Gaston is compelled to hide him-
self; he wants to reach the sea, so that he can embark secretly.
Can you take him in your boat as far as the mouth of the
Rhone ?"
"It is impossible," said the old man, shaking his head : "I
dare not venture on the river in its present state."
"But, M. Menoul, you would be rendering an immense ser-
vice to me ; would you not venture for my sake ?"
"For your sake? certainly I would, Mademoiselle Valentine;
I am ready to start." He looked at Gaston, and, seeing his
clothes wet and covered with mud, said to him : "Allow me,
sir, to offer you some clothes of a son of mine who is dead ;
they will, at least, serve as a disguise : come this way."
In a few minutes old Menoul returned with Gaston, whom
no one would have recognized in his sailor dress. Valentine
went with them to the place where the boat was moored. While
the old man was unfastening it, the disconsolate lovers tear-
fully embraced each other for the last time. "In three years,"
cried Gaston, "in three years !"
"Adieu, mademoiselle," interrupted the old boatman ; "and
you, sir, hold fast and keep steady." Then, with a vigorous
shove of the boat-hook, he sent the boat into the middle of
the stream.
Three days later, thanks to the assistance of old Menoul,
Gaston was concealed on board the American three-master,
"Tom Jones," Captain Warth, which was to start the next day
for Valparaiso.
/~* OLD and white like a marble statue, Valentine stood on
V the river-bank, watching the frail bark which was carrying
her lover away. It flew along like a bird in a tempest, and,
after a few seconds, seemed like a black speck in the midst of
the heavy fog. Gaston gone, she had no motive for concealing
her despair ; and, wringing her hands, she sobbed as if her
1078 FILE NUMBER 113
heart would break. Her calmness, bravery, and hopefulness
were gone. She felt crushed and lost, as if that swiftly dis-
appearing bark had carried off the better part of herself. For
while Gaston treasured a ray of hope, she looked forward only
to shame and sorrow. The horrible facts which stared her in
the face convinced her that happiness in this life was over ; the
future was worse than blank. She wept and shuddered at the
prospect. She slowly retraced her footsteps through the little
gate which had so often admitted Gaston ; and, as she closed
it behind her, she fancied she was placing an impassable barrier
between herself and happiness. Before retiring, Valentine care-
fully walked round the chateau, and examined the windows of
her mother's chamber. They were still brilliantly lighted, for
Madame de la Verberie passed a part of the night in reading,
and did not rise till late in the morning. Enjoying the com-
forts, which are not expensive in the country, the selfish com-
tesse was little concerned about her daughter. She left her at
perfect liberty to go and come, and to take long walks, never
making a remark.
But on this night Valentine feared being seen. She would
be called upon to explain her torn, muddy dress — and what
answer could she give ? Fortunately she reached her room
without meeting any one, and there, seated before her little
work-table, she examined the purse of jewels. It would be a
sweet, sad comfort to wear the simplest of the rings, she
thought ; but her mother would ask her where it came from,
and she would have to deceive her again. She kissed the purse,
in memory of Gaston, and then concealed it at the bottom of a
drawer.
Blinded by his passion, Gaston did not think of the obstacles
and dangers to be braved in going to Clameran to inform the
old marquis of his son's miraculous preservation. Valentine
saw them only too clearly ; yet it did not occur to her for an
instant to break her promise or delay to go. At sunrise she
dressed herself. When the bell was ringing for early mass, she
started on her errand. One of the servants, Mihonne, who
always waited on Valentine, was scrubbing the hall.
"If my mother asks for me," she said to the girl, "tell her
I have gone to early mass."
As she often went to church at this hour, there was nothing
to be feared so far; but Valentine knew that she could scarcely
return in time for breakfast, for she must walk a league to the
FILE NUMBER 113 1079
bridge, and it was another league to Clameran ; four leagues
there and back. She set out at a rapid pace. The conscious-
ness of performing an extraordinary action, and the feverish
anxiety of incurred peril, increased her haste. She forgot
fatigue, and that she had worn herself out with weeping all
night. It was after eight, however, when she reached the long
avenue leading to the chateau of Clameran. She had onlv pro-
ceeded a few steps along it, when she saw old Jean, the mar-
quis's valet, coming down the path. She stopped and waited
for him, and he hastened his steps at sight of her. He looked
very much excited, and his eyes were swollen with weeping.
To Valentine's surprise, he did not take off his cap to her, but
accosted her most rudely.
"Are you going to the chateau, mademoiselle ?"
"Yes."
"If you are going after M. Gaston." continued the servant
with an insolent sneer, "you are taking useless trouble. M.
Gaston is dead, mademoiselle; he sacrificed himself for a mis-
tress he had."
Valentine turned white at this insult, but took no notice of
it. Jean, who expected to see her overcome by the dreadful
news, was bewildered and indignant at her composure. "I am
going to the chateau," she resumed quietly, "to speak to the
marquis."
Jean stifled a sob, and said : "Then it is not worth while to
go any farther."
"Why?"
"Because the Marquis de Clameran died at five o'clock this
morning."
Valentine leaned against a tree to prevent herself from fall-
ing. "Dead !" she gasped.
"Yes," said Jean fiercely, "yes, dead !" A faithful servant
of the old regime. Jean shared all the passions, weaknesses,
friendships, and enmities of his master. He had a horror of
the La Verberies. And now he saw in Valentine the woman
who had caused the death of the marquis whom he had served
for forty years, and of Gaston whom he worshiped. 'T will
tell you how he died," continued the bitter old man. "Yester-
day evening, when the news reached the marquis that his eldest
son was dead, he who was hardy as an oak dropped down as if
struck by lightning. I was there. He beat the air wildly with
his hands, and fell without uttering one word. We put him to
1080 FILE NUMBER 113
bed, and M. Louis galloped into Tarascon for a doctor. But
the blow had struck too deeply. When Dr. Raget arrived he
said there was no hope. At daybreak, the marquis recovered
consciousness enough to ask for M. Louis, with whom he re-
mained alone for some minutes. His last words were: 'Father
and son on the same day, there will be rejoicing at la Ver-
berie.' "
Valentine might have soothed the faithful servant's sorrow
by telling him that Gaston still lived; but she feared it would
be indiscreet, and so, unfortunately, she merely said: "Then I
must see M. Louis."
These words seemed to anger Jean the more. "You!" he
exclaimed. "You would dare to take such a step, Mademoiselle
de la Verberie? What! would you presume to appear before
him after what has happened? I will never allow it! And
you had best, moreover, take my advice, and return home at
once. I will not answer for the tongues of the servants here,
when they see you." And, without waiting for an answer, he
hurried away.
What could Valentine do? Humiliated and miserable, she
could only wearily drag her aching limbs back the way she had
so rapidly come but a short time before. On the road, she met
many country people coming from the town, where they had
heard of the events of the previous night; and at every step
the poor girl was greeted with insulting looks and mocking
bows. When she reached La Verberie, she found Mihonne
watching for her.
"Ah, mademoiselle," said the girl, "make haste. Madame
had a visitor this morning, and ever since she left has been
calling out for you. Hurry ; but take care what you do, for she
is in a violent passion."
Madame de la Verberie had preserved the manners of the
good old times, when grand ladies swore like troopers. When
Valentine appeared, she was overwhelmed with coarse epithets
and violent abuse. The comtesse had been informed of every-
thing, with many gross additions added by public scandal. An
old dowager, her most intimate friend, had hurried over early
in the morning to offer her this most poisoned dish of gossip,
seasoned with her own pretended condolences. In this sad
affair, Madame de la Verberie mourned less over her daughter's
loss of reputation than over the ruin of her own projects —
projects of arranging a grand marriage for Valentine, and of
FILE NUMBER 113 1081
herself living in luxury the rest of her days. A young girl so
compromised would not find it easy to get a husband. It would
now be absolutely necessary to keep her two years longer in the
country before introducing her into Parisian society. The
world must have time to forget this shameful affair.
"You worthless wretch !" cried the comtesse, red with fury ;
"is it thus you respect the noble traditions of our family? Up
to now it has never been considered necessary to watch the
La Verberies ; they could take care of their honor : but it was
reserved for you to take advantage of your liberty to lower
yourself to the level of those harlots who are the disgrace of
their sex !"
With a sinking heart, Valentine had foreseen this tirade. She
felt that it was only a fitting punishment for her guilty love.
Knowing that her mother's indignation was just, she meekly
hung her head like a repentant culprit at the bar of justice.
But this silence only exasperated the angry comtesse the more.
"Why do you not answer me?" she screamed with a threatening
gesture.
"What can I say, mother?"
"Say, miserable girl ? Say that they lied when they accused
a La Verberie of disgracing her name ! Speak, defend your-
self !" Valentine mournfully shook her head, but said nothing.
"It is true, then !" shrieked the comtesse, beside herself with
rage ; "what they said is true ?"
"Forgive me, mother," moaned the poor girl ; "forgive me."
"What ! Forgive you ! I have not then been deceived. For-
give you ! Do you own it then, you hussy ! Good heavens !
what blood have you in your veins? Do you not know that
some faults should be persistently denied, no matter how glaring
the evidence against them ? And you are my daughter ! Can
you not understand that an ignominious confession like this
should never be forced from a woman by any human power?
But no, you have lovers, and unblushingly avow it. Glory in
it, it would be something new !"
"Alas ! you are pitiless, mother !"
"Did you have any pity for me, my dutiful daughter? Did
it never occur to you that your disgrace might kill me? Ah I
many a time, I dare say, you and your lover have laughed at my
blind confidence. For I had confidence in you as in myself.
I believed you to be as chaste and pure as when I watched you
lying in your cradle. And it has come to this: drunken men
Gab.— Vol. IV H
1082 FILE NUMBER 113
make a jest of your name in the wine-shops, then fight about
you, and kill each other. I intrusted to you the honor of our
name, and what have you done with it? You have given it to
the first comer !" This was too much for Valentine. The
words, "first comer," wounded her pride more than all the
other abuse heaped upon her. She tried to protest against this
unmerited insult. "Ah, I have made a mistake. Your lover is
not the first comer," said the comtesse. "With the number you
had to choose from, you must fix on the heir of our enemies
of a hundred years, Gaston de Clameran. A coward, who
publicly boasted of your favors ; a wretch, who tried to avenge
himself for the heroism of our ancestors by ruining you and
me — an old woman and a child !"
"No, mother, that is false. He loved me, and, had he dared
hope for your consent — "
"He would have married you ? Ah ! never. I would rather
see you fall lower than you are, even to the gutter, than know
you to be the wife of such a man !" Thus the comtesse ex-
pressed her hatred very much in the same terms as the old
marquis had used to his son. "Besides," she added, with a
ferocity which only a woman is capable of, "besides, your
lover is drowned, and the old marquis is dead, so I have been
told. God is just ; we are avenged."
Old Jean's words, "There will be rejoicing at La Verberie,"
rung in Valentine's ears as she saw the comtesse's eyes sparkle
with malignant joy. This was the crowning blow for the un-
fortunate young girl. For half an hour she had been exerting
all her strength to bear up against her mother's cruel violence ;
but her physical endurance was not equal to the task. She
turned, if possible, paler, and with half-closed eyes extended her
arms as though to find some support, and fell, striking her head
against a side table. It was with dry eyes that the comtesse
beheld her daughter stretched at her feet. Her vanity was
deeply wounded, but no other emotion disturbed her. Hers was
a heart so full of anger and hatred that there was no room for
any noble sentiment. Seeing, however, that Valentine remained
unconscious, she rang the bell ; and the affrighted maidservants,
who were trembling in the passage at the loud and angry tones
of the voice they all dreaded, came running in.
"Carry mademoiselle to her room," she ordered ; "lock her
in, and bring me the key."
The comtesse intended keeping Valentine a close prisoner
FILE NUMBER 113 1083
for a long time. She well knew the mischievous, gossiping
propensities of country people, who, from mere idleness, indulge
in limitless scandal. A poor fallen girl must either leave the
place, or drink to the very dregs the chalice of premeditated
humiliation and brutal irony. Each one delights in casting a
stone at her. But the comtesse's plans were destined to be
baffled. The servants came to tell her that Valentine had recov-
ered consciousness, but seemed to be very ill. She replied that
it was all pretense ; whereupon Mihonne insisted upon her going
up and judging for herself. She unwillingly went to her daugh-
ter's room, and perceived that something serious was the mat-
ter. However, she betrayed no apprehension, but sent to Taras-
con for Dr. Raget, who was the oracle of the neighborhood; it
was he who had been called in to see the Marquis de Clameran.
Dr. Raget was one of those men who leave a blessed memory,
which lives long after their departure from this world. Intel-
ligent and noble-hearted, he devoted himself to his art ; wealthy,
he never demanded to be paid for his services. At all hours of
the night and day, his gray horse and old cabriolet might be
seen along the roads, with a hamper of wine and soup under
the seat for his poorer patients. The servant fortunately found
him at home, and brought him back with him. On beholding
Valentine, the doctor's face assumed a most serious expression.
He studied the young girl and her mother alternately; and the
penetrating gaze which he fixed on the old comtesse so discon-
certed her that she felt her wrinkled face turning very red.
"This child is very ill," he said, at length. And as Madame
de la Verberie made no reply, he added: "I desire to remain
alone with her for a few minutes."
The comtesse dared not resist the authority of a man of Dr.
Raget's character and reputation, and retired to the next room,
apparently calm, but in reality disturbed by the most gloomy
forebodings. At the end of half an hour — it seemed a century
— the doctor entered the room where she was waiting. He,
who had witnessed so much suffering and misery, appeared
deeply affected.
"Well?" asked the comtesse.
"You are a mother, madame," he answered sadly — "that is
to say, your heart is full of indulgence and pardon. Summon
all your courage. Mademoiselle Valentine will soon become a
mother."
"The worthless creature ! I feared as much."
1084 FILE NUMBER 113
The doctor was shocked at the dreadful expression of the
comtesse's eye. He laid his hand on her arm, and giving her
a penetrating look, beneath which she instantly quailed, he
added: "And the child must live."
The doctor's suspicions were correct. A dreadful idea had
flashed across Madame de la Verberie's mind — the idea of de-
stroying this child which would be a living proof of Valen-
tine's sin. Feeling her evil intention divined, the proud, stern
woman's eyes fell beneath the doctor's gaze. "I do not under-
stand you, Dr. Raget," she murmured.
"But I know what I mean, madame ; and I simply wished
to tell you that a crime does not obliterate a fault."
"Doctor !"
"I merely say what I think, madame. If I was mistaken in
my impression, so much the better for you. At present, your
daughter's condition is serious, but not dangerous. Excitement
and distress of mind have unstrung her nerves, and she is now
in a high fever, which I hope soon to allay."
The comtesse saw that the old doctor's suspicions were not
dispelled; so she thought she would try maternal anxiety, and
said: "At least, doctor, you can assure me that the dear child's
life is not in danger?"
"No, madame," answered Dr. Raget, with cutting irony, "your
maternal tenderness need not be alarmed. All the poor child
needs is rest of mind, which you alone can give her. A few
kind words from you will do her more good than all my pre-
scriptions. But remember, madame, that the least shock of ner-
vous excitement will produce the most fatal consequences."
"I must confess," said the comtesse, hypocritically, "that I
was unable to control my anger upon first hearing that my
darling child had fallen a victim to a vile seducer."
"But now that the first shock is over, madame, being a mother
and a Christian, you will do your duty. My duty is to save your
daughter and her child, and I will do so. I will call to-morrow."
Madame de la Verberie had no idea of letting the doctor go
off in this way. She motioned him to stay, and, without reflect-
ing that she was betraying herself, exclaimed : "Do you pretend
to say, sir, that you will prevent my taking every means to
conceal the terrible misfortune that has fallen upon me? Do
you wish our shame to be made public — to make us the laughing-
stock of the neighborhood?"
The doctor remained a moment without answering; the con'
FILE NUMBER 113 1085
dition of affairs was serious. "No, madame," he at length re-
plied ; "I can not prevent your leaving La Verberie — that would
be overstepping my duty; but I must hold you to account for
the child. You are at liberty to go where you please; but you
must give me proof of the child's being alive, or at least that
no attempt was made against its life."
After uttering these threatening words he left the house. The
comtesse was choking with suppressed rage. "Insolent up-
start !" she cried, "to presume to dictate to a woman of my
rank ! Ah, if I were not completely at his mercy !" But,
being in his power, she knew very well that she must forever
bid adieu to all her ambitious plans. No more hopes of luxury,
of a millionaire son-in-law, of splendid carriages, rich dresses,
and charming card parties, where she could gamble to her
heart's content. She must die as she had lived, poor, neglected,
condemned to a life of privation. And it was Valentine who
brought this misery upon her. This reflection aroused all
her inherent bitterness, and she felt for her daughter one of
those implacable hatreds which, instead of becoming appeased,
are strengthened by time. She wished she could see her lying
dead before her, and the accursed infant as well. But she re-
membered the doctor's threatening look, and dared not attempt
anything. She even forced herself to go and say a few for-
giving words to Valentine, and then left her to the care of
the faithful Mihonne.
Poor Valentine ! She had suffered so much that she had lost
all power of action. She was, however, getting better. She
felt that dull, heavy sensation, almost free from pain, which
always follows violent mental or physical suffering. When she
was able to reflect, she thought to herself: "Well, it is over;
my mother knows everything. I have no longer her anger to
fear, and must trust to time for her forgiveness." This was
the secret which Valentine had been unwilling to reveal to
Gaston, because she felt certain that he would refuse to leave
her if he knew it. But she wished him to escape; and duty
at the same time bade her remain. Even now she did not regret
having done so.
The only thought which distressed her was Gaston's danger.
Had he succeeded in embarking? How could she find out?
For two days the doctor had allowed her to get up; but she
could not possibly walk as far as old Menoul's cabin. Happily,
the devoted old boatman was intelligent enough to anticipate
1086 FILE NUMBER 113
her wishes. Hearing that the young lady at the chateau was
very ill, he set about devising some means of informing her
of her friend's safety. He went to La Verberie several times
on pretended errands, and finally succeeded in seeing Valen-
tine. They were not alone, so he could not speak to her; but
he made her understand by a significant look that Gaston
was out of danger. This knowledge contributed more toward
Valentine's recovery than all the medicines administered by
the doctor, who, after visiting her daily for six weeks, at length
pronounced his patient sufficiently strong to bear the fatigues
of a journey. The comtesse had waited with the greatest im-
patience for this decision. In order to prevent any delay, she
had already realized half of her capital at a loss, and said to
herself that the sum thus raised, some twenty-five thousand
francs, would suffice for all contingent expenses. For a fort-
night she had been calling on all her friends, saying that as
soon as her daughter had recovered her health she meant to
take her to England to visit a rich old relation, who had ex-
pressed a wish to see her.
Valentine looked forward to this journey with terror, and
shuddered when her mother said to her, on the evening that
the doctor gave her permission to set out: "We shall start the
day after to-morrow." Only one day left ! And Valentine
had been unable to let Louis de Clameran know that his brother
was still living. In this extremity she was obliged to confide
in Mihonne, and sent her with a letter to Louis. But the
faithful servant had a useless walk. The chateau of Clameran
was deserted; all the servants had been dismissed, and M.
Louis, whom they now called the marquis, had gone away.
At last they started. Madame de la Verberie, feeling that
she could trust Mihonne, decided to take her with them, after
making her swear eternal secrecy. It was in a little village
near London that the comtesse, under the assumed name of
Mrs. Wilson, took up her abode with her daughter and maid-
servant. She selected England, because she had lived there
a long time, and was well acquainted with the manners and
habits of the people, and spoke their language as well as
she did her own. She had kept up an acquaintance with some
of the English nobility, and often dined and went to the
theatre with her friends in London. On these occasions she
always took the humiliating precaution of locking Valentine in
her room. It was in their sad, solitary house, one night in
FILE NUMBER 113 1087
the month of May, that the son of Valentine de la Verberie
was born. He was taken to the parish priest, and christened
Valentin Raoul Wilson. The comtesse had prepared everything,
and for five hundred pounds had engaged an honest farmer's
wife to bring the child up as her own, and, when old enough,
have him taught a trade. Little Raoul was handed over to her
a few hours after his birth. The good woman thought him
the child of an English lady, and there seemed no probability
that he would ever discover the secret of his birth. Restored
to consciousness, Valentine asked for her child. She yearned
to clasp it to her bosom; but the cruel comtesse was pitiless.
"Your child !" she cried, "I do not know what you mean ; you'
must be dreaming; you are mad!" And as Valentine persisted,
she replied: "Your child is safe, and will want for nothing;
let that suffice. You must forget what has happened, as you
would forget a painful dream. The past must be wiped out
forever. You know me well enough to understand that I mean
to be obeyed."
The moment had come when Valentine ought in some degree
to have resisted the comtesse's continually increasing tyranny.
She had the idea, but not the courage to do so. If, on one
side, she saw the dangers of almost culpable resignation — for
she, too, was a mother ! — on the other she felt crushed by the
consciousness of her guilt. She yielded; and surrendered
herself forever into the hands of a mother whose conduct she
refrained from questioning, to escape the necessity of con-
demning it. So much suffering, so many regrets and internal
struggles, for a long time delayed her recovery, but toward
the end of June, the comtesse took her back to La Verberie.
This time the mischief-makers and gossips were not so sharp
as usual. The comtesse went about, complaining of the bad
success of her trip to England, and was able to assure herself
that no one suspected her real reason for the journey. Only
one man, Dr. Raget, knew the truth ; and, although Madame de
la Verberie hated him from the bottom of her heart, she did
him the justice to feel sure that he would not prove indiscreet.
Her first visit was paid to him. When he entered the room,
she abruptly threw on the table the official documents which
she had procured especially for this purpose. "These will
prove to you, sir, that the child is living, and well cared for
at a cost that I can ill afford." — "These are perfectly correct,
madame," he replied, after an attentive examination of the
1088 FILE NUMBER 113
papers, "and, if your conscience does not reproach you, of
course I have nothing to say." — "My conscience reproaches
me with nothing, sir."
The old doctor shook his head, and gazing searchingly into
her eyes, retorted : "Can you say that you have not been harsh,
even to cruelty?" She turned away her head, and, assuming
her grand air, answered: "I have acted as a woman of my
rank should act; and I am surprised to find in you an advocate
of misconduct."
"Ah, madame," said the doctor, "it is your place to show
kindness to the poor girl. What indulgence do you expect from
strangers toward your unhappy daughter, when you, her mother,
are so pitiless?"
Such plain spoken truths were more than the comtesse
cared to hear, and she rose to leave. "Is that all that you have
to say to me, Dr. Raget?" she asked haughtily. "Yes, madame;
I have done. My only object was to spare you eternal remorse."
The good doctor was mistaken in his idea of Madame de
la Verberie's character. She was utterly incapable of feeling
remorse ; but she suffered cruelly when her selfish vanity was
wounded, or her comfort disturbed. She resumed her old
mode of living, but, having disposed of a part of her income,
found it difficult to make both ends meet. This furnished her
with an inexhaustible text for complaint; and at every meal
she reproached Valentine most unmercifully. She seemed to
forget her own command, that the past should be buried in
oblivion, and constantly recurred to it; a day seldom passed,
without her saying to Valentine: "Your conduct has ruined us."
One day her daughter could not refrain from replying: "I
suppose you would have forgiven me had it enriched us." But
these revolts on Valentine's part were rare, although her life
was a series of tortures inflicted with most refined cruelty.
Even the memory of Gaston had become a suffering. Perhaps,
discovering the uselessness of her sacrifice, of her courage, and
her devotion to what she had considered her duty, she regretted
not having followed him. What had become of him? Why
had he not contrived to send her a letter, a word to let her
know that he was still alive? He had sworn to return a rich
man before three years had passed. Would he ever return?
There was a risk in his returning under any circumstances.
His disappearance had not put an end to the terrible affair at
Tarascon. He was supposed to be dead; but, as there was no
FILE NUMBER 113 1089
positive proof of his death, and his body could not be found,
justice was compelled to listen to the clamor of public opinion.
The case was brought before the assize court ; and Gaston de
Clameran was sentenced to several years' imprisonment. As
to Louis de Clameran, no one knew positively what had be-
come of him. Some people said he was leading a life of reck-
less extravagance at Paris. Informed of these facts by her
faithful Mihonne, Valentine became more hopeless than ever.
All her energy was gone, and she finally reached that state
of passive resignation peculiar to people who are constantly
oppressed.
In this miserable way four years passed since the fatal even-
ing when Gaston had escaped in old Menoul's boat. Madame
de la Verberie had spent these four years most unprofitably.
Seeing that she could not live upon her income, and having
too much false pride to sell her land, which was so badly
managed that it did not even bring her in two per cent, she
resigned herself to borrowing and spent her capital with her
income. As in such matters, it is only the first step that costs ;
the comtesse soon made rapid strides, saying to herself, like
the late Marquis de Clameran : "After me, the deluge !" She
no longer thought of anything but taking her ease. She had
frequent "at homes," and paid many visits to the neighboring
towns of Nimes and Avignon ; she sent to Paris for the most
elegant toilets, and indulged her taste for good living. She
allowed herself all the luxury that she had hoped to obtain
by the acquisition of a rich son-in-law. Great sorrows require
consolation ! The first year after she returned from London
she did not hesitate to treat herself to a horse; it was rather
old. to be sure, but when harnessed to a second-hand carriage
bought on credit at Beaucaire made quite a good appearance.
She would quiet her conscience, which occasionally reproached
her for this constant extravagance, by saying: "I am so un-
happy !" The unhappiness was that this seeming luxury cost
her dear, very dear. After having sold the rest of her bonds,
the comtesse first mortgaged the estate of La Verberie and then
the chateau itself. And in less than four years she owed more
than forty thousand francs, and was unable even to pay the
interest of her debt.
She was racking her mind to discover some means of escape
from her difficulties, when chance came to her rescue. For
some time a young engineer, employed in surveys along the
1090 FILE NUMBER 113
Rhone, had made the village close to La Verberie the centre
of his operations. Being handsome, agreeable, and of polished
manners, he had been warmly welcomed by the neighboring
society, and the comtesse frequently met him at the houses of
her friends where she went to play cards of an evening. This
young engineer was named Andre Fauvel. The first time he
met Valentine he was struck by her beauty, and after once
looking into her large, melancholy eyes, his admiration deep-
ened into love, though he had not even spoken to her. He
was well off ; a splendid career was open to him ; he was free ;
and he swore that Valentine should be his. It was to an old
friend of Madame de la Verberie, as noble as a Montmorency
and as poor as Job, that he first confided his matrimonial plans.
With the precision of a graduate of the polytechnic school, he
enumerated all his qualifications for being a model son-in-law.
For a long time the old lady listened to him without interrup-
tion ; but when he had finished she did not hesitate to tell him
that his pretensions were most presumptuous. What! he, a
man of no pedigree, a Fauvel, a common surveyor, to aspire
to the hand of a La Verberie! After having enumerated all
the superior advantages of that superior order of beings, the
nobility, she condescended to take a common-sense view of the
case, and said: "However, you may succeed. The poor com-
tesse owes money in every direction; scarcely a day passes
without the bailiffs calling upon her; so that, you understand,
if a rich suitor appeared, and agreed to her terms respecting the
settlements — well, well, there is no knowing what might happen."
Andre Fauvel was young; the old lady's insinuations seemed
to him odious. On reflection, however, when he had studied
the character of the nobility of the neighborhood, who were
rich in nothing but prejudices, he clearly saw that pecuniary
considerations alone would be strong enough to induce the
proud Comtesse de la Verberie to grant him her daughter's
hand. This certainty ended his hesitations, and he turned his
whole attention to devising a plan for presenting his claim.
He did not find this an easy thing to accomplish. To go in
quest of a wife with her purchase-money in his hand was re-
pugnant to his feelings, and contrary to his ideas of delicacy.
But he knew no one who could undertake the matter for him,
and his love was strong enough to make him swallow his re-
pugnance. The occasion so anxiously awaited, to explain his
intentions, soon presented itself.
FILE NUMBER 113 1091
One day as he entered a hotel at Beaucaire to dine, he saw
Madame de la Verberie about to seat herself at the table. He
blushed deeply, and asked permission to sit beside her, which
was granted him with a most encouraging smile. Did the
comtesse suspect the love of the young engineer? Had she
been warned by her friend? Perhaps so. At any rate, with-
out giving Andre time to gradually approach the subject weigh-
ing on his mind, she began to complain of the hard times, the
scarcity of money, and the grasping meanness of the trades •
people. The truth is, she had come to Beaucaire to borrow
money, and had found every cash-box closed against her; and
her lawyer had advised her to sell her land for what it would
bring. Anger, joined to that secret instinct of the situation
of affairs which is the sixth sense of a woman, loosened her
tongue, and made her more communicative to this comparative
stranger than she had ever been to her bosom friends. She
explained to him the horror of her situation, her present needs,
her anxiety for the future, and, above all, her great distress at
not being able to marry off her beloved daughter. Andre lis-
tened to these complaints with becoming commiseration, but
in reality he was delighted. Without giving her time to finish
her tale, he began to state what he called his view of the mat-
ter. He said that, although he sympathized deeply with the
comtesse, he could not account for her uneasiness about her
daughter. What? Could she be disturbed at having no dowry
for her? Why, the rank and beauty of Mademoiselle Valen-
tine were a fortune, in themselves, of which any man might be
proud. He knew more than one man who would esteem him-
self only too happy if Mademoiselle Valentine would accept
his name, and confer upon him the sweet duty of relieving her
mother from all anxiety and care. Finally, he did not think
the situation of the comtesse's affairs nearly so desperate as she
imagined. How much money would be necessary to pay off
the mortgages upon La Verberie ? About forty thousand francs,
perhaps? Indeed! That was but a mere trifle. Besides, this
sum would not be a gift from the son-in-law, but only a loan,
because the estate would be his in the end, and greatly increased
in value. A man, too, worthy of Valentine's love could never
let his wife's mother want for the comforts and luxuries due
to a lady of her age, rank, and misfortunes. He would be
only to glad to offer her a sufficient income, not only to provide
comfort, but even luxury.
1092 FILE NUMBER 113
As Andre spoke in a tone too earnest to be assumed, it
seemed to the comtesse that a celestial dew was dropping upon
her pecuniary wounds. Her countenance was radiant with joy,
her fierce little eyes beamed with the most encouraging ten-
derness, her thin lips were wreathed in the most friendly smiles.
One thought alone disturbed the young engineer. "Does she
understand me? Does she think I'm serious?" he wondered.
She certainly did, as her subsequent remarks proved. "Alas !"
she sighed, "forty thousand francs will not save La Verberie;
the principal and interest of the debt amount to at least sixty
thousand."
"Oh, either forty or sixty thousand is nothing worth speak-
ing of."
"Then my son-in-law, the phenix we are supposing, would he
have the forethought to provide for my requirements?"
"I should fancy he would be delighted to add four thousand
francs to the income you derive from your estate."
The comtesse did not reply at once; she was calculating.
"Four thousand francs is not much," she said after a pause.
"Everything is so dear in this part of the country! But with
six thousand francs — yes, six thousand francs would make me
happy !"
The young man thought that her demands were becoming ex-
cessive, but, with the generosity of an ardent lover, he replied:
"The son-in-law of whom we are speaking would not be very
devoted to Mademoiselle Valentine if the paltry sum of two
thousand francs caused him to hesitate."
"You promise too much !" murmured the comtesse. A sud-
den objection, however, occurred to her. "But this imaginary
son-in-law," she remarked, "must be possessed of the means to
fulfil his promises. I have my daughter's happiness too much
at heart to give her to a man who did not produce — what do
you call them? — securities, guarantees."
"Decidedly," thought Fauvel with mortification, "we are mak-
ing a bargain." Then he added aloud : "Of course, your son-
in-law would bind himself in the marriage contract to — "
"Never ! — sir, never ! Think of the impropriety of the thing !
What would the world say?"
"Excuse me, it would be stated that it was the interest of a
sum received from you."
"Ah ! yes, that might do very well."
The comtesse insisted upon seeing Andre home in her car-
FILE NUMBER 113 1093
riage. During the drive no definite plan was agreed upon be-
tween them; but they understood each other so well that, when
the comtesse set the young engineer down at his own door, she
invited him to dinner the next day, and held out her skinny
hand, which Andre kissed with devotion as he thought of Val-
entine's pretty eyes. When Madame de la Verberie returned
home, the servants were dumb with astonishment at her good
humor; they had not seen her in this happy frame of mind for
years. And her day's work was of a nature to elevate her
spirits: she had been most unexpectedly raised from a very
difficult position to affluence. "An annuity of six thousand
francs," said she to herself, "and a thousand crowns from the
estate, that makes nine thousand francs a year ! My daughter
will live in Paris after she is married, and I can go and see
my dear children without expense." At this price she would
have sold not only one but three daughters, if she had pos-
sessed them. But suddenly her blood ran cold at a sudden
thought which crossed her mind : "Would Valentine consent ?"
Her anxiety to set her mind at rest sent her straightway to
her daughter's room. She found Valentine reading by the
light of a flickering candle. "My daughter," she said abruptly,
"a young man of whom I approve has demanded your hand in
marriage, and I have promised it to him."
At this startling announcement, Valentine started up: "Im-
possible !" she murmured, "impossible !"
"And why, if you please ?"
"Did you tell him, mother, what I am? Did you own — "
"Your past folly ? No, thank heavens ! and I hope you will
have the good sense to keep silent on the subject."
Although Valentine's spirit was completely crushed by her
mother's tyranny, her sense of honor revolted at the idea. "You
certainly would not wish me to marry an honest man, mother,
without confessing to him everything connected with the past?
I could never practise a deception so base."
The comtesse felt very much like flying into a passion ; but
she knew that threats would be of no avail in this instance,
where resistance would be a matter of conscience with her
daughter. Instead of commanding, she entreated. "Poor child,"
she said, "my poor dear Valentine, if you only knew the dread-
ful state of our affairs you would not talk in this way. Your
folly commenced our ruin; to-day it is complete. Do you know
that our creditors threaten to turn us out of La Verberie ? Then
1094 FILE NUMBER 113
what will become of us, my poor child? Must I in my old age
go begging from door to door? We are utterly lost, and this
marriage is our only hope of salvation."
These tearful entreaties were followed by plausible argu-
ments. The dear comtesse made use of strange and subtle
theories. What she formerly regarded as a monstrous crime,
she now spoke of as a peccadillo. According to her, girls in
Valentine's position were to be met with every day. She could
understand, she said, her daughter's scruples if there were any
danger of the past being brought to light; but she had taken
such precautions that there was no fear of that. Would it make
her love her husband any the less? No. Would he be less
happy? No. Then that being so, why hesitate? Shocked, be-
wildered, Valentine asked herself if this was really her mother,
the haughty woman who had always been such a worshiper of
honor and duty, who now contradicted every word she had
uttered during her life ! Valentine could not understand the
sudden change. The comtesse's subtle arguments and shameful
sophistry neither moved nor convinced her; but she had not
the courage to resist the tearful entreaties of that mother, who
ended by falling on her knees, and with clasped hands imploring
her child to save her. Violently agitated, distracted by a thou-
sand conflicting emotions, daring neither to refuse nor to prom-
ise, fearing the consequences of a decision thus forced from
her, the unhappy girl begged her mother to grant her a few
hours to reflect.
Madame de la Verberie dared not refuse this request, and
acquiesced.
"I will leave you, my daughter," she said, "and I trust your
heart will tell you how to decide between a useless confession
and your mother's salvation." With these words she left the
room, indignant but hopeful.
Placed between two obligations equally sacred, equally bind-
ing, but diametrically opposed, Valentine's troubled mind could
no longer clearly discern the path of duty. Could she reduce
her mother to want and misery? Could she basely deceive the
confidence and love of an honorable man? However she de-
cided, her future life would be one of suffering and remorse.
Alas ! why had she not a wise and kind adviser to point out
the right course to pursue, and assist her in struggling against
evil influences? Why had she not that gentle, discreet friend
who had helped her in her first misfortunes, old Dr. Raget?
FILE NUMBER 113 1095
Formerly, the memory of Gaston had been her guiding star;
but now this far-off memory was nothing but a sort of van-
ishing dream. In romance we meet with heroines of life-long
constancy ; real life produces few such miracles. For a long time
Valentine's mind had been filled with the image of Gaston. As
the hero of her dreams, she dwelt fondly on his memory; but
the mists of time had gradually dimmed the brilliancy of her
idol, which was now no more than a cold relic at the bottom
of her heart. When she arose the next morning, pale and weak
from a sleepless, tearful night, she was almost resolved to con-
fess everything; but when the evening came, and she found
herself in the company of Andre Fauvel, and in the presence
of her mother's alternately threatening and supplicating glances,
her courage failed her. She would say to herself: "I will tell
him." But later on she added: "I will wait till to-morrow."
The comtesse saw all these struggles, but was not made un-
easy by them. She knew by experience that when a painful
duty is put off it is never performed. There was, perhaps, some
excuse for Valentine in the horror of her situation. Perhaps,
unknown to herself, she felt a faint hope arise within her.
Any marriage, even an unhappy one, offered the prospect of
a change, of a new life, a relief from the insupportable suf-
fering she was then enduring. Sometimes, in her ignorance of
human life, she imagined that time and close intimacy would
make it almost easy for her to confess her terrible fault, and
that Andre would pardon her and marry her all the same, since
he loved her so much. That he sincerely loved her, she knew
full well. It was not the impetuous passion of Gaston, with
its excitements and terrors, but a calm, steady, and perhaps
more lasting affection, obtaining a sort of blissful rest in its
legitimacy and constancy.
Thus Valentine gradually became accustomed to Andre's pres-
ence, and was surprised into feeling very happy at the constant
delicate attentions and affectionate looks that he lavished upon
her. She did not feel any love for him yet ; but a separation
would have distressed her deeply. During the courtship, the
comtesse's conduct was a masterpiece. She suddenly ceased
arguing and importuning, and with tearful resignation said she
would not attempt to influence her daughter's decision; but she
went about sighing and groaning as if she were on the eve
of starving to death. She also made arrangements for being
tormented by the bailiffs. Distress-warrants and legal notices
1096 FILE NUMBER 113
poured in at La Verberie, and she would show Valentine all
these documents, saying: "God grant we may not be driven
from the home of our ancestors before your marriage, my dar-
ling!" Knowing that her presence was sufficient to freeze any
confession on her daughter's lips, she never left her alone with
Andre. "Once married," she thought, "they can settle the mat-
ter to please themselves." She was as impatient as Andre, and
hastened the preparations for the wedding. She gave Valen-
tine no opportunity for reflection. She kept her constantly
busy, either in driving to town to purchase some article of
dress, or in paying visits.
At last the eve of the wedding-day found the comtesse hope-
ful, though oppressed with anxiety, like the gambler playing
for a high stake. On this evening, for the first time, Valen-
tine found herself alone with the man who was to become her
husband. It was twilight, and she was sitting in the drawing-
room, miserable and trembling, anxious to unburden her mind,
when Andre entered. Seeing that she was agitated, he pressed
her hand, and gently begged her to tell him the cause of her
sorrow. "Am I not your best friend," he said, "and ought I
not to be the confidant of your troubles, if you have any ? Why
these tears, my darling?"
At this moment she was on the point of confessing every-
thing. But suddenly she perceived the scandal that would
result, the pain she would cause Andre, and her mother's anger ;
she saw her own future life ruined — she exclaimed, like all
young girls when the eventful moment draws near: "I am
afraid." Imagining that she was merely disturbed by some
vague fears, he tried to console and reassure her; but he was
surprised to find that his affectionate words only seemed to
increase her distress. But already Madame de la Verberie
came to interrupt them : they were wanted to sign the marriage
contract. Andre Fauvel was left in ignorance.
On the morrow, a lovely spring day, Andre Fauvel and Val-
entine de la Verberie were married at the village church.
Early in the morning the chateau was filled with the bride's
friends, who came, according to custom, to assist at her wed-
ding toilet. Valentine forced herself to appear calm, even
smiling; but her face was whiter than her veil — her heart was
torn by remorse. She felt as though the sad truth were written
upon her brow, and that her white dress was but a bitter irony,
a galling humiliation. She shuddered when her most intimate
FILE NUMBER 113
1097
friend placed the wreath of orange-blossoms upon her head.
It seemed to her that this emblem of purity would burn her.
It did not do so, but one of the wire stems of the flowers,
badly covered, scratched her forehead, which bled a great deal,
and a drop of blood fell upon her dress. What an evil omen !
Valentine almost fainted. But presages are deceitful, as it
proved with Valentine; for a year after her marriage she was,
according to report, the happiest of wives. Happy ! yes, she
would have been completely so could she only have forgotten
the past. Andre adored her. He had gone into business, and
everything succeeded with him. But he wished to be immensely
rich, not for himself, but for the wife he loved, whom he longed
to surround with every luxury. Thinking her the most lovely,
he wished to see her the most adorned.
Eighteen months after her marriage, Madame Fauvel had
a son. But, alas ! neither this child, nor a second son, born a
year after, could make her forget the other one — the poor, for-
saken babe whom, for a sum of money, a stranger had consented
to receive. Loving her children passionately, and bringing
them up like the sons of princes, she would murmur to herself:
"Who knows if the abandoned one has even bread to eat?" If
she had only known where he was ; if she had only dared in-
quire ! — but she was afraid. Sometimes, too, she would be uneasy
about Gaston's jewels, constantly fearing that their hiding-place
would be discovered. Other times she would say to herself:
"1 may as well be tranquil ; misfortune has forgotten me." Poor
deluded woman ! Misfortune is a visitor who sometimes delays
his visits, but always comes in the end.
TOUIS DE CLAMERAN, the second son of the marquis, was
"■"^ one of those self-controlled men, who beneath a cool, care-
less manner, conceal a fiery temperament, and ungovernable
passions. Apparently occupied in the pursuit of pleasure, this
precocious hypocrite longed for a larger field in which to in-
dulge his evil inclinations, secretly cursing the stern necessity
1098 FILE NUMBER 113
which chained him down to this dreary country life, and the
old chateau, which to him was more gloomy than a prison, and
as lifeless as the grave. The paternal authority, though gently
exercised, exasperated his rebellious temper. Louis did not love
his father, and he hated his brother Gaston. The old marquis,
in his culpable thoughtlessness, had kindled this burning envy
in the heart of his second son. A strict observer of traditional
rights, he had always declared that the eldest son of a noble
house should inherit all the family possessions, and that he
intended to leave Gaston his entire fortune. Gaston always said
that he would never consent to profit by this paternal partiality,
but would share equally with his brother. Judging others by
himself, Louis placed no faith in this assertion, which he called
an ostentatious affectation of generosity. Although this hatred
was unsuspected by the marquis and Gaston, it was betrayed by
acts significant enough to attract the attention of the servants.
They were so fully aware of Louis's sentiments toward his
brother that, when the latter was prevented from escaping be-
cause of the stumbling horse, they refused to believe it an
accident, and muttered under their breath the word: "Fratri-
cide !" A deplorable scene took place between Louis and Jean,
who was allowed, on account of his fifty years' faithful service,
to take liberties which he sometimes abused by making rough
speeches to his superiors.
"It is a great pity," said the old servant, "that a skilful rider
like yourself should have fallen at the very moment when your
brother's safety depended upon your good horsemanship. La
Verdure did not fall." At this broad insinuation, Louis turned
pale, and threateningly exclaimed : "You insolent scoundrel,
what do you mean?" — "You know well enough what I mean,
sir," the old man replied significantly. — "I do not know ! Ex-
plain yourself."
The servant only answered by a meaning look, which so in-
censed Louis that he rushed toward him with upraised whip,
and would have beaten him unmercifully, had not the other
servants interfered, and dragged Jean from the spot. This
altercation occurred while Gaston was in the madder-field try-
ing to escape his pursuers. After a while, the gendarmes and
hussars returned, with slow tread and sad faces, and announced
that Gaston de Clameran had plunged into the Rhone and was
most certainly drowned. This melancholy news was received
with groans and tears by every one save Louis, who remained
FILE NUMBER 113 1099
calm and unmoved — not a single muscle of his face quivered :
but his eyes sparkled with triumph. A secret voice cried within
him: "Now you are assured of the family possessions, and a
marquis's coronet."
The corporal of the gendarmes had said: "I would not be
the one to tell the poor old man that his son is drowned." Louis
felt none of the tender-hearted scruples of the brave old soldier.
He instantly went to his father's sick-room, and said, in a firm
voice : "Between disgrace and death, my brother has chosen : he
is dead."
Like a sturdy oak stricken by lightning, the marquis tottered
and fell when these fatal words sounded in his ears. The
doctor soon arrived, but, alas ! only to say that science was of
no avail. Toward daybreak, Louis, without a tear, received
his father's last sigh. Louis was now the master. All the un-
just precautions taken by the marquis to elude the law, and
ensure beyond dispute the possession of his entire fortune to his
eldest son, turned against him. By means of a fraudulent deed
of trust drawn by his dishonest lawyer, M. de Clameran had
disposed everything so that, on the day of his death, every
farthing he owned would be Gaston's. It was Louis who bene-
fited by this precaution. He came into possession without even
being called upon for the certificate of his brother's death. He
was now Marquis de Clameran ; he was free, he was compara-
tively rich. He who had never had twenty-five crowns in his
pocket at a time, now found himself the possessor of close upon
two hundred thousand francs. This sudden and most unex-
pected fortune so completely turned his head that he forgot his
skilful dissimulation. His demeanor at the funeral of the mar-
quis attracted general notice. He followed the coffin, with his
head bowed down and his face buried in a handkerchief ; but
his looks belied him, his face was beaming, and one could trace
a smile beneath the grimaces of his feigned grief. The day
after the funeral, Louis sold off everything that could be dis-
posed of — horses, carriages, and family plate. The next day
he discharged all the old servants, who had hoped to end their
days beneath the hospitable roof of Clameran. Several, with
tears in their eyes, took him aside, and entreated him to let
them stay, even without wages. He roughly ordered them to
be gone. He sent for his father's lawyer, and gave him a power
of attorney to sell the estate, and received in return the sum
of twenty thousand francs as the first payment in advance. At
1100 FILE NUMBER 113
the end of the week, he locked up the chateau, with a vow
never to enter it again, and left the keys with Jean, who,
owning a little house near Clameran, would continue to live in.
the neighborhood.
Poor Jean ! little did he think that, in preventing Valentine
from seeing Louis, he had ruined the prospects of his beloved
Gaston. On receiving the keys, he asked but one question:
"Shall we not search for your brother's body, sir?" he inquired
in broken-hearted tones. "And, if it is found, what is to be
done with it?" — "I shall leave instructions with my lawyer,"
answered Louis. And he hurried away from Clameran as if
the ground burned his feet. He went to Tarascon, where he
had already forwarded his luggage, and took the stage-coach
which traveled between Marseilles and Paris, the railroad not
then being finished.
At last he was off. The lumbering vehicle rattled along,
drawn by six horses ; and the deep gullies made by the wheels
seemed so many abysses between the past and the future.
Lying back in his corner, Louis de Clameran enjoyed in antic-
ipation the pleasures of which he was about to partake. At
the end of the journey, Paris appeared before him — radiant,
brilliantly dazzling as the sun. There, all ambitions are
crowned, all dreams are realized, all passions, all desires, good
and evil, are satisfied. In twenty theatres tragedy weeps, or
comedy laughs; while at the opera, the most beautiful women
in the world, sparkling with diamonds, are ready to die with
ecstasy at the sound of divine music ; everywhere noise, excite-
ment, luxury, and pleasure. What a dream ! The heart of
Louis de Clameran was overflowing with desire ; and it seemed
to him that the horses crawled along like tortoises. What mat-
tered it to him how his father and brother had died? He was
young, rich, handsome, and a marquis; he had a constitution
of iron ; he carried twenty thousand francs in his pocket, and
would soon have ten times as many more. He, who had always
been poor, regarded this sum as an inexhaustible treasure; and
at nightfall, when he jumped from the coach on to the muddy
pavement of the brilliantly lighted Paris street, he seemed to
be taking possession of the great city, and felt as though he
could buy everything in it. His illusions were those common to
all young men who, never having been thrown upon their own
resources, suddenly come into possession of a patrimony. Im-
bued with his own importance, accustomed to the deference of
FILE NUMBER 113 1101
the country people, the young marquis came to Paris with the
expectation of being a lion, on account of his name and fortune.
To his great surprise, he learned that he possessed nothing
which constituted a position in this immense city. He found
that in the midst of the busy, indifferent crowd, he was as much
lost and unnoticed as a drop of water in a torrent.
But this not very flattering reality could not discourage a
man who was determined to gratify his passions at all costs.
His ancestral name gained him but one privilege, disastrous
for his future; it opened to him the doors of the aristocratic
Faubourg St. Germain. There he became acquainted with men
of his own age and rank, whose annual incomes almost equaled
his entire fortune. Nearly all of them confessed that they only
kept up their extravagant style of living by dint of skilful
economy behind the scenes, and by regulating their vices and
follies as judiciously as a hosier would arrange his Sunday
holidays. This information astonished Louis, but did not open
his eyes. He endeavored to imitate the dashing style of these
economically wasteful young men, without attempting to con-
form to their prudential rules. He learned how to spend, but
not how to reckon as they did. At the club where he was pro-
posed and elected shortly after his arrival, he found several
obliging persons who took pleasure in initiating him into the
secrets of fashionable life, and correcting any little provincial-
isms betrayed in his manners and conversation. He profited
well and quickly by their lessons. At the end of three months
he was fairly launched; his reputation as a skilful gambler was <
fully established; and he had nobly and gloriously compromised
himself with one of the fast women of the day. He had rented
handsome apartments in the vicinity of the Madeleine, with a
coach-house and stabling for three horses. Although he only
furnished this bachelor's establishment with what was absolutely
necessary, he found that necessaries were very costly; so that
the day he took possession of his apartments, and tried to make
up his accounts, he made the startling discovery that his short
apprenticeship in Paris had cost him fifty thousand francs,
one-fourth of his fortune. And yet he remained, when com-
pared to his brilliant friends, in a state of inferiority which
was mortifying to his vanity, like a worthy countryman who
strains every nerve to make his nag keep up with thorough-
breds. Fifty thousand francs ! For a moment Louis had a
slight inclination to retire from the contest. But then, what a
1102 FILE NUMBER 113
come down ! Besides, his vices bloomed and flourished in
these charming surroundings. He had heretofore considered
himself wonderfully fast, and now a host of new corruptions
were revealed to him. Then the sight of suddenly acquired
fortunes, and the many examples of the successful results of
hazardous ventures, inflamed his mind. He thought that in this
great, rich city, he certainly could succeed in securing a share
of the loaves and fishes. But how? He had no idea, and he
did not seek to find one. He simply persuaded himself that,
like many others, he would have his lucky day. In this furious
race of self-interest it requires great skill to bestride that
capricious mare called opportunity, and ride her to the goal.
But Louis did not devote so much thought to the matter. As
stupid as the man who expected to win the prize at the lottery
without having purchased a ticket, he said to himself : "Pshaw !
opportunity — chance — a rich marriage will set me right again !"
The rich bride failed to appear, but the turn of the last bank-
note arrived. To a pressing demand for money, his notary re-
plied by a refusal. "You have nothing left to sell, sir," he
wrote, "with the exception of the chateau. It is no doubt very
valuable ; but it is difficult, if not impossible, to find a purchaser
for so large a building situated as it is now. I will use every
effort to secure a purchaser; and, believe me, sir," etc. Louis
was thunderstruck at this final catastrophe, as much surprised
as if he had not foreseen it. What was he to do ? But Louis could
not give up the life of ease and pleasure which he had been
leading for the past three years. He first of all lived on the
reputation of his dissipated fortune — on the credit that remains
to the man who has spent much in a short space of time. This
resource was soon exhausted. The day came when his credi-
tors seized all they could lay their hands upon — the last remains
of his opulence, his carriages, horses, and costly furniture. He
retired to a very quiet hotel, but he could not keep away from
the wealthy set whom he had considered his friends. He now
lived upon them as he had lived upon his tradesmen, borrow-
ing from one louis up to twenty-five, from anybody who would
lend to him, and never attempting to repay them. Constantly
betting, no one ever saw him pay a wager. He piloted all the
novices who fell into his hands, and utilized, in the most shame-
ful services, an experience which had cost him two hundred
thousand francs : he was half a courtier, and half an adventurer.
His acquaintances did not cut him, but made him cruelly expiate
FILE NUMBER 113 1103
the favor of being tolerated. No one had the least regard for his
feelings, or hesitated to say before him what was thought of his
conduct ; therefore, whenever alone in his little den, he would
give way to fits of violent rage. Envy and covetousness had long
since stifled every sentiment of honor and self-respect in him.
For a few years of opulence, he felt ready to commit even a crime.
He did not commit a crime, however, but he became mixed
up in a disgraceful affair of swindling and extortion. The
Comte de Commarin, an old friend of his family, came to his
assistance, hushed up the matter, and furnished him with money
to take him to England. And what were his means of liveli-
hood in London? The detectives of the most corrupt capital
in the world could alone tell us. Descending to the lowest
stages of vice, the Marquis de Clameran finally found his level
in a society composed ot fallen women and of sharpers, whose
chances and shameful profits he shared. Compelled to quit
London, he traveled about Europe, with no other capital than
his audacity, his deep depravity, and his skill at cards. Finally,
in 1865, having met a run of good luck at Homburg, he re-
turned to Paris, where he imagined himself entirely forgotten.
Eighteen years had passed since he left France. The first step
which he took on his return, before even settling himself in
Paris, was to make a visit to his old home. Not that he had
any relative or even friend in that part of the country, from
whom he could expect any assistance; but he remembered the
old chateau which his notary had been unable to sell. He
thought that perhaps by this time a purchaser had appeared, and
he determined to go himself and ascertain the point ; he thought,
too, that once in the neighborhood, he would always be able to
get something for his property, which had cost more than a
hundred thousand francs to build.
