CLASSIC MYSTERIES - The Émile Gaboriau Edition (Detective Novels & Murder Cases). Emile Gaboriau

a very difficult task.

      “Very well,” said he. “Our inquest seems to be complete. The history of the victims imparted to us by Monsieur Plantat gives us the key to all the events which have followed the unhappy Sauvresy’s death. Thus, the hatred of this pair, who were in appearance so united, is explained; and it is also clear why Hector has ruined a charming young girl with a splendid dowry, instead of making her his wife. There is nothing surprising in Tremorel’s casting aside his name and personality to reappear under another guise; he killed his wife because he was constrained to do so by the logic of events. He could not fly while she was alive, and yet he could not continue to live at Valfeuillu. And above all, the paper for which he searched with such desperation, when every moment was an affair of life and death to him, was none other than Sauvresy’s manuscript, his condemnation and the proof of his first crime.”

      M. Lecoq talked eagerly, as if he had a personal animosity against the Count de Tremorel; such was his nature; and he always avowed laughingly that he could not help having a grudge against the criminals whom he pursued. There was an account to settle between him and them; hence the ardor of his pursuit. Perhaps it was a simple matter of instinct with him, like that which impels the hunting hound on the track of his game.

      “It is clear enough now,” he went on, “that it was Mademoiselle Courtois who put an end to his hesitation and eternal delay. His passion for her, irritated by obstacles, goaded him to delirium. On learning her condition, he lost his head and forgot all prudence and reason. He was wearied, too, of a punishment which began anew each morning; he saw himself lost, and his wife sacrificing herself for the malignant pleasure of sacrificing him. Terrified, he took the resolution to commit this murder.”

      Many of the circumstances which had established M. Lecoq’s conviction had escaped Dr. Gendron.

      “What!” cried he, stupefied. “Do you believe in Mademoiselle Laurence’s complicity?”

      The detective earnestly protested by a gesture.

      “No, Doctor, certainly not; heaven forbid that I should have such an idea. Mademoiselle Courtois was and is still ignorant of this crime. But she knew that Tremorel would abandon his wife for her. This flight had been discussed, planned, and agreed upon between them; they made an appointment to meet at a certain place, on a certain day.”

      “But this letter,” said the doctor.

      M. Plantat could scarcely conceal his emotion when Laurence was being talked about.

      “This letter,” cried he, “which has plunged her family into the deepest grief, and which will perhaps kill poor Courtois, is only one more scene of the infamous drama which the count has planned.”

      “Oh,” said the doctor, “is it possible?”

      “I am firmly of Monsieur Plantat’s opinion,” said the detective. “Last evening we had the same suspicion at the same moment at the mayor’s. I read and re-read her letter, and could have sworn that it did not emanate from herself. The count gave her a rough draft from which she copied it. We mustn’t deceive ourselves; this letter was meditated, pondered on, and composed at leisure. Those were not the expressions of an unhappy young girl of twenty who was going to kill herself to escape dishonor.”

      “Perhaps you are right,” remarked the doctor visibly moved. “But how can you imagine that Tremorel succeeded in persuading her to do this wretched act?”

      “How? See here, Doctor, I am not much experienced in such things, having seldom had occasion to study the characters of well-brought-up young girls; yet it seems to me very simple. Mademoiselle Courtois saw the time coming when her disgrace would be public, and so prepared for it, and was even ready to die if necessary.”

      M. Plantat shuddered; a conversation which he had had with Laurence occurred to him. She had asked him, he remembered, about certain poisonous plants which he was cultivating, and had been anxious to know how the poisonous juices could be extracted from them.

      “Yes,” said he, “she has thought of dying.”

      “Well,” resumed the detective, “the count took her in one of the moods when these sad thoughts haunted the poor girl, and was easily able to complete his work of ruin. She undoubtedly told him that she preferred death to shame, and he proved to her that, being in the condition in which she was, she had no right to kill herself. He said that he was very unhappy; and that not being free, he could not repair his fault; but he offered to sacrifice his life for her. What should she do to save both of them? Abandon her parents, make them believe that she had committed suicide, while he, on his side, would desert his house and his wife. Doubtless she resisted for awhile; but she finally consented to everything; she fled, and copied and posted the infamous letter dictated by her lover.”

      The doctor was convinced.

      “Yes,” he muttered, “those are doubtless the means he employed.”

      “But what an idiot he was,” resumed M. Lecoq, “not to perceive that the strange coincidence between his disappearance and Laurence’s suicide would be remarked! He said to himself, ’Probably people will think that I, as well as my wife, have been murdered; and the law, having its victim in Guespin, will not look for any other.’”

      M. Plantat made a gesture of impotent rage.

      “Ah,” cried he, “and we know not where the wretch has hid himself and Laurence.”

      The detective took him by the arm and pressed it.

      “Reassure yourself,” said he, coolly. “We’ll find him, or my name’s not Lecoq; and to be honest, I must say that our task does not seem to me a difficult one.”

      Several timid knocks at the door interrupted the speaker. It was late, and the household was already awake and about. Mme. Petit in her anxiety and curiosity had put her ear to the key-hole at least ten times, but in vain.

      “What can they be up to in there?” said she to Louis. “Here they’ve been shut up these twelve hours without eating or drinking. At all events I’ll get breakfast.”

      It was not Mme. Petit, however, who dared to knock on the door; but Louis, the gardener, who came to tell his master of the ravages which had been made in his flower-pots and shrubs. At the same time he brought in certain singular articles which he had picked up on the sward, and which M. Lecoq recognized at once.

      “Heavens!” cried he, “I forgot myself. Here I go on quietly talking with my face exposed, as if it was not broad daylight; and people might come in at any moment!” And turning to Louis, who was very much surprised to see this dark young man whom he had certainly not admitted the night before, he added:

      “Give me those little toilet articles, my good fellow; they belong to me.”

      Then, by a turn of his hand, he readjusted his physiognomy of last night, while the master of the house went out to give some orders, which M. Lecoq did so deftly, that when M. Plantat returned, he could scarcely believe his eyes.

      They sat down to breakfast and ate their meal as silently as they had done the dinner of the evening before, losing no time about it. They appreciated the value of the passing moments; M. Domini was waiting for them at Corbeil, and was doubtless getting impatient at their delay.

      Louis had just placed a sumptuous dish of fruit upon the table, when it occurred to M. Lecoq that Robelot was still shut up in the closet.

      “Probably the rascal needs something,” said he.

      M. Plantat wished to send his servant to him; but M. Lecoq objected.

      “He’s a dangerous rogue,” said he. “I’ll go myself.”

      He went out, but almost instantly his voice was heard:

      “Messieurs! Messieurs, see here!”

      The doctor and M. Plantat hastened into the library.

      Chapter XXII