Three days later, on a beautiful October evening, he reached
Tarascon, and there learned that he was still the owner of the
chateau. Early the next morning, he set out on to foot to visit
the paternal home at Clameran, which he had not seen for
twenty-five years. Everything was so changed that he scarcely
recognized the locality where he was born, and where he passed
his youth ; yet the impression was so strong that this man, tried
by such varied, strange adventures, for a moment felt like turn-
ing back. As Louis advanced, however, the changes appeared
less striking; he began to recognize the ground. Soon, through
the trees, he distinguished the village steeple, then the village
1104 FILE NUMBER 113
itself, built upon the gentle slope of a hill, crowned by a wood
of olive trees. He recognized the first houses he came to; the
farrier's shed, with its roof covered with vine; the old parson-
age, and farther on the village inn, where he and Gaston used
to play billiards on its primitive table. In spite of what he
styled his scorn of vulgar prejudices, a thrill of strange emotion
oppressed his heart. He could not overcome a feeling of sad-
ness as scenes of the past rose up before him. How many
events had occurred since he last walked along this path, and
received a friendly bow and smile from every villager! Then,
life appeared to him like a fairy scene in which his every wish
was gratified. And now, he returned, dishonored, worn out,
disgusted with the realities of life, having tasted the bitter dregs
of the cup of shame, stigmatized, poverty-stricken, and friend-
less, with nothing to lose and nothing to look forward to.
Upon reaching Jean's house, he found the door open; he
walked into the immense kitchen, with its monumental fireplace,
and rapped on the table. "Coming!" answered a voice from
another room. The next moment a man of about forty years
appeared in the doorway, and seemed much surprised at finding
a stranger in his kitchen. "What do you desire, sir?" he in-
quired. — "Does not Jean, the Marquis de Clameran's old valet,
live here?" — "My father died five years ago, sir," replied the
man in a sad tone.
This news affected Louis painfully, as if he had expected the
old man to restore him some of his lost youth. He sighed, and
said: "I am the Marquis de Clameran." The man, at these
words, uttered an exclamation of joy. He seized Louis's hand,
and pressing it with respectful affection, cried: "You are the
marquis ! Alas ! why is not my poor father alive to see you ?
— he would be so happy ! He is beneath the sod now, resting
after a well-spent life; but I, Joseph, his son, am here to take
his place, and devote my life to your service. What an honor
it is to have you in my house ! Ah ! my wife will be so happy
to see you; she has all her life heard of the De Clamerans."
Here he ran into the garden, and called : " 'Toinette ! I say,
Toinette ! — Come here quickly !"
This cordial welcome delighted Louis. So many years had
gone by since he had been treated with an expression of kind-
ness, or felt the pressure of a friendly hand. In a few moments
a handsome, dark-eyed young woman entered the room, and
stood blushing with confusion at sight of the stranger. "This
FILE NUMBER 113 1105
is my wife, sir," said Joseph, leading her toward Louis; "but
I have not given her time to put on her finery. This is Mon-
sieur le Marquis, Antoinette." The young wife bowed, and
having nothing to say, gracefully uplifted her brow, upon which
the marquis pressed a kiss. "You will see the children in a
few minutes, Monsieur le Marquis," said Joseph; "I have sent
to the school for them."
The worthy couple overwhelmed the marquis with attentions.
After so long a walk he must be hungry, they said: he must
take a glass of wine now, and lunch would soon be ready ; they
would be so proud and happy if Monsieur le Marquis would
partake of a country lunch. And Joseph went to the cellar
after the wine, while 'Toinette ran to catch her fattest pullet.
In a short time, Louis sat down to a table laden with the best
of everything, waited upon by Joseph and his wife, who watched
him with tender interest. The children came running in from
school, smeared with the juice of berries. After Louis had em-
braced them, they stood in a corner and gazed at him with eyes
wide open. The important news had spread, and a number of
villagers and countrymen appeared at the open door to speak
to the Marquis de Clameran.
"I am such a one, Monsieur le Marquis; don't you remem-
ber me ? Ah ! I recognized you at once. The late marquis was
very good to me," said an old man. Another asked: "Don't
you remember the time when you lent me your gun to go shoot-
ing?" Louis welcomed with secret delight all these protesta-
tions and proofs of devotion, which had not chilled with time.
The kindly voices of these honest people recalled many pleas-
ant moments of the past, and made him feel once more the
fresh sensations of his youth. He, the adventurer, the bully,
the base accomplice of London swindlers, delighted in these
marks of respect and veneration bestowed upon him as the
representative of the house of De Clameran ; it seemed to make
him once more feel a little self-respect. Ah ! had he possessed
only a quarter of his squandered inheritance, how happy he
would have been to peacefully end his days in his native vil-
lage! But this rest after so many vain excitements, this
haven after so many storms and shipwrecks, was denied him.
He was penniless. How could he live here when he had noth-
ing to live upon? This knowledge of his pressing need gave
him courage to ask Joseph for the keys of the chateau, that
he might go and examine it
Gab. ol. IV I
1106 FILE NUMBER 113
"You won't need any key, except the one to the iron gate,
Monsieur le Marquis," replied Joseph. It was but too true.
Time had done its work, and the lordly chateau of Clameran
was nothing but a ruin. The rain and sun had rotted the
doors and shutters so that they were crumbling and dilapi-
dated. Here and there were traces of the friendly hands of
Jean and his son, who had tried to retard the total ruin of the
old chateau; but what use were their efforts? All of the furni-
ture which Louis had not dared to sell stood in the position
he left it, but in what a state ! All the tapestry hangings and
coverings were moth-eaten and in tatters ; nothing seemed left
but the dust-covered woodwork of the chairs and sofas. Louis
was almost afraid to enter the grand, gloomy rooms, where
every footfall echoed lugubriously. He almost expected to see
the angry old marquis start up from some dark corner, and
heap curses on his head for having dishonored the name. His
nerves could not bear it, and he hurried out into the open air
and sunshine. After a while, he recovered sufficiently to re-
member the object of his visit.
"Poor Jean was foolish not to make use of the furniture left
in the chateau. It is now destroyed without having been of
use to any one." — "My father would not have dared to touch
anything without permission, Monsieur le Marquis." — "And
he was wrong. As for the chateau, it is fast approaching the
condition of the furniture. My fortune, I regret to say, does
not permit me to repair it; I am, therefore, resolved to sell it
while the walls are still standing." Joseph received this infor-
mation very much as a proposal to commit a sacrilege; but he
was not bold of speech, like his father, so he dared not express
what he thought.
"Would there be much difficulty in selling these ruins?" con-
tinued Louis. — "That depends upon the price you ask, Monsieur
le Marquis. I know a man of the neighborhood who would
purchase the lot if he could get it cheap." — "Who is he?" —
"A person named Fougeroux, who lives on the other side of
the Rhone, at Montagnette. He came from Beaucaire, and
twelve years ago married a servant-maid of the late Comtesse
de la Verberie. Perhaps Monsieur le Marquis remembers her
— a plump, bright-eyed brunette, named Mihonne." Louis did
not remember Mihonne. "When can we see this Fougeroux?"
he inquired. — "At any time, by crossing the Rhone on the
ferry." — "Well, let us go now. I am in a hurry."
FILE NUMBER 113 1107
An entire generation had passed away since Louis had left
his old home. It was no longer the old republican sailor,
Pilorel, who kept the ferry, but his son. But he also had a
respect for tradition ; and when he learned the name of the
stranger who accompanied Joseph, he hastily got his boat ready,
and was soon in the middle of the river with his two pas-
sengers. While young Pilorel rowed with all his might, Joseph
did his best to warn the marquis against the wily Fougeroux.
"He is a cunning fox," said he. "I have had a bad opinion of
him ever since his marriage, which was a shameful affair alto-
gether. Mihonne was over fifty years of age, and he was not
twenty-five when he married her; so you will understand it
was the money, and not the wife, that he wanted. She, poor
fool, believed that the young scamp really loved her, and gave
herself and her money up to him." — "And he has made good
use of it," interrupted Pilorel.
"That is true. Fougeroux is not the man to let the money
lie idle. He is now very rich; but he ought, at least, to be
thankful to Mihonne for his prosperity. One can easily under-
stand his not feeling any love for her, when she looks like his
grandmother ; but that he should deprive her of everything and
beat her cruelly is shameful." — "He would like to know her
six feet under ground," said the ferryman. — "And he will see
her there before long. She has been half dead, the poor old
woman, ever since Fougeroux brought home a worthless jade,
whose servant she has become."
They had reached the opposite shore; Joseph and the mar-
quis asked young Pilorel to await their return, and then took
the road to Montagnette. They soon arrived at a well-culti-
vated farm, and Joseph, having inquired for the master, a farm
boy said that "M. Fougeroux" was out in the fields, but he
would send for him. He soon appeared. He was a very little
man, with a red beard, and restless sunken eyes. Although M.
Fougeroux professed to despise the nobility and the clergy, the
hope of driving a good bargain made him servilely obsequious.
He hastened to usher Louis into "his parlor," with many bows
and endless repetitions of "Monsieur le Marquis." Upon
entering the room, he roughly ordered the old woman, who
was crouching over some dying embers, to make haste and
bring some wine for Monsieur the Marquis de Clameran. At
this name, the old woman started as if she had received an
electric shock. She opened her mouth to say something, but
1108 FILE NUMBER 113
a look from her tyrant froze the words upon her lips. With
a wild air, she hobbled out to obey his orders, and in a few
minutes returned with a bottle of wine and three glasses.
Then she resumed her seat by the fire, and kept her eyes fas-
tened upon the marquis. Could this really be the plump and
merry Mihonne, who had been the confidante of the little fairy
of La Verberie? Only those who have lived in the country
know what time and worry can do to a woman.
The bargain, meanwhile, was being discussed between Joseph
and Fougeroux. The dealer offered a ridiculously small sum
for the chateau, saying that he would only buy it to pull down
and sell the materials. Joseph enumerated the beams, joists,
ironwork, and the ground. As for Mihonne, the sight of the
marquis was an event in her existence. If the faithful servant
had hitherto never breathed a word of the secrets confided 1o
her probity, they had seemed to her none the less heavy to bear.
After marrying, and being so harshly treated that she daily
prayed for death to come to her relief, she began to blame
everybody but herself for her misfortunes. Having no child,
after having ardently longed for one, she was persuaded that
God had stricken her with barrenness for having assisted in
the abandonment of an innocent, helpless babe. She often
thought that by revealing everything she might appease the
wrath of Heaven, and once more bring happiness to her home.
Nothing but her love for Valentine gave her strength to resist
this constant temptation. But to-day the sight of Louis de-
cided her. She thought there could be no danger in confiding
in Gaston's brother. The bargain was at length struck. It was
agreed that Fougeroux should give five thousand two hundred
and eighty francs in cash for the chateau and land attached;
and Joseph was to have the remains of the furniture. The mar-
quis and the dealer shook hands as they uttered the final word :
"Agreed !" and Fougeroux at once went himself to get a bottle
of extra good wine with which to seal the bargain.
The occasion was favorable to Mihonne. She walked quickly
over to where the Marquis sat, and said in a nervous whisper:
"Monsieur le Marquis, I must speak with you alone." — "With
me, my good woman?" — "With you. It is a secret of life and
death. This evening, at dusk, meet me under the walnut trees
over there, and I will tell you everything." Hearing her hus-
band's footsteps, she hastened back to her seat. Fougeroux
gaily filled the glasses, and drank De Clameran's health.
FILE NUMBER 113 1109
As they returned to the boat, Louis debated within himself
whether he should keep this singular appointment. "Joseph,
what the deuce can that old witch want with me?" he asked. —
"Who can tell? She used to be in the service of a lady who
was M. Gaston's mistress, so my father used to say. If I were
in your place, sir, I would go. You can dine at my place, and
after dinner Pilorel will row you over."
Curiosity decided Louis ; and about seven o'clock he arrived
under the walnut trees, where old Mihonne had already been
waiting a long time. "Ah ! here you are at last, my dear, good
sir," she said in a tone of joy. "I was beginning to despair." —
"Yes, here I am, my good woman ; what have you to tell me?" —
"Ah ! many things, Monsieur le Marquis. But first, tell me
have you heard from your brother." Louis almost regretted
having come, supposing that the old woman was wandering.
"You know well enough that my poor brother was drowned
in the Rhone." — "Good heavens !" cried Mihonne, "are you ig-
norant, then, of his escape? Yes, he did what will never be
done again : he swam across the swollen Rhone. The next
day Mademoiselle Valentine went to Clameran to tell the news;
but Jean prevented her seeing you. Afterward I took a letter
for you, but you had left."
These revelations, after twenty years, confounded Louis.
"Are you sure you are not mistaking your dreams for real
events, my good woman?" he asked gently. — "No," replied
Mihonne, mournfully shaking her head. "If old Menoul were
alive, he would tell you how he took charge of M. Gaston until
he embarked at Marseilles. But that is nothing compared to
the rest. M. Gaston has a son." — "My brother, a son ! Really,
you are out of your mind." — "Alas ! no, unfortunately for my
happiness in this world and in the world to come. He had a
son, and Mademoiselle Valentine was the mother. I received
the poor babe in my arms and carried it to a woman abroad,
who was paid to take charge of it."
Then Mihonne told everything — the comtesse's anger, the
journey to London, and the desertion of little Raoul. With
the accurate memory natural to people unable to read and write,
she related the most minute particulars — the names of the vil-
lage and the farmer's wife, the child's Christian and surname,
and the exact date of everything which had occurred. Then she
told of Valentine's sufferings after her fault, of the impend-
ing ruin of the comtesse, and, finally, of the poor girl's marriage
1110
FILE NUMBER 113
with a gentleman from Paris, who was so rich that he did not
know the extent of his fortune, a banker named Fauvel. A
piercing and prolonged cry here interrupted the old woman.
"Heavens!" she exclaimed in a frightened voice, "that is my
husband calling me," and she hurried back to the farmhouse as
fast as her trembling limbs could carry her.
For several minutes after her departure, Louis stood rooted
to the spot. Her recital had filled his wicked mind with an
idea so infamous, so detestable, that even his vile nature shrank
for a moment from its enormity. He knew the rich banker by
reputation, and was calculating the advantages he might gain
by the strange information of which he was now possessed.
The few faint scruples he felt were silenced by the prospect of
an old age spent in poverty. "But first of all," he thought, "I
must ascertain the truth of the old woman's story; then I will
decide upon a plan." This was why, two days later, having
received the five thousand two hundred and eighty francs from
Fougeroux, Louis de Clameran set out for London.
P\URING the twenty years of her married life, Valentine had
*^ experienced but one real sorrow ; and this was one which,
in the course of nature, must happen sooner or later. In 1859
her mother died from inflammation of the lungs, during one of
her frequent journeys to Paris. The comtesse preserved her
faculties to the last, and with her dying breath said to her
daughter : "Ah, well ! was I not right in prevailing upon you
to bury the past? Your silence has made my old age peaceful
and happy, for which I now thank you, and it assures you a
quiet future."
Madame Fauvel constantly said that, since the loss of her
mother, she had never had cause to shed a tear. And what
more could she wish for? As years rolled on, Andre's love re-
mained the same as it had been during the first days of their
union. To the love that had not diminished was added that
sweet intimacy which results from long conformity of ideas and
FILE NUMBER 113 1111
unbounded confidence. Everything prospered with this happy
couple. Andre was far more wealthy than he had ever hoped
to be, even in his wildest visions ; more so even than he or
Valentine desired. Their two sons, Lucian and Abel, were
beautiful as their mother, noble-hearted and intelligent young
men, whose honorable characters and graceful bearing were
the glory of their family. Nothing was wanting to insure
Valentine's felicity. When her husband and her sons were
absent, her solitude was cheered by the companionship of an
accomplished young girl, whom she loved as her own daugh-
ter, and who in return filled the place of a devoted child.
Madeleine was M. Fauvel's niece, who, when an infant, had
lost both parents, poor but very worthy people. Valentine
adopted the babe, perhaps in memory of the poor little crea-
ture who had been abandoned to strangers. It seemed to her
that God would bless her for this good action, and that Made-
leine would be the guardian angel of the house. The day of
the little orphan's arrival, M. Fauvel invested for her ten thou-
sand francs, which he presented to Madeleine as her dowry.
The banker amused himself by increasing these ten thousand
francs in the most marvelous ways. He, who never ventured
upon a rash speculation with his own money, always invested
his niece's in the most hazardous schemes, and was always so
successful that, at the end of fifteen years, the ten thousand
francs had become half a million. People were right when
they said that the Fauvel family were to be envied. Time had
dulled Valentine's remorse and anxiety. In the genial atmos-
phere of a happy home, she had almost found forgetfulness and
a peaceful conscience. She had suffered so much at being com-
pelled to deceive Andre that she hoped she was now at quits
with fate. She began to look forward to the future, and her
youth seemed but buried in an impenetrable mist, the memory
of a painful dream.
Yes, she believed herself saved, when, one rainy day in No-
vember, during an absence of her husband's, who had gone into
the provinces on business, one of the servants brought her a
letter, which had been left by a stranger, who refused to give
his name. Without the faintest presentiment of evil she care-
lessly broke the seal, and read :
"Madame — Would it be relying too much upon the memories
of the past to hope for half an hour of your time? To-morrow,
1112 FILE NUMBER 113
between two and three, I will do myself the honor of calling
upon you. Marquis de Clameran."
Fortunately, Madame Fauvel was alone. Trembling like a
leaf, she read the letter over and over again, as if to convince
herself that she was not the victim of a horrible hallucination.
Half a dozen times, with a sort of terror, she whispered that
name once so dear — Clameran ! spelling it aloud as if it were
a strange name which she could not pronounce. And the eight
letters forming the name seemed to shine like the lightning
which precedes the thunderbolt. Ah ! she had hoped and be-
lieved that the fatal past was atoned for, and buried in obliv-
ion ; and now it suddenly stood before her, pitiless and threat-
ening. It was in this hour of security when she imagined
herself pardoned, that the storm was to burst upon the fra-
gile edifice of her happiness, and destroy her every hope.
A long time passed before she could collect her scattered
thoughts sufficiently to reflect upon a course of action. Then
she began to think she was foolish to be so frightened. This
letter was written by Gaston, of course, therefore she need feel
no apprehension. Gaston had returned to France, and wished
to see her. She could understand this desire, and she knew
too well this man, upon whom she had lavished her young
affection, to attribute any bad motives to his visit. He would
come, and finding her the wife of another, the mother of a
family, they would exchange thoughts of the past, perhaps a
few regrets; she would restore the jewels which she had faith-
fully kept for him, and — that would be all. But one distressing
doubt beset her agitated mind. Should she conceal from Gas-
tone the birth of his son? To confess was to expose herself to
many dangers. It was placing herself at the mercy of a man —
a loyal, honorable man, to sure — confiding to him not only her
own honor and happiness, but the honor of her husband and
her sons. Still, silence would be a crime. After abandoning her
child, and depriving him of a mother's care and affection, she
would rob him of his father's name and fortune.
She was still undecided when the servant announced dinner.
But she had not the courage to meet the glances of her sons.
She sent word that she was not well, and would not be down
to dinner. For the first time in her life she rejoiced at her
husband's absence. Madeleine came hurrying into her aunt's
room to see what was the matter; but Valentine dismissed her,
FILE NUMBER 113 1113
saying she would try to sleep off her indisposition. She wished
to be alone in her trouble, and her mind tried to imagine what
the morrow would bring forth. This dreaded morrow soon
came. She counted the hours until two o'clock ; then she counted
the minutes. At half-past two the servant announced: "Mon-
sieur the Marquis de Clameran."
Madame Fauvel had promised herself to be calm, even cold.
During a long, sleepless night, she had mentally arranged before-
hand every detail of this painful meeting. She had even de-
cided upon what she should say. But, at the dreaded moment,
her strength gave way; a frightful emotion fixed her to her
seat; she could neither speak nor think. He, however, bowed
respectfully, and remained waiting in the middle of the room.
He appeared about fifty years of age, with iron-gray hair and
mustache, and a cold, severe cast of countenance; his expres-
sion was of haughty severity as he stood there in his full suit
of black. The agitated woman tried to discover in his face
some traces of the man whom she had so madly loved, who had
pressed her to his heart — the father of her son; and she was
surprised to find in the person before her no resemblance to the
youth whose memory had haunted her life — no, nothing. At
length, as he continued to remain motionless, she faintly mur-
mured : "Gaston !"
But he, shaking his head, replied : "I am not Gaston, madame ;
my brother succumbed to the misery and suffering of exile.
I am Louis de Clameran." What! it was not Gaston, then,
who had written to her — it was not Gaston who stood before
her? She trembled with terror; her head whirled, and her
eyes grew dim. What, then, could this man want — this brother
in whom Gaston had never cared to confide? A thousand
probabilities, each one more terrible than the other, flashed
across her brain. Yet she succeeded in overcoming her weak-
ness, so that Louis scarcely perceived it.
Pointing to a chair, she said to Louis with affected indiffer-
ence: "Will you be kind enough, then, sir, to explain the object
of this most unexpected visit?" The marquis, seeming not
to notice this sudden change of manner, took a seat without
removing his eyes from Madame Fauvel's face. "First of all,
madame," he began, "I must ask if we can be overheard by any
one?" — "Why this question? You can have nothing to say to
me that my husband and children should not hear." Louis
shrugged his shoulders, and said: "Be good enough to answer
1114 FILE NUMBER 113
me, madame; not for my sake, but for your own." — "Speak,
then, sir, you will not be heard."
In spite of this assurance, the marquis drew his chair close
to the sofa where Madame Fauvel sat, so as to speak in a
very low tone, as if almost afraid to hear his own voice. "As
I told you, madame," he resumed, "Gaston is dead; and it- was
I who closed his eyes, and received his last wishes. Do you
understand?" The poor woman understood only too well, but
was racking her brain to discover what could be the purpose
of this fatal visit. Perhaps it was only to claim Gaston's
jewels. — "It is unnecessary to recall," continued Louis, "the
painful circumstances which blasted my brother's life. However
happy your own lot has been, you can not entirely have for-
gotten that friend of your youth who, unhesitatingly, sacrificed
himself in defense of your honor." Not a muscle of Madame
Fauvel's face moved; she appeared to be trying to recall the
circumstances to which Louis alluded. — "Have you forgotten,
madame?" he asked with bitterness. "Then I must try and
explain myself more clearly. A long, long time ago you loved
my unfortunate brother." — "Sir !" — "Ah, it is useless to deny it,
madame. I told you that Gaston confided everything to me —
everything," he added significantly.
But Madame Fauvel was not frightened by this information.
This "everything" could not be of any importance, for Gaston
had gone abroad in total ignorance of her secret. She rose,
and said with an apparent assurance she was far from feeling:
"You forget, sir, that you are speaking to a woman who is
now advanced in life, who is married, and who is the mother
of a family. If your brother loved me, it was his affair, and not
yours. If, young and ignorant, I was led into imprudence, it is
not your place to remind me of it. He would not have done so.
This past which you evoke I buried in oblivion twenty years ago."
"Then you have forgotten all that happened?" — "Absolutely
all." — "Even your child, madame?" This question, accompanied
by one of those looks which penetrate the innermost recesses
of the soul, fell upon Madame Fauvel like a thunderbolt. She
dropped, tremblingly, into her seat, murmuring : "He knows !
How did he discover it?" Had her own happiness alone been
at stake, she would have instantly thrown herself upon De
Clameran's mercy. But she had her family to defend, and
the consciousness of this gave her strength to resist him. "Do
you wish to insult me, sir?" she asked.
FILE NUMBER 113 1115
"It is true, then, you have forgotten Valentine Raoul ?" She
saw that this man did indeed know all. How? It little mat-
tered. He certainly knew; but she determined to deny every-
thing, even in the face of the most positive proofs, if he should
produce them. She thought it best to find out what he was
driving at. "Well," she asked, with a forced laugh, "what is
it you want?"
"Listen, madame. Two years ago the vicissitudes of exile
took my brother to London. There, at the house of a friend,
he met a young man bearing the name of Raoul. Gaston was
so struck by the youth's appearance and intelligence, that he
inquired who he was, and discovered that beyond a doubt this
boy was his son, and your son, madame." — "This is quite a
romance you are relating." — "Yes, madame, a romance, the
denouement of which is in your hands. The comtesse, your
mother, certainly used every precaution to conceal your secret;
but the best-laid plans always have some weak point. After
your departure, one of your mother's London friends came to
the village where you had been staying. This lady pronounced
your real name before the farmer's wife who was bringing up
the child. Thus everything was revealed. My brother wished
for proofs, he procured the most positive, the most unobjection-
able." He stopped and closely watched Madame Fauvel's face
to see the effect of his words. To his astonishment she be-
trayed not the slightest agitation or alarm; she was smiling.
"Well, what next?" she asked carelessly.
"Then, madame, Gaston acknowledged the child. But the
De Clamerans are poor ; my brother died in a lodging-house,
and I have only an annuity of twelve hundred francs to live
upon. What is to become of Raoul, alone without relations or
friends to assist him? This anxiety embittered my brother's
last moments." — "Really, sir — " "I will conclude," interrupted
Louis. "It was then that Gaston opened his heart to me. He
told me to seek you. 'Valentine,' said he, 'Valentine will remem-
ber; she will not allow our son to want for everything, even
bread; she is wealthy, very wealthy; I die in peace.'"
Madame Fauvel rose from her seat, evidently with the inten-
tion of dismissing her visitor. "You must confess, sir," she
said, "that I have shown great patience." — This imperturbable
assurance amazed Louis so much that he did not reply. — "I do
not deny," she continued, "that I at one time possessed the con-
fidence of M. Gaston de Clameran. I will prove it to you by
1116 FILE NUMBER 113
restoring to you your mother's jewels, with which he entrusted
me at the time of his departure." While speaking she took from
beneath the sofa-cushion the bag of jewels, and handed it to
Louis. "Here they are, sir," she added ; "permit me to express
my surprise that your brother never asked me for them." —
Had he been less master of himself, Louis would have shown
how great was his surprise. "I was told," he said sharply, "not
to mention this matter."
Madame Fauvel, without making any reply, laid her hand on
the bell-rope. "You will allow me, sir," she said, "to end this
interview, which was only granted for the purpose of placing
in your hands these precious jewels." — Thus dismissed, M.
de Clameran was obliged to take his leave without attaining
his object. "As you will, madame," he said ; "I leave you ; but
before doing so I must tell you the rest of my brother's dying
injunctions: 'If Valentine disregards the past, and refuses to
provide for our son, I enjoin upon you to compel her to do
her duty.' Meditate upon these words, madame, for what I have
sworn to do, upon my honor, shall be done !"
At last Madame Fauvel was alone. She could give vent to
her despair. Exhausted by her efforts at self-restraint during
De Clameran's presence, she felt weary and crushed in body
and spirit. She had scarcely strength to drag herself up to her
bed-chamber and to lock the door. Now there was no room for
doubt; her fears had become realities. She could fathom the
abyss into which she was about to be hurled, and knew that in
her fall she would drag her family with her. God alone, in
this hour of danger, could help her, could save her from destruc-
tion. She prayed. "Oh, God," she cried, "punish me, for I am
very guilty, and I will evermore adore Thy chastising hand.
Punish me, for I have been a bad daughter, an unworthy
mother, and a perfidious wife. In Thy just anger spare the
innocent; have pity on my husband and my children!" Ah,
why did she listen to her mother? Why did she hold her
tongue? Hope had fled forever. This man who had left her
presence with a threat upon his lips would return; she knew
it well. What answer could she give him? To-day she had
succeeded in subduing her heart and conscience; would she
again have the strength to master her feelings ? She well knew
that her calmness and courage were entirely due to De Cla-
meran's unskilfulness. Why did he not use entreaties instead
of threats? When Louis spoke of Raoul, she could scarcely
FILE NUMBER 113 1117
conceal her emotion; her maternal heart yearned toward the
innocent child who was expiating his mother's faults. A chill
of horror passed over her at the idea of his enduring the pangs
of hunger. Her child wanting bread, when she, his mother,
was rolling in wealth ! With what delight would she undergo
the greatest privations for his sake ! If she could but send
him enough money to support him comfortably! But no; she
could not take this step without compromising herself and her
family. Prudence forbade her acceptance of Louis de Cla-
meran's intervention. To confide in him was placing herself,
and all she held dear, at his mercy, and this inspired her with
instinctive terror. Then she began to ask herself if he had
really spoken the truth. In thinking over Louis's story, it
seemed improbable and disconnected. If Gaston had been liv-
ing in Paris, in the poverty described by his brother, why had
he not demanded of the married woman the deposit entrusted to
the maiden? Why, when anxious about their child's future,
had he not come to her, since he believed her to be so rich
that, on his deathbed, it was she he relied upon. A thousand
vague apprehensions beset her mind ; she felt suspicion and dis-
trust of every one and everything. She was aware that a
decisive step would bind her forever, and then, what would not
be exacted of her? For a moment she thought of throwing
herself at her husband's feet and confessing all. She pictured
to herself the mortification and sorrow that her noble-hearted
husband would suffer upon discovering, after a lapse of twenty
years, how shamefully he had been deceived. Having been
deceived from the very first, would he not believe that it had
been so ever since? Would he believe in her fidelity as a wife
when he discovered her perfidy as a young girl? She under-
stood Andre well enough to know that he would say nothing,
and would use every means to conceal the scandal. But his
domestic happiness would be gone forever. He would forsake
his home; his sons would shun her presence, and every family
bond would be severed. She thought of ending her doubts by
suicide ; but her death would not silence her implacable enemy,
who, not able to disgrace her while alive, would dishonor her
memory.
Fortunately, the banker was still absent; and during the
two days succeeding Louis's visit Madame Fauvel was able to
keep to her room under pretense of illness. But Madeleine,
with her feminine instinct, saw that her aunt was troubled by
1118 FILE NUMBER 113
something worse than the nervous attack for which the phy-
sician was prescribing all sorts of remedies. She noticed, too,
that this sudden illness seemed to have been caused by the visit
of a stern-looking stranger, who had been closeted for a long
time with her aunt. Madeleine felt so sure that something was
wrong, that, on the second day, seeing Madame Fauvel more
anxious still, she ventured to say: "What makes you so sad,
dear aunt? Tell me, shall I ask our good priest to come and
see you?" With a sharpness foreign to her nature, which was
gentleness itself, Madame Fauvel refused to listen to her niece's
suggestion. What Louis calculated upon happened. After long
reflection, not seeing any issue to her deplorable situation, Ma-
dame Fauvel little by little determined to yield. By consent-
ing to all, she had a chance of saving everything. She well
knew that to act thus was to prepare a life of torture for her-
self; but she alone would be the victim, and, at any rate, she
would be gaining time. In the mean time, M. Fauvel had re-
turned home, and Valentine resumed her accustomed ways. But
she was no longer the happy mother and devoted wife, whose
smiling presence was wont to fill the house with sunshine and
comfort. She was beset by the most frightful anxieties. Hear-
ing nothing of De Clameran, she expected to see him appear,
so to say, at any moment ; trembling at every ring of the bell,
turning pale whenever the door opened, and not daring to leave
the house, for fear he should come during her absence. De
Clameran did not come; he wrote, or rather, as he was too
prudent to furnish arms which could be used against himself,
he had a note written, which Madame Fauvel alone might un-
derstand, in which he said that, being ill, he begged she would
excuse his being obliged to make an appointment with her for
the next day at the Hotel du Louvre. The letter was almost
a relief to Madame Fauvel. Anything was preferable to sus-
pense. She was ready to consent to everything. She burned
the letter, and said to herself: "I will go."
The next day, toward the appointed time, she dressed herself
in the plainest of her black dresses, in the bonnet which con-
cealed her face the most, placed a thick veil in her pocket, and
started forth. It was not until she found herself a considerable
distance from her home that she ventured to hail a cab, which
soon set her down at the Hotel du Louvre. Her circle of ac-
quaintances being large, she was in terror of being recognized.
What would her friends think, if they saw her at the Hotel du
FILE NUMBER 113 1119
Louvre dressed as she was? Any one would naturally suspect
an intrigue, a rendezvous ; and her character would be ruined
forever. This was the first time since her marriage that she
had had occasion for mystery ; and, in her inexperience, her
efforts to escape notice were in every way calculated to attract
attention. The concierge said that the Marquis de Clameran's
room was on the third floor. She hurried up the stairs, glad
to escape the scrutinizing glances which she imagined were
fixed upon her; but, in spite of the minute directions given by
the concierge, she lost her way in the immense hotel, and for
a long time wandered about the interminable corridors. Finally,
she found a door bearing the number sought — 317. She stood
leaning against the wall with her hand pressed to her throbbing
heart, which seemed ready to burst. The sight of a stranger
traversing the corridor ended her hesitations. With a trembling
hand she knocked at the door. "Come in," said a voice. She
entered. But it was not the Marquis de Clameran who stood
in the middle of the room, it was quite a young man, almost a
youth, who looked at her with a singular expression. Ma-
dame Fauvel thought that she had mistaken the room. "Excuse
me, sir," she said, blushing deeply: "I thought that this was
the Marquis de Clameran's room."
"It is his room, madame," replied the young man ; then see-
ing she was silent, and about to leave, he added: "I presume
I have the honor of addressing Madame Fauvel ?" She nodded
affirmatively, shuddering at the sound of her own name, and
frightened at this proof of De Clameran's betrayal of her secret
to a stranger. With visible anxiety she awaited an explanation.
"Fear nothing, madame," resumed the young man: "you are as
safe here as if you were in your own drawing-room. M. de
Clameran desired me to make his excuses ; you will not see
him." — "But. sir, from an urgent letter sent by him yesterday,
T was led to suppose — I inferred — "
"When he wrote to you, madame, he had projects in view
which he has since renounced forever."
Madame Fauvel was too surprised, too agitated to think
clearly. Beyond the present she could see nothing. "Do you
mean," she asked with distrust, "that he has changed his inten-
tions?" The young man's face was expressive of sad compas-
sion, as if he shared the unhappy woman's sufferings. "The
marquis has renounced," he said in a melancholy tone, "what
he wrongly considered a sacred duty. Believe me, he hesitated
1120 FILE NUMBER 113
a long time before he could decide to apply to you on a subject
painful to you both. You repelled him, you were obliged to re-
fuse to hear him. He knew not what imperious reasons dictated
your conduct. Blinded by unjust anger, he swore to obtain by
threats what you refused to give him voluntarily. Resolved to
attack your domestic happiness, he had collected overwhelming
proofs against you. Pardon him: an oath given to his dying
brother bound him." He took from the mantelpiece a bundle
of papers through which he glanced as he continued speaking:
"These proofs that can not be denied, I now hold in my hand.
This is the certificate of the Rev. Mr. Sedley ; this the declara-
tion of Mrs. Dobbin, the farmer's wife; and these others are
the statements of the physician and of several persons who
were acquainted with Madame de la Verberie during her stay
near London. Not a single link is missing. I had great diffi-
culty in getting these papers away from M. de Clameran. Per-
haps he had a suspicion of my intentions. This, madame, is
what I intended doing with these proofs."
With a rapid motion he threw the bundle of papers into the
fire, where they blazed up, and, in a moment, nothing remained
of them but a little heap of ashes. "All is now destroyed, ma-
dame," he resumed, his eyes sparkling with the most generous
resolutions. "The past, if you desire it, is as completely anni-
hilated as those papers. If any one, hereafter, dares accuse you
of having had a son before your marriage, treat him as a vile
calumniator. There are no longer any proofs; you are free."
Madame Fauvel began to understand the sense of this scene
— the truth dawned upon her bewildered mind. This noble
youth, who protected her from De Clameran's anger, who re-
stored her peace of mind and the exercise of her own free will,
by destroying all proofs of her past, who in fact saved her, was,
must be, the child whom she had abandoned — Valentine Raoul.
At this moment she forgot everything. Maternal tenderness, so
long restrained, now welled up and overflowed as, in a scarcely
audible voice, she murmured : "Raoul !" At this name, uttered
in so thrilling a tone, the young man staggered, as if overcome
by an unhoped-for happiness. "Yes, Raoul," he cried ; "Raoul,
who would rather die a thousand times than cause his mother
the slightest pain; Raoul, who would shed his life's blood to
spare her one tear."
She made no attempt to struggle or resist; all her body
trembled as she recognized her first-born. She opened her
FILE NUMBER 113 1121
arms, and Raoul sprang into them, saying, in a choked voice:
"Mother ! my dear mother ! Bless you for this first kiss !"
Alas ! this was the sad truth. This dear son she had never
seen before. He had been taken from her, despite her prayers
and tears, without a mother's embrace ; and this kiss she had
just given him was indeed the first. But joy so great, follow-
ing upon so much anguish, was more than the excited mother
could bear; she sank back in her chair almost fainting, and,
with a sort of meditative rapture, gazed in an eager way upon
her long-lost son, who was now kneeling at her feet. With
her hand she stroked his soft curls ; she admired his white
forehead, pure as a young girl's, and his large, trembling eyes;
and she hungered after his red lips.
"Oh, mother !" he said ; "words can not describe my feelings
when I heard that my uncle had dared to threaten you. Ah!
when my father told him to apply to you, he was no longer in
his right mind. I have known you for a long, long time. Often
have my father and I hovered around your happy home to catch
a glimpse of you through the window. When you passed by
in your carriage, he would say to me: 'There is your mother,
Raoul !' To look upon you was our greatest joy. When we
knew you were going to a ball, we would wait near the door
to see you enter, beautiful and adored. How often, in the
depth of winter, have I raced with your fast horses, to admire
you till the last moment!"
Tears — the sweetest tears she had ever shed — coursed down
Madame Fauvel's cheeks, as she listened to the musical tones
of Raoul's voice. This voice was so like Gaston's that it re-
called to her the fresh and adorable sensations of her youth.
She seemed to live over again those early stolen meetings — to
feel once more the beatings of her virgin heart. It seemed as
though nothing had happened since Gaston folded her in his
fond embrace. Andre, her two sons, Madeleine — all were for-
gotten in this new-found affection.
Raoul went on to say: "Only yesterday I learned that my
uncle had been to demand for me a few crumbs of your wealth.
Why did he take such a step ? I am poor, it is true — very poor ;
but I am too familiar with poverty to be frightened by it. I
have a clear brain and willing hands — they will earn me a
living. You are very rich, I have been told. What is that
to me? Keep all your fortune, my darling mother; but give
me a corner in your heart. Let me love you. Promise me that
1122 FILE NUMBER 113
this first kiss shall not be the last. No one will ever know ; be
not afraid. I shall be able to hide my happiness."
And Madame Fauvel had dreaded this son ! Ah ! how bit-
terly did she now reproach herself for not having sooner flown
to meet him. She questioned him regarding the past; she
wished to know how he had lived — what he had been doing.
He replied that he had nothing to conceal; his existence had
been that of every poor man's child. The farmer's wife who
had brought him up had always treated him with affection.
She had even given him an education superior to his condition
in life, and rather beyond her means, because she thought him
so handsome and intelligent. When about sixteen years of age,
she procured him a situation in a banking-house; and he was
commencing to earn his own living, when one day a stranger
came to him, and said: "I am your father," and took him away
with him. Since then nothing was wanting to his happiness,
save a mother's tenderness. He had suffered but one great sor-
row, and that was the day when Gaston de Clameran — his
father — had died in his arms. "But now," he said, "all is for-
gotten. Have I been unhappy? I no longer know, since I see
you — since I love you."
Madame Fauvel was oblivious of the lapse of time, but for-
tunately Raoul was on the watch. "Why, it is seven o'clock !"
he suddenly exclaimed. This exclamation brought Madame
Fauvel abruptly back to the reality. Seven o'clock ! What
would her family think of this long absence? "Shall I see you
again, mother?" asked Raoul, as they were about to separate —
"Oh, yes !" she replied, fondly ; "yes, often, every day, to-
morrow."
But now for the first time since her marriage, Madame Fau-
vel perceived that she was not mistress of her actions. Never
before had she had occasion to wish for uncontrolled liberty.
She left her heart and soul behind her in the room of the Hotel
du Louvre, where she had just found her son. She was com-
pelled to leave him, to undergo the intolerable agony of com-
posing her face to conceal this great happiness, which had
changed her whole life and being. Having some difficulty in
procuring a cab, it was more than half-past seven when she
reached the Rue de Provence, where she found the family
waiting dinner for her. She thought her husband silly, and
even vulgar, when he joked her upon being late. So strange
are the sudden effects of a new passion, that she regarded al-
FILE NUMBER 113 1123
most with contempt this unbounded confidence he reposed in
her. And she, ordinarily so timorous, replied to his jest with
imperturbable calmness, almost without an effort. So intoxi-
cating had been her sensations while with Raoul that in her
joy she was incapable of desiring anything else — of dreaming
of aught save the renewal of those delightful emotions. No
longer was she a devoted wife — an incomparable mother. She
scarcely thought of her two sons. They had always been happy
and beloved. They had a father — they were rich; while the
other, the other ! oh, how much reparation was owing to him !
In her blindness, she almost regarded her family as responsible
for Raoul's sufferings. No remorse for the past, no apprehen-
sions for the future, disturbed her conscience. To her the
future was to-morrow; eternity — the sixteen hours which sep-
arated her from another interview. To her, Gaston's death
seemed to absolve the past as well as the present. But she
regretted she was married. Free, she could have consecrated
herself exclusively to Raoul. She was rich, but how gladly
would she have sacrificed her affluence to enjoy poverty with
him ! Neither her husband nor sons would ever suspect the
thoughts which absorbed her mind; but she dreaded her niece.
She imagined that Madeleine looked at her strangely on her
return home. Did she suspect something. For several days
she had asked embarrassing questions. She must beware of
her.
This uneasiness changed the affection which Madame Fauvel
had hitherto felt for her adopted daughter into positive dislike.
She, so kind and loving, regretted having placed over herself
a vigilant spy from whom nothing escaped. She pondered what
means she could take to avoid the penetrating watchfulness of
a girl who was accustomed to read in her face every thought
that crossed her mind. With unspeakable satisfaction she
thought of a way which she imagined would please all parties.
During the last two years the banker's cashier and protege,
Prosper Bertomy, had been devoted in his attentions to Made-
leine. Madame Fauvel decided to do all in her power to hasten
matters, so that, Madeleine once married and out of the house,
there would be no one to criticize her own movements. That
very evening, with a duplicity of which she would have been
incapable a few days before, she began to question Madeleine
about her sentiments toward Prosper.
"Ah, ah, mademoiselle," she said gaily, "is it thus you per-
1124 FILE NUMBER 113
mit yourself to choose a husband without my permission." —
"But, aunt! I thought you — " — "Yes, I know; you thought I
had suspected the true state of affairs? That is precisely what
I had done." Then, in a serious tone, she added: "Therefore,
nothing remains but to obtain the consent of Master Prosper.
Do you think he will grant it ?" — "He ! aunt. Ah ! if he only
dared — " — "Ah, indeed ! you seem to know all about it, made-
moiselle."
Madeleine, blushing and confused, hung her head, and said
nothing. Madame Fauvel drew her toward her, and continued
in her most affectionate voice: "My dear child, do not be dis-
tressed. Did you think that Prosper would have been so warmly
welcomed by your uncle and myself, had we not approved of
him in every respect?"
Madeleine threw her arms round her aunt's neck, and mur-
mured: "Oh, thank you, my dear aunt, thank you; you are
kind, you love me!" Madame Fauvel said to herself: "I will
make Andre speak to Prosper, and before two months are over
the marriage can take place."
Unfortunately, Madame Fauvel was so engrossed by her new
passion, which did not leave her a moment for reflection, that
she put off this project. Spending a portion of each day at the
Hotel du Louvre with Raoul, she did not cease devoting her
thoughts to insuring him an independent fortune and a good
position. She had not yet ventured to speak to him on the
subject. She imagined that she had discovered in him all his
father's noble pride and sensitiveness. She anxiously won-
dered if he would ever accept the least assistance from her.
The Marquis de Clameran quieted her doubts on this point.
She had frequently met him since the day on which he had so
frightened her, and to her first aversion had succeeded a secret
sympathy. She felt kindly toward him for the affection he
lavished on her son. If Raoul, with the heedlessness of youth,
mocked at the future, Louis, the man of the world, seemed
very anxious about his nephew's welfare. So that, one day,
after a few general observations, he approached this serious
question: "The pleasant life my nephew leads is all very well,"
he commenced, "but would it not be prudent for him to seek
some employment? He has no fortune." — "Ah, my dear uncle,
do let me enjoy my present happiness. What is the use of any
change? What do I want?" — "You want for nothing at pres-
ent, Raoul; but when your resources are exhausted, and mine
FILE NUMBER 113 1125
too — which will be in a short time — what will become of you?"
"Oh ! I will enter the army. All the De Clamerans are born
soldiers ; and if a war breaks out — "
Madame Fauvel laid her hand upon his lips, and said in a
reproachful tone: "Cruel boy! become a soldier? Would you,
then, deprive me of the joy of seeing you?" — "No, mother dear;
no." — "You see," insisted Louis, "that you must listen to us."
— "I am quite willing; but some other time. I will work and
earn no end of money." — "How, poor foolish boy? What can
you do ?" — "Oh ! never mind. I don't know how ; but set your
mind at rest, I will find a way."
Finding it impossible to make this self-sufficient youth listen
to reason, Louis and Madame Fauvel, after discussing the mat-
ter fully, decided that assistance must be forced upon him. It
>ras difficult, however, to choose a profession; and De Cla-
meran thought it prudent to wait a while, and study the bent
of the young man's mind. In the mean while, it was decided
that Madame Fauvel should place funds at the marquis's dis-
posal for Raoul's support. Regarding Gaston's brother in the
light of a father to her child, Madame Fauvel soon found him
indispensable. She continually wanted to see him, either to
consult him concerning some new idea which occurred to her,
or to impress upon him some good advice to be given. Thus
she was well pleased when one day he requested the honor of
being allowed to call upon her at her own house. Nothing was
easier than to introduce the Marquis de Clameran to her hus-
band as an old friend of her family; and, after once being ad-
mitted, he could soon become an intimate acquaintance. Ma-
dame Fauvel soon had reason to congratulate herself upon this
arrangement. Unable to continue to go to Raoul every day,
$nd not daring, if she wrote to him, to receive his replies, she
obtained news of him through Louis.
For about a month things went on smoothly, when one day
the marquis confessed that Raoul was giving him a great
deal of trouble. His hesitating, embarrassed manner frightened
Madame Fauvel. She thought something had happened, and
that he was trying to break the bad news gently. "What is
the matter?" she asked. — "I am sorry to say," replied De Cla-
meran, "that this young man has inherited all the pride and
passions of his ancestors. He is one of those natures who stop
at nothing, who find incitement in opposition; and I can think
of no way of checking him in his mad career." — "Merciful
1126 FILE NUMBER 113
heaven ! what has he been doing ?" — "Nothing particularly cen-
surable, nothing irreparable, certainly; but I am afraid of the
future. He is still unaware of the liberal allowance which you
have placed in my hands for his benefit; he thinks that I sup-
port him, and yet he throws away money as if he were the son
of a millionaire."
Like all mothers, Madame Fauvel attempted to excuse her
son. "Perhaps you are a little severe," she said. "Poor child,
he has suffered so much ! He has undergone so many priva-
tions during his childhood, that this sudden happiness and
wealth has turned his head ; he seizes on pleasure as a starving
man seizes on a piece of bread. Is it so surprising? Ah, only
have patience, and he will soon return to the path of duty;
he has a good heart." "He has suffered so much!" was
Madame Fauvel's constant excuse for Raoul. This was her
invariable reply to M. de Clameran's complaints of his nephew's
conduct And, having once commenced, he was now constant
in his accusations against Raoul. "Nothing restrains his ex-
travagance and dissipation," Louis would say in a mournful
voice ; "the instant a piece of folly enters his head, it is carried
out, no matter at what cost."
But Madame Fauvel saw no reason why her son should be
thus harshly judged. "We must remember," she replied in
an aggrieved tone, "that from infancy he has been left to
his own unguided impulses. The unfortunate boy never had
a mother to tend and counsel him. You must remember, too,
that in his childhood he never knew a father's guidance." —
"There is some excuse for him, to be sure; but nevertheless he
must change his present course. Could you not speak seriously
to him, madame? You have more influence over him than I."
She promised, but did not keep her promise. She had so
little time to devote to Raoul, that it seemed cruel to spend it
in reprimands. Sometimes she would hurry from home for
the purpose of following the marquis's advice; but, the instant
she saw Raoul, her courage failed, a pleading look from his
soft, dark eyes silenced the rebuke upon her lips, the sound of
his voice banished every anxious thought from her mind.
But De Clameran was not a man to lose sight of the main
object; he would have no compromise with duty. His brother
had bequeathed to him, as a precious trust, his son Raoul; he
regarded himself, he said, as his guardian, and would be held
responsible in another world for his welfare. He entreated
FILE NUMBER 113 1127
Madame Fauvel to use her influence, when he found himself
powerless in trying to check the heedless youth in his down-
ward career. She ought, for the sake of her child, to see
more of him, in fact, every day.
"Alas," the poor woman replied, "that would be my heart's
desire. But how can I do it ? Have I the right to ruin myself ?
I have other children, for whom I must be careful of my
reputation." This answer appeared to astonish De Clameran.
A fortnight before, Madame Fauvel would not have alluded
to her other sons. "I will think the matter over," said Louis,
"and perhaps when I see you next I shall be able to submit
to you a plan which will reconcile everything."
The reflections of a man of so much experience could not
be fruitless. He had a relieved, satisfied look, when he called
to see Madame Fauvel in the following week. "I think I have
solved the problem," he said. — "What problem?" — "The means
of saving Raoul."
He explained himself by saying that as Madame Fauvel
could not, without arousing her husband's ' suspicions, visit
Raoul daily, she must receive him at her own house. This
proposition shocked Madame Fauvel; for though she had been
imprudent, even culpable, she was the soul of honor, and
naturally shrank from the idea of introducing Raoul into the
midst of her family, and seeing him welcomed by her husband,
and perhaps become the friend of her sons. Her instinctive
sense of justice made her declare that she would never con-
sent to such an infamous step.
"Yes," said the marquis thoughtfully; "but then it is the
only chance of saving your child." But this time, at least,
she resisted, and with an indignation and an energy capable
of shaking a will less strong than the Marquis de Clameran's.
"No," she repeated, "no ; I can never consent."
Before a week had passed she listened to this project, which
at first had filled her with horror, with a willing ear, and even
began to devise means for its speedy execution. Yes, after
a cruel struggle, she finally yielded to the pressure of De Cla-
meran's politely uttered threats and Raoul's wheedling en-
treaties. "But how?" she asked, "upon what pretext can I
receive Raoul?" — "It would be the easiest thing in the world,"
replied De Clameran, "to introduce him as an ordinary ac-
quaintance, as I, myself, have the honor of being. But Raoul
must be more than that."
1128 FILE NUMBER 113
After torturing Madame Fauvel for a long time and almost
driving her out of her mind, he finally revealed his scheme.
"We have in our hands," he said, "the solution of the problem.
It is an inspiration." Madame Fauvel eagerly scanned his
face as she listened with the pitiable resignation of a martyr.
"Have you not a cousin, a widow lady, who had two daughters,
living at St. Remy?" continued Louis. — "Yes, Madame de
Lagors." — "Precisely so. What fortune has she?" — "She is
poor, sir, very poor." — "And but for the assistance you render
her secretly, she would be thrown upon the charity of the
world." Madame Fauvel was bewildered at finding the marquis
so well informed of her private affairs. "How could you
have discovered this?" she asked. — "Oh, I know all about this
affair, and many others besides. I know, for instance, that
your husband knows none of your relatives, and that he is
scarcely aware of the existence of your cousin De Lagors.
Do you begin to comprehend my plan?" She understood it
slightly, and was asking herself how she could resist it.
"This," continued Louis, "is what I have planned. To-mor-
row or next day, you will receive a letter from your cousin at
St. Remy, telling you that she has sent her son to Paris, and
begging you to watch over him. Naturally you show this
letter to your husband; and a few days afterward he warmly
welcomes your nephew, Raoul de Lagors, a handsome, rich,
attractive young man, who will do everything he can to please
him, and who will succeed."
"Never, sir," replied Madame Fauvel, "my cousin is a
pious, honorable woman, and nothing would induce her to
countenance so shameful a transaction." The marquis smiled
scornfully, and asked: "Who told you that I intended to con-
fide in her?" — "But you would be obliged to do so!"
"You are very simple, madame. The letter which you will
receive, and show to your husband, will be dictated by me,
and posted at St. Remy by a friend of mine. If I spoke of
the obligations under which you have placed your cousin, it
was merely to show you that, in case of accident, her own
interest would make her serve you. Do you see any other
obstacle to this plan, madame?"
Madame Fauvel's eyes flashed with indignation. "Is my
will of no account?" she exclaimed. "You seem to have
made your arrangements without consulting me at all." — "Ex-
cuse me," said the marquis with ironical politeness; "I am
FILE NUMBER 113
1129
sure that you will take the same view of the matter as myself."
— "But it is a crime, sir, that you propose — an abominable
crime !"
This speech seemed to arouse all the bad passions slum-
bering in De Clameran's bosom; and his pale face had a
fiendish expression as he fiercely replied: "I think we do not
quite understand each other. Before you begin to talk about
crime, think over your past life. You were not so timid and
scrupulous when you gave yourself up to your lover. It is
true that you did not hesitate to refuse to share his exile, when
for your sake he had just jeopardized his life by killing two
men. You felt no scruples at abandoning your child in London;
although rolling in wealth, you never even inquired if this
poor waif had bread to eat. You felt no scruples about mar-
rying M. Fauvel. Did you tell your confiding husband of the
lines of shame concealed beneath your wreath of orange-blos-
soms ? No ! All these crimes you indulge in ; and, when in
Gaston's name I demand reparation, you indignantly refuse!
It is too late ! You ruined the father ; but you shall save the
son, or I swear you shall no longer cheat the world of its
esteem." — "I will obey you, sir," murmured the trembling,
frightened woman.
The following week Raoul, now Raoul de Lagors, was seated
at the banker's dinner-table, between Madame Fauvel and
Madeleine.
IT was not without the most acute suffering and self-con-
demnation that Madame Fauvel submitted to the will of the
relentless Marquis de Clameran. She had used every argument
and entreaty to soften him ; but he merely looked upon her with
a triumphant, sneering smile when she knelt at his feet, and
implored him to be merciful. Neither tears nor prayers moved
his depraved soul. Disappointed, and almost desperate, she
sought the intercession of her son. Raoul was in a state of
furious indignation at the sight of his mother's distress, and
Gab. — Vol. IV J
1130 FILE NUMBER 113
hastened to demand an apology from De Clameran. But he
had reckoned without his host. He soon returned with down-
cast eyes, and moodily angry at his own powerlessness, de-
claring that safety demanded a complete surrender to the
tyrant. Now only did the wretched woman fully fathom
the abyss into which she was being dragged, and clearly see the
labyrinth of crime of which she was becoming the victim.
And all this suffering was the consequence of a fault, an in-
terview granted to Gaston. Ever since that fatal day she had
been vainly struggling against the implacable logic of events.
Her life had been spent in trying to overcome the past, and
now it had risen to crush her. The hardest thing of all to
do, the act that most wrung her heart, was showing to her
husband the forged letter from St. Remy, and saying that she
expected soon to see her nephew, a quite young man, and very
rich ! But words can not paint the torture she endured on the
evening she introduced Raoul to her family. It was with a
smile on his lips that the banker welcomed this nephew, of
whom he had never heard before. "It is natural," said he, as
he held out his hand, "when one is young and rich, to prefer
Paris to St. Remy." Raoul did his utmost to deserve this cor-
dial reception. If his early education had been neglected, and
he lacked those delicate refinements of manner and conversa-
tion which home influence imparts, his superior tact concealed
these defects. He possessed the happy faculty of reading char-
acters, and adapting his conversation to the minds of his lis-
teners. Before a week had gone by he was a favorite with
M. Fauvel, intimate with Abel and Lucien, and inseparable
from Prosper Bertomy, the cashier, who then spent all his
evenings with the banker's family. Charmed at the favorable
impression made by Raoul, Madame Fauvel recovered compara-
tive ease of mind, and at times almost congratulated herself
upon having obeyed the marquis, and began once more to hope.
Raoul's intimacy with his cousins threw him among a set of
rich young men, and as a consequence, instead of reforming,
he daily grew more dissipated and reckless. Gambling, racing,
expensive suppers, made money slip through his fingers like
grains of sand. This proud young man, whose sensitive deli-
cacy not long since made him refuse to accept aught save
affection from his mother, now never approached her without
demanding large sums of money. At first she gave with pleas-
ure, without stopping to count the cash. But she soon per-
FILE NUMBER 113 1131
ceived that her generosity, if she did not keep it within bounds,
would be her ruin. This rich woman, whose magnificent dia-
monds, elegant toilets, and superb equipages were the admira-
tion and envy of Paris, knew misery in its bitterest form: that
of not being able to gratify the desires of a beloved being.
Her husband had never thought of giving her a fixed sum for
expenses. The day after their wedding he gave her a key to
his secretary, and ever since she had been in the habit of freely
taking the money necessary for keeping up the establishment,
and for her own personal requirements. But from the fact of
her having always been so modest in her personal expenses, that
her husband used to jest her on the subject, and of her hav-
ing managed the household expenditure in a most judicious
manner, she was not able to suddenly dispose of large sums
without giving rise to embarrassing questions. M. Fauvel, the
most generous of millionaires, would have been delighted to see
his wife indulge in any extravagance, no matter how foolish;
but he would naturally expect to see traces of the money spent,
something to show for it. The banker might suddenly discover
that much more than the usual amount of money was used in
the house ; and if he should ask the cause of this astonishing
outlay, what answer could she give?
In three months Raoul had squandered a little fortune. In
the first place, he was obliged to have bachelor's apartments,
prettily furnished. He was in want of everything, just like a
shipwrecked sailor. He asked for a horse and brougham — how
could she refuse him? Then every day there was some fresh
whim to be satisfied. When she would gently remonstrate,
Raoul's beautiful eyes would fill with tears, and in a sad, hum-
ble tone he would say : "Alas ! I am a child, a poor fool, I ask
too much. I forget that I am only the son of poor Valentine,
and not of the rich banker's wife !"
This touching repentance wrung her heart. The poor boy
had suffered so much that it was her duty to console him, and
she would finish by excusing him. She soon discovered that
he was jealous and envious of his two brothers — for, after all,
they were his brothers — Abel and Lucien.
"You never refuse them anything," he would say ; "they were
fortunate enough to enter life by the golden gate. Their every
wish is gratified; they enjoy wealth, position, home affection,
and have a splendid future awaiting them."
"But what is lacking to your happiness, unhappy child?"
1132 FILE NUMBER 113
Madame Fauvel would ask in despair. — "What do I want? ap-
parently nothing, in reality everything. Do I possess anything
legitimately ? What right have I to your affection, to the com-
forts and luxuries you heap upon me, to the name I bear ? Have
I not, so to say, stolen even my life?"
When Raoul talked in this strain, she was ready to do any-
thing, so that he should not be envious of her two other sons.
As spring approached, she told him she wished him to spend
the summer in the country, near her villa at St. Germain. She
expected he would offer some objection. But not at all. The
proposal seemed to please him, and a few days after he told
her he had rented a little house at Vesinet, and intended hav-
ing his furniture moved into it. "Then, just think, dear mother,
what a happy summer we will spend together!" he said with
beaming eyes.
She was delighted for many reasons, one of which was that
the prodigal's expenses would probably diminish. Anxiety as
to the exhausted state of her finances made her bold enough to
chide him at the dinner table one day for having lost two thou-
sand francs at the races the day before.
"You are severe, my dear," said M. Fauvel, with the care-
lessness of a rich man. "Mama de Lagors will pay; mamas
were created for the special purpose of paying." And, not ob-
serving the effect these words had upon his wife, he turned to
Raoul, and added: "Don't worry yourself, my boy; when you
want money, come to me, and I will lend you some." What
could Madame Fauvel say? Had she not followed De Cla-
meran's orders, and announced that Raoul was very rich ? Why
had she been made to tell this unnecessary lie? She all at once
perceived the snare which had been laid for her; but now she
was caught, and it was too late to struggle. The banker's offer
was soon accepted. That same week Raoul went to his uncle
and boldly borrowed ten thousand francs. When Madame
Fauvel heard of this piece of audacity, she wrung her hands
in despair. "What can he want with so much money?" she
moaned to herself.
For some time De Clameran had kept away from Madame
Fauvel's house. She decided to write and ask him to call. She
hoped that this energetic, determined man, who was so fully
awake to his duties as a guardian, would make Raoul listen
to reason. When De Clameran heard what had taken place,
his surprise and anger were unbounded. A violent alterca-
FILE NUMBER 113 1133
tion ensued between him and Raoul. But Madame Fauvel's
suspicions were aroused; she watched them, and it seemed to
her — could it be possible — that their anger was feigned; that,
although they abused and even threatened each other in the
bitterest language, their eyes were smiling. She dared not
breathe her doubts ; but, like a subtle poison which disorgan-
izes everything with which it comes in contact, this new sus-
picion filled her thoughts, and added to her already intolerable
sufferings. Yet she never once thought of blaming Raoul, for
she still loved him madly. She accused the marquis of taking
advantage of the youthful weaknesses and inexperience of his
nephew. She knew that she would have to suffer insolence and
extortion from this man who had her completely in his power ;
but she could not penetrate his motive for acting as he did.
He soon acquainted her with it.
One day, after complaining more bitterly than usual of Raoul,
and proving to Madame Fauvel that it was impossible for this
state of affairs to continue much longer, the marquis declared
that he saw but one way of preventing a catastrophe. This
was, that he (De Clameran) should marry Madeleine. Madame
Fauvel had long ago been prepared for anything his cupidity
could attempt. But if she had given up all hope of happiness
for herself, if she consented to the sacrifice of her own peace
of mind, it was because she thus hoped to insure the security of
those dear to her. This unexpected declaration shocked her.
"Do you suppose for an instant, sir," she indignantly exclaimed,
"that I will consent to any such disgraceful project?" With a
nod, the marquis answered: "Yes." — "What sort of a woman
do you think I am, sir ? Alas ! I was very guilty once, but the
punishment now exceeds the fault. And does it become you to
be constantly reproaching me with my long-past imprudence?
So long as I alone had to suffer, you found me weak and timid ;
but now that you attack those I love, I rebel." — "Would it
then, madame, be such a very great misfortune for Mademoi-
selle Madeleine to become the Marquise de Clameran?"
"My niece, sir, chose, of her own free will, a husband whom
she will shortly marry. She loves M. Prosper Bertomy." The
marquis disdainfully shrugged his shoulders. "A school-girl
love affair," said he ; "she will forget all about it when you wish
her to do so." — "I will never wish it."
"Excuse me," he replied in the low, suppressed tone of a
man trying to control himself; "let us not waste time in these
1134 FILE NUMBER 113
idle discussions. Hitherto you have always commenced by pro-
testing against my proposed plans, and in the end acknowledged
the good sense and justness of my arguments. This time, also,
you will oblige me by yielding." — "Never," said Madame Fau-
vel; "never!" ,
De Clameran paid no attention to this interruption, but went
on : "If I insist upon this marriage, it is because it will reestab-
lish your affairs, as well as ours. Of course you see that the
allowance you give your son is insufficient for his extravagant
style of living. The time approaches when you will have noth-
ing more to give him, and you will no longer be able to conceal
from your husband your constant encroachments on the house-
keeping money. When that day comes, what is to be done?"
Madame Fauvel shuddered. The dreaded day of which the
marquis spoke could not be far off. "Then," he continued, "you
will render justice to my wise forethought, and to my good
intentions. Mademoiselle Madeleine is rich; her dowry will
enable me to supply the deficit, and save you." — "I would rather
be ruined than be saved by such means." — "But I will not per-
mit you to ruin us all. Remember, madame, that we are asso-
ciated in a common cause — Raoul's future welfare." — "Cease
your importunities," she said, looking him steadily in the face.
"I have made up my mind irrevocably." — "To what?" — "To do
everything and anything to escape your shameful persecution.
Oh ! you need not smile. I shall, if necessary, throw myself at
M. Fauvel's feet and confess everything. He loves me, and,
knowing how I have suffered, will forgive me." — "Do you think
so?" asked De Clameran, derisively. — "You mean to say that
he will be pitiless, and banish me from his roof ! So be it ; it
will only be what I deserve. There is no torture that I can not
bear after what I have suffered through you."
This inconceivable resistance so upset all the marquis's plans
that he lost all constraint, and, dropping the mask of politeness,
appeared in his true character. "Indeed !" he said, in a fierce,
brutal tone ; "so you have decided to confess to your husband !
A famous idea ! What a pity you did not think of it before !
Confessing everything the first day I called on you, you might
have been forgiven. Your husband might have pardoned a
youthful fault, atoned for by twenty years of irreproachable
conduct; for none can deny that you have been a faithful wife
and a good mother. But picture the indignation of your trust-
ing husband when you tell him that this pretended nephew —
FILE NUMBER 113 1135
whom you impose upon his family circle, who sits at his table,
who borrows his money — is your illegitimate son ! M. Fauvel
is, no doubt, an excellent, kind-hearted man ; but I scarcely
think he will pardon a deception of this nature, which betrays
such depravity, duplicity, and audacity."
All that the angry marquis said was horribly true ; yet Ma-
dame Fauvel listened unflinchingly. "Upon my word," he went
on, "you must be very much infatuated with this M. Bertomy !
Between the honor of your husband's name, and pleasing this
love-sick cashier, you refuse to hesitate. Well, I suppose it
will console you when M. Fauvel separates from you, and Abel
and Lucien avert their faces at your approach, and blush at
being your sons — it will be very sweet to be able to say : 'I have
made Prosper happy !' "
"Happen what may, I shall do what is right," said Madame
Fauvel. — "You shall do what I tell you !" cried De Clameran,
threateningly. "Do you suppose that I will allow your senti-
mentality to blast all my hopes? Your niece's fortune is indis-
pensable to us, and, more than that, I love the fair Madeleine."
The blow once struck, the marquis judged it prudent to await
the result. With cool politeness, he added : "I will leave you
now, madame, to think the matter over. Believe me, consent
to this sacrifice — it will be the last required of you. Think of
the honor of your family, and not of your niece's love affairs.
I will call in three days for your answer." — "You will come
uselessly, sir. I shall tell my husband everything as soon as
he returns." If Madame Fauvel had not been so agitated her-
self she would have detected an expression of alarm upon De
Clameran's face. With a shrug, which meant, "Just as you
please," he said : "I think you have sense enough to keep
your secret." He bowed ceremoniously, and left the room, but
slammed the door after him with a violence that betrayed the
constraint he had imposed upon himself. De Clameran had
cause for fear. Madame Fauvel's determination was not
feigned. "Yes," she cried, with the enthusiasm of a noble
resolution ; "yes, I will tell Andre everything."
She believed herself to be alone, but turned round suddenly
at the sound of footsteps, and found herself face to face with
Madeleine, who was pale as a statue, and whose eyes were
full of tears. "You must obey this man, aunt," she quietly
said. Adjoining the drawing-room were two little card-rooms,
shut off only by heavy silk surtains. Madeleine, unknown to
1136 FILE NUMBER 113
her aunt, was sitting in one of the little rooms when the mar-
quis arrived, and had overheard the conversation.
"Good heavens!" cried Madame Fauvel with terror; "do you
know?" — "I know everything, aunt." — "And you wish me to
sacrifice you to this fiend?" — "I implore you to let me save
you." — "You must certainly hate M. de Clameran." — "I hate
him, aunt, and despise him. He will always be for me the
basest of men ; nevertheless I will marry him."
Madame Fauvel was overcome by the magnitude of this de-
votion. "And what is to become of Prosper, my poor child —
Prosper, whom you love?" Madeleine stifled a sob, and replied
in a firm voice : "To-morrow I will break off my engagement
with M. Bertomy." — "I will never permit such a wrong," cried
Madame Fauvel. "I will not add to my sins by suffering an
innocent girl to bear their penalty."
The noble girl sadly shook her head, and replied: "Neither
will I suffer dishonor to fall upon this house, which is my home,
while I have power to prevent it. Am I not indebted to you for
more than life ? What would I now be had you not taken pity on
me ? A factory girl in my native town. You warmly welcomed
the poor orphan, and became a mother to her. Is it not to your
husband that I owe the fortune which excites this villain's
cupidity ? Are not Abel and Lucien brothers to me ? And now,
when the happiness of us all is at stake, do you suppose I would
hesitate? No. I will become the wife of De Clameran."
Then began a struggle of self-sacrifice between Madame
Fauvel and her niece, as to which should be the victim ; and all
the more sublime, because each offered her life to the other,
not from any sudden impulse, but deliberately and willingly.
But Madeleine was bound to triumph, fired as she was by that
holy enthusiasm of sacrifice which makes martyrs. — "I am re-
sponsible to none but myself," she said, well knowing this to
be the most vulnerable point she could attack ; "while you, dear
aunt, are accountable to your husband and children. Think
of my uncle's pain and sorrow if he should ever learn the
truth ! It would kill him."
The generous girl was right. After having sacrificed her
husband to her mother, Madame Fauvel was about to immolate
her husband and children for Raoul. As an impalpable snow-
flake may be the beginning of an avalanche, so an imprudence
is often the prelude to a great crime. To false situations there
is but one safe issue — truth.
FILE NUMBER 113 1137
Madame Fauvel's resistance grew weaker and weaker. "But,"
she faintly argued, "I can not accept your sacrifice. What
sort of a life will you lead with this man?" — "We can hope
for the best," replied Madeleine, with a cheerfulness she was
far from feeling; "he loves me, he says; perhaps he will be
kind to me." — "Ah, if I only knew where to obtain money! It
is money that the grasping man wants ; money alone will satisfy
him." — "Does he not want it for Raoul? Has not Raoul, by
his extravagant follies, dug an abyss which must be bridged
over by money? If I could only believe M. de Clameran!"
Madame Fauvel looked at her niece with bewildered curi-
osity. What ! this inexperienced girl had weighed the matter
in its different lights before deciding upon a surrender ; whereas,
she, a wife and a mother, had blindly yielded to the inspirations
of her heart! "What do you mean?" she asked. — "I mean this,
aunt, that I do not believe that De Clameran has any thought
of his nephew's welfare. Once in possession of my fortune, he
may leave you and Raoul to your fates. And there is another
dreadful suspicion that tortures my mind." — "A suspicion?" —
"Yes, and I would reveal it to you, if I dared ; if I did not fear
that you — " — "Speak !" insisted Madame Fauvel. "Alas ! mis-
fortune has given me strength. I can fear nothing worse than
what has already happened. I am ready to hear anything."
Madeleine hesitated ; she wished to enlighten her credulous
aunt, and yet feared to distress her. "I would like to be cer-
tain," she said, "that some secret understanding between M. de
Clameran and Raoul does not exist, that they are not acting a
part agreed upon between them beforehand."
Love is blind and deaf. Madame Fauvel no longer remem-
bered the laughing eyes of the two men, upon the occasion of
the pretended quarrel in her presence. She could not, she would
not, believe in such hypocrisy. "It is impossible," she said:
"the marquis is really indignant and distressed at his nephew's
mode of life, and he certainly would never give him any bad
advice. As to Raoul, he is vain, trifling, and extravagant ; but
he has a good heart. Prosperity has turned his head, but he
loves me. Ah, if you could see and hear him, when I reproach
him for his faults, your suspicions would fly to the winds.
When he tearfully promises to be more prudent, he means to
keep his word. If he breaks his promises, it is because per-
fidious friends lead him astray."
Mothers always blame their children's friends. The friend
1138 FILE NUMBER 113
is the guilty one. Madeleine had not the heart to undeceive
her aunt. "God grant that what you say may be true," she
said; "if so, my marriage will not be useless. We will write
to M. de Clameran to-night." — "Why to-night, Madeleine?
We need not hurry so. Let us wait a little; something might
happen to save us."
These words — this confidence in chance, in a mere nothing —
revealed Madame Fauvel's true character, and accounted for
her troubles. Timid, hesitating, easily swayed, she never could
come to a firm decision, form a resolution, and abide by it, in
spite of all arguments brought to bear against it. In the hour
of peril she would always shut her eyes, and trust to chance
for a relief which never came. Quite different was Madeleine's
character. Beneath her gentle timidity, lay a strong, self-
reliant will. Once decided upon a sacrifice, it was to be carried
out to the letter ; she shut out all deceitful illusions, and walked
straight forward without one look back.
"We had better end the matter at once, dear aunt," she said,
in a gentle but firm tone. "Believe me, the reality of mis-
fortune is not as painful as its apprehension. You can not
bear the shocks of sorrow, and delusive hopes of happiness,
much longer. Do you know what anxiety of mind has done to
you? Have you looked in your mirror during the last four
months?" She led her aunt up to a looking-glass, and said:
"Look at yourself." Madame Fauvel was, indeed, a mere
shadow of her former self. She had reached the age when
a woman's beauty, like a full-blown rose, fades in a day. Four
months of trouble had made her an old woman. Sorrow had
stamped its fatal seal upon her brow. Her fair, soft skin was
wrinkled, her hair was streaked with silver. "Do you not agree
with me," continued Madeleine, pityingly, "that peace of mind
is necessary to you? Do you not see that you are a wreck of
your former self? Is it not a miracle that M. Fauvel has not
noticed this sad change in you?" Madame Fauvel, who flat-
tered herself that she had displayed wonderful dissimulation,
shook her head. "Alas ! my poor aunt ! did I not discover that
you had a secret?"
"You, Madeleine?"— "Yes! only I thought— Oh! pardon
an unjust suspicion, but I was wicked enough to suppose — "
She stopped, too distressed to finish her sentence ; then, making
a painful effort, she added : "I was afraid that perhaps you loved
another man better than my uncle."
FILE NUMBER 113 1139
Madame Fauvel sobbed aloud. Madeleine's suspicion might
be entertained by others. "My reputation is gone," she moaned.
— "No, dear aunt, no," exclaimed the young girl, "do not be
alarmed. Have courage : we two can fight now ; we will defend
ourselves, we will save ourselves."
The Marquis de Clameran was agreeably surprised that even-
ing by receiving a letter from Madame Fauvel, saying that she
consented to everything, but must have a little time to carry out
the plan. Madeleine, she said, could not break off her engage-
ment with M. Bertomy in a day. M. Fauvel would make ob-
jections, for he had an affection for Prosper, and had tacitly
approved of the match. It would be wiser to leave to time the
smoothing away of certain obstacles which a sudden attack
might render insurmountable. A line from Madeleine, at the
bottom of her letter, assured him of her consent.
Poor girl ! she did not spare herself. The next day she took
Prosper aside, and forced from him the fatal promise to shun
her in the future, and to take upon himself the responsibility
of breaking their engagement. He implored Madeleine to at
least explain the reason of this banishment, which destroyed
all his hopes of happiness. She simply replied that her peace
of mind and honor depended upon his obedience. He left her
sick at heart. As he went out of the house, the marquis
entered. Yes, he had the audacity to come in person, to tell
Madame Fauvel that, now he had the promise of herself and
Madeleine, he would consent to wait awhile. He himself saw
the necessity of patience, knowing that he was not liked by
the banker. Having the aunt and niece in his power, he was
certain of success. He said to himself that the moment would
come when a deficit impossible to be replaced would force them
to hasten the wedding. And Raoul did all he could to bring
matters to a crisis. Madame Fauvel went sooner than usual
to her country seat, and Raoul at once moved into his house
at Vesinet. But living in the country did not lessen his ex-
penses. Gradually he laid aside all hypocrisy, and only came
to see his mother when he wanted money; and his demands
were frequent and more exorbitant each time. As for the
marquis, he prudently absented himself, awaiting the propi-
tious moment. And it was quite by chance that three weeks
later, meeting the banker at a friend's, he was invited to din-
ner the next day.
Twenty people were seated at the table; and as the dessert
1140 FILE NUMBER 113
was being served, the banker suddenly turned to De Clameran
and said: "I have a question to ask you, marquis. Have you
any relatives bearing your name?" — "None that I know of,
sir." — "I am surprised. About a week ago, I became acquainted
with another Marquis de Clameran."
Although so hardened by crime, impudent enough to deny
anything, De Clameran was taken aback and turned pale. "Oh,
indeed ! That is strange. A De Clameran may exist ; but I
can not understand the title of marquis."
M. Fauvel was not sorry to have the opportunity of annoying
a guest whose aristocratic pretensions had often piqued him.
"Marquis or not," he replied, "the De Clameran in question
seems to be able to do honor to the title." — "Is be rich?" —
"I have reason to suppose that he is very wealthy. I have
been authorized to collect for him four hundred thousand
francs."
De Clameran had a wonderful faculty of self-control; he
had so schooled himself that his face never betrayed what was
passing through his mind. But this news was so startling, so
strange, so pregnant of danger, that his usual assurance de-
serted him. He detected a peculiar look of irony in the banker's
eye. The only persons who noticed this sudden change in the
marquis's manner were Madeleine and her aunt. They saw
him turn pale, and exchange a meaning look with Raoul.
"Then I suppose this new marquis is a merchant," said De
Clameran, after a moment's pause. — "You ask too much. All
that I know is, that four hundred thousand francs are to be
deposited to his account by some shipowners of Havre, after
the sale of the cargo of a Brazilian ship." — "Then he comes
from Brazil ?" — "I do not know, but I can, if you like, give you
his Christian name." — "I would be obliged."
M. Fauvel rose from the table, and brought from the next
room a memorandum-book, and began to read over the names
written in it. "Wait a moment," he said : "let me see — the 22d,
no, it was later than that. Ah, here it is : De Clameran, Gaston.
His name is Gaston."
But this time Louis betrayed no emotion or alarm; he had
had sufficient time to recover his self-possession, and nothing
could now throw him off his guard. "Gaston?" he queried
carelessly. "I know who he is now. He must be the son of
my father's sister, whose husband lived at Havana. I suppose,
upon his return to France, he must have taken his mother's
FILE NUMBER 113 1141
name, which is more sonorous than his father's, that being, if
I recollect aright, Moirot or Boirot."
The banker laid down his memorandum-book, and, resuming
his seat, said: "Boirot or De Clameran, I hope to have the
pleasure of inviting you to dine with him before long. Of the
four hundred thousand francs which I was ordered to collect
for him, he only wishes to draw one hundred, and tells me to
keep the rest on current account. I judge from this, that he
intends coming to Paris." — "I shall be delighted to make his
acquaintance."
De Clameran broached another topic, and seemed to have
entirely forgotten the news told him by the banker. Although
apparently engrossed in the conversation at the table, he closely
watched Madame Fauvel and her niece. He saw that they were
unable to conceal their agitation, and stealthily exchanged sig-
nificant looks. Evidently the same terrible idea had crossed their
minds. Madeleine seemed more nervous and startled than her
aunt. When M. Fauvel uttered Gaston's name, she saw Raoul
begin to draw back his chair and glance in a frightened manner
toward the window, like a detected thief looking for means of
escape. Raoul, less experienced than his uncle, was thoroughly
discountenanced. He, the original talker, the lion of a dinner
party, never at a loss for some witty speech, was now perfectly
dumb: he sat anxiously watching Louis. At last the dinner
ended, and as the guests passed into the drawing-rooms, De
Clameran and Raoul managed to remain last in the dining-room.
When they were alone, they no longer attempted to conceal their
anxiety.
"It is he !" said Raoul.— "I have no doubt of it."— "Then all
is lost; we had better make our escape."
But a bold adventurer like De Clameran had no idea of
giving up the ship till forced to do so. "Who knows what
may happen ?" he asked thoughtfully. "There is hope yet.
Why did not that muddle-headed banker tell us where this De
Clameran is to be found?" Here he uttered a joyful excla-
mation. He saw M. Fauvel's memorandum book lying on the
side-board. "Watch !" he said to Raoul.
Seizing the note-book, he hurriedly turned over the leaves,
and, in an undertone, read : "Gaston, Marquis de Clameran,
Oloron, Lower Pyrenees." — "Well, does finding out his address
assist us?" inquired Raoul eagerly. — "It may save us: that is
all. Let us return to the drawing-room; our absence might be
1142 FILE NUMBER 113
observed. Exert yourself to appear unconcerned and gay. You
almost betrayed us once by your agitation." — "The two women
suspect something." — "Well, suppose they do ?" — "It is not safe
for us here." — "Were you any better in London? Don't be so
easily frightened. I am going to plant my batteries."
They joined the other guests. But, if their conversation had
not been overheard, their movements had been watched. Made-
leine had come on tiptoe, and, looking through the half-open
door, had seen De Clameran consulting her uncle's note-book.
But what benefit would she derive from this proof of the mar-
quis's anxiety? She no longer doubted the villainy of the man
to whom she had promised her hand. As he had said to Raoul,
neither Madeleine nor her aunt could escape him. Two hours
later, De Clameran was on the road to Vesinet with Raoul,
explaining to him his plans.
"It is he, and no mistake," he said. "But we are too easily
alarmed, my fine nephew." — "Nonsense ! the banker is expect-
ing him; he may be among us to-morrow." — "Don't be an
idiot!" interrupted De Clameran. "Does he know that Fauvel
is Valentine's husband? If he knows that little fact, we must
take to our heels; if he is ignorant of it, our case is not des-
perate." — "How can we find out?" — "By simply going and ask-
ing him." — "That is a brilliant idea," said Raoul, admiringly;
"but dangerous."— "It is not as dangerous as not doing it.
And, as to running away at the first suspicion of alarm, it
would be downright imbecility."
"And who will go and see him?"
"I will !"
"Oh, oh, oh !" exclaimed Raoul in three different tones. De
Clameran's audacity confounded him. "But what am I to do ?"
he inquired.
"You will oblige me by remaining here. At the least sign
of danger, I will send you a telegram, and then you must
make off."
As they parted at Raoul's door, De Clameran said: "It is
then understood you will remain here. But mind, so long as
my absence lasts, become once more the best of sons. Set
yourself against me, calumniate me if you can. But no non-
sense. No demands for money. So now, good-by ! To-morrow
night I shall be at Oloron and shall have seen this De Clameran.
FILE NUMBER 113
1143
A FTER leaving Valentine de la Verberie, Gaston underwent
"^^ great peril and difficulty in effecting his escape. But for
the experienced and faithful Menoul, he never would have
succeeded in embarking. Having left his mother's jewels with
Valentine, his sole fortune consisted of not quite a thousand
francs ; and it is not with a paltry sum like that that a fugitive
who has just killed two men can pay for his passage on board
a ship. But Menoul was a man of experience. While Gaston
remained concealed in a farmhouse at Camargue, Menoul went
to Marseilles, and the same evening learned that a three-masted
American vessel was in the roadstead, whose commander, Cap-
tain Warth, a not overscrupulous person, would be glad to wel-
come on board an able-bodied man who would be of assistance
to him at sea, and would not trouble himself about his ante-
cedents. After visiting the vessel and taking a glass of rum
with the captain, old Menoul returned to Gaston.
"If it was a question of myself, sir," he said, "I should avail
myself of the opportunity, but you?" — "What suits you, suits
me," interrupted Gaston. — "You see, the fact is, you will be
obliged to work very hard. You will only be a common sailor,
you know ! And I must confess that the ship's company is not
the most moral one I ever saw. The captain, too, seems a
swaggering bully." — "I have no choice," said Gaston. "I will
go on board at once."
Old Menoul's suspicions were correct. Before Gaston had
been on board the "Tom Jones" forty-eight hours, he saw
that chance had cast him among a collection of the most de-
praved bandits and cut-throats. The crew, recruited seem-
ingly anywhere, contained specimens of the rascals of almost
every country. But Gaston's mind was undisturbed as to the
character of the people with whom his lot was cast for several
months. It was only his body that the vessel was carrying to
another land. His heart and soul rested in the shady park of
La Verberie, beside his beloved Valentine. And what would
1144 FILE NUMBER 113
become of her now, poor child, when he was no longer there
to love, console, and defend her? Happily, he had no time for
sad reflections. His every moment was occupied in learning
the rough apprenticeship of a sailor's life. All his energies
were spent in bearing up under the heavy burden of labor
allotted to him. This was his salvation. Physical suffering
calmed and deadened his mental agony. The few hours' relaxa-
tion granted him were spent in sleep. He had sworn that he
would return before the end of three years, rich enough to
satisfy the exactions of Madame de la Verberie. Judging from
the conversation of his companions, he was not now on the
road to the fortune he so much desired. The "Tom Jones" was
sailing for Valparaiso, but certainly went in a roundabout way
to reach her destination. The real fact was that Captain Warth
proposed visiting the Gulf of Guinea. A friend of his, a black
prince, he said, with a loud laugh, was waiting for him at
Badagri, to exchange a cargo of "ebony" for some pipes of
rum, and a hundred flint-lock muskets which were on board.
Gaston soon saw that he was serving his apprenticeship on one
of the numerous slavers equipped yearly by some free and
philanthropic Americans. Although this discovery filled Gas-
ton with indignation and shame, he was prudent enough to
conceal his impressions. His remonstrances, no matter how
eloquent, would have made no change in Captain Warth's opin-
ions regarding a traffic which brought him in more than one
hundred per cent, in spite of the French and English cruisers,
the damages, sometimes entire loss of cargoes, and many
other risks. The crew had a certain respect for Gaston when
the story of his having killed two men, as related by Menoul to
the captain, transpired. To have given vent to his feelings
would have incurred the enmity of the whole of his shipmates,
without bettering his own situation. He therefore kept quiet,
but swore mentally that he would desert on the first opportu-
nity. This opportunity, like everything impatiently longed for,
came not. By the end of three months Captain Warth found
Gaston indispensable. Seeing him so intelligent, he took a
fancy to him, liked to have him at his own table, listened to
his conversation with pleasure, and was glad of his company
in a game of cards. The mate of the ship dying, Gaston was
chosen to replace him. In this capacity he made two successive
voyages to Guinea, bringing back a thousand blacks, whom he
superintended during a trip of fifteen hundred leagues, and
FILE NUMBER 113 1145
finally landed clandestinely on the coast of Brazil. When
Gaston had been about three years on board, the "Tom Jones"
put into Rio de Janeiro. He now had an opportunity of leaving
the captain, who was after all a worthy man, who never would
have engaged in the diabolical traffic of human beings but for
his little daughter's sake, his little Mary, whose dowry he
wished to make a magnificent one. Gaston had saved twelve
thousand francs out of his share of the profits, when he landed
in Brazil. As a proof that the slave trade was repugnant to
his nature he left the slaver the moment he possessed a little
capital with which to enter some honest business. But he was
no longer the high-minded, pure-hearted Gaston, who had been
so beloved by the little fairy of La Verberie. As the exposure
to rain, sun, and sea air first darkened and then hardened his
skin, so did wicked associates first shock and then destroy the
refinement and purity of Gaston's mind. His heart had become
as hard and coarse as his sailor hands. He still remembered
Valentine, and sighed for her presence ; but though she was
still the most beloved, she was no longer the one woman
in the world to him. However, the three years, after which
he had pledged himself to return, had passed; perhaps Valen-
tine was expecting him. Before deciding on any definite proj-
ect, he wrote to an intimate friend at Beaucaire to learn what
had happened during his long absence. He also wrote to his
father, to whom he had already sent several letters, whenever
he had an opportunity of doing so. At the end of a year, he
received his friend's reply. It told him that his father was
dead, that his brother had left France, that Valentine was mar-
ried, and, finally, that he, Gaston, had been sentenced to several
years' imprisonment for manslaughter. Henceforth he was
alone in the world, with no country, disgraced by a public
sentence. Valentine was married, and he had no further ob-
ject in life! He would hereafter have faith in no one, since
she, Valentine, had cast him off and forgotten him, had lacked
the courage to keep her promise and wait for him. In his
despair, he almost regretted the "Tom Jones."
But Gaston was not a man to be long cast down. "I will
earn money, then," he cried with rage, "since money is the only
thing in this world which never deceives !" And he set to
work with a greedy activity which increased every day. He
tried all the many speculations open to adventurers. Alter-
nately he traded in furs, worked a mine, and cultivated lands.
1146 FILE NUMBER 113
Five timies he went to bed rich, and waked up ruined; five
times, with the patience of the beaver, whose hut is swept
away by the current, he recommenced the building of his for-
tune. Finally, after long, weary years of toil and struggle, he
was worth about a million in gold, besides immense tracts of
land. He had often said that he would never leave Brazil, that
he wanted to end his days in Rio. He had forgotten that love
for his native land never dies in a Frenchman's breast. Now
that he was rich, he wished to die in France. He made in-
quiries, and found that the law of limitations would permit him
to return without being disturbed by the authorities. He real-
ized what he could of his property, and, leaving the rest in
charge of an agent, embarked for France. Twenty-three years
and four months had elapsed since he fled from home, when,
on a bright day in January, 1866, he stood upon the quays at
Bordeaux. He had departed a young man, with his heart brim-
ful of hope ; he returned gray-haired, and believing in nothing.
His health, too, on his arrival, began to suffer from the sudden
change of climate. Rheumatism confined him to his bed for
several months. As soon as he could sit up, the physicians sent
him to some baths, where they said he would regain his health.
When cured, he felt that inactivity would kill him. Charmed
with the beauty of the Pyrenees, and the lovely valley of Aspe,
he resolved to take up his abode there. An iron foundry was
for sale near Oloron, on the banks of the Gave; he bought it
with the intention of utilizing the immense quantity of wood,
which for want of means of transport was wasting in the
mountains.
He had been settled some weeks in his new house, when one
evening his servant brought him the card of a stranger who de-
sired to see him. He read the name on the card : Louis de
Clameran. Many years had passed since Gaston had experi-
enced such violent agitation. His blood rushed to his head,
and he trembled like a leaf. The old home affections which
he. thought dead now sprung up anew in his heart. A thou-
sand confused memories rushed through his mind. Words rose
to his lips, but he was unable to utter them. "My brother !" he
at length gasped, "my brother !" Hurriedly passing by the
frightened servant, he ran downstairs. In the hall a man,
Louis de Clameran, stood waiting. Gaston threw his arms
round his neck and held him in a close embrace for some
minutes, and then drew him into a room. Seated close beside
FILE NUMBER 113 1147
Louis, and tightly clasping his two hands, Gaston gazed on his
face as a fond mother would gaze at her son just returned
from the battlefield.
"And is this really Louis?" he cried. "My dearly loved
brother? Why, I should have recognized you among a thou-
sand; the expression of your face has not in the least changed,
your smile is the same as it used to be."
Louis did indeed smile, just as he perhaps smiled on that
fatal night when his horse stumbled, and prevented Gaston's
escape. He smiled now as if he were perfectly happy ; he seemed
overjoyed. He had exerted all the courage he possessed to
venture upon this meeting. Nothing but the most terrible neces-
sity would have induced him to present himself thus. His teeth
chattered and he trembled in every limb when he rang Gaston's
bell, and handed the servant his card, saying: "Take this to
your master." The few moments that elapsed before Gaston's
appearance seemed to him centuries. He said to himself : "Per-
haps it is not he. And if it is, does he know? Does he sus-
pect anything?" He was so anxious that, when he saw Gaston
rushing downstairs, he felt like fleeing from the house. Not
knowing the nature of Gaston's feelings toward him, he stood
perfectly motionless. But one glance at his brother's face con-
vinced him that he was the same affectionate, credulous, trust-
ing Gaston of old ; and, now that he was almost certain that his
brother harbored no suspicions, he recovered himself and smiled.
"After all," continued Gaston, "I am not alone in the world;
I shall have some one to love, some one to care for me." Then,
as if suddenly struck by a thought, he asked: "Are you mar-
ried, Louis?" — "No." — "That is a pity, a great pity. It would
so have added to my happiness to see you the husband of a
good, affectionate woman, the father of bright, lovely children !
It would have been a comfort to have a happy family about me.
I should have looked upon them all as my own. To live alone,
without a loving wife to share one's joys and sorrows, is not
living at all. Oh, the sadness of having only one's self to care
for! But what am I saying? I have you, Louis, and is not
that enough ? I have a brother, a friend with whom I can talk
aloud, as I have for so long talked to myself."
"Yes, Gaston, yes, a good friend !" — "Of course ! for are
you not my brother? So you are not married! Then we will
keep house together. We will live like two old bachelors, as
we are, and be as happy as kings; we will amuse each other,
1148 FILE NUMBER 113
we will thoroughly enjoy ourselves. What a capital idea ! Yow
make me feel young again, barely twenty. I feel as active and
strong as I did the night I swam across the swollen Rhone.
And that was long, long ago; and since, I have struggled, I
have suffered, I have cruelly aged and changed."
"You I" interrupted Louis ; "why, you have not aged as much
as I have." — "You are jesting." — "I assure you." — "Would you
have recognized me ?" — "Instantly. You are very little changed."
And Louis was right. He himself had a worn-out, used-up
appearance rather than an aged one; while Gaston, in spite of
his gray hair and weather-beaten face, was a robust man, in his
prime. It was a relief to turn from Louis's restless eyes and
crafty smiles to Gaston's frank, honest face. "But," said Gas-
ton, "how did you know that I was living? What kind fairy
guided you to my house ?"
Louis was prepared for this question. During his eighteen
hours' ride in the train he had had time to arrange all his
answers. "We must thank Providence for this happy meeting,"
he replied. "Three days ago, a friend of mine returned from
some baths, and mentioned that he had heard that a Marquis
de Clameran was near there, in the Pyrenees. You can im-
agine my surprise. I instantly supposed that some impostor
had assumed our name. I took the next train, and finally found
my way here."
"Then you did not expect to see me?" — "My dear brother,
how could I hope for that? I thought that you were drowned
twenty-three years ago." — "Drowned ! Mademoiselle de la Ver-
berie certainly told you of my escape. She promised that she
would go herself, the next day, and tell my father of my safety."
Louis assumed a distressed look, as if he hesitated to tell the
sad truth, and murmured in a regretful tone : "Alas ! she never
told us."
Gaston's eyes flashed with indignation. He thought that
perhaps Valentine had been glad to get rid of him. "She did
not tell you?" he exclaimed. "Did she have the cruelty to let
you mourn my death? To let my old father die of a broken
heart ? Ah ! she must have been very fearful of the world's
opinion. She sacrificed me, then, for the sake of her repu-
tation."
"But why did you not write to us?" asked Louis. — "I did
write as soon as I had an opportunity; and Lafourcade wrote
back, saying that my father was dead, and that you had left
FILE NUMBER 113 1U?
the neighborhood." — "I left Clameran because I believed you to
be dead."
Gaston rose, and walked up and down the room as if to shake
off a feeling of sadness ; then he said cheerfully : "Well, it's of
no use mourning over the past. All the memories in the world,
good or bad, are not worth one slender hope for the future ;
and, thank heaven, we have a bright future before us." Louis
was silent. His footing was not sure enough to risk any
questions. "But here I have been talking incessantly for an
hour," said Gaston, "and I dare say that you have not dined."
— "No, I have not, I own." — "Why did you not say so before?
I forgot that I had not dined myself. I will not let you starve
the first day of your arrival. Ah ! I have some splendid old
Cape wine."
He pulled the bell, and ordered the servant to hasten dinner;
and within half an hour the two brothers were seated at a
sumptuous repast. Gaston kept up an uninterrupted stream of
questions. He wished to know all that had happened during
his absence. "What about Clameran?" he abruptly asked.
Louis hesitated a moment. Should he tell the truth or not?
"I have sold Clameran," he finally said. — "The chateau too?" —
"Yes."
"You acted as you thought best," said Gaston, sadly; "but
it seems to me that, if I had been in your place, I should have
kept the old homestead. Our ancestors lived there for many
generations, and our father died there." Then seeing Louis
appeared sad and distressed, he quickly added: "However, it
is just as well; it is in the heart that memory dwells, and not
in a pile of old stones. I myself had not the courage to return
to Provence. I could not trust myself to go to Clameran, where
I would have to gaze on the park of La Verberie. Alas, the
only happy moments of my life were spent there !"
Louis's countenance immediately cleared. The certainty that
Gaston had not been to Provence relieved his mind of an im-
mense weight. The next day he telegraphed to Raoul : "Wis-
dom and prudence. Follow my directions. All goes well. Be
sanguine."
All was going well ; and yet Louis, in spite of his skilfully
plied questions, had obtained none of the information which
he had come to seek. Gaston was communicative on every sub-
ject except the one in which Louis was most interested. Louis,
like all villains, was ever ready to attribute to others the bad
1150 FILE NUMBER 113
motives by which he himself would be influenced. Anything
was better than this uncertainty; he determined to ask his
brother what he intended doing. They had just sat down to
lunch, and he thought the moment an opportune one. "Do you
know, my dear Gaston," he began by saying, "that thus far
we have spoken of everything except serious matters?" — "Why
do you look so solemn, Louis! What are the grave subjects
you allude to?" — "Well, there is this: believing you to be dead,
I inherited all our father left." — "Is that what you call a seri-
ous matter?" asked Gaston with an amused smile. — "Certainly.
I owe you an account of your share; you have a right to half."
— "I have," interrupted Gaston, "a right to ask you never to
allude to the subject again. What you have is yours by limi-
tation." — "No, I can not accept it." — "But you must. Our
father wished to have only one of us to inherit his property ;
we will be carrying out his wishes by not dividing it." Seeing
that Louis's face still remained clouded, Gaston added: "Come
now, you must be very rich, or think me very poor, to insist thus."
Louis started at this remark. What could he say so as not
to commit himself? "I am neither rich nor poor," he finally
observed. — "I am delighted to hear it," exclaimed his brother.
"I wish you were as poor as Job, so that I might share what
I have with you."
Luncheon over, Gaston rose and said : "Come, I want to
show you my — that is, our property." Louis uneasily followed.
It seemed to him that Gaston obstinately shunned anything like
an explanation. Could all this brotherly affection be assumed
to blind him as to his real plans? Louis's fears were again
aroused, and he almost regretted his hasty telegram. But his
calm, smiling face betrayed none of the anxious thoughts which
filled his mind. He was called upon to examine everything.
First he was taken over the house and then the servants' quar-
ters, the stables, kennels, and the vast, beautifully laid-out
garden. Across a pretty meadow was the iron foundry in full
operation. Gaston, with all the enthusiasm of a new proprie-
tor, explained everything, down to the smallest file and hammer.
He detailed all his projects; how he intended substituting wood
for coal, and how, besides having plenty to work the forge, he
could make immense profits by felling the forest trees, which
had hitherto been considered impracticable. Louis approved
of everything; but only answered in monosyllables: "Ah, in-
deed ! excellent idea r quite a success !" His mind was tortured
FILE NUMBER 113 1151
by a new pain ; he was paying no attention to Gaston's remarks,
but enviously comparing all this wealth and prosperity with his
own poverty. He found Gaston rich, respected, and happy, en-
joying the price of his own industry; while he — Never had
he so cruelly felt the misery of his condition, which was of his
own making. After a lapse of twenty-three years, all the envy
and hate he had felt toward Gaston, when they were boys
together, revived.
"What do you think of my purchase?" asked Gaston when
the inspection was over. — "I think you possess, my dear brother,
a most charming property, situated in the loveliest spot in the
world. It is enough to excite the envy of any poor Parisian." —
"Do you really think so ?"— "Certainly."
"Then, my dear Louis," said Gaston joyfully, "this property
is yours, as well as mine. You like it, then live here always.
Do you really care for your foggy Paris? Do you not prefer
this beautiful Beara sky? The scanty and paltry luxury of
Paris is not equal to the good and plentiful living you will
find here. You are a bachelor, therefore you have no ties.
Remain, we shall want for nothing. And, to employ our time,
there is the foundry. Does my plan suit you?"
Louis was s^ent. A year ago this proposal would have been
eagerly welcomed. How gladly he would have seized this offer
of a comfortable, luxurious home, after having been buffeted
about the world so long! How delightful it would have been
to turn over a new leaf and become an honest man ! But he
saw, with disappointment and rage, that he would now be com-
pelled to decline it. No, he was no longer free. He could not
leave Paris. He had become entangled in one of those haz-
ardous plots which are lost if neglected, and the loss of which
generally leads the projector into penal servitude. Alone, he
could easily remain where he was ; but he was trammeled with
an accomplice.
"You do not answer me," said Gaston, with surprise; "are
there any obstacles to my plans ?"— "None."— "What is the mat-
ter, then?" — "The matter is, my dear brother, that the salary
of an appointment which I hold in Paris is all that I have to
support me." — "Is that your only objection? Yet you just now.
wanted to pay me back half of the family inheritance ! Louis,
that is unkind; you are not acting as a brother should." Louis
hung his head. Gaston was unconsciously telling the truth.
"I should be a burden to you, Gaston."
1152 FILE NUMBER 113
"A burden ! Why, Louis, you must be mad ! Did I not tell
you I was very rich? Do you suppose that you have seen all
I possess? This house and the iron-works do not constitute a
fourth of my fortune. Do you think that I would have risked
my twenty years' savings in an experiment of this sort? I
have invested, in State securities, an income of twenty-four
thousand francs. And that is not all; it seems that I shall be
able to sell my grants in Brazil; I am lucky! My agent has
already forwarded me four hundred thousand francs."
Louis trembled with pleasure. He was, at last, to know the
extent of the danger menacing him. "What agent?" he asked,
with assumed indifference. — "Why, my old partner at Rio, of
course. The money is now at my Paris banker's, quite at my
disposal." — "Some friend of yours?" — "Well, no. He was rec-
ommended to me by my banker at Pau, as a very rich, prudent,
and reliable man. His name is — let me see — Andre Fauvel, and
he lives in the Rue de Provence."
Master of himself as he was, and prepared for what he was
about to hear, Louis turned pale and red by turns. "Do you
know this banker?" asked Gaston, who, full of his own thoughts,
did not notice his brother's condition. — "Only by reputation."
"Then we can shortly make his acquaintance together, for
I think of accompanying you to Paris when you return there to
wind up your affairs before establishing yourself here."
At this unexpected announcement of a step which would
prove his utter ruin, Louis managed to maintain his self-pos-
session. It seemed to him that his brother was looking him
through and through. "You are going to Paris ?" he uttered. —
"Certainly I am. What is there extraordinary in that ?" — "Oh !
nothing." — "I hate Paris, although I have never been there;
but I am called there by interest, by sacred duties," he hesi-
tatingly said. "The truth is, I understand that Mademoiselle
de la Verberie lives in Paris, and I wish to see her again." —
"Ah !"
Gaston was silent and thoughtful for some moments, and
then resumed, nervously: "I can tell you, Louis, why I wish
to see her. When I went away, I left our mother's jewels in
.her keeping." — "And you intend, after a lapse of twenty-three
years, to claim these jewels?" — "Yes — or rather no; that is only
a vain excuse for seeing her, with which I try to satisfy my-
self. I must see her, because — because — I loved her; that is
the truth."— "But how will you find her?"— "Oh! that is easy
FILE NUMBER 113 1153
enough. Any one can tell me her husband's name, and then
I will go to see her. I will write to-morrow, to Beaucaire,
for the information."
Louis made no reply. Men of his character, when brought
face to face with imminent danger, always weigh their words,
and say as little as possible, for fear of committing themselves
by some indiscreet remark. Above all things, Louis was care-
ful to avoid raising any objections to his brother's proposed
trip to Paris. To oppose a man's wishes has generally the
effect of fixing them more firmly in his mind. Each argument
is like striking a nail with a hammer. Knowing this, Louis
changed the conversation, and nothing more during the day was
said of Valentine or Paris. At night, alone' in his room, he
brought his cunning mind to bear upon the difficulties of his
situation, and wondered by what means he could extricate him-
self. During the twenty years Louis had been at war with
society, trusted by none, living upon his wits and the credulity
of foolish men, he had, many a time, found himself in a des-
perate position. He had been caught at the gaming-table with
his hands full of marked cards ; he had been tracked all over
Europe by the police, and obliged to fly from city to city under
an assumed name ; he had sold to cowards his skilful handling
of the sword and pistol ; he had been thrown into a prison, and
miraculously made his escape. He had braved everything, and
feared nothing. He had often conceived and carried out the
most criminal plans without the slightest hesitation or re-
morse. And now here he sat, utterly bewildered — unable to
think clearly ; his usual impudence and ready cunning seemed
to have deserted him. Thus driven into a corner, he saw no
means of escape, and was almost tempted to give in, and retire
from the struggle. He asked himself if it would not be wiser
to borrow a large sum from Gaston and fly the country. Fatally,
inevitably, he was about to be caught in a trap laid by himself.
He had to fear the wrath of M. Fauvel, his wife, and niece.
Gaston would have speedy vengeance the moment he discov-
ered the truth ; and Raoul, his accomplice, would certainly turn
against him in the hour of misfortune, and become his most
implacable enemy. Was there no possible way of preventing a
meeting between Valentine and Gaston ? No, none that he could
think of. And their meeting would be his destruction.
Daybreak found him sitting at the window, exposing to the
morning breeze his burning brow, which seemed on the point
Gab. — Vol. IV K
1154 FILE NUMBER 113
of bursting. "It is useless for me to think," he muttered. "There
is nothing to be done but gain time, and wait for an oppor-
tunity." The fall of the horse at Clameran was, no doubt,
what Louis called "an opportunity." He closed the window,
threw himself upon the bed, and so accustomed was he to dan-
ger that he soon slept. At the breakfast-table his calm, smiling
face bore no traces of a wakeful, anxious night. He was in a
gayer, more talkative, and affectionate mood than usual, and
said he would like to ride about the country. Before leaving
the table he had planned several excursions in the neighborhood.
The truth is, he hoped to keep Gaston so amused and occupied
that he would forget all about going to Paris in search of Val-
entine. He thought that, with time, and skilfully put objec-
tions, he could dissuade his brother from seeking out his former
love. He relied upon being able to convince him that this abso-
lutely unnecessary interview would be painful to both, embar-
rassing to him, and dangerous to her. As to the jewels, if
Gaston persisted in claiming them, Louis could safely offer to
go and get them for him, as he well knew where they were.
But his hopes and plans were soon scattered to the winds.
"You know," said Gaston one morning, "I have written."
Louis knew well enough to what he alluded, but pretended
to be very much surprised, and said: "Written? To whom?
Where? What for?" — "To Beaucaire, to ask Lafourcade the
name of Valentine's husband." — "You are, then, still thinking
of her?" — "Always." — "You have not given up your idea of
going to see her?" — "Not in the least."
"Alas ! brother, you forget that she whom you once loved
is now the wife of another, and possibly the mother of a fam-
ily. How do you know that she will consent to see you ? Why
run the risk of destroying her domestic happiness and plant-
ing seeds of remorse in your own bosom?" — "I know I am a
fool, but my folly is dear to me."
The quiet determination of Gaston's tone convinced Louis
that all remonstrances would be unavailing. Yet he remained
the same in his manner and behavior, apparently engrossed in
pleasure parties ; but, in reality, his only thought was of the
letters delivered at the house. He always managed to be near
the door when the postman came. When he and Gaston were
out together at the time of the postman's visit, he would hurry
into the house first, so as to look over the letters delivered in
their absence. His watchfulness was at last rewarded. The
FILE NUMBER 113 1155
following Sunday, among the letters handed to him by the post-
man, was one bearing the postmark of Beaucaire. He quickly
slipped it into his pocket ; and, although he was on the point of
mounting his horse, to ride with Gaston, he found a pretext for
running up to his room, so as to gratify his impatient desire
to read the letter. He tore it open, and, seeing "Lafourcade"
signed at the bottom of three closely written pages, hastily de-
voured the contents. After reading a detailed account of events
entirely uninteresting to him, Louis came to the following pas-
sage relating to Valentine : "Mademoiselle de la Verberie's hus-
band is an eminent banker, named Andre Fauvel. I have not
the honor of his acquaintance, but I intend going to see him
shortly. I am anxious to submit to him a project that I have
conceived for the benefit of this part of the country. If he
approves of it, I shall ask him to invest in it, as his name will
be of great assistance to the scheme. I suppose you have no
objections to my mentioning your name as a reference." Louis
trembled like a man who had just had a narrow escape from
death. He well knew that he would have to fly if Gaston re-
ceived this letter. But though the danger was warded off for
the while, it might return and destroy him at any moment.
Gaston would wait a week or so for an answer, then he would
write again ; Lafourcade would instantly reply to express sur-
prise that his first letter had not been received ; all this corre-
spondence would occupy, at the most, not more than twelve
days. And then, Lafourcade's visit to Paris was another source
of danger, for the instant he mentioned the name of De Cla-
meran to the banker, everything would be discovered.
But Gaston was getting tired of waiting. "Are you coming?"
he cried. — "I am coming now," replied Louis.
Hastily thrusting Lafourcade's letter into a secret compart-
ment of his trunk, Louis ran down to his brother. He had made
up his mind to borrow a large sum from Gaston, and go off to
America ; and Raoul might get out of the scrape as best he
could. The only thing which he regretted was the sudden fail-
ure of the most skilful combination he had ever conceived; but
he was not a man to fight against destiny, so he determined to
make the best of the emergency, and hope for better fortune
in his next scheme. The following day, about dusk, while walk-
ing along the pretty road leading from the foundry to Oloron,
be commenced the prologue of a little story, which was to con-
clude by asking Gaston to lend him two hundred thousand
1156 FILE NUMBER 113
francs. As they went slowly along, arm in arm, about half
mile from the foundry they met a young laborer, who bov
as he passed them. Louis started back so violently that his
brother asked him in surprise what was the matter. "Nothing,
except I struck my foot against a stone, and it hurt me."
Gaston might have known, by the tremulous tones of Louis's
voice, that this was a lie. Louis de Clameran had reason to
tremble, for in the workman he recognized Raoul de Lagors.
Instinctive fear paralyzed and overwhelmed him. His volubil-
ity was gone; and he silently walked along by his brother's
side, like an automaton, totally incapable of thinking or acting
for himself. He seemed to listen — he did listen ; but the words
fell upon his ear unmeaningly; he could not understand what
Gaston was saying, and mechanically answered "yes" or "no,"
like one in a dream. While necessity — absolute necessity — kept
him at Gaston's side, his thoughts were all with the young man
who had just passed by. What had brought Raoul to Oloron?
What plot was he hatching? Why was he disguised as a la-
borer? Why had he not answered the many letters which
Louis had written him from Oloron? He had ascribed this
silence to Raoul's carelessness, but now he saw it was pre-
meditated. Something disastrous must have happened at Paris ;
and Raoul, afraid to commit himself by writing, had come him-
self to bring the bad news. Had he come to say that the game
was up, and they must fly? But, after all, he might have been
mistaken. Perhaps it was some workman bearing a strong re-
semblance to Raoul. If he could only run after the stranger
and speak to him ! His anxiety increased minute by minute,
and at length became intolerable. Fortunately, Gaston was
rather tired that evening, and returned home much earlier than
usual. He went to his own room at once. At last Louis was
free ! He lit a cigar, and, telling the servant not to sit up for
him, went out. He expected that Raoul, if it was Raoul, would
be prowling near the house, waiting for him. He was not mis-
taken. He had hardly proceeded thirty yards when a man sud-
denly sprang from behind a tree and stood before him. The
night was clear, and Louis at once recognized Raoul.
"What is the matter?" he impatiently demanded; "what has
happened ?"— "Nothing."— "What ! Do you mean to say that
nothing has gone wrong in Paris?"— "Nothing whatever. I
will add, too, that, but for your inordinate greed of gain, every-
thing would be going on swimmingly."— "Then why have you
FILE NUMBER 113 1157
come here?" cried Louis fiercely. "Who gave you permission
to desert your post, at the risk of ruining us both?" — "That is
my business," said Raoul coolly.
Louis seized the young man's wrists, and almost crushed them
in his vise-like grasp. "Explain this strange conduct of yours,"
he exclaimed in a tone of suppressed rage. Without apparent
effort, Raoul released his hands from their imprisonment, and
jeeringly said: "Gently, my friend! I don't like being roughly
treated, and I have other means of answering you." At the
same time he drew a revolver from his pocket.
"You must and shall explain yourself," insisted Louis; "if
you don't." — "Well, if I don't? Now you might just as well
spare yourself the trouble of trying to frighten me. I intend
to answer your questions when I choose ; but it certainly won't
be here, in the middle of the road, with the bright moonlight
showing us off to advantage. How do you know people are not
watching us this very minute? Come this way." They strode
through the fields, regardless of the plants, which they tram-
pled under foot in order to take a short cut.
"Now," began Raoul when they were at a safe distance from
the road, "now, my dear uncle, I will tell you what brings
me here. I have received and carefully read your letters, and
read them more than once. You wished to be prudent, and
the consequence was that your letters were unintelligible. Only
one thing did I understand clearly : we are in danger." — "Only
the more reason for your watchfulness and obedience." — "Very
well put. Only, before braving danger, my venerable and be-
loved uncle, I want to know its extent. I am not a man to
retreat in the hour of peril, but I want to know exactly how
much risk I am running."
"Did I not tell you to keep quiet?"
"But to do this would imply that I have perfect confidence in
you, my dear uncle," said Raoul, sneeringly.
"And why should you not? What reasons for distrust have
you after all that I have done for you? Who went to London,
and rescued you from a state of privation and ignominy ? I did.
Who gave you a name and position when you had neither? I
did. And who is working even now to maintain your present
life of ease, and insure you a splendid future? I am."
"Superb, magnificent, inimitable !" said Raoul with mocking
admiration. "But, while on the subject, why don't you prove
that you have sacrificed yourself for my sake? You did not
1158 FILE NUMBER 113
need me as a tool for carrying out plans for your own benefit;
did you ? oh, no, not at all ! Dear, kind, generous, disinterested
uncle ! You ought to have the Montyon* prize ; I must recom-
mend you for it."
De Clameran was so enraged that he feared to trust himself
to speak.
"Now, my good uncle," continued Raoul more seriously, "we
had better end this child's play, and come to a clear under-
standing. I followed you here because I thoroughly understand
your character, and have just as much confidence in you as you
deserve, and not a particle more. If it were for your advantage
to ruin me, you would not hesitate one instant. If danger
threatened us, you would fly aione, and leave your dutiful
nephew to make his escape the best way he could. Oh ! don't
look shocked and pretend to deny it ; your conduct is perfectly
natural, and in your place I would act the same way. Only
remember this, that I am not a man to be trifled with. Now
let us cease these unnecessary recriminations, and come to the
point: what has been happening here?"
Louis saw that his accomplice was too shrewd to be deceived,
and that the safest course was to trust all to him, and to pre-
tend that he had intended doing so all along. Without any
show of anger, he briefly and clearly related all that had oc-
curred at his brother's. He told the truth about everything
except the amount of his brother's fortune, the importance of
which he lessened as much as possible.
"Well," said Raoul, when the report was ended, "we are in
a nice fix. And you expect to get out of it, do you?" — "Yes,
if you don't betray me." — "I wish you to understand, marquis,
that I have never betrayed any one yet. What steps will you
take to get free of this entanglement?" — "I don't know yet; but
something will turn up. Oh, don't be alarmed; I'll find some
means of escape : so you can return home with your mind set
at rest. You run no risk in Paris, and I will stay here to
watch Gaston."
Raoul reflected for some moments, and then said : "Are you
sure I am out of danger in Paris?" — "What are you afraid of?
We have Madame Fauvel so completely in our power that she
would not dare speak a word against us, even if she knew the
whole truth, which no one but you and I know: she would not
open her lips, but be only too glad to hush up matters, so as
* A prize for virtue awarded by the French Academy.
FILE NUMBER 113 1159
to escape punishment for her fault from her deceived husband
and a censuring world."
"That is so. I know we have a secure hold on her," said
Raoul. "It is not of her I am afraid."— "Of whom, then ?"— "An
enemy of your own making, my respected uncle, a most im-
placable enemy — Madeleine." — "Fiddlesticks !" replied De Cla-
meran disdainfully.
"It is all very well for you to treat her with contempt," said
Raoul gravely; "but I can tell you, you are much mistaken in
your estimate of her character. I have studied her lately, and
see that she has devoted herself to save her aunt; but she has
not given in. She has promised to marry you, she has dis-
carded Prosper, who is broken-hearted, it is true ; but she has
not given up hope. You imagine her to be weak and yielding,
easily frightened ? It's a great mistake : she is self-reliant and
fearless. More than that, she is in love, my good uncle; and
a woman will defend her love as a tigress defends her young."
"She is worth five hundred thousand francs." — "So she is;
and at five per cent we would each have an income of twelve
thousand five hundred francs. But, for all that, you had better
take my advice, and give up Madeleine." — "Never, I swear by
heaven !" exclaimed De Clameran. "Rich or poor, she shall be
mine ! I first wanted her for her money, but now I want her —
I love her for herself, Raoul !"
Raoul seemed to be amazed at this declaration of his uncle.
He raised his hands, and started back with astonishment. "Is
it possible," he said, "that you are in love with Madeleine? —
you !" — "Yes," replied Louis in a tone of suspicion. "Is there
anything so very extraordinary in it ?" — "Oh, no ; certainly not !
only this sentimental state you are in explains your strange
behavior. So, you love Madeleine! Then, my venerable uncle,
we may as well surrender at once." — "Why so?" — "Because you
know the axiom, 'When the heart is interested, the head is
lost.' The day is not far off when your infatuation for Made-
leine will make you sell us both for a smile. And, mark my
words, she is shrewd, and watching us as only an enemy can
watch."
With a forced laugh De Clameran interrupted his nephew.
"Just see how you fire up for nothing," he said. "You must
dislike the charming Madeleine, then, very much." — "She will
prove to be our ruin; that is all." — "You might as well be
frank, and say you are in love with her yourself." — "I am only
1160 FILE NUMBER 113
in love with her money," retorted Raoul with an angry frown. —
"Then what are you complaining of? I shall give you half
her fortune. You will have the money without being troubled
with the wife; the profit without the burden."
"I am not over fifty years old," said Raoul conceitedly. —
"Enough of this," interrupted Louis angrily. "The day I re-
lieved your pressing wants, and brought you to Paris, it was
agreed that I should be the master." — "Yesi; but you forget that
my liberty, perhaps my life, is at stake. You may hold the
cards, but I must have the right of advising you."
It was midnight before the accomplices separated. "It won't
do to stand idle," said Louis. "I agree with you that some-
thing must be done at once; but I can't decide what it shall
be on the spur of the moment. Meet me here at this hour
to-morrow night, and I will have some plan ready for you."
"Very good. I will be here."
"And remember, don't be imprudent !"
"My costume ought to convince you that I am not anxious
to be recognized by any one. I left such an ingenious alibi,
that I defy anybody to prove that I have been absent from
the house at Vesinet. I even took the precaution of traveling
here third-class. Well, good night ; I am going to the inn."
Raoul went off after these words, apparently unconscious of
having aroused suspicion in the breast of his accomplice. Dur-
ing his adventurous life, De Clameran had transacted "busi-
ness" with too many scamps not to know the precise amount
of confidence to place in a man like Raoul. He foresaw already
a thousand reasons for fear and disputes. "Why," he pon-
dered, "did Raoul assume this disguise? Why this alibi at
Paris ? Can he be laying a trap for me ? It is true that I have
a hold upon him ; but, then, I am completely at his mercy. Those
accursed letters which I have written to him, while here, are so
many proofs against me. Can he be thinking of cutting loose
from me and making off with all the profits of our enterprise?"
Louis never once during the night closed his eyes; but by
daybreak he had fully made up his mind how to act, and with
feverish impatience waited for night. His anxiety made him
so restless that the unobserving Gaston finally noticed it, and
asked him what the matter was ; if he was ill, or troubled about
anything. At last evening came, and Louis was able to join
Raoul, whom he found lying on the grass, smoking in the field
where they had talked on the preceding evening.
FILE NUMBER 113 1161
"Well," he carelessly asked, as Louis approached, "have you
decided upon anything?" — "Yes, I have two projects, either
of which is, I think, sure of success." — "I am listening."
Louis was silent for a minute, as if arranging his thoughts
so as to present them as clearly and briefly as possible. "My
first plan," he began, "depends upon your approval. What
would you say if I proposed to you to give up the affair alto-
gether?" — "What!" — "Would you consent to disappear, leave
France, and return to London, if I paid you a good round sum ?"
— "What do you call a good round sum?" — "I could give you
a hundred and fifty thousand francs."
"My respected uncle," said Raoul, with a contemptuous shrug,
"I am distressed to see how little you know me ! You try to
deceive me, to outwit me, which is ungenerous and foolish on
your part — ungenerous, because it fails to carry out your agree-
ment ; foolish, because, as you ought to know by now, my power
equals yours." — "I don't understand you." — "I am sorry for it.
I understand myself, and that is sufficient. Oh, I know you,
my dear uncle ! I have watched you with careful eyes, which
are not to be deceived; I see through you clearly. If you offer
me one hundred and fifty thousand francs, it is because you
intend to walk off with a million for yourself."
"You are talking like a fool," said De Clameran, with virtu-
ous indignation. — "Not at all; I only judge the future by the
past. Of all the large sums extorted from Madame Fauyel,
often against my wishes, I have scarcely received a tenth part."
— "But you know we have a reserve fund."
"All very good ; but you have the keeping of it, my good
uncle. If our little plot were to be discovered to-morrow, you
would walk off with the money-box, and leave your devoted
nephew to be sent to prison." — "Ungrateful fellow !" mut-
tered Louis, as if distressed at these undeserved reproaches. —
"Bravo!" cried Raoul; "you said it splendidly. But we have
not time for this nonsense. I will end the matter by proving
how you have been trying to deceive me."
"I would like to hear you do so, if you can." — "Very good.
In the first place, you told me that your brother only possessed
a modest competency. Now, I learn that Gaston has an income
of at least sixty thousand francs ; it is useless for you to deny
it. And how much is this property worth? A hundred thou-
sand crowns. He has four hundred thousand francs deposited
in M. Fauvel's bank. Total, seven hundred thousand francs.
1162 FILE NUMBER 113
And besides all this, the broker in Oloron has instructions to
buy up a large amount of government stock for him. I have
not wasted my day, as you see."
Raoul's information was too concise and exact for Louis to
deny it. "You might have sense enough," Raoul went on, "to
know how to manage your forces if you undertake to be a com-
mander. We had a splendid game in our hands; and you, who
held the cards, have made a perfect muddle of it."
"I think—"
"That the game is lost? That is my opinion too, and all
through you." — "I could not control events."
"Yes, you could, if you had been shrewd. What did we
agree upon in London? We were to implore my good mother
to assist us a little, and if she complied with our wishes, we
were to be flattering and affectionate in our devotion to her ;
but, at the risk of killing the golden goose, you have made me
torment the poor woman until she is almost crazy."
"It was prudent to hasten matters." — "You think so, do you ?
Was it also to hasten matters that you took it into your head
to marry Madeleine? That made it necessary to let her into
the secret; and, ever since, she has advised and set her aunt
against us. I would not be surprised if she makes her confess
everything to M. Fauvel, or even inform against us at the
Prefecture of Police."
"I love Madeleine !" — "You told me that before. And sup-
pose you do love her. You led me into this piece of business
without having studied its various bearings — without knowing
what you were about. No one but an idiot, my beloved uncle,
would go and put his foot into a trap, and then say : Tf I
had only known about it !' You should have made it your busi-
ness to know everything. You came to me, and said: 'Your
father is dead.' But not at all, he is living: and, after what
we have done, I dare not appear before him. He would have
left me a million, and now I shall not get a sou. He will find
his Valentine, and then good-by."
"Enough !" angrily interrupted Louis. "If I have made a
mistake, I know how to redeem it. I can save everything yet."
— "You can? How so?" — "That is my secret," said Louis,
gloomily.
Louis and Raoul were silent for a minute ; and this silence
between them, in this lonely spot, at dead of night, was so hor-
ribly significant that both of them shuddered. An abominable
FILE NUMBER 113 1168
thought had flashed across their evil minds, and, without a
word or look they understood each other. Louis broke the
ominous silence by abruptly saying: "Then you refuse to dis-
appear if I pay you a hundred and fifty thousand francs ? Think
it over before deciding; it is not too late yet." — "I have fully
thought it over. I know you will not attempt to deceive me
any more. Between certain ease and the probability of an
immense fortune, I choose the latter at all risks. I will share
your success or your failure ; we will swim or sink together."
— "And you will follow my instructions?" — "Blindly."
Raoul must have been very certain of Louis's intentions, for
he did not ask him a single question. Perhaps he dared not.
Perhaps he preferred doubt to shocking certainty, as if he
could thus escape the remorse attendant upon criminal com-
plicity. "In the first place," said Louis, "you must at once re-
turn to Paris." — "I will be there in forty-eight hours." — "You
must be constantly at Madame Fauvel's and keep me informed
of everything that takes place in the family." — "I understand."
Louis laid his hand on Raoul's shoulder, as if to impress upon
his mind what he was about to say. "You have a sure means
of being restored to your mother's confidence and affection by
blaming me for everything that has happened to distress her.
Abuse me constantly. The more odious you render me in her
eyes and those of Madeleine, the better you will serve me.
Nothing would please me more than to be denied admittance
to the house when I return to Paris. You must say that you
have quarreled with me, and that if I still come to see you,
it is because you can not prevent it. That is the scheme : you
can develop it."
Raoul listened to these strange instructions with astonish-
ment. "What!" he cried; "you adore Madeleine, and take this
means of winning her good graces ? An odd way of carrying
on a courtship, I must confess ! I will be shot if I can com-
prehend." — "There is no necessity for your comprehending." —
"All right," said Raoul, submissively. "If you say so."
"Did you ever hear," Louis asked Raoul, "of the man who
burned down his lady-love's house so as to have the bliss of
carrying her out in his arms?" — "Yes; what of it?"
"At the proper time, I will charge you to set fire morally to
Madame Fauvel's house; and I will rush in and save her and
her niece. Now, in the eyes of those women, my conduct will
appear more magnanimous and noble in proportion to the con-
1164 FILE NUMBER 113
tempt and abuse they have heaped upon me. I gain nothing
by patient devotion; I have everything to hope from a sudden
change of tactics. A well-managed stroke will transform a
demon into an angel."
"Very well ; a good idea !" said Raoul, approvingly, when his
uncle had finished. — "Then you understand what is to be
done ?"—" Yes ; but you will write to me?"— "Of course; and
if anything should happen at Paris?"— "I will telegraph to
you."— "And never lose sight of my rival, the cashier."— "Pros-
per? Not much danger of our being troubled by him, poor
boy ! He is just now my most devoted friend. Trouble has
driven him into a path of life which will soon prove his destruc-
tion. Every now and then I pity him from the bottom of my
soul." — "Pity him as much as you like."
The two men shook hands and separated, apparently the best
friends in the world; in reality, the bitterest enemies. Raoul
would not forgive Louis for having attempted to appropriate
all the booty and leave him in the lurch, when it was he who
had risked the greatest dangers. Louis, on his part, was
alarmed at the attitude taken by Raoul. Thus far he had found
him tractable, and even blindly obedient; and now he had sud-
denly become rebellious and threatening. Instead of ordering
Raoul, he was forced to consult and bargain with him. What
could be more wounding to his vanity and self-conceit than the
reproaches, well founded though they were, to which he had
been obliged to listen from a mere youth? As he walked back
to his brother's house, thinking over what had just occurred,
Louis swore that sooner or later he would be revenged, and
that as soon as he could, he would take means of getting rid
of Raoul forever. But for the present he was so afraid of his
young accomplice that, according to his promise, he wrote to
him the next day, and every succeeding day, full particulars
of everything that happened. Seeing how important it was to
restore his shaken confidence, Louis entered into the most mi-
nute details of his plans. The situation remained the same : the
dark cloud hung threateningly near, but grew no larger.
Gaston seemed to have forgotten that he had written to Beau-
caire, and never mentioned Valentine's name once. Like all
men accustomed to a busy life, Gaston was miserable except
when occupied, and spent his whole time in the foundry, which
seemed to absorb him entirely. It was losing money when he
purchased it; but he determined to work it until it should be
FILE NUMBER 113 1165
equally beneficial to himself and the neighborhood. He engaged
the services of an intelligent engineer, and, thanks to untiring
energy and new improvements in machinery, his receipts soon
more than equaled his expenses.
"Now that we are doing so well," said Gaston joyously, "we
shall certainly make twenty-five thousand francs next year."
Next year ! Alas, poor Gaston ! Five days after Raoul's de-
parture, one Saturday afternoon, Gaston was suddenly taken
ill. He had a sort of vertigo, and was so dizzy that he was
forced to lie down. "I know what is the matter," he said. "I
have often been ill in this way at Rio. A couple of hours' sleep
will cure me. I will lie down, and you can send some one to
awaken me when dinner is ready, Louis."
But when the servant came to announce dinner, he found
Gaston much worse. He had a violent headache, a choking sen-
sation in his throat, and dimness of vision. But his worst
symptom was dysphonia; he would try to articulate one word,
and find himself using another. His jaw-bones became so stiff
that it was with the greatest difficulty that he opened his mouth.
Louis came up to his brother's room, and urged him to send for
the physician. "No," said Gaston, "I won't have any doctor
to make me ill with all sorts of medicines. I know what is
the matter with me, and my indisposition will be cured by a
simple remedy which I have always used." At the same time
he ordered Manuel, his old Spanish servant, who had lived with
him for ten years, to prepare him some lemonade.
The next day Gaston apeared to be much better. He ate
his breakfast, and was about to take a walk, when the pains
of the previous day suddenly returned in a more violent form.
Without consulting his brother, Louis sent to Oloron for Dr.
C , whose wonderful cures had won him a wide reputation.
The doctor declared that there was no danger, and merely
prescribed a dose of valerian, and a blister with some grains
of morphine sprinkled on it. But in the middle of the night,
all the symptoms suddenly changed for the worse. The pain
in the head was succeeded by a fearful oppression, and the sick
man suffered torture in trying to get his breath. Daybreak
found him still tossing restlessly from pillow to pillow. When
Dr. C came early in the morning, he appeared very much
surprised at this change for the worse. He inquired if they had
not used too much morphine. Manuel said that he had put
the blister on his master, and the doctor's directions had been
1166 FILE NUMBER 113
accurately followed. The doctor, after having examined Gas-
ton, and found his breathing heavy and irregular, prescribed
leeches and a heavy dose of sulphate of quinine; he then re-
tired, saying he would return the next day. As soon as the
doctor had gone, Gaston sent for a friend of his, a lawyer, to
come to him as soon as possible.
"For Heaven's sake ! what do you want with a lawyer ?" in-
quired Louis. — "I want his advice, brother. It is useless to try
and deceive ourselves ; I know I am extremely ill. Only timid
fools are superstitious about making their wills. I would rather
have the lawyer at once, and then my mind will be at rest."
Gaston did not think he was about to die; but, knowing
the uncertainty of life, determined to be prepared for the worst.
He had too often imperiled his life, and been face to face with
death, to feel any fear now. He had made his will while ill
at Bordeaux; but now that he had found Louis, he wished
to leave him all his property, and sent for his business man
to advise as to the best means of disposing of his wealth for
his benefit. The lawyer was a shrewd, wiry little man, very
popular, and perfectly familiar with all the intricacies of the
law. Nothing delighted him more than to succeed in eluding
some stringent article of the Code; and he often sacrificed
large fees for the sake of outwitting his opponent, and con-
troverting the justness of a decision. Once aware of his client's
wishes and intentions, he had but one idea, and that was to
carry them out as inexpensively as possible, by skilfully evading
the heavy costs to be paid by the inheritor of the estate. He
explained to Gaston that he could, by an act of partnership,
associate Louis in his business enterprises, by signing an ac-
knowledgment that half of the money invested in these various
concerns belonged to and had been advanced by his brother; so
that in the event of Gaston's death, Louis would only have to
pay taxes on half the fortune. Gaston eagerly took advantage
of this fiction ; not that he thought of the money saved by the
transaction if he died, but this would be a favorable opportu-
nity for sharing his riches with Louis without wounding his
delicate sensibility. A deed of partnership between Gaston and
Louis de Clameran, for the working of a cast-iron mill, was
drawn up; this deed acknowledged Louis to have invested five
hundred thousand francs as his share of the capital.
When Louis was called in to sign the paper, he violently
opposed his brother's project. "Why do you distress me by
FILE NUMBER 113 1167
making these preparations for death, merely because you are
suffering from a slight indisposition? Do you think that I
would consent to accept your wealth during your lifetime? If
you die, I am your heir; if you live, I enjoy your property as
if it were my own. What more can you wish?"
Vain remonstrances. Gaston was not a man to be persuaded
from accomplishing a purpose upon which he had fully set his
heart. When, after mature deliberation, he made a resolution,
he always carried it out in spite of all opposition. After a
long and heroic resistance, which showed great nobleness of
character and rare disinterestedness, Louis, urged by the physi-
cian, finally yielded, and signed his name to the papers drawn
up by the lawyer. It was done. Now he was legally Gaston's
partner, and possesser of half his fortune. No court of law
could deprive him of what had been deeded with all the legal
formalities, even if his brother should change his mind and try
to get back his property. The strangest sensations now filled
Louis's breast. He was in a state of delirious excitement, often
felt by persons suddenly raised from poverty to affluence.
Whether Gaston lived or died, Louis was the lawful possessor
of an income of twenty-five thousand francs, without counting
the eventual profits of the iron-works. At no time in his life
had he hoped for or dreamed of such wealth. His wildest
wishes were surpassed. What more could he want ? Alas !
he wanted the power of enjoying these riches in peace: they
had come too late. This fortune, fallen from the skies, should
have filled his heart with joy, whereas it only made him melan-
choly and angry. This unlooked-for happiness seemed to have
been sent by cruel fate as a punishment for his past sins. Al-
though his conscience told him that he deserved this misery, he
blamed Gaston entirely for his present torture. Yes, he held
Gaston responsible for the horrible situation in which he found
himself. His letters to Raoul for several days expressed all the
fluctuations of his mind, and revealed glimpses of coming evil.
"I have twenty-five thousand francs a year," he wrote to
him, a few hours after signing the deed of partnership; "and
I possess in my own right five hundred thousand francs. One-
fourth of this sum would have made me the happiest of men
a year ago; now it is of no use to me. All the gold on earth
could not remove one of the difficulties of our situation. Yes,
you were right. I have been imprudent; but I pay dear for
my precipitation. Rich or poor, I have cause to tremble as long
1168 FILE NUMBER 113
as there is any risk of a meeting between Gaston and Valentine.
How can they be kept apart? Will my brother renounce his
plan of discovering the whereabouts of this woman whom he
so loved?"
No; Gaston would never be turned from his search for his
first love, as he proved by calling her in the most beseeching
tones when he was suffering his worst paroxysms of pain.. He
grew no better. In spite of the most careful nursing his symp-
toms changed, but showed no improvement. Each attack was
more violent than the preceding one. Toward the end of the
week, however, the pains left his head, and he felt well enough
to get up and partake of a slight nourishment. But poor
Gaston was a mere shadow of his former self. In one week he
had aged ten years. His strong constitution was broken. He,
who ten days ago was boasting if his vigorous health, was now
weak and bent like an old man. He could hardly drag himself
along, and shivered in the warm sun as if he were bloodless.
Leaning on Louis's arm, he slowly walked down to look at the
forge, and, seating himself before a furnace at full blast, he
declared that he felt very much better, that this intense heat
revived him. His pains were all gone, and he could breathe
without difficulty.
His spirits rose, and he turned to the workmen gathered
around, and said cheerfully: "I was not blest with a good
constitution for nothing, my friends, and I shall soon be well
again."
When the neighbors called to see him, and insisted that this
illness was entirely owing to change of climate, Gaston replied
that he supposed they were right, and that he ought to return
to Rio as soon as he was well enough to travel. What hope
this answer roused in Louis's breast! "Yes," he eagerly said,
"I will go with you. A trip to Brazil would be charming !"
But the next day Gaston had changed his mind. He told
Louis that he felt almost well, and was determined not to leave
France. He proposed going to Paris to consult the best phy-
sicians, and then he would see Valentine. As his illness in-
creased, he became more surprised and troubled at not hearing
from Beaucaire. He wrote again in the most pressing terms,
and asked for a reply by return of post. This letter was never
received by Lafourcade. That night, Gaston's sufferings re-
turned with renewed violence, and for the first time Dr. C
was uneasy. A fatal termination seemed possible. Gaston's
FILE NUMBER 113
1169
pain left him in a measure, but he was growing weaker every
moment. His heart beat slower, and his feet were as cold as ice.
On the fourteenth day of his illness, after lying in a stupor
for several hours, he revived sufficiently to ask for a priest,
saying that he would follow the example of his ancestors,
and die like a Christian. The priest left him after half an hour's
interview, and all the workmen were summoned to receive
their master's farewell. Gaston spoke a few kind words to
them all, saying that he had provided for them in his will.
After they had gone, he made Louis promise to carry on the
iron-works, embraced him for the last time, and sank back on
his pillow in a dying state. As the bell tolled for noon he
quietly breathed his last. Now Louis was in reality Marquis
de Clameran, and a millionaire besides. Two weeks later,
having made arrangements with the engineer in charge of
the iron-works to attend to everything during his absence, he
took his seat in the train for Paris. He had sent the following
significant telegram to Raoul the night previous: "I arrive
to-morrow."
U^AITHFUL to the program laid down by his accomplice,
while Louis watched at Oloron, Raoul remained in Paris
with the purpose of recovering Madame Fauvel's confidence
and affection, and of lulling any suspicions which might have
arisen in her breast. The task was difficult, but not impos-
sible. Madame Fauvel had been distressed by Raoul's wild
extravagance, but had never ceased to love him. Whatever
faults he had committed, whatever future follies he might
indulge in, he would always remain her best loved child, her
first-born, the living image of her noble, handsome Gaston,
the lover of her youth. She adored her two sons, Lucien and
Abel; but she could not overcome an indulgent weakness for
the unfortunate child, torn from her arms the day of his birth,
abandoned to the mercies of hired strangers, and for twenty
years deprived of home influences and a mother's love. She
1170 FILE NUMBER 113
blamed herself for Raoul's misconduct, and accepted the re-
sponsibility of it, saying to herself: "It is my fault." Knowing
these to be her sentiments, Raoul did not hesitate to take
advantage of them. Never were more irresistible fascina-
tions employed for the accomplishment of a wicked object.
Beneath an air of innocent frankness, this precocious scoundrel
concealed wonderful astuteness and penetration. He could
at will adorn himself with the confiding artlessness of youth,
so that angels might have yielded to the soft look of his
large dark eyes. There were few women living who could
have resisted the thrilling tones of his sympathetic voice.
During the month of Louis's absence, Madame Fauvel was
in a state of comparative happiness. Never had this mother
and wife — this pure, innocent woman, in spite of her first
and only fault — enjoyed such tranquillity. She felt as one
under the influence of enchantment, while reveling in the sun-
shine of filial love, which almost bore the character of a
lover's passion; for Raoul's devotion was ardent and constant,
his manner so tender and winning, that any one would have
taken him for Madame Fauvel's suitor. As she was still
at her country house, and M. Fauvel went to town every
morning, she had the whole of her time to devote to Raoul.
When she had spent the morning with him at his house in
Vesinet, she would often bring him home to dine and spend
the evening with her. All his past faults were forgiven, or
rather the whole blame of them was laid upon De Clameran;
for, now that he was absent, had not Raoul once more become
her noble, generous and affectionate son? Raoul enjoyed
the life he was leading, and took such an interest in the part
that he was playing, that his acting was perfect. He possessed
the faculty which makes cheats successful — faith in his own
impostures. Sometimes he would stop to think whether he
was telling the truth, or acting a shameful comedy. His success
was wonderful. Even Madeleine, the prudent, distrustful
Madeleine, without being able to shake off her prejudice against
the young adventurer, confessed that perhaps she had been
influenced by appearances, and had judged unjustly. Raoul
never asked for money now. He seemed to live on nothing.
Affairs were in this happy state when Louis arrived from
Oloron. Although now immensely rich, he resolved to make
no change in his style of living, but returned to his apartments
at the Hotel du Louvre. His only outlay was the purchase of
FILE NUMBER 113 1171
a handsome carriage ; and this was driven by Manuel, who con-
sented to enter his service, although Gaston had left him a
sufficient sum to support him comfortably. Louis's dream, the
height of his ambition, was to be ranked among the great
manufacturers of France. He was prouder of being called
"iron-founder" than of his marquisate. During his adventurous
life, he had met with so many titled gamblers and cut-throats,
that he no longer believed in the prestige of nobility. It was
impossible to distinguish the counterfeit from the genuine. He
thought what was so easily imitated was not worth the having.
Dearly bought experience had taught him that our unromantic
century attaches no value to armorial bearings, unless their
possessor is rich enough to display them upon a splendid
coach. One can be a marquis without a marquisate, but it
• is impossible to be forge-master without owning a forge.
Louis now thirsted for the homage of the world. All the badly
digested humiliations of the past weighed upon him. He had
suffered so much contempt and scorn from his fellow-men, that
he burned to avenge himself. After a disgraceful youth, he
longed to live a respected and honored old age. His past career
disturbed him little. He was sufficiently acquainted with the
world to know that the sound of his carriage wheels would
silence the jeers of those who knew his former life. These
thoughts fermented in Louis's brain as he journeyed from Pau
to Paris. He troubled his mind not in the least about Raoul,
determining to use him as a tool so long as he needed his
services, and then pay him a large sum if he would consent
to leave him. All these plans and thoughts were afterward
found noted down in the diary which he had in his pocket at
the time of the journey.
The first interview between the accomplices took place at
the Hotel du Louvre. Raoul, having a practical turn of mind,
said he thought that they ought both to be contented with the
result already obtained, and that it would be folly to try and
secure anything more. "What more do we want?" he asked
his uncle. "We now possess over a million ; let us divide it
and keep quiet. We had better be satisfied with our good luck,
and not tempt Providence."
But this moderation did not suit Louis. "I am rich," he
replied, "but I desire more than wealth. I am determined
to marry Madeleine ; I swear she shall be my wife ! In the
first place, I madly love her ; and then, as the nephew of the
1172 FILE NUMBER 113
most eminent banker in Paris, I at once gain high position
and public consideration." — "I tell you, uncle, your courtship
will involve you in great risks." — "I don't care if it does. I
choose to run them. My intention is to share my fortune with
you; but I will not do so till the day after my wedding.
Madeleine's dowry will be your share."
Raoul was silent. De Clameran held the money, and was,
therefore, master of the situation. "You don't seem to antici-
pate any difficulty in carrying out your wishes," he resumed,
discontentedly; "how are you to account for your suddenly
acquired fortune? M. Fauvel knows that a De Clameran lived
at Oloron, and had money in his bank. You told him that you
never heard of this person bearing your name, and then, at
the end of a month, you come and say you have inherited his
fortune." •
"You are an innocent youth, nephew; your ingenuousness is
amusing." — "Explain yourself." — "Certainly. The banker, his
wife, and Madeleine must be informed that the De Clameran of
Oloron was a natural son of my father, consequently my brother,
born at Hamburg, and recognized during the emigration. Of
course, he wished to leave his fortune to his own family. This
is the story which you must tell Madame Fauvel to-morrow."
"That is a bold step to take." — "How so?" — "Inquiries might
be made." — "Who would make them? The banker would not
trouble himself to do so. What difference is it to him whether
I had a brother or not? My title as heir is legally authenti-
cated; and all he has to do is to pay the money he holds, and
there his business ends."
"I am not afraid of his giving trouble." — "Do you think that
Madame Fauvel and her niece will ask any questions? Why
should they? They have no grounds for suspicion. Besides,
they can not take a step without compromising themselves. If
they knew all our secrets, I would not have the least fear of
their making revelations. They have sense enough to know
that they had best keep quiet."
Not finding any other objections to make, Raoul said : "Very
well, then, I will obey you ; but I am not to call upon Madame
Fauvel for any more money, am I?" — "And why not, pray?" —
"Because, my uncle, you are rich now." — "Suppose I am rich,"
replied Louis triumphantly ; "what does that matter ? Have we
not pretended to have quarreled, and have you not abused mc
sufficiently to justify you in refusing my assistance? Ah! I
FILE NUMBER 113 1173
foresaw everything, and when I explain my present plan you
will say with me, 'Success is certain.' " Louis de Clameran's
scheme was very simple, and therefore, unfortunately, pre-
sented the strongest chances of success. "We will go back
and look at our balance-sheet. As heretofore, my brilliant
nephew, you seem to have misunderstood my management of
this affair; I will now explain it to you." — "I am listening."
"In the first place, I presented myself to Madame Fauvel,
and said, not 'Your money or your life,' but 'Your money or
your reputation !' It was a rude blow to strike, but effective.
As I expected, she was frightened, and regarded me with the
greatest aversion." — "Aversion is a mild term, uncle." — "I know
that. Then I brought you upon the scene, and, without flatter-
ing you in the least, I must say that your opening act was a
perfect success. I was concealed behind the curtain, and saw
your first interview ; it was sublime ! She saw you, and loved
you; you spoke a few words, and won her heart."
"And but for you — " — "Let me finish. This was the first act
of our comedy. Let us pass to the second. Your extravagant
follies — your grandfather would have said your dissoluteness —
soon changed our respective situations. Madame Fauvel, with-
out ceasing to worship you — you resemble Gaston so closely —
was frightened of you. She was so frightened that she was
forced to come to me for assistance." — "Poor woman !"
"I acted my part very well, as you must confess. I was
grave, cold, indignant, and represented the distressed uncle to
perfection. I spoke of the old probity of the De Clamerans,
and bemoaned that the family honor should be dragged in the
dust by a degenerate descendant. For a short time I triumphed
at your expense. Madame Fauvel forgot her former prejudice
against me, and soon showed that she esteemed and liked me."
"That was a long time ago."
Louis paid no attention to this ironical interruption. "Now
we come to the third act," he went on to say, "the time when
Madame Fauvel, having Madeleine for an adviser, nearly judged
us at our true value. Oh ! you need not flatter yourself that
she did not fear and despise us both. If she did not hate you,
Raoul, it was because a mother's heart always forgives a sin-
ful child. A mother can despise and worship her son at the
same time."
"She has proved it to me in so many touching ways that I —
yes, even I, hardened as I am — was moved, and felt remorse." —
1174 FILE NUMBER 113
"No doubt. I have felt some pangs myself. Where did I leave
off? Oh, yes! Madame Fauvel was frightened, and Made-
leine, bent on sacrificing herself, had discarded Prosper, and
consented to marry me, when Gaston's existence was suddenly
revealed to us. And what has happened since? You have suc-
ceeded in convincing Madame Fauvel that you are purer than
an angel, and that I am blacker than hell. She is blinded by
your noble qualities, and she and Madeleine regard me as your
evil genius, whose pernicious influence led you astray."
"You are right, my venerated uncle; that is precisely the
position you occupy." — "Very good. Now we come to the fifth
act, and our comedy needs entire change of scenery. We must
veer around."— "Change our tactics ?"—" You think it difficult,
I suppose? Nothing easier. Listen attentively, for the future
depends upon your skilfulness." Raoul leaned back in his chair
with folded arms, as if prepared for anything, and said: "I am
ready."
"The first thing for you to do," said Louis, "is to go to Ma-
dame Fauvel to-morrow, and tell her the story about my natural
brother. She will not believe you, but that makes no differ-
ence. The important thing is for you to appear convinced of
the truth of what you tell her." — "Consider me convinced."
"Five days hence I will call on M. Fauvel, and confirm the
notification sent him by my notary at Oloron, that the money
deposited in the bank now belongs to me. I will repeat, for
his benefit, the story of the natural brother, and ask him to
keep the money for me, as I have no occasion for it at pres-
ent. You, who are so distrustful, my good nephew, may regard
this deposit as a guarantee of my sincerity." — "We will talk
of that another time. Go on."
"Then I will go to Madame Fauvel, and say: 'Being very
poor, my dear madame, necessity compelled me to claim your
assistance in the support of my brother's son, who is also
yours. This youth is worthless and extravagant.' " — "Thanks,
my good uncle." — "He has poisoned your life when he should
have added to your happiness; he is a constant anxiety and
sorrow to your maternal heart. I have come to offer my regrets
for your past trouble, and to assure you that you will have no
annoyance in the future. I am now rich, and henceforth take
the whole responsibility of Raoul upon myself." — "Is that what
you call a scheme?"
"Wait, you will soon see whether it is. After listening to
FILE NUMBER 113 1175
this speech, Madame Fauvel will feel inclined to throw herself
in my arms, by way of expressing her gratitude and joy. She
will refrain, however, on account of her niece. She will ask
me to relinquish my claim on Madeleine's hand now that I am
rich. I will roundly tell her, 'No.' I will make this an oppor-
tunity for an edifying display of magnanimity and disinterest-
edness. I will say, 'Madame, you have accused me of cupidity.
I am now able to prove your injustice. I have been infatuated,
as every man must be, by the beauty, grace, and intelligence
of Mademoiselle Madeleine; and — I love her. If she were pen-
niless, my devotion would only be the more ardent. She has
been promised to me, and I must insist upon this one article of
our agreement. This must be the price of my silence. And
to prove that I am not influenced by her fortune, I give you
my sacred promise that the day after the wedding I will send
Raoul sufficient to secure him an income of twenty-five thou-
sand francs per annum."
Louis expressed himself with such convincing candor, that
Raoul, an artist in knavery, was charmed and astonished.
"Beautifully done," he cried, clapping his hands with glee.
"That last sentence may create a chasm between Madame
Fauvel and her niece. The promise of a fortune for me will
most likely bring my mother over to our side."
"I hope so," said Louis with pretended modesty. "And I
have strong reasons for hoping so, as I shall be able to furnish
the good lady with excellent arguments for excusing herself
in her own eyes. You know when some one proposes some
little — what shall we call it? — transaction to an honest per-
son, it must be accompanied by justifications sufficient to quiet
all qualms of conscience. I shall prove to Madame Fauvel and
her niece that Prosper has shamefully deceived them. I shall
prove to them that he is cramped by debts, dissipated, and
a reckless gambler, openly associating with a woman of no
character."
"And very pretty besides, by Jove ! You must not neglect
to expatiate upon the beauty and fascinations of the adorable
Gipsy; that will be your strongest point." — "Don't be alarmed;
I shall be more eloquent than a popular divine. Then I will
explain to Madame Fauvel that if she really loves her niece,
she will persuade her to marry, not an insignificant cashier,
but a man of position, a great manufacturer, a marquis, and,
more than this, one rich enough to establish you in the world."
1176 FILE NUMBER 113
Raoul was dazzled by this brilliant prospect. "If you don't
decide her, you will at least make her waver," he said. — "Oh !
I don't expect a sudden change. I only intend planting the
germ in her mind; thanks to you, it will develop, flourish, and
bear fruit."— "Thanks to me?"— "Allow me to finish. After
making my speeches I shall disappear from the scene, and your
role will commence. Of course your mother will repeat the
conversation to you, and then we can judge of the effect pro-
duced. But remember, you must scorn to receive any assistance
from me. You must swear that you will brave all privations,
want, famine even, rather than accept anything from a base
man, whom you hate and despise; a man who — But you
know exactly what you are to say. I can rely upon you for
good acting."
"No one can surpass me when I am interested in my part.
In pathetic roles I am always a success when I have had time
to prepare myself."— "I know you are. But this disinterested-
ness need not prevent you from resuming your dissipations.
You must gamble, bet, and lose more money than you ever
did before. You must increase your demands, and say that you
must have money at all costs. You need not account to me for
any money you can extort from her. All you get is your own,
to spend as you please."— "You don't say so! If you mean
that— "—"You will expedite matters, I'll be bound."— "I can
promise you no time shall be wasted."
"Now listen to what you are to do, Raoul. Before the end
of three months you must have exhausted the resources of these
two women. You must force from them every franc they can
raise, so that they will be wholly unable to procure money to
supply your increasing demands. In three months I must find
them penniless, absolutely ruined, without even a jewel left."
Raoul was startled at the passionate, vindictive tone of Louis's
voice as he uttered these last words. "You must hate these
women if you are so determined to make them miserable," he
said. "I hate them?" cried Louis. "Can't you see that I madly
love Madeleine, love her as only a man of my age can love?
Is not her image ever in my mind ? Does not the very thought
of her fire my heart, and her name burn my lips when I pro-
nounce it?" — "Your great devotion does not prevent you plan-
ning the destruction of her present happiness."
"Necessity compels me to do so. Nothing but the most cruel
deceptions and the bitterest suffering would ever induce her to
FILE NUMBER 113 1177
become my wife. The day on which you have led Madame
Fauvel and her niece to the extreme edge of the precipice,
pointed out its dark depths, and convinced them that they are
irretrievably lost, I shall appear, and rescue them. Why, it will
be the crowning scene of our drama. I will play my part with
such grandeur, such lofty magnanimity, that Madeleine will be
touched. When she finds that it is her sweet self, and not her
money, that I want, she will soften, and no longer despise me.
No true woman can be indifferent to a grand passion. I don't
pretend to say that she will love, but she will give herself to
me without repugnance; that is all I ask."
Raoul was shocked at the cold-blooded perversity of his
uncle ; but De Clameran showed his immense superiority in
wickedness, and the apprentice admired the master. "You
would certainly succeed, uncle," he said, "were it not for the
cashier. Prosper will always stand between you and Made-
leine; if not in person, certainly in memory."
Louis smiled scornfully, and, throwing away his cigar, which
had gone out, said : "I don't mind Prosper, or attach any more
importance to him than to that cigar." — "But she loves him." —
"So much the worse for him. Six months hence she will despise
him ; he is already morally ruined, and at the proper time I will
make an end of him socially. Do you know whither the road
of dissipation leads, my good nephew? Prosper supports Gipsy,
who is extravagant ; he gambles, keeps fast horses, and gives sup-
pers. Sooner or later he will have a night of bad luck; the
losses at baccarat must be paid within twenty-four hours ; he
will wish to pay, and he — has charge of the banker's safe."
Raoul protested against this insinuation.
"It is useless to tell me that he is honest. I dare say he is.
I was honest myself until I learned to gamble. A scamp would
have married Madeleine long ago, and sent us flying, bag and
baggage. You say she loves him ? No one but a coward would
be defrauded of the woman he loved and who loved him. Ah,
if I had once felt Madeleine's hand tremble in mine, if her rosy
lips had once pressed a kiss upon my brow, the whole world
could not take her from me. Wo to him who dares stand in
my path ! As it is, Prosper annoys me, and I intend to sup-
press him. With your aid I will so cover him with disgrace
and infamy that Madeleine will drive every thought of him
from her mind."
Louis's tone of rage and vengeance startled Raoul, and made
Gab. — Vol. IV L
1178 FILE NUMBER 113
him regard the affair in a worse light than ever. "You have
given me a shameful, dastardly role to play," he said after a
long pause. — "My honorable nephew has scruples, I suppose,"
sneered De Clameran. — "Not exactly scruples; yet I confess — "
"That you want to retreat ? Rather too late to sing that tune,
my friend. You wish to enjoy every luxury, have your pockets
filled with gold, cut a fine figure in high society, and remain
virtuous. You should have been born with a golden spoon in
your mouth then. We must fish in muddy waters, and cleanse
ourselves afterward."
"I have never been rich enough to be honest," said Raoul
humbly ; "but I must say it goes hard with me to torture two
defenseless, frightened woman, and ruin the character of a
poor devil who regards me as his best friend. It is a low
business !"
This resistance exasperated Louis to the last degree. "You
are the most absurd, ridiculous fool I ever met," he cried. "An
opportunity occurs for us to make an immense fortune. All we
have to do is to stretch out our hands and take it; when you
must needs prove refractory, like a whimpering baby. Nobody
but an ass would refuse to drink when he is thirsty because
he sees a little mud at the bottom of the bucket. I suppose you
prefer theft on a small scale. And where will your system lead
you? To the poor-house or the police-station. You prefer liv-
ing from hand to mouth, supported by Madame Fauvel, having
small sums doled out to you to pay your little gambling debts."
"I am neither ambitious nor cruel." — "And suppose Madame
Fauvel dies to-morrow ; what will become of you ? Will you
go cringing up to the widower, and implore him to continue
your allowance?" — "Enough said," cried Raoul, angrily inter-
rupting his uncle. "I never had any idea of retreating. I made
these objections to show you what infamous work you expect
of me, and, at the same time, prove to you that without my
assistance you can do nothing."
"I never pretended otherwise." — "Then, my noble uncle, we
might as well settle what my share is to be. Oh ! it is not
worth while for you to indulge in idle protestations. What
will you give me in case of success? and what if we fail?"
"I told you before. I will give you twenty-five thousand
francs a year, and all you can secure between now and my
wedding-day." — "This arrangement suits me very well; but
where are your securities?" This question was discussed a
FILE NUMBER 113 1179
long time without being satisfactorily settled by the accom-
plices, who had every reason to distrust each other. "What
are you afraid of ?" asked De Clameran. — "Everything," replied
Raoul. "Where am I to obtain justice if you deceive me? From
this pretty little poniard ? No, thank you. I would be made to
pay as dear for your hide as for that of honest man."
Finally, after a long debate and much recrimination, the
matter was arranged, and they shook hands before separating.
Alas ! Madame Fauvel and her niece soon felt the evil effects
of the understanding between the villains. Everything hap-
pened as Louis had arranged. Once more, when Madame Fau-
vel had begun to breathe freely, and to hope that her troubles
were over, Raoul's conduct suddenly changed; he became more
extravagant and dissipated than ever. Formerly, Madame
Fauvel would have said: "I wonder what he does with all the
money I give him ?" Now, she saw where it went. Raoul was
reckless in his wickedness ; he was intimate with actresses,
openly lavishing money and jewelry upon them; he drove
about with four horses, and bet heavily on every race. Never
had he been so exacting and exorbitant in his demands for
money; Madame Fauvel had the greatest difficulty in supplying
his wants. He no longer made excuses and apologies for
spending so much; instead of coaxingly entreating, he de-
manded money as a right, threatening to betray Madame Fau-
vel to her husband if she refused him. At this rate, all that
she and Madeleine possessed soon disappeared. In one month,
all their money had been squandered. Then they were com-
pelled to resort to the most shameful expedients in the house-
hold expenses. They economized in every possible way, mak-
ing purchases on credit, and making tradesmen wait; then they
changed figures in the bills, and even invented accounts of
things never bought. These imaginary costly whims increased
so rapidly that M. Fauvel one day said, with a smile : "You
are becoming very coquettish, my dears." Poor women ! For
months they had bought nothing, but had lived upon the re-
mains of their former splendor, having all their old dresses
altered to keep up appearances in society. More clear-sighted
than her aunt, Madeleine saw plainly that the day would soon
come when everything would be discovered. Although she
knew that the sacrifices of the present would avail nothing in
the future, she was silent. A high-minded delicacy made her
conceal her apprehensions beneath an assumed calmness. The
1180 FILE NUMBER 113
fact of her sacrificing herself made her refrain from uttering
anything like a complaint or censure. "As soon as Raoul sees
we have nothing more to give," she would say to her aunt, "he
will come to his senses, and stop all this extravagance." The
day came, however, when Madame Fauvel and Madeleine found
it impossible to give another franc. The previous evening there
had been a dinner-party, and they, with difficulty, scraped to-
gether enough money to defray the expenses. Raoul appeared,
and said that he was in the greatest need of money, being
forced to pay a debt of two thousand francs at once. In vain
they implored him to wait a few days, until they could, with
propriety, ask M. Fauvel for money.
"But I have no way of getting it for you," said Madame
Fauvel, desperately; "you have taken everything from me. I
have nothing left but my diamonds: do you want them? If
they can be of use, take them."
Hardened as the young villain was, he blushed at these
words. He felt pity for this unfortunate woman, who had al-
ways been so kind and indulgent to him — who had so often
lavished upon him her maternal caresses. He felt for the noble
girl, who was the innocent victim of a vile plot. But he was
bound by his promise; he knew that a powerful hand would
save these women at the brink of the precipice. More than
this, he saw an immense fortune at the end of his road of
crime, and quieted his conscience by saying that he would re-
deem his present cruelty by honest kindness in the future.
Stifling his better impulses, he said harshly to Madame Fauvel:
"Give me the jewels; I will take them to the pawnbroker's."
She handed him a box containing a set of diamonds. It was
a present from her husband the day he became worth a million.
And so pressing was the want of these women who were sur-
rounded by princely luxury, with their ten servants, beautiful
horses, and jewels which were the admiration of Paris, that
they implored him to bring them some of the money which he
would procure on the diamonds. He promised, and kept his
word. But they had revealed a new source — a mine to be
worked ; he took advantage of it. One by one all Madame
Fauvel's jewels followed the way of the diamonds; and, when
hers was all gone, those belonging to Madeleine were given
up. Madame Fauvel had no defense against the scoundrels
who were torturing her, save prayers and tears; these availed
her little. Sometimes, though, she betrayed such heart-broken
FILE NUMBER 113 1181
suffering when Raoul begged her for money which she had no
means of obtaining that he would hurry away disgusted at his
own brutal conduct, and say to De Clameran : "You must end
this dirty business ; I can not stand it any longer. Let us steal
with both hands as much as you like ; but as to killing by agony
and fright these two poor miserable women, whom I am really
fond of, I am not going to do it."
De Clameran showed no surprise at these remonstrances. "It
is not pleasant, I know," he replied; "but necessity knows no
law. Have a little more perseverance and patience ; we have
almost got to the end."
The end was nearer than De Clameran supposed. Toward
the latter part of November, Madame Fauvel saw that it
was impossible to postpone the catastrophe any longer, and as
a last effort determined to apply to the marquis for assistance.
She had not seen him since his return from Oloron, except
once, when he came to announce his accession to wealth. At
that time, persuaded that he was Raoul's evil genius, she had
received him very coldly, and did not invite him to repeat his
visit. She hesitated before speaking to her niece of the step
she intended taking, because she feared violent opposition.
To her great surprise Madeleine warmly approved of it.
Trouble had made her keen-sighted and suspicious. Reflect-
ing on the past events, comparing and weighing every act and
speech of Raoul, she was now convinced that he was De Cla-
meran's tool. She thought that Raoul was too shrewd to be
acting in this shameful way, ruinously to his own interests, if
there were not some secret motive at the bottom of it all. She
saw that this persecution was more feigned than real. So
thoroughly was she convinced of this that, had it only con-
cerned herself alone, she would have firmly resisted the oppres-
sion, confident that the threatened exposure would never take
place. Recalling, with a shudder, certain looks of De Cla-
meran, she guessed the truth, that the object of all this under-
hand work was to force her to become his wife. Determined
on making the sacrifice, in spite of her repugnance toward the
man, she wished to have the deed done at once; anything was
preferable to the intolerable existence which Raoul made her
lead. She felt that her courage might fail if she waited and
suffered much longer.
"The sooner you see M. de Clameran the better for us,
aunt," she said, after talking the project over.
1182 FILE NUMBER 113
The next day Madame Fauvel called on the marquis at the
Hotel du Louvre, having sent him a note announcing her in-
tended visit. He received her with cold, studied politeness, like
a man who had been misunderstood and had been unjustly
wounded. After listening to her report of Raoul's scandalous
behavior, he became very indignant, and swore that he would
soon make him repent of his heartlessness. But, when Madame
Fauvel told him that Raoul applied to her because he would
take nothing from his uncle, De Clameran seemed confounded.
"The worthless rascal !" he exclaimed, "the idea of his au-
dacity. Why, during the last four months, I have given him
more than twenty thousand francs, which I would not have
done except to prevent him from applying to you, as he con-
stantly threatened to do." Seeing an expression of doubt upon
Madame Fauvel's face, Louis arose and took from a desk some
receipts signed by Raoul, which he showed her. The total
amount was twenty-three thousand five hundred francs. Ma-
dame Fauvel was shocked and amazed.
"He has obtained about forty thousand francs from me," she
faintly said, "so that altogether he has spent at least sixty
thousand francs in four months." — "I can't imagine what he
does with it," said De Clameran. "unless he spends it on
actresses." — "Good heavens ! what can those creatures do with
all the money lavished on them?" — "That is a thing one never
knows."
He appeared to pity Madame Fauvel sincerely ; he promised
that he would at once see Raoul, and make him alter his be-
havior. Finally, after many protestations of friendship, he
wound up by placing his fortune at her disposal. Although
Madame Fauvel refused his offer, she appreciated the kindness
of it, and on returning home said to Madeleine: "Perhaps we
have mistaken his character; he may be a good man after all."
Madeleine sadly shook her head. She had anticipated just
what happened. De Clameran's magnanimity and generosity
confirmed her presentiments.
Raoul called on his uncle, and found him radiant. "Every-
thing is going on swimmingly, my smart nephew," said the
marquis; "your receipts act like a charm. Ah, you are a
partner worth having. I congratulate you upon your success.
Forty thousand francs in four months !"
"Yes," said Raoul carelessly. "I got about that much from
her and the pawnbrokers." — "Hang it! Then you must have
FILE NUMBER 113 1183
a nice little sum laid by; for the young lady, I presume, is a
myth." — "That is my business, uncle. Remember our agree-
ment. I can tell you this much : Madame Fauvel and Made-
leine have turned everything they can into money; they have
nothing left, and I have had enough of my role."
"Your role is ended. I forbid you to hereafter ask for a
single centime." — "What are you about to do? What has
happened?" — "The mine is loaded, nephew, and I am only
awaiting an opportunity to set fire to it."
Louis de Clameran relied upon making his rival, Prosper
Bertomy, furnish him with this ardently desired opportunity.
He loved Madeleine too passionately to feel aught save the bit-
terest hate toward the man whom she had freely chosen, and
who still possessed her heart. De Clameran knew that he could
marry her at once if he chose ; but in what way ? By holding
a sword of terror over her head, and forcing her to be his. He
became frenzied at the idea of possessing her person, while
her heart and soul would always be with Prosper. Thus he
swore that, before marrying, he would so cover Prosper with
shame and ignominy that no honest person would speak to him.
He had at first thought of killing him, but he preferred to dis-
grace him. He imagined that there would be no difficulty in
ruining the unfortunate young man. He soon found himself
mistaken. Though Prosper led a life of reckless dissipation,
he preserved order in his disorder. If in a state of miserable
entanglement, and obliged to resort to all sorts of makeshifts
to escape his creditors, his caution prevented the world from
knowing it. Vainly did Raoul, with his pockets full of gold,
tempt him to play high ; every effort to hasten his ruin failed.
When he played he did not seem to care whether he lost or
won ; nothing aroused him from his cold indifference. His mis-
tress, Nina Gipsy, was extravagant, but her devotion to Prosper
restrained her from going beyond certain limits. Raoul's great
intimacy with Prosper enabled him to fully understand the state
of his mind ; that he was trying to drown his disappointment in
excitement, but had not given up all hope.
"You need not hope to beguile Prosper into committing any
serious piece of folly," said Raoul to his uncle; "his head is
as cool as an usurer's. What object he has in view I know not.
Perhaps when he has spent his last coin he will blow his brains
out ; he certainly never will descend to any dishonorable act ;
he will never have recourse to the money in the banker's safe."
1184 FILE NUMBER 113
"We must urge him on," replied De Clameran; "lead him
into more extravagances ; make Gipsy call on him for costly
finery, lend him plenty of money." Raoul shook his head, as
if convinced that his efforts would be in vain. "You don't
know Prosper, uncle ; we can't galvanize a dead man. Made-
leine killed him the day she discarded him. He takes no inter-
est in anything on the face of the earth." — "We can wait."
They did wait ; and, to the great surprise of Madame Fauvel,
Raoul once more became an affectionate and dutiful son, as he
had been during De Clameran's absence. From reckless ex-
travagance he changed to great economy. Under pretext of
saving money, he remained at Vesinet, although it was very
uncomfortable and disagreeable there in the winter. He wished,
he said, to expiate his sins in solitude. The truth was that, by
remaining in the country, he insured his liberty, and escaped
his mother's visits. It was about this time that Madame Fauvel,
charmed with the improvement in Raoul, asked her husband
to give him some employment in the bank. M. Fauvel was de-
lighted to please his wife, and at once offered Raoul the place
of corresponding clerk, with a salary of five hundred francs a
month. The appointment pleased Raoul ; but, in obedience to
De Clameran's command, he refused it, saying he had no taste
for banking. This refusal so provoked the banker that he
rather bitterly reproached Raoul, and told him not to expect
him to do anything to assist him in future. Raoul seized this
pretext for ostensibly ceasing his visits. When he wanted to
see his mother, he would come in the afternoon or evening,
when he knew that M. Fauvel would be from home; and he
only came often enough to keep himself informed of what was
going on in the household. This sudden lull after so many
storms appeared ominous to Madeleine. She was more cer-
tain than ever that the plot was now ripe, and would suddenly
burst upon them, without warning. She did not impart her pre-
sentiment to her aunt, but prepared herself for the worst.
"What can they be doing?" Madame Fauvel would say;
"can they have decided not to persecute us any more?" — "Yes,
what can they be doing?" Madeleine would murmur.
Louis and Raoul gave no signs of life, because, like expert
hunters, they were silently hiding, and watching for a favor-
able opportunity of pouncing upon their victims. Never losing
sight of Prosper for a day, Raoul had exhausted every effort of
his fertile mind to compromise his honor — to ensnare him into
FILE NUMBER 113 1185
some inextricable entanglement. But, as he had foreseen, the
cashier's indifference offered little hope of success. De Cla-
meran began to grow impatient at this delay, and had fully
determined to bring matters to a crisis himself, when one night,
about three o'clock, he was aroused by Raoul. He knew that
some event of great importance must have happened to make
his nephew come to him at that hour of the night.
"What is the matter?" he anxiously inquired. — "Perhaps
nothing; perhaps everything. I have just left Prosper." —
"Well?" — "I had him, Madame Gipsy, and three other friends
to dine with me. After dinner, I made up a game of bacca-
rat, but Prosper took no interest in it, although he was quite
tipsy."
"You must be drunk yourself, to come here waking me up
in the middle of the night to hear this idle gabble," said Louis,
angrily. — "Now, wait until you hear the rest." — "Zounds ! speak
then !" — "After the game was over, we went to supper ; Pros-
per became quite intoxicated, and betrayed the word with which
he closes the money safe."
At these words, De Clameran uttered a cry of triumph.
"What was the word ?" — "His mistress's name." — "Gipsy ! Yes,
that would be five letters." Louis was so excited that he
jumped out of bed, slipped on his dressing-gown, and began
to stride up and down the room. "Now we have got him !" he
said, with vindictive satisfaction. "There's no chance of es-
cape for him now ! Ah ! the virtuous cashier won't touch the
money confided to him; so we must touch it for him. His dis-
grace will be just as great no matter who opens the safe. We
have the word ; you know where the key is kept." — "Yes ; when
M. Fauvel goes out he always leaves the key in a drawer of
his secretary in his bedroom."
"Very good. You will go and get this key from Madame
Fauvel. If she does not give it up willingly, use force; then,
having got the key, you will open the safe, and take out every
franc it contains. Ah ! Master Bertomy, you shall pay dear
for being loved by the woman I love !"
For five minutes De Clameran indulged in such a tirade of
abuse against Prosper, mingled with rhapsodies of love for
Madeleine, that Raoul thought him almost out of his mind, and
tried to calm him. "Before crying victory," he said, "you had
better consider the drawbacks and difficulties. Prosper might
change the word to-morrow." — "Yes, he might ; but it is not
1186 FILE NUMBER 113
probable he will. He will forget what he said while drunk;
besides, we will be quiet."
"That is not all. M. Fauvel has given orders that no large
sum shall be kept in the safe overnight; before closing time,
everything is sent to the Bank of France." — "A large sum will
be kept there the night I choose." — "You think so?"
"I think this : I have a hundred thousand crowns deposited
with M. Fauvel; and if I desire the money to be paid over to
me early some morning, directly the bank is opened, of course
the money will be kept in the safe the previous night." — "A
splendid idea !" cried Raoul, admiringly.
It was a good idea; and the plotters spent several hours in
studying its strong and weak points. Raoul feared that he
would never be able to overcome Madame Fauvel's resistance ;
and, even if she yielded the key, would she not go directly and
confess everything to her husband, rather than sacrifice an in-
nocent man? But Louis felt no uneasiness on this score. "One
sacrifice necessitates another," he said ; "she has made too
many to draw back at the last one. She sacrificed her adopted
daughter ; therefore she will sacrifice a young man, who is,
after all, a comparative stranger to her."
"But Madeleine will never believe any harm of Prosper;
therefore — "
"You talk like an idiot, my verdant nephew !"
Before the conversation had ended, the plan seemed feasible.
The scoundrels made all their arrangements, and fixed the day for
committing the crime. They selected the evening of the 27th of
February, because Raoul knew that M. Fauvel would be dining
out, and Madeleine was invited to a party on that evening.
Unless something unforeseen should occur, Raoul knew that
he would find Madame Fauvel alone at half-past eight o'clock.
"I will ask M. Fauvel this very day," said De Clameran,
"to have my money ready for Tuesday." — "That is a very short
notice, uncle," objected Raoul. "You know there are certain
forms to be gone through, and he can claim a longer time
wherein to pay it over."
"That is true, but our banker is proud of always being pre-
pared to pay any amount of money, no matter how large ; and
if I say I am pressed, and would like to be accommodated
on Tuesday, he will make a point of having it ready for me.
Then you must ask Prosper, as a personal favor to you, to
have the money on hand at the opening of the bank."
FILE NUMBER 113 1187
Raoul once more examined the situation, to discover if there
was not the grain of sand which so often becomes a mountain
at the last moment. "Prosper and Gipsy are to be with me at
Vesinet this evening," he said; "but I can not ask him any-
thing until I know the banker's answer. As soon as you have
arranged matters with him, send me word by Manuel."
"I can't send Manuel, for an excellent reason — he has left
me ; but I can send another messenger." What Louis said was
true ; Manuel was gone. He had insisted on keeping Gaston's
old servant in his service, because he thought it imprudent to
leave him at Oloron, where his gossiping might cause trouble.
He soon became annoyed by Manuel's loyalty, and determined
to rid himself of him; so he just gave him the idea of ending
his days in peace in his own country. The evening before
Manuel had started for Arenys-de-Mar, a little port of Cata-
lonia, his native place; and Louis was seeking another servant.
After breakfasting together, Louis and Raoul separated. De
Clameran was so elated by the prospect of success that he lost
sight of the great crime intervening. Raoul was calm, but
resolute. The shameful deed he was about to commit would
give him riches, and release him from a shameful servitude.
His one thought was liberty, as Louis's was Madeleine. Every-
thing seemed to progress finely. The banker did not ask for
the delay he was entitled to. but promised to pay the money
on the day named. Prosper said he would have it ready early
in the morning. The certainty of success made Louis almost
wild with joy. He counted the hours and the minutes.
"When this affair is ended," he said to Raoul, "I will reform,
and be a model of virtue. No one will dare hint that I have
ever indulged in any sins — great or small."
But Raoul became more and more sad as the time approached.
Reflection gradually showed him the blackness of the contem-
plated crime. Raoul was bold and determined in the pursuit
of his own gratifications and wickedness; he could smile in the
face of his best friend, while cheating him of his last napoleon
at cards ; and he could sleep well after stabbing his enemy to
the heart; but he was young. He was young in sin. Vice
had not yet penetrated to his marrow-bones — corruption had not
yet crowded into his soul enough to uproot and destroy every
generous sentiment. It had not been so very long since he had
cherished a few holy beliefs. The good intentions of his boy-
hood were not quite obliterated from his sometime reproachful
1188 FILE NUMBER 113
memory. Possessing the daring courage natural to youth, he
despised the cowardly part forced upon him; this dark plot —
this slow agony of two helpless women, filled him with horror
and disgust. Disgusted by Louis's cool villainy, he longed for
some great peril to be braved, so as to excuse himself in his
own eyes. But no; he well knew that he ran no risk, not even
that of being arrested and sent to prison. For he was certain
that, if M. Fauvel discovered everything, he would do his ut-
most to hush up every fact connected with the disgraceful
story. Although he was careful not to breathe it to De Cla-
meran, he felt a sincere affection for Madame Fauvel, and was
touched by the indulgent fondness which she so unchangingly
lavished upon him. He had been happy at Vesinet, while his
accomplice, or rather his master, was at Oloron. He wquld
have been glad to lead an honest life, and could not see the
sense of committing a crime when there was no necessity for
it. He hated De Clameran, who abused his power for the sake
of gratifying a selfish passion ; and he longed for an opportunity
of thwarting his plots, if it could be done without also ruining
himself. His resolution, which had been so firm in the begin-
ning, was growing weaker and weaker as the hours rolled on;
as the crisis approached, his horror of the deed increased. And
yet Louis never left him, but continually painted for him a
dazzling future, position, wealth, and freedom. He prepared,
and forced his accomplice to rehearse, the scene which was to
be enacted at Madame Fauvel's, with as much coolness and
precision as if it were to be performed at a public theatre.
Louis said that no piece could be well acted unless the actor
was interested, and imbued with the spirit of his role. But the
more urgently Louis pressed upon him the advantages to be
derived from success — the oftener he sounded in his ears the
magic words "five hundred thousand francs," the more loudly
did Raoul's conscience cry out against the sinful deed. On
Monday evening, about six o'clock, Raoul felt so depressed and
miserable that he asked himself whether, even if he wished it,
he would be able to obey.
"Are you afraid?" asked De Clameran, who had anxiously
watched these inward struggles.— "Yes," replied Raoul; "yes;
I have not your ferocious will, and I am afraid !"
"What, you, my pupil, my friend ! It is not possible. Come,
a little energy, one more stroke of our oars and we are in port.
You are only nervous; come to dinner, and a bottle of Bur-
FILE NUMBER 113 1189
gundy will soon set you right." They were walking along
the boulevards. De Clameran insisted upon their entering a
restaurant and having dinner in a private room. Vainly did he
strive, however, to chase the gloom from his companion's pale
face. Raoul sat listening, with a sullen frown, to his friend's
jest about "swallowing the bitter pill gracefully." Urged by
Louis, he drank two bottles of wine, in hopes that intoxication
would inspire him with courage to do the deed. But the drunk-
enness he sought came not; the wine proved false; at the bot-
tom of the last bottle he found nothing but anger and disgust.
The clock struck eight.
"The time has come," said Louis firmly. Raoul turned livid;
his teeth chattered, and his limbs trembled so that he was un-
able to stand on his feet. "Oh, I can not do it !" he cried in
an agony of terror and rage. De Clameran's eyes flashed angrily
at the prospect of all his plans being ruined at the last mo-
ment. But he dared not give way to his anger, for fear of
exasperating Raoul, whom he knew to be anxious for an ex-
cuse to quarrel ; so he violently pulled the bell-rope. A waiter
appeared. "A bottle of port," he said, "and a bottle of rum."
When the waiter returned with the bottles, Louis filled a
large glass with the two liquors mixed, and handed it to Raoul.
"Drink this !" he said. Raoul emptied the glass at a draft, and
a faint color returned to his pale cheek. He arose, and strik-
ing the table with his fist, cried fiercely: "Come along!" But
before he had walked thirty yards, the fictitious energy inspired
by drink deserted him. He clung to De Clameran's arm, and
was almost dragged along, trembling like a criminal on his way
to the scaffold.
"If I can once get him in the house," thought Louis, who
had studied Raoul and understood him; "once inside, his role
will sustain him and carry him through, and all will be well.
The cowardly baby ! I would like to wring his neck !" As they
walked along he said : "Now don't forget our arrangements,
and be careful how you enter the house ; everything depends
upon that. Have you the pistol in your pocket ?" — "Yes, yes !
Let me alone!" It was well that De Clameran accompanied
Raoul; for, when he got in sight of the door his courage gave
way, and he longed to retreat. "A poor, helpless woman!" he
groaned, "and an honest man who pressed my hand in friend-
ship yesterday, to be cowardly ruined, betrayed by me! Ah, it
is too base, too cowardly !" — "Come," said De Clameran in a
1190
FILE NUMBER 113
tone of contempt, "I thought you had more nerve. When a
fellow has no more pluck than that he should remain honest !"
Raoul overcame his weakness, and, silencing the clamors of his
conscience, hurried to the house and pulled the bell. "Is Ma-
dame Fauvel at home ?" he inquired of the servant who opened
the door.
"Madame is alone in the little drawing-room," was the reply.
And Raoul went upstairs.
DE CLAMERAN'S injunction to Raoul was: "Be very cau-
tious how you enter the room; your appearance must tell
everything, and thus avoid impossible explanations."
The recommendation was useless. The instant that Raoul
entered the room, the sight of his pale, haggard face and wild
eyes made Madame Fauvel exclaim : "Raoul ! What misfor-
tune has happened to you?"
The sound of her tender, affectionate voice acted like an
electric shock upon the young bandit. He shook like a leaf.
But at the same time his mind seemed to change. Louis was
not mistaken in his estimate of his companion's character.
Raoul was on the stage, his part was to be played; his assur-
ance returned to him ; his cheating, lying nature assumed the
ascendant. "This misfortune is the last I shall ever suffer,
mother!" Madame Fauvel rushed toward him, and, seizing his
hand, gazed searchingly into his eyes, as if to read his very
soul. "What is the matter? Raoul, my dear son, do tell me
what troubles you."
He gently pushed her from him. "The matter is, my mother,"
he said, in a voice of heart-broken despair, "that I am un-
worthy of you, unworthy of my noble father !" She shook her
head as though to protest. "Alas !" he said, "I know and judge
myself. No one can reproach me for my infamous conduct
more bitterly than does my own conscience. I am not natu-
rally wicked, but only a miserable fool. At times I am
like an insane man, and am not responsible for my actions.
FILE NUMBER 113 1191
Ah, my dear mother, I would not be what I am if you had
watched over my childhood. But brought up among strangers,
with no guide but my own evil passions, nothing to restrain
me, no one to advise me, no one to love me, owning nothing,
not even my stolen name, I am cursed with vanity and un-
bounded ambition. Poor, with no one to assist me but you, I
have the tastes and vices of a millionaire's son. Alas ! when I
found you, the evil was done. Your affection, your maternal
love, the only true happiness of my life, could not save me.
I, who had suffered so much, endured so many privations, even
the pangs of hunger, became spoiled by this new life of luxury
and pleasure which you opened before me. I rushed headlong
into extravagance, as a drunkard long deprived of drink seizes
and drains to the dregs the first bottle in his reach."
Madame Fauvel listened, silent and terrified, to these words
of despair and remorse, which Raoul uttered with remarkable
vehemence. She dared not interrupt him, but felt certain some
dreadful piece of news was coming. Raoul continued in a sad.
hopeless tone : "Yes ; I have been a weak fool. Happiness was
within my reach, and I had not the sense to stretch forth my
hand and grasp it. I rejected a delicious reality to eagerly
pursue a vain fantom. I, who ought to have spent my life at
your feet, and daily striven to express my gratitude for your
lavish kindness, have made you unhappy, destroyed your peace
of mind, and, instead of being a blessing, I have been a curse
ever since the first fatal day you welcomed me to your kind
heart. Ah, unfeeling brute that I was, to squander upon crea-
tures whom I despised a fortune, of which each gold piece
must have cost you a tear ! Too late, too late ! I find that
with you was happiness."
He stopped, as if overcome by the consciousness of his evil
deeds, and seemed about to burst into tears. "It is never too
late to repent, my son," murmured Madame Fauvel in com-
forting tones. — "Ah, if I only could !" cried Raoul ; "but no, it
is too late ! Besides, can I tell how long my good resolutions
will last ? This is not the first time that I have condemned my-
self pitilessly. Stinging remorse for each new fault made me
swear to lead a better life, to sin no more. What was the
result of these periodical repentances? At the first temptation
I forgot my remorse and good resolutions. I am weak and
mean-spirited, and you are not firm enough to govern my vacil-
lating nature. While my intentions are good, my actions are
1192 FILE NUMBER 113
villainous. The disproportion between my extravagant desires,
and the means of gratifying them, is too great for me to endure
any longer. Who knows to what fearful lengths my unfortunate
disposition may lead me? However, I shall know how to do
myself justice!" he finally said with a reckless laugh.
Madame Fauvel was too cruelly agitated to follow Raoul's
skilful transitions. "Speak!" she cried, "explain yourself; am
I not your mother? Tell me the truth; I am ready to hear
the worst." He appeared to hesitate, as if afraid to crush his
mother's heart by the terrible blow he was about to inflict.
Then, in a voice of gloomy despair, he replied: "I am ruined!"
"Ruined !"
"Yes, ruined; and I have nothing more to expect or hope
for. I am dishonored, and all through my own fault; no one
is to blame but myself."— "Raoul !"
"It is the sad truth, my poor mother; but fear nothing, I
shall not trail in the dust the name which you bestowed upon
me. I will at least have the courage not to survive my dis-
honor. Come, mother, don't pity me, or distress yourself; I
am one of those miserable beings fated to find no peace save
in the arms of death. I came into the world with misfortune
stamped upon my brow. Was not my birth a shame and dis-
grace to you ? Did not the memory of my existence haunt you
day and night, filling your soul with remorse ? And now, when
I am restored to you after many years' separation, do I not
prove to be a bitter curse instead of a blessing?"
"Ungrateful boy ! Have I ever reproached you ?" — "Never !
Your poor Raoul will die blessing you, and with your beloved
name upon his lips."
"Die? You die, my son?"
"It must be, my dear mother; honor compels it. I am con-
demned by judges from whose decision no appeal can be taken —
my conscience and my will." An hour ago Madame Fauvel
would have sworn that Raoul had made her suffer all the tor-
ments that a woman could endure; but now she felt that all
her former troubles were nothing compared with her present
agony. "What, then, have you been doing, Raoul ?" she gasped.
"Money was entrusted to me ; I gambled, and lost it."
"Was it a very large sum?"
"No; but more than you can replace. My poor mother, have
I not taken everything from you? Have you not given me
your last jewel?"
FILE NUMBER 113 1193
"But M. de Clameran is rich. He placed his fortune at my
disposal. I will order the carriage, and go to him."
"But M. de Clameran is away, and the money must be paid
this evening, or I am lost. Alas ! I have thought it all over
and, although it is hard to die so young, still fate wills it so."
He pulled the pistol from his pocket, and, with a forced smile,
added: "This will settle everything." Madame Fauvel was too
upset and frightened to reflect upon the horror of Raoul's be-
havior ; and that these wild threats were a last expedient. For-
getful of the past, careless of the future, her every thought
concentrated upon the present, she comprehended but one fact:
that her son was about to commit suicide, and that she was
powerless to prevent the fearful deed. "Oh, wait a little while,
my son !" she cried. "Andre will soon return home, and I will
ask him to give me — How much did you lose ?"
"Thirty thousand francs."
"You shall have them to-morrow."
"But I must have the money to-night."
Madame Fauvel wrung her hands in despair. "Oh ! why did
you not come to me sooner, my son? Why did you not have
confidence enough in me to come at once for help? This even-
ing there is no one in the cashier's office to open the safe,
otherwise — "
"The safe!" cried Raoul, "but you know where the key is
kept?"
"Yes, it is in the next room."
"Well !" he exclaimed with a bold look that caused Madame
Fauvel to lower her eyes and keep silent. "Give me the key,
mother," he said in a tone of entreaty.
"Oh, Raoul, Raoul !"
"It is my life I am asking of you." These words decided
her ; she snatched up a candle, rushed into her bedroom, opened
the secretary, and took out M. Fauvel's key. But when about
to hand it to Raoul, her reason returned to her. "No," she
stammered ; "no, it is impossible." He did not insist, and seemed
about to leave the room. "True," said he; "then, mother, a
last kiss." — "What could you do with the key, Raoul?" asked
Madame Fauvel, stopping him. "You do not know the secret
word."
"No; but I can try to open it."
"You know that money is never kept in the safe over night."
"Nevertheless, I can make the attempt. If I open the safe
1194 FILE NUMBER 112
and find money in it, it will be a miracle, showing that Heaven
has pitied my misfortunes."
"And if you are not successful, will you promise me to wait
until to-morrow?"
"I swear it by my father's memory." — "Then take the key,
and follow me."
Pale and trembling, Raoul and Madame Fauvel passed through
the banker's study and down the narrow staircase leading to
the offices and cashier's room below. Raoul walked in front,
holding the light and the key of the safe. Madame Fauvel was
convinced that it would be utterly impossible to open the safe,
as the key was useless without the secret word, and of course
Raoul could not know what that was. The only anxiety she
felt was, how Raoul would bear the disappointment, how she
could calm his despair. She thought that she would gain time
by letting Raoul make the attempt; and then, when he found
he could not open the safe, he would keep his promise and wait
until the next day. "When he sees there is no chance of suc-
cess," she thought, "he will wait as he promised; and then to-
morrow — to-morrow — "
• What she would do on the morrow she knew not, she did
not even ask herself. Raoul was about to kill himself; his
mother prayed to God to grant her one night ; as if in this short
space of time some unexpected relief would come to end her
misery. They reached Prosper's office, and Raoul placed the
lamp on a high stool so that it lighted the whole room. He
had then recovered all his coolness, or rather that mechanical
precision of movement, almost independent of will, which men
accustomed to peril always find ready in time of need. Rapidly,
with the dexterity of experience, he slipped the buttons on the
five letters composing the name of G-i-p-s-y. His features during
this short operation, expressed the most intense anxiety. He
was fearful that the awful energy he had shown might after all
be of no use ; perhaps the safe would remain closed, perhaps the
money would not be there. Prosper might have changed the
word, or neglected to have the money in the safe. Madame
Fauvel saw these visible apprehensions with alarm. She read
in his eyes that wild hope of a man who, passionately desiring
an object, ends by persuading himself that his own will suffices
to overcome all obstacles. Having often been present when
Prosper was preparing to leave his office, Raoul had fifty times
seen him move the buttons, and lock the safe, just before the
FILE NUMBER 113 1195
bank closed. Indeed, having a practical turn of mind, and an
eye to the future, he had even turned the key in the lock on
more than one occasion. He inserted the key softly, and turned
it round once, pushed it farther in, and turned it a second time:
then thrust it right in with a jerk, and turned it again. His
heart beat so loudly that Madame Fauvel could hear its throbs.
The word had not been changed; the safe opened. Raoul and
his mother simultaneously uttered a cry — she of terror, he of
triumph.
"Shut it again !" exclaimed Madame Fauvel, frightened at the
incomprehensible result of Raoul's attempt; "leave it alone,
come away." And, half frenzied, she clung to his arm, and
pulled him away so abruptly, that the key was dragged from the
lock, and, slipping along the glossy varnish of the safe-door,
made a deep, long scratch. But at a glance the young man had
perceived four rolls of bank-notes on an upper shelf. He
snatched them up with his left hand, and slipped them inside his
vest. Exhausted by the effort she had made, Madame Fauvel
dropped his arm, and, almost fainting with emotion, leaned
against the back of a chair. "Have mercy, Raoul !" she moaned.
"I implore you to put back that money, and I solemnly swear
I will give you twice as much to-morrow. Oh, my son, have
pity upon your unhappy mother !" He paid no attention to
these words of entreaty, but carefully examined the scratch
on the safe. This trace of the robbery was very visible, and
alarmed him. "At least, you will not take all," said Madame
Fauvel; "just keep enough to save yourself, and put back the
rest."
"What good would that do? What I take will be missed just
the same."
"Oh, no ! not at all. I can account to Andre ; I will tell him
I had a pressing need for some money, and opened the safe
to get it." In the mean time. Raoul had carefully closed the
safe. "Come, mother, let us go back to the sitting-room. A ser-
vant might go there to look for you, and be astonished at our
absence." Raoul's cruel indifference and cold calculations at
such a moment filled Madame Fauvel with indignation. She
thought that she had still some influence over her son — that her
prayers and tears would have some effect upon his hard heart.
"Let them be astonished," she cried ; "let them come here and
find us. Then there will be an end to all this. Andre will
drive me from his house like i worthless creature, but I will
1196 FILE NUMBER 113
not sacrifice the innocent. Prosper will be accused of this to-
morrow. De Clameran has taken from him the woman he
loved, and now you would deprive him of his honor ! I will
not allow it."
She spoke so loudly and angrily that Raoul was alarmed. He
knew that one of the office men passed the night in a room
close by, and although it was still early in the evening, he
might already be in bed and listening to them. "Come upstairs,"
he said, seizing Madame Fauvel's arm. But she clung to a
table, and refused to move a step. "I have been cowardly
enough to sacrifice Madeleine," she said, "but I will not ruin
Prosper." Raoul had an argument in reserve, which he knew
would make Madame Fauvel submit to his will. "Now, really,"
he said with a cynical laugh, "do you pretend that you do not
know Prosper and I arranged this little affair together, and
that he is waiting to share the booty?"
"It is impossible !"
"What ! Do you suppose, then, that chance alone told me
the word and placed the money in the safe?"
"Prosper is honest."
"Of course he is, and so am I too. The only thing is, that
we both need money."
"You lie."
"No, dear mother. Madeleine dismissed Prosper, and the
poor fellow has to console himself for her cruelty; and this
sort of consolation is expensive." He took up the lamp, and
gently but firmly led Madame Fauvel toward the staircase. She
mechanically suffered him to do so, more bewildered by what
she had just heard than she was at the opening of the safe
door. "What!" she gasped, "can Prosper be a thief?" She
began to think herself the victim of a terrible nightmare, and
that, when she awoke, her mind would be relieved of this in-
tolerable torture. She helplessly clung to Raoul's arm as he
assisted her up the little narrow staircase.
"You must put the key back in the secretary," said Raoul
as soon as they were in the bedroom again. But she did not
seem to hear him ; so he went and put it in the place from which
he had seen her take it. He then led, or rather carried, Madame
Fauvel into the little sitting-room, and placed her in an easy-
chair. The set, expressionless look of the wretched woman's
eyes, and her dazed manner, frightened Raoul, who thought
that she was going out of her mind. "Come, cheer up, my
FILE NUMBER 113 1197
dear mother," he said in coaxing tones, as he rubbed her icy
cold hands; "you have just saved my life, and have at the
same time rendered an immense service to Prosper. Don't be
alarmed; everything will come out right in the end. Prosper
will be accused — perhaps arrested; he expects that, and is pre-
pared for it; he will deny his culpability; and, as there is no
proof against him, he will soon be set at liberty."
But these falsehoods were wasted on Madame Fauvel, who
was incapable of understanding anything said to her. "Raoul,"
she moaned, "Raoul, my son, you have killed me." Her gentle
voice, kind even in its despairing accents, touched the very
bottom of Raoul's perverted heart, and once more his soul was
so wrung by remorse that he felt inclined to put back the stolen
money. The thought of De Clameran restrained him. Finding
that Madame Fauvel still sat motionless and deathlike in her
chair, and fearing that M. Fauvel or Madeleine might enter at
any moment, and demand an explanation, he hastily pressed a
kiss upon his mother's brow, and hurried from the house. At
the restaurant, in the room where they had dined, De Clameran,
tortured by anxiety, awaited his accomplice. He wondered if,
at the last moment, when he was not near to sustain him, Raoul
would prove a coward and retreat. The merest accident, too,
is sufficient to upset the most skilful combinations. When Raoul
returned, he jumped to his feet, ghastly pale, and with difficulty
gasped out: "Well?"
"It is done, uncle, thanks to you ; and I am now the greatest
villain on the face of the earth." He unbuttoned his vest, and
pulling out the four bundles of bank-notes, angrily dashed them
upon the table, adding, in a tone of hate and contempt: "Now
I hope you are satisfied. This is the price of the happiness,
honor, and perhaps the life, of three persons." De Clameran
paid no attention to these angry words. With feverish eager-
ness he seized the notes, and held them in his hand, as if to
convince himself of the reality of success. "Now Madeleine is
mine," he cried excitedly. Raoul said nothing. This exhibition
of joy, after the scene in which he had just been an actor, dis-
gusted and humiliated him. Louis misinterpreted his silence,
and asked, gaily: "Did you have much difficulty?" — "I forbid
you ever to allude to this evening's work," cried Raoul fiercely.
"Do you hear me ? I wish to forget it." De Clameran shrugged
his shoulders at this outburst of anger, and said, in a bantering
tone: "Just as you please, my handsome nephew; forget it if
1198
FILE NUMBER 113
you like. I rather think, though, you will not refuse to accept
these three hundred and fifty thousand francs as a slight me-
mento. Take them — they are yours."
This generosity seemed neither to surprise nor satisfy Raoul.
"According to our agreement," he said sullenly, "I was to have
much more than this."
"Of course ; this is only on account."
"And when am I to have the rest, if you please?"
"The day I marry Madeleine, and not before, my boy. You
are too valuable an assistant to lose at present ; and you know
that, though I don't mistrust you, I am not altogether sure of
your sincere affection for me." Raoul reflected that to com-
mit a crime, and not profit by it, would be the height of ab-
surdity. He had returned with the intention of breaking off" all
connection with De Clameran; but he now determined that he
would not abandon his accomplice until there was nothing more
to get out of him. "Very well," he said, "I accept this on
account; but remember, I will never do another piece of work
like this of to-night."
De Clameran burst into a loud laugh, and replied: "That is
sensible ; now that you are rich, you can afford to be honest.
Set your conscience at rest, for I promise you I will require
nothing more of you save a few trifling services. You can
retire behind the scenes now, while I appear upon the stage."
TfOR more than an hour after Raoul's departure, Madame
* Fauvel remained in a state of torpor bordering upon un-
consciousness. Gradually, however, she recovered her senses
sufficiently to comprehend the horrors of her present situation ;
and, with the faculty of thought, that of suffering returned.
The dreadful scene in which she had taken part was still before
her affrighted vision; all the attending circumstances, unno-
ticed at the time, now struck her forcibly. She saw that she
had been the dupe of a shameful conspiracy ; that Raoul had
tortured her with cold-blooded cruelty, had taken advantage of
FILE NUMBER 113 1199
her tenderness, and played with her sufferings. But had Pros-
per anything to do with the robbery? This Madame Fauvel
had no way of finding out. Ah, Raoul knew how the blow
would strike when he accused his friend. He knew that she
would end by believing in the cashier's complicity. Knowing
that Madeleine's lover was leading a life of extravagance and
dissipation, she thought it very likely he had, from sheer des-
peration, resorted to this bold step to pay his debts ; her blind
affection, moreover, made her anxious to attribute the first idea
of crime to any one, rather than to her son. She had heard that
Prosper was supporting one of those worthless creatures whose
extravagance impoverishes men, and whose evil influence per-
verts their natures. When a young man is thus degraded, will
he stop at any sin or crime ? Alas ! Madame Fauvel knew,
from her own sad experience, to what depths even one fault
can lead. Although she believed Prosper guilty, she did not
blame him, but considered herself responsible for his sins. Was
she not the cause that he no longer frequented the home he
had begun to look upon as his own? Had she not destroyed
his hopes of happiness, and driven him to a life of dissipation,
wherein perhaps he sought f orgetf ulness ? She was undecided
whether to confide in Madeleine, or bury the secret in her own
breast. Fatally inspired, she decided to keep silent.
When the young girl returned home at eleven o'clock, Ma-
dame Fauvel not only was silent as to what had occurred, but
even succeeded in so concealing all traces of her agitation, that
she escaped any questions from her niece. Her calmness never
left her when M. Fauvel and Lucien returned, although she
was in terror lest her husband should go down to the cashier's
room to examine the books. It was not his habit to open the
safe at night, but he sometimes did so. As fate would have it,
the banker, as soon as he entered the room, began to speak
of Prosper, saying how distressing it was that so interesting
a young man should be thus throwing himself away, and won-
dering what could have happened to make him suddenly cease
his visits at the house, and resort to bad company. If M. Fauvel
had looked at the faces of his wife and niece while he harshly
blamed the cashier, he would have been puzzled at their strange
expression. All night long Madame Fauvel suffered the most
intolerable agony. "In six hours," she would say to herself, "in
three hours, in one hour, all will be discovered; and then what
will happen?"
1200 FILE NUMBER 113
When daybreak came she heard the servants moving about
the house. Then the offices were opened, and the noise made
by the arriving clerks reached her. She attempted to get up,
but felt so ill and weak that she sank back upon her pillow;
and lying there, trembling like a leaf, bathed in cold perspira-
tion, she awaited the discovery of the robbery. She was lean-
ing over the side of the bed, straining her ear to catch the
least sound, when Madeleine, who had shortly left her, rushed
back into the room. The poor girl's white face and wild eyes
told Madame Fauvel that the crime was discovered.
"Do you know what has happened, aunt?" cried Madeleine
in a shrill, horrified tone. "Prosper is accused of robbery, and
the commissary of police has come to take him to prison !" A
groan was Madame Fauvel's only answer. "Raoul or the mar-
quis is at the bottom of this," continued Madeleine excitedly.
"How can they be concerned in it?"
"I can't tell yet; but I only know that Prosper is innocent.
I have just seen him, spoken to him. He would never have
looked me in the face had he been guilty." Madame Fauvel
opened her lips to confess all : fear kept her silent. "What can
these wretches want ?" asked Madeleine ; "what new sacrifice do
they demand ? Dishonor Prosper ! They had far better have
killed him — I would have said nothing."
M. Fauvel's entrance into the room interrupted Madeleine.
The banker was so enraged that he could scarcely speak. "The
worthless scoundrel !" he cried; "to think of his daring to accuse
me ! to insinuate that I robbed my own safe ! And that Mar-
quis de Clameran, who seems to doubt my integrity." Then,
without noticing the effect of his words upon the two women,
he proceeded to relate all that had occurred. "I was afraid of
something of this sort last night," he said in conclusion ; "this
is the result of leading such a life as his has been lately."
Throughout the day Madeleine's devotion to her aunt was
severely tried. The generous girl saw disgrace heaped upon
the man she loved. She had perfect faith in his innocence ; she
felt sure she knew who had laid the trap to ruin him, and yet
she did not say a word in his defense. Fearing that Madeleine
would suspect her of complicity in the theft if she remained
in bed and betrayed so much agitation, Madame Fauvel rose and
dressed for breakfast. It was a dreary meal. No one tasted a
morsel. The servants moved about on tiptoe, as silently as if a
death had occurred in the family. About two o'clock a servant
FILE NUMBER 113 1201
came to M. Fauvel's study, and said that the Marquis de Cla-
meran desired to see him. "What !" cried the banker, "does he
dare — " Then, after a moment's reflection, he added : "Ask him
to walk up."
The very name of De Clameran sufficed to arouse all M.
Fauvel's slumbering wrath. The victim of a robbery, finding
his safe empty at the moment that he was called upon to make
a heavy payment, he had been constrained to curb his anger
and resentment; but now he determined to have his revenge
upon his insolent visitor. But the marquis declined to come
upstairs. The messenger returned with the answer that the
gentleman had a particular reason for seeing M. Fauvel in the
office below, where the clerks were. "What does this fresh
impertinence mean?" cried the banker, as he angrily jumped
up and hastened downstairs.
M. de Clameran was standing in the middle of the office
adjoining the cashier's room; M. Fauvel walked up to him,
and roughly said: "What do you want now, sir? You have
been paid your money, and I have your receipt." To the sur-
prise of all the clerks, and the banker himself, the marquis
seemed not in the least offended at this rude greeting, but
answered in a deferential though not at all humble manner:
"You are hard upon me, sir, but I deserve it, and that is why
I am here. A gentleman always acknowledges when he is
in the wrong; in this instance I am the offender; and I flatter
myself that my past will permit me to say so without being
accused of cowardice or lack of self-respect. If I desire to see
you here instead of in your study, it was because, having been
rude to you in the presence of your clerks, I wished them to
be witnesses of my apology for the same."
De Clameran's speech was so different from his usual over-
bearing, haughty conduct, that the surprised banker could
only stammer: "I must say that I was hurt by your doubts,
your insinuations — "
"This morning," continued the marquis, "I was irritated, and
thoughtlessly gave way to my temper. Although I am gray-
headed, my disposition is as excitable as that of a fiery young
man of twenty. My words, believe me, did not represent my
real thoughts, and I regret them deeply." M. Fauvel being
himself a kind-hearted though quick-tempered man, could un-
derstand De Clameran's feelings; and, knowing that his own
high reputation for scrupulous honesty could not be affected
Gab. — Vol. IV M
1202 FILE NUMBER 113
by any hasty language, he at once calmed down before so
frank an apology. Holding out his hand to De Clameran, he
said: "Let us forget what happened, sir." They conversed
in a friendly manner for some minutes ; and De Clameran, after
explaining why he had such pressing need of the money at
that particular hour of the morning, turned to leave, saying
that he would do himself the honor of calling upon Madame
Fauvel. "That is, if a visit just now would not be considered
intrusive," he said with a shade of hesitation. "Perhaps after
the trouble of this morning, she does not wish to be disturbed."
"Oh, no!" said the banker; "I think a visit would cheer her
up. I am obliged to go out on account of this unfortunate
affair."
Madame Fauvel was in the same room where Raoul had
threatened to kill himself the night before ; she looked very ill
as she lay on a sofa, with Madeleine seated beside her. When
M. de Clameran was announced, they both started up as if a
fantom had appeared before them. Although Louis had been
gay and smiling when he parted from M. Fauvel downstairs,
he now wore a melancholy aspect, as he gravely bowed, and
refused to seat himself in the chair which Madame Fauvel
motioned him to take. "You will excuse me, ladies," he began,
"for intruding upon your affliction ; but I have a duty to fulfill."
The two women were silent; they seemed to be waiting for
him to explain. He therefore added in an undertone: "I
know all."
By an imploring gesture, Madame Fauvel tried to stop him.
She saw that he was about to reveal her secret to Madeleine.
But Louis would not see this gesture; he turned his whole
attention to Madeleine, who haughtily said: "Explain yourself,
sir."
"Only an hour ago," he replied, "I discovered that Raoul
last night forced from his mother the key of the safe, and stole
three hundred and fifty thousand francs."
Madeleine crimsoned with shame and indignation ; she leaned
over the sofa, and seizing her aunt by the wrists shook her
violently. "Is it true?" she asked in a hollow voice; "is it
true?" "
"Alas! alas!" groaned Madame Fauvel, utterly crushed.
"You have allowed Prosper to be accused," cried the young
girl; "you have suffered him to be arrested and disgraced for
life." — "Forgive me," murmured her aunt. "Raoul was about
FILE NUMBER 113 1203
to kill himself; I was so frightened ! Then you know — Prosper
was to share the money with him." — "Oh !" exclaimed
Madeleine indignantly; "you were told that, and you believed
it!" De Clameran interrupted them. "Unfortunately," he
said in a sad tone, "what your aunt says of M. Bertomy is
the truth."
"Your proofs, sir, where are your proofs?"
"Raoul's confession."
"Raoul is a scoundrel !"
"That is only too true; but how did he find out the word,
if M. Bertomy did not reveal it? And who left the money
in the safe but M. Bertomy?" These arguments had no effect
upon Madeleine. "And now tell me," she said scornfully,
"what became of the money?" There was no mistaking the
significance of these words; they meant: "You are the in-
stigator of the robbery, and of course the receiver as well."
This harsh accusation from a girl whom he so passionately
loved, when, grasping bandit as he was, he risked for her sake
all the money gained by his crimes, so cruelly hurt De Cla-
meran that he turned livid. But he had prepared and studied
his part too well to be at all discouraged. "A day will come,
mademoiselle," he said, "when you will deeply regret having
treated me so cruelly. I understand your insinuation; oh!
you need not attempt to deny it — "
"I have no idea of denying anything, sir."
"Madeleine !" remonstrated Madame Fauvel, who trembled
at the rising anger of the man who held her fate in his hands,
"Madeleine, have mercy!"
"Mademoiselle is pitiless," said De Clameran sadly; "she
cruelly punishes an honorable man whose only fault is having
obeyed his brother's dying injunctions. And I am here now
because I believe in the joint responsibility of all the members
of a family." Here he slowly drew from his pocket several
bundles of bank-notes, and laid them on the mantelpiece.
"Raoul stole three hundred and fifty thousand francs," he
said: "I return the same amount. It is more than half my
fortune. Willingly would I give the rest to insure this being
his last crime."
Too inexperienced to penetrate De Clameran's bold, and yet
simple plan, Madeleine was dumb with astonishment; all her
calculations were upset. Madame Fauvel, on the contrary,
accepted this restitution as salvation sent from heaven. "Oh,
1204 FILE NUMBER 113
thanks, sir, thanks!" she cried, gratefully clasping De Cla-
meran's hand in hers ; "you are goodness itself !"
Louis's eyes lit up with pleasure. But he rejoiced too soon.
A minute's reflection brought back all of Madeleine's distrust.
She thought this generosity unnatural in a man whom she con-
sidered incapable of a noble sentiment, and at once concluded
that it must conceal some snare beneath. "What are we to
do with this money ?" she demanded. — "Restore it to M. Fauvel,
mademoiselle."
"We restore it, sir, and how? Restoring the money is de-
nouncing Raoul, and ruining my aunt. Take back your money,
sir." De Clameran was too shrewd to insist; he took up the
money and seemed about to leave. *I comprehend your
refusal, mademoiselle, and must find another way of ac-
complishing my wish. But, before retiring, let me say that
your injustice pains me deeply. After the promise you made
to me, I had reason to hope for a kinder welcome."
"I will keep my promise, sir, but not until you have furnished
security."
"Security! What security? Pray explain yourself."
"Something to protect my aunt against Raoul after my —
marriage. What is my dowry to a man who squanders a
hundred thousand francs in four months? We are making a
bargain; I give you my hand in exchange for my aunt's life
and honor, and of course you must give me some security for
the performance of your promise."
"Oh ! I will give you ample securities," exclaimed De Cla-
meran, "such as will quiet all your suspicious doubts of my
good faith. Alas! you will not believe in my devotion; what
shall I do to convince you of its sincerity ? Shall I try to save
M. Bertomy?" — "Thanks for the offer, sir," replied Madeleine
disdainfully; "if Prosper is guilty, let him be punished by the
law; if he is innocent, God will protect him."
Madeleine and her aunt rose from their seats to signify that
the interview was over. De Clameran bowed, and left the
room. "What pride! What determination! The idea of her
demanding security of me!" he said to himself as he slowly
walked away. "But the proud girl shall be humbled yet.
She is so beautiful ! and, if I did not so madly love her — well !
so much the worse for Raoul !"
Never had De Clameran been so incensed. Madeleine's quiet
determination and forethought, which he had not anticipated,
FILE NUMBER 113 1205
had upset his well-laid plan. He was disconcerted and at a
loss how to proceed. He knew that it would be useless
to attempt deceiving a girl of Madeleine's character a second
time; he saw that though she had not penetrated his motives,
she was on the defensive, and prepared for any new surprise.
Moreover, she would prevent Madame Fauvel from being
frightened and forced into submission any longer. At the very
moment when Louis thought he had won easily, he met with
an adversary. The whole thing would have to be gone over
again. Although Madeleine had resigned herself to sacrifice,
it was evident that she had no idea of doing so blindly, and
would not hazard her aunt's and her own happiness upon the
uncertainty of eventual promises. How could he furnish the
securities she demanded? What measures could he take to
prevent Raoul from importuning his mother in the future.
Once De Clameran married, and Raoul become rich, there
would be no further reason for disquieting Madame Fauvel.
But how prove this to Madeleine? The knowledge of all the
circumstances of this shameful and criminal intrigue would
have reassured her upon this point; but then it would never
do to inform her of these details, especially before the marriage.
What securities then could he give? But De Clameran was
not one of those hesitating men who take weeks to con-
sider a difficulty. When he could not untie a knot, he would
cut it. Raoul was a stumbling-block to his wishes, and he swore
to rid himself of his troublesome accomplice somehow or other.
It was not, however, an easy matter to dispose of so cunning a
knave as Raoul. But this consideration could not stop De
Clameran. The more certain he was of Madeleine's contempt
and dislike, the more determined he was to marry her. But
he had sense enough to see that he might ruin his prospects by
undue haste, and that the safest course would be to await the
result of the accusation against Prosper before moving further
in the matter.
He waited in anxious expectation of a summons from Ma-
dame Fauvel. But he was again mistaken. On calmly thinking
over the two accomplices' last acts, Madeleine came to the con-
clusion that they would remain quiet for a while; she knew
resistance could have no worse results than would cowardly
submission, and therefore assumed the entire responsibility of
managing the affair so as to keep at bay both Raoul and De
Clameran. She knew that Madame Fauvel would be anxious
1206 FILE NUMBER 113
to accept any terms of peace, but determined to use all her in-
fluence to prevent her doing this, and to force upon her the
necessity of maintaining a firmer and more dignified attitude.
This accounted for the silence of the two women, who were
quietly waiting for their adversaries to renew hostilities. They
even succeeded in concealing their anxiety beneath assumed
indifference; never asking any questions about the robbery, or
those who were in any way connected with it. M. Fauvel
brought them an account of Prosper's examination, the many
charges brought against him, his obstinate denial of having
stolen the money; and finally, how, after great perplexity
and close study of the case by the investigating magistrate, the
cashier had been discharged for want of sufficient proof against
him. Since De Clameran's offer to replace the money, Madame
Fauvel had not doubted Prosper's guilt. She said nothing, but
inwardly accused him of having seduced her son from the path
of virtue, and enticed him into crime. Madeleine, on the con-
trary, had perfect faith in Prosper's innocence. She was so
sure of it that, learning that he was about to be set at liberty,
she ventured to ask her uncle, under pretext of some charitable
object, to give her ten thousand francs, which she sent to the
unfortunate victim of circumstantial evidence who, from all
that she had heard, was probably in great need of assistance.
In the letter — cut from her prayer-book to avoid detection by
writing — accompanying the money, she advised Prosper to leave
France, because she knew that it would be impossible for a man
of his proud nature to remain on the scene of his disgrace. Be-
sides, Madeleine, at that time, feeling that she would be
obliged sooner or later to marry De Clameran, was anxious
to have the man she loved far, far away from her. And yet,
on the day that this anonymous present was sent, in opposition
to the wishes of Madame Fauvel, the two poor women were
fearfully entangled in pecuniary difficulties. The tradesmen,
whose money had been squandered by Raoul, refused to give
credit any longer, and insisted upon their bills being paid at
once ; saying they could not understand how a man of M.
Fauvel's wealth and position could keep them waiting for such
insignificant amounts. One was owed two thousand, another
one thousand, and a third only five hundred francs. The
butcher, the grocer, and the wine-merchant would call to-
gether, and Madame Fauvel had the greatest difficulty in pre-
vailing upon them to accept something on account. Some of
FILE NUMBER 113 1207
them threatened to apply to the banker. Madame Fauvel's indebt-
edness amounted to almost fifteen thousand francs. Madeleine
and her aunt had declined all invitations during the winter, to
avoid spending money on dress. But at last they were obliged
to appear in public. M. Fauvel's most intimate friends, the
Messrs. Jandidier, were about to give a splendid ball, and, as
fate would have it, a fancy ball, which would require the pur-
chasing of costumes. Where was the money to come from?
They had been owing a large bill to their dressmaker for over
a year. Would she consent to furnish them with any more
dresses on credit? Madeleine's new maid, Palmyre Chocareille,
extricated them from this difficulty. This girl, who seemed
to have suffered all the minor ills of life — which, after all, were
the hardest to bear — seemed to have divined her mistress's anx-
iety. At any rate, she voluntarily informed Madeleine that a
friend of hers, a first-class dressmaker, had just set up for
herself, and would be glad to furnish materials and make the
dresses on credit, for the sake of obtaining the patronage of
Madame Fauvel and her niece, which would at once bring her
plenty of fashionable customers. But this was not all. Neither
of them could go to the ball without jewelry; and every jewel
they owned had been taken by Raoul and pawned, and he had
the tickets. After thinking the matter over, Madeleine de-
cided to ask Raoul to devote some of the stolen money to
redeeming the jewels he had forced from his mother. She in-
formed her aunt of her plan, saying: "Make an appointment
with Raoul : he will not dare to refuse you ; and I will go in
your stead." And, two days after, the courageous girl took
a cab, and, regardless of the inclement weather, went to Vesinet.
She had no idea, then, that M. Verduret and Prosper were fol-
lowing close behind her, and that they witnessed her interview
from the top of a ladder. Her bold step, however, was fruit-
less. Raoul swore than he had shared with Prosper; that his
own half was spent, and that he was quite without money. He
even refused to give up the pawn-tickets; and Madeleine had
to insist most energetically before she could induce him to give
up four or five trifling articles that were absolutely indispen-
sable. De Clameran had ordered him to refuse, because he
hoped that in their distress they would apply to him for help.
Raoul had obeyed, but only after a violent altercation witnessed
by De Clameran's new valet, Joseph Dubois. The accomplices
were at that time on very bad terms together. The marquis
1208
FILE NUMBER 113
was seeking a safe means of getting rid of Raoul; and the
young scamp had a sort of presentiment of his uncle's friendly
intentions. Nothing but the certainty of impending danger
could reconcile them; and this was revealed to them at the
Jandidier ball. Who was the mysterious mountebank that had
indulged in such transparent all»«»<M*» to Madame Fauvel's pri-
vate troubles, and then said with threatening significance to
Louis: "I was your brother Gaston's friend!"
Who he was, where he came from, they could not imagine;
but they clearly saw that he was a dangerous enemy, and forth-
with attempted to assassinate him upon his leaving the ball.
Having followed him and then having lost him, they became
alarmed. "We can not be too guarded in our conduct," whis-
pered De Clameran ; "we shall know only too soon who he is."
Once more Raoul tried to induce him to give up his project of
marrying Madeleine. "Never !" he exclaimed : "I will marry
her or perish !"
They thought that, now they were warned, the danger of
their being caught was lessened. But they did not know the
sort of man who was on their track.
OUCH are the facts that, with an almost incredible talent for
^ investigation, had been collected and prepared by M. Ver-
duret, the stout man with the jovial face who had taken Prosper
under his protection. Reaching Paris at nine o'clock at night,
not by the Lyons train as he had announced, but by the Orleans
one, M. Verduret had hastened to the Hotel of the Grand Arch-
angel, where he had found the cashier impatiently expecting
him.
"You are about to hear something extraordinary," he had
said to Prosper, "and you will see how far back one has to
seek into the past for the primary causes of a crime. All
things are linked together and dependent upon each other in
this world of ours. If Gaston de Clameran had not entered
a little cafe at Tarascon to play a game of billiards twenty
FILE NUMBER 113 1209
years ago, your safe would not have been robbed three weeks
back. Valentine de la Verberie is punished in 1866 for the
murders committed for her sake in 1840. Nothing is ever lost
or forgotten. Listen."
And he forthwith related all that he had discovered, referring
as he went along to his notes and the voluminous manuscript
which he had prepared. During the entire week, M. Verduret
had not perhaps taken in all twenty-four hours' rest, but he
bore no great traces of fatigue. His iron muscles braved any
amount of labor, and his elastic nature was too well tem-
pered to give way beneath such pressure. While any other
man would have sunk exhausted in a chair, he stood up and
described, with the enthusiasm and captivating animation pecul-
iar to him, the minutest details and intricacies of the plot that
he had devoted his whole energy to unraveling; personating,
so to say, every character he brought upon the scene, so that his
listener was bewildered and dazzled by his brilliant acting. As
Prosper listened to this narrative of events happening twenty
years back, the secret conversations as minutely related as if
overheard the moment they took place, it sounded to him more
like a romance than a plain statement of facts. All these in-
genious explanations might be logical, but what foundation
did they possess? Might they not be the dream of an excited
imagination?
M. Verduret did not finish his report until four o'clock in
the morning; then he exclaimed triumphantly: "And now they
are on their guard ; they are wary rascals too ; but I can laugh
at their efforts, for I have them safe. Before a week is over.
Prosper, your innocence will be recognized by every one. I
promised your father this." — "Is it possible?" murmured Pros-
per in a dazed way; "is it possible?"
"What?"
"All this you have just told me." M. Verduret bounded like
a man little accustomed to have the accuracy of his informa-
tion doubted. "Is it possible, indeed?" he cried; "but it is
truth itself, truth founded on fact and exposed in all its
impressiveness !"
"But how can such rascalities take place in Paris, in the
very midst of us, without — "
"Ah !" interrupted the stout man, "you are young, my friend !
Crimes worse than this happen, and you know nothing of thena.
You think the horrors of the assize court are the only ones.
1210 FILE NUMBER 113
Pooh ! You only read in the 'Gazette des Tribunaux' of the
bloody melodramas of life, where the actors, low-born villains,
are as cowardly as the knife, or as stupid as the poison they
use. It is at the family fireside, often under shelter of the law
itself, that the real tragedies of life are acted; in these days
traitors wear gloves, scoundrels cloak themselves in public
esteem, and their victims die broken-hearted, but smiling to the
last. What I have just related to you is almost an every -day
occurrence; and yet you profess astonishment."
"I can't help wondering how you discovered all this tissue
of crime."
"Ah, that is the point!" said M. Verduret, with a self-
satisfied smile. "When I undertake a task, I devote my whole
attention to it. Now make a note of this: When a man of
ordinary intelligence concentrates his thoughts and energies
upon the attainment of an object, he is almost always certain
to ultimately obtain success. Besides that, I have my own
means of working up a case."
"Still I don't see what grounds you had to go upon."
"To be sure, one needs some light to guide one in a dark
affair like this. But the fire in De Clameran's eye at the
mention of Gaston's name ignited my lantern. From that mo-
ment I walked straight to the solution of the mystery, as to a
beacon." Prosper's eager, questioning looks snowed that he
would like to know the secret of his protector's wonderful
penetration, and at the same time be more thoroughly con-
vinced that what he had heard was all true — that his innocence
would be clearly proved.
"Now confess," cried M. Verduret, "you would give some-
thing to know how I discovered the truth."
"I certainly would, for to me it seems marvelous !"
M. Verduret enjoyed Prosper's bewilderment. To be sure,
he was neither a good judge nor a distinguished amateur; but
sincere admiration is always flattering, no matter whence it
comes.
"Well," he replied, "I will explain my system. There is
nothing marvelous about it, as you will soon see. We worked
together to find the solution of the problem, so you know my
reason for suspecting De Clameran as the prime mover in the
robbery. As soon as I had arrived at this conclusion my task
was easy. You want to know what I did? I placed trust-
worthy people to watch the parties in whom I was most inter-
FILE NUMBER 113 1211
ested. Joseph Dubois took charge of De Clameran, and Nina
Gipsy never lost sight of Madame Fauvel and her niece."
"I know, and I can not comprehend how Nina ever con-
sented to this service." — "That is my secret," replied M. Ver-
duret. "Having the assistance of good eyes and quick ears on
the spot, I went to Beaucaire to inquire into the past, so as to
link it with what I was sure to learn of the present. The next
day I was at Clameran; and the first step I took was to find
the son of Jean, the old valet. An honest fellow he is, too;
open and simple as nature herself; and he at once guessed
that I wanted to purchase some madder." — "Madder?" said
Prosper with a puzzled look. — "Of course I wanted to buy his
madder. He had madder for sale, that was evident; so we
began to bargain about the price. The debate lasted almost all
day, during which time we drank a dozen bottles of wine.
About supper-time, Jean, the younger, was as drunk as a bar-
rel, and I had purchased nine hundred francs' worth of madder
which your father will sell for me." Prosper looked so aston-
ished that M. Verduret laughed heartily. "I risked nine hun-
dred francs," he continued, "but thread by thread I gathered the
whole history of the De Clamerans, Gaston's love affair, his
flight, and the stumbling of the horse ridden by Louis. I found
also that about a year ago Louis returned and sold the chateau
to a man named Fougeroux, whose wife, Mihonne, had a
secret interview with Louis the day of the purchase. I went
to see Mihonne. Poor woman ! her rascally husband has
pounded nearly all the sense out of her; she is almost idiotic.
I convinced her that I came from some De Clameran or other,
and she at once related to me everything she knew." The
apparent simplicity of this mode of investigation confounded
Prosper. "From that time," continued M. Verduret, "the skein
began to disentangle; I held the principal thread. I now set
about finding out what had become of Gaston. Lafourcade,
who is a friend of your father, informed me that he had
bought an iron foundry at Oloron, had settled there, and died
soon after."
"You are certainly indefatigable !" said Prosper.
"No, but I always strike when the iron is hot. At Oloron
I met Manuel, who had gone there to make a little visit before
returning to Spain. From him I obtained a complete history
of Gaston's life, and all the particulars of his death. Manuel
also told me of Louis's visit; and an innkeeper described a
1212 FILE NUMBER 113
young workman who was there at the same time, whom I at
once recognized as Raoul." — "But how did you know of all
the conversations between the villains?" asked Prosper.
"You evidently think I have been drawing upon my imagi-
nation. You will soon think the contrary. While I was at
work at Oloron, my assistants here did not sit with their hands
in their pockets. Mutually distrustful, De Clameran and Raoul
preserved all the letters they received from each other. Joseph
Dubois copied most of them, and had the more important ones
photographed, and forwarded the copies to me. Nina spent
her time listening at all the doors, and sent me a faithful report
of everything she heard. Finally, I have at the Fauvels' an-
other means of investigation, which I will reveal to you later."
— "I understand it now," murmured Prosper.
"And what have you been doing during my absence, my
young friend?" asked M. Verduret. At this question Prosper
turned crimson. But he knew that it would never do to keep
silent about his imprudent step. "Alas!" he stammered, "I
read in a newspaper that De Clameran was about to marry
Madeleine; and I acted like a fool." — "What did you do?" in-
quired M. Verduret anxiously. — "I sent M. Fauvel an anony-
mous letter, in which I insinuated that his wife was in love
with Raoul — "
M. Verduret here brought his clenched fist down upon the
little table near which he sat, and broke it. "Wretched man !"
he cried, "you have probably ruined everything." A great
change came over him. His usually jovial face assumed a
menacing expression. He rose from his seat, and strode up
and down the room, oblivious of the lodgers on the floor below.
"But you must be a baby," added he to the dismayed Prosper,
"an idiot, or, worse than that, a fool."
"Sir !"
"Here you are drowning; a brave man springs into the
water after you, and just as he is on the point of saving you,
you cling to his feet to prevent him swimming! What did I
tell you to do?"
"To keep quiet, and not go out."
"Well !"
The consciousness of having done a foolish thing made Pros-
per as frightened as a schoolboy, accused by his teacher of
playing truant. "It was night, sir," he said, "and, having a
yiolent headache, I took a walk along the quays. I thought
FILE NUMBER 113 1213
there would be no harm in my entering a cafe; I took up a
paper and read the dreadful announcement."
"Was it not settled that you should have perfect confidence
in me?"
"You were not here, sir; this announcement had quite upset
me; you were far away, and might have been surprised by an
unexpected — "
"Nothing is unexpected except to a fool !" declared M. Ver-
duret peremptorily. "To write an anonymous letter ! Do you
know to what you expose me? You are the cause of my per-
haps breaking a sacred promise made to one of the few persons
whom I highly esteem among my fellow beings. I shall be
looked upon as a cheat, a dastard, I, who — " He stopped
abruptly, as if afraid of saying too much, and it was only
after some minutes that, having become calm again, he re-
sumed: "It is no use crying over what is done. We must try
and get out of the mess somehow. When and where did you
post this letter ?"
"Last night, in the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. It hardly
reached the bottom of the box before I regretted having writ-
ten it."
"Your regrets should have come sooner. What time was it ?"
"About ten o'clock."
"Then your sweet little letter must have reached M. Fauvel
this morning with his other correspondence; probably he was
alone in his study when he opened and read it."
"It is not probable, it is certain."
"Can you recall the exact words of your letter? Stop and
think, for it is very important that I should know." — "Oh, it
is unnecessary for me to reflect. I remember the letter as if
I had just written it." And he repeated almost verbatim what
he had written.
M. Verduret listened most attentively with a perplexed frown
upon his face. "That is a formidable anonymous letter," he
murmured, "to come from a person who does not deal in such
things. It insinuates everything without specifying a single
thing; it is vague, jeering, and treacherous. Repeat it to me."
Prosper obeyed, and his second version did not vary from the
first in a single word. "Nothing could be more alarming than
that allusion to the cashier," said the stout man, repeating the
words after Prosper. "The question, Ts it also he who stole
Madame Fauvel's diamonds?' is simply horrible! What could
1214 FILE NUMBER 113
be more exasperating than the sarcastic advice, 'In your place,
I would not have any public scandal, but would watch my wife' ?
The effect of your letter must have been terrible," he added
thoughtfully, as he stood with folded arms in front of Prosper.
"M. Fauvel is quick-tempered, is he not?"
"He has a very violent temper."
"Then the mischief is perhaps not irreparable."
"What! do you suppose— ?"— "I think that an impulsive man
is afraid of himself, and seldom carries out his first intentions.
That is our only chance. If, upon the receipt of your bomb-
shell, M. Fauvel, unable to restrain himself, rushed into his
wife's room, exclaiming: 'Where are your diamonds?' our plans
are done for. I know Madame Fauvel, she will confess all."
"Why would this be so disastrous?"
"Because the moment Madame Fauvel opens her lips to her
husband our birds will take flight." Prosper had never thought
of this eventuality. "Then, again," continued M. Verduret. "it
would deeply distress another person."
"Any one whom I know?"
"Yes, my friend, and very well too. I should certainly be
vexed to the last degree if these two rascals escape without my
being thoroughly informed about them."
"It seems to me that you know sufficient."
M. Verduret shrugged his shoulders, and asked: "Did you
not perceive any gaps in my narrative?"
"Not one."
"That is because you don't know how to listen. In the first
place, did Louis de Clameran poison his brother or not?"
"Yes ; I am sure of it, from what you tell me."
"There you are! You are much more certain, young man,
than I am. Your opinion is mine; but what decisive proof
have we? None. I skilfully questioned Dr. C . He has
not the shadow of a suspicion ; and Dr. C is no quack ; he is
a learned and observing man of high standing. What poisons
produce the effects described ? I know of none ; and yet I have
studied all sorts of poisons, from the digitalis used by La Pom-
meraye to Madame Sauvresy's aconite."
"The death took place so opportunely — "
"That anybody would suspect foul play. That is true; but
chance is sometimes a wonderful accomplice in crime. In the
second place, I know nothing of Raoul's antecedents." — "Is in-
formation on that point necessary ?"
FILE NUMBER 113 1215
"Indispensable, my friend; but we will soon know something.
I have sent one of my men — excuse me, I mean one of my
friends — who is very expert, M. Palot; and he writes that he
is on the track. I am interested in the history of this senti-
mental, skeptical young rascal. I have an idea that, had he not
known De Clameran, he might have been a brave, honest sort
of youth. Prosper was no longer listening. M. Verduret's
words had inspired him with confidence. Already he saw the
guilty men arraigned before the bar of justice; and enjoyed,
in anticipation, this assize-court drama, where he would be
publicly righted, after having been so openly dishonored. More
than that, he now understood Madeleine, her strange conduct
at the dressmaker's was explained, and he knew that she had
never ceased to love him. This certainty of future happiness
restored all the self-possession that had deserted him the day
he found the safe robbed. For the first time he was aston-
ished at the peculiarity of his situation. Prosper had at first
only been surprised at the protection of M. Verduret and the
extent of his investigations; now he asked himself, what could
have been his friend's motives for acting thus? In a word,
what price did he expect for this sacrifice of time and labor?
His anxiety was so great on this point that he suddenly ex-
claimed: "You have no longer the right, sir, to preserve your
incognito with me. When you have saved the honor and life
of a man, you should at least let him know whom he has to
thank."
"Oh !" said M. Verduret smilingly ; "you. are not out of the
mess yet. You are not married either; so you must, for a few
days longer, have patience and faith." The clock struck six.
"Good heavens!" he added. "Can it be six o'clock? I did
hope to have a good night's rest, but this is no time for sleep-
ing." He went to the landing, and leaning over the balusters,
called: "Madame Alexandre! I say, Madame Alexandre!"
The hostess of the Grand Archangel, the portly wife of Fan-
ferlot, "the squirrel," had evidently not been to bed. This fact
struck Prosper. She appeared, obsequious, smiling, and eager
to please. "What do you require, gentlemen?" she inquired. —
"You can send me your — Joseph Dubois, and also Palmyre, as
soon as possible. Have them sent for at once, and let me
know when they arrive. I will take a little rest in the mean
time."
As soon as Madame Alexandre left the room, the stout man
1216 FILE NUMBER 113
unceremoniously threw himself on the bed. "You have no ob-
jection, I suppose," he said to Prosper. In five minutes he was
fast asleep ; and Prosper, more perplexed than ever, seated him-
self in an easy-chair and wondered who this strange man could
be. About nine o'clock some one tapped timidly on the
door. Slight as the noise was, it aroused M. Verduret, who
sprang up and called out: "Who is there?" But Prosper had
already opened the door. Joseph Dubois, the Marquis de Cla-
meran's valet, entered. M. Verduret's assistant was breathless
from running; and his little eyes were more restless than ever.
"Well, master, I am glad to see you once more," he cried.
"Now you can tell me what to do; I have been perfectly lost
during your absence, and have felt like a puppet with a broken
string." — "What ! you allow yourself to be disconcerted like
that?"
"Bless me ! I think I had cause for alarm when I could
not find you anywhere. Yesterday afternoon I sent you three
telegrams, to the addresses you gave me, at Lyons, Beaucaire,
and Oloron, and received no answer. I was almost going crazy
when your message reached me just now."
"Things are getting warm, then." — "Warm ! They are burn-
ing ! The place is too hot to hold me any longer."
While speaking, M. Verduret occupied himself in repairing
his toilet, which had become disarranged during his sleep.
When he had finished, he threw himself in an easy-chair, and
said to Joseph Dubois, who remained respectfully standing, cap
in hand, like a soldier, awaiting orders: "Explain yourself, my
lad, and quickly, if you please; no long phrases." — "It is just
this, sir. I don't know what your plans are, or what means
you have of carrying them out ; but you must wind up this affair
and strike your final blow very quickly."
"That is your opinion, Master Joseph !"
"Yes, master, because if you wait any longer, good-by to our
covey; you will only find an empty cage, and the birds flown.
Yon smile? Yes, I know you are clever, and can accomplish
anything; but they are cunning blades, and as slippery as eels.
They know, too, that they are watched."— "The devil they do !"
cried M. Verduret. "Some one must have blundered."— "Oh !
nobody has done anything wrong," replied Joseph. "You know
that they suspected something long ago. They gave you a
proof of it the night of the fancy-dress ball ; I mean that ugly
cut on your arm. Ever since they have always slept with one
FILE NUMBER 113 1217
eye open. They were feeling easier, however, when all of a
sudden, yesterday, they began to smell a rat !"
"Was that why you sent me those telegrams?"
"Of course. Now listen : yesterday morning when my mas-
ter got up, about ten o'clock, he took it into his head to arrange
the papers in his desk ; which, by the way, has a disgusting lock
which has given me a great deal of trouble. Meanwhile, I pre-
tended to be making up the fire, so as to remain in the room
to watch him. That man has a Yankee's eye ! At the 6rst
glance he saw, or rather divined, that his papers had been med-
dled with; he turned as white as a sheet, and swore an oath,
such an oath !" — "Never mind the oath ; go on."
"Well, how he discovered his letters had been touched I can't
imagine. You know how careful I am. I had put everything
back in its place just as I found it. To make sure he was not
mistaken, the marquis picks up each paper, one at a time, turns
it over, and smells it. I was just longing to offer him a micro-
scope, when all of a sudden he sprang up, and, kicking his
chair to the other end of the room, flew at me in a fury. 'Some-
body has been at my papers,' he shrieked; 'this letter has been
photographed !' B-r-r-r ! I am not a coward, but I can tell you
that my heart stood perfectly still; I saw myself dead, cut into
mince-meat; and I even said to myself, 'Fanfer — excuse me —
Dubois, my friend, you are done for.' "
M. Verduret was buried in thought, and paid no attention to
the worthy Joseph's analysis of his personal sensations. "What
happened next?" he asked after a few minutes. — "Why, I was
needlessly frightened after all. The rascal did not dare to
touch me. To be sure, I had taken the precaution to get out
of his reach; we talked with a large table between us. While
wondering what could have enabled him to discover the secret,
I defended myself with virtuous indignation. I said: 'It can
not be; Monsieur le Marquis is mistaken. Who would dare
touch his papers ?' Bah ! Instead of listening to me, he flour-
ished an open letter, saying : 'This letter has been photographed !
here is proof of it !' and he pointed to a little yellow spot on
the paper, shrieking out : 'Look ! Smell ! It is — ' I forget the
name he called it, but some acid used by photographers."
"I know, I know," said M. Verduret; "go on; what next?"
"Then we had a scene ; such a scene ! He ended by seizing
me by the coat collar, and shaking me like a plum tree, to
make me tell him who I am, who I know, and where I came
1218 FILE NUMBER 113
from. As if I know, myself ! I was obliged to account for
every minute of my time since I had been in his service. He
was born to be an investigating magistrate. Then he sent for
the hotel waiter, who attends to his rooms, and questioned him
closely, but in English, so that I could not understand. After
a while he cooled down, and, when the waiter was gone, pre-
sented me with twenty francs, saying: 'I am sorry I was so
hasty with you; you are too stupid to have been guilty of the
offense.' "
"He said that, did he?" — "He used those very words to my
face, master."
"And you think he meant what he said?" — "Certainly I do."
The stout man smiled, and whistled in a way that showed
that he had a different opinion. "If you think that," he said,
"De Clameran was right. You are not up to much." It was
easy to see that Joseph Dubois was anxious to give his grounds
for his opinion, but dared not. "I suppose I am stupid, if you
think so," he replied humbly. "Well, after he had done blus-
tering about the letters, the marquis dressed and went out. He
would not take his carriage, but hired a cab at the hotel door.
I thought he would perhaps disappear forever; but I was mis-
taken. About five o'clock he returned as gay as a lark. During
his absence, I telegraphed to you."
"What ! did you not follow him ?"
"No; but one of our friends did, and this friend gave me
a report of the dandy's movements. First he went to a broker's,
then to a bank and a discount office. It is evident he is a man
of capital. I expect he intends to go on a little trip some-
where."— "Is that all he did?"— "That is all; yes. But I must
tell you that the rascals tried to get Mademoiselle Palmyre
shut up, 'administratively,' you understand. Fortunately, you
had anticipated something of the kind, and given orders so as
to prevent it. But for you she would now be in prison." Joseph
left off speaking, and looked up at the ceiling by way of trying
to remember whether he had not something more to say. Find-
ing nothing, he added: "That is all. I rather think M. Patri-
gent will rub his hands with delight when I take him my report.
He has no idea of the facts collected to swell the size of his
File Number 113."
There was a long silence. Joseph was right in supposing
that the crisis had come. M. Verduret was arranging his plan
of battle while waiting for the report of Nina — now Palmyre —
FILE NUMBER 113 1219
upon which depended his point of attack. Joseph Dubois was
restless and uneasy. "What am I to do now, master?" he asked.
"Return to the hotel; probably your master has noticed your
absence ; but he will say nothing about it, so continue — " Here
an exclamation from Prosper, who was standing near the win-
dow, interrupted M. Verduret. "What is the matter?" he in-
quired. — "De Clameran is there !" replied Prosper.
M. Verduret and Joseph ran to the window. "Where is he ?"
they asked. — "There, at the corner of the bridge, behind the
orange-woman's stall."
Prosper was right. It was the noble Marquis de Clameran,
who, hid behind the stall, was watching for his servant to come
out of the Grand Archangel. At first the quick-sighted Ver-
duret had some doubts whether it was the marquis, who, being
skilled in these hazardous expeditions managed to conceal him-
self almost entirely. But a moment came when, elbowed by the
pressing crowd, he was obliged to get off the pavement in full
view of the window.
"Now you see I was right !" cried the cashier.
"Well," murmured Joseph, convinced, "I am amazed!"
M. Verduret seemed not in the least surprised, but quietly
said : "The hunter is now being hunted. Well, Joseph, my boy,
do you still think that your noble master was duped by your
pretended injured innocence?" — "You stated the contrary, sir,"
replied Joseph in a humble tone ; "and a statement from you is
more convincing than all the proofs in the world."
"This pretended outburst of rage was premeditated on the
part of your noble master. Knowing that he is being tracked,
he naturally wishes to discover who his adversaries are. You
can imagine how uncomfortable he must be while in this un-
certainty. Perhaps he thinks his pursuers are some of his old
accomplices, who, being hungry, want a piece of his cake. He
will remain there until you go out; then he will come in to
inquire who you are."
"But I can leave without his seeing me." — "Yes, I know.
You will climb the little wall separating the hotel from the
wine-merchant's yard, and keep along the stationer's area, until
you reach the Rue de la Huchette." Poor Joseph looked as if he
had just received a bucket of ice-water upon his head. "Ex~
actly the way I was going," he gasped out. "I heard that you
knew all the houses in Paris, and it certainly must be so."
The stout man made no reply to Joseph's admiring remarks.
1220 FILE NUMBER 113
He was wondering what advantage he could reap from De Cla-
meran's behavior. As to the cashier, he listened wonderingly,
watching these strangers, who without any apparent reason,
seemed determined to win the difficult game in which his honor,
his happiness, and his life, were at stake.
"I have another idea," said Joseph after deep thought. — "What
is it?" — "I can walk quietly out of the front door, and, with
my hands in my pockets, stroll slowly back to the Hotel du
Louvre."
"And then?" — "Well! then, De Clameran will come in and
question Madame Alexandre, whom you can instruct before-
hand; and she is smart enough to put any joker off the track."
"Bad plan !" pronounced M. Verduret decidedly ; "a scamp
so compromised as De Clameran is not easily taken in ; it will
be impossible to reassure him." His mind was made up; for
in a brief tone of authority, which admitted of no contradic-
tion, he added: "I have a better plan. Has De Clameran, since
he found out that his papers had been touched, seen De Lagors ?"
"No, sir."
"Perhaps he has written to him?" — "I'll bet you my head he
has not. Having your orders to watch his correspondence, I
invented a little system which informs me every time he touches
a pen ; during the last twenty-four hours the pens have not been
touched."
"De Clameran went out yesterday afternoon." — "But the man
who followed him says he wrote nothing on the way." — "Then
we have time yet!" cried Verduret. "Be quick! I give you
fifteen minutes to make yourself another head; you know the
sort; I will watch the rascal until you are ready."
The delighted Joseph disappeared in a twinkling, and Prosper
and M. Verduret remained at the window observing De Cla-
meran, who, according to the movements of the crowd, kept
disappearing and reappearing, but was evidently determined not
to quit his post until he had obtained the information he sought.
"Why do you devote yourself exclusively to the marquis?"
asked Prosper. — "Because, my friend," replied M. Verduret,
"because — that is my business, and not yours."
Joseph Dubois had been granted a quarter of an hour in
which to metamorphose himself; before ten minutes had elapsed
he reappeared. The dandified coachman with whiskers, red
vest, and foppish manners, was replaced by a sinister-looking
individual, whose very appearance was enough to scare any
FILE NUMBER 113 1221
rogue. His black cravat twisted round a paper collar, and
ornamented by an imitation diamond pin ; his black frock coat
buttoned up to the chin ; his greasy hat and shiny boots and
heavy cane — revealed the myrmidon of the Rue de Jerusalem as
plainly as the uniform denotes the soldier. Joseph Dubois had
vanished, and from his livery, phenix-like and triumphant, rose
the radiant Fanferlot, surnamed the Squirrel. When he en-
tered the room, Prosper uttered a cry of surprise, almost of
terror. He recognized the man who had assisted the commis-
sary of police in his investigation at the bank on the day of
the robbery.
M. Verduret examined his follower with a satisfied look, and
said : "Not bad ! There is enough of the police-court air about
you to alarm even an honest man. You understand me per-
fectly." Fanferlot was transported with delight at this compli-
ment. "What must I do now, chief?" he inquired. — "Nothing
difficult for a smart man : but remember, upon the precision of
our movements depends the success of my plan. Before occupy-
ing myself with De Lagors, I wish to dispose of De Clameran.
Now that the rascals are separated, we must prevent their com-
ing together again." — "I understand," said Fanferlot, winking
his eye; "I am to create a diversion."
"Exactly. Go out by the Rue de la Huchette, and hasten
to the Pont St. Michel ; loaf along the river-bank, and finally
place yourself on some of the steps of the quay, so that De
Clameran may perceive he is being watched. If he fails to
see you, do something to attract his attention." — "I know ! I
will throw a stone in the water," said Fanferlot, rubbing his
hands with delight at his own brilliant idea.
"As soon as De Clameran has seen you," continued M. Ver-
duret, "he will be alarmed, and instantly decamp. You must
follow him, and he, knowing that the police are after him, will
do everything to escape you. You must keep both your eyes
open, for he is a cunning rascal." — "I was not born yester-
day." — "So much the better. You can convince him of that.
Well, knowing you are at his heels, he will not dare to return
to the Hotel du Louvre, for fear of finding some troublesome
visitors awaiting him. Now it is very important that he should
not return to the hotel."
"But suppose he does ?" said Fanferlot.
M. Verduret thought for a minute, and then replied: "It is
not at all likely ; but if he should, you must wait until he comes
1222 FILE NUMBER 113
out again, and continue to follow him. But he won't enter the
hotel ; very likely he will take the train ; but in that event don't
lose sight of him, no matter if you have to follow him to
Siberia. Have you money with you?" — "I will get some from
Madame Alexandre."
"Very good. Ah ! one word more. If the rascal does take
the train, send me a line here. If he beats about the bush until
night-time, be on your guard, especially in lonely places; he is
capable of anything." — "If necessary, may I fire ?"— "Don't be
rash; but if he attacks you, of course defend yourself. Come,
'tis time you were gone."
Dubois-Fanferlot went out. M. Verduret and Prosper re-
sumed their post of observation. "Why all this secrecy?"
inquired Prosper. "De Clameran is guilty of ten times worse
crimes than I was ever accused of, and yet my disgrace was
made as public as possible."
"Don't you understand," replied the stout man, "that I wish
to separate Raoul's cause from that of the marquis ? But, hush !
Look !" De Clameran had left his place near the orange-
woman's stand and approached the parapet of the bridge, where
he seemed to be trying to make out some unexpected object.
"Ah!" murmured M. Verduret; "he has just discovered our
man." De Clameran's uneasiness was quite apparent ; he walked
forward a few steps, as if intending to cross the bridge ; then,
suddenly turning round, walked rapidly away in the direction
of the Rue St. Jacques. "He is caught !" cried M. Verduret
with delight.
At that moment the door opened, and Madame Nina Gipsy,
alias Palmyre Chocareille, entered. Poor Nina ! Each day
since she entered Madeleine's service seemed to have aged her
a year. Tears had dimmed the brilliancy of her beautiful black
eyes; her rosy cheeks were pale and hollow, and her merry
smile was quite gone. Poor Gipsy, once so gay and spirited,
now crushed beneath the burden of her sorrows, was the picture
of misery. Prosper thought that, wild with joy at seeing him,
and proud of having so nobly devoted herself to his interests,
Nina would throw her arms around his neck and hold him in
a tight embrace. He was mistaken; and though entirely de-
voted to Madeleine since he knew the reason of her harshness
to him, his deception affected him deeply. Nina scarcely
seemed to know him. She saluted him timidly, almost like a
stranger. She stood looking at M. Verduret with a mixture
FILE NUMBER 113 1223
of fear and devotion, like a poor dog that has been cruelly
treated by its master.
He, however, was kind and gentle in his manner toward her.
"Well, my dear," he asked encouragingly, "what news do you
bring me?"
"Something is going on at the house, sir, and I have been
trying to get here to tell you; at last Mademoiselle Madeleine
made an excuse for sending me out."
"You must thank her for her confidence in me. I suppose
she carried out the plan we decided upon?" — Yes, sir." — "She
receives the Marquis de Clameran's visits?" — "Since the
marriage has been decided upon, he comes every day, and
mademoiselle receives him with kindness. He seems to be
delighted."
These answers filled Prosper with anger and alarm. The
poor fellow, not comprehending M. Verduret's intricate moves,
felt as if he were being tossed about from pillar to post, and
made the tool and laughing-stock of everybody. "What!" he
cried; "this worthless Marquis de Clameran, an assassin and
a thief, allowed to visit at M. Fauvel's and pay his addresses to
Madeleine? Where are the promises which you made me, sir?
Have you merely been amusing yourself by raising my hopes,
to dash them — "
"Enough !" interrupted M. Verduret harshly ; "you are really
too good a young man to understand anything, my friend. If
you are incapable of helping yourself, at least have sense enough
to refrain from stupidly importuning those who are working
for you. Do you not think you have already done sufficient
mischief?" Having administered this rebuke, he turned to
Nina, and said in softer tones: "Go on, my child; what have
you discovered?"
"Nothing positive, sir; but enough to make me nervous, and
fearful of impending danger. I am not certain, but suspect
from appearances that some dreadful catastrophe is about to
happen. It may only be a presentiment. I can not get any
information from Madame Fauvel ; she moves about like a
ghost, never opening her lips. She seems to be afraid of her
niece, and to be trying to conceal something from her."
"What about M. Fauvel ?"— "I was just about to tell you,
sir. Some fearful misfortune has happened to him, you may
depend upon it. He wanders about as if he had lost his mind.
Something certainly occurred yesterday; his voice even is
1224 FILE NUMBER 113
changed. He is so harsh and irritable that mademoiselle and
M. Lucien were wondering what could be the matter with
him. He seems to be on the eve of giving way to a burst
of anger; and there is a wild, strange look about his eyes,
especially when he looks at madame. Yesterday evening, when
M. de Clameran was announced, he jumped up and hurried out
of the room, saying that he had some work to do in his
study."
A triumphant exclamation from M. Verduret interrupted Nina.
He was radiant. "Ah !" he said to Prosper, forgetting his bad
humor of a few minutes before ; "ah ! what did I tell you ?" —
"He has evidently — " — "Been afraid to give way to his first
impulse; of course he has. He is now seeking for proofs of
your assertions. He must have them by this time. Did the
ladies go out yesterday?" — "Yes, a part of the day." — "What
became of M. Fauvel?" — "The ladies took me with them; we
left M. Fauvel at home."
"There is no longer a doubt now !" cried the stout man ;
"he looked for proofs and found them too! Your letter told
him exactly where to go. Ah, Prosper, that unfortunate letter
gives more trouble than everything else together."
These words seemed to throw a sudden light on Nina's mind.
"I understand it now!" she exclaimed. "M. Fauvel knows
everything." — "That is, he thinks he knows everything; and
what he has been led to believe is worse than the true state of
affairs."
"That accounts for the order which M. Cavaillon overheard
him give to his valet, Evariste."— "What order?"— "He told
Evariste to bring every letter that came to the house, no matter
to whom addressed, into his study, and hand it to him ; saying
that if this order was disobeyed he should be instantly dis-
charged."
"At what time was this order given ?" asked M. Verduret.—
"Yesterday afternoon."
"That is what I was afraid of," cried M. Verduret. "He
has clearly made up his mind what course to pursue, and is
keeping quiet so as to make his vengeance more sure. The
question is, Have we still time to counteract his projects?
Have we time to convince him that the anonymous letter was
incorrect in some of its assertions ?" He tried to hit upon some
plan for repairing the damage done by Prosper's foolish letter.
"Thank you for your information, my dear child," he said after
FILE NUMBER 113 1225
a long silence. "I will decide at once what steps to take, for it
will never do to sit quietly and let things go on in this way.
Return home without delay, and be careful of everything you
say and do; for M. Fauvel suspects you of being in the plot.
Send me word of anything that happens, no matter how insig-
nificant it may be."
Nina, thus dismissed, did not move, but asked timidly : "What
about Caldas, sir?" This was the third time during the last
fortnight that Prosper had heard this name, Caldas. The first
time, it had been whispered in his ear by a respectable-looking,
middle-aged man, who promised him his protection on one of
the days he was at the Prefecture. The second time, the in-
vestigating magistrate had mentioned it in connection with
Nina's history.
Prosper thought over all the men he had ever been connected
with, but could recall none named Caldas.
The impassible M. Verduret started and trembled at the
sound of this name, but quickly recovering himself, said: "I
promised to find him for you, and I will keep my promise.
Now you must go; good-by."
It was twelve o'clock, and M. Verduret suddenly remembered
that he was hungry. He called Madame Alexandre, and the
all-powerful hostess of the Grand Archangel soon placed a
tempting breakfast before Prosper and his protector. But the
dainty meal failed to smooth M. Verduret's perplexed brow.
To the eager questions and complimentary remarks of Madame
Alexandre, he merely answered : "Hush, hush ! let me alone ;
keep quiet."
For the first time since he had known the stout man, Prosper
saw him betray anxiety and hesitation. He remained silent as
long as he could, and then uneasily said : "I am afraid I have
embarrassed you very much, sir."
"Yes, you have dreadfully embarrassed me," replied M. Ver-
duret. "What on earth to do now I don't know ! Shall I hasten
matters, or keep quiet and wait for the next move? And I am
bound by a sacred promise. Come, I must go and consult the
investigating magistrate. He can perhaps assist me. You had
better come too."
Gab. — Vol. IV N
1226
FILE NUMBER 113
AS M. Verduret had anticipated, Prosper's anonymous letter
*^*' had a terrible effect upon M. Fauvel. It was morning.
M. Fauvel had just entered his study to attend to his corre-
spondence. After opening a dozen letters on business, his eyes
fell on the fatal missive. Something about the handwriting
struck him as peculiar. It was evidently disguised, and al-
though, owing to the fact of his being a millionaire, he was in
the habit of receiving anonymous communications, sometimes
abusive, but generally begging for money, this particular letter
filled him with a presentiment of evil. With absolute certainty
that he was about to read of some calamity, he broke the seal,
and unfolding the coarse writing-paper of the cafe, commenced
to read. What he read was a terrible blow to a man whose
life hitherto had been an unbroken chain of prosperity, who
could recall the past without one bitter regret, without remem-
bering any sorrow deep enough to bring forth a tear. What !
his wife deceive him ! And among all men, to choose one vile
enough to rob her of her jewels, and force her to be his accom-
plice in the ruin of an innocent young man ! For did not the
letter before him assert this to be the fact, and tell him how
to convince himself of its truth? M. Fauvel was as bewildered
as if he had been knocked on the head with a club. It was im-
possible for his scattered ideas to take in the enormity of what
these dreadful words intimated. He seemed to be mentally and
physically paralyzed, as he sat there staring blankly at the let-
ter. But in a few minutes his reason returned.
"What infamous cowardice !" he cried ; "it is abominable !"
And he angrily crumpled up the letter and threw it into the
empty fireplace, adding: "I will forget having read it. I will
not soil my mind by letting it dwell upon such turpitude ["
He said this, and he thought it; but, for all that, he could
not open the rest of his letters. That penetrating, clinging, all-
corroding worm, suspicion, had taken possession of his soul ;
and he leaned over his desk, with his face buried in his hands,
vainly endeavoring to recover his habituai calmness of mind.
FILE NUMBER 113 1227
"Supposing, though, that the letter stated the truth !" At the
thought, his dejection of the first few minutes gave way to the
most violent rage. "Ah !" he exclaimed in his wrath, "if I
only knew the scoundrel who dared to write this ; if I only had
him here !" Thinking that the handwriting might throw some
light on the mystery, he picked the fatal letter out of the fire-
place. Carefully smoothing it out, he laid it on his desk, and
studied the upstrokes, the downstrokes, and the capitals of
every word. "It must be from one of my clerks," he thought,
"who is angry with me for having refused to raise his salary ;
or for some other reason." Clinging to this idea, he thought
over all the young men in his bank ; but not one could he be-
lieve capable of resorting to so base a vengeance. Then he
wondered where the letter had been posted, thinking this might
throw some light on the mystery. He looked at the envelope,
and read on the postmark, "Rue du Cardinal Lemoine." This
fact told him nothing. Once more he read the letter through,
spelling over each word, and analyzing every sentence it con-
tained. It is the custom to treat anonymous letters with silent
contempt, as the malicious lies of cowards who dare not say to
a man's face what they secretly commit to paper. Yet what
innumerable catastrophes can be traced to no other origin. One
throws the letters in the fire, but, although the paper is de-
stroyed by the flames, doubts remain, and, like a subtle poison,
penetrate the inmost recesses of the mind, weaken its holiest
beliefs, and destroy its faith. The wife suspected, no matter
how unjustly, is no longer the wife in whom her husband
trusted as he would trust himself. Unable to struggle any
longer against these conflicting doubts, M. Fauvel determined
to resolve them by showing the letter to his wife ; but a shock-
ing thought, more torturing than a red-hot iron burning his
flesh, made him sink back in his chair in despair. "Suppose it
be true!" he muttered to himself; "suppose I have been miser-
ably duped ! By confiding in my wife, I shall put her on her
guard, and lose all chance of discovering the truth."
Thus were realized all M. Verduret's presumptions. He had
said : "M. Fauvel does not yield to his first impulse ; if he stops
to reflect, we have time to repair the harm done." And after
long and painful meditation, the banker had finally decided to
wait and watch his wife. It was a hard struggle for a man
of his frank, upright nature to play the part of a domestic spy
and jealous husband. Accustomed to give way to sudden bursts
1228 FILE NUMBER 113
of anger, but quickly mastering them, he would find it difficult
to preserve his self-restraint, to maintain silence until his proofs
were overwhelming. There was one simple means of ascer-
taining the truth. The letter stated that his wife's diamonds
had been pawned. If it lied in this instance, he would treat
it with the scorn it deserved. At this moment the servant an-
nounced that lunch was served, and M. Fauvel looked in the
glass before leaving his study, to see if his face betrayed the
emotion he felt. He was shocked at the sight of his haggard
features. "Shall I be able to control my feelings?" he asked
himself. At table he did his utmost to look unconcerned,
talked incessantly, related several stories, hoping thus to dis-
tract the attention of the others. But all the time he was
talking he was casting over in his mind various expedients for
getting his wife out of the house long enough for him to search
her room. At last he asked Madame Fauvel if she were going
out at all that day.
"Yes," she replied, "the weather is dreadful, but Madeleine
and I have some pressing matters to see after." — "At what time
do you think of starting?" — "Immediately after lunch."
He drew a long breath as if relieved of a great weight. In
a short time he would be able to learn the truth. His uncer-
tainty was so torturing that anything was preferable to it, even
the most dreadful reality. Lunch over, he lighted a cigar, but
did not remain in the dining-room to smoke, as was his habit.
He went into his study, pretending he had some pressing work
to attend to. He took the precaution to send Lucien out so as
to be quite alone. After the lapse of half an hour, he heard
the carriage drive away with his wife and niece. Hurrying
into Madame Fauvel's room, he opened her jewel drawer. Sev-
eral of the cases he knew she possessed were missing, those
that remained — there were ten or twelve of them — were empty.
The anonymous letter had told the truth. "Oh, it can not be !"
he gasped in broken tones. "It is not possible !" He wildly
pulled open other drawers in the hope of finding the jewels.
Perhaps his wife kept them elsewhere. She might have sent
some of them to be reset, and others to be mended. But he
found nothing! He then recollected the Jandidier ball, and
that he, full of pride, had said to his wife: "Why don't you
wear your diamonds ?" She had smilingly replied : "Oh ! what
is the use ? Everybody knows them so well ; I shall be more
noticed if I don't wear them; and besides, they wouldn't suit
FILE NUMBER 113 1229
my costume." Yes, she had made this answer without blushing,
without showing the slightest sign of agitation. What base
hypocrisy concealed beneath an innocent, confiding manner !
And she had been thus deceiving him for twenty years ! But
suddenly a gleam of hope penetrated his confused mind — slight,
barely possible; still a straw to cling to: "Perhaps Valentine
has put her diamonds in Madeleine's room." Without stop-
ping to consider the indelicacy of what he was about to do, he
hurried into the young girl's room, and pulled open one drawer
after another. He did not find his wife's — not Madame Fau-
vel's diamonds — but he discovered seven or eight jewel casei
belonging to Madeleine, and all empty. Great heavens! Was
this gentle girl, whom he had treated as a daughter, an accom-
plice in this deed of shame? This last blow was too much for
the miserable man. He sank almost lifeless into a chair, and
wringing his hands, groaned over the wreck of his happiness.
Was this the happy future to which he had looked forward?
Was the fabric of his honor, well-being, and domestic bliss to be
dashed to the earth and forever lost in a day ? Seemingly noth-
ing was changed in his existence; he was not materially injured;
the objects around him remained the same; and yet what a
commotion had taken place, a commotion more unheard of,
more surprising than the changing of night into day. What !
Valentine, the pure young girl whom he had so loved and mar-
ried in spite of her poverty; Valentine, the tender, loving wife,
who had become dearer and dearer to him as years rolled on;
could she have been deceiving him? She, the mother of his
sons! His sons? Bitter thought ! Were they his sons ? If she
could deceive him now when she was silver-haired, had she not
deceived him when she was young? Not only did he suffer in
the present, but the uncertainty of the past tortured his soul.
M. Fauvel did not long remain in this dejected state. Anger
and a thirst for vengeance gave him fresh strength, and he de-
termined to sell his past happiness dearly. He well knew that
the fact of the diamonds being missing was not sufficient
ground upon which to base an accusation. But he had plenty
of means of procuring other proofs. He began by calling his
valet, and ordering him to bring to him every letter that should
come to the house. He then telegraphed to a notary at St.
Remy for minute and authentic information about the De
Lagors family, and especially about Raoul. Finally, following
the advice of the anonymous letter, he went to the Prefecture
1280 FILE NUMBER 113
of Police, hoping to obtain De Clameran's biography. But the
police, fortunately for many people, are as discreetly silent as
the grave. They guard their secrets as a miser his treasure.
Nothing but an order from the Public Prosecutor could reveal
the secrets of those terrible green boxes which are kept in an
apartment by themselves, guarded like a banker's strong-room.
M. Fauvel was politely asked what motives urged him to in-
quire into the past life of a French citizen; and, as he de-
clined to state his reasons, he was told he had better apply to
the above-mentioned functionary. This advice he could not
follow. He had sworn that the secret of his wrongs should be
confined to the three persons interested. He chose to avenge
his own injuries, to be alone the judge and executioner. He
returned home more enraged than ever; there he found a tele-
gram answering the one which he had sent to St. Remy. It
was as follows: "The De Lagors are very poor, and there has
never been any member of the family named Raoul. Madame
De Lagors has no son, only two daughters." This information
was the final blow. The banker thought, when he discovered
his wife's infamy, that she had sinned as deeply as woman
could sin; but he now saw that she had practised a deception
more shocking than the crime itself.
"Wretched creature !" he cried with anguish ; "in order to
see her lover constantly, she dared present him to me under
the name of a nephew who never existed. She had the shame-
less courage to introduce him beneath my roof, and seat him at
my fireside, between myself and my sons; and I, confiding fool
that I was, welcomed the villain, and lent him money."
Nothing could equal the pain of wounded pride and morti-
fication which he suffered at the thought that Raoul and
Madame Fauvel had amused themselves with his good-natured
credulity. Nothing but death could wipe out an injury of this
nature. But the very bitterness of his resentment enabled
him to restrain himself until the time for punishment came.
With grim satisfaction he promised himself that his acting
would be as successful as theirs. That day he succeeded in
concealing his agitation, and kept up a flow of talk during
the whole time the dinner lasted. But at about nine o'clock,
when De Clameran called, he hastened from the house, for
fear that he would be unable to control his indignation, and
did not return home until late in the night. The next day he
reaped the fruit of his prudence. Among the letters which
FILE NUMBER 113
1231
his valet brought him at noon, was one bearing the postmark
of Vesinet. He carefully opened the envelope, and read :
"Dear Aunt — It is imperatively necessary for me to see you
to-day ; so I expect you. I will explain why I am prevented
from calling at your house. Raoul."
"I have them now !" cried M. Fauvel, trembling with satis-
faction at the near prospect of vengeance. Eager to lose no
time, he opened a drawer, took out a revolver, and examined the
hammer to see if it worked easily. He certainly imagined him-
self alone, but a vigilant eye was watching his movements.
Nina immediately upon her return from the Grand Archangel,
stationed herself at the keyhole of the study door, and saw all
that occurred. M. Fauvel laid the weapon on the mantelpiece
and nervously resealed the letter, which he then took to the
place where the letters were usually left, not wishing his wife
to know that Raoul's letter had passed through his hands. He
was only absent a few minutes, but inspired by the imminence
of the danger, Nina darted into the study, and rapidly extracted
the cartridges from the revolver. "By this means," she mur-
mured, "the immediate peril is averted, and M. Verduret will
now perhaps have time to act. I must send Cavaillon to tell
him what is happening."
She hurried downstairs, and sent the clerk with a message,
telling him to leave it with Madame Alexandre, if M. Verduret
had left the hotel. An hour later, Madame Fauvel ordered her
carriage, and went out. M. Fauvel jumped into a hackney-
coach, and followed her. "God grant that M. Verduret may
be in time !" said Nina to herself, "otherwise Madame Fauvel
and Raoul are lost."
r "pHE day that the Marquis de Clameran perceived that
* Raoul de Lagors was the only obstacle between him and
Madeleine, he swore that the obstacle should be removed. He
at once took steps for the accomplishment of his purpose. As
1232 FILE NUMBER 113
Raoul was walking home at Vesinet about midnight, he was
assailed at a lonely spot not far from the station by three men,
who, determined, so they said, to see the time by his watch,
fell upon him suddenly, and but for Raoul's wonderful strength
and agility, would have left him dead on the spot. As it was,
he soon, by his skilfully plied blows, for he was proficient in
fencing, and had learned boxing in England, made his enemies
take to their heels. He quietly continued his walk home, fully
determined in future to be well armed when he went out at
night. He never for an instant suspected his accomplice of
having instigated the assault. But two days afterward while
sitting in a cafe he frequented, a burly, vulgar-looking man, a
stranger to him, tried to draw him into a quarrel about nothing
and finally threw a card in his face, saying he was ready to
grant him satisfaction when and where he pleased. Raoul
rushed toward the man to chastise him on the spot; but his
friends held him back.
"Very well, then," said he; "be at home to-morrow morning,
sir, and I will send two of my friends to you." As soon as the
stranger had left, Raoul recovered from his excitement and
began to wonder what could have been the motive for this
evidently premeditated insult. Picking up the card of the
bully, he read :
W. H. B. Jacobson.
Formerly Garibaldian volunteer.
Ex-staff-oflicer of the armies of the South.
(Italy, America).
30, Rue Leonie.
"Oh ! oh !" thought Raoul, "this glorious soldier may very
possibly have won his laurels in a fencing school !"
Still the insult had been offered in the presence of others;
and, no matter who the offender was, it must be noticed. Raoul
requested two of his friends to call upon M. Jacobson early
the next morning, and make arrangements for the duel. It
was settled that they should render him an account of their
mission at the Hotel du Louvre, where he arranged to sleep.
Everything being arranged, Raoul went out to find out some-
thing about M. Jacobson. He was an expert at the business,
but he had considerable trouble. The information he obtained
was not very promising. M. Jacobson, who lived in a very
suspicious-looking little hotel, frequented chiefly by women of
FILE NUMBER 113 1233
loose character, was described to him as an eccentric gentleman
whose means of livelihood was a problem difficult to solve.
He reigned despotically at a cheap restaurant near by, went
out a great deal, came home very late, and seemed to have no
capital to live upon save his military titles, his talent for
entertaining, and a notable quantity of various expedients.
"That being his character," thought Raoul, "I can not see
what object he can have in picking a quarrel with me. What
good will it do him to run a sword through my body? Not
the slightest ; and moreover, his pugnacious conduct is apt to
attract the attention of the police, who, from what I hear, are
the last people this warrior would like to have after him.
Therefore, for acting as he has done, he must have some reasons
which I am unable to discern."
The result of his meditations was, that Raoul, upon his
return to the Hotel du Louvre, did not mention a word of
his adventure to De Clameran, whom he still found up. At
half-past eight his seconds arrived. M. Jacobson had agreed
to fight, and had chosen the sword; but it must be that very
hour, in the Bois de Vincennes. Raoul felt very uneasy, never-
theless he boldly said: "I accept the gentleman's conditions."
They went to the place decided upon, and after an interchange
of a few thrusts Raoul was slightly wounded in the right
shoulder. The "Ex-staff-officer of the armies of the South"
wished to continue the combat, but Raoul's seconds — brave
young men — declared that honor was satisfied, and that they
had no intention of subjecting their friend's life to unnecessary
hazards. The ex-officer was forced to submit, and unwillingly
retired from the field. Raoul went home delighted at having
escaped with nothing more serious than a little loss of blood,
and resolved to keep clear of all so-called Garibaldians in the
future. In fact, a night's reflection had convinced him that
De Clameran was the instigator of the two attempts on his life.
Madame Fauvel having told him what conditions Madeleine
placed on her consent to marry, Raoul instantly saw how nec-
essary his removal would be, now that he was an impediment
in the way of De Clameran's success. He recalled a thousand
insignificant events of the last few days, and, on skilfully
questioning the marquis, had his suspicions changed into
certainty. This conviction that the man whom he had so
materially assisted in his criminal plans, had hired assassins
to make away with him, made him mad with rage. This
1234 FILE NUMBER 113
treason seemed to him monstrous. He was as yet not suf-
ficiently experienced in ruffianism to know that one villain
always sacrifices another to advance his own projects; he was
credulous enough to believe in the old adage of "honor among
thieves." His rage was naturally mingled with fright, well
knowing that his life hung by a thread, when it was threatened
by a daring scoundrel like De Clameran. Knowing his accom-
plice's nature, Raoul saw himself surrounded by snares; he
saw death before him in every form; he was equally afraid of
going out, and of remaining at home. He only ventured with
the most suspicious caution into the most public places; he
feared poison as much as the assassin's knife, and imagined
that every dish placed before him tasted of strychnine. This
life of torture was intolerable, so with a desire for revenge as
much as with a view of securing his personal safety, he deter-
mined to anticipate a struggle which he felt must terminate
in the death of either De Clameran or himself. "Better kill
the devil," said he, "than be killed by him." In his days of
poverty, Raoul had often risked his liberty to obtain a few
guineas, and would not have hesitated to make short work of
a person like De Clameran. But with money prudence had
come. He wished to enjoy his four hundred thousand francs
without being compromised by committing a murder which
might be discovered; he therefore began to devise some other
means of getting rid of his dreaded accomplice. In the mean
time, he thought it would be a good thing to thwart De Cla-
meran's marriage with Madeleine. He was sure that he would
thus strike him to the heart, and this was at least a satisfaction.
Raoul was persuaded that, by openly siding with Madeleine
and her aunt, he could save them from De Clameran's clutches.
Having fully resolved upon this course, he wrote a note to
Madame Fauvel asking for an interview. The poor woman
hastened to Vesinet convinced that some new misfortune was
in store for her. Her alarm was groundless. She found
Raoul more tender and affectionate than he had ever been. He
saw the necessity of reassuring her, and winning his old place
in her forgiving heart, before making his disclosures. He
succeeded. The poor lady had a smiling and happy look as
She sat in an armchair, with Raoul kneeling beside her.
"I have distressed you too long, my dear mother," he said
in his softest tones ; "but I repent sincerely ; now listen to me."
He had not time to say more; the door was violently thrown
FILE NUMBER 113 1235
open, and Raoul, springing to his feet, was confronted by Mi
Fauvel. The banker had a revolver in his hand, and was
ghastly pale. It was evident that he was making superhuman
efforts to remain calm, like a judge whose duty it is to justly
punish crime.
"Ah," he exclaimed with a horrible laugh, "you look sur-
prised. You did not expect me? You thought that my im-
becile credulity assured you an eternal immunity !" Raoul had
the courage to place himself before Madame Fauvel, and to
stand prepared to receive the expected bullet. "I assure you,
uncle," he began. "Enough !" interrupted the banker with an
angry gesture, "let me hear no more infamous falsehoods !
End this odious comedy, of which I am no longer the dupe."
"I swear to you — "
"Spare yourself the trouble of denying anything. Do you
not see that I know all? I know who pawned my wife's dia-
monds. I know who committed the robbery for which an
innocent man was arrested and imprisoned !"
Madame Fauvel, white with terror, fell upon her knees. At
last it had come — the dreadful day had come. Vainly had she
added falsehood to falsehood; vainly had she sacrificed herself
and others; all was discovered. She saw that she was lost,
and wringing her hands, with her face bathed in tears, she
moaned: "Pardon, Andre! I beg you, forgive me!"
At these heart-broken tones, the banker shook like a leaf.
This voice brought before him the twenty years of happiness
which he had owed to this woman who had always been the
mistress of his heart, whose slightest wish had been his law,
and who, by a smile or a frown, could make him the happiest
or the most miserable of men. Could this wretched woman
crouching at his feet be his beloved Valentine, the pure, inno-
cent girl whom he had found secluded in the chateau of La
Verberie? Could this be the cherished wife whom he had
worshiped for so many years? In the memory of his lost
happiness never to return he seemed to forget the present, and
was almost melted to forgiveness. "Unhappy woman." he
murmured, "unhappy woman ! What had I done that you
should thus deceive me? Ah, my only fault was loving you
too deeply, and letting you see it. One wearies of everything
in this world, even happiness. Did pure domestic joys pall
upon you and weary you, driving you to seek the excitement
of sinful passion? Were you so tired of the atmosphere of
1236 FILE NUMBER 113
respect and affection which surrounded you that you must
needs risk your honor and mine by braving public opinion?
Oh, into what an abyss you have fallen, Valentine! If you
were wearied by my constant devotion, had the thought of
your children no power to restrain your evil passions?"
M. Fauvel spoke slowly, with painful effort, as if each word
choked him. Raoul, who listened with attention, saw that if
the banker knew some things, he certainly did not know all.
He saw that erroneous information had misled the unhappy
man, and that he was a victim of false appearances. He deter-
mined to convince him of the mistake under which he was
laboring. "Sir," he began, "will you consent to listen — "
But the sound of Raoul's voice was sufficient to break the
charm. "Silence!" cried the banker with an angry oath; "si-
lence !" For some moments nothing was heard but the sobs of
Madame Fauvel.
"I came here," continued the banker, "with the intention of
surprising and killing you both. I have surprised you, but —
my courage, yes, my courage fails me — I can not kill an un-
armed man." Raoul once more tried to speak. "Let me finish !"
interrupted M. Fauvel. "Your life is in my hands; the law
excuses the vengeance of an outraged husband, but I refuse to
take advantage of it. I see on your mantelpiece a revolver
similar to mine ; take it, and defend yourself."
"Never!" — "Defend yourself!" cried the banker, raising his
weapon ; "if you do not — "
Seeing the barrel of M. Fauvel's revolver close to his breast,
Raoul, in self-defense, seized his own and prepared to fire.
"Stand in that corner of the room, and I will stand in this,"
continued the banker; "and when the clock strikes, which will
be in a few seconds, we will both fire together."
They took the places designated, and stood perfectly still.
But the horror of the scene was too much for Madame Fauvel
to witness it any longer without interposing. She understood
but one thing: her son and her husband were about to kill each
other before her eyes. Fright and horror gave her strength to
rise and rush between the two men.
"For God's sake, have mercy, Andre !" she cried, turning to
her husband and wringing her hands with anguish ; "let me tell
you everything; don't kill him."
M. Fauvel mistook this burst of maternal love for the plead-
ings of a guilty wife defending her lover. He roughly seized
FILE NUMBER 113 1237
his wife by the arm and thrust her aside : "Get out of the way !"
he cried. But she would not be repulsed; rushing up to Raoul,
she threw her arms around him, and said to her husband : "Kill
me, and me alone; for I alone am guilty."
At these words M. Fauvel's rage knew no bounds; he delib-
erately took aim at the guilty pair and fired. As neither Raoul
nor Madame Fauvel fell, the banker fired a second time; then
a third. He was preparing for a fourth shot when a man
rushed into the room, snatched the revolver from the banker's
hand, and, throwing him on the sofa, ran toward Madame Fau-
vel. This man was M. Verduret, who had been warned by
Cavaillon, but who did not know that Nina had withdrawn the
charges from M. Fauvel's weapon. "Thank Heaven !" he ex-
claimed, "she is unhurt."
But the banker had already regained his feet. "Leave me
alone," he cried, struggling to get free ; "I will have vengeance !"
M. Verduret seized his wrists in a viselike grasp, and in a
solemn tone, so as to give more weight to his words, he said:
"Thank God you are saved from committing a terrible crime;
the anonymous letter deceived you."
M. Fauvel never once thought of asking this stranger who
he was and where he came from. He heard and understood
but one fact: the anonymous letter had lied. "But my wife
confesses her guilt," he stammered. "Yes," replied M. Ver-
duret, "but not of the crime you imagine. Do you know who
that man is that you wish to kill ?"
"Her lover !"
"No: her son!"
The presence of this well-informed stranger seemed to con-
found Raoul and to frighten him more than M. Fauvel's threats
had done. Yet he had sufficient presence of mind to say: "It
is the truth !"
The banker looked wildly from Raoul to M. Verduret; then,
fastening his haggard eyes on his wife, exclaimed: "What you
tell me is not possible ! Give me proofs !" — "You shall have
proofs," replied M. Verduret; "but first listen."
And rapidly he related the principal events of the drama he
had discovered. The true state of the case was terribly dis-
tressing to M. Fauvel, but nothing compared with what he had
suspected. His throbbing, yearning heart told him that he still
loved his wife. Why should he punish a fault committed so
very long ago, and atoned for by twenty years of devotion and
1238 FILE NUMBER 113
suffering? For some moments after M. Verduret had finished
his explanation, M. Fauvel remained silent. So many strange
events had happened, following each other in such quick suc-
cession, and culminating in the shocking scene which had just
taken place, that M. Fauvel seemed to be too bewildered to
think clearly. If his heart counseled pardon and forgetfulness,
wounded pride and self-respect demanded vengeance. If Raoul,
the baleful witness, the living proof of a far-off sin, were not
in existence, M. Fauvel would not have hesitated. Gaston de
Clameran was dead; he would have held out his arms to his
wife, saying : "Come to my heart ! your sacrifices for my honor
shall be your absolution; let the sad past be forgotten." But
the sight of Raoul froze the words upon his lips.
"So this is your son," said he to his wife, "this man, who
has plundered you and robbed me !" Madame Fauvel was un-
able to utter a word in reply to these reproachful words. "Oh !"
said M. Verduret, "madame will tell you that this young man
is the son of Gaston de Clameran; she has never doubted it.
But, the truth is—"
"What !"
"That, in order to swindle her more easily, he has perpetrated
a gross imposture."
During the last few minutes Raoul had been quietly creeping
toward the door, hoping to escape while no one was thinking
of him. But M. Verduret, who anticipated his intention, was
watching him out of the corner of his eye, and stopped him
just as he was about leaving the room. "Not so fast, my pretty
youth," he said, dragging him into the middle of the apartment;
"it is not polite to leave us so unceremoniously. Let us have
a little explanation before parting!"
M. Verduret's jeering words and mocking manner were a
revelation for Raoul. "The merry-andrew !" he gasped, starting
back with an affrighted Jook.
"The same, my friend," said the stout man. "Ah, now that
you recognize me, I confess that the merry-andrew and myself
are one and the same; here is proof of it." And turning up
his sleeve he showed his bare arm. "I imagine you know the
villain that gave me this little decoration that night I was walk-
ing along the Rue Bourdaloue. That being the case, you know
I have a slight claim upon you, and shall expect you to relate
to us your little story." But Raoul was so terrified that he
could not utter a word. "Your modesty prevents your speak-
FILE NUMBER 113 1239
ing," said M. Verduret. "Bravo ! modesty belongs to talent,
and for one of your age you certainly have displayed a talent
for knavery."
M. Fauvel listened without understanding a word of what
was said. "Into what abyss of shame have we fallen !" he
groaned. — "Reassure yourself, sir," replied M. Verduret in a
serious tone. "After what I have been constrained to tell you,
what remains to be said is a mere trifle. This is the end of
the story. On leaving Mihonne, who had given him a full
account of the misfortunes of Mademoiselle Valentine de la
Verberie, De Clameran hastened to London. He had no diffi-
culty in finding the farmer's wife to whom the old comtesse
had intrusted Gaston's son. But here an unexpected disappoint-
ment greeted him. He learned that the child, who was regis-
tered on the parish books as Raoul Valentin Wilson, had died
of the croup when eighteen months old."
Raoul tried to protest. '"Did any one dare say that?" he
commenced.
"It was not only stated, but proved, my pretty youth," replied
M. Verduret. "You don't suppose I am a man to trust to mere
gossip; do you?" He drew from his pocket several stamped
documents, and laid them on the table. "These are the declara-
tions of the nurse, her husband, and four witnesses. Here is
an extract from the registry of births; this is the certificate of
registry of death ; and all these are authenticated at the French
Embassy. Now, are you satisfied, young man?"
"What next?" inquired M. Fauvel. — "De Clameran," replied
M. Verduret, "finding that the child was dead, supposed that
he could, in spite of this disappointment, obtain money from
Madame Fauvel; he was mistaken. His first attempt failed.
Having an inventive turn of mind, he determined that the child
should come to life again. Among his large circle of rascally
acquaintance, he selected the young fellow who stands before
you."
Madame Fauvel was in a pitiable state. And yet she began
to feel a ray of hope; her acute anxiety had so long tortured
her that the truth was a relief. "Can this be possible?" she
murmured, "can it be?" — "What!" cried the banker; "can an
infamous plot like this be planned in the present day?"
"All this is false !" said Raoul boldly.
M. Verduret turned to Raoul and, bowing with ironical re-
spect, said: "You desire proofs, sir, do you? You shall cer-
1240 FILE NUMBER 113
tainly have convincing ones. I have just left a friend of mine,
M. Palot, who brought me valuable information from London.
Now, my young gentleman, I will tell you the little story he
told me, and then you can give your opinion of it. In 1847
Lord Murray, a wealthy and generous nobleman, had a jockey
named Spencer, of whom he was very fond. At the Epsom
races this jockey was thrown from his horse and killed. Lord
Murray grieved over the loss of his favorite, and, having no
children of his own, declared his intention of adopting Spencer's
son, who was then but four years old. Thus James Spencer was
brought up in affluence, as heir to the immense wealth of the
noble lord. He was a handsome, intelligent boy, and gave sat-
isfaction to his protector until he was sixteen years of age,
when he became intimate with a worthless set of people, and
went to the bad. Lord Murray, who was very indulgent, par-
doned many grave faults; but one fine morning he discovered
that his adopted son had been imitating his signature upon
some checks. He indignantly dismissed him from his house,
and told him never to show his face there again. James Spen-
cer had been living in London about four years, managing to
support himself by gambling and swindling, when he met De
Clameran, who offered him twenty-five thousand francs to play
a part in a little comedy which he had himself arranged."
"You are a detective !" interrupted Raoul, not caring to hear
any more. The stout man smiled blandly.
"At present," he replied, "I am merely Prosper Bertomy's
friend. It depends entirely upon yourself as to which char-
acter I shall hereafter appear in."
"What do you require me to do?"
"Where are the three hundred and fifty thousand francs which
you have stolen?"
The young rascal hesitated a moment and then said: "The
money is here."
"Very good. This frankness will be of service to you. I
know that the money is in this room, and also that it is at the
bottom of that cupboard. Do you intend to refund it?" Raoul
saw that his game was lost. He tremblingly went to the cup-
board and pulled out several rolls of bank-notes, and an enor-
mous package of pawnbroker's tickets.
"Very well done," said M. Verduret as he carefully examined
the money and papers: "this is the most sensible step you ever
took." Raoul relied on this moment, when everybody's atten-
FILE NUMBER 113 1241
tion would be absorbed by the money, to make his escape. He
crept toward the door, gently opened it, slipped out, and locked
it, for the key was on the outside.
"He has escaped !" cried M. Fauvel.
"Of course," replied M. Verduret without even looking up:
"I thought he would have sense enough to do that."
"But is he to go unpunished?"
"My dear sir, would you have this affair become a public
scandal? Do you wish your wife's name to be brought into a
case of this nature at the police court?"
"Never !"
"Then the best thing you can do is to let the rascal go.
Here are receipts for all the articles which he has pawned, so
that we should consider ourselves fortunate. He has kept fifty
thousand francs, but that is all the better for you. That sum
will enable him to leave France, and we shall never see him
again."
Like every one else, M. Fauvel yielded to M. Verduret's
ascendency. Gradually he had awakened to the true state of
affairs ; prospective happiness no longer seemed impossible, and
he felt that he was indebted to the man before him for more
than life. With earnest gratitude he seized M. Verduret's
hand as if to carry it to his lips, and said in broken tones :
"How can I ever find words to express how deeply I appreciate
your kindness? How can I ever repay the great service
you have rendered me?" M. Verduret reflected a moment, and
then replied: "If you consider yourself under any obligations
to me, sir, I have a favor to ask of you."
"A favor ! Speak, sir, you have but to name it."
"I will not hesitate, then, to explain myself. I am Prosper's
friend. You can restore him to his former honorable position.
You can do so much for him, sir ! he loves Mademoiselle Made-
leine—"
"Madeleine shall be his wife, sir," interrupted the banker;
"I give you my word. And I will so publicly exonerate him
that not a shadow of suspicion will ever rest upon his name."
The stout man quietly took up his hat and cane, as if he had
been paying an ordinary call. "You will excuse my importun-
ing you," said he, "but Madame Fauvel — "
"Andre !" murmured the wretched woman, "Andre !"
The banker hesitated a moment, then, following the impulse
of his heart, ran to his wife, and, clasping her in his arms, said
1242 FILE NUMBER 113
tenderly: "No, I will not be foolish enough to struggle against
my heart. I do not pardon, Valentine, I forget; I forget all!"
M. Verduret had nothing more to do at Vesinet. Without
taking leave of the banker, he unlocked the door, quietly left
the room, and, jumping into his cab, ordered the driver to
return to Paris and drive to the Hotel du Louvre. His mind
was filled with anxiety. He knew that Raoul would give him
no more trouble ; the young rogue was probably far off by that
time. But De Clameran should not escape unpunished; and
how this punishment could be brought about without compro-
mising Madame Fauvel was the problem to be solved. M.
Verduret thought over various expedients, but not one could be
applied to the present circumstances. After long thought he
decided that an accusation of poisoning must be made at
Oloron. He would go there and work upon "public opinion,"
so that, to satisfy the townspeople, the authorities would order
a post-mortem examination of Gaston's body. But this mode
of proceeding required time; and De Clameran would cer-
tainly escape before long. He was bemoaning his inability to
come to a satisfactory decision, when the cab stopped in front
of the Hotel du Louvre. It was almost dark. A crowd of
people was collected round about the entrance, eagerly dis-
cussing some exciting event which seemed to have just taken
place.
"What has happened?" asked M. Verduret of one of the
crowd. — "The strangest thing you have ever heard of," replied
the man; "yes, I saw it with my own eyes. He first appeared
at that seventh-story window; he was only half-dressed. Some
men tried to seize him; but, bah! with the agility of a squirrel,
he jumped out upon the roof, shrieking: 'Murder! murder!'
The recklessness of his conduct led me to suppose — " The
gossip stopped short in his narrative, very much surprised and
vexed ; his questioner had vanished.
"If it should be De Clameran!" thought M. Verduret; "if
terror has deranged that brain, so capable of working out great
crimes !"
While thus talking to himself, he elbowed his way into the
courtyard of the hotel. At the foot of the principal staircase
he found M. Fanferlot and three peculiar looking individuals
waiting together. "Well !" cried M. Verduret, "what is the
matter?" With laudable precision the four men stood at atten-
tion. "The chief!" said they.— "Come !" said the stout man
FILE NUMBER 113 1213
with an oath. "What has happened ?"— 'This is what has hap-
pened, sir," said Fanferlot dejectedly. T am doomed to ill
luck. You see how it is; this is the only chance I ever had
of working out a beautiful case, and puff! my criminal goes
and sells me."
"Then it is De Clameran who — "
"Of course it is. When the rascal saw me this morning he
scampered off like a hare. You should have seen him run; I
thought he would never stop this side of Ivry. but not at all.
On reaching the Boulevard des Ecoles, a sudden idea seemed
to strike him, and he made a bee-line for his hotel; I suppose
to secure his pile of money. Directly he gets here, what does
he see? These three friends of mine. The sight of these
gentlemen had the effect of a sunstroke upon him; he went
raving mad on the spot.'
"Where is he now?"
"At the Prefecture, I suppose. Some policemen handcuffed
him and drove off with him in a cab."
"Come with me."
M. Verduret and Fanferlot found De Clameran in one of
the private cells reserved for dangerous prisoners. He had on
a strait-waistcoat and was struggling violently against three
men who were striving to hold him, while a physician tried
to force him to swallow a potion. "Help !" he shrieked, "help,
for God's sake ! Do you not see my brother coming after me ?
Look ! he wants to poison me !" M. Verduret took the physi-
cian aside, and asked him a few questions. "The wretched
man is in a hopeless state," replied the doctor ; "this species of
insanity is incurable. He thinks some one is trying to poison
him, and nothing will persuade him to eat or drink anything;
he will die of starvation, after having suffered all the tortures
of poison."
M. Verduret shuddered as he left the Prefecture. "Madame
Fauvel is saved," he murmured, "since God has himself pun-
ished De Clameran !"
"That doesn't help me in the least," grumbled Fanferlot.
"The idea of all my trouble and labor ending in this way!"
"True," replied M. Verduret, "the File Number 113 will never
leave its portfolio. But console yourself; before the end of the
month I will give you a letter to a friend of mine, and what
you have lost in fame you will gain in gold."
• ••••••• •) 'Ji (•!
1244
FILE NUMBER 113
{\ NE morning some days later, M. Lecoq — the official Lecoq,
^^ who resembles the head of a department — was walking up
and down his private office, looking at the clock at every mo-
ment. At last, a bell rang, and the faithful Janouille ushered
in Madame Nina and Prosper Bertomy. "Ah," said M. Lecoq,
"you are punctual, my fond lovers; that is well."
"We are not lovers, sir," replied Madame Gipsy. "Only M.
Verduret's express orders have brought us together here to
meet him." — "Very well," said the celebrated detective; "then
be good enough to wait a few minutes: I will tell him you are
here."
During the quarter of an hour that Nina and Prosper re-
mained alone together, they did not exchange a word. Finally
a door opened, and M. Verduret appeared.
Nina and Prosper eagerly started toward him ; but he checked
them by one of those looks which no one ever dared resist.
"You have come," he said severely, "to hear the secret of my
conduct. I have promised, and will keep my word, however
painful it may be to my feelings. Listen, then. My best friend
is a loyal, honest fellow, named Caldas. Eighteen months ago
this friend was the happiest of men. Infatuated by a woman,
he lived for her alone, and, fool that he was, imagined that as
she owed all to him, she loved him."
"Yes !" cried Nina, "yes, she loved him !"
"So be it. She loved him so much that one fine night she
went off with another man. In his first moments of despair,
Caldas wished to kill himself. Then he reflected that it would
be wiser to live, and avenge himself."
"But then—" faltered Prosper.
"Then Caldas avenged himself in his own way. He made
the woman who deceived him recognize his immense supe-
riority over his rival. Weak, timid, and without intelligence,
the latter' was disgraced and falling into the abyss, when Cal-
das's powerful hand saved him. For you have understood,
FILE NUMBER 113 1245
have you not? The woman is Nina; the seducer is yourself;
and Caldas is — "
With a quick, dexterous movement he threw off his wig and
whiskers, and stood before them the real, intelligent and proud
Lecoq.
"Caldas !" cried Nina.
"No, not Caldas, nor Verduret either, but Lecoq, the detec-
tive !"
There was a moment of astonished silence, then M. Lecoq
turned to Prosper and said : "It is not to me alone that you owe
your salvation. A noble girl in confiding in me rendered my
task easy. I mean Mademoiselle Madeleine; I promised her
that M. Fauvel should never know anything. Your letter made
it impossible for me to keep my promise. That is all."
He turned to leave the room, but Nina stopped him. "Cal-
das," she murmured, "I implore you to have pity on me. I am
so miserable. Ah, if you only knew ! Be forgiving to one who
has always loved you, Caldas ! Listen — "
Prosper departed from M. Lecoq's office alone.
On the 15th of last month was celebrated, at the church of
Notre Dame de Lorette, the marriage of M. Prosper Bertomy
and Mademoiselle Madeleine Fauvel.
The banking-house is still in the Rue de Provence; but as
M. Fauvel has determined to retire from business, and live in
the country, the name of the firm has been changed, and is
now: "Prosper Bertomy & Co."
THE END
THE LITTLE OLD MAN
OF BATIGNOLLES
<Sat>.— Vol. IV Q
THE LITTLE OLD MAN
OF BATIGNOLLES
A CHAPTER OF THE MEMOIRS OF A POLICE AGENT
J. B. CASIMIR GODEUIL
THREE or four months ago, a man of about forty, suitably
dressed in black, called at the editorial offices of the
"Petit Journal."
He brought a manuscript in a handwriting which would have
made the famous Brard, king of calligraphers, faint for joy.
"I shall call again," he told us, "in a fortnight, to find out
what you think of my work."
Nobody having curiosity enough to unknot the string, the
manuscript was religiously placed in the pile of "Works to be
lead."
Time passed.
I must add that a great many manuscripts are brought to the
"Petit Journal," and that the position of a reader here is not a
sinecure.
The gentleman, however, did not appear again, and had been
forgotten, when one morning one of our collaborators, who was
in charge of the readings, hurried to us excitedly.
"Upon my word !" he exclaimed, entering, "I just read some-
thing truly extraordinary."
"Well, what is it?"
"That gentleman's manuscript — you know, the one all dressed
in black — I was completely carried away with it."
And as we made fun of his enthusiasm, he whose profession
it is not to get enthusiastic, he threw the manuscript on the
table, saying:
"Read it then !"
There was enough of it to seriously puzzle us. One of us
took possession of the manuscript, and by the end of the week
it had made the round of the editorial office.
1249
1250 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
And the unanimous opinion was :
The "Petit Journal" must absolutely publish it.
But here one difficulty presented itself, which no one had
foreseen :
The author's name was not on the manuscript. There was
only a visiting card attached to it, reading: "J. B. Casimir
Godeuil."
What was to be done? Publish the work without knowing
its author? That would have been dangerous. A man must
accept responsibility for every line printed.
It was then decided to search for this too modest author, and
for the next few days the editors of the "Petit Journal" in-
quired and sent for information everywhere.
Nothing. Nobody knew J. B. Casimir Godeuil.
Then, out of desperation, were put up those enigmatic posters,
which for a week mystified all Paris, and, to some extent, the
suburbs.
"Who can that J. B. Casimir Godeuil be, who is thus adver-
tised for?" people asked themselves.
Some thought him a prodigal child, escaped from his home;
others a missing heir, but the most took him to be an absconding
cashier.
But our end was attained.
The paste on the posters had not yet dried, when M. J. B.
Casimir Godeuil himself appeared, and the "Petit Journal" was
arranging with him for the publishing of the tragedy entitled
"The Little Old Man of Batignolles," which is the first of the
series of his memoirs.*
This said, we shall let M. J. B. Casimir Godeuil speak. His
story is preceded by the following short preface, which we
thought it best to preserve, as it shows what he was and what
praiseworthy purpose he had in view in writing his recollections.
* Unfortunately J. B. Casimir Godeuil, who had promised to bring the continua-
tion of his manuscript, disappeared again completely, and all steps taken to find him
have remained unsuccessful. We have, nevertheless, decided to publish his odd
narration, which contains one of his most stirring tragedies. — Editor's Note.
INTRODUCTION
A PRISONER had just been brought before the trial
judge, and, notwithstanding his denials, his evasions,
and an alibi which he claimed, was convicted of for-
gery and burglary.
Overwhelmed by the evidence of the charges I had gathered
against him, he confessed his crime, exclaiming:
"Oh ! Had I known the power of the courts and the police,
and how impossible it is to escape them, I would have remained
an honest man."
It was on hearing this that the idea occurred to me to gather
together my recollections.
"The people must know !" I said to myself.
And in publishing to-day my memoirs, I hope, nay, I shall
even say I am convinced, that I am accomplishing a moral
work of the highest utility.
Is it not being useful to strip crime of its sinister romance
and expose it as it is : cowardly, ignoble, base, repulsive ?
Is it not being useful to prove that there are no beings in the
world as wretched as the madmen who have declared war on
society ?
That is what I claim to do.
I shall establish beyond a doubt that it is one's whole inter-
est — and I add, one's immediate, positive, mathematical, and
even discountable interest — to be honest.
I shall prove it as clear as day that with our social organiza-
tion, thanks to the railroads and to the electric telegraph,
escape is impossible.
Punishment may be delayed — but it always comes.
Without doubt there will be some unfortunate ones who will
reflect before giving themselves up to crime.
More than one whom the feeble murmuring of conscience
1251
1252 INTRODUCTION
could not hold back will be stopped by the salutary voice of
fear.
Must I now explain what these recollections are?
I shall attempt to describe the struggles, the successes, and
the defeats of a handful of devoted men charged with the main-
tenance of safety in Paris.
How many are there to keep in check all the evildoers in a
capital which, with its suburbs, numbers more than three
million inhabitants ?
There are two hundred.
It is to them that I dedicate this book.
With this much said, I begin.
THE LITTLE OLD MAN
OF BATIGNOLLES
WHEN I had finished my studies in order to become a
health officer, a happy time it was , I was twenty-three
years of age. I lived in the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince,
almost at the corner of the Rue Racine.
There I had for thirty francs a month, service included, a
furnished room, which to-day would certainly be worth a hun-
dred francs; it was so spacious that I could easily put my arms
in the sleeves of my overcoat without opening the window.
Since I left early in the morning to make the calls for my
hospital, and since I returned very late, because the Cafe Leroy
had irresistible attractions for me, I scarcely knew by sight the
tenants in my house, peaceable people all ; some living on their
incomes, and some small merchants.
There was one, however, to whom, little by little, I became
attached.
He was a man of average size, insignificant, always
scrupulously shaved, who was pompously called "Monsieur
Mechinet."
The doorkeeper treated him with a most particular regard,
and never omitted quickly to lift his cap as he passed the lodge.
As M. Mechinet's apartment opened on my landing, directly
opposite the door of my room, we repeatedly met face to face.
On such occasions we saluted one another.
One evening he came to ask me for some matches ; another
night I borrowed tobacco of him ; one morning it happened
that we both left at the same time, and walked side by side for
a little stretch, talking.
Such were our first relations.
Without being curious or mistrusting — one is neither at the
age I was then — we like to know what to think about people
to whom we become attached.
T253
1254 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
Thus I naturally came to observe my neighbor's way of liv-
ing, and became interested in his actions and gestures.
He was married. Madame Caroline Mechinet, blonde and
fair, small, gay and plump, seemed to adore her husband.
But the husband's conduct was none too regular for that.
Frequently he decamped before daylight, and often the sun had
set before I heard him return to his domicile. At times he
disappeared for whole weeks.
That the pretty little Madame Mechinet should tolerate this
is what I could not understand.
Puzzled, I thought that our concierge, ordinarily as much a
babbler as a magpie, would give me some explanation.
Not so ! Hardly had I pronounced Mechinet's name than,
without ceremony, he sent me about my business, telling me,
as he rolled his eyes, that he was not in the habit of "spying"
upon his tenants.
This reception doubled my curiosity to such an extent that,
banishing all shame, I began to watch my neighbor.
I discovered things.
Once I saw him coming home dressed in the latest fashion,
his buttonhole ornamented with five or six decorations ; the
next day I noticed him on the stairway dressed in a sordid
blouse, on his head a cloth rag, which gave him a sinister air.
Nor was that all. One beautiful afternoon, as he was going
out, I saw his wife accompany him to the threshold of their
apartment and there kiss him passionately, saying:
"I beg you, Mechinet, be prudent ; think of your little wife."
Be prudent! Why? For what purpose? What did that
mean? The wife must then be an accomplice.
It was not long before my astonishment was doubled.
One night, as I was sleeping soundly, some one knocked sud-
denly and rapidly at my door.
I arose and opened.
M. Mechinet entered, or rather rushed in, his clothing in dis-
order and torn, his necktie and the front of his shirt torn off,
bareheaded, his face covered with blood.
"What has happened?" I exclaimed, frightened.
"Not so loud," said he ; "you might be heard. Perhaps it is
nothing, although I suffer devilishly. I said to myself that
you, being a medical student would doubtless know how to
help me."
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1256
Without saying a word, I made him sit down, and hastened to
examine him and to do for him what was necessary.
Although he bled freely, the wound was a slight one — to tell
the truth, it was only a superficial scratch, starting from the
left ear and reaching to the corner of his mouth.
The dressing of the wound finished, "Well, here I am again
healthy and safe for this time," M. Mechinet said to me. "Thou-
sand thanks, dear Monsieur Godeuil. Above all, as a favor, do
not speak to any one of this little accident, and — good night."
"Good night!" I had little thought of sleeping. When I
remember all the absurd hypotheses and the romantic imagina-
tions which passed through my brain, I can not help laughing.
In my mind, M. Mechinet took on fantastic proportions.
The next day he came to thank me again, and invited me to
dinner.
That I was all eyes and ears when I entered my neigh-
bor's home may be rightly guessed.
In vain did I concentrate my whole attention. I could not
find out anything of a nature to dissipate the mystery which
puzzled me so much.
However, from this dinner on, our relations became closer.
M. Mechinet decidedly favored me with his friendship. Rarely
a week passed without his taking me along, as he expressed
it, to eat soup with him, and almost daily, at the time for
absinthe, he came to meet me at the Cafe Leroy, where we
played a game of dominoes.
Thus it was that on a certain evening in the month of July,
on a Friday, at about five o'clock, when he was just about to
beat me at "full double-six," an ugly-looking bully abruptly
entered, and, approaching him, murmured in his ears some
words I could not hear.
M. Mechinet rose suddenly, looking troubled.
"I am coming," said he; "run and say that I am coming."
The man ran off as fast as his legs could carry him, and then
M. Mechinet offered me his hand.
"Excuse me," added my old neighbor, "duty before every-
thing; we shall continue our game to-morrow."
Consumed with curiosity, I showed great vexation, saying
that I regretted very much not accompanying him.
"Well," grumbled he, "why not? Do you want to come?
Perhaps it will be interesting."
For all answer, I took my hat and we left.
1256 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
T WAS certainly far from thinking that I was then venturing
• on one of those apparently insignificant steps which, never-
theless, have a deciding influence on one's whole life.
For once, I thought to myself, I am holding the solution of
the enigma !
And full of a silly and childish satisfaction, I trotted, like
a lean cat, at the side of M. Mechinet.
I say "trotted," because I had all I could do not to be left
behind.
He rushed along, down the Rue Racine, running against the
passers-by, as if his fortune depended on his legs.
Luckily, on the Place de l'Odeon a cab came in our way.
M. Mechinet stopped it, and, opening the door, "Get in, Mon-
sieur Godeuil," said he to me.
I obeyed, and he seated himself at my side, after having
called to the coachman in a commanding voice: "39 Rue Le-
cluse, at Batignolles, and drive fast !"
The distance drew from the coachman a string of oaths.
Nevertheless he whipped up his broken-down horses and the
carriage rolled off.
"Oh! it is to Batignolles we are going?" I asked with a
courtier's smile.
But M. Mechinet did not answer me; I even doubt that he
heard me.
A complete change took place in him. He did not seem ex-
actly agitated, but his set lips and the contraction of his heavy,
brushwood-like eyebrows betrayed a keen preoccupation. His
look, lost in space, seemed to be studying there the meaning
of some insolvable problem.
He had pulled out his snuff-box and continually took from
it enormous pinches of snuff, which he kneaded between the
index and thumb, rolled into a ball, and raised it to his nose;
but he did not actually snuff.
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1257
It was a habit which I had observed, and it amused me very
much.
This worthy man, who abhorred tobacco, always carried a
snuff-box as large as that of a vaudeville capitalist.
If anything unforeseen happened to him, either agreeable or
vexatious, in a trice he had it out, and seemed to snuff furiously.
Often the snuff-box was empty, but his gestures remained the
same.
I learned later that this was a system with him for the pur-
pose of concealing his impressions and of diverting the atten-
tion of his questioners.
In the mean time we rolled on. The cab easily passed up
the Rue de Clichy; it crossed the exterior boulevard, entered
the Rue de Lecluse, and soon stopped at some distance from
the address given.
It was materially impossible to go farther, as the street was
obstructed by a compact crowd.
In front of No. 39, two or three hundred persons were
standing, their necks craned, eyes gleaming, breathless with
curiosity, and with difficulty kept in bounds by half a dozen
sergents de ville, who were everywhere repeating in vain and
in their roughest voices: "Move on, gentlemen, move on!"
After alighting from the carriage, we approached, making
our way with difficulty through the crowd of idlers.
We already had our hands on the door of No. 39, when 3
police officer rudely pushed us back.
"K£ep back ! You can not pass !"
My companion eyed him from head to foot, and straighten-
ing himself up, said:
"Well, don't you know me? I am Mechinet, and this young
man," pointing to me, "is with me."
"I beg your pardon ! Excuse me !" stammered the officer,
carrying his hand to his three-cocked hat. "I did not know ;
please enter."
We entered.
In the hall, a powerful woman, evidently the concierge, more
red than a peony, was holding forth and gesticulating in the
midst of a group of house tenants.
"Where is it?" demanded M. Mechinet gruffly.
"Third floor, monsieur," she replied ; "third floor, door to the
right. Oh ! my God ! What a misfcrtune. In a house like
this. Such a good man."
1258 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
I did not hear more. M. Mechinet was rushing up the stairs,
and I followed him, four steps at a time, my heart thumping.
On the third floor the door to the right was open. We en-
tered, went through an anteroom, a dining-room, a parlor, and
finally reached a bedroom.
If I live a thousand years I shall not forget the scene which
struck my eyes. Even at this moment as I am writing, after
many years, I still see it down to the smallest details.
At the fireplace opposite the door two men were leaning on
their elbows: a police commissary, wearing his scarf of office,
and an examining magistrate.
At the right, seated at a table, a young man, the judge's
clerk, was writing.
In the centre of the room, on the floor, in a pool of coagu-
lated and black blood, lay the body of an old man with white
hair. He was lying on his back, his arms folded crosswise.
Terrified, I stopped as if nailed to the threshold, so nearly
fainting that I was compelled to lean against the door-frame.
My profession had accustomed me to death; I had long ago
overcome repugnance to the amphitheatre, but this was the first
rime that I found myself face to face with a crime.
For it was evident that an abominable crime had been com-
mitted.
Less sensitive than I, my neighbor entered with a firm step.
"Oh, it is you, Mechinet," said the police commissary ; "I am
very sorry to have troubled you."
"Why?"
"Because we shall not need your services. We know the
guilty one; I have given orders; by this time he must have
been arrested."
How strange !
From M. Mechinet's gesture one might have believed that
this assurance vexed him. He pulled out his snuff-box, took
two or three of his fantastic pinches, and said:
"Ah! the guilty one is known?"
It was the examining magistrate who answered :
"Yes, and known in a certain and positive manner; yes, M.
Mechinet, the crime once committed, the assassin escaped, be-
lieving that his victim had ceased living. He was mistaken.
Providence was watching; this unfortunate old man was still
breathing. Gathering all his energy, he dipped one of his
fingers in the blood which was flowing in streams from his
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1259
wound, and there, on the floor, he wrote in his blood his mur-
derer's name. Now look for yourself."
Then I perceived what at first I had not seen.
On the inlaid floor, in large, badly shaped, but legible letters,
was written in blood : Monis.
"Well?" asked M. Mechinet.
"That," answered the police commissary, "is the beginning
cf the name of a nephew of the poor man ; of a nephew for
whom he had an affection, and whose name is Monistrol."
"The devil !" exclaimed my neighbor.
"I can not suppose," continued the investigating magistrate,
"that the wretch would attempt denying. The five letters are
an overwhelming accusation. Moreover, who would profit by
this cowardly crime? He alone, as sole heir of this old man,
who, they say, leaves a large fortune. There is more. It was
last evening that the murder was committed. Well, last even-
ing none other but his nephew called on this poor old man.
The concierge saw him enter the house at about nine o'clock
and leave again a little before midnight."
"It is clear," said M. Mechinet approvingly ; "it is very clear,
this Monistrol is nothing but an idiot." And, shrugging his
shoulders, asked:
"But did he steal anything, break some piece of furniture,
anything to give us an idea as to the motive for the crime?"
"Up to now nothing seems to have been disturbed," answered
the commissary. "As you said, the wretch is not clever; as
soon as he finds himself discovered, he will confess."
Whereupon the police commissary and M. Mechinet with-
drew to the window, conversing in low tones, while the judge
gave some instructions to his clerk.
HAD wanted to know exactly what my enigmatic neighbor
*■ was doing. Now I knew it. Now everything was ex-
plained. The looseness of his life, his absences, his late home
comings, his sudden disappearances, his young wife's fears and
1260 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
complicity; the wound I had cured. But what did I care now
about that discovery?
I examined with curiosity everything around me.
From where I was standing, leaning against the door-frame,
my eye took in the entire apartment.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, evidenced a scene of murder.
On the contrary, everything betokened comfort, and at the same
time habits parsimonious and methodical.
Everything was in its place; there was not one wrong fold
in the curtains; the wood of the furniture was brilliantly pol-
ished, showing daily care.
It seemed evident that the conjectures of the examining mag-
istrate and of the police commissary were correct, and that the
poor old man had been murdered the evening before, when he
was about to go to bed.
In fact, the bed was open, and on the blanket lay a shirt and
a neckcloth.
On the table, at the head of the bed, I noticed a glass of
sugared water, a box of safety matches, and an evening paper,
the "Patrie."
On one corner of the mantelpiece a candlestick was shining
brightly, a nice big, solid copper candlestick. But the candle
which had illuminated the crime was burned out; the murderer
had escaped without extinguishing it, and it had burned down
to the end, blackening the alabaster save-all in which it was
placed.
I noticed all these details at a glance, without any effort,
without my will having anything to do with it. My eye had
become a photographic objective; the stage of the murder had
portrayed itself in my mind, as on a prepared plate, with such
precision that no circumstance was lacking, and with such depth
that to-day, even, I can sketch the apartment of the "little old
man of Batignolles" without omitting anything, not even a
cork, partly covered with green wax, which lay on the floor
under the chair of the judge's clerk.
It was an extraordinary faculty, which had been bestowed
upon me — my chief faculty, which as yet I had not had occasion
to exercise and which all at once revealed itself to me.
I was then too agitated to analyze my impressions. I had
but one obstinate, burning, irresistible desire: to get close to
the body, which was lying two yards from me.
At first I struggled against the temptation. But fatality had
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1261
something to do with it. I approached. Had my presence been
remembered? I do not believe it.
At any rate, nobody paid any attention to me. M. Mechinet
and the police commissary were still talking near the window;
the clerk was reading his report in an undertone to the inves-
tigating magistrate.
Thus nothing prevented me from carrying out my intention.
And, besides, I must confess I was possessed with some kind
of a fever, which rendered me insensible to exterior circum-
stances and absolutely isolated me. So much so that I dared
to kneel close to the body, in order to see better.
Far from expecting any one to call out: "What are you
doing there?" I acted slowly and deliberately, like a man who,
having received a mission, executes it.
The unfortunate old man seemed to me to have been between
seventy and seventy-five years old. He was small and very thin,
but solid and built to pass the hundred-year mark. He still
had considerable hair, yellowish white and curly, on the nape
of the neck. His gray beard, strong and thick, looked as if
he had not been shaven for five or six days; it must have
grown after his death. This circumstance did not surprise me,
as I had often noticed it with our subjects in the amphi-
theatres.
What did surprise me was the expression of the face. It
was calm; I should even say, smiling. His lips were parted,
as for a friendly greeting. Death must have occurred then
with terrible suddenness to preserve such a kindly expression !
That was the first idea which came to my mind.
Yes, but how reconcile these two irreconcilable circum-
stances: a sudden death and those five letters — Monis — which
I saw in lines of blood on the floor? In order to write them,
what effort must it have cost a dying man ! Only the hope of
revenge could have given him so much energy. And how great
must his rage have been to feel himself expiring before being
able to trace the entire name of his murderer! And yet the
face of the dead seemed to smile at one.
The poor old man had been struck in the throat, and the
weapon had gone right through the neck. The instrument must
have been a dagger, or perhaps one of those terrible Catalan
knives, as broad as the hand, which cut on both sides and are
as pointed as a needle.
Never in my life before had I been agitated by such strange
1262 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
sensations. My temples throbbed with extraordinary violence,
and my heart swelled as if it would break. What was I about
to discover?
Driven by a mysterious and irresistible force, which anni-
hilated my will-power, I took between my hands, for the pur-
pose of examining them, the stiff and icy hands of the body.
The right hand was clean; it was one of the fingers of the
left hand, the index, which was all blood-stained.
What ! it was with the left hand that the old man had written ?
Impossible !
Seized with a kind of dizziness, with haggard eyes, my hair
standing on end, paler than the dead lying at my feet, I rose
with a terrible cry:
"Great God !"
At this cry all the others jumped up, surprised, frightened.
"What is it?" they asked me all together. "What has hap-
pened ?"
I tried to answer, but the emotion was strangling me. AH
I could do was to show them the dead man's hands, stammering :
"There ! There !"
Quick as lightning, M. Mechinet fell on his knees beside the
body. What I had seen he saw, and my impression was also
his, for, quickly rising, he said :
"It was not this poor old man who traced the letters there."
As the judge and the commissary looked at him with open
mouths, he explained to them the circumstance of the left
hand alone being blood-stained.
"And to think that I had not paid any attention to that,"
repeated the distressed commissary over and over again.
M. Mechinet was taking snuff furiously.
"So it is," he said, "the things that are not seen are those
that are near enough to put the eyes out. But no matter. Now
the situation is devilishly changed. Since it is not the old
man himself who wrote, it must be the person who killed
him."
"Evidently," approved the commissary.
"Now," continued my neighbor, "can any one imagine a mur-
derer stupid enough to denounce himself by writing his own
name beside the body of his victim? No; is it not so? Now,
conclude — "
The judge had become anxious.
"It is clear," he said, "appearances have deceived us. Moni-
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1263
strol is not the guilty one. Who is it? It is your business,
M. Mechinet, to discover him."
He stopped; a police officer had entered, and, addressing the
commissary, said :
"Your orders have been carried out, sir. Monistrol has been
arrested and locked up. He confessed everything."
T T is impossible to describe our astonishment. What ! While
•*■ we were there, exerting ourselves to find proofs of Moni-
strol's innocence, he acknowledges himself guilty?
M. Mechinet was the first to recover.
Rapidly he raised his fingers from the snuff-box to his nose
five or six times, and advancing toward the officer, said:
"Either you are mistaken, or you are deceiving us ; one or the
other."
"I'll take an oath, M. Mechinet."
"Hold your tongue. You either misunderstood what Moni-
strol said or got intoxicated by the hope of astonishing us with
the announcement that the affair was settled."
The officer, up to then humble and respectful, now became
refractory.
"Excuse me," he interrupted, "I am neither an idiot nor a
liar, and I know what I am talking about."
The discussion came so near being a quarrel that the investi-
gating judge thought best to interfere.
"Calm yourself, Monsieur Mechinet," he said, "and before
expressing an opinion, wait to be informed."
Then turning toward the officer, he continued:
"And you, my friend, tell us what you know, and give us
reasons for your assurance."
Thus sustained, the officer crushed M. Mechinet with an
ironical glance, and with a very marked trace of conceit he
began:
"Well, this is what happened: Monsieur the Judge and Mon-
sieur the Commissary, both here present, instructed us — In-
1264 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
spector Goulard, my colleague Poltin, and myself — to arrest
Monistrol, dealer in imitation jewelry, living at 75 Rue Vivi-
enne, the said Monistrol being accused of the murder of his
uncle."
"Exactly so," approved the commissary in a low voice.
"Thereupon," continued the officer, "we took a cab and had
him drive us to the address given. We arrived and found M.
Monistrol in the back of his shop, about to sit down to dinner
with his wife, a woman of twenty-five or thirty years, and very
beautiful.
"Seeing the three of us stand like a string of onions, our
man got up. 'What do you want?' he asked us. Sergeant
Goulard drew from his pocket the warrant and answered: 'In
the name of the law, I arrest you !' "
Here M. Mechinet behaved as if he were on a gridiron.
"Could you not hurry up?" he said to the officer.
But the latter, as if he had not heard, continued in the same
calm tone:
"I have arrested many people during my life. Well ! I never
saw any of them go to pieces like this one.
" 'You are joking,' he said to us, 'or you are making a mis-
take.'
" 'No, we are not mistaken !'
" 'But, after all, what do you arrest me for ?'
"Goulard shrugged his shoulders.
" 'Don't act like a child,' he said, 'what about your uncle ?
The body has been found, and we have overwhelming proofs
against you.'
"Oh! that rascal, what a disagreeable shock! He tottered
and finally dropped on a chair, sobbing and stammering I can
not tell what answer.
"Goulard, seeing him thus, shook him by the coat collar and
said:
" 'Believe me, the shortest way is to confess everything.'
"The man looked at us stupidly and murmured:
" 'Well, yes, I confess everything.' "
"Well maneuvred, Goulard," said the commissary approvingly.
The officer looked triumphant.
"It was now a matter of cutting short our stay in the shop,"
he continued. "We had been instructed to avoid all commotion,
and some idlers were already crowding around. Goulard seized
the prisoner by the arm, shouting to him: 'Come on, let us
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1265
start ; they are waiting for us at headquarters.' Monistrol man-
aged to get on his shaking legs, and in the voice of a man
taking his courage in both hands, said: 'Let us go.'
"We were thinking that the worst was over ; we did not count
on the wife.
"Up to that moment she had remained in an armchair, as in
a faint, without breathing a word, without seeming even to
understand what was going on.
"But when she saw that we were taking away her husband,
she sprang up like a lioness, and throwing herself in front of
the door, shouted: 'You shall not pass.'
"On my word of honor she was superb; but Goulard, who
had seen others before, said to her: 'Come, come, little woman,
don't let us get angry; your husband will be brought back.'
"However, far from giving way to us, she clung more firmly
to the door-frame, swearing that her husband was innocent;
declaring that if he was taken to prison she would follow him,
at times threatening us and crushing us with invectives, and
then again entreating in her sweetest voice.
"When she understood that nothing would prevent us from
doing our duty, she let go the door, and, throwing herself on
her husband's neck, groaned: 'Oh, dearest beloved, is it pos-
sible that you are accused of a crime ? You — you ! Please tell
them, these men, that you are innocent.'
"In truth, we were all affected, except the man, who pushed
his poor wife back so brutally that she fell in a heap in a
corner of the back shop.
"Fortunately that was the end.
"The woman had fainted; we took advantage of it to stow
the husband away in the cab that had brought us.
"To stow away is the right word, because he had become like
an inanimate thing; he could no longer stand up; he had to
be carried. To omit nothing, I should add that his dog, a kind
of black cur, wanted actually to jump into the carriage with
us, and that we had the greatest trouble to get rid of it.
"On the way, as by right, Goulard tried to entertain our
prisoner and to make him blab. But it was impossible to draw
one word from him. It was only when we arrived at police
headquarters that he seemed to come to his senses. When he
was duly installed in one of the 'close confinement' cells, he
threw himself headlong on the bed, repeating: 'What have I
done to you, my God ! What have I done to you !'
1266 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
"At this moment Goulard approached him, and for the sec-
ond time asked : 'Well, do you confess your guilt ?' Monistrol
motioned with his head: 'Yes, yes.' Then in a hoarse voice
said : 'I beg you, leave me alone.'
"That is what we did, taking care, however, to place a keeper
on watch at the window of the cell, in case the fellow should
attempt suicide.
"Goulard and Poltin remained down there, and I, here
I am."
"That is precise," grumbled the commissary; "it could not
be more precise."
That was also the judge's opinion, for he murmured:
"How can we, after all this, doubt Monistrol's guilt?"
As for me, though I was confounded, my convictions were
still firm. I was just about to open my mouth to venture an
objection, when M. Mechinet forestalled me.
"All that is well and good," exclaimed he. "Only if we
admit that Monistrol is the murderer, we are forced also to
admit that it was he who wrote his name there on the floor —
and — well, that's a hard nut."
"Bosh !" interrupted the commissary, "since the accused con-
fessed, what is the use of bothering about a circumstance which
will be explained at the trial?"
But my neighbor's remark had again roused perplexities in
the mind of the judge, and without committing himself, he
said:
"I am going to the Prefecture. I want to examine Monistrol
this very evening."
And after telling the commissary to be sure and fulfil all
formalities and to await the arrival of the physicians called
for the autopsy of the body, he left, followed by his clerk and
by the officer who had come to inform us of the successful
arrest.
"Provided these devils of doctors do not keep me waiting
too long," growled the commissary, who was thinking of his
dinner.
Neither M. Mechinet nor I answered him. We remained
standing, facing one another, evidently beset by the same
thought.
"After all," murmured my neighbor, "perhaps it was the old
man who wrote— "—"With the left hand, then ?" Is that possi-
ble? Without considering that this poor fellow must have
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1267
died instantly." — "Are you certain of it?" — "Judging by his
wound I would take an oath on it. Besides, the physicians will
come; they will tell you whether I am right or wrong."
With veritable frenzy M. Mechinet pretended to take snuff.
"Perhaps there is some mystery beneath this," said he ; "that
remains to be seen."
"It is an examination to be gone over again." — "Be it so, let
us do it over; and to begin, let us examine the concierge."
Running to the staircase, M. Mechinet leaned over the
balustrade, calling: "Concierge! Hey! Concierge! Come
up, please."
■\X7HILE waiting for the concierge to come up, M. Mechinet
vv proceeded with a rapid and able examination of the
scene of the crime.
It was principally the lock of the main door to the apartment
which attracted his attention ; it was intact, and the key
turned without difficulty. This circumstance absolutely dis-
carded the thought that an evil-doer, a stranger, had entered
during the night by means of false keys.
For my part, I had involuntarily, or rather inspired by the
astonishing instinct which had revealed itself in me, picked
up the cork, partly covered with green wax, which I had
noticed on the floor.
It had been used, and on the side where the wax was
showed traces of the corkscrew; but on the other end could
be seen a kind of deepish notch, evidently produced by some
sharp and pointed instrument.
Suspecting the importance of my discovery, I communicated
it to M. Mechinet, and he could not avoid an exclamation of
joy.
"At last," he exclaimed, "at last we have a clue ! This cork,
it's the murderer who dropped it here; he stuck in it the
brittle point of the weapon he used. The conclusion is, that
the instrument of the murder is a dagger with a fixed handle
1268 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
and not one of those knives which shut up. With this cork,
I am certain to reach the guilty one, no matter who he is !"
The police commissary was just finishing his task in the
room, M. Mechinet and I had remained in the parlor, when
we were interrupted by the noise of heavy breathing.
Almost immediately appeared the powerful woman I had
noticed holding forth in the hall in the midst of the tenants.
It was the concierge, if possible redder than at the time
of our arrival.
"In what way can I serve you, monsieur?" she asked of M.
Mechinet.
"Take a seat, madame," he answered.
"But, monsieur, I have people downstairs."
"They will wait for you. I tell you to sit down."
Nonpulsed by M. Mechinet's tone, she obeyed.
Then looking straight at her with his terrible, small, gray
eyes, he began :
"I need certain information, and I'm going to question you.
In your interest, I advise you to answer straightforwardly.
Now, first of all, what is the name of this poor fellow who
was murdered?"
"His name was Pigoreau, kind sir, but he was mostly known
by the name of Antenor, which he had formerly taken as more
suitable to his business."
"Did he live in this house a long time?"
"The last eight years."
"Where did he reside before?"
"Rue Richelieu, where he had his store; he had been a hair-
dresser, and it was in that business that he made his money."
"He was then considered rich?"
"I heard him say to his niece that he would not let his
throat be cut for a million."
As to this, it must have been known to the investigating
magistrate, as the papers of the poor old man had been included
in the inventory made.
"Now," M. Mechinet continued, "what kind of a man was
this M. Pigoreau, called Antenor?"
"Oh! the cream of men, my dear, kind sir," answered the
concierge. "It is true he was cantankerous, queer, as miserly
as possible, but he was not proud. And so funny with all that.
One could have spent whole nights listening to him, when he
was in the right mood. And the number of stories he knew!
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1269
Just think, a former hairdresser, who, as he said, had dressed
the hair of the most beautiful women in Paris !"
"How did he live ?"
"As everybody else; as people do who have an income, you
know, and who yet cling to their money."
"Can you give me some particulars?"
"Oh! As to that, I think so, since it was I who looked
after his rooms, and that was no trouble at all for me, because
he did almost everything himself — swept, dusted, and polished.
Yes, it was his hobby. Well, every day at noon, I brought
him up a cup of chocolate. He drank it; on top of that he
took a large glass of water; that was his breakfast. Then
he dressed and that took him until two o'clock, for he was
a dandy, and careful of his person, more so than a newly
married woman. As soon as he was dressed, he went out to
take a walk through Paris. At six o'clock he went to dinner in
a private boarding-house, the Mademoiselles Gomet, in the Rue
de las Paix. After dinner he used to go to the Cafe Guerbois
for his demitasse and to play his usual game, and at eleven he
came home to go to bed. On the whole, the poor fellow had
only one fault; he was fond of the other sex. I even told him
often: 'At your age, are you not ashamed of yourself?' But
no one is perfect, and after all it could be easily understood
of a former perfumer, who in his life had had a great many
good fortunes."
An obsequious smile strayed over the lips of the powerful
concierge, but nothing could cheer up M. Mechinet.
"Did M. Pigoreau receive many calls?" he asked.
"Very few. I have hardly seen anybody call on him except
his nephew, M. Monistrol, whom he invited every Sunday to
dinner at Lathuile's."
"And how did they get along together, the uncle and the
nephew ?"
"Like two fingers of the same hand."
"Did they ever have any disputes?"
"Never, except that they were always wrangling about
Madame Clara."
"Who is that Madame Clara?"
"Well, M. Monistrol's wife, a superb creature. The de-
ceased, old Antenor, could not bear her. He said that his
nephew loved that woman too much; that she was leading him
by the end of his nose, and that she was fooling him in every
1270 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
way. He claimed that she did not love her husband; that she
was too high and mighty for her position, and that finally she
would do something foolish. Madame Clara and her uncle
even had a falling out at the end of last year. She wanted the
good fellow to lend a hundred thousand francs to M. Monistrol,
to enable him to buy out a jeweler's stock at the Palais Royal.
But he refused, saying that after his death they could do with
his money whatever they wanted, but that until then, since
he had earned it, he intended to keep and enjoy it."
I thought that M. Mechinet would dwell on this circum-
stance, which seemed to me very important. But no, in vain
did I increase my signals; he continued:
"It remains now to be told by whom the crime was first
discovered."
"By me, my kind monsieur, by me," moaned the concierge.
"Oh ! it is frightful ! Just imagine, this morning, exactly at
twelve, I brought up to old Antenor his chocolate, as usual.
As I do the cleaning, I have a key to the apartment. I opened,
I entered, and what did I see ? Oh ! my God !•'
And she began to scream loudly.
"This grief proves that you have a good heart, madame,"
gravely said M. Mechinet. "Only, as I am in a great hurry,
please try to overcome it. What did you think, seeing your
tenant murdered?"
"I said to any one who wanted to hear: 'It is his nephew,
the scoundrel, who has done it to inherit.' "
"What makes you so positive? Because after all to accuse
a man of so great a crime, is to drive him to the scaffold."
"But, monsieur, who else would it be? M. Monistrol came
to see his uncle last evening, and when he left it was nearly
midnight. Besides, he nearly always speaks to me, but never
said a word to me that night, neither when he came, nor when
he left. And from that moment up to the time I discovered
everything, I am sure nobody went up to M. Antenor's apart-
ment."
I admit this evidence confused me. I would not have thought
of continuing the examination. Fortunately, M. Mechinet's ex-
perience was great, and he was thoroughly master of the diffi-
cult art of drawing the whole truth from witnesses.
"Then, madame," he insisted, "you are certain that Monistrol
came yesterday evening?"
"I am certain."
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1271
"Did you surely see him and recognize him?"
"Ah ! wait. I did not look him in the face. He passed
quickly, trying to hide himself, like the scoundrel he is, and
the hallway is badly illuminated."
At this reply, of such incalculable importance, I jumped up
and, approaching the concierge, exclaimed:
"If it is so, how dare you affirm that you recognized M.
Monistrol ?"
She looked me over from head to foot, and answered with an
ironical smile :
"If I did not see the master's face, I did see the dog's nose.
As I always pet him, he came into my lodge, and I was just
going to give him a bone from a leg of mutton when his mas-
ter whistled for him."
I looked at M. Mechinet, anxious to know what he thought
of this, but his face faithfully kept the secret of his impres-
sions.
He only added:
"Of what breed is M. Monistrol's dog?"
"It is a loulou, such as the drovers used formerly, all black,
with a white spot over the ear; they call him "Pluton."
M. Mechinet rose.
"You may retire," he said to the concierge; "I know all I
want."
And when she had left, he remarked :
"It seems to me impossible that the nephew is not the guilty
one."
During the time this long examination was taking place, the
physicians had come. When they finished the autopsy they
reached the following conclusion:
"M. Pigoreau's death had certainly been instantaneous." So
it was not he who had lined out the five letters, Monis, which
we saw on the floor near the body.
So I was not mistaken.
"But if it was not he," exclaimed M. Mechinet, "who was
it then? Monistrol — that is what nobody will ever succeed in
putting into my brain."
And the commissary, happy at being free to go to dinner at
last, made fun of M. Mechinet's perplexities — ridiculous per-
plexities, since Monistrol had confessed. But M. Mechinet
said:
"Perhaps I am really nothing but an idiot ; the future will tell.
Gab. — Vol. IV r
1272 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
In the mean time, come, by dear Monsieur Godeuil, come with
me to Police Headquarters."
IN like manner, as in going to Batignolles, we took a cab
*■ also to go to Police Headquarters.
M. Mechinet's preoccupation was great. His fingers con-
tinually traveled from the empty snuff-box to his nose, and I
heard him grumbling between his teeth:
"I shall assure myself of the truth of this ! I must find out
the truth of this."
Then he took from his pocket the cork which I had given
him, and turned it over and over like a monkey picking a nut,
and murmured:
"This is evidence, however; there must be something gained
by this green wax."
Buried in my corner, I did not breathe. My position was
certainly one of the strangest, but I did not give it a thought.
Whatever intelligence I had was absorbed in this affair; in my
mind I went over its various and contradictory elements, and
exhausted myself in trying to penetrate the secret of the trag-
edy, a secret of which I had a presentiment.
When our carriage stopped, it was night — dark.
The Quai des Orfevres was deserted and quiet; not a sound,
not a passer-by. The stores in the neighborhood, few and far
between, were closed. All the life of the district had hidden
itself in the little restaurant which almost forms the corner of
the Rue de Jerusalem, behind the red curtains, on which were
outlined the shadows of the patrons.
"Will they let you see the accused?" I asked M. Mechinet.
"Certainly," he answered. "Am I not charged with the fol-
lowing up of this affair? Is it not necessary, in view of un-
foreseen requirements at the inquest, that I be allowed to ex-
amine the prisoner at any hour of the day or night?"
And with a quick step he entered under the arch, saying
to me:
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1273
"Come, come, we have no time to lose."
I did not require any encouragement from him. I followed,
agitated by indescribable emotions and trembling with vague
curiosity.
It was the first time I had ever crossed the threshold of the
Police Headquarters, and God knows what my prejudices were
then.
There, I said to myself, not without a certain terror, there
is the secret of Paris!
I was so lost in thought, that, forgetting to look where I
was going, I almost fell.
The shock brought me back to a sense of the situation.
We were going along an immense passageway, with damp
walls and an uneven pavement. Soon my companion entered a
small room where two men were playing cards, while three or
four others, stretched on cots, were smoking pipes. M. Mechi-
net exchanged a few words with them — I could not hear, for
I had remained outside. Then he came out again, and we con-
tinued our walk.
After crossing a court and entering another passageway, we
soon came before an iron gate with heavy bolts and a formi-
dable lock.
At a word from M. Mechinet, a watchman opened this gate
for us ; at the right we passed a spacious room, where it seemed
to me I saw policemen and Paris guards; finally we climbed
up a very steep stairway.
At the top of the stairs, at the entrance to a narrow passage
with a number of small doors, was seated a stout man with a
jovial face, that certainly had nothing of the classical jailer
about it.
As soon as he noticed my companion, he exclaimed :
"Eh ! it is M. Mechinet. Upon my word, I was expecting
you. I bet you came for the murderer of the little old man
of Batignolles."
"Precisely. Is there anything new ?"
"No."
"But the investigating judge must have come."
"He has just gone."
"Well?"
"He did not stay more than three minutes with the accused,
and when he left he seemed very much satisfied. At the bot-
tom of the stairs he met the governor, and said to him: "This
1274 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
is a settled case; the murderer has not even attempted to
deny."
M. Mechinet jumped about three feet; but the jailer did not
notice it, and continued:
"But "then, that did not surprise me. At a mere glance at
the individual as they brought him I said: 'Here is one who
will not know how to hold out.' "
"And what is he doing now ?"
"He moans. I have been instructed to watch him, for fear
he should commit suicide, and as is my duty, I do watch him,
but it is mere waste of time. He is another one of those fellows
who care more for their own skin than for that of others."
"Let us go and see him," interrupted M. Mechinet; "and
above all, no noise."
At once all three advanced on tiptoe till we reached a solid
oak door, through which had been cut a little barred window
about a man's height from the ground.
Through this little window could be seen everything that
occurred in the cell, which was illuminated by a paltry gas-
burner.
The jailer glanced in first, M. Mechinet then looked, and at
last my turn came.
On a narrow iron couch, covered with a gray woolen blanket
with yellow stripes, I perceived a man lying flat, his head hid-
den between his partly folded arms.
He was crying; the smothered sound of his sobs reached me,
and from time to time a convulsive trembling shook him from
head to foot.
"Open now," ordered M. Mechinet of the watchman.
He obeyed, and we entered.
At the sound of the grating key, the prisoner had raised
himself and, sitting on his pallet, his legs and arms hanging,
his head inclined on his chest, he looked at us stupidly.
He was a man of thirty-five or thirty-eight years of age ; his
build a little above the average, but robust, with an apoplectic
neck sunk between two broad shoulders. He was ugly ; small-
pox had disfigured him, and his long, straight nose and reced-
ing forehead gave him somewhat the stupid look of a sheep.
However his blue eyes were very beautiful, and his teeth were
of remarkable whiteness.
"Well ! M. Monistrol," began M. Mechinet, "we are grieving,
are we?"
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1275
As the unfortunate man did not answer, he continued:
"I admit that the situation is not enlivening. Nevertheless,
if I were in your place, I would prove that I am a man. I
would have common sense, and try to prove my innocence."
"I am not innocent."
This time there could not be any mistake, nor could the in-
telligence of the officer be doubted ; it was from the very mouth
of the accused that we gathered the terrible confession.
"What !" exclaimed M. Mechinet, "it was you who — "
The man stood up, staggering on his legs, his eyes bloodshot,
his mouth foaming, prey to a veritable attack of rage.
"Yes, it was I," he interrupted; "I alone. How many times
will I have to repeat it? Already, a while ago, a judge came;
I confessed everything and signed my confession. What more
do you ask? Go on, I know what awaits me, and I am not
afraid. I killed, I must be killed ! Well, cut my head off, the
sooner the better."
Somewhat stunned at first, M. Mechinet soon recovered.
"One moment. You know," he said, "they do not cut peo-
ple's heads off like that. First they must prove that they are
guilty; after that the courts admit certain errors, certain fatal-
ities, if you will, and it is for this very reason that they recog-
nize 'extenuating circumstances.' "
An inarticulate moan was Monistrol's only answer. M. Me-
chinet continued:
"Did you have a terrible grudge against your uncle?"
"Oh ; no."
"Then why?"
"To inherit; my affairs were in bad shape — you may make
inquiry. I needed money ; my uncle, who was very rich, refused
me some."
"I understand; you hoped to escape from justice?"
"I was hoping to."
Until then I had been surprised at the way M. Mechinet- was
conducting this rapid examination, but now it became clear to
me. I guessed rightly what followed ; I saw what trap he was
laying for the accused.
"Another thing," he continued suddenly, "where did you b«y
the revolver you used in committing the murder?"
No surprise appeared on Monistrol's face.
"I had it in my possession for a long time," he answered.
"What did you do with it after the crime?"
1276 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
"I threw it outside on the boulevard."
"All right," spoke M. Mechinet gravely, "we will make search
and will surely find it."
After a moment of silence he added:
"What I can not explain to myself is, why is it that you had
your dog follow you?"
"What ! How ! My dog?"
"Yes, Pluton. The concierge recognized him."
Monistrol's fists moved convulsively; he opened his mouth as
if to answer, but a sudden idea crossing his mind, he threw
himself back on his bed, and said in a tone of firm determina-
tion:
"You have tortured me enough; you shall not draw another
word from me."
It was clear that to insist would be taking trouble for
nothing.
We then withdrew.
Once outside on the quay, grasping M. Mechinet's arm, I
said:
"You heard it, that unfortunate man does not even know how
his uncle died. Is it possible to still doubt his innocence?"
But he was a terrible skeptic, that old detective.
"Who knows?" he answered. "I have seen some famous
actors in my life. But we have had enough of it for to-day.
This evening I will take you to eat soup with me. To-morrow
it will be daylight, and we shall see."
IT was not far from ten o'clock when M. Mechinet, whom I
* was still accompanying, rang at the door of his apartment.
"I never carry any latch-key," he told me. "In our blessed
business you can never know what may happen. There are
many rascals who have a grudge against me, and even if I am
not always careful for myself, I must be so for my wife."
My worthy neighbor's explanation was superfluous. I had
understood. I even observed that he rang in a peculiar way,
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1277
which must have been an agreed signal between his wife and
himself.
It was the amiable Madame Mechinet who opened the door.
With a quick movement, as graceful as a kitten, she threw
herself on her husband's neck, exclaiming:
"Here you are at last ! I do not know why, but I was almost
worried."
But she stopped suddenly; she had just noticed me. Her
joyous expression darkened, and she drew back. Addressing
both me and her husband :
"What !" she continued, "you come from the cafe at this
hour? That is not common sense!"
M. Mechinet's lips wore the indulgent smile of the man who
is sure of being loved, who knows how to appease by a word
the quarrel picked with him.
"Do not scold us, Caroline," he answered ; by this "us"
associating me with his case. "We do not come from the cafe,
and neither have we lost our time. They sent for me for an
affair ; for a murder committed at Batignolles."
With a suspicious look the young woman examined us —
first her husband and then me ; when she had persuaded her-
self that she was not being deceived, she said only :
"Ah !"
But it would take a whole page to give an inventory of all
that was contained in that brief exclamation.
It was addressed to M. Mechinet, and clearly signified:
"What ? you confided in this young man ! You have revealed
to him your position; you have initiated him into our secrets?"
Thus I interpreted that eloquent "Ah!" My worthy neigh-
bor, too, must have interpreted it as I did, for he answered:
"Well, yes. Where is the wrong of it? I may have to dread
the vengeance of wretches whom I give up to justice, but what
have I to fear from honest people? Do you imagine perhaps
that I hide myself; that I am ashamed of my trade?"
"You misunderstood me, my friend," objected the young
woman.
M. Mechinet did not even hear her.
He had just mounted — I learned this detail later — on a favor-
ite hobby that always carried the day.
"Upon my word," he continued, "you have some peculiar
ideas, madame, my wife. What ! I one of the sentinels
of civilization ! I, who assure society's safety at the price of
1278 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
my rest and at the risk of my life, and should I blush for it?
That would be far too amusing. You will tell me that against
us of the police there exist a number of absurd prejudices
left behind by the past. What do I care? Yes, I know that
there are some sensitive gentlemen who look down on us.
But sacrebleau ! How I should like to see their faces if to-
morrow my colleagues and I should go on a strike, leaving
the streets free to the army of rascals whom we hold in check."
Accustomed without doubt to explosions of this kind, Ma-
dame Mechinet did not say a word; she was right in doing so,
for my good neighbor, meeting with no contradiction, calmed
himself as if by magic.
"But enough of this," he said to his wife. "There is now
a matter of far greater importance. We have not had any
dinner yet ; we are dying of hunger ; have you anything to
give us for supper?"
What happened that night must have happened too often for
Madame Mechinet to be caught unprepared.
"In five minutes you gentlemen will be served," she an-
swered with the most amiable smile.
In fact, a moment afterward we sat down at table before a
fine cut of cold beef, served by Madame Mechinet, who did not
stop filling our glasses with excellent Macon wine.
And while my worthy neighbor was conscientiously plying
his fork I, looking at that peaceable home, which was his,
that pretty, attentive little wife, which was his, kept asking
myself whether I really saw oefore me one of those "savage"
police agents who have been the heroes of so many absurd
stories.
However, hunger soon satisfied, M. Mechinet started to tell
his wife about our expedition. And he did not tell her about
it lightly, but with the most minute details. She had taken a
seat beside him, and by the way she listened and looked under-
standing^, asking for explanations when she had not well
understood, one could recognize in her a plain "Egeria," accus-
tomed to be consulted, and having a deliberative vote.
When M. Mechinet had finished, she said to him :
"You have made a great mistake, an irreparable mistake."
"Where?"
"It is not to Police Headquarters you should have gon«,
abandoning Batignolles."
"But Monistrol?"
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1279
"Yes, you wanted to examine him. What advantage did you
get from that?"
"It was of use to me, my dear friend."
"For nothing. It was to the Rue Vivienne that you should
have hurried, to the wife. You would have surprised her in
a natural agitation caused by her husband's arrest, and if she is
his accomplice, as we must suppose, with a little skill you
would have made her confess."
At these words I jumped from my chair.
"What ! madame," I exclaimed, "do you believe Monistrol
guilty?"
After a moment's hesitation, she answered:
"Yes."
Then she added very vivaciously:
"But I am sure, do you hear, absolutely sure, that the mur-
der was conceived by the woman. Of twenty crimes com-
mitted by men, fifteen have been conceived, planned and in-
spired by woman. Ask Mechinet. The concierge's deposition
ought to have enlightened you. Who is that Madame Moni-
strol ? They told you a remarkably beautiful person, coquettish,
ambitious, affected with covetousness, and who was leading her
husband by the end of his nose. Now what was her position?
Wretched, tight, precarious. She suffered from it, and the
proof of it is that she asked her uncle to loan her husband a
hundred thousand francs. He refused them to her, thus shat-
tering her hopes. Do you not think she had a deadly grudge
against him ? And when she kept seeing him in good health and
sturdy as an oak, she must have said to herself fatally: 'He
will live a hundred years ; by the time he leaves us his inheri-
tance we won't have any teeth left to munch it, and who knows
even whether he will not bury us!' Is it so very far from this
point to the conception of a crime? And the resolution once
taken in her mind, she must have prepared her husband a long
time before, she must have accustomed him to the thought of
murder, she must have put, so to say, the knife in his hand.
And he, one day, threatened with bankruptcy, crazed by his
wife's lamentations, delivered the blow."
"All that is logical," approved M. Mechinet, "very logical,
without a doubt, but what becomes of the circumstances brought
to light by us?"
"Then, madame," I said, "you believe Monistrol stupid enough
to denounce himself by writing down his name ?"
1280 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
She slightly shrugged her shoulders and answered:
"Is thai stupidity? As for me, I maintain that it is not. Is
not that point your strongest argument in favor of his inno-
cence?"
This reasoning was so specious that for a moment I remained
perplexed. Then recovering, I said, insisting:
"But he confesses his guilt, madame?"
"An excellent method of his for getting the authorities to
prove him innocent."
"Oh!"
"You yourself are proof of its efficacy, dear M. Godeuil."
"Eh ! madame, the unfortunate does not even know how his
uncle was killed !"
"I beg your pardon ; he seemed not to know it, which is not
the same thing."
The discussion was becoming animated, and would have
lasted much longer, had not M. Mechinet put an end to it.
"Come, come," he simply said to his wife, "you are too roman-
tic this evening."
And addressing me, he continued:
"As for you, I shall come and get you to-morrow, and we
shall go together to call on Madame Monistrol. And now, as
I am dying for sleep, good night."
He may have slept. As for me, I could not close my eyes.
A secret voice within me seemed to say that Monistrol was
innocent.
My imagination painted with painful liveliness the tortures
of that unfortunate man, alone in his prison cell.
But why had he confessed?
TX7"HAT I then lacked — I have had occasion to realize it
hundreds of times since — was experience, business prac-
tise, and chiefly an exact knowledge of the means of action
and of police investigation.
I felt vaguely that this particular investigation had been
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1281
conducted wrongly, or rather superficially, but I would have
been embarrassed to say why, and especially to say what should
have been done.
None the less I was passionately interested in Monistrol.
It seemed to me that his cause was also mine, and it was
only natural — my young vanity was at stake. Was it not one
of my own remarks that had raised the first doubts as to the
guilt of this unfortunate man?
I owed it to myself, I said, to prove his innocence.
Unfortunately the discussions of the evening troubled me to
such an extent that I did not know precisely on which fact
to build up my system.
And, as always happens when the mind is for too long a
time applied to tb> solution of a problem, my thoughts became
tangled, like a skein in the hands of a child; I could no longer
see clearly; it was chaos.
Buried in my armchair, I was torturing my brain, when, at
about nine o'clock in the morning, M. Mechinet, faithful to his
promise of the evening before, came for me.
"Come, let us go," he said, shaking me suddenly, for I had
not heard him enter. "Let us start!"
"I am with you," I said, getting up.
We descended hurriedly, and I noticed then that my worthy
neighbor was more carefully dressed than usual.
He had succeeded in giving himself that easy and well-to-do
appearance which more than anything else impresses the Paris-
ian shopkeeper.
His cheerfulness was that of a man sure of himself, march-
ing toward certain victory.
We were soon in the street, and while walking he asked
me:
"Well, what do you think of my wife? I pass for a clever
man at police headquarters, and yet I consult her — even Mo-
liere consulted his maid — and often I find it to my advantage.
She has one weakness : for her, unreasonable crimes do not ex-
ist, and her imagination endows all scoundrels with diabolical
plots. But as I have exactly the opposite fault, as I perhaps
am a little too much matter-of-fact, it rarely happens that from
our consultation the truth does not result somehow."
"What !" I exclaimed, "you think to have solved the mystery
of fhe Monistrol case !"
He stopped short, drew out his snuff-box, inhaled three or
1282 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
four of his imaginary pinches, and in a tone of quiet vanity,
answered :
"I have at least the means of solving it."
In the mean time we reached the upper end of the Rue
Vivienne, not far from Monistrol's business place.
"Now look out," said M. Mechinet to me. "Follow me, and
whatever happens do not be surprised."
He did well to warn me. Without the warning I would have
been surprised at seeing him suddenly enter the store of an
umbrella dealer.
Stiff and grave, like an Englishman, he made them show him
everything there was in the shop, found nothing suitable, and
finally inquired whether it was not possible for them to manu-
facture for him an umbrella according to a model which he
would furnish.
They answered that it would be the easiest thing in the
world, and he left, saying he would return the day following.
And most assuredly the half hour he spent in this store was
not wasted.
While examining the objects submitted to him, he had art-
fully drawn from the dealers all they knew about the Moni-
strol couple.
Upon the whole, it was not a difficult task, as the affair
of the "little old man of Batignolles" and the arrest of the
imitation jeweler had deeply stirred the district and were the
subject of all conversation.
"There, you see," he said to me, when we were outside, "how
exact information is obtained. As soon as the people know
with whom they are dealing, they pose, make long phrases,
and then good-by to strict truth."
This comedy was repeated by Mr. Mechinet in seven or eight
stores of the neighborhood.
In one of them, where the proprietors were disagreeable and
not much inclined to talk, he even made a purchase amounting
to twenty francs.
But after two hours of such practise, which amused me very
much, we had gaged public opinion. We knew exactly what
was thought of M. and Mme. Monistrol in the neighborhood,
where they had lived since their marriage, that is, for the
past four years.
As regards the husband, there was but one opinion — he
was the most gentle and best of men, obliging, honest, intelligent,
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1283
and hardworking. If he had not made a success in his business
it was because luck does not always favor those who most
deserve it. He did wrong in taking a shop doomed to bank-
ruptcy, for, in the past fifteen years, four merchants had failed
there.
Everybody knew and said that he adored his wife, but this
great love had not exceeded the proper limits, and therefore
no ridicule resulted for him.
Nobody could believe in his guilt.
His arrest, they said, must be a mistake made by the police.
As to Madame Monistrol, opinion was divided.
Some thought she was too stylish for her means; others
claimed that a stylish dress was one of the requirements, one
of the necessities, of a business dealing in luxuries.
In general, they were convinced that she loved her husband
very much. For instance, they were unanimous in praising
her modesty, the more meritorious, because she was remark-
ably beautiful, and because she was besieged by many admirers.
But never had she given any occasion to be talked about, never
had her immaculate reputation been glanced at by the lightest
suspicion.
I noticed that this especially bewildered M. Mechinet.
"It is surprising," he said to me, "not one scandal, not
one slander, not one calumny. Oh ! this is not what Caroline
thought. According to her, we were to find one of those lady
shopkeepers, who occupy the principal place in the office, who
display their beauty much more than their merchandise, and
who banish to the back shop their husband — a blind idiot, or
an indecent obliging scoundrel. But not at all."
I did not answer; I was not less disconcerted than my
neighbor.
We were now far from the evidence the concierge of the Rue
le Cluse had given; so greatly varies the point of view accord-
ing to the location. What at Batignolles is considered to be a
blamable coquetry, is in the Rue Vivienne nothing more
than an unreasonable requirement of position.
But we had already employed too much time for our in-
vestigations to stop and exchange impressions and to discuss
our conjectures.
"Now," said M. Mechinet. "before entering the place, let
us study its approaches."
And trained in carrying out discreet investigations in the
1284 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
midst of Paris bustle, he motioned to me to follow him under
a carriage entrance, exactly opposite Monistrol's store.
It was a modest shop, almost poor, compared with those
around it. The front needed badly a painter's brush. Above,
in letters which were formerly gilt, now smoky and blackened,
Monistrol's name was displayed. On the plate-glass windows
could be read: "Gold and Imitation."
Alas! it was principally imitation that was glistening in the
show window. On the rods were hanging many plated chains,
sets of jet jewelry, diadems studded with rhinestones, then
imitation coral necklaces and brooches and rings; and cuff
buttons set with imitation stones in all colors.
All in all, a poor display, it could never tempt gimlet thieves.
"Let us enter," I said to M. Mechinet.
He was less impatient than I, or knew better how to keep
back his impatience, for he stopped me by the arm, saying:
"One moment. I should like at least to catch a glimpse of
Madame Monistrol."
In vain did we continue to stand for more than twenty
minutes on our observation post; the shop remained empty,
Madame Monistrol did not appear.
"Come, Monsieur Godeuil, let us venture," exclaimed my
worthy neighbor at last, "we have been standing in one place
long enough."
| N order to reach Monistrol's store we had only to cross the
street.
At the noise of the door opening, a little servant girl, from
fifteen to sixteen years old, dirty and ill combed, came out of
the back shop.
"What can I serve the gentlemen with?" she asked.
"Madame Monistrol?"
"She is there, gentlemen; I am going to notify her, because
you see — "
M. Mechinet did not give her time to finish. With a move-
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1285
ment, rather brutal, I must confess, he pushed her out of the
way and entered the back shop saying:
"All right, since she is there, I am going to speak to her."
As for me, I walked on the heels of my worthy neighbor,
convinced that we would not leave without knowing the solution
of the riddle.
That back shop was a miserable room, serving at the same
time as parlor, dining-room, and bedroom. Disorder reigned
supreme ; moreover there was that incoherence we notice in
the house of the poor who endeavor to appear rich.
In the back there was a bed with blue damask curtains and
with pillows adorned with lace ; in front of the mantelpiece
stood a table all covered with the remains of a more than modest
breakfast.
In a large armchair was seated, or rather lying, a very blond
young woman, who was holding in her hand a sheet of stamped
paper.
It was Madame Monistrol.
Surely in telling us of her beauty, all the neighbors had
come far below the reality. I was dazzled.
Only one circumstance displeased me. She was in full mourn-
ing, and wore a crape dress, slightly decollete, which fitted her
marvelously.
This showed too much presence of mind for so great a sor-
row. Her attire seemed to me to be the contrivance of an
actress dressing herself for the role she is to play.
As we entered, she stood up, like a frightened doe, and
with a voice which seemed to be broken by tears, she asked:
"What do you want, gentlemen?"
M. Mechinet had also observed what I had noticed.
"Madame," he answered roughly, "I was sent by the Court;
I am a police agent."
Hearing this, she fell back into her armchair with a moan
that would have touched a tiger.
Then, all at once, seized by some kind of enthusiasm, with
sparkling eyes and trembling lips, she exclaimed:
"So you have come to arrest me. God bless you. See ! I am
ready, take me. Thus I shall rejoin that honest man, arrested
by you last evening. Whatever be his fate, I want to share it.
He is as innocent as I am. No matter ! If he is to be the
victim of an error of human justice, it shall be for me a la*t
joy to die with him."
1286 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
She was interrupted by a low growl coming from one of the
corners of the back shop.
I looked, and saw a black dog, with bristling hair and blood-
shot eyes, showing his teeth, and ready to jump on us.
"Be quiet, Pluton !" called Madame Monistrol ; "go and lie
down ; these gentlemen do not want to hurt me."
Slowly and without ceasing to glare at us furiously, the dog
took refuge under the bed.
"You are right to say that we do not want to hurt you, ma-
dame," continued M. Mechinet, "we did not come to arrest you."
If she heard, she did not show it.
"This morning already," she said, "I received this paper here,
commanding me to appear later in the day, at three o'clock, at
the court-house, in the office of the investigating judge. What
do they want of me ? my God ! What do they want of me ?"
"To obtain explanations which will prove, I hope, your hus-
band's innocence. So, madame, do not consider me an enemy.
What I want is to get at the truth."
He produced his snuff-box, hastily poked his fingers therein,
and in a solemn tone, which I did not recognize in him, he
resumed :
"It is to tell you, madame, of what importance will be your
answers to the questions which I shall have the honor of ask-
ing you. Will it be convenient for you to answer me frankly ?"
For a long time she rested her large blue eyes, drowned in
tears, on my worthy neighbor, and in a tone of painful resig-
nation she said:
"Question me, monsieur."
For the third time I repeat it, I was absolutely without ex-
perience ; I was troubled over the manner in which M. Mechinet
had begun this examination.
It seemed to me that he betrayed his perplexity, and that,
instead of pursuing an aim established in advance, he was deliv-
ering his blows at random.
Ah ! if I were allowed to act ! Ah ! if I had dared.
He, impenetrable, had seated himself opposite Madame
Monistrol.
"You must know, madame," he began, "that it was the night
before last, at eleven o'clock, that M. Pigoreau, called Antenor,
vour husband's uncle, was murdered."
"Alas !"
"Where was M. Monistrol at that hour?"
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1287
"My God ! that is fatality."
M. Mechinet did not wince.
"I am asking you, madame," he insisted, "where your hus-
band spent the evening of the day before yesterday?"
The young woman needed time to answer, because she sobbed
so that it seemed to choke her. Finally mastering herself, she
moaned :
"The day before yesterday my husband spent the evening out
of the house."
"Do you know where he was?"
"Oh ! as to that, yes. One of our workmen, who lives in
Montrouge, had to deliver for us a set of false pearls, and did
not deliver it. We were taking the risk of being obliged to
keep the order on our account, which would have been a dis-
aster, as we are not rich. That is why, at dinner, my husband
told me : 'I am going to see that fellow.' And, in fact, toward
nine o'clock, he went out, and I even went with him as far as
the omnibus, where he got in in my presence, Rue Richelieu."
I was breathing more easily. This, perhaps, was an alibi
after all.
M. Mechinet had the same thought, and, more gently, he
resumed :
"If it is so, your workman will be able to affirm that he saw
M. Monistrol at his house at eleven o'clock."
"Alas ! no."
"How? Why?"
"Because he had gone out. My husband did not see him."
"That is indeed fatal. But it may be that the concierge
noticed M. Monistrol."
"Our workman lives in a house where there is no concierge."
That may have been the truth; it was certainly a terrible
charge against the unfortunate prisoner.
"And at what time did your husband return?" continued
M. Mechinet.
"A little after midnight."
"Did you not find that he was absent a very long time?"
"Oh ! yes. And I even reproved him for it. He told me as
an excuse that he had taken the longest way, that he had saun-
tered on the road, and that he had stopped in a cafe to drink
a glass of beer."
"How did he look when he came home?"
"It seemed to me that he was vexed; but that was natural."
1288 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
"What clothes did he wear?"
"The same he had on when he was arrested."
"You did not observe in him anything out of the ordinary?"
"Nothing."
Standing a little behind M. Mechinet, I could, at my leisure,
observe Madame Monistrol's face and catch the most fleeting
signs of her emotion.
She seemed overwhelmed by an immense grief, large tears
rolled down her pale cheeks; nevertheless, it seemed to me at
times that I could discover in the depth of her large blue eyes
something like a flash of joy.
Is it possible that she is guilty? And as this thought, which
had already come to me before, presented itself more obstinately,
I quickly stepped forward, and in a rough tone asked her:
"But you, madame, where were you on that fatal evening at
the time your husband went uselessly to Montrouge, to look for
his workman?"
She cast on me a long look, full of stupor, and softly
answered :
"I was here, monsieur; witnesses will confirm it to you."
"Witnesses !"
"Yes, monsieur. It was so hot that evening that I had a
longing for ice-cream, but it vexed me to eat it alone. So I
sent my maid to invite my neighbors, Madame Dorstrich, the
bootmaker's wife, whose store is next to ours, and Madame
Rivaille, the glove manufacturer, opposite us. These two ladies
accepted my invitation and remained here until half-past eleven.
Ask them, they will tell you. In the midst of such cruel trials
that I am suffering, this accidental circumstance is a blessing
from God."
Was it really an accidental circumstance?
That is what we were asking ourselves, M. Mechinet and I,
with glances more rapid than a flash.
When chance is so intelligent as that, when it serves a cause
so directly, it is very hard not to suspect that it had been some-
what prepared and led on.
But the moment was badly chosen for this discovery of our
bottom thoughts.
"You have never been suspected, you, madame," imprudently
stated M. Mechinet. "The worst that may be supposed is that
your husband perhaps told you something of the crime before
he committed it."
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1289
"Monsieur — if you knew us."
"Wait. Your business is not going very well, we were told;
you were embarrassed."
"Momentarily, yes; in fact — "
"Your husband must have been unhappy and worried about
this precarious conditior He must have suffered especially for
you, whom he adores; for you who are so young and beautiful;
for you, more than for himself, he must have ardently desired
the enjoyments of luxury and the satisfactions of self-esteem,
procured by wealth."
"Monsieur, I repeat it, my husband is innocent."
With an air of reflection, M. Mechinet seemed to fill his nose
with tobacco ; then all at once he said :
"Then, by thunder! how do you explain his confessions? An
innocent man does not declare himself to be guilty at the mere
mentioning of the crime of which he is suspected; that is rare,
madame; that is prodigious!"
A fugitive blush appeared on the cheeks of the young woman.
Up to then her look had been straight and clear; now for the
first time it became troubled and unsteady
"I suppose," she answered in an indistinct voice and with
increased tears, "I believe that my husband, seized by fright and
stupor at finding himself accused of so great a crime, lost his
head."
M. Mechinet shook his head.
"If absolutely necessary," he said, "a passing delirium might
be admitted ; but this morning, after a whole long night of
reflection. M. Monistrol persists in his first confessions."
Was this true? Was my worthy neighbor talking at random,
or else had he before coming to get me been at the prison to
get news?
However it was, the young woman seemed almost to faint;
hiding her head between her hands, she murmured :
"Lord God ! My poor husband has become insane."
Convinced now that I was assisting at a comedy, and that the
great despair of this young woman was nothing but falsehood,
I was asking myself whether for certain reasons which were
escaping me she had not shaped the terrible determination
taken by her husband ; and whether, he being innocent, she did
not know the real guilty one.
But M. Mechinet did not have the air of a man looking so
far ahead.
1290 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
After having given the young woman a few words of consola-
tion too common to compromise him in any way, he gave her
to understand that she would forestall many prejudices by allow-
ing a minute and strict search through her domicile.
This opening she seized with an eagerness which was not
feigned.
"Search, gentlemen !" she told us ; "examine, search every-
where. It is a service which you will render me. And it will
not take long. We have in our name nothing but the back-
shop where we are, our maid's room on the sixth floor, and a
little cellar. Here are the keys for everything."
To my great surprise, M. Mechinet accepted ; he seemed to
be starting on one of the most exact and painstaking inves-
tigations.
What was his object? It was not possible that he did not
have in view some secret aim, as his researches evidently had
to end in nothing.
As soon as he had apparently finished he said :
"There remains the cellar to be explored."
"I am going to take you down, monsieur," said Madame
Monistrol.
And immediately taking a burning candle, she made us cross
a yard into which a door led from the back-shop, and took us
across a very slippery stairway to a door which she opened,
saying :
"Here it is — enter, gentlemen."
I began to understand.
My worthy neighbor examined the cellar with a ready and
trained look. It was miserably kept, and more miserably fitted
out. In one corner was standing a small barrel of beer, and
immediately opposite, fastened on blocks, was a barrel of wine,
with a wooden tap to draw it. On the right side, on iron rods,
were lined up about fifty filled bottles. These bottles M. Mechi-
net did not lose sight of, and found occasion to move them one
by one.
And what I saw he noticed : not one of them was sealed with
green wax.
Thus the cork picked up by me, and which served to protect
the point of the murderer's weapon, did not come from the
Monistrols' cellar.
"Decidedly," M. Mechinet said, affecting some disappoint-
ment, "I do not find anything; we can go up again."
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1291
We did so, but not in the same order in which we descended,
for in returning I was the first.
Thus it was I who opened the door of the back-shop. Imme-
diately the dog of the Monistrol couple sprang at me. barking
so furiously that I jumped back.
"The devil ! Your dog is vicious," M. Mechinet said to the
young woman.
She had already called him off with a gesture of her hand.
"Certainly not, he is not vicious," she said, "but he is a
good watchdog. We are jewelers, exposed more than other?
to thieves; we have trained him."
Involuntarily, as one always does after having been threat-
ened by a dog, I called him by his name, which I knew :
"Pluton! Pluton!"
But instead of coming near me, he retreated growling, show-
ing his sharp teeth.
"Oh, it is useless for you to call him," thoughtlessly said Ma-
dame Monistrol. "He will not obev vou."
"Indeed! And why?"
"Ah ! because he is faithful, as all of his breed ; he know-
only his master and me."
This sentence apparently did not mean anything. For me it
was like a flash of light. And without reflecting I asked:
"Where then, madame, was that faithful dog the evening of
the crime?"
The effect produced on her by this direct question was such
that she almost dropped the candlestick she was still holding.
"I do not know," she stammered; "I do not remember."
"Perhaps he followed your husband."
"In fact, yes, it seems to me now I remember."
"He must then have been trained to follow carriages, since
you told us that you went with your husband as far as the
Omnibus."
She remained silent, and I was going to continue when M
Mechinet interrupted me. Far from taking advantage of the
young woman's troubled condition, he seemed to assume the
task of reassuring her, and after having urged her to obey the
summons of the investigating judge, he led me out.
Then when we were outside he said:
"Are you losing your head?"
The reproach hurt me.
"Is it losing one's head," I said, "to find the solution of the
1292 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
problem? Now I have it, that solution. Monistrol's dog shall
guide us to the truth."
My hastiness made my worthy neighbor smile, and in a
fatherly tone he said to me:
"You are right, and I have well understood you. Only if
Madame Monistrol has penetrated into your suspicions, the dog
before this evening will be dead or will have disappeared."
T HAD committed an enormous imprudence, it was true.
•*■ Nevertheless, I had found the weak point ; that point by
which the most solid system of defense may be broken down.
I, voluntary recruit, had seen clearly where the old stager
was losing himself, groping about. Any other would, perhaps,
have been jealous and would have had a grudge against me.
But not he.
He did not think of anything else but of profiting by my for-
tunate discovery; and, as he said, everything was easy enough
now, since the investigation rested on a positive point of
departure.
We entered a neighboring restaurant to deliberate while
lunching.
The problem, which an hour before seemed unsolvable, now
stood as follows :
It had been proved to us, as much as could be by evidence,
that Monistrol was innocent. Why had he confessed to being
guilty? We thought we could guess why, but that was not the
question of the moment. We were equally certain that Madame
Monistrol had not budged from her home the night of the
murder. But everything tended to show that she was morally
an accomplice to the crime ; that she had known of it, even if
she did not advise and prepare it, and that, on the other hand,
she knew the murderer very well.
Who was he, that murderer?
A man whom Monistrol's dog obeyed as well as his master,
since he had him follow him when he went to the Batignolles.
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1295
Therefore, it was an intimate friend of the Monistrol house-
hold. He must have hated the husband, however, since he had
arranged everything with an infernal skill, so that the sus-
picion of the crime should fall on that unfortunate.
On the other hand, he must have been very dear to the
woman, since, .knowing him, she did not give him up, and
without hesitation sacrificed to him her husband.
Well!
Oh ! my God ! The conclusion was all in a definite shape.
The murderer could only be a miserable hypocrite, who had
taken advantage of the husband's affection and confidence to
take possession of the wife.
In short, Madame Monistrol, belieing her reputation, certainly
had a lover, and that lover necessarily was the culprit.
All filled by this certitude, I was torturing my mind to think
of some infallible stratagem which would lead us to this wretch.
"And this," I said to M. Mechinet, "is how I think we ought
to operate. Madame Monistrol and the murderer must have
agreed that after the crime they would not see each other for
some time; this is the most elementary prudence. But you
may believe that it will not be long before impatience will
conquer the woman, and that she will want to see her accom-
plice. Now place near her an observer who will follow her
everywhere, and before twice forty-eight hours have passed the
affair will be settled."
Furiously fumbling after his empty snuff-box, M. Mechinet
remained a moment without answering, mumbling between his
teeth I know not what unintelligible words.
Then suddenly, leaning toward me, he said:
"That isn't it. You have the professional genius, that is
certain, but it is practise that you lack. Fortunately, I am
here. What! a phrase regarding the crime puts you on the
trail, and you do not follow it."
"How is that?"
"That faithful dog must be made use of."
"I do not quite catch on."
"Then know how to wait. Madame Monistrol will go out at
about two o'clock, in order to be at the court-house at three;
the little maid will be alone in the shop. You will see. I only
tell you that."
I insisted in vain; he did not want to say anything more,
taking revenge for his defeat by this innocent spite. Willing
1294 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
or unwilling, I had to follow him to the nearest cafe, where
he forced me to play dominoes.
Preoccupied as I was, I played badly, and he, without shame,
was taking advantage of it to beat me, when the clock struck
two.
"Up, men of the post," he said to me, letting go of his dice.
He paid, we went out, and a moment later we were again
on duty under the carriage entrance from which we had before
studied the front of the Monistrol store.
We had not been there ten minutes, when Madame Monistrol
appeared in the door of her shop, dressed in black, with a long
crape veil, like a widow.
"A pretty dress to go to an examination," mumbled M.
Mechinet.
She gave a few instructions to her little maid, and soon left.
My companion patiently waited for five long minutes, and
when he thought the young woman was already far away, he
9aid to me :
"It is time."
And for the second time we entered the jewelry store.
The little maid was there alone, sitting in the office, for
pastime nibbling some pieces of sugar stolen from her mistress.
As soon as we appeared she recognized us, and reddening
and somewhat frightened, she stood up. But without giving
her time to open her mouth, M. Mechinet asked:
"Where is Madame Monistrol?"
"Gone out, monsieur."
"You are deceiving me. She is there in the back shop."
"I swear to you, gentlemen, that she is not. Look in, please."
With the most disappointed looks, M. Mechinet was striking
his forehead, repeating:
"How disagreeable. My God ! how distressed that poor Ma-
dame Monistrol will be." And as the little maid was looking
at him with her mouth wide open and with big, astonished
eyes, he continued :
"But, in fact, you, my pretty girl, you can perhaps take the
place of your mistress. I came back because I lost the address
of the gentleman on whom she asked me to call."
"What gentleman?"
"You know. Monsieur — well, I have forgotten his name now.
Monsieur — upon my word ! you know, only him — that gentle-
man whom your devilish dog obeys so well."
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1295
"Oh! M. Victor?"
"That's just it. What is that gentleman doing?"
"He is a jeweler's workman; he is a great friend of mon-
sieur; they were working together when monsieur was a
jeweler's workman, before becoming proprietor, and that is
why he can do anything he wants with Pluton."
"Then you can tell me where this M. Victor resides?"
"Certainly. He lives in the Rue du Roi-Dore, No. 23."
She seemed so happy, the poor girl, to be so well informed;
but as for me, I suffered in hearing her so unwittingly de-
nounce her mistress.
M. Mechinet, more hardened, did not have any such scruples.
And even after we had obtained our information, he ended
the scene with a sad joke.
As I opened the door for us to go out, he said to the young
girl:
"Thanks to you. You have just rendered a great service to
Madame Monistrol, and she will be very pleased."
AS soon as I was on the sidewalk I had but one thought:
and that was to shake out our legs and to run to the Rue
idu Roi-Dore and arrest this Victor, evidently the real culprit
One word from M. Mechinet fell on my enthusiasm like a
shower-bath.
"And the court," he said to me. "Without a warrant by the
investigating judge I can not do anything. It is to the court-
house that we must run."
"But we shall meet there Madame Monistrol, and if she sees
us she will have her accomplice warned."
"Be it so," answered M. Mechinet, with a badly disguised
bitterness. "Be it so, the culprit will escape and formality will
have been saved. However, I shall prevent that danger. Let
ns walk, let us walk faster."
And, in fact, the hope of success gave him deer legs. Reach-
ing the court-house, he jumped, four steps at a time, up the
Gab. — Vol. IV Q
1296 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
steep stairway leading to the floor on which were the judges
of investigation, and, addressing the chief bailiff, he inquired
whether the magistrate in charge of the case of the "little old
man of Batignolles" was in his room.
"He is there," answered the bailiff, "with a witness, a young
lady in black."
"It is she!" said my companion to me. Then to the bailiff:
"You know me," he continued. "Quick, give me something to
write on, a few words which you will take to the judge."
The bailiff went off with the note, dragging his boots along
the dusty floor, and was not long in returning with the an-
nouncement that the judge was awaiting us in No. 9.
In order to see M. Mechinet, the magistrate had left Madame
Monistrol in his office, under his clerk's guard, and had bor-
rowed the room of one of his colleagues.
"What has happened?" he asked in a tone which enabled me
to measure the abyss separating a judge from a poor detective.
Briefly and clearly M. Mechinet described the steps taken by
us, their results and our hopes.
Must we say it ? The magistrate did not at all seem to share
our convictions.
"But since Monistrol confesses," he repeated with an obsti-
nacy which was exasperating to me.
However, after many explanations, he said :
"At any rate, I am going to sign a warrant."
The valuable paper once in his possession, M. Mechinet es-
caped so quickly that I nearly fell in precipitating myself after
him down the stairs. I do not know whether it took us a
quarter of an hour to reach the Rue du Roi-Dore. But once
there : "Attention," said M. Mechinet to me.
And it was with the most composed air that he entered in
the narrow passageway of the house bearing No. 23.
"M. Victor?" he asked of the concierge.
"On the fourth floor, the right-hand door in the hallway."
"Is he at home?"
"Yes."
M. Mechinet took a step toward the staircase, but seemed
to change his mind, and said to the concierge:
"I must make a present of a good bottle of wine to that
dear Victor. With which wine-merchant does he deal in this
neighborhood ?"
"With the one opposite."
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1297
We were there in a trice, and in the tone of a customer
M. Mechinet ordered:
"One bottle, please, and of good wine — of that with the green
seal."
Ah ! upon my word ! That thought would never have come
to me at that time. And yet it was very simple.
When the bottle was brought, my companion exhibited the
cork found at the home of M. Pigoreau, called Antenor, and
we easily identified the wax.
To our moral certainty was now added a material certainty,
and with a firm hand M. Mechinet knocked at Victor's door.
"Come in," cried a pleasant-sounding voice.
The key was in the door; we entered, and in a very neat
room I perceived a man of about thirty, slender, pale, and
blond, who was working in front of a bench.
Our presence did not seem to trouble him.
"What do you want ?" he politely asked.
M. Mechinet advanced toward him, and, taking him by the
arm, said:
"In the name of the law, I arrest you."
The man became livid, but did not lower his eyes.
"Are you making fun of me?" he said with an insolent air.
"What have I done?"
M. Mechinet shrugged his shoulders.
"Do not act like a child," he answered; "your account is
settled. You were seen coming out from old man Antenor's
home, and in my pocket I have a cork which you made use
of to prevent your dagger from losing its point."
It was like a blow of a fist in the neck of the wretch. Over-
whelmed, he dropped on his chair, stammering:
"I am innocent."
"You will tell that to the judge," said M. Mechinet good-
naturedly ; "but I am afraid that he will not believe you. Your
accomplice, the Monistrol woman, has confessed everything."
As if moved by a spring, Victor jumped up.
"That is impossible !" he exclaimed. "She did not know any-
thing about it."
"Then you did the business all alone? Very well. There is
at least that much confessed."
Then addressing me in a tone of a man knowing what he is
talking about, M. Mechinet continued:
"Will you please look in the drawers, my dear Monsieur
1298 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES
Godeuil; you will probably find there the dagger of this pretty
fellow, and certainly also the love-letters and the picture of his
sweetheart."
A flash of rage shone in the murderer's eyes, and he was
gnashing his teeth, but M. Mechinet's broad shoulders and iron
grip extinguished in him every desire for resistance.
I found in a drawer of the bureau all the articles my com-
panion had mentioned. And twenty minutes later, Victor, "duly
packed in," as the expression goes, in a cab, between M. Me-
chinet and myself, was driving toward Police Headquarters.
"What," I said to myself, astonished by the simplicity of the
thing, "that is all there is to the arrest of a murderer; of a
man destined for the scaffold !"
Later I had occasion to learn at my expense which of crim-
inals is the most terrible.
This one, as soon as he found himself in the police cell, see-
ing that he was lost, gave up and told us all the details of
his crime.
He knew for a long time, he said, the old man Pigoreau, and
was known by him. His object in killing him was principally
to cause the punishment of the crime to fall on Monistrol. That
is why he dressed himself up like Monistrol and had Pluton
follow him. The old man once murdered, he had had the ter-
rible courage to dip in the blood a finger of the body, to trace
these five letters, Monis, which almost caused an innocent man
to be lost.
"And that had been so nicely arranged," he said to us with
cynic bragging. "If I had succeeded, I would have killed two
birds with the same stone. I would have been rid of my friend
Monistrol, whom I hate and of whom I am jealous, and I would
have enriched the woman I love."
It was, in fact, simple and terrible.
"Unfortunately, my boy," M. Mechinet objected, "you lost
your head at the last moment. Well, one is never perfect. It
was the left hand of the body which you dipped in the blood."
With a jump, Victor stood up.
"What!" he exclaimed, "is that what betrayed me?"
"Exactly."
With a gesture of a misunderstood genius, the wretch raised
his arm toward heaven.
"That is for being an artist," he exclaimed.
And looking us over with an air of pity, he added :
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES 1299
" Old man Pigoreau was left-handed ! "
Thus it was due to a. mistake made in the investigation that
the culprit was discovered so promptly.
The day following" Monistrol was released.
And when the investigating judge reproached him for his
untrue confession, which had exposed the courts to a terrible
error, he could not obtain any other answer than :
" I love my wife, and wanted to'sacrifice myself for her. I
thought she was guilty."
Was she guilty? I would have taken an oath on it. She was
arrested, but was acquitted by the same judgment which sen-
tenced Victor to forced labor for life.
M. and Mme. Monistrol to-day keep an ill-reputed wine-
shop on theVincennes Road. Their uncle's inheritance has
long ago disappeared ; they live in terrible misery.
THE END
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